Running from the Devil

by Jamie Freveletti

  “The Americans have dispatched a troop of special forces to find the passengers.”

  Alvarado felt a cold chill run down his spine. He shook it off. “So? You said yourself that they will never find us. We know these mountains well. Not the gringos.”

  “And I can’t raise Mathilde. I’ve tried several times, but she doesn’t respond.”

  “What happened to them?”

  Luis exploded. “How the hell do I know? I am pounding on the radio all night while you slept in the forest!”

  “I was attacked, Luis. Perhaps you call our contact at the cartel. Maybe they have heard something.”

  “I did.”

  “Ah, good. And what did they say?”

  “They say the Cartone cartel becomes nervous. The Americans are furious at the hijacking. They say that unless the passengers are released in twenty-four hours, aid to Colombia will stop and the American government will demand extradition of all cartel and paramilitary leaders.”

  “Cartone is in jail, is he not? Didn’t he agree to lay down his arms under a nonextradition deal?”

  Luis paced the length of the tent. “He did. His second in command says that he will never allow Cartone to be extradited. Now the other cartels are worried that the hijacking will force the president to offer up the rest of the leaders to the Americans as a peace offering. They have teamed up with the paramilitary groups to the west against us.”

  “What are they planning?”

  “To kill us! What the hell do you think?” Luis screamed.

  Alvarado stood up. “If this is so, Luis, then we are on our own. We cannot fight them all.”

  “We will fight them all, Alvarado. We have no choice. Don’t forget, we have the FFOC on our side. Or do you question their, and my, ability?” Luis’s mood had shifted in an instant.

  Alvarado took a deep breath and tried to step lightly. “Of course not, Luis.”

  “Then it does not matter that the other groups are angry. They are fools for believing the president and his offers of light sentences and no extradition.”

  “But Maria, Mathilde. We must go there and see if they survived.”

  Alvarado dated Maria but wanted Mathilde, who was Luis’s woman. He could live without Maria but would mourn the loss of Mathilde.

  “Mathilde cannot be killed. That woman is a cat with nine lives.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We go back and take the secondary trail to Mathilde’s watch post. After we check on them, we continue to the ransom point. But forget the trucks. We cut a path through the mountains. If we stay on the trail, Cartone’s helicopters will find us.”

  “And the American special forces?”

  “They are the least of our problems.” Luis dismissed them without further thought.

  Alvarado left the tent, his mind whirring with plans. He would follow Luis until the checkpoint, where he would see how much money would be collected on the first ransoms. He wouldn’t leave the checkpoint with the group. After he got his money, he would find Mathilde and get the hell out of Colombia.

  30

  LUIS, HIS MEN, AND THE PASSENGERS STRAGGLED INTO Mathilde’s base camp at three o’clock in the afternoon. The stench was unbearable. Bodies, most of them bloated from the gases released inside their skin, littered the clearing. On seeing this, one passenger screamed over and over until a guerrilla slapped her.

  The base camp contained six huts arranged in a circle and one watchtower made of wood that rose two stories into the air. To reach the second floor, one needed to walk up a ladder built into its sides. The first level stood eight feet off the ground and had a narrow walkway built around the perimeter. From this landing, a sentry could view the immediate vicinity, but not see over the treetops.

  The ladder continued up to a second level, a crow’s nest at the top. It was open air, with a three-foot-high railing running around the edge. From this location a sentry could see over the trees and down the road about two hundred fifty meters before the jungle swallowed the view. A gun on a tripod filled the top floor, and ammunition belts were kept in a small wooden chest in the corner.

  Two huts were reduced to cinders. Luis poked around in the burned wood and found some bodies. They were burned beyond recognition, but neither looked tall enough to be Mathilde. He continued searching the clearing.

  Three-quarters of the way around, he came upon the severed head. It stank like overripened fruit, and crawled with flies and maggots. Luis waved away the flies and looked at it.

  “Alvarado, get over here!” He roared his anger.

  Alvarado jogged to the grisly find. He bent down to take a look.

  “Jesus, it’s Jorge.” Alvarado breathed the name. He looked a little closer and saw a piece of paper stuffed in the head’s mouth. He found a stick and used it to poke at the head, dislodging the note, which fluttered to the ground. Alvarado spread it out.

  We’re coming for you.

  “What does it say?” Luis asked. He’d grown up on a remote farm in the Putumayo district of Colombia. He’d learned rudimentary English from listening to the Christian missionaries his father traded with, but he had never learned to read or write in any language.

  Alvarado read the note out loud.

  Luis sucked in his breath. “It’s from the Cartone cartel.”

  Alvarado nodded. The Cartone cartel controlled the drug trade in Cali and was known for its grisly calling cards. Jorge had family in Cali, so it made sense for him to have gone there. The fact that he’d been captured and killed told Alvarado just how bad their situation was, because normally a man with friendly connections among the cartels would not have been killed in such a fashion.

  “We’re in deep shit, Luis.”

  Luis shrugged. “Jorge has killed how many people? Thirty? Forty? He must have pissed off someone in the cartel. It has nothing to do with us. Besides, we have the FFOC behind us.”

