The Turkish woman glanced at her sharply. “What’s wrong?” she demanded.
Lucy gave an infinitesimal shake of her head and compelled her forward. “Keep moving,” she urged through lips that felt bloodless.
Her scalp tingled as she felt curious eyes slide over her.
Her heart didn’t cease to thud until they’d floundered another mile or more without a hue and cry raised. In her soaked jacket
and pants, Lucy shivered with belated relief. Her weak knees trembled to support them both as S¸ukruye leaned on her heavily.
Once the path gave a sharp turn, she cut a look back at Gus, who all but pushed Bellini from behind up a slick incline. Across
the distance between them, he sent her a faint, encouraging smile, one that meant,
All is well. I’m right behind you.
His eyes, however, still reflected turbulence.
With that unexpected encounter behind them, little else could go wrong, she assured herself. The exchange was cut-and-dried.
Fournier seemed confident of fulfilling the team’s promises within the seventy-two-hour time limit. All the rebels had to
do was bring Jay and Mike’s body down from Arriba, force Jay to write his insurance company requesting the ransom money, and
hand the note over to Fournier, who would take it from there.
In seventy-two hours they’d be back in Bogotá, and Lucy would be soaking her aching hip and her bug-bitten body in a hot tub
in a five-star hotel.
Of course, that was if everything went as planned, and when was the last time
that
had happened?
B
UITRE’S RADIO CRACKLED
. “Deputy Buitre?” Recognizing the voice of the Elite Guard leader, Buitre groped under his soaked poncho and put the radio
to his ear.
“
Sí, capitán?
” he inquired smartly. Now, here was a leader worthy of his respect.
Rainwater spattered the hood of his poncho. It was hard to hear Captain Vargas’s question while hiking up a steep grade. Something
about a woman. “Say again, sir?”
“Who is the younger woman behind you?” This time the words reached him clearly.
Buitre resisted a backward glance. “She’s part of the United Nations team. A Spaniard. Why?”
“I’ve seen her before in my country. And she’s not a Spaniard. She’s American—a spy.”
Triumph exploded in Buitre’s bosom, filling him with dark satisfaction. He
knew
it. He’d just known the woman was a spy. She had been too confident from the first, too alert. “Captain, sir,” he pleaded,
as righteous fury swirled in him, “you must tell me everything you know.”
By the time Buitre put his radio away, his mind was filled with visions that made him grind his teeth. The bitch had been
caught by the Elite Guard, snooping around a weapons depot in northern Venezuela last year. They had left her beaten and bound,
intending to blow up the warehouse with her in it. Only American aircraft had swooped down on them like a mother eagle defending
her young. The gunships had destroyed the Elite Guard’s convoy, killing all of them but two: Captain Vargas and a man named
Santiago.
Buitre seethed. He couldn’t resist a quick glance back. Certainty ripped through him as the bitch met his gaze, her eyes cool
and watchful.
He’d known she was different from the start.
But what about Gustavo, Luna’s soft-spoken husband? Was he also a spy? Buitre glanced back at the bigger man. Oh, yes. He
pretended to be myopic, clumsy, unskilled in shooting a weapon, but he was powerfully built, athletic enough to keep both
himself and the burly Italian from slipping on the muddy trail. Buitre had glimpsed first-hand his perfect calm in the face
of a threat. He had no doubt Luna and Gustavo worked together, had no doubt who they worked for.
The CIA had aided the Colombian army for decades, helping to destroy the rebels’ coca crops, helping to pinpoint their cocaine
laboratories hidden in the jungle. And now Luna and Gustavo—no doubt fabricated names—had stolen the map that specified the
location of the last four rebel camps!
¡Carajo!
If they managed to convey that information to the CIA, it would spell disaster for the FARC. Yet Buitre dared not mention
the map’s disappearance. It was his fault he hadn’t secured his quarters that morning.
He would have to persuade his commanding officers that the couple were frauds, American spies. If the FARC intended to prevail,
then those two could not be allowed to leave La Montaña alive.
“N
O SATELLITE PHONE, NO RADIOS
,” the Argentine explained as they stood inside a bare brick shelter dripping rainwater on the dirt-packed floor. This
casita
where the Argentine slept lay just a mile or two short of Commander Rojas’s camp, he alleged. Given the pile of hammocks
dumped inside the door, this was where the UN team would all sleep tonight.
