Leger’s face formed a giant question mark. “That’s tangential? What does direct involvement look like in your world?”
Brandy pretended that she didn’t hear. “Well, the firm she works for in Fisherman’s Cove is solely owned by a man named Jonathan Grave, who himself is former Special Forces. Frankly, I was unable to obtain any records on him, which leads me to believe that whatever he did was very, very black.”
Now Leger seemed stunned. “I’m the Secretary of Defense, for God’s sake. What records are sealed from me?”
“Jonathan Grave’s, apparently.” She heard the bite in her tone, and on a different day it would have bothered her. But today, when Jacques Leger was being a certified asshole, she didn’t much care. She continued, “When Gail Bonneville was with the FBI, she was part of the Hostage Rescue Team. There were some career difficulties along the way, and some job-hopping, but the fact that she landed at a company run by somebody who I assume was a Delta Force operator-or maybe something even blacker, although I don’t know what that might be-raises some major flags with me.”
Leger looked tolerant at best. “And what might those flags be?”
Brandy couldn’t believe that the secretary hadn’t already pulled ahead of her. “What do HRT and Delta have in common?” She actually waited for an answer, but only for a couple of seconds, before she realized that SecDef probably did not like being quizzed. “Hostage rescue,” she said, answering her own question.
She waited for him to connect the dots, but when he didn’t, she pressed harder. “The church that owns the school where Ponder’s men snatched the children is literally next door to Jonathan Grave’s home. He spent a career rescuing people, and Gail Bonneville now works for him. Isn’t it obvious that they’re planning to rescue the Guinn boy?”
As she watched Secretary Leger decode it for himself for the first time, she saw the physical burden consume him. He pushed some papers around on his desk, then cleared his throat. “My, but you are full of news, aren’t you?” he said.
He thought for a moment. “Well, clearly we have some things to do,” he said after clearing his throat again. “The Guinn boy is not our concern. We’ll pass along what we know about him to the right people, and that will be the end of our involvement there. I want to concentrate on this Navarro business.” He avoided eye contact as he said, “Talk to your friend from New England. Tell him he now has the green light to do whatever he needs to do, to whomever it needs to be done in order to eliminate Bruce Navarro and the investigator woman.”
Brandy felt her skin go cold. “Eliminate, sir?”
A beat. Leger made a show of sitting up straight and crossing his arms. “That’s not too big a word for you, is it, Brandy?”
She gaped back at him. No, there was nothing big about the word. The word was easy. It was the murders that came with it that were difficult to comprehend. She squirmed in her seat. “Sir, if you’re talking about killing people…” She let her words trail off.
Leger laughed. “Oh, for God’s sake, Brandy, grow up. This has been about killing from the very beginning. Welcome to the big leagues. Only at this level, we don’t think of it as killing. We think of it as problem solving.”
She felt sick to her stomach. First the child and now this. “I, uh, I don’t think I can do that.”
“Of course you can’t. That’s why I would never ask you to. I never have asked you to. We have people who do that for us. Tell our Boston friend what we need, and he’ll take care of the rest. You never even have to mention the K — word, if you don’t want.”
Brandy felt somehow heavier as she sat there. Would this never end? She found herself nodding in agreement before she’d even thought it all the way through.
“Good,” he said. “And on the other thing, I want you to be my messenger. Go home and pack for a warm climate.”
“Sir?”
“Someone will contact you with the details in a couple of hours.”
It felt as if she’d slept through a part of the movie of her own life. “I don’t understand.”
Leger gave her a little wave. Of course she didn’t understand. “We’re going to get you down to Colombia,” he said.
Evan Guinn had fallen asleep in the back of the SUV, lulled by the never-ending bouncing and rolling along the trails that doubled for jungle roads. When the jostling stopped, he awoke, confused about where he was. The nap had allowed him to forget. Now reality returned.
