by P. A. DePaul
Michelle grunted, her sore muscles protesting the load. Damn. She should have been hitting the gym instead of the cantina. Not only would her large hips have thanked her, but the extra stamina she could’ve gained would’ve come in handy. She readjusted her backpack. What the heck did she pack in it? Her entire wardrobe?
Nacio scanned the area again. The deep crease marring his forehead and the set line of his mouth did nothing to help her nerves. She glanced around too. Had he seen something?
Leaves swayed and rustled in the wind and the clouds deepened to a charcoal hue. An eerie silence hung in the air. A shot of fear stole down her spine. Were the birds and such quiet because of their group or was something else here watching them? Waiting in the shadows like a hunter.
She swallowed and tore her eyes away from the forest. She forced an inner chuckle at her jumpiness. That’s it. No more late night suspense fests for you.
Nacio tromped to the wooden post marking the beginning of the steps and turned. “I’ll go first. Once I’m across, then someone else can go and so on. Si?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just started down the steps.
Michelle hefted a pair of duffels and got in line behind Luis and Maria. The bridge swayed and dipped as each walked across but no one seemed to have any trouble crossing.
Her heart thundered.
My turn.
She inhaled. “Don’t look down,” she whispered, then exhaled. “It’s an experience you can tell your friends about when you get home.”
Descending the last step that led right onto the bridge, she tried one more time to bolster her nerves, “You can do this, Michelle. Everyone else crossed with no problem.” She tread forward carefully. The wooden planks were nailed closely together, barely leaving any light to shine through. That was a good thing, right?
She continued to advance. The bridge moved and shifted as she walked but the high webbing on each side helped her confidence. Thick ropes were woven through the holes and made it seem as if it were stable. Please, God, don’t let that be an illusion.
Wind whipped over her, causing the bridge to sway with it. Bugger. This was so not cool. She picked up her pace. Not exactly to a run but not a leisurely stroll either.
The wood creaked beneath her feet. She glanced down and froze. Oh God. She was directly in the center.
A hundred feet up.
Rushing water below.
Gusts of air pushing against her.
Her heart lodged in her throat.
“Come on, Michelle,” Maria yelled. “You’re almost across.”
She yanked her eyes off the rocks below and looked toward her classmates. Maria clapped and gave her a thumbs up while Luis stood with his arms crossed behind her. Nacio . . . wait, why was he running up the hill?
“Hey!” Michelle called, moving forward again. “Nacio, where are you going?”
Maria screamed and pointed at something behind her.
The bridge shook violently and the wooden planks protested.
Michelle whirled and her mouth went dry. Two men carrying big guns ran right for her. They were shouting something but the blood thundering in her ears prevented her from understanding a word they said.
She dropped the duffels and ran, leaping forward off the bridge. Hard stone splintered her fingernails as she scrabbled up the thin steps cut into the cliff-face. Heavy footsteps pounded too closely behind her, making her desperate to reach the top. Her foot slipped, probably from the blood dripping from her fingers, but she managed to clear the last step.
Umpfh. A heavy weight tackled her from behind, smashing her face into to ground. Before she could ascertain if she was all right, someone yanked her up by her backpack and pressed the end of a gun against her temple.
Her eyes frantically searched the area but she could only see Luis on his knees with a pistol to his head.
“Va por ahi!” someone in the woods shouted.
Michelle quickly translated: There she goes.
Oh God. Please let that be Maria escaping.
The staccato beat of machine gunfire answered her question. Michelle screamed, “NO!”
The gun lifted from her temple and slammed against her head. Her last thought before the world went dark was “Where did Nacio go?”
Chapter 2
“Malone, you’ve got a visitor.”
Captain Jeremy Malone glanced up from the map of the Amazon jungle he’d been studying in his tent. As a commanding officer in the Green Berets, he refused to allow any formal address in the field as a way to hide the ranking officers’ identities. Not that he outranked fellow Captain Stacey Jackson. Despite being saddled with a feminine first name, Jacks was as masculine and well-rounded as a soldier could get . . . and extremely popular with the ladies.
