by Gary Ponzo
Santoro bent over the dead man and said, “I do have my regrets, Doctor Grennan. I finally discover a professional who insists I do not need medicine . . .” he waved a hand over Dr. Grennan’s corpse, “and this is how I reward him.”
The president stood and reached across his desk to push a button on his phone. A moment later, two armed guards entered the room with their machine guns drawn.
“It is all right,” Santoro assured them. “He is gone.”
The guards lowered their guns and grabbed Dr. Grennan’s lifeless form with a practiced skill. One on each side, grabbing under the armpit and throwing the corpse’s arms around their shoulders. They lifted the doctor’s frame and dragged him toward the door.
“Please,” Santoro said with a mildly disgusted expression, “make sure the body cannot be found.”
Chapter 11
Trent Merrick didn’t know how long he’d dozed off, but when he opened his eyes, the temperature had spiked along with the jungle humidity. Even in mid-morning, however, the thick Amazon foliage had kept the sunlight from reaching the jungle floor. Candles had provided most of the light inside the tent. His leg throbbed under the makeshift splint and he was certain an infection had taken hold. He felt something trickle down the side of his face and when he brushed it off he came back with a handful of sweat.
Trent’s vision had deteriorated as well. He blinked a couple of times and realized he wasn’t alone. Carlos, Manny Padilla’s goon, sat in the corner of the tent wearing green fatigues and thigh-high boots. His assault rifle casually lay across his lap as he met Trent’s gaze with an apathetic grimace. He had nothing to be concerned about since his prisoner’s left leg was completely nonfunctioning.
Trent’s stomach growled as he sat up and dropped his legs over the side of the cot. The chain would only allow him to sit, standing was not an option.
He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and tried to remain as casual as possible.
“So, Carlos, what time is breakfast served?”
The soldier sat there with an exaggerated scowl he must’ve learned at guerilla boot camp. “There is no breakfast.”
Trent’s head pounded. Not only did he have an infection, he most certainly was dehydrated as well.
“Listen, could I at least have some water?”
Carlos gripped his rifle in mock anger, but said nothing.
Trent nodded to himself. He considered how much this goon could even know. He knew it was useless to guess, so he tried to find out.
“Carlos,” Trent said. “You do realize this kidnapping will never work, don’t you?”
The soldier couldn’t help but give him a mischievous grin. “Oh, but you are wrong about that.”
“Oh?” Trent scratched the back of his head, pretending to be half asleep while asking random questions. “What makes you think this could work when every other presidential kidnapping attempt has failed?”
“Because,” Carlos happily replied, “your brother, the president, is coming to Colombia personally with the fifty million dollars ransom.”
“Really? When is he doing that?”
“Tomorrow,” the soldier said with a smug expression.
This told Trent much more than he ever imagined. His brother would never pay fifty million dollars ransom to a cartel. Not even for his kid brother. That meant that John was sending people after him. He was buying time to allow the help to get here. But that was a long shot at best. They were deep inside the Amazon with no satellite images and no covert contacts to point them in the right direction. However, for the first time since he’d been captured, he allowed himself to think about his wife, Jaqui, and their unborn child. Just thinking about her almost brought on tears. He’d purposely kept her from his mind because he knew it would only bring more agony. He needed to stay alive long enough to give them a chance.
“So,” Trent said, casually, “I get to go home tomorrow?”
Carlos was too stupid to know when to lie. He simply sat there with a third-grade smile.
“You know, Carlos, your boss is quite annoyed with you. I doubt you’ll be able to survive much longer than I do.”
Confusion entered the soldier’s tiny mind, showing up on his face as a deadpan stare.
“You know nothing about my boss,” Carlos shot back.
Just then, the mosquito netting flung open allowing a glimpse of morning sun to peek in as Manny Padilla barged through carrying an empty glass jar. He looked at Carlos with disdain.
“Why are you talking with the prisoner?”
“Because . . . he . . .” Carlos stopped himself. By the severe expression on Padilla’s face, he knew better than to have a rational explanation. It could only make things worse and even Carlos seemed to understand that.
Padilla now set his focus on Trent. He eyed Trent’s leg. Blood seeped down the side of the splint and began to drip onto the dirt floor. “You are not so clever with your mouth this morning, eh?”
“I could use some medical attention,” Trent said, just trying out the phrase to evaluate the reaction.
Padilla pointed the empty jar at him. “You think you are so important because you are the president’s brother, but here in Colombia you are just another piece of meat.”
Trent knew he was losing his mind along with his body. The image of Jaqui suddenly popped into his head. She was on their couch crying, mourning over the loss of her husband. Sitting on the floor next to her was a little girl. Trent realized he was becoming delusional and wondered if he’d been drugged or this was what happened when you avoided water in jungle. The girl looked up and said, “Daddy!”
“Shit,” Trent murmured.
“What is it?” Padilla barked.
Trent tried to hold it together, but his vision was beginning to wane as well. “I need water.”
He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw Padilla motion for Carlos to leave, then turn the cap off the top of the glass jar.
“You will not be receiving any more medical attention, Mr. Merrick,” Padilla said with disdain in his voice. “I was instructed to keep you prisoner, but that was all. I will do no more than requested.”
