Show No Fear (26 page)
The large grassy field seemed to dance beneath a hot sun. A Red Cross helicopter idling yards away from a building was clearly
preparing for liftoff, only Gus could see no one inside it but the pilots. Where was Lucy?
Suddenly, the door to the building popped open. To Gus’s relief, Fournier stepped into view, bearing one end of a box. Carlos
squeezed through the door while supporting the box in the middle, then Bellini appeared carrying the other end.
Howitz’s body,
Gus supposed.
When Lucy and S¸ ukruye appeared, bearing a skeletal figure between them, he released a shuddering breath of relief. The exchange
had gone off without a hitch. Poor Jay, he thought with a pang of pity. The man was scarcely recognizable from his picture.
With cautious optimism, Gus watched the UN team move in a slow parade toward the helo. Again the grass in the field seemed
to dance. He rubbed his eyes, certain his vision was playing tricks on him.
But then the field came alive, and he realized with dawning horror that an army, hitherto disguised by blankets of straw,
had been hiding there all along. Throwing off their camouflage, soldiers leapt to their knees, raised rifles to their shoulders,
and opened fire on the building.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
A barrage of semi-automatic gunfire cut through the helicopter’s thunder. Astonished and terrified, the team whirled, stared,
then raced toward the helicopter, seeking cover.
Who the hell?
Gus wondered, his chest swelling with fear as the red-roofed shelter fell under attack.
From within the building came an answering volley.
The bizarre vision made no sense. Horrified, certain to be shot if he interfered, Gus kept his eyes on Lucy as she and the
other team members struggled to lift the box into the helicopter. The engines whined as the pilot pushed for speed in an effort
to escape the unexpected melee.
Colombian army,
Gus realized, recognizing the distinct uniforms of the soldiers who had hidden in the grass. His astonishment mingled with
rage. “No!” he ground out, his guttural cry drowned out by the firefight.
The army had nearly jeopardized the start of this mission. Now they were wreaking havoc on its successful resolution. Why?
Of course they resented the release of the ten FARC officers, but would they risk the lives of UN peacekeepers just to keep
those officers from reintegrating?
Get in, Lucy!
With his heart in his throat, Gus watched as Lucy helped Jay into the helo.
Thank God the army’s ammunition was being aimed at the building. For the moment, the FARC inside were pinned down, unable
to return fire. The helo stood a fair chance of taking off, if Lucy would just get in!
Carlos, kneeling in the doorway, reached out a hand to pull her up. She’d helped everyone else, making herself last to board.
But Lucy hesitated, throwing one last look over her shoulder.
With a pang of insight, Gus realized she was looking for him.
Go, Luce!
he wanted to shout.
Go!
But between the roar of the rotors and percussion of artillery, she would never hear him.
Movement within the building caught his eye. Suddenly, the muzzle of an AK-47 poked through a shattered windowpane, and Gus’s
blood turned to ice water. Even before a crack shattered the staccato of continuous gunfire, he knew that Lucy was the target.
She crumpled where she fell.
Gus stifled a hoarse shout.
No!
He watched helplessly as Carlos leapt from the doorway to snatch her up, but the weapon that had fired upon her discharged
again, spewing rounds that clanked into the side of the helicopter. Struck by a bullet, Carlos reeled and dropped. The helo
began to rise.
Carlos groped for a running board. He reached for Lucy, but with only one good arm he couldn’t pull her with him. As the Huey
made its ascent, Carlos was clinging for dear life.
Slowly, slowly it gained altitude. Bellini and Fournier reached out hands to grab him, and Carlos eventually climbed back
in.
They’d left Lucy on the fucking ground.
Every instinct shouted at Gus to run to her.
But common sense kept him pegged to his hiding place. He gasped for breath, battling the impulse to vomit.
Jesus, God, don’t let her be dead,
he prayed, his gaze fixed on her unmoving figure. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was her partner. He was supposed to
keep her safe. But she had looked to her own safety last, using her training to save the others—the very people who’d left
her to fend for herself.
