Safe Without You

by Ward, H.

  “Yeah, no doubt.” Cal tried to sound confident, but alarm bells were going off inside of his head.

  ###

  What’s wrong with me? I can’t see anything…and my head feels like I’ve been on a three-day bender. And why are my clothes wet? That has to be the sound of an outboard motor, but why can’t I see? If Cal is trying to make up with some romantic surprise…this isn’t it.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck…that isn’t Cal. That’s Spanish…and not the way the locals speak it…lieutenant? Oh fuck no, why didn’t I hear them? How the hell did they get me off the balcony without me waking up? Maybe choloroform…so I didn’t struggle…that would explain why my head feels like someone has been banging on it all night with sledgehammers. That sounds about right—cheap…and old school.

  Now what? My hands are tied, and they’ve blindfolded me. Better play dead, better keep listening while they think I’m out to see what I can learn. Do I stick with my Julietta identity, and offer to help them? Or have they figured out my boyfriend works for the DEA and my dad is a colonel who works for NATO? Or do they just think I’m a convenient tourist? They’re probably too dumb to know that the US won’t negotiate with terrorists, and as far as they’re concerned, FARC is a terrorist organization…or maybe a drug cartel. Shit. Why am I debating this now?

  Need to listen…figure out how many people are in the boat with me. The motor sounds small, so can’t be many…one voice is a woman, and one is the lieutenant…it doesn’t seem like there are any more.

  How long will it be before Cal knows I’m gone? Shit, he’s going to think I got mad and took off…except there aren’t any flights until Saturday, and the only other way I could have left is by boat and no one is going to hire a boat in the middle of the night. Plus, all my stuff is there…he’ll figure it out, I know he will…unless he’s still mad at me, too mad to think straight. How can he say that he cares about me while accusing me of trying to seduce Ramiro? What does he take me for?

  My head is clearly screwed up if I’m thinking about romantic bullshit…Shit. What does FARC do with female hostages? There was that story about one woman who was rescued after four years in the jungle…she had a baby. No one ever said whether she was raped or brainwashed or voluntarily had sex. There was just a woman hostage with a baby…as if that baby materialized from nowhere.

  The boat is slowing down…how long have I been out? How far have we gone? How did FARC get so bold to come this far across the border? Shit, someone is grabbing me, yanking me up. Oh fuck…Cal, I’m scared.

  “Get up,” a woman’s voice commanded, while jerking at Amber’s arm. Her heavily accented English sounded more like “Geeet up,’ but all the same, Amber scrambled, trying to find her feet with her hands tied in front of her.

  “Por favor, mantenga la calma!” Amber choked out, begging them to stay calm.

  The woman growled, unimpressed by Amber’s Spanish. She pushed Amber forward, and Amber slipped in the water leaking up through the bottom of the little skiff. She started to fall, banging her knee painfully against one of the wooden bench seats. Other hands caught her, masculine hands, and she flinched back, falling on her butt. She could feel the water seeping through her shorts. The male hands pulled her up to her feet, and then suddenly she was off them. The man, presumably the lieutenant, had picked her completely up, tossing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Automatically, Amber tried to struggle, but he pinned her legs with very strong arms, and just chuckled. The sound of him laughing made her furious, and she struggled harder.

  “Beetch…” the woman said, and that was the last thing Amber remembered. When she woke up again, she was face down, next to a small fire in the jungle. Her blindfold had been removed, but her hands were still bound, and now leashed to her ankles. Her head felt even worse than before, and she realized there was a cut above her eye, and dried blood on her face. She sucked in a breath; her knee was throbbing from the pressure of laying on it. She forced herself to roll over, and staring at her—from the other side of the fire—was a young Panamanian man…and Tomás.

  Chapter 14

  Amber’s gaze locked on Tomás’ face; he dipped his head slightly to acknowledge her, and then tilted his head. Amber craned her neck to look in the direction he indicated, and she could see their captors. The woman was no older than Amber, dressed in camouflage pants and a black t-shirt. Her long, dark, wavy hair spilled out from under a camouflage hat. She was shorter than Amber, and might have been pretty, except for the scowl on her face. Amazingly, her eyebrows had been plucked into thin, hard arches, and she seemed to be wearing eyeliner.

