Hard Edge

by Pamela Clare

  No, this wasn’t where she was supposed to be. Being kidnapped and held hostage wasn’t what she’d envisioned when she’d taken this assignment. But as long as her abductors respected her status as a religious sister, she could still do her job.

  She stood, walked over to kneel before Dianne and Tim. “Did you sleep?”

  She spoke with a heavy Spanish accent, certain her safety and her ability to do her job depended on no one knowing that she, too, was a US citizen. Otherwise, her captors would surely try to ransom her, as well.

  “A little.” Dianne brushed her fingers through her tangled blonde hair. “It’s cold at night, and this floor is so hard.”

  That was the truth.

  Tim watched the guard. “Have the bastards said what they want with us yet?”

  María lowered her voice to a whisper. “They are holding you for ransom. I heard them talking about it. Do not be afraid. When they get the money, they will let you go.”

  She’d also overheard conversations about shipments of potatoes and bananas coming in from Colombia and a few mentions of el Jefe—the Boss. She wasn’t naïve enough to believe they were really talking about potatoes and bananas.

  The actual cargo was cocaine.

  For years now, Colombian drug cartels had been operating in Venezuela with the help of officials at the highest levels of government. They used the Mission as cover, transporting drugs hidden beneath much-needed food and medicine. Father Alberto not only knew what they were doing, but also served as their confessor, absolving murderers and drug traffickers of their sins while preaching about the poor and downtrodden.

  Sister María loathed him.

  As for the identity of el Jefe, it was almost certainly Luis Rafael Sánchez Mantilla, the president’s brother-in-law. He’d visited the mission more than once, always after a shipment, meeting in private with Father Alberto for spiritual direction—or so Father Alberto claimed. Now it seemed that Sánchez and Sergio de Anda Ruiz, the powerful head of the Andes Cartel, had taken up kidnapping in addition to drug trafficking. Maybe they just wanted the money—or perhaps their goal was to discourage foreign journalists.

  “What about you?” Dianne had already apologized to María a half dozen times, as if she were to blame for María’s abduction.

  María willed herself to smile. “The Church does not pay ransom, but do not worry. I don’t believe they will harm me.”

  Dianne took her hand. “If you hadn’t tried to stop them—”

  “¡Cállate!” the guard shouted. Shut up!

  María wouldn’t let him intimidate her. She stood, turned to face him, scolding him in an unbroken stream of Spanish, invoking his mother, his grandmothers, and the Blessed Virgin before demanding that he bring them all warm water for washing and something to eat and drink. “What would your mamá say if she could see this?”

  The scolding had its desired effect, the guard’s gaze dropping to the floor before he muttered, “Sí, Hermana.”

  Then he left them alone.

  “I guess you showed him,” Tim said.

  Dianne stared at her in amazement. “You’re not afraid of them.”

  That wasn’t necessarily true, but María refused to admit that.

  She smiled. “God is my strength.”

  2

  Dylan poured himself a cup of coffee and made his way to the conference room, Jones and Segal shuffling in behind him, all of them jet lagged as fuck.

  Tower and Shields were already there, waiting.

  Dylan glanced at the empty seats. “Where is everyone else?”

  Shields set her coffee mug on the table, her strawberry-blonde hair pulled back in a bun. “This mission is strictly need-to-know.”

  Jones grinned. “I guess the others don’t need to know.”

  “Not yet.” Tower started the meeting. “This tasking comes from the highest levels of the Pentagon. Everything about it is classified. Understood?”

  Dylan nodded.

  “Good.” Tower clicked the remote to turn on the big flat-screen monitor mounted on the wall behind him.

  A blurry image of an attractive blond-haired woman filled the screen.

  “This is Dianne Connolly, age thirty-nine, a journalist from the LA Times Syndicate. Four days ago, she and photographer Timothy Yang, age 42, were abducted while on assignment.” Tower clicked again, and a photo of Yang appeared. “Their two Venezuelan bodyguards were shot and killed.”

