by Chuck Holton
Despair clawed at her. Oh, no …
Without the handheld location finder, Alex would certainly have a much harder time finding their camp.
A tiny light flashed suddenly from a few feet away. The guard! She could see Zack’s body, curled into a fetal position only an arm’s length away. The light came closer, and the guard hissed, “¡Cállate!”
Zack’s body convulsed as the guard’s boot slammed into his stomach. “¡Silencio!” Then the light went out, and she cried silently as she closed her eyes and listened to Zack retching and gasping in the darkness.
She must have fallen asleep, because when she opened her eyes, the rain had stopped and the faint glimmer of a misty twilight filtered through the trees. The guard’s dark form sat unmoving against a tree about six feet away. He was sleeping.
Footsteps rustled behind her, and a rough hand stroked her cheek. She turned her head and stared into the cruel, scarred face of Chombon. Welts above his right eye were still visible from their scuffle yesterday.
Anger and fear warred within, keeping her silent. She simply glared at him as his hand traced the curve of her jaw and he leered back.
He spoke softly in Spanish. “Do not worry, linda. I will take good care of you when we get back to my camp. It is not far.” The look in his eyes left no question as to his meaning, and he chuckled lustily and stalked off to rouse the other men.
Oh, God. Help!
It was without a doubt the most fervent prayer she had ever uttered.
Within moments the men were all awake, and obviously eager to get back to their camp. A skinny man with squinty eyes and an incredibly dirty white baseball cap approached them. He cut the plastic zip ties at their feet, his gaze lingering on Fernanda as if she were a sports car or a hanging cabra in the meat market.
It made her feel naked, dirtier than she actually was, and with still-bound wrists, she pulled at her shirt, hiding herself as much as possible.
Carlos looked pitiful, with puffy eyes and his matted black hair caked with mud. As the squinty-eyed man cut the bonds on his feet, Carlos rasped, “¿Comida, por favor?”
The man laughed heartily and spit at Carlos, then walked away.
The three of them stood, eager to be out of the mud and moving again. Fernanda never thought she’d look forward to the heat of the day, but the rain and wet ground had chilled her to the core.
If it hadn’t taken every ounce of energy she possessed to simply get to her feet, Fernanda would have plunged headlong into the jungle. As terrible as the night had been, the thought of what lay ahead was too horrific to contemplate. But she had to. Zack and Carlos might be fortunate enough to simply be murdered, but her fate would be much worse.
Oh, Lord, I hope that Zack and Carlos don’t see it happen!
She willed herself to stay strong, but she could not get the memory of Chombon’s face—and that look—out of her head. It made her feel as if she were covered in cockroaches.
Papa would say, “Leridas do not give up!” I must fight and not give them the power they so desire …
But what if they violate me to the point where I don’t want to go on living? Please, God, just be merciful. Let them murder me instead!
She tried not to think of what they might do. Even if Alex had survived to call for help, it might not arrive in time.
With a curt command from their leader, the group began moving again. The captives were prodded into line somewhere near the middle of the column. They walked single file, proceeding slowly as the men in front hacked a path with their machetes. The wet, rough palm fronds pressed in on both sides, scraping at them like an endless green car wash, continuing to drench them even though it was no longer raining.
Fernanda tried to pray again, but the tangled emotions inside were thicker than the unbroken wall of vegetation through which they struggled. She found it almost impossible to form coherent sentences in her head.
Zack struggled to stay on his feet, stumbling along in a barely conscious state. His side was bleeding again, and his shirt was black with the thick ooze of blood, attracting flies by the hundreds.
God, please help Zack.
She wasn’t sure how long they had been trudging along in silence. But it was much hotter now, and they had moved out of the steep triple-canopy jungle and into a grove of banana palms so thick she could not see the man in front of Zack, who was ahead of her.
She had been trying to ignore the fact that she had a full bladder, but it finally became so unbearable she had to ask for a potty break.
The man walking behind Carlos was more heavyset, which made him look a little less ruthless than some of the other men. Fernanda turned to him and politely asked if she could take a moment to relieve herself.
The man gave a raw chuckle, called to Chombon at the front of the line, and described in graphic terms why they needed to stop. Her face flushing, Fernanda stared at her feet and said nothing.
She was afraid that her request would be denied. But what if she was forced to do her business in full view of not only the thugs, but Carlos and Zack, too?
Fortunately, Chombon called back, “Roberto, take her back on our trail a little ways. But don’t go far.”
The heavyset man smiled at her and motioned behind him with his rifle. Gratefully, she slipped past him and walked to the rear of the column, enduring the lascivious ogling of each man she passed.
Ten feet beyond the last man in the column was all it took to get the privacy she needed. Unfortunately, Roberto clearly had no intention of letting her out of his sight. She stood there looking at him for a second. When he simply stared back, she sighed and held out her wrists, still bound with the plastic flex cuffs. “At least cut these off so I can go quickly.”
Roberto sneered at her. “And what will you do for me, mami?”
She blinked back tears. She had always been able to use her beauty as a tool to get what she wanted. Now it was coming back to bite her. She had never felt so humiliated.