“Jacks, I thought you were still out reconning,” Malone answered, his voice sounding like a chain saw compared to Jacks’ smooth intonation.
“I was,” the soldier pulled a soaking wet, pathetic excuse for a man from behind him, “when our new friend here, caught up with me.”
Malone lasered in on the man’s face. Dirt, now mud, covered the asset’s skin and his torn clothes were beyond saving. Time to find out what he was doing here. “Jose, que estas haciendo aqui?”
Jose swallowed and answered in broken English, “News, señor.”
Malone tamped down his impatience. He already figured that much out himself. He raised an eyebrow and waited.
“Osvaldos take American girl.”
Malone stiffened. “Where the hell did the cartel get an American girl?”
“She crossed their border.” Jose wrung his hands, his wide eyes bouncing between Malone and Jacks.
The sinister edge pouring into Jacks’s expression had the informant stepping back.
“Start from the beginning,” Malone’s teammate and best friend barked.
Jose swallowed. “I only heard this morning. I wo-working in field.”
“Wait. Are you telling me she’s been there for days?” Malone asked, his stomach knotting.
“Si, señor. Two.” Jose held up two grubby fingers as if to make his point.
“Son of a bitch,” Jacks exploded. “That sadistic bastard, Ramon, could have done anything to her by now, including selling her to his twisted brother for the sex-slave trade.”
The knot constricted. Malone ignored his friend’s too true tirade and concentrated on Jose. “What else? What have you heard about her?”
“The men, they talk. She bonita . . . pretty. Young. American. Had a—a—mochila?”
“Backpack,” Malone answered automatically, stroking his chin.
“Si. Si.”
Jacks paused his pacing and barked, “Like how young?”
Jose shrugged.
“School girl?” Jacks lowered his palm to indicate a girl between the ages of seven to ten. “Or full grown?” He raised his hand to shoulder height.
Jose cupped his hands and held them in front to indicate full breasts. “Full grown, señor.” His face reddened. “The men,” he cleared his throat, “they, ah, describe what they do if they have chance.”
Malone’s stomach twisted. Christ. “Where was she captured?”
Jose dropped his arms. “By bridge, señor.”
“Gracias, Jose.” Malone turned to his friend. “Jacks, tell Jersey to escort Jose out of camp after he compensates the man, then meet me across the way.”
“Sure.” Jacks grabbed Jose’s arm.
“Wait.” Jose fought to stay. “My family. You promise safety.”
Jacks paused and Malone answered, “Do exactly what I told you when we first met and your family will not be harmed in the raid.”
“Thank you, señor,” the asset gushed, wringing his hands.
“Keep your end of the bargain, Jose,” Malone warned, holding the smaller man’s gaze. “Not a word about our existence here or the impending strike and you will be further compensated for your aid.”
“Si. Si. I not say anything.”
&nbs
p; Jacks pulled the man into the rain.
Malone followed, then shuffled inside the second tent. Reginald “Fast Fingers” Davis sat behind his latest group of toys. Monitors were placed on top of thick, black plastic cases large enough to carry a shit load of ordnance—which they did. His M4 Carbine rifle rested against his leg as he leaned back in his makeshift chair with his feet propped up on another set of cases.
“I need your skills,” Malone announced.
Fast Fingers jerked his head up and dropped his legs to the floor, starting to rise.
“At ease and speak freely,” Malone instructed, cutting through the formalities they didn’t have time to honor.
Reginald resettled and asked, “What’s up?” The scars of bad teenage acne still pitted the man’s face but in a way were a blessing. If the guy hadn’t been riddled with the confidence-smashing pimples he wouldn’t have spent so much time at home learning his way around a keyboard. And those skills were definitely well-honed.