  “Narcos?” Dylan knew a little about the situation in Venezuela.

  Tower nodded. “Andes Cartel.”

  “Shit.” Dylan exchanged a glance with Jones. “Those guys don’t fuck around.”

  “Their abductors contacted the US embassy in Brazil. They’re demanding ten million dollars US for the pair’s release.”

  “Fuck that.” Segal didn’t believe in negotiating with terrorists. “If they’re giving this job to us, it must mean the Pentagon wants to teach these bastards a lesson.”

  “Pretty much—but there’s more.” Tower clicked the remote again, and a photograph of a young nun filled the screen.

  Dylan gaped at her, his heart skipping a beat. “Ah, coño.” Damn.

  Malik and Segal stared, too.

  She looked like she was in her late twenties with big brown eyes, long lashes, a perfect little nose, and full lips, her brown skin flawless, dark hair showing from beneath her black veil.

  “She’s what my uncle would call Sister What-a-Waste.” Dylan had grown up Catholic, though he hadn’t gone to Mass in ages.

  Segal snorted. “I never understood the whole celibacy thing.”

  Tower ignored them. “This is Sister María Catalina. She’s a US citizen, age twenty-nine. She was born Gabriela Aliana Marquez in Miami. Her parents are Venezuelan immigrants who left the country due to political unrest. She asked to be transferred to Venezuela from a Franciscan cloister in Peru because she wanted to help the Venezuelan people.”

  Tower clicked again, showed a blurry photo of what looked like the outside of a church or mission. A white van was parked beside it, men with rifles moving in on their prey. “This is the Mission of Our Lady of Coromoto, where the victims were snatched. The photo was taken with a smartphone from a rooftop across the street. Eye-witnesses, including the nun in charge of the mission, said Sister María tried to stop the abductors and was taken, as well.”

  Dylan saw her, hands raised as if to stop a man with an automatic rifle.

  Jones glared at the screen. “What kind of asshole kidnaps a nun?”

  Dylan’s fatigue was gone, pushed aside by anger. “The kind that needs a bullet in his brain.”

  Tower clicked again, and another photo of the mission appeared, Sister María now slung over the shoulder of some hijoeputa. “The Church doesn’t pay ransom, which may be one reason the Pentagon decided to mount a rescue. Sister María is a US citizen, and they’re absolutely determined not to leave her in these guys’ hands.”

  Dylan could get behind that.

  Tower clicked once more, and a map of Venezuela came up on the screen. “The mission is close to the Colombian border in a village called El Vigía. The sisters distribute food to the poor and offer basic medical care. But the Pentagon has reason to believe that cocaine was being smuggled into the country via those food shipments, thanks to the Andes Cartel … and this fucker.”

  An image of an overweight middle-aged man in a suit and tie filled the screen. Balding, he had meaty features and a fat mustache.

  Tower turned the remote over to Shields.

  She stood. “Meet Luis Rafael Sánchez Mantilla. He’s the brother-in-law of Venezuela’s disputed president. The US has long suspected him of colluding with the Andes Cartel to move cocaine through Venezuela to the US market and Europe. He has his own paramilitary forces, which functions as his personal army of hitmen, his private sicarios. He calls them the Guachimanes—the Watchmen.”

  Shields then gave them a quick update on the situation in Venezuela—its conflicted presidenc
y, the terrible state of the economy, the lack of food and healthcare, mass emigration, high crime rate, violence. “The government’s relationship with the US is strained, to say the least, and any US military presence, even a private company like Cobra, would create an international furor.”

  Dylan had to ask. “Is there any chance Sister María or the other sisters are part of the drug operation?”

  He’d heard of stranger things.

  Tower shook his head. “I asked the same question. Our source at the Pentagon says the priest in charge of the Mission is involved, but the nuns reportedly are not.”

  “How do they know? Where do they get their intel?” Segal asked.

  It was a good question.

