Fournier took a cautionary step back, pulling her with him.
“And you,” the deputy growled at Gus, “will have time in the shed to reflect on your stupidity. Now walk.”
Gus marched obediently forward. With Buitre’s gun gouging his right shoulder blade, he managed to look over his left shoulder and catch Lucy’s eye, sending her a subtle wink.
Her expression did not alter one iota, save for a faint thinning of her lips. But he knew by her sudden silence that she’d gotten the message.
He was going to sacrifice his body for the cause.
Fucking hornets had stingers the size of hypodermic needles.
With a shout of agony, Gus slapped the insects stabbing at the back of his neck and focused his efforts on keeping the intermittent signal. As long as he stood below the hole in the tin roof, straddling a puddle of fetid water, the signal was strong enough.
Holding down number seven, he speed-dialed the JIC, keeping his fingers crossed.
The familiar voice of the platoon medic, Vinny DeInnocentis, came from what seemed a great distance. “This is Fred,” he said in his strong Philadelphia accent. “Who’s this?”
“This is Ethel,” corroborated Gus. The pass phrase had been Vinny’s idea. “Did you get the images I uploaded last night?” he inquired, getting straight to the point, afraid he’d lose his signal.
“Roger, sir,” said Vinny, abruptly professional. “We’ve been lookin’ at ’em all day.”
“I think the place names are encrypted, and I think I know how,” Gus advised, keeping an ear pricked for any sounds outside of the shed, hoping nobody was eaves-dropping. “The GPS on this sat phone puts me at three degrees, five minutes, and 31.9 seconds latitude, right? Convert those numbers to letters and you get C for the first letter, E for the second. See a camp that starts with those letters? It’s Cecaot-Jicobo.”
“Gus, this is Luther,” rumbled the lieutenant, either taking over the call or putting him on speaker phone. “We copy you loud and clear and will play with the rest of the numbers and see if we can’t break the code. I’m thinking the O in Cecaot is a decimal.”
“Agreed,” said Gus.
“So we may have positions on four camps. Any word yet on where the hostages are located?”
“Not yet,” Gus confirmed. “We’re awaiting proof of life for Howitz. Barnes appears to be living, but there’s a question about Howitz’s health. I’m trying to get the rebels to let us speak to them via shortwave radio.”
“Excellent call. We’ll alert the Predator.”
“Ow! Shit!” Gus smashed a hornet against the side of his head. “Little bastard.” He brushed it off and felt for the stinger, lodged somewhere in his hair.
“You all right, Gus?” Luther sounded bemused. “Where are you?”
“In a torture chamber, but I’ll live. Listen, I need to keep this brief. You have the names. Try and break the code.”
“Will do, Gus. How’s the missus?”
The simple reference to Lucy sent a pleasant shiver up Gus’s spine, beating back his sharp discomfort. “Still alive and kicking,” he retorted shortly. Which was how he intended her to stay.
“Roger that,” said the OIC. “Call when you can. If we break the code, we’ll leave you a message.”
“Thank you, sir. Over and out.”
With the call complete, Gus put the phone back in his boot, then hunted for a place to stand where he wouldn’t draw so much attention from the hornets. Moving to the far corner, he ran into a giant spiderweb and stepped back, nearly stepping on a rat that scurried under his heel. Jerking the collar of his jacket up to protect his neck and eyeing the vampire bats dangling unperturbed under the eaves, he waited for however long it would take to be released.
“LUNA, WAIT,” FOURNIER COMMANDED, grabbing the back of Lucy’s jacket as she made to push off the bungalow platform.
A shout had just come from the jungle, preceding Marquez and the Argentine, who’d finally made an appearance, hours later than expected. Lucy had been sitting on the narrow deck, sweating under a muggy sun, tormented by flesh-seeking flies. She wanted to be the first to speak to Marquez on Gus’s behalf.
Gus was her partner. She couldn’t tell how he was faring in the shed, but that didn’t prevent her from imagining the very worst. Helpless to protect him, she simmered with agitation, swearing to herself that she would deck him when they found themselves alone. He had to be calling the JIC. He could’ve cleared that with her first, before putting his life on the line. Teamwork, my ass. He didn’t know the meaning of the word!