They’d reached a small clearing, about a quarter of the size of a football field, where the trees had somehow been removed, leaving only a green ocean of low-growing ferns and bushes. A few bore flowers, but most did not. On a different day, it would have been beautiful. As it was, Evan was overrun with the sense that he was going to die out here and no one would ever find his body.
As a lump grew in his throat, he refused to let himself cry again. He’d already been a pussy for running after the car. And what had that gotten him? If this was where they were going to drop him off, it had bought him nothing. Maybe less than nothing.
“Stay here,” Mitch commanded. Without waiting for an answer, he pulled open his door and stepped out. He crossed in front of the vehicle and strode to the center of the clearing, where he stopped. With his arms outstretched and his legs spread to shoulder width, he slowly pivoted 360 degrees, and then stopped.
“What’s he doing?” Evan asked the driver. He craved someone talking to him, but he wasn’t surprised when the driver remained silent. He probably didn’t even understand.
After maybe thirty seconds had passed, the surrounding jungle squeezed out four dark-skinned men armed with rifles-Evan thought they were M16s based on what he’d seen on the History Channel. The men were dressed like soldiers: camouflaged uniforms that hadn’t been washed in a very long time, which, he thought, matched the appearance of the men wearing them. For a second, he thought they were going to shoot Mitch on the spot, but then they approached him.
As they got closer, three of the four men held back, while the fourth approached Mitch like an old friend.
Mitch and the other man chatted for a couple of minutes. They shared a laugh, and they shook hands again before walking together toward the SUV. Evan’s heart jumped as his stomach cramped. They were coming for him. He crab walked to the far side of the backseat, adding space between him and the approaching kidnappers.
This was his last chance to get away. He turned to the left-side passenger door to pull the latch and yelled at the sight of another soldier standing on the other side. He had no idea where he’d come from.
Mitch and the other man were here now, and both back doors opened simultaneously, a stern-faced soldier on his left, and coldly smiling Mitch on his right.
“Don’t even think about it, kid,” Mitch said. “You’ve got a long hike ahead of you, and it’ll be a lot harder with your hands tied. Make us do it, and we will. It’s your call.”
He had no choice. This was why it was better to fight to the death before being taken. After that first moment, all the options were shitty ones.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the soldier that Mitch had been talking to. “My name is Oscar.” He reached a hand into the car, and Evan recoiled, almost falling out the other door on the far side.
The soldier closest to him reached out to catch him, but it wasn’t necessary.
“Why are you doing this?” Evan asked. He heard the whiny tone in his voice, but he couldn’t help it.
Oscar’s features softened. He didn’t smile, but it was close. “I realize that this must be frightening for you,” he said. “How could it not be? You go to bed one night, and then in so short a time, you’re in so strange a place. I’m sorry that it had to happen this way.”
“What is happening?”
“You’re embarking on a new adventure,” Oscar said. His eyes didn’t frighten Evan as much as Mitch’s did.
“I don’t need a new adventure. I don’t want a new adventure.”
Oscar
smiled gently. “I understand. Unfortunately, we don’t always get to choose the events in our lives. You need to come with us, Evan. No one means to harm you. In fact, these guns are intended to protect you.”
Evan looked to the soldier who’d tried to catch him. The soldier gave him that quick smile that adults always give to kids when they make eye contact. The one that was meant to say that they were not a threat. It was also the smile of every child molester. Can you help me find my lost puppy?
“We have a long way to go before dark, Evan,” Oscar said. “We need to get moving.”
His mind raced for a way to stall. “Where are we going?”
Oscar cocked his head. “Does it matter? One way or another, I have to deliver you. As my friend Mitchell here said, it will be so much easier if you come along easily.” He let that sink in, then motioned with a flick of his fingers for Evan to join him. “Let’s get started, shall we?” He stood to his full height, and pivoted to the side of the door, opening a corridor for Evan to step outside.
In the end, he had no choice. He scooted on his butt across the bench seat and out into the weeds. They stabbed at the soles of his feet and tickled his legs-not in a way that made you want to laugh, but in the way that made you want to take a shower.
