by Bobby Akart
Bear reached the clearing first and found cover for the two of them to observe the locals. They both used their binoculars to scan the area. Cam was the first to spot the villagers’ cash crop.
In South America, farmers of the coca plant chose ground that sloped slightly toward water so the substantial amount of rainfall received in the jungle didn’t drown the plants. Once the field was cleared, it was ready for cultivation. Seeds were gathered from mature plants in December through March. They were placed in water to separate the bad seeds. The good seeds were initially placed in growing pots or shaded areas of the field to protect the new plants from the sun.
Within twenty to thirty days, the coca plants germinated and then were replanted in the field to a depth of about ten to twelve inches depending on the rainfall in the area.
Now, in late April, the seedlings were being transplanted. Neat rows had been tilled and the workers were carefully dropping the seedlings into holes spaced three feet apart. This particular field would generate fully mature plants in twelve to twenty-four months after being cared for by this group of villagers. Then they’d be harvested and sold to the drug cartels for further processing and shipment to America.
“Do you see any armed guards?” asked Cam.
“No. Only broken-down old people and a handful of kids. Kinda weird. They’re either younger than teens or older than Pop.”
“The others have different jobs, like transporting or manufacturing product,” added Cam. “Look along the water, there are more canoes.”
“I see ’em. How do you wanna play it?”
Cam stood and shrugged. “I know a little conversational Spanish. I’ll just ask permission.”
She walked ahead of Bear and into the clearing. She kept her weapon at low ready as she approached three elderly women who were cooking in cast-iron pots over an open flame. One made eye contact with Cam, but the others never looked up.
Cam lowered her weapon farther as Bear continued to scan the clearing. She spoke with the woman, who turned to look toward the canoes. Without hesitation, she called out to one of the boys who was assisting an old man weaving a bamboo basket.
Minutes later, the boy was paddling at the back of the canoe and Bear was at the front, trying to find his rhythm. At first, the effort was comical as Bear’s muscular arms overpowered the canoe, counteracting the smooth, consistent strokes of the village boy. After several strokes of the paddle, Bear figured it out, and crossing the lake became easier.
Cam thanked the young man by giving him a peanut-butter-flavored OhYeah! energy bar on the other side. In return, he pointed toward a trail that had been cut through the jungle. It appeared to meander in the general direction of their destination, so Cam led the way through the jungle. Unlike the first part of their travels to rescue Gunner, they made much better time, which suited the two of them just fine. Because it was now pitch black in the jungle of the Darién Gap.
As night fell, their surroundings became murky as if they were wearing a mask that prevented their ability to breathe. They both paused to drink some water. Bear hadn’t taken time to eat, so he munched on part of an ER bar, which contained over four hundred calories each.
Periodically, the trail widened and the skies could be seen. Cam looked in amazement at the silver stars that burst over the violet background of space. Without any air or light pollution, the sky could be viewed in its perfect, unfiltered state. It was beautiful, and now there was only the occasional meteor burning up in the atmosphere to provide any kind of movement.
The storm was subsiding and their only challenge was to find and rescue Gunner.
Chapter 33
Drug Cartel Compound
The Darién Gap
Colombia, South America
Cam and Bear arrived at the compound just as a merciless storm passed over the Darién Gap. The rain came in waves, followed by winds that caused the tree canopy to open and close, at times allowing the rain to pelt them with stinging drops.
Cam had never experienced weather quite like it. Certainly, Florida’s Gulf Coast had seen its share of hurricanes during her time there, but she’d never endured a tropical storm that sent rain down with this kind of intensity. It was stifling and made it difficult to breathe.
On the other hand, the inclement weather gave them the opportunity to study the defenses of the drug cartel’s compound. Despite the din of the rainfall, they were able to make their way around the perimeter of the chain-link fence topped with razor wire that surrounded the buildings. They stopped occasionally, discussed possible access points, and speculated about the use of certain buildings.
Like two lions stalking their prey, they were formulating a plan of attack. One that would quickly locate Gunner and free him from imprisonment without getting all of them killed in the process.
A lone guard walked the inside of the fence, his flashlight beam flaring and darting around the jungle thicket. He ambled past their position, never bothering to look up from under the hood of his green parka.
The tropical storm certainly assisted them, as did the darkness. While they would’ve enjoyed the benefit of seeing the entire compound in the daylight to better assess their rescue options, the distraction the weather provided was invaluable.
The two retreated into the jungle and made their way toward a block and stucco building with barely discernible slits allowed as windows. The lack of light and the prisonlike appearance of the smallest building on the compound led them to believe that was where Gunner might be held. Assuming he was alive, of course.
Cam didn’t like to think in those terms, but everything they did in the next three hours would have to keep an exit strategy in mind. She had no idea how many gunmen they’d be up against, not that it mattered. The three of them had faced much greater odds on other occasions. However, during those missions, they had the benefit of extensive briefings and preplanned methods of attack. In addition, during the operation itself, they had headset communications and eyes in the sky thanks to drone technology.