Padilla had bent over and touched the empty glass jar to the dirt floor. When he stood back up, an arrogant grin spread across his face. “I brought some friends with me.”
Trent tried to focus on the floor between them, but in the shadows of the candlelight, he saw nothing. Yet something about Padilla’s demeanor forced a sudden surge of adrenalin. He moved to the edge of his cot and examined the ground more closely. He saw some movement in his peripheral vision. The movement seemed to be heading toward him.
“They are called Red Chigger Ants,” Padilla said, taking a step backward. “The blood attracts them. The locals call them Piranha Bugs. They will eat human tissue like sugar. Their first bite will anesthetize your leg so you can’t feel them. Then their toxins hit your bloodstream and blind you so you cannot see them. You will not feel a thing. Until you reach down and realize your legs are gone. Then they will work their way up from there. From the inside out.”
Trent lurched back and fell to the floor while the adrenalin forced him to scurry away from the flesh-eating insects. His heart pounded fiercely as he dragged his wounded limb, which now became chum for the sharks on the floor.
“I don’t need to kill you,” Padilla said, while glancing on the floor around him, avoiding any stray ants. “Once they do their job, I will be innocent of any wrongdoing. I was simply not given enough medical professionals to keep you alive.”
Initially, Trent’s blurred vision kept him from seeing the onslaught of Chiggers, but now he caught sight of a single strand of ants heading directly toward his cot. They circled around some droplets of blood left behind from his damaged leg. He was familiar with them from his visit with the native Indians who sprinkled a mixture of plants and frog skin around their huts at night to keep the creatures away.
Now, his heart kicked the inside of his ribcage as he feebly attempted to pu
sh himself to his feet, but merely got to a crouch. His splinted leg forced him to roll on his side and pull his one good leg underneath him for a big push.
The ants, maybe dozens, maybe hundreds, were swarmed completely around his lost blood as he frantically pushed himself to his feet.
“If you attempt to leave the tent, I’ll have you knocked unconscious,” Padilla said proudly. “Then you won’t have to endure the miserable experience of being eaten alive.”
For a moment Trent considered the option as the most humane thing Padilla had ever done. A large drop of sweat trickled down the side of his face as he attempted to put weight on his broken leg.
Padilla held up his hands in apathy. “My work here is done.”
Trent winced as he pushed off his leg to move away from the oncoming killers. He needed to stay alive long enough for a rescue attempt, but he knew in his heart, as the ants seemed to take him into their sight, he would be lucky to make it to lunch.
Padilla threw aside the mosquito netting and said over his shoulder, “I would not take any naps if I were you.”
The ants marched single file toward another drop of blood, swelling around the small drop of his body fluid until they were a round mass of red surrounding the meal. They moved as one unit, almost pulsing in unison as they fed on his remains. He looked down and realized he was bleeding stronger now. His scent would not elude the tiny assassins for much longer. He tried to shuffle sideways, but every step sent a lightning bolt of pain up his leg.
Trent was starving, dehydrated and slowly bleeding out, but he felt he owed it to Jaqui and his unborn child to keep moving. He owed them so much more, but this one thing he could try.
Unfortunately, he was outnumbered by a group of beasts with no other distractions in their life to prevent them from a good meal. At the fringes of the circle of ants, a few of them seemed to catch a scent of fresh blood and began to wander in Trent’s direction.
* * *
“I found him,” Tommy Bracco said over the phone.
Nick and Matt were on a private jet owned by the Department of Justice to transport dignitaries around the country for meetings and ceremonies. They were currently at thirty thousand feet rushing toward Miami to pick up gear for the rescue mission when Nick got Tommy’s call.
“Who?” Nick asked.
“He’s perfect for this job,” Tommy said, “but you’re not gonna like him.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, he has extensive knowledge of the area. He’s actually spent some quality time with a tribe of native Indians in southern Colombia several years back. He’s a real pro.”
“Tommy, I told you how desperate we are. Where is he, in prison?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Then what? Has he ever been convicted of murder?”
“Nope.”
“Well, shit, Tommy, what’s the problem?”
There was a slight pause. Nick looked across the aisle and watched Matt cleaning his Glock, while keeping an ear on the conversation.
Finally, Tommy said, “Remember that nut job who tried to flood the entire city of Phoenix?”
“Yeah,” Nick said, recalling Temir Barzani’s attempt to detonate a bomb in the guts of Roosevelt Dam just outside of Phoenix.
“Well, remember why you’re still alive?”
Nick remembered very well. He was there in time to stop Barzani, but was caught off guard by a Russian assassin who’d gotten the jump on him. It was pure luck that the assassin was paid by the Turkish government to eliminate Barzani and decided to leave Nick and Matt alive since they were not under contract.
“Yeah,” Nick said, not liking where the conversation was headed. “I remember.”
“Well, the guy who saved your life is who I’m talking about.”
Nick gripped his phone a little tighter. “Tommy, someone pulling a gun on me and deciding not to pull the trigger is not the same as saving my life.”