  Alvarado stared at Luis. That he would be so blasé about an open threat from such a powerful cartel was insane. Alvarado didn’t know what to say. He stood up and took a deep breath.

  “Let’s keep looking for Maria and Mathilde.”

  Alvarado edged around the tree line. He found Maria’s body lying facedown. He recognized a small bracelet that he’d given her on her twenty-fifth birthday. She’d been thrilled beyond belief. Her life had been spent in the slums of Bogotá. No one had ever given her a gift of that value. Alvarado had not loved her, but he couldn’t help but feel sadness for her now.

  Mathilde’s body was not among the dead. Luis reported this fact with satisfaction.

  “That woman makes the snake in the Garden of Eden look like a saint,” he said.

  They put the passengers to work collecting the dead. By now, most walked through the day with a sense of resignation. Luis liked it like that. Each day they presented less and less of a problem to him. He kept to his daily beatings, nonetheless. No sense letting them get any ideas.

  That evening, during dinner, Mathilde strolled into camp. Alvarado jumped up from his position at the fire and watched as the light played over her sweat-soaked T-shirt. She looked tired but none the worse for her near miss with the Cartone cartel.

  Luis watched her amble up to him. “So you live, Mathilde. I knew you would.”

  Mathilde shrugged. Her beautiful brown hair rippled over her shoulders, and Alvarado felt an almost physical reaction at the sight of her.

  “I was talking to the two escaped passengers when the helicopter came.”

  Luis’s head snapped up. “What two passengers?”

  “A man with brown hair and a woman. They wanted to use the radio to call the American embassy.”

  “You let them go?” Luis’s voice took on a quiet, menacing sound. If his show of menace bothered Mathilde, she didn’t show it.

  “I had no choice, now, did I, Rodrigo? The copter, he came and killed them all. There was no time for capturing.”

  Luis grabbed Mathilde’s arm. “Did the tall man get
away?”

  Mathilde snatched her arm back. “Don’t touch me like that, Rodrigo, if you know what’s good for you. I will tell my father, and he’ll have your liver for lunch.”

  Mathilde’s father ran the Putumayo division of the FFOC. He had several children by various women in different districts. He’d paid for Mathilde to attend school and even paid for her to learn English. Nevertheless, his parenting skills left something to be desired, because he’d seen her only a few times during her life.

  Mathilde’s threat set Luis back on his heels, because her father was perfectly capable of killing him and his entire crew before breakfast. Tales of the man’s vicious exploits ran rampant in Colombia, and Luis wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t fry a human liver and eat it. He let go of Mathilde and made a show of his nonchalance.

  “It is just that the tall man is a thorn in my side, and I would like to have him and the woman returned to me.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have let them go, eh, Luis?” Mathilde’s voice was taunting.

  Luis reddened. “Jorge let them go. But he has paid for his stupidity.” Luis waved an arm at the head still sitting on the edge of the camp.

  Mathilde’s eyes widened at the sight. “Who did that?”

  “The Cartone cartel. It is a warning about the hostages. But tell me, which way did the tall man go?”

  Mathilde waved at a small path. “To the stream. You will find them there, Rodrigo.”

  Rodrigo nodded. “Tomorrow I will call to the FFOC and have them send a helicopter. I need to find the tall man, or my luck will not change.”

  “And I want the woman dead, Rodrigo. She insulted me.” Mathilde put on a pout.

  “We can’t have that, now can we?” Rodrigo said.

  No, we can’t, Alvarado thought.

  31

  BANNER AND WHITTER SAT AT A SMALL CAFÉ IN THE LITTLE Havana area of Miami drinking after-dinner café cubanos. The ever-present sound of electronic dance music filtered to them through the traffic noise. It seemed that wherever Banner went in Miami, salsa, Latin, or electronic music blared nearby. Banner’s rolled sleeves and missing tie were his only concessions to being “off duty.” Whitter wore a green neon-colored polo shirt and khakis. Banner thought the combination unfortunate, but by no means the worst the man had worn.

  It was Whitter who suggested they have dinner away from Southcom’s headquarters, and Banner had agreed wholeheartedly. He needed a break. They’d been eating for an hour and during that time Whitter kept the conversation light, but Banner suspected he had some private information he wanted to pass on. As did Banner.

  “We have information that the first transaction for a passenger occurred sometime today,” Banner said.

  Whitter looked pained. “What? Who?”

  Banner shook his head. “We can’t confirm it, but a family of one of the victims told Stromeyer that their insurance company paid out on a kidnap policy. The passenger was an oil-company executive. The transfer took place using a private recovery company.”

  Whitter turned to Banner. “Perhaps your company arranged the deal?”

  Banner refused to take the bait. “Darkview doesn’t currently provide that type of service. Although we may in the near future.”

  “You’d be creating a whole industry based upon kidnap and ransom,” Whitter said.

  Banner snorted. “The insurance companies have already capitalized on that industry. Why else would they write kidnap insurance?”

  “Still,” Whitter said, “most of the passengers are regular citizens. They don’t have kidnap coverage on their home owners’ policies.”

  “Which is why we will get them out of there. And why you need to authorize movement of those five hundred special forces soldiers currently on the pipeline.”

