She took the DVD and then kissed Conn on the cheek. “This, added to what I’ll get from Marv’s financials and the designer’s dealings with Cruz, gives me a great place to start.”
Muttering threats at his friend as Berto chuckled, Risto pulled her into his arms. “Behave, Marine.” She patted Risto on the chest. She scrunched her nose and looked at Risto. “Does Paco know we have this?”
“No, and that’s why we need to get you and it out of the country. If Cruz tells Paco the DVD is missing, we’ll have both of their troops after us.”
“Well, hell, we’d better get going then.” She walked out of the kitchen, the three men behind her. As she passed by the room where she’d shot the intruders, she stumbled. Images of the previous evening played across her vision. Blood. Bodies. She shook her head, her hand reaching for something. For someone.
Risto caught hold of her hand and turned her to face him. “Callie?” She couldn’t answer, could only see the room, now mercifully free of bodies and blood. Berto and Conn must have deep-cleaned all night. She swayed.
“Fuck, Callie. You’re white as a ghost.” He swept her into his arms and continued walking down the hallway into the foyer and then outside into the gray, rainy morning.
Vaguely, she was aware of Conn running ahead and opening the passenger side door. Risto placed her on the seat then carefully swung her legs inside and buckled her seat belt for her. She hated being such a wuss, but lack of sleep and the emotional stress had ganged up on her. She just needed some rest, then she’d be back to her normal strong, can-deal-with-anything self.
Risto’s hand caressed the side of her chilled face. “Just lay back, rest.” He reclined the seat.
She attempted a smile and raised a limp hand, wanting to touch him, reassure him she’d be okay. He captured her hand before she had it halfway to his face, placing a kiss on the palm before laying it on her lap. “Rest, little soldier, that’s an order.” He shut the door.
Closing her eyes, she rested her head against the seat. She was barely aware of Risto entering the car and the men’s voices. Her mind had decided to shut down. No matter how much she wanted to thank Conn and Berto for their assistance, she couldn’t. Her body had run on fumes for days and, now, had finally given up the ghost. She exhaled softly and drifted into sleep.
* * * *
Risto checked Callie’s condition once more, as he had many times since they’d left Conn’s. She was breathing easily and looked to be in a deep sleep. Her satiny skin was pale, cool and dry, not clammy as it had been earlier. There were no signs of shock or nightmares, but he would stay alert to the slightest change in her condition. His little soldier was damn resilient, but even the hardiest soldier succumbed to the horrors of battle now and again. And what she’d survived the previous evening had been a battle. The sexual release he’d given her had allowed her—and him—to rest for what had been left of the night. Although he could kick himself for waking her so early for the morning shower sex; she’d needed the rest more. The only thing he didn’t regret was the gorgeous smile she’d given him afterwards.
He shot her another glance. He couldn’t help himself. She looked so beautiful and at peace. So far, she’d had no more nightmares, made no noises, but for an occasional cute little snore. He grinned and smoothed a hand over her thigh. Once Callie went to sleep, she did it big time. She hadn’t even roused when he’d pulled over several times due to heavy downpours and once because of foot-deep water crossing Route 25.
His eyes turned back to the road ahead. The highway might be the main road between Cartagena and Medellín, but it wasn’t engineered to drain well, unlike the Federal interstate system in the US. At one point, he and the other vehicles on the road were detoured off then back on. That had been a tense moment. Often terrorists would use such a tactic to rob and cherry pick kidnapping victims. In this case, the Colombian army had enforced the detour and been present along the detour route.
He checked the portable GPS plugged into a cradle on the dash and realized they were maybe twenty-five miles away from the finca. He was hungry and bet Callie would be also once she awakened. He’d let her rest until they reached the ranch; they’d eat there.
His sat phone rang. The noise caused Callie to move and murmur something unintelligible, but she remained asleep. He pulled over to the side of the road and answered the call.
“Smith.”
“Risto? It’s Trey. We’ve got a problem, buddy.”
He stiffened. “What?”