“Good for you,” Oscar said. “You chose well.” He extended his hand again. “Let’s make it official. I’m Oscar, and it’s nice to meet you.”
Evan stared at the hand for a few seconds, and then he took it. “Evan Guinn,” he said. Oscar’s palms were as rough and hard as granite. He stopped short of saying that it was nice to meet him.
Releasing Evan’s hand, Oscar turned to Mitch. “We’ll take good care of the boy,” he said. “Rest assured.”
Mitch clearly didn’t care one way or the other. He climbed back into the truck. The last thing Evan heard before the door closed was, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
As the truck’s engine revved, Oscar gently pulled Evan out of the way. The SUV drove in a wide circle through the clearing to turn around, and then it was gone.
He was alone now with his new captors. Evan became aware of Oscar’s rough hand on his bare shoulder.
“Try not to be afraid,” the man said.
Evan fought to control his breathing, which had started to chug like a train as he fought back the tears.
“I promise that no one wants to hurt you. I know that there’s been some of that in your past, but you’ll find none of that here.”
Evan scowled and looked up at the man. What did he know about his past?
“We know a lot about you, Evan. I am not in a position to explain these things to you, but it’s very important to us that you remain safe. That can be difficult in this country, and that truly is why I am accompanied by these gentlemen with the guns.”
Evan’s vision blurred with tears, and he swiped them away. People who didn’t mean harm didn’t kidnap people.
“The man who just left,” Oscar went on. “That was Mitchell Ponder. He is a very, very dangerous man. Now that he has left, I promise you that you are safe.”
“But why am I here?” If he could just know that one thing, then maybe something would start to make sense. Just that one bit of information might make him relax. Just a little.
Oscar sighed and cocked his head. It was a look of genuine sympathy, Evan thought. “Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s start walking so that we don’t waste any more daylight. I’ll try to think of a way to tell you something without betraying the confidences that I have pledged to honor. I know it’s not really the answer you’re looking for, but will it make do for a while?”
Again, there was no choice. Evan nodded.
They walked in single file, with two of the armed soldiers in the front, followed by Oscar and then Evan. Three soldiers brought up the rear.
The jungle swallowed them all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jonathan’s team arrived in Colombia by flying to different cities on different airlines with flight times scattered across the clock. Boxers had left first, through Miami to Panama City and on into Cartagena. Twelve hours later, Jonathan and Harvey flew on different flights that took labored routes to Santa Marta, arriving within ninety minutes of each other. Jonathan made sure his was scheduled to arrive first, just in case Harvey needed additional encouragement after he’d touched down.
They found each other in baggage claim, then headed out into the thriving sauna that was Santa Marta. “I’m hating this already,” Harvey said. “In case you were wondering.” He ran a finger under the collar of his T-shirt.
Jonathan opted not to tell him that as hot as it was here on the coast, it was going to get a hell of a lot hotter in the jungle. Here, at least, they had a breeze.
“Are we winging it now, or do we have a plan?” Harvey asked.
Jonathan didn’t honor the question with an answer. “We need to visit a friend,” he said.
They grabbed a cab, and Jonathan directed the driver to a hostel downtown that was known to cater to American college students on their obligatory narcotics pilgrimage. Even by the squalid standards of the neighborhood, the hostel was a dump.
“Oh, yeah,” Harvey groused. “This just gets better and better.”
Jonathan silenced him with a glare and paid the driver. He added a generous tip, which, at least in the old days, was the equivalent of buying blindness and deafness, in case anyone asked questions.
Together on the street in front of the entrance, Jonathan placed his palm on Harvey’s chest to get his attention. “I need you to be my silent partner in here. Felipe is an old friend, but a suspicious one, out of necessity.”
“How do you know each other?”
Jonathan answered with arched eyebrows.
“Oh.”
“No names, either. If pressed, you’re Mr. Smith.”