Through eyes filmed with tears, he watched the helicopter rise higher and higher, out of range of rifle fire. Its shadow streaked
across the golden grass, then it listed sharply to one side, shaking the earth beneath him as it thundered toward the mountain
and disappeared behind the sharply rising canopy.
W
ITHIN THE
H
UEY
, C
ARLOS SCOOTED
to the middle of the grooved floor and gasped his thanks. “We have to go back for her!” he shouted to Fournier.
The Frenchman’s lips thinned. “No,” he refuted, his expression flat and guarded. As Bellini crawled to the rear, Fournier
leaned forward to add, “You played me for a fool, Carlos. Luna and Gustavo de Aquiler were never one of us. But you already
know that,” he accused, sitting back.
Stunned, Carlos gazed up at him, still trembling in the wake of his close call. He sent an uncomfortable glance at the other
team members. Together with a prison guard, they hovered over the freed hostage.
“For your sake, I will say nothing,” Fournier added, “for I have long considered you my friend. But I will not put my people
in jeopardy to return for two imposters. They are CIA, aren’t they?”
Carlos refused to answer.
“Let the CIA get them out,” Fournier decreed, veins appearing beneath the transparent skin on his forehead.
Swallowing convulsively, Carlos turned his head to look through the helicopter’s open door. From this altitude, La Montaña
had never looked more darkly menacing. With the sun sinking behind its mass, this side was a wall of dark vegetation, hostile
and obscure.
And Gus and Lucy were both alone down there.
God help them both,
Carlos thought.
T
he field fell suddenly and inexplicably quiet.
Staring at Lucy’s prone body through the lingering smoke and tear-filled eyes, Gus realized the Colombian army had ceased
firing on the little building. Standing vulnerable to counterattack, they lowered their guns and waited, as if expecting—what,
the FARC to surrender?
It felt all wrong.
Suddenly, the door of the beleaguered building flew open, and FARC rebels poured out of it, cheering.
Cheering?
To Gus’s astonishment, the army didn’t shoot them; they countered with a cheer of their own, jumping up and down, firing weapons
at the sky.
What the fuck?
Gripping the tree in amazement, Gus gawked at the bizarre vision. Amid rebels and government soldiers, Lucy lay sprawled in
the grass unmoving. Bile crept up his throat as he pictured her life’s blood pouring out of her.
Buitre sauntered onto the airfield to gaze down at her, a smirk of triumph on his scarred face. He nudged her with a toe,
and she stirred.
She stirred!
Swallowing down a cry of wonder, Gus watched as Buitre nudged her again, commanding her to get up.
How could she? She’d taken a hit square in the chest.
But she did. Somehow, miraculously, she did. As soldiers and rebels mingled, exchanging handshakes and clapping each other’s
backs, Lucy rolled to her knees and lifted her head, looking around her in confusion.
Some of the government soldiers were taking off their uniforms, shaking out of them as if covered in ants.
And that was when Gus realized this was all a setup.
Beneath the colors belonging to the Colombian army, the soldiers wore the pea green color of the Venezuelan Elite Guard.
Son of a bitch!
The pieces of the puzzle fell abruptly into place. Those weren’t Colombian soldiers. They were Venezuelans, the FARC’s new
allies.
Holy Christ!
In a sneaky guerrilla tactic that involved dressing like the enemy, the allies had just convinced the fleeing UN team that
Colombian soldiers had shot and killed one of their team members while attacking the FARC.
The fallout would be tremendous. Within hours, both the United Nations and the International Red Cross would condemn the Colombian
army. The Colombians would fly into a frenzy to prove their innocence—something that could take months to prove. Only by then,
the damage would be done. No one would believe the army’s claim of innocence. The government would lose big points in popularity.
Gus didn’t give a shit about any of that. The only thing that mattered now was Lucy, who’d fallen into the FARC’s hands, just
as she had in his dream.
