by Julie Cannon
They had few actual medical supplies, and she was forced to make do with what she had, which wasn’t much. Periodically men would appear in their camp with supplies, which sometimes included bandages, antibiotics, sutures and, antiseptic cream. Today, her patients, as she reluctantly called them, consisted of a gunshot wound to the foot that was looking more infected each time she looked at it, a nasty bout of dysentery she hoped wouldn’t spread through the camp again, and a knife stabbing. But the care, or lack thereof, that she was able to provide her fellow hostages disturbed her most. Her job was to keep them alive so the rebels could ransom them off. They were worth nothing to them dead.
As a nurse, Kelly had taken an oath to heal, and it was very difficult to have to sit by helpless and watch her fellow captives suffer. It was only after her captors had been treated that she was allowed to check on the others, and only with leftover supplies. She was watched carefully to ensure she didn’t skimp on treatment for the rebels and give more to their prisoners. Like it could get any worse, she thought as she crossed the compound.
If they were lucky they had shelter from the rain and incessant bugs feasting on them throughout the night. But they hadn’t been lucky for months. Juan was lying on a dirty mat on the ground. Francois and one of the other hostages had been at least able to move him under a large tree, which offered some cover from the relentless midday sun.
After she tended to Juan, Opie poked her in the back again, signaling her that visiting hours were over. A wave of dizziness swam over her when she stood, a direct effect of very little to drink and absolutely nothing to eat yesterday. She and the others were fed only after the guards had their fill, and with the scarcity of rations lately, they rarely had more than a few scraps from discarded plates. This morning, however, she detected coffee and something that smelled a lot like eggs. Maybe that explained the ruckus last night when several people had arrived at their camp.
She tripped over an exposed root, stumbling to her knees. She muffled a cry when a sharp pain seared through the heel of her palm. She got to her feet, brushing off her hands on the legs of her shorts, a trail of blood leaving a path. Shit, this is not good. Even the smallest cut could be life threatening in these filthy conditions.
Between hand gestures and broken Spanish, she asked Opie if she could get some water to wash her hands. She hated having to ask for everything, but she knew the consequences if she didn’t. He nudged her toward the water barrel with the tip of his rifle, and she gratefully crossed back across the camp. She scanned the camp and, not seeing anyone paying any attention to her, she took the opportunity to carefully survey her surroundings.
She could make a run for it; she had twice before. But the consequences when she was caught, and she would be caught again, were brutal. The first time she was found within minutes and tied to a tree for what felt like forever. The second it took them twice as long to find her, and the punishment was twice as severe. They beat her and broke the toes on both feet. Escaping from the camp was a possibility, getting caught was a certain reality, and surviving yet another punishment again was the only thing in doubt.
Chapter Three
Barrett fought the exhaustion that threatened to overtake her and concentrated instead on putting one foot in front of the other—barely. Blue had slipped another set of zip ties over each foot, cinched them tight, and connected them with each other. She could move her feet, but only about eight inches. It was their third day in the jungle, and she’d been walking for hours, shuffling along trying to stay upright. Her wrists and ankles were raw from her restraints, the open sores burning from sweat and insects feasting on her. She’d lost her sandals when she was taken, so her feet were cut and bloody from walking on roots and rocks on the hard, cracked ground. She hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch on the day she was taken and very little to drink. At least the gag was out of her mouth. Blue had ripped the duct tape off her face this morning, and Barrett was so grateful for a mouthful of fresh air, she barely noticed the hair that was pulled out along with it.
Her once-white shirt was filthy and torn and would never button again. With her hands secured behind her back she was unable to shield her face or body from the branches that hung over the trail. Barrett knew her face was covered with cuts, some more severe than others, judging from the amount of blood covering her shirt and almost-bare chest. When the last of her buttons surrendered to another vine peppered with sharp needles at least an inch long, both Blue and Desi leered at her.
Her mouth, already parched from the exertion and lack of water, became even dryer as the two men surveyed her flesh exposed between the open folds of her shirt. She knew what was going to happen and that she’d be helpless to stop it. With her hands behind her back and her feet still hogtied, she could do little to defend herself. She spread her feet as far as the plastic line would let her and squared her shoulders. She’d get at least one good shot at whoever came at her first.
It was Blue, the leader of the two, and the gleam in his eye and the erection pushing at his pants signaled his intentions. Before he got within touching distance, Desi spoke, and Barrett understood every word.
“What are you doing? The Colonel will skin you alive if she’s harmed.”
“I don’t care. She’s my reward for dragging my ass in and out of this goddamn jungle. You can have her after I’m through with her,” Blue barked back at him.
“Lopez, don’t. He’ll think we both had her and will punish me as well.” Desi was pleading.
“Then you might as well get something out of it.” Blue stepped closer but stopped when Desi put the barrel of his rifle between him and Barrett. “And who’s going to stop me, amigo?” Blue laughed. “You?”
Barrett saw Desi swallow and silently prayed he had the courage to stand his ground.
“Yes, Lopez. I will stop you. I won’t be punished because you can’t keep your cock in your pants.”