  The lieutenant was no more than thirty years old, Amber decided. He had a cropped beard and mustache and was dressed entirely in a lightweight, camouflage uniform with insignia sewn on the shoulder. A black beret completed his revolutionary look, and one could say he was dashingly handsome, but his piercing eyes made Amber shiver.

  Feeling Amber’s gaze on him, the lieutenant turned toward her and mocked her in surprisingly good English. “Ah, our wild, little bruja awakes.”

  Amber knew that a bruja was a witch and that Colombians had been known to murder women suspected of witchcraft, so even as a joke, it wasn’t much of a compliment.

  “Better watch out,” Amber croaked in Spanish, her throat so parched she could barely speak above a whisper. “I might put a spell on you,” she added in English.

  The lieutenant burst out laughing. He got up and grabbed a canteen before pulling Amber up to a seated position. “Drink,” he ordered as he poured water into her mouth. She gulped greedily, even though she knew the water probably contained parasites. But dehydration would kill a person faster than dysentery.

  “Don’t worry,” her captor smirked, as he pulled the canteen away, “We’re smart enough to boil the water.”

  Amber swallowed, relieved. “Gracias,” she said, before opening her mouth slightly again, a silent request for another drink. As he lifted the canteen, the woman soldier barked at him in very fast Spanish. Amber understood that the woman was suggesting that he would spoil the prisoner, but he snapped back at her, and gave Amber another drink. Amber watched the interplay between the two as water trickled down her chin; clearly the woman soldier was a subordinate, but Amber had the feeling they were also a couple.

  Next, the lieutenant took a bandana from his pocket and poured a little water on it. He wiped the dried blood from Amber’s face, and checked the cut over her eye. “It’s not serious,” he said, as he capped the canteen, studying her face.

  The young man with Tomás asked in Spanish for water. The lieutenant snapped his fingers at his comrade and pointed at the two men, “Mariana.”

  Amber filed away the woman’s name, and watched as Mariana grudgingly gave water to Tomás and his guide. The lieutenant stood up. “Make some food,” he said to her, in Spanish, “I’ll be back soon.” And in a moment, he had disappeared into the jungle.

  Mariana moved away from the trio of prisoners, and started digging through a backpack.

  Tomás whispered, “She’s a bitch. Are you…okay?”

  Amber nodded, “I heard about you on the radio the night they got me. People are looking for you.”

  “That’s good, I guess. Were you out in the national park…by yourself?” Tomás asked, disbelievingly.

  “Believe it or not, I was sleeping in a hammock on the porch of a house in La Palma.”

  “What happened to Playon Chico?”

  “That…was a lie.” Amber sighed.

  The guide watched their interchange, “You two know each other?”

  “Yeah—yeah, we do. I’m Amber, by the way.”

  “Francisco…but everyone calls me Paco. I’d shake your hand but…” he held up his bound wrists.

  “At least someone still has a sense of humor.” Amber tried hard to smile. “So, the lieutenant, what’s your assessment?”

  “Hard to get a bead on him,” Paco said. “If he’s a lieutenant, he has at least a hundred soldie
rs under him. Clearly, he’s educated. I imagine he’s on his way up the food chain.”

  “Food chain?” Tomás queried.

  Amber snorted a little; Tomás’ grasp of idiomatic English had not improved in the last few days. “It means he’s rising in the ranks of the leadership—you know, the top of the food chain is the predator that nothing else can eat.”

  “Oh, yeah. Now I get it.”

  He should get it, Amber thought; after all, he is a biologist. “So what’s your story, Paco? Go to college in the states?”

  “Yeah, I’m an ecologist by training. I work for an expedition company that’s attached to an environmental non-profit. And I grew up in Pinogana; it’s the last real settlement until you get over the border.”

  “So you know the jungle around here?”

  Paco laughed without humor, “No one knows the jungle around here. There’s a reason the Pan-American Highway has only one ninety kilometer break between Alaska and Chile: it’s called the Darien Gap.”

