Show No Fear

by Marliss Melton

  “You sound pretty sure of that,” said Gus, his gaze dubious.

  She wasn’t, but she wasn’t about to give him any excuse to get rid of her. “I’m positive,” she lied, giving him a playful shove. “The rebels want us gone before we run into any Venezuelans and guess their little secret.”

  Ten rebels burst into the bungalow at midnight with their AK-47s locked and loaded.

  Lurching from a deep sleep, Gus reached for Lucy, drawing her closer, his heart hammering.

  “Find the bitch who took the map.” Buitre’s voice swam out of the darkness.

  Footsteps sounded on the rough-cut planks. Cubby by cubby, the rebels searched the bungalow, startling the other team members.

  Beside him, Lucy lurched awake. He covered her mouth to stifle her voice. They couldn’t stay here. They needed to flee. “Let’s go!” he rasped. Using Buitre’s knife, the one he kept hidden between the floor and the leafy wall, he slashed a hole for them to escape through unseen. “Go!” he urged, pushing her through it.

  With his every sense cranked to high, he intuited his mistake before he saw it with his own eyes.

  Slipping through the ragged edges of the sliced wall, he found Lucy struggling in Buitre’s embrace, her eyes wide with terror above the hand that covered her mouth.

  “Do you take me for a fool,norteamericano?”

  “Let her go,” Gus pleaded, taking a step closer. He froze as Buitre raised his pistol to Lucy’s head, flicking off the safety. “I told her to take the map,” Gus insisted. “I am the spy. She is innocent!”

  “Out here, no one is innocent,” Buitre contradicted him, causing goose bumps to spike on Gus’s forearms. “That’s why both of you must die. But you first.”

  Without warning, he swung the pistol at Gus and fired.

  Bam! The explosive impact rocketed Gus to an upright position. He was relieved to feel his heart galloping in his chest.

  Next to him, Lucy placed a steadying hand on his back. “Hey.”

  He swallowed against a parched mouth, blinking rapidly to clear his head. Was he okay? He felt like he’d taken a bullet to the chest. It was just a dream, but…What if it was a warning to grab Lucy and flee into the jungle with her?

  He lay back down, stiff with lingering horror and uncertainty.

  “Bad dream?” she asked him, stroking a comforting hand along his beard-roughened cheek.

  He grunted his acknowledgment, but his uneasiness remained. Last night he’d promised Lucy he’d protect her with his life. What if Buitre killed him first?

  He couldn’t save her if he was dead.

  He wished he hadn’t told Lucy she could stick around. He’d rather err on the side of caution than watch his premonitions become manifest.

  Ultimately, the decision would be Whiteside’s. Lucy couldn’t blame him if the station chief made the call to pull her out. Of course, this late in the game, pulling her out could disrupt the negotiation progress. Damn, but the situation was getting sticky, and Gus had a sinking feeling it was about to get even stickier.

  CHAPTER 12

  Fournier leaned into Gus and Lucy’s cubby the following morning, startling them. “Wake up, sleepyheads. We’re leaving camp in twenty minutes!”

  Jarred from a deep sleep, Lucy raised her head to blink at him in confusion.

  “Heading where?” Gus rasped, the first to recover.

  “Down the mountain,” Fournier called back cheerfully. They listened to him push through the rear flap, stepping out into rain that fell in such a steady downpour it was a marvel their leafy roof didn’t leak.

  With a moan of reluctance, Lucy snuggled more deeply in the cocoon of Gus’s arms. It felt too dry and warm under the blankets for her to want to dress in damp clothing and hike down the mountain in the pouring rain. Her aching hip didn’t look forward to the trek, either. She’d rather just stay in bed, in Gus’s embrace, and never leave.

  The feel of his hand sliding between her breasts roused her several degrees. At the same time, he pressed his hips to the curve of her bottom, introducing her to his predicament, the result of sleeping naked. Better yet, she’d rather stay in bed and have sex than venture out into a wet monsoon.

  Turning her head to glance invitingly back at him, she found his gaze both turbulent and intense. Anxiety bloomed immediately within her.

  “Did you sleep okay?” she asked, remembering how he’d lurched from his sleep around midnight.

  “Not really,” he admitted. “You?”

  “I was until Fournier woke us up.”

  The stiff column against her backside couldn’t be ignored. The desire to join with him one more time had Lucy reaching back, stroking his velvet turgidity, then guiding him to her warmth. He entered her with the same serious intensity that was in his eyes. Together they writhed and rocked, milking deep, honest pleasure from their intimacy.

  It might be the last time.