This was different. They were going in blind, against an unknown enemy, and they were looking for a hostage who might or might not be there. Yet there was no doubt—they were going in.
“Dammit!” complained Bear in a barely audible whisper. The jungle canopy had created a canvas of sorts, one that held rainwater until the weight overcame the broad palm fronds. It was as if the duo were standing under a bucket full of water, and someone pulled a rope to tilt the contents over their heads.
“Zip it, you big baby.” Cam chastised Bear for his outburst, albeit a quiet one. She tapped him on the leg and pointed toward the building that likely contained the prison cells. “Let’s maneuver ourselves to the other side of that building so we can get eyes on the front door. I wanna see if there are any guards on the inside, or if a schedule is in place for checking on whoever’s locked up.”
They walked around the perimeter, following behind the patrolling guard, who was easily visible by the beam of his flashlight. At one point, Bear abruptly stopped and grabbed Cam’s arm.
“They’ve got an underground sensor system,” he whispered. He pointed at a wire that ran along one of the chain-link fence’s posts up to a white box. “See the antenna on top of the box? That’s the battery box. It also contains a transmitter. Now look at the wire. It runs down the post and into the ground.”
“Swell,” muttered Cam. “Is there any way to determine how close it was installed to the bottom of the fence?”
“Step on it,” said Bear with a smile she couldn’t see.
“No shit. C’mon, Bear. Whadya think?”
“Well, common sense tells me two feet or less, especially in the jungle, which is full of four-legged monsters. The fence can only be breached by climbing it or crawling under it. This would require someone to get within a couple of feet of the base where the chain link hits the ground.”
Cam looked up and down the fencing and asked, “Can we cut the fence? You’ll have to stretch, right?�
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“No problem. I grabbed a pair of lineman’s pliers while we were on the Truman. Large bolt cutters would’ve been better, of course, but they were too bulky to tote through the jungle.” Bear reached to his left hip and pulled the pliers out of his utility belt. He ran his thumb across the beveled cutting edge.
Cam paused for a moment as another flashlight’s beam danced across the center of the compound, moving from left to right toward the prison building. “It looks like another one of the guards might be making the rounds. Let’s get into position.”
The two of them quietly got into position to observe the entry to the prison building. Cam and Bear adjusted their night-vision goggles in order to have a better look.
“They’re preoccupied. Go ahead and cut us an opening. As soon as he exits the building, I’ll cut him and get the keys.”
“Exit?” asked Bear.
“The same way we came in. We won’t have long, and they’ll have the benefit of knowing their way around the jungle. But it’s all I’ve got.”
Bear shrugged. “No prob.” He quietly started cutting the fence.
Chapter 34
Drug Cartel Compound
The Darién Gap
Colombia, South America
Gunner had no way of keeping track of time, but it seemed the guard came around every three hours. Based upon his recollection of geography, Colombia was likely in the eastern or central time zone. That meant about fourteen hours of daylight this time of year.
With a break from the beatings, he was both mentally and physically ready to make his move. The guard’s routine brought him into the prison building at dusk and dawn, as well as three times during the night. Gunner assumed that was around nine, midnight, and three in the morning.
In his mind, midnight gave him his best opportunity to make his move, as it would then allow him at least five or six hours of darkness to hide and escape back toward the crash site, where he’d find the stream and follow it like a good Boy Scout would’ve done.
Plus, he was very much aware of the torrential rains that evening. The tin roof over his head was full of nail holes that allowed rain to soak the muddy ground of his cell. The gusts of wind threatened to lift these corrugated panels off the trusses, and for a moment, Gunner wondered if there was a way for him to scale the block walls to make his escape.
So he lay in wait, running various scenarios through his mind. The guards’ approach to their rounds was always the same at night. A single man, unarmed except for a flashlight and the cattle prod. They never brought food or water. They didn’t converse with any of the prisoners. And the only contact they made was the occasional jab at one of their captives if they attempted to reach for him or got mouthy.
Patiently, he paced the floor of his six-by-six cell, periodically grabbing the bars to stretch his arms and shoulders. He was like a prizefighter waiting for the bell to ring so that he could pound on his opponent. Gunner’s adrenaline was surging, and his heart began to race. For better or worse, he sensed this was his opportunity. He could never know what the next day might bring, and the tropical storm certainly gave him the possible distraction to act.
His body jerked to attention when he heard the sound of the lock opening at the building’s entrance. The sound of the rain grew louder as the door swung open, and the cooler air entered the building. The door was quickly shut and Gunner closed his eyes to focus his senses on the guard’s movements. He tried to visualize the man’s actions, his attempts to peer inside the cells of the women. Maybe fantasizing about taking them sexually as he passed by.
Then something unexpected happened. A change in the routine that caught Gunner off guard. The new arrival, the girl who identified herself as Caroline, began to speak to the guard in Spanish. Gunner recognized her voice despite the language barrier.
He also recognized her tone. Heather had spoken to him like that at times. It had a sexy, alluring, inviting resonance to it, one that was irresistible to men.
