The Picture Kills (The Quintana Adventures)

by Ian Bull

  “But if I don’t try, then you die. And if that happens again, I can’t live with myself. And that’s worse than dying,” he says.

  “What is it about your Miami photos that made you think I’d be killed?” I ask.

  “Caballero,” he says. “The guy with the white streak in his hair.”

  My heart rate picks up and my toes and fingers tingle just hearing his name. “Rolando. You’ve seen him before?” I ask.

  “In Colombia five years ago. Have you ever heard of FARC?”

  “It’s an acronym for something bad, is all I remember,” I answer.

  “FARC stands for Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia. They call themselves communists, but they’re terrorists who controlled a quarter of Colombia up until five years ago. They kidnapped and killed businessmen and politicians every week. Then the new Colombian president got tough. He asked for American help, so they sent Rangers to do clandestine reconnaissance, but both countries deny that. Ever hear of Ingrid Bettencourt?”

  “The name sounds familiar. She was kidnapped and then rescued?” I ask.

  “In July 2008, our four-man team scouted and secretly photographed FARC hostages, including the former presidential candidate Ingrid Bettencourt. They were all then freed by the Colombian army.”

  “Okay, so you’re not a total scumbag,” I say.

  “There was pressure to finish off all the FARC factions, so Webb and I had the idea to divide our four-man team into two-man squads so our Ranger RRD squads could cover more of the country. Webb and I got the Caribbean region.”

  He’s acting like he’s giving me an official field report, but he’s talking so fast that it sounds more like a confession he must get off his chest. He then pauses and blinks like he can’t remember something—or doesn’t want to say.

  “Is that when you went after Rolando?” I ask, trying to help.

  “Yes. He was infamous for kidnapping and torturing people. The victims he released told stories of how he enjoyed their pain and took pride in his expertise, even calling it an art form. That’s how he earned his nickname—El Sádico. The Sadist.”

  “He killed Toni, the makeup girl. He recorded it on his cell phone,” I say. I can’t help crying again. I bite my hand to keep quiet—until Sergeant Mary Poppins hands me a little towel to bite on. He touches my back and pats me like a baby, which is both awkward and soothing.

  “I saw him shoot a boy through the heart and smile. And then he tried to kill both Carl and me.”

  He’s doing that blinking thing again. He must be on the verge of tears himself, but that’s as far as he gets.

  “But you got away,” I say.

  “A boy died, and they probably torched a village because of the photos I took.”

  “But you got away,” I say again.

  “Yes, I got away,” he says.

  “So now we just have to get away again.”

  His hazel eyes are piercing. His dark brown hair is full of mud and grease, and his face is smudged with dirt that hides light acne scars on his olive skin. He’s almost handsome, but not quite, which actually makes him more attractive in a way, and his confidence makes me feel a little less scared of Rolando.

  “What’s next?” I ask.

  “Take off the T-shirt and shoes. I’ll put them in the pack so they won’t get sopping wet again and you can swim out of here easier.”

  I pull off his T-shirt and hand it to him followed by my damp men’s deck shoes, then slip out of his camouflage bag so that he can roll it up. All I have on is my $500 Prada black bikini, and as my butt sinks into the bird poop, I feel it go up the crack of my ass. So much for high-end beach fashion.

  “What if they’re out there?” I ask.

  “One is dead and two are injured. Three are left, plus Caballero, and they’ve stopped looking. They have Trishelle and they’re waiting for us to come to them now.”

  “Now I’m scared,” I say.

  “Scared is good. It keeps you alive. Just keep your antennae up and head down.”

  “Where’d you get that line?” I ask.

  “Carl says it to me when I lose focus. If I’d remembered it back in Los Angeles, we wouldn’t even be here.”

  I can’t help smiling.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks.

  “Mine is ‘keep your mouth shut.’ If I’d remembered that earlier, we wouldn’t be here either.”

  “I like you,” Steven offers. “You’re tougher than I thought.”

  “I like you too,” I say.