  “They refused to say but assure me it’s ironclad.” Tower took the remote once more and clicked, bringing up a satellite image. “These intel sources believe that the hostages are together and are being held here—in a warehouse in San Antonio de Los Altos. It’s a mountainous area and close to Caracas, the nation’s capital.”

  Shields pointed at the image. “San Antonio sits beside an area zoned for military use only. You can see here that it has an airfield. The DEA believes that Sánchez and the Andes Cartel might be using this Zona Militar to move drugs, but they haven’t been able to prove it.”

  Hostages. A drug cartel. Corrupt government and military officials.

  Dylan had been right. This assignment was going to be interesting—and dangerous.

  The only easy day was yesterday.

  He was eager to get airborne, the image of Sister María trying to fend off the assailants fixed in his mind. “So, what’s our play?”

  Sister María sat on a shipping crate, about to share a meal with the sicarios who had kidnapped her. She waited for the men to fill their bowls and find a seat, glaring at those who tried to start eating without saying grace.

  The one with the thick glasses they called Topo, or Mole, shifted guiltily under the weight of her gaze but didn’t eat.

  Who’d known how much authority came with wearing a habit?

  They’d let her out of the basement yesterday, allowing her to move freely up and down the stairs and making her their go-between. She took Dianne and Tim their meals, brought clean water for them to drink, and let the guards know when one of them needed to use a restroom. She’d managed to get more blankets, too, making their nights more comfortable. Their abductors had even allowed her to write a letter to her contact, disguised as a letter to the Reverend Mother in Peru, telling him that they were alive and where they were being held.

  Her captors had read the letter, of course, but María had been writing in code for the past six months. Of course, she hadn’t planned on being kidnapped and didn’t have a prearranged code for “we’re being held in a warehouse in San Antonio de Los Altos,” so she’d had to improvise.

  She was grateful for her freedom of movement—and for what it enabled her to see and overhear. She’d memorized the layout of the warehouse and knew the location of every guard post and every exit. She knew, too, that Luis Sánchez was behind the abduction and that he was mad as hell at his men for abducting her with the others. She’d also gleaned that Sánchez would order a military “rescue” once the ransom was paid—an attempt to ingratiate himself with the US government.

  Create a crisis and then resolve the crisis while earning millions. For Sánchez, it was win-win-win—except for one tiny problem. María knew the truth.

  A sad day for you, Sánchez, you son of a bitch.

  “Look at all of you, intimidated by a little nun.” The one they called Pitón—the one who’d thrown her over his shoulder—walked in, filled his bowl, and sat, bowing his head and crossing himself with mock piety.

  María crossed herself, the men around her, sicarios and bandits, doing the same. “Bless us, Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”

  She crossed herself again, and then began to eat, the men following her example.

  “Do you think you’re saving our souls, Hermanita?” Pitón looked over at her, his gaze tinged with lust.

  It was only her being a religious sister that kept him from trying to do more than look—she was certain of that.

  “Of course, not.” She refused to make eye contact. “Only God can do that.”

  She ate in silence, her gaze on her food, hoping Pitón would focus his attention elsewhere and that they would all forget she was there.

  No such luck.

  Pitón spoke with his mouth full. “Don’t you worry about what you’re missing, Hermanita?”

  María ignored him.

  “When you’re alone in your cold bed at night, don’t you wonder what it would be like to be the bride of a man instead of the bride of Christ? A pretty girl like you should know a man’s love.”

  She kept her expression serene. “For me, there is no greater joy than fulfilling my calling to serve God and no greater love than the love of God.”

  “Leave her alone, Pitón, man,” muttered Topo.

  “Shut up, mamagüevo.” Pitón glowered at Topo, but he left María alone.

  She said a prayer of thanksgiving after the meal then asked one of the men to bring water to heat for washing up. When the bowls and spoons were clean again—or as clean as she could get them—she refilled them and carried them, together with the two bananas she’d managed to hide beneath her habit, downstairs to Dianne and Tim.

  “Thank you, Sister.” Tim took his bowl and ate hungrily.

