“We need to move.” He drained the water out of his M4, looked up the bank, unable to see over it to what might lie beyond. “Do you still have the Glock?”
She nodded, drew it from her waistband, shook out the water, then slipped it back into her jeans, and covered it with her T-shirt.
“Let’s go.”
The two of them scrambled up the riverbank.
He reached the top first and knelt, searching the forest with his NVGs for any sign of people, but the landscape was hilly, making it impossible for him to see what lay beyond the rise. He was certain the bad guys were on their way. The drone had gotten a good look at them before he’d shot it down. It would have sent their GPS position.
Gabriela crawled up beside him, her wet clothes muddy, mud caking her shoes and her hands, a streak of mud on her cheek. “Is the coast clear?”
“For now.”
The land sloped upward, trees growing thicker around them, offering them cover from people, but not from drones.
They reached the top of the rise—and froze.
¡Puñeta! Fuck!
Below them were at least twenty men, all armed, rifles pointed at them.
Dylan dropped his M4, raised his hands, rage burning white-hot through him.
A tall, overweight man in a Hawaiian shirt stepped forward, a grin on his fleshy face. “Welcome to Colombia.”
* * *
At the sight of Sergio de Anda Ruiz, Gabriela’s heart hit her breastbone—a thud of terror. She let her training carry her, slipping into the personality of Sister María once again, allowing her fear and her shivering to work for her. “¿Son policías? ¿Son católicos?” Are you police? Are you Catholic?
Snickers.
Ruiz smiled. “Sí, Hermana.”
She sank to her knees, crossed herself, and began to pray, her body still shivering from her swim in the river. “Mary, Mother of God, I thank you for my deliverance.”
She went on, words of thanksgiving spilling from her lips in a rush, until Ruiz walked up to her.
He tucked a finger beneath her chin, lifted her gaze to meet his. “You are safe with us, Hermana María. We have been searching for you.”
“I knew help would come.” She took his hand, kissed it. “Gracias, Señor.”
He tilted his head, frowned at her black eye. “Did he do this to you?”
But Gabriela couldn’t cause Dylan any more suffering. “N-no, Señor. Pitón did when I r-refused to lie with him. That one k-killed him.”
Ruiz lifted her to her feet. “We have many questions for you, Hermana. We’re taking you home. Bring him.”
Men rushed in on Dylan, struck him, drove him to his knees, each blow making Gabriela’s heart constrict.
Ruiz led Gabriela downhill toward a clearing where there were more men and several vehicles. He shouted to his men. “Don’t kill him! He needs to be alive for the reporters. Our partner in Venezuela will decide what to do with him.”
Reporters?
Shit!
They would parade Dylan in front of the cameras—the very thing the US had wanted to avoid at all costs—and then they would torture and kill him.
“I-I need to let Mother Narcisa kn-know that I’m safe—and Father Alberto.”
“We will let them know. You are soaking wet and shivering.”
“I t-tried to get away from h-him on the w-water, but he was f-faster and stronger.”
“Of course, he was. He is a military man, and you are a young woman and small.” He called to one of his men. “Get me a blanket for the good Sister.”
Good Sister.
Ruiz didn’t fool her. They planned to interrogate her, too, to find out as much about Dylan as they could and to understand why he’d taken her. They wouldn’t hesitate to kill her if they believed she knew something about their smuggling operation at the Mission. If they discovered she wasn’t a nun, they’d take turns raping her first.
Ruiz led her to a Land Rover, where one of his men opened the rear passenger side door and helped her inside. Ruiz took a wool blanket from one of his men and handed it to her. “This should warm you, Hermana.”
“Bless you for your kindness, señor.”
He stood there for a moment, watching her. “Do you not know who I am?”
Gabriela looked him straight in the eyes, enjoying this moment. “I’m sorry, señor, I do not. I have lived much of my life cloistered and am not a worldly person.”