  Whitter shook his head. “We keep going around and around on this one. But something’s happened that will make that impossible. The Colombian president responded to Margate’s ultimatum with one of his own. He insisted that all American forces leave Colombia immediately.”

  “I didn’t see any press conference to that effect,” Banner said.

  “It was a private call between the Colombian president and Margate.”

  Banner felt his anger growing. What had Margate expected? “Does the withdrawal include the five hundred on the pipeline?”

  Whitter nodded. “He mentioned them specifically.”

  Banner sipped the hot coffee laced with so much cream that it tasted thick.

  “Does the Colombian president realize that he’s biting off his nose to spite his face? The paramilitary guys won’t back down just because he makes a show of annoyance. They’ll go on a rampage over the extradition demand alone.”

  Whitter sighed. “I know, it’s just his ego talking, but it’s important to him not to appear weak. If he allows the U.S. to interfere in local matters, then it will seem as though he’s our lapdog.”

  “What did Margate say in response?”

  “Nothing. But the word got out somehow and Oriental’s oil executives descended on him in a fury. Seems they think they’ll be slaughtered if the special forces leave. Margate’s arranging emergency evacuation for them and their families prior to troop withdrawal.”

  “And Miguel and his little band?” Banner said.

  “They have to leave as well.”

  Banner put his cup down so fast that it smacked into the saucer with a clanging sound. “So Margate just leaves the passengers high and dry?”

  “He’s demanding their release in return for no extradition.”

  Banner snorted. “But what’s he going to do if the paramilitary guys don’t play ball? How does he intend to hunt them down and extradite them?”

  Whitter gave Banner a sly look. “I imagine a covert operation will be one likely scenario.”

  Banner shook his head. “He hasn’t contacted me. Besides, I don’t know that I’d take the project. The Colombian president will expect some sort of covert action, and he’ll put the border forces on notice. Plus, there are an estimated twenty thousand paramilitary and cartel guys running around Colombia. I’d need a small army to run a decent operation. Sending in less would mean certain death for them.”

  “It appears as though we’ll end up with sixty-eight more American hostages held in Colombia,” Whitter said. Banner reached for the check that lay between them and started counting out his money.

  “Has Margate issued withdrawal orders yet?”

  Whitter shook his head. “Not formally, no, but plans have already been set in motion.”

  “Keep the change,” Banner said to the waitress. He downed the coffee and pushed from the table.

  “Banner, where are you going?” Whitter said.

  “Whitter, just keep in contact with Stromeyer. She can handle anything I can.”

  “You’re not going to confront Margate, are you? Banner, that’s a bad idea.” Whitter sounded strained.

  “Calm down. I know better than to butt heads with the secretary of defense, for God’s sake.”

  “You do not. I was there when you did exactly that not twenty-four hours ago. Then you said his suit was bad.” Whitter sounded panicked.

  “His suit was bad, but what can you expect from a man who has the body of a dumpling and the brains to match?” Banner strode out of the café with Whitter at his heels.

  “I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “About what? I’m just headed back to my hotel room.” Banner patted Whitter on the arm. “You should head back, too. This whole affair has got to be taking its toll on you.”

  “I may not have known you long, Banner, but I’ve known you long enough to realize when you’re headed for trouble. Remember what Montoya from the embassy said. The Colombian special forces are good at recovering hostages.”

  “Like they recovered those bank executives?” Banner said.

  “But this situation is completely different.” Banner stopped walking so fast that Whitter bumped into him.

  “List
en to me. The only thing different about this situation is that there are more hostages at risk. The best chance those passengers have to survive is right now, when there are special forces in the area searching for them. Once those forces evacuate, you can kiss those hostages good-bye.”

  Whitter rubbed a weary hand across his forehead. “I agree, but what do you expect us to do? Defy the Colombian president?”

  “Tell Margate to withdraw his ultimatum. The Colombian president will withdraw his, and we can proceed to find and free those passengers.”

  “The secretary of defense is not a man who likes to lose face or reverse position,” Whitter said.

  “And what about you, Whitter? Do you believe that the ultimatum is a good idea?”

  Whitter paused. “I do not.”

  “Then tell Margate.”

  Banner left Whitter standing alone on the sidewalk, with the pulsing music of Miami in the background.

  32

  THAT EVENING EMMA AND SUMNER ATE THE LAST OF THE PIG and stared at each other. Emma didn’t want to state the obvious, but she couldn’t help it.

  “We’re out of food.”

  “So it would seem,” Sumner said.

  “Do you think you could shoot an animal if we came across one?”

  Sumner nodded. “I could certainly try.”

  Emma sighed. “My concern is that we’d alert the guerrillas to our location.”

  “We’re on borrowed time as it is. If we stay along the stream, they will surely catch us on one of their pass-bys. If we go to the interior, we risk the land mines. If we stay where we are, we risk growing old in these mountains.”

  “Better than dying. How many land mines?”

  “Colombia is one of the top five countries in the world with regard to land mines. We estimated that at least a thousand people are injured or die each year.”

  Emma was aghast. “Who is planting them?”

  “The paramilitary groups. They control their perimeters with the mines.”