Show No Fear

by Marliss Melton

  If Luna was a spy, what could she have found that would undermine the rebel cause? He had carried his radio with him that morning. The only other source of information was the officer’s log.

  He snatched it up, flipping through the yellowed pages, seeing nothing amiss. Snapping on the light, he sat down for a closer look, sifting carefully through the pages. He paused, turned back, noting a discrepancy in the dates. There was a page missing. Running a finger along the bend of the spine, he felt the neatly torn edge.

  “¡Puta!” he whispered. Whore. She had stolen a page out of the log! But which page? What information was she privy to?

  He backed up a page or two, reading laboriously, trying to picture the pages, the sequence of events. Hadn’t there been a map among these pages, telling the location, in code, of the four main camps on the mountain?

  His heart seemed to stop beating when he realized it was gone.

  Marquez had entrusted him with the camp’s security. It was his duty to update and secure the log. But he’d been sloppy. Not only had he left the camp to cavort with the Venezuelans—warriors who inspired him with their expertise—but he’d left the officers’ quarters unlocked. There was nothing of value to steal, he’d reasoned. None of the soldiers but David even knew how to read. He’d never conceived that the members of the negotiating team might be a threat.

  But why not? Spies had been trying for decades to infiltrate the FARC.

  He dared not tell Marquez about the missing map, especially when its absence could be blamed on his negligence. He would have to rouse his commander’s suspicions with news that the couple had been caught speaking English.

  Perhaps Marquez would let him torture them for information. He would enjoy humiliating the bitch who’d shamed him before his men. That was when she’d called him chamo.

  The Venezuelan slang word gave him pause. It made him wonder whether she knew about the FARC’s alliance with the Venezuelans.

  His radio crackled suddenly and he snatched it off his hip, answering Marquez’s salutation.

  “The Argentine and I are on our way,” the commander huffed. “You may expect us by noon.”

  “Sir,” Buitre interrupted, “I have reason to believe two of the UN team members are American spies. I have overheard them speaking English,” he added, giving himself credit for vigilance.

  Marquez did not reply.

  “Did you hear me, comandante? The younger woman and her husband may be spies. I would like permission to question them.”

  “No,” Marquez growled, bringing a scowl to Buitre’s face. “You are hasty in your suppositions. That couple works at the United Nations in New York City. Of course they speak English.”

  “But comandante,” he protested, devastated not to be able to lay his hands on them at once.

  “The Europeans are our guests, Buitre. You presume too much to know whether they are spies or not.”

  “Then let me question them. I will know within hours if they speak the truth!”

  “No,” Marquez repeated implacably. “We are only steps away from coming to an agreement.”

  Agreement? Stunned, Buitre held his tongue for a moment. “Then Commander Gitano will be returned to us,” he guessed with an abrupt lifting of his spirits, only to have them dashed by Marquez’s next words.

  “No. Commander Rojas has decided to accept the Frenchman’s offer. We will surrender the surviving hostage and the dead one in return for ten of our captured compañeros.”

  Buitre choked on his denial. “No!” he growled in protest. “Why would we settle for such a small ransom? We need more than men. We need leadership!”

  “The Elite Guard will lead us. What we need now is for these strangers to leave the mountain before they learn too much. Enough,” Marquez bit out. “I have explained the situation. You will follow my orders and treat the UN team with every bit of respect. This is not their war.”

  Shuddering with outrage, Buitre hurled the radio to the bed. He lurched to his feet to pace the creaking floor.

  Weak! Commander Rojas was too weak to breathe life into the floundering rebel ranks. Only Gitano could have grown the FARC’s numbers back into the tens of thousands, returning it to the fearsome entity it was before the bombings, the conversions, the slaughter of its leaders.

  With a roar, Buitre pounded his fist into his palm. Still, he would obey his commander’s dictates. The key to a strong army was discipline among the ranks. So for now, he would heed Marquez’s wishes, regardless of how weak and foolish they seemed.

  THE FARC HAD ACCEPTED Fournier’s proposal with an added stipulation, a sum of fifty million pesos delivered in cold hard cash via helicopter to an airfield near the base of the mountain.

