Page 27 of Extracted

Dude could have landed anywhere.

Sweat rolled over his face, and Dallas lifted his T-shirt and mopped up the mess. One thing he knew from living near the mountains: he needed to make noise.

Hopefully Gemma did the same.

He let out a call that sent birds from the trees and then stalked through the dense brush, heading west. “Gemma!” he bellowed.

The trees gobbled up his voice. He yelled out again, and again. His arm ached, but he didn’t stop to check it. He moved swiftly, pushing away the complaints of his body.

Sssss . . .

He lifted his gaze to the large rubber tree he was approaching. A yellow boa constrictor circled a branch, its head slithering in the air. Dallas took a step back, a curse falling from his tongue.

His skin turned cold and clammy. He bent down, grabbed a large stick, and slashed it in the air. “Hey!” he screamed. “Get back!”

The snake watched him, its red eyes not missing a beat. Dallas held out the stick in front of him, ready to bash in the bastard’s skull if it lunged.

He reached into his pocket, not taking his eyes off the boa, and pulled out the switchblade he always carried. Sweat poured down his spine. He didn’t dare make a sudden movement and provoke the beast. A minute passed. The snake coiled tighter around the branch, its fascination with him seemingly waning.

Dallas exhaled. Keeping the knife in one hand and the stick in the other, he moved around the tree and continued. With grated nerves he pushed on, every squiggly vine or branch making him do a double take.

Insects buzzed around him, sensing fresh meat. Twenty minutes passed, and he pocketed his knife so he could keep one hand free to swat away bugs. His voice was hoarse from shouting.

God, he could use some water.

He stopped in a small clearing, his chest heaving. He wiped his face and let his breath slow. What if he’d gotten turned around and was walking in the wrong direction? The Amazon jungle was like a maze. He could have been walking in circles for the last half an hour for all he knew. He felt as if he were in a horror movie.

Paranoia was a bad thing. He had to chill the fuck out. Do something to control the situation before he fucking lost his sanity. Landmarks. He needed to pay better attention to his route. He brought his focus to a tree, but it resembled a hundred he’d already walked by.

He withdrew his knife and lacerated a chunk of bark. Then he walked for two minutes and did the same to another tree.

“Gemma!” Shouldn’t she be close by now? At least be able to hear him if she was conscious? Tension wound like a wire around his chest. He’d never had anxiety, but that had to be what this pain was . . . or a heart attack.

He just had to keep walking.

Focus on the only important thing right now.

He started chanting in his head between shouts.

Just find Gemma. Just find her, goddammit.

CHAPTER 8

Gemma weaved around tree trunks, but overgrown ferns prevented any kind of walking path. A glance over her shoulder assured her the parachute was still in sight. Not too far, but she couldn’t trek any further this way. At least not safely.

Pressure tightened her chest. She inhaled, focusing on the scent of the damp dirt, but nothing settled her nerves. Animals called around her, offended by her intrusion. “I’m sorry,” she called, her voice shaking. “I’m just lost. I promise I won’t hurt you or your home.”

Great. She’d lost it now.

Still, on the off chance a deadly predator had understood her, the words had been worth the gamble of her sanity. She hummed loudly as she backtracked to her landing spot. Tears burned her eyes.

God, why hadn’t she dressed properly? She needed pants and a long-sleeved shirt to avoid getting eaten alive by bugs or rubbing her bare skin against something poisonous. Most people wore rubber boots in the rainforest to prevent snake bites. Her hiking boots that just reached an inch above the ankles wouldn’t do much. Trepidation made her skin itch as she peered into the thigh-high foliage she’d just about stepped into.

She summoned a deep breath and cupped her mouth with her hands. “Eli! Dallas!”

Back at the spot where she’d fallen, she stood under the backpack and turned in a circle. She checked her watch. 10:48 a.m. A good hour since they’d jumped.

Maybe she could find the plane. If the radio still worked, she could call for help. Wouldn’t a search party come out after Eli’s Mayday call?

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