Jacks ducked inside and shook his head. Rain drops flew off in every direction.
“Watch the equipment, ya mangy mutt,” Fast Fingers grumbled, hugging the keyboard against him.
“We’ve got an unexpected development,” Malone stated grimly. “The Osvaldo cartel has branched out into kidnapping.”
“Overachieving bastards, aren’t they?” Fast Fingers quipped. “Drugs and guns no longer enough to keep them busy?”
“Apparently not.” Malone shifted forward. “Before we have the final briefing with the SEALS, DEA, ATF, and that other group with no name to solidify the plans for the raid, I need to know as much as possible about the girl they took. I don’t want FUBAR stamped on our mission tonight.”
“But Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition is our specialty.” Fast Fingers laughed, then started clicking on his keyboard. “Tell me what you got.”
Malone relayed Jose’s inadequate information in less than ten seconds.
“That’s it?” Fast Fingers paused, looking up at him.
“Yeah. You’ve got one hour, fifty-five minutes to find out everything you can about her before we deploy. This may be a game changer.”
“Damn right it is,” Jacks exclaimed. “We can’t leave her with those bastards.”
“If she’s still there,” Malone replied gravely.
Jacks swore colorfully.
“Find me when you have something to report,” Malone instructed, pulling his friend out of the tent.
One hour, forty minutes later a throat cleared just beyond the flaps of Malone’s tent.
“Enter,” Malone ordered.
Fast Fingers ducked inside and started to assume the attention position but Malone waved him forward. “At ease. Bring me what you’ve found.”
Reginald loped forward and slapped a thin manila folder on the table in Malone’s tent.
“Permission to speak candidly?”
“Granted.” Malone leaned forward on the makeshift table and turned the folder toward him.
“I believe I’ve figured out who they have. I don’t have any evidence. In fact, everything’s completely circumstantial.”
“I understand what you’re saying and take full responsibility. Proceed.”
Reginald’s shoulders relax slightly. “Meet Michelle Alger.”
Malone opened the folder and his stomach flipped. An eight-by-ten color head-shot peered up at him of a smiling, happy-go-lucky young woman with twinkling brown eyes. Shoulder-length brown wavy hair framed a pretty face with just enough meat to tell Malone she wasn’t one of those anorexic women obsessed with dieting. A definite plus in the woman’s favor.
“Born in July.”
Fast Finger’s report yanked Malone back to reality and shamed him for imagining what the rest of her body would look like.
“She’s nineteen years old and a sophomore here as an exchange student from the University of California.”
Malone thumbed past the head-shot to a single sheet of paper reducing Michelle’s life down to the basic facts. Social Security number, California dorm address, parent’s names and home address, and even the fact that she had a butterfly tattoo on her left hip.
Fast Fingers was scary good.
“Excellent work as usual.” Malone snapped the file shut.
“I didn’t have enough time to find out her dress size—”
“No problem,” Malone cut him off, not wanting to revive the mental image of ample breasts—fueled by Jose’s visual—and spectacular ass—supplied by his imagination—in his head. “I’ve figured out which size jumpsuit to pack based on the photo.”
Reginald grinned. “She’s suh-weet. Consenting age, full mouth . . .” The soldier cleared his throat. “Jacks is going to flip when he sees her.”
Malone gripped the folder against an unexpected wave of anger. Mine. He blinked. Had that possessive word just run through his head? What the hell was wrong with him?
He peered at Reginald. A smarmy grin stretched across the man’s face. Consenting age, full mouth . . .
Hell no. “Jacks and every other man in my unit is going to keep their damn hands to themselves,” Malone snapped, causing Reginald to do a double-take.
“If you say so, sir.”
Damn. The “sir” while in the field let Malone know he’d gone too far in his outburst. Unable to take it back now, he glanced at his watch. “Let’s go. Briefing by the joint operations commander is in two minutes.”