“I don’t understand,” Fournier stammered through chattering teeth. They were all soaked and miserable, except for Gus, who
seemed impervious to the chill.
“The front commander is a very private man,” Álvarez explained without resentment. “The use of modern communication would
give away his global positioning to the enemy.”
Too late,
Lucy thought. He should’ve stuck with carrier pigeons and ditched the radios.
“Then how am I to reach my contacts and fulfill our end of the agreement?”
“We will be escorted down the mountain to a landline telephone.”
“More walking?” Fournier exclaimed in dismay.
“No, no. They have all-terrain vehicles. We will ride.”
Fournier looked relieved. “All of us, or—”
“Just you and me,” said the Argentine.
Gus spoke up. “Wouldn’t a younger man be more comfortable on the back of an ATV? Perhaps Carlos or I could take your place,”
he suggested to the lead negotiator.
Álvarez shook his head. “Only Mr. Fournier,” he insisted. “He is the one with the contacts.”
“When do we go?” asked Fournier. “Our time is limited.”
“We go now,” said Álvarez. He turned to the rest of them. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. There are hooks on the wall
for your hammocks, firewood for the fireplace. You may boil rice twice a day, but the fire must be extinguished by sunset.”
“How far away is Rojas’s camp from here?” Lucy spoke up, earning a frown.
“I don’t know,” said Álvarez, heading toward the door. “I don’t ask questions.”
Asking questions was dangerous, obviously. But inquiring minds wanted to know. Would they get to meet Commander Rojas, or
would the Argentine always speak for him? How far away was Rebel Central? Was Rojas hiding something he didn’t want the UN
team to see?
As they went to hang their hammocks on the pegs, she peered through the smudged pane of a window and realized only Estéban
and Manuel had been left to guard the UN team. The rest had departed with Buitre.
Catching Gus’s eye, she ascertained that he had noticed the sudden laxness in security. Giving Dumb and Dumber the slip in
order to get a peek at Rebel Central was a distinct possibility.
“Only two more days,” Gus murmured. Seeing her shiver, he drew her into his arms to warm her with his body heat.
Accepting his embrace, Lucy envisioned the exchange going off without a hitch. She pictured her and Gus on a helicopter, sailing
up and over the lush jungle canopy, returning to civilization, to the life she’d led before the mission.
Why, she wondered, did envisioning the best-case scenario leave her feeling cheated? Why the emptiness, the sense that her
potential hadn’t been fully realized?
Perhaps it had to do with the fact that only one of the hostages would be coming home alive. The job would be a moderate success
at best, denying her a full sense of accomplishment.
God forbid this nagging emptiness had anything to do with Gus. There wasn’t room for tenderness on the battleground against
terror. She was wasting her time thinking maybe there was. This assignment was a onetime deal, an opportunity to relive a
simpler era when loving Gus was all that mattered. She wasn’t the same girl she was back then. Of course, she had feelings
for him. But feelings didn’t count when the world was falling apart.
C
OMMANDER
R
OJAS USED
a forty-foot watchtower as his headquarters. The structure afforded him an inspiring view of La Montaña. Up here, where the
air was moist and sweet and highly oxygenated, he enjoyed a sense of loftiness and security. Using shortwave radio only for
emergencies, he had managed to elude both the Colombian army and the CIA.
Until now. Deputy Buitre’s testimony made Rojas’s blood run cold. “You are certain you have overheard them speaking English?”
he inquired, his voice gruff with disappointment.
“Yes, sir,” insisted the scarred soldier.
Deputy Buitre had been a rebel since his teens. His experience made him an asset to the FARC. He had no reason to make up
lies. Nor did the Venezuelan captain, for that matter.
“Bring Captain Vargas to me,” Rojas decided. “I wish to hear his testimony in person.”
“I will, Commander,” the deputy promised. “Immediately.”
Commander Marquez, standing next to the deputy, wrung his hands together, waiting for a moment to chime in. “Commander,” he
cautioned, “even if there are spies within the UN team, we cannot harm them. The world would consider us barbarians,” he insisted.