  Lucy shared a quick, stunned look with Gus.

  “Can we come up with that?” Bellini asked, a bead of sweat gliding from his dark hairline.

  In the wake of the rain last night, the weather was muggy and hot. Cloistered in the officers’ cramped quarters, the team members eyed Fournier with varying expressions of hope and skepticism.

  Fournier scraped spindly fingers over his silver bristles. “It is possible,” he conceded, leading to a chorused sigh from the others. “Given the devaluation of the peso, the sum is not so large.”

  “It’s about twenty-five thousand American dollars,” Gus supplied. Everyone looked at him in surprise. “I’m good with math,” he added.

  Lucy digested the latest news with mixed feelings. Not once had she envisioned the UN team and the FARC coming to an agreement. Still, why not? The FARC were getting ten men in exchange for one man and a body. Twenty-five thousand dollars on top of that was icing on the cake.

  It was looking like the SEALs at the JIC wouldn’t be needed to extract the hostages, after all.

  “However, it would be unethical to agree to such a ransom,” Fournier added, causing several faces at the table to fall.

  “I agree,” said Carlos with a contemptuous glimmer in his eye. “To pay them is to encourage more abductions.”

  S¸ ukruye and Bellini averted their gazes, keeping quiet. It was clear they’d be happy to hand over the money.

  “But, as it happens,” Fournier continued, sending an enigmatic glance at the Argentine, “Jay Barnes has an insurance policy that pays up to twenty-five thousand dollars in the event of his kidnapping. All that is needed to secure that sum is for Mr. Barnes to write a letter in longhand requesting it be paid and designating a carrier.”

  Lucy shot a cynical look at Gus. Insurance policy, my ass. More likely Christians in Action, aka the CIA, had informed Fournier at some point that they were willing to contribute a tidy sum to help secure their employees’ release. Fournier had kept that card hidden up his sleeve, waiting for just the right moment to whip it out.

  Stunned silence descended over the table.

  “So…” Bellini inclined his head with cautious optimism. “We are agreeing to the FARC’s counteroffer?”

  The Argentine held a hand up. “One more thing,” he added belatedly. “All this must be done in forty-eight hours.”

  Surprised, the members of the UN team turned wide eyes on Fournier. At the mention of a time limitation, he seemed to age a decade.

  “What’s the hurry?” Lucy demanded. “They’ve held the hostages for over six months. What difference does two days make?”

  Álvarez shrugged. “I only repeat what I am told to say.”

  “They must be desperate for midlevel leadership,” S¸ ukruye surmised, “and for money.”

  “They have been in steady decline,” Bellini agreed. “We have seen firsthand how hungry they are, how poor their weapons.”

  Until recently, Lucy thought, biting her tongue. They would have food and weapons aplenty, thanks to their alliance with the Venezuelans.

  “The time constraint is problematic,” Fournier confessed. “I would need to communicate with the outside world, of course. I would have to place calls to the proper authorities, to enjoin their cooperation. Fre
eing ten captives at once, securing the funds, there is always red tape involved.” He rubbed his closed eyelids, looking overwhelmed and agitated.

  S¸ ukruye and Bellini seemed to wilt in the face of his pessimism.

  Lucy herself was caught in a flux of emotions. She glanced at Gus, reading watchful optimism.

  Carlos threw his hands into the air. “When does this time constraint begin? And what happens if the money isn’t here in two days, eh? Are the FARC going to kill us?”

  The Argentine blanched at the suggestion. “It is not Commander Rojas’s intent to kill you,” he assured them. “I will tell him you are willing to cooperate but that you require a satellite phone, and more time.”

  “Exactly,” replied Fournier. “We must have more time.”

  Álvarez nodded, seeming to resign himself to the fact that his services would be needed for a while longer. “Is that your final offer?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Fournier. “Tell Commander Rojas that we need three days, at least, plus a reliable means of communication. I cannot gather money or men without a phone of some sort.”

  “Very well.” With a murmured farewell, the Argentine scraped back his chair and stood. They watched him exit through the screen door and cross to Marquez, who sat by the fire eating, to explain that yet another trek to Rojas’s camp was in order.