She, on the other hand, was doing a very credible job playing Gustavo’s distraught wife. Since Buitre might have aroused Fournier’s latent suspicions with his assertion that she and Gus were different, she even forced herself to shed a few tears for Gus.
Fournier didn’t need to know they were tears of frustration.
Gus had gone too far this time. What if those hornets in the shed were deadly? What if a few too many stings led to toxicity? He could actually die in there trying to make a stupid phone call, and what would she do then, huh? Had he thought of that?
Some of the anxiety she’d suffered at the outset of this assignment returned to her, making her wonder if her PTSD was here to stay. She had just begun to think she was getting a handle on it.
Holding herself back, per Fournier’s recommendation, Lucy watched Buitre hurry over to Marquez. Gesturing at the shed and nodding toward the bungalow, his dark eyes smoldered with contempt.
Lucy’s stomach cramped. God, she hated that look. But surely Marquez wouldn’t believe Gus had intentionally shot at the rebels. He listened at length, then abruptly raised a hand. “Release the Spaniard,” Lucy overheard him say.
She expelled the breath she was holding.
“I told you,” said Fournier with a comforting pat on her back.
“But, Commander!” Buitre protested.
“I said release him.” Lowering his voice, Marquez added something that put a cold, resigned look on Buitre’s face. The deputy swiveled toward the shed, removing the keychain from his hip to unfasten the padlock that kept it closed.
Lucy couldn’t wait a second longer. She leapt off the bungalow deck, sprinting to the shed to see how Gus had fared.
As he stumbled out, blinking against the harsh sunlight, the desire to deck him disintegrated. A lump on the side of his head disfigured the shape of his skull. Another puffed out just below his left eye. His neck was swollen and red.
“Oh, Gustavo,” she exclaimed, her dismay perfectly genuine. “Someone get a wet cloth,” she pleaded, touching fingertips to his swollen cheekbone and finding it hot to the touch.
“I’m okay,” he gritted.
“Here, you should sit down,” she said, dragging him toward a tree stump.
“I’m fine,” he assured her, but then he swayed against her, forcing her to catch him before he fell. She hoped to hell he was faking it.
S¸ ukruye, who’d rushed to get a wet cloth from one of the female rebels, handed Lucy a cool rag. She pressed it to Gus’s neck as the others converged around the Argentine.
“Rojas has agreed to let you speak with the hostages,” Álvarez informed them tiredly.
As Gus turned his head in surprise, Lucy whispered, “Did you get through?”
He gave a discreet nod, regarding the others intently.
“When?” Fournier demanded. “When can we speak to them?”
“Now,” said Marquez, approaching and waving them toward the hooch.
They were going to speak with the hostages via shortwave radio! With a look of shared victory, Gus let Lucy haul him to his feet. Together they trailed the others into Buitre’s quarters, thrilled by the prospect of speaking to Lucy’s colleagues. She couldn’t help but hope freedom was just around the corner for Mike and Jay.
CHAPTER 9
For the third time, the negotiating team took their seats at the crude table, waiting tensely as Marquez worked the shortwave rad
io, scanning frequencies until he found the one he was looking for.
The radio ceased to crackle. A voice responded to Marquez’s greeting, and they exchanged brief words. Marquez extended the radio to Fournier. “This is the jefe, the boss who guards the hostages,” he imparted with a stern look all around. “You have two minutes to speak to the Americans.” As Fournier took the radio, he left the building.
“Hello?” said the Frenchman cautiously.
“Yes, hello!”
Lucy’s heart leapt at the familiar sound of Jay Barnes’s voice. Relief sang through her veins. Soon he would get to go home. He would put this behind him and move on.
“Er, who is this?” Fournier replied in his heavily accented English.
“This is Jay Barnes, from St. Louis, Missouri.”
“Mr. Barnes, good afternoon. My name is Pierre Fournier. I am with a UN negotiating team. We are currently situated on La Montaña.”
“Thank God,” Jay exclaimed, his voice breaking with the force of his relief. “Please, I appreciate whatever you can do to seek my release.”