She could tell that this came as a blow to his ego, but he brushed it aside. “Of course, Hermana. I am Sergio de Anda Ruiz, a well-known Colombian businessman. These men you see—they are my army.”
“I am grateful to you, Señor Ruiz, and to your army.” She let tears come into her eyes. “You have rescued me against all hope.”
He got into the front passenger seat, shouted for his driver, another man getting into the back seat with Gabriela, rifle in hand.
Gabriela caught just a glimpse of Dylan being dragged to a white van and shoved into the back but did her best to show no emotion, comforted only by the Glock jabbing her in the back. In the dark, no one had noticed her weapon, and, so far, they hadn’t searched her.
“Don’t worry about him. We will take care of him.”
Gabriela gave Ruiz a grateful smile. “I just want to be back at the Mission and wearing my habit and veil once more.”
“He forced you to dress like this?”
“He stole these clothes and made me wear them. He said I was too recognizable.”
“Malparido gonorrea.” Gonorrhea bastard. “Pardon me, Sister.”
“You have done a good thing today, Señor Ruiz. I’m sure that God forgives you.”
Gabriela held the blanket close, closed her eyes, did her best to listen.
“We take them back to San Antonio del Táchira and wait. Our associate is inbound on a helicopter and is bringing media with him. Then we hand them over.”
Somehow, Gabriela had to free Dylan and escape Ruiz and his men before this associate—almost certainly Luis Sánchez—arrived with the reporters.
If she failed, everything they’d suffered and struggled for would be for nothing—and Dylan would die.
* * *
Hands tightly bound, Dylan sat with his back in the rear corner of the van, ignoring the taunts from Ruiz’s men and the pain in his right side, his mind on his breathing—and his botched mission.
He wasn’t used to failure. It had never been an option, and it wasn’t an option now. But if he didn’t escape with Gabriela soon, he would have blown everything. He would fail Cobra. He would fail Gabriela. He would fail his country.
Unless he found a way out of this, his face would be all over the news soon, creating a crisis for Cobra, which might go bankrupt from lack of Pentagon business, and for the US government, which would deny knowing anything about him.
“We’re supposed to take them back across to San Antonio and wait. Sánchez is coming in one of his helicopters and bringing reporters. After the press conference, who knows what they’ll do to him.”
“Watch what you say in front of the prisoner, malparido.”
“He’s a gringo. He probably doesn’t understand Spanish. Besides, what can he do? He’s beaten, outnumbered, helpless as a little girl.”
Dylan said nothing, but the bastard wasn’t wrong. He’d taken a kick to the side where his body armor didn’t protect him, leaving him with bruised ribs that made it painful to breathe. There were at least twenty armed hostiles—five in the back of the van alone. And he and Gabriela were separated. He’d seen her get into a Land Rover with that bastard Ruiz.
Despite the gravity of the situation, he almost smiled. She was amazing, harnessing her very real fear of Ruiz and the cartel and transforming into fear of Dylan and the desperate relief of a freed prisoner. The bastards had bought it—for now.
Still, they would interrogate her. If they believed she knew about the drug-smuggling at the mission, they would kill her. If they discovered she was a US citize
n, not a Venezuelan, they would kill her. If they learned she was an Agency officer, they would rape her, torture her, and then kill her in some barbaric way.
Torturously cruel killing was the Andes Cartel’s specialty.
That’s what they’re going to do to you—after they parade you around in front of the cameras.
What he needed was a miracle.
Except that he didn’t believe in miracles. What most people called miracles were either the result of hard work or freakish good luck. Right now, there wasn’t anything he could do, and he seemed to be fresh out of luck.
From outside, came a flash of light followed by a clap of thunder, rain spattering the van’s roof. Or was that hail?
Another flash of lightning.
Crack.
The van turned, the road beneath the tires no longer rough dirt but smooth asphalt. They must be getting close to the Venezuelan border.
Flash. Crack.