  Lucy’s gaze slid past Marquez to Buitre, who glared at her as he ate. Even with several yards between them, she could sense the venom he radiated. Her nape prickled in response to it. What had happened to exacerbate Buitre’s dislike of her, transforming it into loathing? Had David said something to arouse his suspicions?

  “If they give us more time,” Fournier murmured, recapturing her focus, “this will work,” he said, reawakening their flagging confidence. “We will have done what we came to do.”

  Lucy glanced at Gus and wondered if, despite his guarded optimism, he felt the tiniest bit torn that it might soon be over and they would go back to leading separate lives.

  What was wrong with her? A peaceful resolution was a good thing. So why was her heart heavy, her mind so cautious? What mattered most was reuniting Jay with his wife, laying Mike’s body to rest in American soil. For the whole thing to be over in a matter of days, without a shot fired, was fabulous!

  Yet the fine hairs at the nape of her neck prickled with the suspicion that something was amiss. Buitre’s dark eyes held secrets she wasn’t certain she wanted to decipher.

  As they filed out of the brick building, Marquez waved them toward the fire pit, where they sat on tree stumps to consume an uninspired meal of rice and beans.

  A strained, uneasy silence fell between the UN team and their hosts, broken only by the popping of firewood.

  At last, Marquez put his bowl down and stood, signaling to Álvarez that they were leaving. In the same moment, David called Gus from the fire to help support the roof of the soldiers’ shelter while a beam was hammered in place. The lean-to had been sagging since the storm last night.

  As Gus got up to help, Lucy’s stomach cramped. She looked sharply at the tin bowl in her hand and forced herself to eat another bite. Again her stomach cramped.

  “Excuse me,” she murmured to the others.

  Looking for Gus, she realized he had disappeared from view. With her intestines rumbling, she had no choice but to hurry into the forest alone, to the area where the women were assured some privacy.

  Pushing as deep into the vegetation as she dared, she found a tangle of vines to hide behind and hunkered down, well concealed.

  She must have eaten something that disagreed with her. Or caught a bug. Or been poisoned…

  Surely Buitre wouldn’t go that far.

  Minutes later, following a clammy sweat and sharp intestinal pains, she felt better. Hopefully, the attack was just a onetime deal and she wouldn’t be back in the woods in another twenty minutes.

  As she retreated from her hiding place, still buttoning her pants, the hair on her forearms rose to stiff attention and she froze.

  She could see nothing, hear nothing. She stood in a fishbowl of vegetation, surrounded by every imaginable shade of green. Not a single bird flitted past her. The jungle stood eerily quiet, but she knew she wasn’t alone.

  Thoroughly spooked, Lucy headed briskly uphill, her thighs flexing with the urge to run.

  “What’s your hurry, chama?” inquired a silky voice, startling her as its owner stepped from behind a tree, blocking her path. Buitre. He’d followed her, which meant that Gus had to be shortly behind him, only he wasn’t.

  Lucy willed herself to assume an easy, unintimidated stance as Buitre swaggered closer, using the incline to give him a badly needed height advantage. His glittering black eyes sent a chill down her spine.

  “What do you want?” she asked, her voice surprisingly cool. She hinged her confidence on the sound of it, telling herself she could lick this bastard if she had to, so long as he didn’t use his gun, loosely held in his right hand and, for the moment, pointed at the ground.

  “The map,” he said, giving her a cold, hard smile. “The one you took from the journal in my quarters.”

  Fear leapt out of nowhere, clutching her heart. The jig was up. Buitre had realized the map was stolen, and he’d assumed she’d taken it. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Adrenaline flooded her bloodstream, tripling her heartbeat.

  David must have told him he’d caught her leaving the building. What else had David told him?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her disdain was perfect. Again, she took assurance from her superb acting ability. If she could fool Buitre into thinking she was calm, then she could fool herself. PTSD had nothing on her. The realization slowed her breathing, curbed the adrenaline rocketing through her.