Harvey’s shoulders sagged. “Smith? That’s the best you could come up with? Why not Jones?”
Jonathan smiled. “Because it’s already taken.”
The hostel was less shoddy on the inside than it was on the outside. More house than hotel, the place had the well-worn look of too many parties thrown by too many young people, of whom none were visible at the moment.
Jonathan called, “Hello?”
An ancient raisin of a man stepped in from what Jonathan knew to be the kitchen, and the mutual recognition was instantaneous.
“Hello, Felipe,” Jonathan said in English.
“Senor Jones!” the old man exclaimed. A snaggletoothed grin consumed the lower half of his face. He shuffled over, his arms outstretched to enfold Jonathan in a bear hug. Given his five-foot-three stature, it was really more of a cub hug, but the thought was there. “It has been too long!”
Jonathan had never adjusted to the Latin American abrazo — the man-hug-but he did his part by patting the old man on the back. “Too long,” he agreed.
“You look good,” Felipe said as they broke the embrace. He patted Jonathan’s chest. “You skinny. You have neck now.” The old man laughed.
Jonathan laughed, too. The last time the two had seen each other, Jonathan had been part of a Unit operation in which he and his squadron mates were supposed to disappear among the locals to gather intelligence against the drug cartel. Felipe had been an important link in the communication chain, and he had always teased Jonathan about being in far too good shape to ever blend in.
“I’m getting old and soft,” Jonathan conceded.
Felipe pinched his cheek. “No, you look good. You look healthy.” He turned to Harvey and extended his hand. “Who is your friend?”
“This is Mr. Smith,” Jonathan said. “He’s a business associate. He doesn’t say much.”
Felipe enfolded Harvey’s hand in a friendly double grip. “Think of the coincidence,” Felipe said. “Yet another business associate named Mr. Smith.”
Harvey grinned. “Seems we’re a dime a dozen,” he said.
Felipe turned toward the back of the building and b
eckoned his guests to follow. “Come, come. We catch up.” As he passed the tiny front desk, he leaned across the counter and produced a tent-card that read CLOSED. In English.
Felipe caught the knowing glance from Jonathan. “Yes, the American dollar is still good to me,” he said. He beckoned again and led the way out the back door into a tiny courtyard that truly hadn’t changed a bit in the decade-plus since Jonathan’s last visit. The same tufts of grass peeked through the same spaces between the same broken bricks. Even the aluminum lawn chairs looked as rickety as before.
Felipe lifted two of the chairs a couple of inches off the ground and rattled them against the bricks. “Have a seat. I’ll get us some coffee.”
Jonathan gasped, “Coffee! Jesus, Felipe, it’s a hundred and ten degrees.”
“Only thirty-eight Celsius,” he said with a grin. “Sounds much cooler.”
“Thanks anyway,” Jonathan said, waving the offer away.
“Beer then,” Felipe said. “Or tequila. Whiskey?”
Harvey started to take the beer bait, then retreated from Jonathan’s glare.
“Nothing, really,” Jonathan insisted. “Thank you very much, though. Muchas gracias. ” Jonathan sat in the proffered seat, and gestured to the other one. “Please, Felipe. Sit with us. Let’s just talk.”
The old man’s smile gave way to a look of concern. “I don’t like that tone, my old friend. I’ve heard it before. Soon I fear you will tell me that this is not just a pleasure trip to revisit the goods times with Felipe.”
They shared a smile. Both were fully aware how much Jonathan despised this part of the world. Heat, corruption, violence, and poverty combined to form a perfect storm of misery for which Jonathan had no tolerance.
“My mission is nowhere near as large or difficult as in the past,” Jonathan said. “If that makes you feel any better.”
Felipe settled himself into his seat and crossed his legs. For a man of his apparent age, he’d always moved with considerable grace. “I hear you’re working with your old friend Jose,” Felipe said. He noted the startled look and added, “What, you think I don’t have ears anymore?” Clearly, he wanted Jonathan to know that he was still in the loop.
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