Rojas sat back, crossed his arms, and thought. Marquez was right, of course. If he seized any one of the UN peacekeepers,
it would appear to outsiders that the rebels acted with unwarranted hostility toward a neutral entity.
On the other hand, if the couple were spies for the CIA, then letting them go could spell ruin for the rebels, depending on
how much they had discovered during their stay on La Montaña.
Did they know of the FARC’s plans for resurgence?
Could they lead the enemy to the FARC’s hidden camps?
Twirling a pen between his thumb and forefinger, he turned his head to survey the canopy, which was topped by a thin mist.
As he drew a breath of oxygen-rich air, a plan began to form in his head.
“You are right,” he said to Marquez. “
We
cannot harm them.”
Disappointment seized the planes of Buitre’s face, and Rojas realized here was a man who enjoyed inflicting pain on others.
Nor was he bright enough to realize what his leader had in mind. Putting his weight on his elbows, he leaned forward to enlighten
the deputy. “Tragically, in the jungle, there are many accidents that may befall an individual. Especially,” he added, bringing
a glint of comprehension to Buitre’s eyes, “when there is a war underway.”
S
PRAWLED ON A CARPET OF WET MOSS
, Lucy peered over a rocky ledge at Front Commander Rojas’s compound. “It’s bigger than I thought,” she admitted to Gus, her
heart thumping in the wake of their sprint through the jungle, her blood thrumming with excitement.
They hadn’t had to trick Dumb and Dumber, after all. Estéban and Manuel had simply dropped off to sleep by the fire inside
the
casita,
and Lucy and Gus had excused themselves, supposedly to heed the call of nature. They’d run the instant they were out of sight,
slipping and sliding down the path, as giddy as kids escaping from school, until they heard it—the bustle of Rebel Central.
Veering off the path, they’d pushed through a tangle of vegetation, coming to this rocky ledge where they got their first
glimpse of Rojas’s hideout.
Buildings with corrugated tin roofs peeked through a thinned canvas below. The camp buzzed with activity, but the thin drizzle
and tree branches made it hard to see what the fuss was all about.
Still, they were lucky to view the camp at all. Journalists, the CIA, and the entire Colombian army had been searching for
Rojas’s new headquarters for over two years now.
“Check out the watchtower,” said Gus, pointing.
Following his finger, Lucy spied a structure roughly five stories high, just clearing the canopy. It had been painted green
and draped in nets to keep it camouflaged. She hadn’t even seen it till he showed it to her. Bravo to Gus for noticing first.
“I’d like to see the view from there,” he added, regarding it through narrowed eyes.
“Me, too.” Wellbeing flowed through Lucy’s veins. For once, she felt like Gus’s equal, his true partner, not a woman he had
sworn to protect. “What the hell is making that noise?” she added, searching the camp for the source of the sawing sound.
“Are they clearing the forest?”
“I think those are the ATVs Álvarez mentioned. Look, there’s one right now.” Just then, an ATV shot into a thinned area below
them, pulling a trailer behind it.
Men rushed forward to unload the trailer.
As Lucy strained for a better look, Gus twisted the heel of his boot and pried the phone out. “The camera has a telescopic
lens,” he said, pressing a button to power it up. “Let’s see what they’ve got.”
“Crates,” she answered, catching a glimpse of a long pine box as it was pulled from the trailer. “Long enough to carry rifles.
Or stinger missiles.”
Next to her, Gus swore quietly, and she glanced at him askance. “What’s wrong?”
“Battery’s dead,” he said flatly.
As he fetched the spare battery from his right heel, she made a mental note—they were now down to eight hours of battery power.
“Five crates unloaded,” she murmured, keeping an eye on the activity below. “The ATV just took off again, back the way it
came.”
Gus’s silence recaptured her focus. She found him frowning at the phone with a tense expression that made her stomach cramp.
“What is it?” she asked.
He pulled out the new battery. “It’s not the battery that’s dead. The phone has water in it. There’s too much moisture here,”
he added.
Worry pricked Lucy’s bubble of contentment. “So we have no communication,” she realized.
“For the time being. The phone isn’t completely shot. If it were, there’d be a red dot inside the battery casing. If it dries
out it’ll probably work again.”
If. Probably.
To Lucy those words weren’t particularly comforting.