“How is your health, Mr. Barnes?”
“Fine. I’m weak, but my health is…it’s okay.”
“You make no mention of your companion,” Fournier pointed out.
“Oh, he’s…he’s here. He’s not doing so well, though.”
“Is he ill, Mr. Barnes?
“Yes, yes, he’s terribly ill. Cranial malaria, I think.”
Jesus. Lucy fought to keep her reaction from showing. The distress in Jay’s voice made her chest tight, made her eyes sting. She longed to reassure him. Jay, it’s me. We’re gonna get you out of there, I swear it.
“Can Mr. Howitz speak?” Fournier inquired.
“Uh, yeah. I’ll hold the radio for him.”
“Hello? Mr. Howitz?”
An unintelligible grunt followed.
“Are you Mike Howitz?” Fournier asked as every team member strained to hear the man’s reply.
“Yes,” rasped a voice.
Lucy cocked her head, sending Gus a frown. It didn’t sound like Mike.
“Mr. Howitz, my name is Pierre Fournier. I’m with the United Nations. Can you tell me where you’re from?”
“Los Angeles,” rasped Howitz.
With hope in his gray eyes Fournier nodded encouragingly. “Can you tell me the date of your son’s birthday?”
A muffled whisper followed the question.
“Mr. Howitz?” Fournier repeated.
“Mikey,” breathed the ill man on the other end.
“Yes, when is Mikey’s birthday?” Fournier repeated.
A long pause ensued. Either the man was too ill to remember, or—“February 3rd,” he wheezed at last.
Fournier cut Lucy a frown, meant to chastise her for getting the date wrong.
No. Lucy shook her head. Mikey’s birthday was December 8th. She was certain of it.
Across from her the Argentine appeared to be meditating.
“Have any doctors tried to treat you, Mr. Howitz?” Fournier asked with grave concern.
“They gave me pills,” the man corroborated.
Lucy closed her eyes to conceal her sudden dismay. Whoever was pretending to be Mike Howitz was not a native English speaker. He’d pronounced pills as peels. That meant Mike was either too sick to talk or he was dead.
But Fournier, who spoke with an accent himself, couldn’t hear that subtlety. Carlos caught his eye and vehemently shook his head. “He is not American,” he mouthed.
“Thank you, Mr. Howitz. May I speak, again, with Mr. Barnes?”
“Basta.” growled the voice of the jefe, hostage boss. Enough. “Your time is up.”
The radio in Fournier’s hand emitted a low hiss. He lowered it to the table, swallowed hard, and looked up at the others with a sad, troubled gaze. “I’m afraid we may assume Mike Howitz is dead, or too ill to speak at all.”
Shocked and horrified, Lucy slowly lowered her eyes to the radio. Mike had been so full of life, always grinning, full of jokes, up to any challenge. Apparently, being held against his will, in a jungle rife with disease, was just too much.
She thought about his eleven-year-old son, and his beautiful wife, and her throat constricted. Life—or was it death?—was so fucking unfair, stealing away the most precious people.
Lucy lifted an accusing gaze toward the Argentine. “Did you know anything about this?” she demanded, fighting to contain her runaway emotions.
“No,” said the man tiredly. “They tell me nothing. I travel from one camp to the other bearing offers to Rojas and counteroffers to you, nothing more.”
“Where are the hostages kept? Have you heard anything?” asked Carlos, ever mindful of Lucy and Gus’s objective.
“I believe they are kept at a remote camp,” Álvarez replied, darting a quick, frightened look toward the door. Leaning in, he pitched his voice lower to add, “I’ve heard rebels whispering of a place called Arriba, up there.”
Remembering the place on the map marked with an X and nothing more, Lucy cut a glance at Gus.
“Sounds like it’s near the mountaintop,” he mused, ignoring her look.
Bellini sat forward. “How does the death of one of the hostages change our situation?” he asked in awkwardly phrased Spanish.
Fournier frowned. “It gives us the advantage, actually,” he admitted, slowly. “Clearly they were hoping to pass some other hostage off as Mr. Howitz, only we are not fools, are we?”