He placed his ear to the bars, waiting to hear the guard’s next move. Would he be tricked into opening her door? Was she trying to escape? Was she simply trying to exchange sex for a meal or a blanket? Or was she selling Gunner out?
Gunner waited, straining to understand the words being used. They both spoke of Blanco, his name being bantered back and forth as if it were a ping-pong ball.
“Por favor, Juan.” She was begging now. She obviously knew the man. She got her answer.
“No, Carolino,” he said, using the Hispanic form of the name Caroline.
Gunner steadied his nerves, focusing on the man’s steps toward him. He prepared himself.
The guard appeared at Gunner’s jail cell and didn’t bother to look at his prisoner. Gunner needed to get the man’s attention.
“Estúpido,” began Gunner with a hearty laugh. Then he asked, exaggerating the roll of his r’s to inflame the man, “El marica?” Gunner slapped at the bars as he used his minimal command of the Spanish language to call the husky man a douchebag and a sissy.
As Gunner hoped, it angered the guard, who swung around toward his cell and rammed the cattle prod through the bars. The two sharp prongs jabbed into Gunner’s chest, just above his left nipple. The electricity scorched his skin to the point where it smelled of burned flesh.
But this time, Gunner didn’t cower away. Instead, he surprised the guard by grabbing the cattle prod with both hands and pulling it into the cell, bringing with it the man’s right arm, which was wrapped through the device’s leather strap.
With his arm stuck through the bars up to the elbow, Gunner brought his right arm down with a forceful blow that struck the guard’s forearm, instantly snapping the radial bone and the ulna simultaneously.
The next few seconds were surreal, Gunner would recall later. The man’s eyes and mouth were wide open, yet he couldn’t utter a sound. The pain of the broken arm was so great that his screams of agony weren’t released.
Gunner, however, didn’t hesitate. With the man’s right arm dangling through the bars, held together by tendons and meaty flesh, Gunner grabbed the man’s hair and rammed his face against the steel posts, instantly breaking his nose and cutting a long gash in his forehead.
The man let out a primal scream of pain, one that far surpassed anything Gunner had allowed during his torture sessions. Juan, his torturer, was helpless now, and his captive took advantage.
Gunner grabbed him by the shirt and held him against the bars of the cell. He reached for his belt and grabbed the keys to the locks. While he held the guard tight with his powerful grip, he opened the cell and freed himself.
Gunner took a deep breath. The next step would be dangerous, and he needed to calm down the uproar in the cells as the women excitedly shouted to one another.
“Shush!” he yelled, using their own admonition to calm them. “Caroline, tell them to be quiet.”
In Spanish, the girl from San Diego got their attention, and within seconds, the cell block quietened. In the meantime, the guard was recovering from the pain. He was about to call out for help, but Gunner stopped him.
Using the cattle prod.
“Arrrggghhh!” the man screamed in agony. Gunner had rammed the device into his cheek, drawing blood, and replaced it with electricity.
He jerked the twin prongs out and stuck the man in the Adam’s apple, puncturing the tender part of the neck. It immediately began to swell as the electricity caused the man to shake violently. After Gunner removed the prongs, the man clutched his throat and began to choke. The swelling blocked his airway and he was suffocating.
Gunner didn’t care. He tore the man’s shirt off and ripped the sleeves from its stitching. He tied it around the man’s mouth and nose to complicate his breathing further. Then he bound his hands behind his back to subdue him. Finally, he shoved his body into the cell and slammed the door behind him.
Gunner looked like a demented lunatic as he stood over the man who was choking to death. Another gust of wind struck the side
of the building, and more torrents of rain pummeled the roof. He was now ready for the next steps.
But first, he had to break the bad news to the ladies in captivity.
They were all reaching for him through the tiny slits in their solid doors, pleading in their native tongues to release them from their cells. Gunner couldn’t, yet. They’d either get in his way or, worse, simply run into the compound and be slaughtered by gunfire.
“Caroline? Where are you?”
“Here. Here I am.” She stuck her hand through the slot and wiggled her fingers.
Gunner quickly approached her door and knelt down so he could see her. Sad, sunken eyes stared back at him.
“Listen to me. You’ve got to trust me, and you have to convince the others to trust me also. Okay?”
“No. No! You can’t leave us here. They’ll kill us.”
“I’m not gonna leave you, but I can’t release you yet. If I do, they will all die, and I can’t live with that. Please trust me. I’ve got this, okay. I will be back for you.”
“No, we’ll be quiet. I’ll tell them not to say a word.”
Gunner grimaced and shook his head. He couldn’t risk it. He began to hear shouting coming from the compound. He was out of time.
“Trust me, Caroline. Tell them. I’ll be back for you all.”
Gunner squeezed her hand and raced toward the exit door, dropping the keys on the ground under a folding chair. He flung the door open and burst out into the rain-soaked compound, pausing briefly to take in the fresh air. He was greeted by a welcoming committee that was anything but welcoming.
PART FOUR
Monday, April 30
Chapter 35