“I’ve heard of these guys,” Peet said. “Must have been back in 1994, when they rebelled against the signing of the NAFTA agreement.”
Father Ruiz nodded. “The military quickly subdued them and ever since the Zapatista revolution has been primarily non-violent.”
KC squirmed against the wall, her bare arms straining against the ties behind her back. “Does this look non-violent to you?”
Father Ruiz hardly moved a muscle. “The peace must have been a front until the Zapatistas found the Talking Cross of the Cruzob. If they have the Talking Cross, they may feel bold enough to declare war again. Their movement has developed considerable international support.”
Peet lowered his own voice. “But what would they need John and Matt for?”
“What if they didn’t want them,” KC suggested. “What if John and Matt somehow got in the way, just like us?”
“We don’t even know for sure that the Zapatistas took them,” Father Ruiz reminded them.
A pair of boots shuffled across the floor, catching their attention. The approaching Zapatista moved authoritatively; a comandante backed by a half dozen subordinates. Peet rigidly pressed against the stage front as the men fanned out behind the comandante, rifles at the ready. An order was called out and as Peet scrambled to his feet between Father Ruiz and KC, he couldn’t help but wonder about the slain Virgin on the nearby table—an innocent victim, perhaps, of some reckless firing squad.
“Whatever happened to your friends,” KC said in a hushed voice, “I’m afraid it’s about to happen to us.”
The comandante marched straight for Father Ruiz. Though average-sized himself, the masked Zapatista seemed to tower over the priest. Without hesitation, he ripped the priest’s white collar from his throat and waved it in his face as he barked a flurry of insults at him. Peet’s meager Spanish caught the gist of the accusations. The Zapatistas thought Father Ruiz was using his priesthood as a disguise.
A disguise for what?
Peet felt confused and powerless at the same time. The desperation of a man about to be executed rose within him – a borderline panic that demanded a way out. He worked his hands behind his back but there was no loosening the rope that held them. What could he do but stand there and wait to die?
Father Ruiz feverishly denied the accusations against him, explaining he had no credentials to prove his vocation when the comandante demanded them. That wasn’t the response the Zapatista wanted to hear. In a rage, he grabbed the priest and threw him face down onto the floor. Before Father Ruiz could gather himself, the comandante stepped on his neck and placed the muzzle of his rifle at the back of his head.
“Stop!” Peet yelled.
He sprang forward in a knee-jerk reaction that was sure to get them both killed. Nevertheless, he rammed a shoulder into the comandante, knocking the masked man off of Father Ruiz. It was a bold move, one he would have never made had he had the time to think about it. But he couldn’t just stand there and watch the murder of a priest. He had to do something. The least he could do was attempt to save Father Ruiz’ life.
But Peet was too late.
As his momentum felled him over the top of the Zapatista, an explosion rattled the walls.
Stranger
Father Ruiz’s heart skipped a beat, but he was still alive and very much bewildered. He’d heard Peet make his move. He felt the release of pressure as the comandante fell away. Their collision with the floor seemingly shook the ground beneath him. Even the walls were shuddering, and before Father Ruiz could make sense of what was going on, the whole room was instantly filled with confusion. There was yelling and scuffling—the climactic noise of boots and voices was muffled by their haste to escape the building.
What was going on?
He would have guessed an earthquake had struck were it not for the echoes of a tremendous boom still resonating in his ear. When Father Ruiz finally dared to look up, the Zapatistas were gone. The comandante was the last to escape, launching orders toward the men fleeing before him.
The room was quiet. Empty.
“What the hell is going on?” KC asked.
Together, Peet and Father Ruiz rose to their feet as the sounds of the panicking village began to reach them from outside.
“The village must be under attack,” Peet offered.
It was then that an explanation presented itself.
The door through which the Zapatistas had fled now opened yet again and a lone masked gunman entered the room.
“Here we go again,” KC muttered.
But Father Ruiz instantly recognized a difference in this Zapatista. He was tall, not short and wide like the others. More importantly, when this man took up his weapon, it was to sling it over his shoulder and when he spoke, he spoke English!
