by Scott Cook
He sighed, “Okay, I get it. So what are we planning?”
We peeked over the logs again and saw that the first Jeep had come to a stop about fifty feet from the northeast corner of the greenhouse we’d exited. The other had passed us and was indeed moving toward the opposite corner.
“One of us sneaks out from this position and up to that Jeep and asks them nicely if we can borrow a weapon,” I explained. “What do you think?”
“I like it,” Clay said. “Which one of us?”
“That’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Yep… me.”
I shook my head, “Dammit, Clay… you’re not in the Corps anymore and this isn’t a field op. You’re a married man with three children who are counting on you. You aren’t expendable. But I am.”
He frowned, “Scott—“
I cut him off: “No arguments! If something happens to you, those four people’s lives are changed forever! In my case, nobody is counting on me… nobody’s life is altered forever. That’s… that’s just the way it is.”
There was the tiniest hint of sadness that had crept into my voice. It surprised even me. Unfortunately, Clay had detected it. He probably would have even if I’d hid my feelings better.
“Hey,” he said softly, putting a hand on my shoulder, “don’t talk like that, Scott. A lot of people would miss you. A lot of lives would be altered if something happened to you. And that goes for me, especially. You think the idea of something happening to you wouldn’t kill me?”
I grinned at him, “Thanks… but I’m not getting maudlin here. Just pointing out the facts. This is what I do. You’re not a Marine anymore, no matter how much you want to protest that there’s no such thing as a former Marine. You’re a husband and father and a contractor who’s raising two awesome girls and a great son. That’s your primary responsibility. Mine is to make sure that doesn’t change.”
He sighed and smiled wanly, “Scott… the more you have, the stronger the desire to fight for it. I want this shit stopped before it does bleed over onto my family and our time here. Missy comes home this afternoon and I want all of this to be a happy memory by then.”
I laughed, “Sounds like a plan. But I’m still going. Captain’s privilege.”
“Oh, you’re such a hoser, eh!”
“You’re the hoser, eh!”
“Oh, take off, eh!”
“You take off… hoser…”
He grinned at our flawless Bob and Doug Mackenzie impressions and took another peek, “The second Jeep has stopped. Maybe a hundred feet away. You’ve got okay cover if you circle to their rear, at least until the last ten yards.”
“It never stops with you, does it?” I inquired.
Clay cocked an eyebrow at me.
“Always with the circling to the rear… day and night… butts, butts, butts…”
He punched me, “Be careful, ya’ dick.”
I looked up and confirmed that both Jeeps were pointed more or less at the fire door we’d exited.
“Its go time,” I said, taking a breath, “Wish me luck and tell Miles what’s up… generally. Comms on auto.”
I reached up and unmuted my headset and began inching my way around the far end of the southern log pile. There was a small gap of open ground before I could duck into the trees.
My earphone crackled, “Green, Blue… Red is on the move.”
I ran like hell.
Chapter 9
Interlude: Missy
It had happened so fast and seemingly from nowhere.
One moment, the four of them had been hiking through Arenal Volcano National Park and the next… and the next, all of their lives had changed forever.
At least their captors had been civilized. At least they hadn’t killed anyone. And at least… at least they hadn’t touched anyone. Not yet.
The four men had seemingly materialized out of the jungle and onto the path Missy and the three children had been hiking. Two behind and two in front. They held automatic rifles and wore all black clothing with what looked to be hastily sewn on patches on the right arm and the left breast. She had no idea what the patches and their markings meant. At least, she didn’t specifically know. It would’ve been clear to anyone, certainly to a military wife, that this was some sort of armed band. A militia or even para-military group.
When the leader, a medium height man with steely brown eyes and passable rugged looks spoke, he spoke in clear but definitely accented English.
“You are señora Delaney,” it was not a question.
She knew that he knew who she was and that there was no way this was some kind of mistake. However, she tried to bluff it out anyway. What choice did she have?
“Who?” Missy asked.
A ghost of a smile crossed his thin lips, “Señora… do not play games with me. You and your children are to come with us. I expect your full cooperation. You come peacefully and quietly or…”
“What about my children?” She’d asked with only a sliver of hope that they only wanted her.
If these were slavers or even members of one of the countless drug cartels that operated in Central America, then it was possible they were looking for white women to sell either as their primary trade or as a secondary trade. Attractive white women went for a pretty penny as consorts for the narcotics overlords who had carved out little kingdoms between Mexico and Venezuela. They were also parceled out to rich Arabs to take their places in a harem.
Yet even beyond that, the sale of first world women could also fund the drug business or even be given away as gifts. It happened from time to time, even in a relatively safe country like Costa Rica.
The problem was that while Costa Rica itself was a beacon of light in the war on drugs, there was little to stop bandits from neighboring Nicaragua or Panama from coming into the country and grabbing what they wanted. Costa Rica was a barrier that interrupted the flow of narcotics from Columbia into North America, and that barrier was far from impenetrable.
Missy wasn’t so much worried for herself. Although the concern was certainly there. Even in her early forties, Missy was a fit and very attractive woman. She’d certainly fetch a fine price to some man who would appreciate her charms.
