Show No Fear (24 page)

Through narrowed eyes, he studied Buitre’s every step. As the deputy neared the opposite shore, he paused and glanced back,
putting both his hands on the railing that faced downriver. Buitre’s fingers seemed to dance over a knot in the rope. But
then he turned away, moving casually toward shore.

A subtle shudder whipped along the length of the bridge. Suddenly, the rope under Gus’s right hand went slack. He dropped
it, groping for the left side, as the slats under his feet tipped forty-five degrees.

If not for his quick reflexes, he would have slipped into the river racing ten yards below him.

He could hear his teammates shouting in consternation and alarm, their cries scarcely audible over the sound of rushing water.

Stunned, stuck halfway across the bridge, Gus met Buitre’s gloating gaze and knew. The man had tried to dump him in the river.
The son-of-a-bitch.
Suddenly, the nightmare Gus had suffered the other night seemed all too much like a warning he had ignored.

Too bad for Buitre, he could still make his way across with what was left of the bridge. But would Buitre try to shoot him
then, as he had in his dream?

A blur behind the deputy caught his eye. He realized Lucy was fighting Carlos’s hold in an attempt to climb onto the distressed
bridge and rescue him. He’d never seen a look of pure terror on her face before.

He tried to send her a reassuring wave, but the bridge was rocking violently. The rope that had served as a railing now trailed
into the water. “Stay back!” he shouted, projecting confidence so she would know not to worry.

Carlos kept a firm grip on her, which, Gus knew, was no small feat. He hoped he could count on the Spaniard to keep the upper
hand.

Right now he needed to focus on a plan.

The bridge now resembled one of those trick ladders strung up for kids in amusement parks. Gus was confident he could apply
the laws of physics to keep the bridge from tipping over too far. On the other hand, did he trust Buitre not to shoot him
if he made it to the other side?

A violent shudder had him glancing up, distracted.

Buitre again. The man was climbing out, presumably to rescue him.

Bullshit. More likely he was going to try to hurl him into the giant wash machine below.

“Get back!” he yelled, but the deputy’s eyes glittered with malice as he inched closer. With rising dismay, Gus realized Buitre
was headed to a knot similar to the one he’d manipulated on the other side.

He was going to release the other railing. And suddenly Gus knew: this bridge had been designed to be dismantled, so the FARC
could dump the enemy into the river.

He watched with rising consternation as Buitre eased a loop over the head of the knot while at the same time extending his
free hand, so that, to the others, it looked like he was helping.

The bridge gave a familiar lurch. Before the rope could slacken under Gus’s hand, he dropped onto his stomach, wrapping his
arms and legs around the wooden slats. A wet mist coated him as the bridge swayed, jerked downward by the falling rope. Tipping
ninety degrees, he clung like a cat in a tree, wondering what his odds were if he fell into the seething water.

Glancing up, he met Buitre’s mocking gaze, read the cruel smile on his face, and realized the man fully intended to kill him.
Somewhere along the line, he’d convinced himself that Gus and Lucy were spies. Had he convinced the FARC leadership, as well?
Was he acting on orders to destroy them?

If so, then Lucy was his next target.

Oh, hell no.

Adjusting his grip, he began to drag himself toward Buitre, toward shore. He would have to pretend to take Buitre’s hand,
then rip him off the ropes and throw him into the water before the man could pull a gun on him.

Then he and Lucy would have to detach themselves from the rest of the team, call the JIC, and get the hell out.

Grimly determined, one part of him aware of Lucy’s hysteria and Carlos’s battle to keep her contained, Gus pulled himself
inch by inch over the slick, swaying boards.

Suddenly, with a loud squeak, the board under his left arm tore from the track beneath it. Gus groped for a different board
to clutch, but it was too late. His upper body had twisted too far. Gravity had hold of him now.

The rubber of his boots squeaked as he slipped. He knew he was going to fall. There was nothing left to do but ensure he hit
the water at an angle that wouldn’t kill him.

With Lucy’s scream sounding in his ears, he plummeted toward the river, somersaulting.

CHAPTER 14
      

S
plash!
With catlike agility, Gus managed to enter the river feet-first. Water slammed up his nostrils and closed over his head with
the force of a collision. Immediately, the current seized him up, projecting him downstream at a frightening clip.

To protect his limbs, he curled into a ball. He could see nothing under the water but shades of dark brown. A log clipped
the side of his head, leaving his ear ringing. He slammed into a boulder and glanced off of it. The current dragged him through
the branches of a fallen tree.

Desperate for air, he clawed for the surface and realized his boots were weighing him down.

The boots with the sat phone that had finally worked.

The electronics in his heels were probably ruined by now. He wasn’t going to be calling the JIC anytime soon.

Plus, if he shucked the boots, he’d get to breathe.

Breathing was good.

Sluicing along underwater, he struggled with the laces and tugged the boots off, his lungs and his nasal passages burning.

He used his jacket to slow him down. Tearing it open, he dragged it behind him like a parachute, then shook it off and strained
again for the surface.

At last his head broke free. He gasped for air, only to be yanked under again. But he’d glimpsed enough of his surroundings
to determine where the shoreline was, in which direction to swim.

Minute by minute, he made his way toward the dark mud and bowed branches at the river’s edge.

After what seemed like hours but may have been as little as fifteen minutes, Gus crawled onto shore, gasping and weary. He
pulled himself onto the embankment and staggered to his feet to survey his surroundings. Swiping a hand over his eyes, he
couldn’t believe what he saw.

On the other side of the river, La Montaña rose skyward in a precipitous tangle of vegetation. But on this side, the terrain
was as flat as a prairie, dotted with banana and papaya trees, as far as the eye could see.