“Hurry,” he said.
He rushed toward them, pulling a knife from his belt but it wasn’t an attack. Instead, he sliced at their bindings until all their hands were free. “Now run!”
Father Ruiz was wary, but after having quite literally dodged a bullet to the head, he was willing to go on a little faith and trust this rogue Zapatista. He quickly fell in line behind Peet and KC as they chased the masked stranger to a back door, which he blew open with a single blast from his rifle. They rushed toward the jungle out back while villagers scrambled along the rutted street on the other side of the building. The stranger headed for a plank-walled chapel where a larger replica of the Virgin watched over a Jeep waiting for them there.
They scrambled into the Jeep as the stranger fired up the engine, catching the attention of the Zapatistas who were in mid-charge toward a ferocious pillar of fire spewing at the far end of the village. The nearest Zapatistas raised their rifles and began firing, sinking several shots into the tailgate just behind Father Ruiz’s seat. He ducked, huddling with KC in the back seat as the Jeep spun around and fled out of range.
“What just happened?” Peet asked from the passenger seat in front of them.
“The village gas well exploded,” the stranger explained as he trained the Jeep onto a two-track road dodging back into the trees. “Chiapas is rich in natural gas. Some villages have electricity. This one has gas. Or at least they did.”
A spurt of gunfire sounded from the jungle behind them. Together, KC and Father Ruiz twisted in their seats to find a lone pickup racing through the trees behind them. “They’re still after us,” Father Ruiz announced.
“Hang on!” the stranger ordered, urging more speed out of the Jeep.
Father Ruiz dug in again, clutching his rosary and chanting a quick Hail Mary as the vehicle bounced perilously through the jungle. He heard more gunshots behind them. The Jeep took a hard bounce and then there was a loud pop that stole his breath.
A rear tire was blown, either from a bullet or a sharp root, he didn’t know. Still, the stranger pressed the Jeep on until the rubber wrenched itself free from the rim. Father Ruiz clenched his teeth against the jarring ride, his stomach nearly heaving into his throat when the vehicle tore onto an intersecting two-track and fought a short way in a new direction.
Then they came to an earth-ripping halt.
“We can’t stop now,” Father Ruiz protested. “They’re coming fast!”
Leaving the engine running, the masked stranger jumped out of the Jeep with rifle in hand. “Change the tire,” he ordered as he slapped another clip into his weapon. “I’ll hold them off.”
Stunned, Father Ruiz watched the man march back toward the intersection, keeping himself hidden behind the trees. Meanwhile, Peet and KC were already in action. Without so much as a word of coordination between them Peet loosened the lug nuts on the barren wheel while KC gathered the spare tire and positioned the jack. If Father Ruiz hadn’t known any better he would have thought they’d changed tires together on a regular basis, like a speedway pit crew.
Father Ruiz anxiously thumbed his rosary beads as KC began hoisting the Jeep, her sleeveless arms expertly working the lever of the jack. The rumbling of the pursuing pickup ech
oed through the trees, drawing ever closer.
“Hurry!” he pleaded. “They’re coming.”
“We might get this done a little faster if you got out of there,” KC growled as she cranked on the jack.
Father Ruiz scrambled out of the Jeep just as the first shots pierced the forest like staccato accents to the pickup’s engine. He spun around in time to spy the pickup barreling down on the masked stranger. More shots were fired. The stranger’s rifle flew through the air. He fell back as the pickup bounded by, and then he was lost behind the brush.
Frozen in terror, Father Ruiz merely watched three Zapatistas spring out of the pickup as it ground to a halt behind the Jeep. Peet and KC needed more time. There was only one thing Father Ruiz knew to do.
“Paz, los hermanos!” he cried, stepping toward them with his arms raised. “In the name of Jesus Christ, peace!”
The first Zapatista raised his rifle. Father Ruiz held his breath. But the man didn’t shoot. By God’s blessed intervention, he didn’t shoot. Instead, he slung the rifle over his shoulder, twisted Father Ruiz around and wrenched an arm behind his back. The last two Zapatistas headed straight for Peet and KC who continued to work at the wheel as though they hadn’t noticed their peril.