  Of course, that didn’t mean she wasn’t in deep shit at the moment. Buitre wasn’t just crazy, he was dangerous.

  “You’re a liar,” he breathed, his eyes glinting with malice as he stepped close enough to expel foul breath across her cheek.

  And just like that, her confidence wavered.

  Lucy’s joints seemed to slowly freeze even as a weak laugh sounded in her head. Well, yeah, I work for the CIA, of course I’m a liar.

  Where the hell was Gus? Just because she was holding her own here didn’t mean she wanted to take on Buitre solo. Didn’t teamwork include rescuing the ass of your partner from scumbag rebels?

  Without warning, he raised his pistol to her face. The safety was off, one in the chamber, and his finger was on the trigger. Lucy flinched, her thoughts flashing back to the warehouse. Fear punched her in the gut, slowing her thoughts, numbing her extremities.

  She was both in the jungle with Buitre and back in that warehouse in Venezuela. Two separate events that coalesced without warning to strike her powerless.

  “Where did you put the map, eh? Is it here?” He delved a hand into her empty hip pocket, groping her through the fabric, his touch intentionally sexual, intentionally cruel. He circled around her back, growling in her ear, “Or here?” He jammed a hand into the other pocket. Fury simmered in Lucy’s veins, but it was the fear that won, keeping her frozen in place.

  A simple jab, a grab, and a knee to the forehead would suffice to bring him down, groaning in agony. Only she couldn’t move. Like Oz’s Tin Man, she was paralyzed.

  “Or maybe here,” Buitre continued, squeezing her left breast, his fingers biting in to her flesh as he pressed his pistol to her skull.

  The jungle kaleidoscoped around her as tears formed in her eyes. The tears, her fear, her helplessness galled her. She couldn’t let this bastard get the best of her.

  “Luna!” Gus’s worried shout reverberated under the jungle canopy.

  “I’m here!” she cried in a strained and unfamiliar voice.

  “Carajo,” Buitre swore, stepping away from her, putting his gun away.

  As Gus crashed down the hill, slipping and sliding in his haste to get to her, Lucy felt a measure of her confidence return. She rou
nded on Buitre, sending him a contemptuous glare. “Like I told you before, Deputy, you’re paranoid. Stay away from me, or I’ll tell the world how the FARC mistreated me.”

  “Luna.” Gus rushed up to her, clasping her elbow and drawing her behind him. “What’s the problem here?” he demanded, facing Buitre with menace in his voice.

  The deputy stepped back. He shrugged, seeming to measure his odds of taking on the bigger man, whether it was wise to accuse them both of stealing the map. “Ask your wife,” he retorted. Hitching his trousers, he turned away and retreated briskly up the hill.

  They watched until he disappeared. Gus then turned to face her. “What happened?” he demanded. “What did he do to you?”

  “Nothing,” she insisted. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine. You’re as pale as a sheet. Did he touch you? Threaten you?”

  “Come on, now,” she retorted, arching an eyebrow at him. “Don’t you think I can handle a man like Buitre?” she scoffed.

  Doubt and compassion warred in his golden brown eyes.

  “He accused me of stealing the map,” she admitted, trembling anew as concern flared in Gus’s eyes.

  “Jesus,” he whispered, hauling her into his embrace.

  Caught in the circle of Gus’s arms, Lucy felt her remaining fear drain away. Damn it! She ought to have been able to handle Buitre by herself. But then he’d done what the lieutenant in the warehouse had done, and it had come flooding back.

  “It’s my fault,” said Gus, unaware of her self-recrimination. “I’m the one who took the map.”

  “And I’m the one who followed you into Buitre’s quarters,” she argued, wresting free. “Look, what matters is that David reported suspicious behavior to Buitre, who now suspects us both.”

  “I should’ve realized David’s calling me to help with the roof was a ploy. I’m sorry,” he apologized, his jaw jumping.

  “It’s okay,” she reassured him, worried that he might again insist that she leave the mountain early. “All Buitre has are his suspicions,” she reasoned. “He can’t prove we took the map, can he? Besides, in seventy-two hours we’ll be out of this hellhole.”