“The ranch was attacked by FARC guerillas. It isn’t safe to take Callie there.” Trey spoke to someone in the background. “We got the call and then diverted to Turbo and traded out the plane for an assault helicopter so we could provide air support to our guys and the Colombian army on the ground. The area won’t be safe for a while.” It was business as usual in Colombia.
“Fuck.” He leaned back in his seat and shot a glance at Callie. Her gray eyes were on him. Worry creased her brow. He traced a finger over the line in her forehead, smoothing it away. “Can we count on Plan B? Or, should we go straight to Plan C?”
Plan B was a boat out of Turbo to a safe house in Puerto Obaldo on the coast of Panama where Tweeter Walsh was with the SSI jet. Plan C was a twisted and far more dangerous route. It involved following the Río Atrato through the Darien region of Colombia and ending at the Atrato river delta on the rugged Colombian coast near the border with Panama. Once there, Tweeter would pick them up by helicopter. The latter route would mean travelling by dugouts and possibly by foot through some of the most uninhabitable territory in the world. The benefit of Plan C was Cruz would never anticipate him taking Callie out that way. He hadn’t been sold on the idea, but Keely and Tweeter had insisted the girl they grew up alongside of could do it. So far, she hadn’t proven them wrong.
“Trey? What Plan am I using, man?”
“Go to B for now. You might have a narrow window. Conn just called and told us Paco is now after you. Guess Cruz fessed up about the DVD you appropriated.”
Risto had brought the back-up team up to speed last evening after Callie had fallen asleep and before he’d made love to her. He yawned, tired all of a sudden. God, he should’ve left her alone this morning in the shower and caught the extra sleep. But if he had it all to do over again, he’d do it the same way. He might never get a chance to make love to her again—and he’d wanted to absorb as many memories as possible for later, after he left her in Chicago.
“Plan B it is. Tell Tweeter I’ll let him know what’s going on when we get to Turbo and assess the situation.”
“Got it. Luck to you, buddy. Use Corona’s on the Turbo waterfront. The owner has been informed you need his safe room until dark when your boat will be available.”
“Corona’s, got it. Out.”
“Out.”
Risto punched off the phone and set it back in its charger.
“What’s wrong?” Callie touched his thigh, massaging it. And his damn cock got hard. Well, he should be used to his reaction to her by now.
“Some FARC terrorists attacked the ranch. Our ride is providing them air support so the situation is fluid and dangerous right now.”
“So, what’s Plan B again?”
He looked at her face. She had some color in her cheeks. Her eyes were alert, calm, and he could almost see the wheels in her head processing and reassessing the situation. Damn, she was wonderful. “To Turbo then out by boat under the cover of darkness, then up the coast to Puerto Obaldo where Tweeter is waiting with the SSI jet.”
“Sounds good.” She looked in the back seat. “We have any food?”
“No, I’d planned to eat at the ranch. I passed a small town about fifteen minutes ago. It had a place to eat. Since we need to backtrack to catch the road to Turbo, we’ll grab something there.”
“Okay. How long to Turbo?”
“Depends on the rain. While you slept I had to pull over a couple of times and take one detour around the water. The elevation isn�
�t much higher going to Turbo.” He looked at his GPS and plotted the trip. “Maybe ninety miles and potentially two to three hours.”
“Okay. What do we do when we get there? Play tourist?”
“No. Paco is on our tails now.” She grimaced but remained silent. “We’ll go to ground at a place called Corona’s until it gets dark, then we can meet our boat. Trey has already given the bar owner and our ride a head’s up.”
She wrinkled her nose. He couldn’t help it. He swept a finger down the length to the tip then traced a path over her lips. She kissed the tip of his finger and he swore he felt the sensation on the tip of his cock. “Won’t that be dangerous?” she asked.
“How so?”
“Either of these men could decide to sell us out.”
“SSI has used them in the past or they wouldn’t be using them now. Plus, if they attempt to screw us over, I’ll handle it.” It wouldn’t be the first time he had to get himself and those under his protection out of a goat roping.