Watching Buitre haul her to her feet, he thought again of how the dream had been a premonition, one he should have heeded.
Buitre had never intended to let him or Lucy leave the jungle. He should’ve grabbed Lucy that very night and spirited her
out of there while the getting was good.
Now she was hurt. Or was she? He searched the front of Lucy’s jacket for signs of a bullet wound. He couldn’t see any stains
from here. Nor was she clutching herself, trying to staunch the flow of blood. It dawned on him that maybe she hadn’t been
shot with a real bullet.
Maybe the FARC didn’t want her dead. They wanted another hostage. They’d gotten rid of a dead spy and a sickly one, and now
they had a healthy hostage and fifty million pesos to boot. Plus they’d tainted the reputation of the Colombian army, all
in one fell swoop. Conniving bastards. He’d see them in hell before he let them take Lucy.
Scanning the area, he calculated his odds. He was outnumbered fifty to one. His only weapon was a three-inch knife, dulled
from hacking through vines. He didn’t even have shoes to protect his goddamn feet.
He watched as Buitre coiled a length of chain around Lucy’s neck and bolted it. Snatching up the dangling end, he jerked her
off her feet, laughing coarsely as she spilled to her knees. Gus couldn’t see Lucy’s face, but he didn’t need to. He knew
she’d spit in Buitre’s eyes if given half a chance, consequences be damned.
Gus’s blood boiled. His temple throbbed with murderous rage. He was going to kill Buitre. There wasn’t any question in his
mind. And he was going to enjoy every goddamn minute of it!
An Elite Guard sauntered over to stand next to the deputy. He was the same officer Gus had recognized the other night. As
Lucy pushed defiantly to her feet, the man caught her face in his hand, turned it left, then right, and nodded. The gesture
was clear: He’d positively identified her.
Shit.
Things were happening much too quickly. The rebels had clearly had this planned for a while now.
The whine of motors cut into his dark thoughts. In the next instant, six ATVs shot into view around the base of the mountain,
bouncing across the field to approach the rebels.
Oh, no,
thought Gus, his heart racing as the vehicles came nearer.
But yes. The released officers, Marquez, Buitre, and some select Elite Guards were going to ride up the mountain, leaving
the rest of the men to walk. Lucy was about to be whisked away.
Gus leapt to his feet, loath to let her out of sight. He began running, crashing pell-mell into branches and fronds as the
ATVs revved and whined and raced back the way they’d come. Approaching the river’s edge, Gus paused to catch his breath.
Think,
he ordered himself.
Think, Gus. You can’t possibly keep up.
As motivated as he was to kill the enemy with his bare hands, he couldn’t save Lucy on his own.
He needed to wait for his teammates. Goddamn it, they had better be on their way!
A flash of movement had him ducking behind a fallen tree. David’s squad, who’d been following the riverbank upstream, looking
for Gustavo’s washed-up corpse, had stopped like startled deer, scanning the area, guns poised.
They hadn’t seen him, had they? Over the rushing of the river and the humming of his eardrums, he strained to hear their conversation.
Risking a peek over the log, he saw to his relief that they were now moving away from him.
If they had searched downriver rather than up, they would have come upon his tracks already. David, raised as an Arhuaco,
was a reputed tracker. Gus would have to take great pains to hide from him.
Darting from his hiding place, he slipped back into the jungle, covering his tracks as he did so. Until his teammates flew
in to recover him, Lucy was doomed to endure what the FARC dished out.
He hoped to God they wouldn’t break her before they managed to rescue her.
P
INNED ON AN
ATV between Buitre and the Elite Guard captain, Lucy felt her terror rise as they bumped and swerved back up the mountain.
Deeper and deeper they pressed, past the shipment of hidden weapons, past
Ki-kirr-zikiz, past the ridge where she and Gus had spied on Rebel Central, to the brick
casita,
where Buitre cut the motor at last.