How could they not notice?
And then Father Ruiz suddenly realized something. Only one of the two Zapatistas was armed!
The man with the rifle grabbed Peet’s arm and just as he did, the professor spun around with the mangled tire rim and slammed it bluntly into the Zapatista’s mask! The man’s head snapped back from the blow and his body dropped to the ground. At the same time, KC spun upon the Zapatista’s defenseless partner. With the fluid swing of a baseball player, KC flung the jack handle squarely into the Zapatista’s gut.
Father Ruiz felt his captor move behind him. He’d been released but the Zapatista was lifting his rifle to his shoulder.
“Profesor!” Father Ruiz yelled, but his words were drowned by a gunshot.
BANG!
Father Ruiz fell to his knees, too scared to think out anything beyond his own gut reaction. Once again he was shocked to find himself still alive. Most surprisingly of all, he wasn’t even hurt. But there was heat upon his cheek and when he touched it, he found that he’d been riddled with blood and gore.
But it wasn’t his own. His captor lay lifeless beside him, blood pouring into the forest floor from a crater where his face used to be. Just beyond, the tall, masked stranger approached, lowering his rifle.
“You killed that man,” Father Ruiz accused as he rose with trembling knees.
“In your defense,” the stranger reasoned. He found the other two Zapatistas, the first whose mask was now soaked in blood, but still breathing, and the other gasping for air, not yet breathing. The stranger lifted his rifle again, placing the muzzle against the groaning man’s head.
“Parada!” Father Ruiz demanded. “Don’t shoot!”
The stranger looked up at him with a quizzical cock to his masked head. “They were going to kill you.”
“We don’t know that. That man was unarmed.”
The stranger hesitated. He glanced up at Peet and KC who simply stood beside the idling Jeep. “They could have easily shot us,” Peet agreed. “But they didn’t.”
KC nodded.
The stranger lowered his rifle for the last time, and as he did, the gasping Zapatista’s lungs finally opened, sucking and gulping for air.
“Get that tire on and let’s get out of here,” the stranger finally said, collecting the two rifles lying amongst the three Zapatistas and retiring the weapons to the back of the Jeep.
Peet and KC obeyed without question and moments later, as they drove on along the jungle two-track, Peet broke the strained tension with one burning question.
“Who are you?”
Father Ruiz actually heard the stranger smile through his mask.
“I thought you’d never ask,” the stranger said.
With one hand perched on the wheel, he finally tugged on his black balaclava and peeled it away from a shock of sweaty blonde hair tugging in the wind.
All expression escaped Peet’s face. He was clearly at a loss for words.
“How…”
Father Ruiz dug for the rosary in his pocket as Peet exclaimed the name he least expected to hear. It took a moment, but all anxiety suddenly drained away beneath a welcome realization.
This was no stranger at all.
They sped ever deeper into the jungle with none other than Matt Webb behind the wheel.
Gulfstream
Tarah sashayed across the mauve carpet like a rookie supermodel—rough around the edges, but still putting on an eye-popping show for an audience of vacant, white-leather cabin seats cozied up to their white pine tables gleaming in the sunlit cabin. This wasn’t the same woman Lori first met in the dark confines of a Red Cross trailer. It was as though she’d been transformed by the black cowl-necked matte Jersey dress hugging her figure. She convincingly looked the part of a business executive, completely at home in the luxurious cabin of the Gulfstream G650 now darting them forty thousand feet above Mexico. As if to bolster the impression, she kicked off her black, strappy heels and curled her legs beneath her as she perched down upon the nearby leather divan and accepted some mixed concoction of the alcohol variety from the attendant who’d followed her from the galley.
Lori gratefully accepted her glass of iced tea.
“It’s really no bother if you want something with a little kick,” Tarah said, stirring the ice in her drink with the little straw. “There’s practically a full bar in the galley.”