“¡Coño!” One stared upward. “Está cayendo un palo de agua.”
It’s a downpour.
Had they said Sánchez was arriving in a helicopter?
The storm would slow him, too. There was no way a pilot could fly in this. That would at least buy them some time—provided the storm lasted more than a few minutes. The moment it let up, Sánchez would be airborne again.
“Did you see the nun?” said an ugly bastard with acne scars. “Fuck! A chick like that should never be allowed to be a nun. You know what I’m saying? Those tits and that pussy are going to waste.”
The men laughed, one making wanking gestures with his hand.
“I bet he fucked her.” One of the men kicked at Dylan, struck his boot. “Did you fuck her, asshole?”
“You shouldn’t talk that way about a Sister,” Acne Man joked. “You’ll go to hell for that.”
“Just for that?”
More laughter.
Flash. Crack.
Acne Man spoke again. “If Don Sergio thinks she’s lying or that she knows something, we might all get a chance to stick our dicks in her.”
Hijoeputas. Fuckers.
Dylan kept his face impassive as if he had no idea what they were saying, but he’d be dead before that happened.
And what are you going to do to stop them?
Goddamn it!
He wasn’t used to feeling powerless or facing a no-win situation.
They must be back in San Antonio del Táchira now. A left. Another left. A right. Then the van went up a hill, made a sharp left—and stopped.
“Everyone out. We’re going to wait for Sánchez here. Make sure this bastard doesn’t get away. Don Sergio will blow your brains out if you do.”
The side door of the van opened, and the men piled out, dragging Dylan with them into the pouring rain.
Five muddy vehicles. The Land Rover.
There was Gabriela, still with Ruiz, disappearing into a grand hacienda.
“Move!” one of the men shouted in English, giving Dylan a shove.
They followed their boss indoors, Dylan’s gaze meeting Gabriela’s for just a moment, the trust he saw there giving him strength.
“Take him to the basement.” Ruiz shut Gabriela in what looked like an office, then walked over to his men. “Interrogate him, but remember, he must be able to speak. He must be able to confess on camera. Do not kill him or leave him unconscious or incapacitated. Our partner wants his prize whole.”
Down the stairs they went, rage holding the worst of Dylan’s fear at bay. He wasn’t a fan of pain, but he wasn’t going to let these assholes break him.
Gabriela’s life depended on it.
17
Gabriella sat in what looked like an office, still wrapped in her blanket, trying to focus on her interrogation and not what they were doing to Dylan downstairs. She needed to keep her mind clear and her emotions in check. She was sitting across from one of the most dangerous and most wanted criminals in the world.
She couldn’t afford to slip up. “He came upon us in the street. Pitón put a gun to my head. But that one shot him and then forced me to hide with him in the basement of an apartment building.”
Ruiz watched her, a predator trying to decide whether she was his pet—or his prey. “What is his name?”
“He never told me. He said it was better for me not to know. He wished me to remain silent, which isn’t hard for me. He spoke only Spanish to me, Spanish with what sounded like a Cuban accent.”
“Did he force you to abandon your vow of chastity?”
“No, señor, he didn’t touch me. He didn’t try to lie beside me. But even if he had, the sin would be his alone. If a religious sister is raped—God forbid—the sin lies only with the rapist. Because it was not her choice, her vow is intact, and she is still chaste.”
Ruiz clearly found that answer boring. “Why didn’t he let you go after he killed Pitón? Why did he keep you with him? You’re Venezuelan. He must want something from you.”
Gabriela channeled all of the tension inside her into her answer, allowing her eyes to fill with tears. “He told me that he couldn’t let me go because I’d seen his face. He said he needed a hostage in case he was caught, but he promised to let me go when we reached Colombia. I was afraid he would kill me after we crossed the river, but then you were there.”
Ruiz seemed to consider this. “Did you like your life at the Mission?”
