A Fool’s Game

We rode the Tundra Cat right to the edge of town. I had made no further effort to engage Kessler in conversation during the trip. The Russian Jeep was waiting on the concrete road when we arrived. Once more, the three of us crawled into a conveyance together. There was no talking as we headed to the dock. The racket of the jeep, its careening, jostling run, and the driver’s inebriated state, consumed all of our attention. We pulled up to the gangplank, and then stopped with a good five-foot skid. I moved to the gangplank where Benito already held on to the rail.

“You all right?” I asked her, touching her shoulder with my hand, gently.

She didn’t respond, then flinched at a shout behind me.