* * *
Crouched low beneath the window, Partridge gripped his nine-millimeter Browning pistol, the silencer extending from the barrel. So far tonight, everything had gone exactly as planned, but he knew the most difficult and crucial part of the action was about to begin.
The next few seconds would offer him limited alternatives, one of which he would have to choose in an instant's decision. The way it looked now, he might be able to hold up the guard, using the Browning as a threat, after which the guard would either be bound securely, gagged and left, or taken with them as a captive. The second choice would be least preferable. There was a third possibility—to kill the guard, but that was something he would prefer not to do.
One thing was working in his favon Jessica was resourceful, quick to think and understand—exactly as he remembered her.
He listened to her call twice, heard minor noises from somewhere out of sight, then footsteps as the guard walked over. Partridge held his breath, ready to slump below the window level entirely if the guard was looking in his direction.
He wasn't. The man had his back to Partridge and faced Jessica, which gave Partridge an extra second to assess the scene.
The first thing he recognized was that the guard was carrying a Kalashnikov automatic rifle, a weapon Partridge knew well, and from the way it was being handled, the guard knew how to use it. Compared with the Kalashnikov, Partridge's Browning was a peashooter.
The conclusion was inevitable and inescapable: Partridge would have to kill the guard and get his shot in first, which meant surprise.
But there was an obstacle. Jessica. She was now exactly in line with the guard and Partridge. A shot aimed at the guard could hit Jessica too.
Partridge had to gamble. There would be no other chance, could be no other choice. And the gamble would be on Jessica's fast thinking and instant action.
Taking a breath, Partridge called out loudly, clearly, "Jessica, drop to the floor—now!”
Instantly, the guard spun around, his rifle raised, the safety off. But Partridge already had the Browning raised and sighted. A moment earlier he had remembered the advice of a firearms instructor who taught him to use weapons: "If you want to kill a person, don't aim for the head. Chances are, no matter how gently you squeeze the trigger, the gun will rise and the bullet will go high, perhaps clear over the head. So aim for the heart, or slightly below. That way, even if the bullet's higher than the heart, it will do a lot of damage, probably kill, and if it doesn't, you'll have time for a second shot.”
Partridge squeezed the trigger and the Browning fired with a near-silent "pfft!” Even though he had had experience with silencers, their quietness always surprised him. He peered down the sights, ready for a second shot, but it wasn't needed. The first had hit the guard in the chest, just about where the heart should be and where blood was beginning to appear. For an instant the man looked surprised, then he fell where he was, dropping the rifle, which created the only noise.
Even before it happened, Partridge had seen Jessica drop flat to the ground, obeying his command instantly. In a crevice of his mind he was relieved and grateful. Now Jessica was scrambling to her feet.
Partridge turned toward the outside doorway to the shack, but a swiftly moving shadow was ahead of him. It was Minh Van Canh, who had stayed positioned at Partridge's rear, as ordered, but now changed places, going forward. Minh went swiftly to the guard, his own Uzi at the ready, then confirmed with a nod to Partridge, just entering, that the man was dead. Next, Minh moved to Jessica's cell, inspected the padlock which secured it and asked, "Where is the key?”
Jessica told him, "Somewhere over where the guard was sitting. Nicky's too.”
In the adjoining cell, Nicky stirred from sleep. Abruptly, he sat upright.”Mom, what's happenine.”
Jessica assured him, "It's good, Nicky. All good!”
Nicky took in the new arrivals—Partridge, approaching and holding the Kalashnikov rifle he had just picked up, and Minh collecting keys which were hanging from a nail.”Who are they, Mom?”
"Friends, dear. Very good friends.”
Nicky, still sleepy, brightened. Then he saw the fallen, still figure on the ground amid a widening pool of blood and cried out, "It's Vicente! They shot Vicente! Why?”
"Hush, Nicky!” Jessica warned.
Keeping his voice low, Partridge answered.”I didn't like doing it, Nicholas. But he was going to shoot me. If he had, I couldn't have taken you and your mother away from here, which is what we've come to do.”
With a flash of recognition, Nicky said, "You're Mr. Partridge, aren't you?”