***
In typical rainforest fashion, the rain that had pounded them earlier stopped with only a few clouds lingering behind. Malone adjusted his Kevlar helmet and flipped his Night Vision Goggles down. The world was now painted in shades of green and black. “Talk to me, Jersey.”
Jersey’s mouth hardened and a flash of irritation flared in his cold eyes.
Not the time to find out what that shit’s about. Malone stared his subordinate down.
Jersey jerked a bulky device up to his eyes and answered coldly, “I’ve got thermal readings in that building over there.”
“You mean the one that’s supposed to be abandoned?” Jacks asked, sarcastically. “How would we ever guess that’s the place? Bad guys really need to update their manuals. This is right out of the ‘How to be cliché’ section.”
Malone ignored the other captain and studied the non-descript wooden structure. Nothing about the building stood out among the rest other than the weary, deserted appearance. He glanced at his watch. “Jacks, time to roll out. Take the rest of the team and complete our end of the mission. Jersey and I are going to retrieve Michelle.”
“I know the General assigned this to you, but I’m going to ask one last time.” Jacks clapped him on the shoulder. “You sure you don’t want take out the communications equipment while I grab the civilian? I mean, it’s no secret, the ladies love me.” He winked.
“No,” Malone snapped. “I’ve got it covered.”
Jacks grinned. “Right. You sure are getting desperate if you’re resorting to Columbian kidnap victims for dates. I can help coach you—”
“Move out.”
Jacks snickered along with the others in hearing range. After giving Malone a two-fingered salute, Jacks signaled to the rest of the unit to head west.
Malone and Jersey entered the building and proceeded to check each room. No cartel members lingered and there was nothing worth noting on the first floor. The place definitely hadn’t been used for a while except as a hangout for members who sampled their own product.
Malone led them silently up the stairs, pausing when he reached the top and peered around the corner. He held up his index finger, telling Jersey there was one hostile in the hallway. Jersey tapped Malone on the back, indicating he got the message and was ready to go. Malone cleared the step, aiming his gun at the man’s chest. He didn’t hesitate to shoot the man guarding the door with his suppressed handgun before the asshole could raise his machine gun. “Hallway clear,” he whispered into his mic and proceeded down the corridor. When he reached t
he door the dead man had been guarding he crouched, waiting with his gun at the ready. At a tap on his shoulder he reached out and tested the door handle.
“Locked.”
Jersey maneuvered around him, pulling a small, prewired package of C4 from his side pants pocket. He ripped the adhesive paper off the back and slapped it against the door near the handle. He fit the blast cap on the device and unwound the wires. They hauled ass around the corner and Jersey set-off the fuse.
After the concussive boom, Malone opened his eyes and tore back up to the room. Jersey pulled the broken door off its hinges and Malone ran inside. His heart constricted and his blood boiled. For as long as he lived he knew he’d never forget the sight greeting his eyes. Gone was the innocent, smiling, cherubic face. In its place was a broken, bloodied, naked mess handcuffed to an iron bedframe. The goddamned bastards had worked her over good.
The woman moaned and shifted her head to stare at him through blackened, swollen slits.
He swiped his NVG’s up and knelt by the paper thin mattress. “Are you Michelle Alger?” he asked gently.
She swallowed hard and nodded, wincing at the action as tears leaked down her temples.
Jersey moved to the end of the bed and pulled out a digital camera.
“The pictures are going to be stamped classified and are only to document the condition the Osvaldo cartel left you in. They will not be released to the public,” Malone explained when he saw Michelle wince. “I need you to state your social security number.” He hated prolonging her rescue but Special Ops had been fooled before. Now, no one does anything unless their victim’s identity was confirmed.
He had committed every meager detail in her file to his memory and when she haltingly repeated the same nine digits, he grinned. “Excellent job.” He reached into his vest pocket and grabbed his lock-pics. “Can you tell me the city you were born in?”
She waited until he finished unlocking her hands and met her eyes before answering. “Laurel, Delaware.”