“That’s good to know.” Her gaze travelled over his face. “You look beat. Want me to drive? I can drive a stick and follow the route you’ve plotted.” She tapped the GPS on the dash.
“Let’s talk about it once we’ve eaten.” He cupped her face and his thumb smoothed over her chin. “You look more rested but still too pale.”
She covered his hand with hers. “I’m fine. I just had a four-hour nap which puts me ahead of you in the sleep column. But we can always talk.”
He read between the lines and heard “but I will be driving to Turbo.” He shook his head. She hadn’t figured him out yet. She’d learn. He had to be in control.
Chapter Ten
Rescue Day Two, on the road between Montería and Turbo.
Callie chanced a glance at Risto. He slept like the dead in the passenger seat. They’d eaten in a tiny village boasting a decrepit, one-pump gas station, a bus stop consisting of a covered bench, and a tiny café. The local eatery had a basic Colombian menu, and the special of the day had been a corn-meal pasty of spiced beef, cattle being the main product of the area, with a local cheese and some grilled vegetables washed down with a local wine. She’d had two of the filling pasties and Risto, four. The meal was delicious and provided the boost of energy she needed.
As they’d dined, she’d demonstrated her ability to use the GPS and read the maps. She also argued he needed the sleep in order to be on top of his game in case of trouble in Turbo, a rough coastal town and one of the main ports of Colombia at the base of the Gulf of Urabá. Finally, he agreed to let her drive as long as she promised to wake him at the first sign of trouble or when they reached the outskirts of Turbo, whichever occurred first.
So far, the drive had been boring. She was used to the cut-throat and high-speed driving in and around Chicago. The Colombian highway had very little traffic and what there was, was mostly the busses that traveled the major roads connecting the larger cities. The sun remained behind the clouds, and a light but constant rain fell, adding to the already over-inundated drainage ditches along the road bed. She’d had to go off-road twice to avoid deeper water where the road dipped and once to avoid cattle taking a siesta in the middle of the road. Risto had slept through it all.
What in the world was that? Was that a roadblock ahead? She blinked dry eyes and squinted against the glare filtering through the clouds.
It was a road block; that couldn’t be good at all.
“Shit, shit, shit.” She checked behind her and saw no one coming. She braked to a stop, made a U-turn and headed back the way they’d just come. “Risto. Wake up. Trouble.”
His eyes opened instantly and he glanced around, then at her. “What’s wrong?”
She noticed his Glock was in his hand as if he expected to shoot someone. He might just get his wish. “Roadblock on the road, just outside of Turbo. I made a command decision and turned around.”
Risto twisted in his seat and looked behind them. “Did they see us?”
“Don’t think so. And there wasn’t anyone behind us to tell whoever they are about the U-turn.” She tapped the GPS. “You want to get out the maps Conn gave us and check them against the GPS? I saw a couple of small local roads back this way. Maybe we can go cross-country and come into Turbo by a back road.”
“Maybe.” He stroked her arm. “Quick thinking.”
“Thanks.” She shot him a worried glance. “I hope I didn’t overreact. They could’ve been police or Colombian army looking for drugs or terrorists, but my gut said no. I think they were looking for us. But how could they have known we’d be coming from Montería?”
Risto had his nose in the map. “They couldn’t. This is the main road to Medellín and Cali, both of which have major airports. A branch of the highway also goes to Bogotá. Cruz, and Paco, too, would guess we’re heading for a major transportation hub. Trey and I figured we had a narrow window to avoid just such a situation. Guess it was narrower than we thought.”
“Okay, but won’t they cover the major ports, also?” Turbo was as major as you could get in Colombia.
He looked up, his face grim. “Yeah. We’re ditching Plan B and going to C.” He didn’t sound thrilled. “I’ve found a road which will take us close to Puerto Cava, the small village on the Atrato River where we’ll pick up a piragua from one of our local contacts for the next leg of our trip.” He keyed something into the GPS and hit the plotter button.