"Yes, I am.”
Jessica said emotionally, "Oh, bless you, Harry! Dear Harry!”
Still speaking softly, Partridge cautioned, "We're not out of this yet, and we've a way to go. We all have to move quickly.”
Minh had returned with the keys and was trying them, one by one, in the padlock of Jessica's cell. Suddenly the lock opened. An instant later the door swung wide and Jessica walked out. Minh went to Nicky's cell and tried out keys there. Within seconds Nicky was free too, and he and Jessica embraced briefly in the area between the cells and the outside door.
”Help me!” Partridge told Minh. He had been dragging the body of the guard toward Nicky's cell and together they lifted the dead man onto the low wooden bed. The action would not prevent discovery of the prisoners' escape, Partridge thought, but might delay it slightly. With the same motive, he lowered the light in the kerosene lamp so it was merely a glimmer, the hut interior receding into darkness.
Nicky left Jessica and moved close to Partridge. In a stilted monotone, he said, "It's all right about shooting Vicente, Mr. Partridge. He helped us sometimes, but he was one of them. They killed my granddad and cut off two of my fingers, so I can't play the piano anymore.” He held up his bandaged hand.
"Call me Harry,” Partridge said.”Yes, I knew about your grandfather and the fingers. And I'm terribly sorry.”
Again the uptight, rigid voice.”Do you know about the Stockholm syndrome, Harry? My mom does. If you'd like her to, she'll tell you.”
Without answering, Partridge looked closely at Nicky. He had encountered shock before—in individuals affected by more exposure to danger or disaster than their minds could handleand the boy's tone and choice of words within the past few minutes held symptoms of shock. He was going to need help soon. Meanwhile, doing the best he could, Partridge reached out and put his arm around Nicky's shoulders. He felt the boy respond by drawing closer to him.
Partridge saw Jessica watching, her face showing the same concern as his own. She, too, wished the guard could have been someone other than Vicente. If it had been Ramon, she would not have been troubled in the least. Just the same, she was taken aback by Nicky's words and manner.
Partridge shook his head, trying to convey reassurance to Jessica, at the same time ordering, "Let's go.”
In his free hand he kept the Kalashnikov; it was a good fighting weapon and might be useful. He had also pocketed two spare magazines he found on the body of the guard.
Minh was ahead of them at the doorway. He had retrieved his camera from outside and now had it raised, recording their departure with the cells as background. Minh was using a special night lens, Partridge noted—infrared didn't work with tape —and he would have passable pictures, even in this dimmest light.
Since yesterday, Minh had been taking pictures from time to time, though selectively and sparingly since there had been limitations on the number of tape cassettes he could bring.
At that moment Fernandez, who had been watching the other buildings, burst in. He warned Partridge breathlessly, "Coming here—a woman! By herself. I think she's armed.” At the same moment, approaching footsteps were audible and close.
There was no time for orders or dispositions. Everyone froze where they were. Jessica was near the doorway, though off to one side. Minh faced the opening directly, the others were farther back in shadows. Partridge had t
he Kalashnikov raised. Though he knew that firing it would awaken the hamlet, to get at the Browning with its silencer, he would have to put the rifle down and change hands. There wasn't time.
Socorro walked in briskly. She was wearing a robe and holding a Smith and Wesson revolver pointed forward, the hammer cocked. Jessica had seen Socorro with a gun before, but it had always been holstered, never in her hand.
Despite the gun, Socorro did not appear to be expecting anything out of the ordinary, and in the almost nonexistent light at first mistook Minh, who was closest, for the guard. She said, "Pense que escuche . . .” Then she realized it wasn't the guard and glancing left, saw Jessica. Startled, she exclaimed, "Que haces . . . ?” then stopped.
What happened next occurred so swiftly that, later, no one could describe the sequence of events.
Socorro raised the revolver and, with her finger around the trigger, moved swiftly, closing on Jessica. Afterward, it was assumed she intended to seize Jessica and hold her hostage, perhaps with the pistol at her head. J
essica saw the move coming and, with equal swiftness, remembered CQB — close quarters battle—which she had learned but had not used since capture. While tempted at earlier moments to employ it, she had known that in the long term it would do no good and decided to save her skill for a moment when it really counted.