She gave him a sad smile. “Oh, yes, Señor. Mother Narcisa is a godly woman. With God’s help, we fed many hundreds of hungry people. Father Alberto worked hard to get the food we needed. I was doing God’s will there.”
“Do you know where that food came from?” Ruiz was trying to find out what she knew about the shipments.
“No, señor, but God provides.”
“I provide, Hermana. That food came from me, my gift to my Venezuelan neighbors.”
Did he realize what he’d just admitted? She had it now. She had the proof she needed—straight from Ruiz’s bragging mouth.
“From you, señor?” She stared at him, feigning amazement. “Thank you for your kindness and generosity. Truly, God will bless you.”
“Did you help to unload those shipments?” He wanted to know whether she’d seen the drugs.
“No, Señor Ruiz. I am the newest sister at the Mission and not very strong, so I spent most of my time cleaning or in the kitchen cooking. In the afternoons, I distributed food to the poor if my other work—”
A knock came at the door, interrupting her.
“Come!”
A man with bad acne scars entered, blood spattered on his T-shirt—most likely Dylan’s blood. “When is our partner arriving?”
“He is stuck at the airport in Valencia waiting for this storm to end. Has the bastard said anything?”
“Not a word. I’ve tried electroshock. I can make him scream, but he won’t even tell me his name or say where he’s from.”
Gabriela’s heart constricted again, a sharp pang behind her breastbone. She hadn’t heard any screams. Which must mean the basement was soundproofed. That made sense if you were a cartel boss. Why have a lovely house if you had to listen to your victims scream while you’re eating dinner?
Ruiz frowned. “You’d best stop for now. If he dies, it will be your head. Be careful what you say around him. Sister María tells me he speaks Spanish.”
“Sí, Patrón.” Rather than looking afraid, the man grinned and was gone, closing the door behind him.
Ruiz studied her. “You don’t approve. After all this man did to you?”
“All of this violence—kidnapping, killing, torture. Forgive me, but I have never seen such things before.”
“The world is a rough place, Sister María. You are either the wolf or the sheep. Which are you?”
She lifted her chin, drew herself up to her full height. “I am a child of God, as are we all, each of us made in God’s image.”
He chuckled, got to his feet. “When did you last eat?”
She tried to remember. “Thi
s morning, I think.”
“I’ll have the kitchen prepare you some food while we wait.”
She followed him, holding tightly to the blanket, certain they would see the bulge in her T-shirt and discover the Glock now that they were in a lighted house. She did her best to memorize the layout of the place and gauge Ruiz’s strength. She thought she’d seen five men take Dylan downstairs. Another two stood just inside the front door, while the majority—about fifteen men—milled about on the covered veranda.
She fought back a wave of despair. She was outnumbered roughly twenty-three to one, and all she had was fifteen rounds in a Glock.
You’ll take weapons from the men, use their bullets against them.
She had never been in a gunfight before. She’d only ever fired weapons at paper targets on a range. She’d never killed anyone.
You’ll do it—for Dylan.
Ruiz introduced her to a tight-lipped, unhappy-looking cook named Imelda and asked her to make Gabriela a meal. “She’s had a rough time, so we must care for her.”
Gabriela knew he hadn’t made up his mind about her yet.
“Thank you, Señor. God bless you for your kindness.” You bastard son of a bitch. “I am grateful.”
She had to find a way out of this—and soon.
* * *
Dylan pretended to be unconscious, hoping to seem weaker than he was and to buy himself some time to recover, his skin shrinking from that last shock. The bastards had stripped him down to his trousers and taken turns pounding on him until Acne Man had pulled some kind of homemade electroshock device out of a closet, plugged it in, and showed Dylan what real torture was.
Dylan had been through advanced SERE training—Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape. He’d been interrogated, beaten, threatened with rape, starved, deprived of light and sleep, and submerged in cold water until he’d almost drowned. But he’d known it wasn’t real and that it would end.
This wouldn’t stop until he was dead—or found a way to escape.
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