Caldera

Chapter 13: Tate/Carlie

Tate burst out of the passenger door of the Aeromexico 737, gasping for whatever smog-infused air she could take in. She didn't even bother waiting for Carlie, still fast asleep in her seat.

The flight to Monterrey took just an hour and fifteen minutes. All the same, she could not get out of that plane quickly enough. Between Carlie's bitching and her snoring, she came close to smothering her with her own jacket as she slept. But that would've been messy now, wouldn't it? Not to mention, Carlie packed a mean right hook.

Tate rubbed her jaw, still raw from their reunion at Puerto Rico. For the duration of the flight, Tate had to settle for elbowing Carlie every now and then, when the snoring got a bit too much.

Before the flight, she considered asking Shane to book their seats far enough away. But in the short time they had, they needed some way to communicate, that didn't involve texting over the plane's wifi. They did wind up using their respective phones' non-message apps to type out their correspondence, then showing them to the other. It was even better than talking; they could save the witty banter and concentrate strictly on what was important. That had to be eating at Carlie, who couldn't freely express that biting snark. At least one thing went right in this already inauspicious mission.

Maybe, just maybe she thought she could ditch Carlie here in Mexico and go home. After all, she was the one most adamant about chasing down Stevens. And it wasn't as if Carlie would mind, either: just strap her down with a pair of automatics, ammo belts and a bagful of grenades, and she'd gladly do the job herself.

Much like the last time, they could've split and Carlie would leave a few million richer, called it day. Yet, not all of the reward money in the world, nor all the scalps she'd collected would've mollified her. Not while a faint lead to an unresolved part of her past flickered tantalizingly close. Tate and Shane knew, plain as day, who she really wanted to pursue: Betancourt.

They couldn't abandon Carlie now. Not when they were in so deep with her.

They shouldn't even have let her go that last time. Back then, after whatever crisis they'd been in was resolved, they should've stuck together. But in one of those rare lapses of judgment, they decided - on a spur of the moment - that it was for the best if they went their separate ways. She and Shane stayed on the West Coast. On the other hand, a displaced Carlie went as far East as she could go. And look where that landed her.

Despite her own misgivings, Tate did care. Not so much for Carlie, but for Shane. Try as he might to hide his feelings for his one-time apprentice, they came out, one way or another. The pained look on his face whenever she disappeared. The shortness of breath and the slight stutter when any mission she was sent to resulted in injury. He'd been better about clamping it down over time. But Tate knew he would always agonize over her, almost as much as she would over him.

The soft, idle gait of leather boots approached. Carlie appeared behind her, stretching her compact frame to its full extent as she yawned. "What's poppin'?"

"Feet off the dash," said Tate sternly as the Escalade hit Highway 85.

Not even half an hour in Mexico, and Carlie was already making herself feel at home. She turned to face Tate and smirked behind her Ray-Bans, before plopping her feet down like a petulant child.

Tate thought that would be the end of it, until Carlie unzipped her jacket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro's while thumbing the car's lighter. A moment after, Virginia's finest wafted through the interior and all Tate could do was bear it.

Why do these rental agencies even bother with the no-smoking signs, she thought, fingers thrumming the wheel. The auto manufacturers clearly didn't care.