  “You ready?” he asks, snapping his backpack into place.

  “I am,” I answer and we both slip down off the ledge and into the cool water.

  “If you have to pee, now’s the time to do it,” he says, and his head disappears under the ledge.

  Chapter 41

  Steven Day 11: Sunday

  We ease out from under the rock ledge and swim. Ten yards away, the body of the Thin Poker floats face down and the ripples from our swimming rock him gently like a bobbing cork. None of his colleagues cared enough to fish him out, poor guy. Julia stares at him with sad scared eyes.

  “Eternal rest grant him, O Lord, and let your perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in peace,” I whisper to myself again.

  We reach the rock wall and climb it like it’s a ladder. Our wet bodies drip water back into the round hole. The drops echo, making too much noise. We pause at the top and peek over. No one is there. I signal that it’s okay and we both dart over and dash into the trees. My heart is pounding.

  I motion for Julia to wait, sneak back over to the hole, and reach down against the rock and grab something that Julia climbed right past, but didn’t see: a foot-long land crab nestled into the rocks so flush that he looks like he’s part of the wall. I grab him by a back leg so he can’t reach me with either of his claws, and dart back into the trees.

  “Did I crawl over that?” she whispers and I nod and signal for her to be quiet.

  When I pick up a rock to smash him, Julia grabs my arm to stop me. I can tell by her eyes that she is on the edge. You never know what the last straw will be for someone, and killing this crustacean might be it for her. I let it go. It turns and raises its claws at me and Julia waves her hand at it. “I know how you feel. Now shoo. Go away. Live,” she says. The crab crawls sideways back into the sun and over the edge of the hole and back down against the rock.

  I lead us deeper into the trees and find a hidden spot where our voices won’t travel.

  “Why are we stopping?” she asks. “We need to get to Carl.”

  “He’s waited five hours. He can wait another five minutes. We need to talk first, because once we get to Carl it’s all work and no more talking.”

  “So talk,” she says.

  “We have one Zodiac raft hidden on the next cay north. It can’t hold four people. It can hold three, maybe. But it can easily hold two. That means you and Carl, right now.”

  “I can’t leave Trishelle behind,” she insists, shaking her head.

  “Yes, you can. Get away with Carl and then send help back,” I explain. “I’ll go and get Trishelle, just like I got you.”

  “If they know I’m gone, they’ll kill her. And that death will be your fault too.”

  “You’ll be no help to me. You have to get in the raft,” I say.

  “I won’t go. I’ve fought you before, and I’ll do it again. We need to get Trishelle.”

  She sets her jaw and shoots me the same bitchy look I’ve snapped in a dozen photos. I now know Julia Travers well enough to know that she will fight me.

  “I can shoot a gun. I did it for two different movies. You’re willing to do what’s necessary? Well, so am I.”

  “Four people won’t fit on the raft, get it?” I ask.

  “You already said that,” she argues back.

  “That means that no matter what, I stay here.”

  “So for Trishelle to live, you have to stay and die?”

  “No. I can survive
on this cay with an army looking for me. But can you and Trishelle survive without me on an overloaded Zodiac in the middle of the Bahama Bank and keep Carl alive at the same time?”

  “I don’t know,” she answers honestly.

  “Then listen to me very carefully and remember everything I say.”

  “I’m listening,” she answers.

  “At some point you and I will separate and you have to find that raft and get on it without me, maybe with Trishelle, maybe not. Maybe with Carl, maybe not. But when it’s time to run, you must run. Without me, and without hesitation. Understand?”

  I stare at her again, and again she nods…but now she’s scared. I unzip my pack and hand her my T-shirt and shorts, her damp boat shoes and a pair of dry socks. “Get dressed,” I say.

  She pulls the clothes on over her damp bikini, and then tugs on the socks and shoes while I open the pack and lay out the contents. I point to every item—ammunition, tool kit, knife, rations, waterproof matches, water pack—and explain how each item works.