  “So what do you think their plan is?” Tomás asked.

  “Probably go as far as possible by boat, then march us through the jungle.”

  “For ninety kilometers?” Amber’s eyes widened in alarm with the thought.

  “FARC isn’t known for being in a big hurry where hostages are concerned,” Paco added grimly.

  “We must escape,” Tomás said, as if no one else would think of it.

  “Clearly,” Amber said, “But I’m not so sure that’s going to be easy.”

  “¡Cállate!” Mariana yelled at them.

  “Seems she wants us to put a sock in it,” Amber whispered.

  “Sock in what?” Tomás asked, puzzled.

  Mariana stood up, a plastic bag of rice in one hand. She walked over and gave Tomás a kick. Turning to Amber, Mariana shook her finger at her, “You…puta…shut up! Or I kick you too.” Mariana squatted by the campfire, feeding it twigs, before putting two cheap aluminum pots filled with water over the fire to boil. Amber wondered if Mariana was just naturally mean, or whether something had happened to upset her. It occurred to her that perhaps the one thing she could do was to form a rapport with their guard, try to bond with her woman to woman…and then find out what was eating at her and exploit it.

  “You must be very brave to be a guerilla,” Amber said as Mariana threw salt into one of the pots of water. Mariana twisted her mouth in a frown, but didn’t silence Amber. “Even though you are a revolutionary, still a man orders you around, though, yes?” Amber poked at her.

  “Shut up! You know nothing. He is my commanding officer, a lieutenant. I am a sergeant, of course I take his orders.”

  “But…” Amber started to speak, but Mariana cut her off.

  “Shut up, you dumb puta. You know nothing about us. One more word, and I will…” she mimed tying a gag over her mouth, “now, shut up.”

  Amber realized she had cut right to the bone, but she wondered how she could use this knowledge to their advantage. “I can help you, Mariana. Leave my feet tied, but if you untie my hands, I can help you cook…and wash. I’m a good cook. Really.”

  Mariana looked at Amber suspiciously. “Why would you want to help me?”

  Amber shrugged ambivalently, “Because it’s boring to do nothing. I would rather work.” Amber thought that was a more believable answer than giving her guard some bullshit about all women being sisters.

  Marianna studied her for a moment, “Okay…but you do one thing I don’t like, it will be bad for you…and for them.” She gestured toward Tomás and Paco. Mariana brought her a bowl and a bag of dried beans. “Pick out the stones, then soak the beans.” Amber nodded, and industriously started doing as asked. She could tell that Tomás and Paco were trying to figure out the real reason behind her offer to help. She’d have to try to explain later that it was part of a long-term strategy. Before the lieutenant returned, though, Mariana tied Amber’s hands back together.

  When the lieutenant returned, he had two more men with him, and Amber realized that now, the chance of executing any kind of escape plan had gone from slim to virtually none. They were three tied-up people versus four soldiers with guns—not very good odds. They did return to the camp with fish that they speared on sticks to grill over the fire.

  After the guerillas ate, they untied the hands of the prisoners, and Mariana gave them each a banana leaf with a small mound of rice and some bits of fish on top. Their only choice was to eat with their hands, and they did so with two rifles trained on them the entire time. When they finished, they were handed a canteen of water to pass around, and then promptly tied up again.

  The lieutenant had paid little heed to the hostages until after the meal was over. He sat with back against a tree trunk, tapping out a cigarette from a pack, and noticed Amber watching him.

  “My vice…and my luxury. I get only one each day.” He smiled at her as he lit it, and then he took a long drag. The tip of the cigarette glowed red in the gloom of the jungle now that the sun was low in the sky. Holding up the cigarette, he looked at Amber and asked, “Would you like a drag?”

  He was making a point of being nice to her, Amber thought. This was how Stockholm syndrome must begin; you are helpless and scared—and then your captor is kind. This was probably, too, how hostages ended up with babies. Amber tried to smile sweetly, “No thank you. I don’t smoke.”