Barrett held her breath as the two men sized up the other. If she hadn’t been so scared she could have appreciated the classic good-versus-evil scenario, but as it was she was hoping they’d fight and simply kill each other.
Blue stepped back, never taking his eyes off her. She didn’t know if she was relieved that she wasn’t going to be raped, at least not right now, or disappointed that the two men didn’t try to kill each other. Blue finally turned around, signaling the end of his threat. This threat, Barrett thought. She knew this was only the beginning.
*
Shouts and whistles drew Kelly’s attention from bandaging the foot with the gunshot wound. The infection was worse than when she’d seen it this morning, and gangrene had set in. She hoped she wasn’t forced to amputate the limb like she’d been once before. Within the first week of her arrival, she’d had no choice but to remove the first three fingers on the left hand of one of her kidnappers. She tried to communicate that she was a nurse, not a doctor, and when one of the rebels put the tip of his rifle to the temple of another hostage, she stopped trying. Somehow Kelly had managed not to kill the man during the actual procedure, and miraculously he didn’t die from complications. From that point on she was forced to treat every illness or injury that came into the camp.
Her escort again this afternoon was Opie, and he heard the commotion as well. As soon as she finished wrapping the foot, he shoved her toward the center of the camp. Excitement filled the thick air, signaling the arrival of either another group of rebels or another hostage. Opie nudged her in the back with the barrel of his gun to move along faster, and she stumbled but caught herself before she hit the rocky ground yet again.
The noise grew louder. The jungle moved, and within seconds, two of the rebels from her camp emerged, closely followed by two men she’d never seen. But it was what was between the men that made Kelly gasp.
They were dragging a woman into the camp. Kelly didn’t know if she was dead, unconscious, or simply exhausted. Even if she were conscious, the bindings around her ankles wouldn’t have allowed her to easil
y keep pace with the men. The men moved in unison, each one holding her at the elbow, indicating that the woman’s hands were bound behind her back.
Long hair hung limply off the woman’s head, her chin bouncing against her chest as they moved. It was obvious to Kelly that it was a woman, but the breasts exposed by the torn shirt dispelled any doubt for anyone else. Her pants were equally torn, her feet bare and bloody.
Shocked at another female hostage entering the camp, Kelly shivered. Women didn’t fare well in these circumstances. If the lack of food, harsh living conditions, torture, brutality, or the constant threat of rape didn’t kill them, the disease, heat, bugs, or any of a thousand other things could.
Kelly forced herself to remain where she was when everything inside her was telling her to go to the woman to help her. She was a nurse, a woman, and a fellow hostage, and the order didn’t matter. She tried to close her eyes, get the image out of her mind, but couldn’t.
She tried not to pay too much attention to the woman. She’d learned, the hard way, that their captors often used the hostages against each other for sport, revenge, or simply cruelty. Too much concern over a fellow prisoner could and would be used against them in the future.
Several months after her arrival, she’d developed a friendship of sorts with a fellow captive. Jean Paul had been in his mid-sixties and reminded Kelly of her father, and he often told her that she looked just like his daughter. Jean Paul had a weak immune system and was often ill. Their captors couldn’t care less and forced him to work alongside the others when they needed to break camp, carve a new camp out of the jungle, or walk for miles through the thick, hot, humid jungle. When he wasn’t sick they spent as much time as they could talking about books, history, and their families. Anything to get their mind off where they were.
One day when Kelly refused to treat the wounds of a rebel who’d just the day before raped a fellow captive, Jean Paul was hauled out of his sick bed and strung up to a tree. His wrists were bound and pulled over his head by a thick rope that had been tossed over a high branch. The rope was pulled until he dangled from the branch with just his toes touching the ground. There he remained until Kelly finally agreed to help the man. Actually, he remained there for three more days, without food or water, Kelly forced to sit beside him when she wasn’t working and sleep at his feet. Finally the rebels cut him down, but not before she learned a valuable lesson.
The men released their hold on the woman and she fell to the ground, seeming lifeless. Her two escorts were greeted with cheers, back slaps, and cigars. Someone put a canteen of water in their hands. They pointed and poked at their new guest, all the while talking on top of each other like a bunch of cackling women. Kelly had picked up a few words but didn’t understand much of what was being said, but judging by the tone and body language, it wouldn’t be good for the unconscious woman. It never was.
Two other guards, one of whom Francois had named Harry after the Clint Eastwood character Dirty Harry, picked up the woman and dragged her closer to a tree. Taking the chain that was secured around its base, he fastened it to the woman’s ankle, effectively securing her.
Kelly calculated the distance between where she stood and the woman and judged it to be about ten yards. For a fleeting moment she thought about breaking away from Opie and running to her, but it was pointless. She wouldn’t be able to do anything to help her before Opie caught her, and both she and the woman would suffer for her spontaneous actions. Before she had a chance to do anything stupid, the man they all called The Colonel stepped out of his tent.
The Colonel was the leader of this gang of rebels, and he was strict and didn’t tolerate laziness or insubordination. If the men didn’t jump when he spoke, he punished them almost as severely as the hostages. Kelly suspected he had some type of military training by the way he issued orders and expected them to be obeyed without hesitation.