”When an opponent moves towards you, “Brigadier Wade had emphasized during lessons and demonstrations, 'Your human instinct is to move back, The opponent will expect that too. Don't do it! Instead, surprise him and go forward—move in close!”
With lightning speed, Jessica leapt at Socorro, raising her left arm, braced rigidly, upward and forcefully inside the other woman's right. With a jarring movement as the arms made contact, Socorro's arm flew involuntarily upward, forcing her hand back until the fingers opened in a reflex action and the gun dropped. The entire maneuver took barely a second, Socorro scarcely aware of what had happened.
Without pause, Jessica thrust two fingers hard into the soft flesh under Socorro's chin, the fingers compressing the trachea and impeding breathing. Simultaneously Jessica placed a leg behind Socorro and pushed her backward, throwing her off balance. Jessica then turned Socorro and placed her in a tight stranglehold, making it impossible for her to move. If this had been war—for which CQB was intended—the next step would have been to break Socorro's neck and kill.
Jessica, who had never killed anyone or ever expected to, hesitated. She felt Socorro struggling to speak and slightly eased the pressure of her fingers.
Gasping, Socorro pleaded in a whisper, "Let me go . . . I will help you . . . go with you to escape . . . know the way.”
Partridge had come close enough to hear. He asked, "Can you trust her?”
Again, Jessica hesitated. She had a moment of compassion. Socorro had not been all evil. All along, Jessica had an instinct that Socorro's days in America as a nurse had tilted her toward good. She had cared for Nicky after his bums, and later when his fingers were severed. There was the incident of the chocolate bar, tossed by Socorro into the boat when all three were hungry. Socorro had improved their living conditions by having openings cut in walls . . . had disobeyed Miguel's orders in allowing Jessica to join Nicky in his cell . . .
But it was also Socorro who had been part of the kidnap from the beginning and who, when Nicky's fingers were being cut, had called across callously, "Shut upl There's no way you can stop what's going to happen.”
And then, in her mind, Jessica heard Nicky's words, spoken only minutes earlier: "It's all right about shooting Vicente, Harry . . . He helped us sometimes, but he was one of them . . . Do you know about the Stockholm syndrome? . . . . My mom does . . .”
Beware the Stockholm syndrome!
Jessica answered Partridge's question. Shaking her head, she told him, "No!”
Their eyes met. Harry had been amazed by Jessica's demonstration of skill in hand-to-hand combat. He wondered where she bad learned it and why. At the moment, though, that didn't matter. What did matter was that she had reached a point of decision and her eyes were asking him a question. He nodded briefly. Then, not wanting to witness what came next, he turned away.
Shuddering, Jessica tightened her grip, broke Socorro's neck, then twisted the head sharply to sunder the spinal cord. There was a snapping sound, surprisingly faint, and the body Jessica was holding slumped. She let it fall.
* * *
Led by Partridge, with Jessica, Nicky, Minh and Fernandez following quietly, the group moved through the darkened hamlet, encountering no one.
At the jetty Ken O'Hara said, "I thought you'd never get here.”
"We had problems,” Partridge told him.”Let's move fast! Which boat?”
"This one.” It was an open wooden workboat about thirty feet long, with twin outboard motors. Two lines secured it to the jetty.”I grabbed some extra fuel from other boats.” O'Hara pointed to several plastic containers near the stem.
”Everybody aboard!” Partridge ordered.
Earlier, a three-quarters moon had been obscured by cloud, but within the past few minutes the cloud had shifted. Now everything was lighter, particularly over the water.
Fernandez helped Jessica and Nicky into the boat. Jessica was shaking uncontrollably and feeling sick, both after effects of having killed Socorro only minutes earlier. Minh, taking pictures from the jetty, jumped in last as O'Hara, unfastening the lines, used an oar to push out from shore. Fernandez grabbed a second oar. Together he and O'Hara rowed toward midstream.