Lori took a sip of her tea. “This will do just fine,” she said.
“But not without these.”
Tarah tossed a bottle into the air from which Lori snatched it with her free hand. Aspirin, extra strength. Just what the doctor ordered.
Although she’d slept hard through the night, Lori awoke early that morning feeling groggy with a nagging pain between her eyes. But it wasn’t just the pain that kept her from catching another hour or two of sleep. Her mind quickly powered up and rolled though a ceaseless round of thoughts that swarmed inside her head.
What was she doing?
She was certain Dr. Peet and Chac had met their terrible fates, but what about Dr. Webb and Dr. Friedman? Were they still alive? If the Zapatistas really were to blame for their disappearances, what was she doing going after them with a couple of strangers she barely even knew?
Tarah took a sip from her drink with a forgery of refinement Lori hadn’t suspected she could pull off in Tunkuruchu village. Those firm hands that had restricted her movement in the cot now softened delicately around the glass. Her cloak of servitude to the villagers had certainly taken a confident about-face within the privacy of Abe’s jet.
“Comfy?” Tarah asked over the rim of her glass.
“In all honesty,” Lori confessed, “I feel out of place.”
That was an understatement. It was easy to watch Tarah float about the beautiful cabin. It was much more awkward to do it herself. Lori just didn’t transition well with drastic change in environments. Furthermore, she wasn’t dressed for the part. Tarah had retrieved from the Red Cross donations a small pair of men’s jeans that fit Lori reasonably well. Unfortunately, there’d been nothing left in the way of shirts, so a native Tunkuruchu woman offered a traditionally embroidered huipil, similar to the extravagantly woven one she herself wore with her navy wraparound skirt.
Surprisingly, the jeans didn’t offset the loose cotton blouse much at all, but that was in Tunkuruchu. “We’ll buy something more suitable to the modern world when we get back to Mérida,” Tarah offered, but given the morning’s rural delays and Abe’s rush to get to Chiapas, the only stop they made was at the Mérida airport where Abe’s flight crew had the Gulfstream ready for take off. There was a chance they could shop in Tapachula, but in the meantime, Lori sat like an eye-sore in the aft seat of the plane, the window shade drawn to dim the
piercing sunlight that flooded the cabin through the rest of the twenty-eight inch portals.
There was a regal line to Tarah’s lips as she smiled. “Don’t worry, Lori. There’s no need to impress here.”
Lori couldn’t decide if she was joking. Tarah’s change in demeanor left her feeling out a whole new personality. It was like getting to know a whole new person.
She popped a couple of Aspirin and chased them down with the tea. She decided to test a moment of bluntness with Tarah’s new character. “I can’t help but wonder, if you don’t mind me asking, how does Abe afford all of this? I wasn’t expecting a million dollar plane from a couple of humanitarian aides.”
Tarah laughed. “Seventy-four million dollars actually,” she corrected. “Abe doesn’t meet many expectations. Most people sorely underestimate him. I think he likes that.” She raised her drink to draw attention to the rest of the cabin. “He’s made his fortunes but he doesn’t like to sit on it for very long. He travels the globe with any number of humanitarian organizations. Africa, China, Haiti, Mexico, you name it, he’s been there lending a helping hand. He’s truly a man of the poor.”
“Wow,” Lori said, impressed. “That’s amazing.”
And seemingly strange for a man who custom ordered his plane with a private forward cabin between the flight deck and the stainless-steel galley. Tarah had explained that Abe preferred his privacy when he flew. That, and he liked to be near the controls between the pilots’ hands.
Tarah leaned forward playfully. “He seems to enjoy helping the poor but between you and me, I think he’s saving up Brownie points. You know, earning his way into heaven.”
Lori shared her smile. “So, are you and him…together?”
Tarah laughed, throwing herself into the cushy back of the divan. “No,” she said. “Not at all.”
“Why not? He sounds like a major catch—a big heart with a lot of money to share.”
Tarah laughed again. “It’s simple. I like my freedom and he likes his. It’s a mutual thing.”
“I see,” Lori lied.
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