  “You’ll take both my pack and Carl’s on the raft. I’ll keep some rations and a canteen. My water is almost out. We’re going to have to refill my entire water pack and the safest water is at that blue hole.”

  “But it’s dirty. The guy you shot—”

  “If you make it off this island you’ll be happy with whatever fresh water you have. Carl’s backpack is full and that water is clean. When you have to drink from mine, remember to drink it through this,” I say. I hold up a thick round white piece of plastic with a nipple on the end that looks like half of a bicycle pump—the BCB water purifying straw. “This is a safe drinking straw. The filters suck out any toxins and microbes. Understand?”

  She nods.

  “There’s only food in the packs for two days, so we’ll gather coconuts. There is some fishing line and lures on the raft, but there’s no bait. That’s why I want to look in the rocks for a land crab, just like the one we let go. You have to crack him with a rock because you can eat his meat or use the flesh for bait to catch bigger fish,” I explain.

  She nods again.

  “We’ll get as much ready as we can now, so when you come back all you need to do is get the raft. It’s on the north side of the next cay, hidden in the grass above the beach. It has a small 20-horsepower outboard motor,” I say.

  “I can work an outboard,” she quickly says and I believe her.

  “Drive it back across the channel and beach it due west of here. Then you have to get Carl and Trishelle and your supplies into that raft. Then you motor west until you run out of gas. Hopefully you’ll reach the north-flowing current,” I explain.

  “And then what?” she asks. “We just pray someone finds us?”

  “Pray if you want, but always do something to survive. Conserve water and energy during the day. Get under a tarp. Rearrange your supplies. At night, row and fish.”

  “How long will we be out there?”

  “I don’t know, at least a day, maybe more. But people escaping Cuba do it all the time. There’s also a rescue beacon on the raft you can set off, but only when you’re far enough away, otherwise Constantinou will pick it up and get to you first. The chief constable from Long Island said he would come looking for Carl if he didn’t come back in two days. He’ll be looking for you and listening for that beacon.”

  Next I roll out the first aid kit. She kneels down next to me.

  “We left Carl five hours ago. I don’t want to give him more morphine unless he’s begging for it. I want him to drink a little water, but not much. We won’t change his bandages, but if they get waterlogged on the raft you may need to. If the bandages stick to his wound, that’s good, don’t pull them off. Just let it dry in the sun, and then add more bandages and tape him up again. Keep the bloody bandages on the raft, because the blood will attract sharks. Got it?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she answers.

  “When we find him today he’s going to be dehydrated and no amount of water can fix it because he’s lost blood. That means I am going to run an IV into his arm. We need him to be responsive so he can hobble to that raft himself. Watch me carefully so you can do it later without me.”

  “What if he dies?” she asks.

  “A soldier who’s been shot can live for weeks with his injuries as long as he has decent first aid. He’s going to be weak and scared, but we have to stay calm and give him confidence. If he sees any fear in our eyes, it will make it worse for him,” I say.

  “Why did he come?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You took the photos of me, not him. Why did he risk his life for me?” she asks.

  “That night in Colombia, Caballero saw Carl’s face and remembered him. He knew it was us, and last week he sent men to kill Carl and me. That’s like poking a sleeping lion.”

  “So he wants revenge?”

  “More like unfinished business. We both need to set things right, from that night and other nights.”

  Julia nods, as if she somehow knows some deep, important secret about me. “Does he have nightmares like you?” she asks.

  The question pisses me off. How does this girl know about my nightmares? Then I remember, we were entwined in a survival bag less than an hour ago. She stares at me, completely unembarrassed by the question. I get it; she thinks she knows me now. She makes a lot of assumptions, this actress. This isn’t one of her Hollywood acting classes where we all discuss our motivation. I suddenly wish I hadn’t told her I liked her. Then I remember she has trouble keeping her mouth shut. That’s just her.

  “Maybe. We all have regrets,” I finally offer. “Even you.” Now it’s my turn to stare at her, as if I know her deepest secrets. She blinks and nods. Message received. Hell, maybe she needs to know our baggage. If our backstory gives her more reason to help Carl, so be it.