And it will only get worse. Please, God. Help!
“¡Ándale! Hurry!” Roberto was getting impatient.
Anger rose in her. Fine. If Roberto wouldn’t cut the restraints, she’d keep them on. And if he got his thrills from watching her, she’d have to live with it. She waved a fly away from her face and ignored Roberto’s stare as much as she could.
Suddenly gunfire erupted from the front of the column, so loud that Fernanda nearly jumped. From the surprise on Roberto’s face as he whirled to the sound, he must have been startled too.
Then one of the other men shouted, “¡El hombre de Lodo!”
THE MUD MAN?
More firing sounded up ahead, and whatever “the mud man” was, the mention of it clearly scared Roberto. The rotund man jerked the weapon he carried to his shoulder, facing away from the trail. She flinched as he loosed several bursts into the surrounding foliage, firing blindly into the jungle.
Each of the criminals was firing his weapon at something. Instinctively, Fernanda dropped to a crouch. Catching a stray bullet at this point would only add injury to insult.
Behind her, she noticed a trail she hadn’t seen before. Actually, it was more like a tunnel, perhaps three feet high, possibly made by some animal through the dense thicket.
This was her only chance to survive.
She looked back at Roberto, who was still firing burst after burst into the jungle on the other side of the trail. His back was to her.
Go, girl. Do it!
With a deep breath, she plunged into the thicket headfirst.
Hot tears stinging her face, she scrambled as fast as she could crawl, ignoring the pain in her wrists from the zip ties.
Within seconds, Roberto screamed in rage. He noticed she was gone.
Fernanda tried to move even faster, without looking back, knowing she couldn’t outcrawl the bullets from Roberto’s rifle.
Please don’t let them hurt too much!
But the bullets never came. Perhaps he was more afraid of w
hat Chombon would do if he killed her. Instead, she heard Roberto cursing and thrashing through the dense tangle of banana palms and thorny vines as he gave chase.
Her arms and legs ached with exertion, and her lungs were about to burst, but Fernanda pushed herself even harder, frantic to get away. A few feet farther, she fell headfirst into a narrow creek bed that crossed the path.
She landed on her back, knocking the wind out of her. The water had cut a path into the sandy soil nearly as deep as she was tall, and the rain-swollen creek ran swiftly at the bottom, winding out of sight.
Struggling to her feet and gasping for breath, she could hear Roberto hacking through the undergrowth with his machete, screaming for help from the others. The firing had stopped, but more shouts sounded as the rest of the party realized she had escaped.
Lightheaded from lack of oxygen, she struck off blindly, splashing her way downstream. Around the second corner, she encountered a jumble of logs and debris, piled up even with the steep banks on either side. It would be nearly impossible to climb with her hands still tied. The only gap was where the stream flowed through near the far bank, but she couldn’t tell if it was large enough for her body.
There wasn’t time to think of something else. Bracing herself, she waded down into the flowing water, feeling the current pulling her downstream. The hip-deep water was cold, but she hardly noticed. She put her hands out in front of her, sank down so her chin was all that remained above the water, and let the current carry her toward the logjam.
Lifting her feet off the bottom, she let them slip through the logs beneath the surface. But her body stuck fast, and though the stream continued through a gap in the debris, it wasn’t large enough for her body. She struggled against the force of the water, to no avail. It crushed her against the logs, like a giant filter designed to strain her out of the flow of the river.
Fernanda kicked and choked on a mouthful of water as the rushing current splashed over her head. Reaching down with her still-bound hands, she felt a log at her waist, beneath which her legs were already through. Fighting panic, she took hold of the log, grabbed a lungful of air, then pulled with all her might.
Her pursuers’ shouts disappeared momentarily as the rushing water filled her ears. Her body began to slip through the hole beneath the waterline, and with another frantic heave, she shot through to the other side.
A few too many seconds later, she came to the surface, choking and gasping for air. She dragged herself miserably up onto the bank and sank to her knees, feeling like she was going to throw up.
She could hear the men’s shouts and an occasional gunshot, but they were farther away now. Still, she forced herself to her feet and stumbled down the creek bed, then noticed a place where a smaller stream trickled in from her right. She decided that up there would be less exposed than staying in the larger streambed.
Again she dropped to her knees and elbows and pushed her way up into the small tunnel in the thick foliage created by the rivulet. She flinched as some sort of large rodent crashed off through the undergrowth, disturbed by her movement. After about twenty yards, she stopped and lay panting, listening for her pursuers.
She could still hear them, shouting and cursing at one another, and though she feared the pounding of her heart would give her away, for the first time she began to believe that she might have actually escaped. Relief washed over her, and she stifled a sob.
The thought occurred to her that they might be able to follow her footprints in the soft sand of the streambed and eventually find her if she didn’t keep moving.
But which way to go? She looked around. It made sense that if she followed the creek downstream, she’d eventually reach the coast. And what then? Flag down a passing ship? Not likely. Plus, she had no gear. No, her best hope was to find her way back to their camp, where there was food and water, and hopefully, Alex. But the camp was on the other side of the tall ridgeline that they’d crossed, which meant uphill travel.