  He nodded thoughtfully as he drew on the cigarette again, “Yes, you Americans—you’re so health conscious.”

  Amber tilted her head coyly, “Oh, we all have our vices.”

  The lieutenant pursed his lips slightly, trying to suppress a smile. “I see.”

  “Do you have a name, or should I just call you Lieutenant?” Amber asked, an edge of flirtation seeping into her voice.

  “You may call me Lieutenant, or Lieutenant Márquez, or ‘that son-of-a-bitch’ for all I care.” He smiled seductively at her, “But my name is Victor.”

  “Victor the victorious, no?”

  “Si. Victor the victorious,” he said it casually, “and Victor the vicious.” His eyes sparkled with a deadly heat as he said it.

  Amber knew that if she let him make her afraid, he would lose all respect for her, and then he might indeed be vicious. “I’m not afraid. I think we can learn to be very nice to each other.” Amber puckered her lips slightly, and the lieutenant laughed softly.

  Mariana had had enough of this interchange; she stood up, walked over, and kicked Amber in the leg. Not to hurt Amber so much as to get her attention, “Show some respect, puta. This is an important man. He has no time for your silly games.”

  “Sit down Mariana,” Victor snapped, switching back to Spanish. “I don’t need you to protect me from some worthless perra.”

  Amber switched to Spanish, too. “I’m not a puta or a perra, thank you. I don’t know who you think I am, but I could help you more as your friend, rather than your hostage.”

  Victor scratched at his beard, “I’m listening.”

  Knowing that their captors had no idea that she knew Tomás pre-kidnapping, she decided to play on that ignorance. No big rewards without big risks, Amber thought. She had nothing to lose for trying.

  “Do you know Hector?”

  Victor played dumb, “Hector who?”

  Amber rolled her eyes at him, “You’re going to make me spell it out?”

  “Okay, yes, Hector.” He stubbed out his cigarette.

  She sighed in relief. Since she didn’t know Hector’s last name it would have blown her bluff. “He will give you a lot of money for those two,” Amber tried to gesture toward Tomás and Paco with her bound hands. “The Hungarians aren’t like the Americans. They’ll pay for hostages to be released.”

  She had no idea if that were true or not, but it sounded good and she thought Victor probably wouldn’t know either. Tomás stared at Amber like she was insane, but didn’t dare interrupt her play. He knew she had some kind of card up her sleeve. “The Americans think you are terrorists, not revolution
aries, and they will never negotiate with you. I’m worthless to you as a hostage, but there are other ways in which I can be useful.”

  Only the slightest arch of his eyebrow gave Amber any indication that Victor was considering what she had said. The lieutenant swatted at a mosquito trying to land on his nose, his eyes flicking over to appraise Mariana’s reaction. The sergeant was pretending to ignore Victor’s interaction with Amber while she ate a banana. They were a couple, Amber decided, or perhaps former lovers, or maybe they were on the verge of getting it on. At any rate, they were definitely more than just a lieutenant and his sergeant.

  A couple. Suddenly, thoughts of Cal overwhelmed Amber; she felt her throat thicken. Why had they been fighting? It had all been so stupid. It was no time to be crying, though. Amber felt like there would be plenty of opportunity for tears, soon enough. And Cal would depend on her to be smart, and to be brave. The one thing that Cal had, amazingly, been completely right about was the fact that no one expected her to have a gun. And somehow, so far, no one had discovered the gun in her bra holster because no had searched her. After all, she was just wearing a t-shirt and shorts.

  “You tell Hector you know who’s laundering the money that’s made from the FARC coca.”

  “And who would that be?” Victor asked Amber.

  “Me.”

  “You?” Victor chuckled, “You must take me for a fool.”

  “No, you take me for a tourist. Do you know whose house you took me from?” Victor started to fidget, a little unsure what to believe. Amber pressed on, “The man who lives there is a pilot who works for the cartel trading your coca for those guns.” She tipped her head in the direction of the rifle lying next to him. “And I take the money and clean it through casinos by buying and selling chips. So, in a way, FARC is my meal ticket. I don’t have any quarrel with you guys.”