Knocking water from his ears, Gus turned full circle to get his bearings. Pebbles and sticks gouged his feet. Looking down,
he saw that one of his feet was encased in a muddy sock; the other was bare.

Great. Perfect. He was miles from Lucy and shoeless.

If Buitre had acted under orders, then the FARC had come to suspect him and Lucy, enough to try to dispatch them. And that
meant Lucy was next. Oh, fuck no. He had to get back to her and save her before it was too late.

A shudder of disbelief racked his body. He hugged himself to ease his shock.
Why am I even surprised?
he asked himself. His nightmare had been a warning that he’d foolishly overlooked. He’d sworn to Lucy that he would protect
her. Goddamn him for being an idiot! How was he supposed to do that when they were miles apart?

*      *      *

“W
HAT THE HELL?” said
V
INNY
, who was looking forward to his watch ending in eight minutes. Pulling his limbs in from a full-bodied stretch, he sat forward,
eyeballing the red dot that was Lieutenant Atwater as it moved with amazing speed away from Lucy. “Sir, you need to see this!”
he exclaimed.

Within a second, Lieutenant Lindstrom loomed over him. Harley and Haiku abandoned what they were doing to gawk over his other
shoulder.

“What’s he doing?” Harley demanded.

“He’s on a river,” Vinny realized. “Maybe he’s in a boat.”

“Not unless he’s whitewater rafting,” countered the lieutenant. “How fast is he moving?”

Vinny drew a line on the monitor and hit two buttons. “Like twenty miles an hour.”

With silent concern, the SEALs watched the red dot travel farther and farther from the blue dot. Not one of them voiced the
possibility that Lieutenant Atwater might be dead. Moving through water at that speed without a helmet or life vest was asking
for trouble.

“Haiku, call the station chief,” commanded the OIC, suddenly decisive.

“Sir, he’s slowing down,” Vinny alerted him.

Lieutenant Lindstrom leaned in. Chief Harlan did the same. Haiku crossed the room to make a phone call.

“Can you zoom in any closer?” asked the LT.

“A little,” said Vinny, tapping the appropriate key.

“Come on, sir,” muttered Harley as they waited on pins and needles for any indication that Lieutenant Atwater was still alive.

The red dot moved, no more than a millimeter, but it definitely moved. “He’s good,” Vinny declared.

“Sir, I’ve got the station chief on the line,” Haiku announced.

“Just a second,” the lieutenant murmured, keeping his eyes glued to the red dot.

It moved again.

“He’s got to be walking. He just covered five yards,” said Vinny, having drawn a line to determine the distance.

With a nod, the OIC moved to the phone to update Whiteside. He hung up a minute later, looking thoughtful.

“What’d he say, sir?” Vinny asked, too impatient to wait.

The lieutenant’s jaw flexed. His dark blue eyes looked troubled. “He says we wait an hour for Gus to contact us. If we don’t
hear anything by then, we go in for an extract.”

“Uh…” Harley was the first to point out Whiteside’s idiocy. “Sir, if the sat phone went down the river with the lieutenant,
he won’t be using it to call anybody.”

“Right,” said the OIC, sliding his hands into his pockets. He deliberated for a split second longer. “Haiku, get the rest
of our guys in here, ASAP. We need to move on this.”

T
HE SHRIEK THAT HAD ERUPTED
from Lucy’s throat when Gus plummeted toward the water had been the last utterance she’d made. Even when they’d spent hours
searching for him, putting off the exchange at the airfield to scour the shoreline, she had retreated deeper and deeper into
her thoughts, keeping silent.

The team members—all but Fournier—had rallied around her, embracing her, offering words of reassurance to which she was incapable
of replying. She knew she was in shock. For the first time in her career, she didn’t know who was standing where; where to
find the closest option for cover in the event of sudden violence; how far they had traveled looking for Gus.

Her thoughts scurried through her mind like a rat in a maze, seeking answers and not finding them. How had the bridge suddenly
and mysteriously collapsed when it had felt stable just minutes before?

Instinct told her Buitre was to blame. Only how? He’d still been crossing when the first side collapsed. And then he’d risked
his life by venturing back out to reach for Gus’s hand. Helping, or hindering? For then the second side had collapsed, and
Gus had lost his grip, slipping into the water.

He’d been missing for hours now. The team members had called his name till they were hoarse. They’d squandered precious time
searching for him until, at last, Fournier announced they would continue to the airfield or risk forfeiting their agreement
with the FARC.

To Lucy, he’d muttered an apology and the promise to send a search party back for Gus. But the odd look in his eyes told her
the incident had solidified certain suspicions in his mind regarding her and Gus. He made no overt accusations; still, a coolness
in his demeanor left his promise sounding hollow.

Fournier’s suspicions resurrected her own. Had Buitre tried to kill Gus in such a way as to make himself look blameless?

If so, he was in for an unpleasant surprise. Navy SEALs didn’t drown, not if they were conscious. And she’d seen Gus hit the
water in a controlled manner, feet first. Of course, that was that last she’d seen of him.

But she had faith that he had escaped the torrent farther downriver. She envisioned him climbing ashore miles from where they’d
searched. She knew he’d return for her, if he was able. That’s what partners did.

“Come,” said Carlos. Linking his arm with hers, he appointed himself her protector in Gus’s stead. Given the watchfulness
in his dark eyes, he, too, was worried that the FARC had guessed Gus and Lucy’s true identities.

She needed to stay vigilant. She needed to expect the worst. But shock held her in its icy grasp. She followed his lead, blindly,
down a worn path that wound toward the base of the mountain. Despite Carlos’s reassuring grip, isolation and fear took up
residence in her heart. She felt Gus’s absence as she would a missing limb.

Thank God for the microchip that jarred her hip with every step. The JIC still had her on radar. Gus, too, for that matter.
They could see that they were separated. They were bound to respond.