She had no machete, to say nothing of the fact that her hands were still painfully bound by the plastic restraints. She looked down at them. Her wrists were discolored and swollen where the zip ties had dug into her flesh, and blood oozed from the cuts inflicted during her getaway.
I’d better do something about that. She didn’t want to add infection to the problems she was facing. She dipped her hands in the water, washing the grime from her cuts as best she could. She had to find a way to get the flex cuffs off, that was for certain.
She tried rubbing them on several nearby rocks but was unable to find one sharp enough to cut the plastic. Upon close inspection, she realized that the ties were narrow and fairly cheap, probably not intended for use as personal restraints.
She got an idea. Picking up a stick the size of her ring finger, she slid it under the zip tie on her left wrist. Then, with much difficulty, she twisted the stick, using her chin and fingers together in an attempt to break the tie. But she couldn’t stand the pain and had to stifle a cry as she released it. The stick fell to the ground.
Her breathing was coming in ragged, painful gasps. She fought back tears. Think, Fernanda, think!
Then another idea surfaced. She picked some thick palm fronds from above her head and pushed the leaves under the flex cuffs, pulling them through with her teeth. There wasn’t much space, but after a short time she had padded one wrist with leaves all the way around. Then she picked up the stick and reinserted it.
Twisting, the ties tightened again, but with the added padding of the thick green leaves, the pain was bearable. She twisted until the plastic tie snapped.
She lay back and put her head on the ground, panting. Thank You, God.
After washing her free wrist in the stream, she repeated the process on the other arm until she was free of the other cuff.
No time to celebrate. She had to move. But now that the adrenaline was fading, an incredible thirst settled in. She looked at the trickle of water. They had been filtering and treating their water since the start of the expedition. She certainly didn’t want to catch some kind of nasty gastrointestinal parasite, but she had to have water to survive.
The risk of dehydration was worse than the risk of dysentery at this point. Besides, the water looked clear and wasn’t stagnant. Fernanda crawled to where a small pool had formed, put her lips to the water, and drank. She had never tasted anything so refreshing.
The sound of rustling through the palms made her sit up, wide eyed and frozen. They were coming her way!
As quietly as she could, she picked her way uphill, forced to remain on her hands and knees for the time being to keep from rustling the foliage overhead. Eventually, the palm thicket gave way to a forest of black palm, and she was able to walk upright again.
She tried to get her bearings. Nothing around her looked familiar, or worse, all the jungle looked the same. She’d never been very good with directions anyway. After all she’d just been through, she barely knew which way was up.
How much more can I handle?
Fernanda remembered the conversation she’d had with Zack about being outside of God’s protection. Tears stung her eyes again.
I’m sorry, God. Maybe it was wrong of us to come here. But please forgive me and help me find my way out of this. Please!
Somehow, she felt a little better. She might not know where she was, but between kidnapped and lost, she’d gladly take lost.
The endless monochromatic green of the jungle told her, however, that if she didn’t get rescued soon, she might change her mind.
Isla Coiba. 0940 hours
The man knelt next to the creek and scooped a handful of mud. He daubed it over the oozing wound on his thigh. The bullet had only grazed him. Still, he must be more careful.
The black-skinned one and those who followed him were not skillful enough with their weapons to hit a lame deer from ten paces, but they made up for it by sheer volume of wild, unaimed fire. And an unaimed bullet could kill him the same as an aimed one.
T
he one that escaped has just been here. The depressions in the mud made it clear that this place had hidden the skinny one who had run away.
He cupped his hands in the water and drank. As he did, his eyes fell on two white circles, lying next to the creek in front of him. He reached out and picked them up. They were stiff but flexible, made of a material he had seen before but that did not grow in this place. They were shaped like the bracelets worn by the women in his tribe. But these were broken.
He placed them in the canvas satchel that hung across his chest. Maybe he would find a use for them.
He picked up the machete he had taken from the outsiders. He would follow the escapee. It was always easiest to catch his victims alone.
Perhaps this one would soon join those whom he had freed from the island.
Congressional Country Club, Outside Washington DC. 1130 hours
MICHAEL LAFONTAINE QUICKLY ended his cell phone call as the limo driver opened his door for him. As he stepped into the crisp sunshine, he could hear that the event inside was already underway.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Judge Eugene Sanders, member emeritus of the West Point Society of DC, and I’d like to welcome you all to our nineteenth annual spring brunch. Please enjoy your meal.”
Polite applause rippled though the airy banquet hall. A four-man jazz ensemble began to play and white-shirted wait staff bustled about carrying trays of grilled Norwegian salmon and chicken breasts stuffed with Maryland crab.
Michael entered at the rear of the hall, giving a handshake to a senator here, a pat on the back to a general there. He made his way between the large round banquet tables and across the glossy parquet floor to the head table next to the podium. He sat next to the judge, who gave him a conspiratorial stare. “I was sort of hoping you’d show up.”
He tipped his head toward the judge, speaking through his smile. “Now, Gene. You know how much I love the spotlight.”
Sanders picked up a crystal water glass and took a sip. “Exactly.”