No, that was only a secondary concern. What truly frightened her was the way that the men were leering at her two daughters. Her son, Declan, was probably safe. He was ten and would be of no particular interest to anyone. At least she hoped not.
But the girls…
Both of her daughters were beautiful and blonde. Aubrey was not quite twelve and hadn’t quite reached the stage of development where her more womanly attributes would begin to show. That was little consolation, though. Missy knew well enough both from her research and from her time in the Peace Corps how valuable a pre-teen girl was.
Then there was Shelby. At fourteen, she had already ripened and was more a young woman than a gangly girl. She had a little way to go yet, but her breasts were already developing and her hips round. She’d certainly be the most valuable of the three Delaney women.
The man chuckled softly, “You are all coming with us.”
“Please, señor,” Missy pleaded, “My girls… they’re young. Let them and my son go, and I’ll come willingly and do whatever you ask.”
His hard eyes seemed to study her from head to foot before locking onto hers again, “That is what I would expect a good mother to say. Don’t worry, señora. We are not white slavers. Now come.”
“Mommy…” Aubrey whispered, squeezing up close to her mother’s side.
Declan and Shelby came close as well. Shelby looked scared but stoic. Declan had his jaw set and his mouth in a firm line. His eyes seemed scared but she thought she saw resolve in them too. They were his father’s eyes and for some inexpressible reason, that gave Missy a twinge of hope.
“It’s okay, guys,” She reassured them. “They won’t hurt us. Let’s just do what they say. I’m sure daddy will be coming for us soon.”
The leader smirked,
“Si. If you’re lucky.”
That was odd. Missy thought that was significant somehow. It could mean many things. First, they could be held for ransom. Second, they could want to use Missy and the kids as a lever to make Clay do something. Either way that meant this was probably not just a random snatch and grab for the white slavery trade.
Although that offered her little comfort, it did give her a crumb of hope to which she could cling. They’d get in touch with Clay, and Clay would get in touch with his friends. He knew several people who she was sure could and would help.
There were several old Marine Corps buddies, including Miles Palmer who was wealthy enough to pay any ransom and probably not feel the pinch. There were several ex-pats they’d met since arriving in country who Missy was sure would lend a hand. There was Charles Conklin, who’d she’d met and seemed capable. Another former Corps buddy of Clay’s.
And there was Scott… of all of his friends, Missy knew that Scott Jarvis might be their best hope. Not only was he quite capable, he was also loyal to Clay and to herself and the kids.
All Clay would have to do is ask, and Jarvis would come running. What was even better still was that if all had gone well, he was probably already in Costa Rica even then. He was flying down to visit and to meet Miles and his plane was supposed to have landed hours before. By now, she figured, Scott and Clay would be sitting on the patio at their temporary home having a beer and telling silly stories and laughing like idiots.
That made her smile in spite of the situation.
Then she realized that it was nearing dark and that Clay wasn’t expecting her home until midday the next day. By then… by then, anything could happen. That soured her stomach, but she still held on to the image of the two men, laughing and carrying on.
When Clay and Scott heard about this abduction, Missy knew they’d stop at nothing to rescue the four of them. And God have mercy on these men and whoever they worked with.
The four men herded her and the kids back to the campsite, which was less than twenty minutes walking time away. When they arrived, two more men were waiting. They’d already broken down the tents and other gear and had packed it all neatly into the bed of a nearby pickup truck. Missy now kicked herself for her choice of camp sites.
When they’d arrived in the National Park and reserved a spot in the camping area, she’d requested one as far away from anyone else as possible. One that was as close to being in the wild as she could get. The idea had been to give the kids as much of a “roughing it” experience as possible while still being within walking distance of park facilities.
Now, of course, this meant that their closest neighbor was more than a hundred yards away and could barely be seen through the trees that filled the campground. No one would see the six men and their truck and two jeeps until it was too late.
One of the Jeeps was a four door model and the three kids were ushered into the back seat. Missy was instructed to get in the passenger seat. The leader climbed in beside her and started the engine.
“Don’t think that because I’m alone with you,” he said with a wicked grin on his bearded face, “that this is your chance to escape. I’m armed and my men will certainly open fire if anything happens to this vehicle, comprende?”
Missy only glared at him.
He chuckled and the Jeep began to move. Several other campers turned from their sites and the preparation of their evening meals to watch the small procession of vehicles exiting the campground but nobody seemed to take any real notice.
That wasn’t surprising, although it was disappointing. Who would assume that a woman and her three children were being kidnapped right under their noses more than an hour from full dark? And even if somebody did feel a twinge of unease… what could they do?
The thought of some poor tourist on his first family vacation out of the country and away from Michigan or something being gunned down on her behalf made Missy’s stomach turn a somersault.
No, it was better that whatever happened, it didn’t happen to any more innocents.
“Who are you?” She asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” he replied flatly.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll know when we get there.”
She huffed, “At least tell me your name. I can’t just refer to you as pendejo the whole trip, now can I?”