  “There’s a nursery rhyme—‘Run, run, run away, live to fight another day’?” I ask.

  “I remember it,” she says.

  “That’s what you should know about me,” I say. “If we get separated, or if I get shot, or they grab you, you must stay strong because I will stay alive and I’ll come back. And when I show up, you and Trishelle must get away and do everything I’ve told you without thinking about me, because I am going to be fine. Okay?”

  She seems to shrink inside my clothes.

  I roll up the first aid kit, put the pack back together and slip it on.

  “Think you can remember all that?” I ask.

  Julia has her game face on again.

  “I can memorize thirty pages of dialogue a night. I’ll remember,” she says.

  We head off into the trees toward Carl.

  Chapter 42

  Julia Day 11: Sunday

  We find our way back to Carl and when we pull aside the palm fronds, he looks so grey that I think he’s dead. Steven and I get down on our knees and lean close. His eyes are closed and he’s breathing very fast and very softly.

  Steven pulls out Carl’s plastic water pack from inside his backpack. It’s three-quarters full. “He drank some,” Steven whispers. He paws at the ground and finds another empty goop packet. “And he ate a little. See, the boy is concentrating. He’s working on staying alive.”

  Steven opens his own backpack and unfurls his medical roll. From the last mesh pouch he pulls out a plastic coil with valves on each end, a packet with a small needle that I know is the catheter, and a plastic bag filled with fluid.

  “Is that saline?” I ask.

  “Hextend. It’s a hetastarch. It’s miracle juice. It’s not plasma, but it’s like plasma. Hold it over him right there,” he says and hands it to me.

  I try not to look at Carl. He’s the color of cement and the only thing that tells me he’s alive is a slight movement in his nostrils that shows he’s breathing. I concentrate on Steven instead.

  Steven assembles the coil, attaches it to the bottom of the bag that I’m holding in midair, and then turns a little valve doohickey. He p
uts on another pair of sterile gloves, wipes alcohol on Carl’s arm, then opens the package with the catheter and guides the needle into the vein in Carl’s right arm. He then rips off a piece of duct tape and plasters the needle down.

  “This stays in his arm until we get rescued,” he says. He then attaches the coil to the catheter, turns the valve and removes the plastic brake, and the yellow white fluid flows into Carl’s vein.

  Steven stands up next to me and pats my back to let me know I’m doing a good job, then looks around. The only noise is from the wind, so he looks back at Carl. We both stare at him for a good five minutes and slowly we watch his face turn from cement to the color of flesh again. He suddenly breathes deep, like he’s sighing in his sleep, and then his eyes flutter.

  But his eyes don’t open.

  Steven pulls out another IV bag from the medical roll—and it’s empty and wet.

  “Shit,” he says. “The saline bag got hit somehow. The Hextend is all we have.”

  Steven looks worried. He paws through the medical roll and finds the small bullet hole that tore clean through the saline bag.

  More minutes pass and Steven looks at his watch. The bag is almost empty.

  “This boy needs to wake up, or we’re not going anywhere,” he says.

  “So what do we do?” I ask.

  Chapter 43

  Steven Day 11: Sunday

  I should have started this IV earlier. I wish I had brushed up on my battle trauma protocol along with the books on the flora and fauna of the Bahamas.

  My knees start to shake so bad I have to bend over and grab them. I have to think, I can’t freak out. Another bad choice could start a very negative cascade effect if I’m not careful.

  I flash back to my training—Fluid Resuscitation in Modern Combat Casualty Care. Battlefield knowledge from the 90s that we learned firsthand in Mogadishu, Somalia.

  Clean the wound. Done.

  Stop the bleeding. Use dry fibrin sealant dressing and bandage. Done.

  Start an IV with one 500-ml bag of Hextend/Hetastarch. Done.

  Once responsive, this plasma extender should increase blood volume enough to last for eight hours, as long as bleeding has stopped. If it doesn’t work, use a second bag of Hextend until the wounded is responsive.