He focused a compassionate eye on the Argentine. “Tell Commander Rojas that because we have no proof of life for Mike Howitz, we are unable to fulfill the FARC’s demands. General Gitano will never be released in exchange for a single hostage and a dead man. If Rojas is wise, he will accept the Colombian government’s offer to release ten FARC captives of midlevel authority instead.”
Álvarez rubbed his closed eyes. “Ten guerrillas for one U.S. hostage,” he mumbled. “Sounds fair to me.”
Lucy dragged air into her pressured lungs. At this rate, negotiations would continue indefinitely. And Jay would be left suffering in the meantime, not knowing if he would be rescued or if he, like Mike, would sicken and die. “Plus the body of Mike Howitz,” Lucy suggested thickly.
“Yes,” the Frenchman concurred, sliding her a look. “We must bring him home, dead or alive.”
Mike was dead. Dead. The realization loosed the lock that kept Lucy’s older memories contained, and they spilled free, rushing through her mind in streaming video.
The friends who’d studied in Valencia with her, Amy, Melissa, and Dan, had been put in closed caskets, their bodies mutilated by the roadside bomb. She’d attended every one of their funerals, watching as family members and loved ones mourned their loss.
Since then, she’d done everything in her power to give their deaths meaning—befriending scum, risking her life for information. She was still at it, even here in Colombia. She did it for Mike and Jay’s sakes. Only she was too late.
Mike was dead.
Suddenly, just sitting in this stiflingly humid little hole of a building, stuck under the watchful eye of fanatics like Buitre, was more than she could tolerate. Unwieldy emotion kept her in a chokehold. She could not escape it.
She could feel her poise slipping away like granules of sand through her fingers. PTSD was here to stay, apparently. Even Lucy Donovan had her limits. There was only so much of this hellish work that she could take.
* * *
SENSING TENSION IN THE woman next to him, Gus glanced over. Lucy’s face was, as always, serene as a marble statue’s. He slid his gaze to her lap and realized with an unpleasant start that she was digging her nails into her palms, leaving little purple crescents in her flesh.
Howitz’s death was freaking her out. She needed to get away from these people before she lost it.
With Fournier still drawing negotiations to a close, Gus thrust back his seat, stood, and weaved uncertainly. Everyone gaped up at him.
“Gustavo!”
Lucy cried, snatched from her self-absorption.
“I don’t feel so well,” he confessed. “Mr. Fournier, please excuse me and my wife.”
“Of course.” The Frenchman dismissed them with a frown of concern.
S¸ ukruye rose to help.
“I’ve got him,” Lucy reassured her.
Together they staggered from the building to find Buitre seated at a crude field table, erected in the shade of the orange tree, inspecting rebels’ weapons. A growing pile of discarded rifles lay at his feet.
“We need to talk,” Gus whispered.
“The bungalow?”
He spied Marquez sitting by a crackling fire, looking tired and grizzled. “Ask Marquez if you can take me to the waterfall,” he suggested. It was a long shot, but the man had shown some compassion; perhaps he’d show some more.
As Lucy steered him toward the fire, the commander looked up, his expression not without sympathy as it touched on Gus’s ravaged face.
Lucy’s voice sounded strained as she made her request. “The stinging is too much,” she added, and Gus hung on her, showing every indication of a man suffering from an overdose of insect venom.
To Gus’s surprise, Marquez conceded. He swung a thoughtful look toward the rebels, then waved David over. “Take these two to the salto,” Marquez ordered him. “Do not let them out of your sight.”
“Sí, comandante,” said the youth, shouldering his weapon and gesturing for them to precede him.
Giving Marquez no time to change his mind, Gus and Lucy hastened across the field toward the vertical path that disappeared into the jungle.
LUCY COULD TELL THAT GUS was on to her. Somehow, some way, he’d intuited her need to escape, to flee the rebel camp and every horrible, violent thing it represented. Her impulse was so unprofessional, showed such weakness, that she tackled the incline at a near-run, furious with herself.
Gus tugged her back, slowing her down.
From the corner of her eye, she could read his concern. The fact that he was worried about her at all was as unpalatable as this alien feeling that she might burst.
“Luce, I’m sorry about Mike,” he apologized.
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