He glanced sidelong at her and laughed, “Perhaps you can, senora. I don’t make any claim that I’m not.”
“How about puto then? A coward who kidnaps women and children at gunpoint?”
He laughed even harder, “Ay dios mio! You’ve got fuego in you, chica. That’s good. Very well, for what it’s worth, my name is Manuel Garcia. Manny. And we are The People’s Army of Liberation.”
“Uh-huh,” Missy remarked casually, as if this was of little interest to her. “You’re not from Costa Rica, then. There’s no rebel army here as far as I know.”
He scoffed and cast a withering glare at her, “Rebel? We aren’t rebels! We fight for the freedom of all Nicaraguan people. We will topple the illegal puppet regime and finally give our country what it truly needs. Strong leadership that is just!”
“Yeah, that’s what they all say, isn’t it?” She asked blandly. “Probably what the Sandinistas and Daniel Ortega said when he took power, too, right?”
Garcia let out a low chuckle, “Very good. Probably true. Yet we are different. We don’t want to rule with fear. We want everyone to be free and to have the opportunities that have been denied us for so long.”
She really wasn’t interested in hearing his propaganda speech, yet she knew that keeping Garcia talking could only provide her with information. Information that would hopefully prove useful in the future.
Of course, that came with its own set of risks. The more she knew, the more of a liability she’d become. However, considering that this was some rebel band from Nicaragua, it probably didn’t matter what she knew.
“Your goals sound good,” She admitted after a moment of silence. “I’d be more sympathetic if you weren’t holding my children and me captive at gunpoint. I’m sorry, but that doesn’t sound very altruistic to me.”
He frowned at that, “it is for the greater good.”
“Uh-huh,” Missy replied, thinking of Scott Jarvis when she did so. That made her smile a little.
“I do not like it, señora,” he said with enough conviction that she almost believed him.
“But the greater good is all, right?” She asked bitterly. “The ends justify the means? It’s okay to sell us into slavery… offer my girls and myself up to be raped by some greasy fucking drug dealer? That doesn’t matter so long as you get the money and weapons to do what you want, right?”
She’d hissed this last so quietly that she wondered if he’d even heard her. She certainly didn’t want the kids to hear that bit about rape.
Garcia’s jaw set and his knuckles turned white on the wheel, “Pinche Christo! This is not why we’re here. You think this? You think we’re a pack of… bárbaros!? Barbarians?”
He seemed genuinely indignant. She leveled her own fiery glare at him, “Oh, you’re not? We’re here, aren’t we? Whatever your plans are, you could’ve left the kids out of it! But here we all are, Manny. So please, tell me… tell me how you’re not bandits or barbarians or evil. Explain how holding children makes you a saint!”
“This is war,” He growled. “In war, sometimes things must be done… things that are unpleasant.”
“Yeah,” She mocked, “easy for you to say. Your children aren’t in danger of being sold.”
He slammed on the brakes and the Jeep slid to a halt, nearly fishtailing in the dry dirt of the road. Before she could react, he reached out and grabbed her behind the neck and pulled her halfway across the console and to within inches of his face. A face that was red with fury.
“My children are muerto!” he all but shouted. There was definitely fury in his eyes and yet she was surprised to see something else there
, too. Pain. A deep and well-worn pain behind his brown eyes. “My oldest son, Marco was killed in the Nicaraguan army. My daughter and my wife… they… they were taken by an army officer off of our farm! My daughter resisted and they… they…”
He cast a quick glance into the back seat where three pairs of ears were listening and three pairs of eyes were wide with fear.
“They used her… made me watch,” Garcia growled in barely contained rage, “and then shot her! My wife was dragged off… so don’t you tell me about—“
Her right fist came up hard and fast. The blow struck him on the left side of his nose, bending it almost to his cheek. His head snapped back and struck the frame of the door with a satisfying crack.
She knew she was playing a dangerous game. Although not a large man, he was half again her size and well-muscled. He could probably snap her neck with his bare hands. Yet at that moment, she didn’t care. Her own fury was every bit a match for his.
Garcia stared open-mouthed at Missy. Here was this slip of a woman, probably no more than fifty kilos soaking wet and she’d just rung his bell. She hadn’t flinched nor shriveled in fear but matched his anger with at least an equal ferocity.
“Madre de dios…” he whispered with something like awe. “Madre de dios! You are a strong woman.”
Missy was taken aback by this open display of admiration. It took the razor’s edge off her anger. His too, apparently because he let her go and began to wipe the blood that was pouring freely from his nose over his mouth and chin with his long sleeve.
“I could’ve killed you,” she said coldly, still leaning in close. “I could’ve shoved your nose up into your brain, Manuel. Keep that in mind the next time you think of putting your hands on me. And so help me God… if you or your men touch my children…”
He reached into the glove box and withdrew a rag and pressed it to his face. He eyed her with definite respect and wariness and began to laugh.
She glared, “You think this is funny?”
He sighed wearily, “if only… no, señora. It’s not funny. I begin to like you, I really do.”