  Dianne looked disapprovingly at him. “Shouldn’t we say grace? I mean, she’s a … I don’t want to offend you, Sister.”

  Tim stopped, mid-chew, his gaze meeting María’s.

  “I’m not offended. You haven’t eaten since breakfast.” Aware of the guard standing nearby, a big brute they called Gordito, María said grace once again, this time in English, carefully removing the bananas from the folds of her tunic and tucking them beneath Dianne’s blankets. “Now, please eat.”

  Dianne had seen the bananas. “Thank you.”

  The door opened, and Topo appeared, three mugs in hand. He smiled to reveal gold teeth. “Hot coffee.”

  A cup of coffee cost more than a million bolivars these days, far beyond what most people could pay. But it didn’t surprise her that Sánchez’s men had access to such luxuries.

  María stood, took the mugs from him, and handed one each to Dianne and Tim. “God will bless you for your kindness, Topo.”

  He shifted, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Do you truly think so?”

  “Sí.” It would also help if Topo stopped working for a killer, but María didn’t say so, instead making the sign of the cross on his forehead. “Father, bless Topo for his compassion and help him to serve only Your will. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  “Gracias.” He exchanged a glance with Gordito, who rolled his eyes, then left them and went back upstairs.

  María sat on the floor and sipped her coffee.

  Dianne had finished her rice and beans. “I’m sorry you’re here with us, Sister, but I don’t know what we would do without you.”

  “Please, don’t worry about me.” María gave them both what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “I will do all I can to help you.”

  They were luckier than they knew. The nun who’d been abducted with them wasn’t really Sister María Catalina, a devout religious sister. She was Gabriela Márquez, a US citizen and undercover CIA officer.

  One way or another, they were going to get out of this alive.

  Dylan maneuvered the camera into position, glanced over his shoulder to see Jones pouring himself another mug of coffee. “We might be here for a while, and you’re not going to be able to buy more beans, brother.”

  “Says the guy who’s already had two cups.” Jones went back to setting up the VPN that would enable them to communicate with Tower and Shields in Bogota.

  “If the two of you are going to b
icker like an old married couple the entire time we’re here, I’m going to need my own place.” Segal put the slide back on the Glock 19 he’d been cleaning.

  They’d arrived in San Antonio de Los Altos last night, entering through Colombia with fake passports and ID cards, just three men driving a truckload of food and supplies for their families. Their weapons, surveillance, and communication gear lay concealed beneath a fortune in food and basic supplies, including beer and an agave liquor known as cocuy. Most of the food was theirs, but the rest of it was for the little black-market operation that would serve as their cover.

  Paying with US dollars, they’d gotten an apartment across the street from the warehouse where the hostages were believed to be. Dylan had done the talking, speaking with his best Cuban accent. Jones had brushed up on his Spanish on the flight and could at least swear like a real venezolano. Segal was pretending to be from Syria and spoke English and a little Spanish with a convincing Arabic accent.

  Dylan focused the camera with its telephoto lens on the warehouse. Part of their job was to record comings and goings and to confirm, if possible, that the hostages were in this location. They wouldn’t be able to keep the side entrance under surveillance from this window, but they could at least cover the loading dock and the main doors that faced the street.

  Their other job was to gather intel for a rescue. They needed to learn the strength of the enemy and the lay of the land—number of men, kinds of weapons, possible points of ingress—and, if possible, the location of the hostages inside the warehouse. In addition to a telephoto lens, they had a state-of-the-art thermal imaging system that would enable them to peek through windows, though not the warehouse’s concrete walls. Every image they took would be sent via VPN to Shields in Colombia for analysis. If they could confirm that the hostages were here, they would work with Tower to start planning a rescue operation, and the rest of the team would be flown in from Denver.

  Camera in place, Dylan dragged over a chair and settled in for his shift. “Join the Navy, they said. See the world, they said. Sit on your ass and stare through a camera all damned day—no one said that.”