He was the tallest of all the men Kelly had seen during her captivity. He stood well over six feet and must have weighed at least two hundred sixty pounds. She would know. He’d been on top of her more than once. Pushing that thought from her mind she watched as he approached the crumpled woman.
He spoke with one of the men who’d brought the woman in, glancing back and forth between her and the man talking. The Colonel stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, and by his posture Kelly was sure he’d strike either one or both men.
She’d studied The Colonel—his walk, his mannerisms, speech patterns—and found him very transparent if you knew what to look for. And she did. She found people fascinating and would often sit in a busy mall watching them go by. It was a game her cousin Sam and she had played when their mother dragged them out shopping. They’d sit and guess the occupation of each person as they walked by, judging them by their clothes, their walk, and their companions. They had no way of knowing if they were correct, but it killed time and was fun.
The two men’s heads snapped back, one right after the other, and all Kelly saw was The Colonel’s arm moving back to his side. For a big man he was fast, very fast, and more than once she’d been on the receiving side of that quickness. Something the men had done or not done had displeased the leader, and he made no secret of it.
Both men wiped the smirk off their faces, blood from their noses, and snapped to attention. Even though it was all said in Spanish, Kelly knew the two men were getting their asses kicked, figuratively and probably literally as well later on. The Colonel never raised his voice, but the message was clear as the two men saluted, spun around, and marched away.
The Colonel turned and locked eyes with Kelly and she fought not to look away. She hated being a coward but had learned which battle to fight and which not to. Most were the not-to-fight variety.
“Miss Ryan, please come here.” The Colonel spoke fluent English, although with a harsh Spanish accent.
Kelly kept her eyes on the ground as she walked across the dirt and stopped in front of the man. Another one of her lessons was to not speak until spoken to.
“See to this woman. She is very valuable to us.” He didn’t say anything else to her but issued a few stark commands to both Opie and another one of the guards standing nearby. The guard ran in the direction of the commissary, and The Colonel returned to his tent.
“Yes, sir,” Kelly mumbled to his retreating back, and dropped quickly to her knees. She moved the hair that had fallen across the woman’s face and felt for a pulse on her neck. It was weak but steady. Carefully Kelly rolled the woman onto her back and began a cursory check of her body for any outward signs of significant injury. Other than dozens of cuts and scrapes on her torso and extremities, and hundreds of bug bites covering her skin, the only serious wound she could see other than an obviously broken nose was a nasty cut on her forehead.
The guard returned with a meager supply of bandages and antiseptic and dropped the bag at her feet. “Water, please,” she asked in Spanish.
The water in the camp was relatively clean, and she needed a lot to clean the wounds. Opie moved a few feet away and sat on a dead tree, his rifle trained in their direction. The guard returned and tossed a canteen on the ground beside her.
“It’s going to be all right,” Kelly whispered as she ran the cool cloth over the woman’s torn skin. “My name is Kelly. I’m a nurse, and I’m going to help you the best I can. Can you open your eyes?” Kelly pressed her hand to the woman’s forehead. She was warm but not burning with fever, like her other patients often were.
“Come on, open your eyes and look at me,” Kelly said. “I’ve got to make sure you’re all right.” She reached into the kit and took out the antiseptic bottle. The cut on the woman’s head was deep and ran almost in a straight line from her hairline down through her left eyebrow. She had no way to stitch it closed and knew it would leave a very ugly scar. She dipped the corner of a rag into the red liquid and, knowing the cut would hurt like hell, was almost glad the woman was unconscious.
It took several seconds for the liquid to pene
trate the dried blood and the woman’s consciousness. When it did it was like a light had been switched on. She immediately opened her eyes, shouted, and fought against her restraints.
“Ssh, it’s okay. I’m trying to help you,” Kelly said quietly.
If the woman continued to fight she could injure herself more than she already was. Kelly lowered her head so she could look more squarely into the woman’s eyes, and what she saw took her breath away.
Chapter Four
Searing pain. That was the only way Barrett could describe it. A thousand needles poked into her skin, one at a time, and they weren’t stopping. The pain pulled her out of the darkness that had mercifully covered her like a blanket. A soft voice in a language she recognized seeped into her brain. What were they saying? Barrett fought to open her eyes.
“Come on now. That’s it. Open your eyes.” The voice had a melodious drawl that reminded Barrett of the way her cousin Kim spoke. Gentle, rhythmic, Southern. She couldn’t help but obey the request.
A tanned, gaunt face looked down at her. A frown creased the forehead, causing the expression to be severe. Deep-blue eyes peered at her from under short brown hair. A woman? Barrett blinked a few more times to clear her vision and drive away the cobwebs in her head. It was a woman.
“Good,” the woman said, a small smile tipping the ends of her mouth upward. Out of the corner of her left eye, Barrett saw the woman’s hand move. “This is going to hurt a little. I need to clean your cuts and set your nose.”
Little wasn’t the way Barrett would describe it. It was a repeat of the pain that had brought her out of the dark earlier, and the second time was no less severe than the first. She hissed and tears formed behind her closed eyes when she heard the distinctive snap of cartilage being put back in place.
“Fuck, goddamn, get your hands off me,” she shouted through the pain.