“Of course it is. It’s exactly the same. The guy’s an assassin. He kills people for a living. You’re an FBI agent who arrests people who break the law. Especially murder. When he left you there with Barzani’s corpse, he saved your life. Plain and simple.”
“Shit,” Nick murmured, now realizing the choice he had to make. He glanced over at Matt, who was staring at him with raised eyebrows. “Hold on a sec, Tommy.”
He pulled the phone to his leg and said to Matt, “Tommy found someone who can guide us through the Amazon. He’s experienced and professional in this type of operation.”
Matt was slowly shaking his head as he put together the pieces of Nick’s conversation.
“No,” Matt said. “Not the Russian?”
Nick said nothing. He tried to consider the pros and cons.
“Nick, you’re not really thinking about this, are you?”
Nick rubbed the side of his face with his free hand. “I think I am.”
“Nick?”
“Listen,” Nick said, “you didn’t hear the desperation in the president’s voice when he was telling me about this situation. He was calling me because he knew I had contacts outside the law. In fact, he was practically begging me to use whatever means necessary to get his brother back alive. Let’s face it, we’re not going down there because we’re experts on the rainforest or we have experience in hostage situations. We’re on this assignment because of one reason. Tommy. And Tommy’s contacts.”
When Matt stalled the argument by resting his head back against the seat cushion and sighing, Nick took it as the signal to forge ahead. He put the phone to his ear and said, “All right, bring him.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that, but I still have to ask him.”
“What do you mean ask him? I thought he was already contacted.”
“No, Nicky, listen, he lives over by the Bahamas and I’m on the plane right now to stop by and talk to him.”
“Wait. How do you know where he is?”
“We shared a drink once in Payson, when he was tracking the terrorist, and neither one knew who we were at the time. Anyway, he told me his wife wanted to move to the Bahamas when he retired. Well, he’s retired.”
“Tommy, what are you doing?”
“I thought I was trying to save the president’s brother.”
Nick’s head was swimming with bad thoughts.
“How much money can I offer him?” Tommy asked.
“Shit, I don’t know. Someone with his experience, maybe a million dollars.”
“How about two?”
“Fine,” Nick said. “Just make sure he understands what’s at stake. We have no more than thirty-six hours.”
“Got it. I’ll call you as soon as I know.”
Nick clicked the off button and watched Matt give him a disappointed expression.
“What?” Nick said from across the aisle. “The guy could’ve killed us both back in Payson, but didn’t.”
Matt shook his head. “So, not only are you signing off on the idea, you’re now endorsing the concept?”
Nick tapped the eraser end of his pencil on a thick manila file full of old data about the native tribes in the Amazon rainforest. Data that was so insignificant to the FBI they weren’t even updating it into the computer system.
“No,” Nick said, “I hate the idea and I don’t want to work with someone who kills for a living. But here’s the alternative. We get a guide to take us into the jungle and put an innocent life at risk. It’s dead weight we can’t afford. At least this way, the guide can be someone who can defend himself.”
“And you’re sure the president is on board with this?”
“It’s his brother,” Nick said, reaching for his duffle bag on the seat next to him. “He told me to use whatever means necessary. Nothing was off limits.”
“Are you kidding—”
Nick held up his hand. “It’s not worth discussing, because I doubt Tommy could talk him into it anyway.”
“But if he does?”
Nick patted a
file on his lap. “We’re going to need help. Trent made contact with a certain tribe of local Indians down there. From what I can tell, they are very loyal people. They might be able to tell us where he was taken.”
As the plane jostled up and down for a few seconds, a spike of acid rushed up Nick’s throat. He swallowed it back down and reached for his duffle bag on the seat next to him. He grabbed the bottle of pills from his bag and shoved a couple into his mouth while the turbulence banged them around. He was struggling to maintain control of the PTSD. Sometimes he came close to blacking out when the stress became too overwhelming. Now, he simply needed to prevent the symptoms from paralyzing him completely.
“You okay?” Matt asked while cleaning his pistol.
“I’m fine,” Nick said.
“You don’t look so fine.”
Nick opened up a file and resumed reading, while his shallow breaths smoothed out. “Well, it’s been a tough couple of months.” He glimpsed over at his partner to judge his level of apprehension. Matt had lost his FBI agent girlfriend to a terrorist attack just a few weeks back and Nick wondered whether it was a good idea for either of them to be back into the crossfire so quickly after the incident.
Matt had used his excess energy to focus on the one thing he seemed to have left. His job. Julie had been attempting to cajole Nick into an administrative position with the bureau, but he knew Matt needed him. He wasn’t about to bail on the guy who’d saved his life more than once.
While Matt was busy rubbing a cloth along the side of his 9mm, he said, “You know we’re out of our element here.”
“I know.”
“You think his brother is still alive?”
“I’m not sure,” Nick said, getting his breathing under control. He had developed a facial tremor along the way and kept a hand on it to massage his cheek muscles. “I think his trip to Colombia was meant to increase the chances.”
Matt was staring down the barrel of his gun with one eye shut, examining its structural integrity. “How is Julie doing?”
“She’s fine.”
“You know, you hardly mention her ever since the funeral.”