Looking around, Partridge could see that O'Hara had used his waiting time effectively. Several other boats were settling in the water near shore, others drifting away.
”I pulled some plugs.” O'Hara gestured to the nearer boats. "Those can be refloated, but it'll cause delay. Threw a couple of good motors in the river.”
"Nice going, Ken!” His decision to bring O'Hara, Partridge thought, had been vindicated several times.
There were no proper seats in the boat they were using. As with the one in which Jessica, Nicky and Angus had traveled earlier, passengers sat low on boards running fore and aft above the keel. The two rowers had positioned themselves on opposite sides and were striving hard to reach the Huallaga River's center. As the sight of Nueva Esperanza faded in the moonlight, a strong current was already carrying them downstream.
Partridge had checked his watch as they left the jetty: 2:35 A.m. At 2:50, with the boat moving along well, following the river's generally northwest course, he told Ken O'Hara to start the engines.
O'Hara opened a fuel-tank air vent on the port-side engine, adjusted a choke, pumped a rubber ball and pulled a flywheel rope hard. The engine fired immediately. He adjusted the engine speed to a fast idle, then followed the same procedure with the second engine. As he put both engines in gear, the boat surged forward.
The sky had stayed clear. Bright moonlight, reflected on the water, made navigation relatively easy along the river's winding course.
Fernandez asked, "Have you decided which landing strip we'll head for?”
Partridge calculated, visualizing Fernandez's large-scale map which, by now, he almost knew by heart.
First, choosing the river for departure had ruled out a rendezvous at the highway landing point where they arrived. That left the intermediate drug traffickers' landing strip, which they might reach in an hour and a half, or the more distant Sion airstrip which could mean three hours on the river, plus a three-mile trek through the jungle on foot—a difficult challenge, as they already knew.
To get to Sion by 8 A.M., when the AeroLibertad Cheyenne II would be overhead, might be cutting things close. On the other hand, at the intermediate strip they would be several hours early, and if a pursuit should catch them there it would mean a firefight which, outnumbered and outgunned, they would almost certainly lose.
Therefore the best and wisest course seemed to continue putting the greatest possible distance between themselves and Nueva Esperanza.
; ”We aim for Sion,” Partridge told the others in the boat.”When we leave the river and go ashore, we'll have to push hard and fast through the jungle, so get whatever rest you can."
* * *
As the time passed, Jessica became more composed; her involuntary shaking ceased, the sickness disappeared. She doubted, though, if she would ever have total peace of mind about what she had done. Certainly the memory of Socorro's desperate, pleading whisper would haunt her for a long, long time ahead.
But Nicky was safe—at least for the moment—and that was what mattered most.
She had been watching Nicky, aware that ever since they left the prison shack he had stayed close to Harry Partridge, at moments being almost underfoot. It seemed as if Harry were a magnet to which Nicky sought to attach himself. Even now he had settled beside Harry in the boat, clearly wanting some physical contact, snuggling up close, which Harry seemed not to mind. In fact, as happened earlier, Harry had put his arm around Nicky's shoulders and the two at this moment seemed as one.
Jessica liked that. Part of Nicky's feeling—inevitably, she thought—was that Harry, appearing as he did, represented all that was opposite from the evil gang who engineered the horrors they had been through—Miguel, Baudelio, Gustavo, Ramon . . . the others known and unknown . . . yes, Vicente and Socorro too.
But more than that. Nicky's instincts about people had always been good. Jessica had once loved Harry—in a way still did, especially now when gratitude and love were mingled. Therefore it did not seem strange at all that her son instinctively should share that feeling.
Nicky seemed to be sleeping. Disengaging himself gently, Partridge maneuvered his way across and sat beside her. Fernandez, observing the movement, changed sides also, balancing the boat.
Partridge too had been thinking of the past—what he and Jessica had once meant to each other. And even in this short time he could see that essentially she hadn't changed. All the things he had most admired—her quick mind, strong spirit, warmth, intelligent resourcefulness—were still in place. Partridge knew that if he were around Jessica for long, his old love would revive. A provocative thought—except it wasn't going to happen.
Evening News Page 58