“A piragua? That’s like a dugout canoe.” They’d be on a river. Mosquitoes. Alligators. Piranha. No wonder he was worried. He probably thought she’d freak. Well, she’d prove him wrong.
“Yes.” He massaged the back of her neck where she hadn’t realized every muscle had tensed. “Callie, it’ll be dangerous. Hell, taking this back road will detour us completely south and west around Turbo and then due west to the base of the Gulf of Urabá—smack dab in the middle of FARC and ELN disputed territory. Then we’ll be travelling north by river through the Darien, an area which always lands in the top ten most dangerous areas in the world.”
She nodded. “I know. But you’ve been through here before or we wouldn’t be going this way. I trust you—and I’ll do what I can to hold my end up.”
“God, sweetheart, this won’t be anything similar to a field trip at Camp Lejeune. People go into the Darien and some never come out.” When she just shrugged, he heaved a disgusted breath and rubbed a hand over his face. “With luck, we won’t have to get off the river and we’ll take it all the way to its delta at the north end of the Gulf. At that point, we’ll be close to the Panamanian border. Once we get to the coast, Tweeter will fly a helicopter out of a stronghold we have near Puerto Obaldo, Panama, and pick us up.”
“Sounds straightforward. I can paddle.”
“If it were just paddling a small boat, I wouldn’t be so concerned.” He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. Hair she now knew felt like raw silk against her skin. “The Río Atrato runs through dense rain forests and ends in a swampy river delta. Worse than the hostile environment, the route takes us through the middle of drug-smuggling central in Colombia, not to mention all the local guerillas fighting one another and the Colombian army. We’ll have to travel fast and be ready to take cover and avoid hostiles. This could add days to the trip and mean we’ll be camping in less than agreeable conditions.”
She’d been correct: he worried about how she’d handle it. Truth be told, she wasn’t thrilled, but she’d deal. Now to put things in perspective for him, she asked, “What are the other choices?”
He opened his mouth. She held up a hand and cut him off. “The way I see it, there aren’t any. Cruz, and now Paco, will have the main roads covered to the larger Colombian cities. Any secondary road into a bigger city puts us in danger of meeting up with any of a number of armed locals who would kidnap us and sell us to Cruz for shits and giggles. The sooner we get out of what stands for civilization in Colombia, the better.” He winced at her words but nodded his agreement.
She continued, “Y
ou didn’t take us toward Venezuela, the closest border with Colombia, because Chavez is hostile to the US. Brazil is out because it’s too far away and the terrain between here and there involves the Andes, deserts and rain forest with hostile, dart-shooting natives. Running to Ecuador is also too far and wrought with danger of being trapped by Cruz or any number of other paramilitary groups. So, there were no alternatives but escaping into Panama after Plan A tanked—and the safest route by boat is now out, correct?”
“Yes.” The worry in his eyes, while not gone, was now overshadowed by respect.
“The route you’ve plotted will get us to the closest friendly border,” she said. “I understand the journey will be extremely hostile, but Cruz and his ilk will also have to deal with the same dangers. We have the advantage of knowing where we’re going and he doesn’t. That about it?”
“Yeah, pretty much. I can see why Keely said you were a natural analyst.” He closed his eyes and let out a rough breath. “I’ve used this egress twice since starting to work for SSI. It took four to five days including time out to remain below the radar in order to avoid active guerilla patrols. There’s a possibility about midway, at Ungaía, to pick up an outboard motor for the dugout to speed up the trip. That stop would depend on how quiet the local guerillas are. Bottom line, the whole area is just plain dangerous.”
Callie took his last statement as meaning “dangerous for her.” If alone or partnered with another SSI operative, he wouldn’t think twice about taking the route. She promised herself not to make him regret having to use this alternative. She shot him a grim smile. “It’s a good plan, stronger for the fact that Cruz and Paco are chauvinists and it would never cross their minds you’d take me this way.”
He emitted a choked laugh. “Yeah, that was the other reason we included Plan C. Keely said men think with their little brains all the time and don’t give women credit for being adaptable.”
Cold Day In Hell Page 14