  The realization pressured Lucy’s chest as she melted around him, savoring each deep thrust until he echoed her bliss, gripping her fiercely to him.

  As their breathing slowed and their hearts beat more regularly, he held her tightly in his arms, gazing thoughtfully down at her, his gaze still troubled.

  This was the most vulnerable she had ever seen him. His worry was so palpable, she could feel it affecting her own thoughts. “It was just a dream,” she reassured him. “We’re almost done here. Nothing’s going to happen to us.”

  “Just stick close to me these last few days,” he countered.

  Nothing would please her more, a circumstance that worried her greatly. The time was fast approaching when she’d have to be self-reliant again.

  “And if anything happens to me, just get the hell off the mountain. Find water and follow it downstream. The guys at the JIC will eventually find you.”

  “Stop,” she ordered, shaking off the talons of fear that sank into her neck. “You’re worrying for nothing,” she reassured him. “Watch, we’ll fly out of here together having accomplished everything we set out to do.” That was what had to happen. Anything less would suspend her healing, leaving her permanently debilitated.

  “Right,” he agreed, reaching for the knife he kept hidden by their mat. Seeing it curled into the palm of his hand sent a ripple of premonition through her. “Let’s go,” he said.

  She missed him the moment he tossed off their blanket. Even as they rushed to get dressed, she wondered if he felt it, too—regret that they were leaving the nest where they’d rediscovered each other.

  She tried to shake it off. Their so-called intimacy had been an act in the first place, a temporary arrangement meant to fool the enemy, not herself. Still, as he made to move past her, she found herself reaching for him. Standing on tiptoe, she pressed a fervent kiss to his lips. “Be careful,” she whispered, feeling suddenly anxious, suddenly vulnerable.

  “I’ll be right behind you,” he promised, banding his powerful arms around her in a swift, fierce hug.

  “Teamwork,” she added, dredging up a smile.

  He seemed about to comment on the word, then changed his mind. “That’s right,” he replied with a forced smile.

  “SIR? THEY’RE MOVING.”

  Chief Harlan’s warning tore Lieutenant Lindstrom from the program he was executing. He shot from his seat to study the topographical map over Harley’s shoulders. Sure enough, the two colored dots, red for Gus, blue for Lucy, were creeping down the mountain, making slow but steady progress.

  “Track their movements. Let me know when they stop,” Luther said, watching a moment longer.

  In the past two days, he had run the names of the camps through his encryption program, eliminating all but two sets of data. If Gus and Lucy stopped at coordinates matching any of Luther’s results, he’d know which data set was accurate. Then the SEALs would have the exact coordinates of four FARC camps, all but the one unnamed at the top of the mountain.

  Added to the shortwave communications and thermal images uploaded to satellite
by Predator, their intel on the rebels was growing by the hour, corroborating Gus’s latest news that the Venezuelans had allied themselves with the FARC. Pictures of cargo trucks creeping up the side of La Montaña and snatches of conversation involving drugs and weapons shipments all confirmed their insiders’ report.

  Vinny, loaded down with coffee and donuts from the cafeteria, crossed from the door to Luther’s elbow. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked.

  “They’re moving,” Harley relayed.

  “Should we be worried, sir?” Vinny asked, slanting him a look.

  The aroma of fresh coffee wrested Luther’s attention from the screen. “Not yet,” he said, plucking a paper cup off the cardboard tray. “The FARC are famous for relocating.”

  He carried it back to his desk and sat down, keeping his concerns to himself.

  He’d neglected to relay Gus’s concern to the station chief. Whiteside was tightly strung as it was. He didn’t want to raise the man’s blood pressure by suggesting that the Venezuelans might recognize Lucy, should they run into her. In an area the size of La Montaña, the odds of the UN team and the Elite Guard crossing paths were slim to none in the first place.

  Luther had faith in statistics. As the ops officer for Team Twelve, he’d made plenty of decisions based entirely on stats, and the odds hadn’t beaten him yet. Besides, how could they wrest Lucy off the mountain and not take Gus, also? Whiteside would want them to see the exchange carried through.

  So they both stayed. Hopefully this little jaunt down the mountain, which, incidentally, was taking them straight toward the frenzy of activity on the southeast side, would not result in an unwanted encounter.

  RAIN GUSHED THROUGH THE JUNGLE CANOPY, turning the path under the boots of the UN team members into a gulley.

  Buitre set a grueling pace, threatening to leave behind those who couldn’t keep up. As with their earlier trek into the jungle, Bellini, Fournier, and S¸ukruye floundered. It was up to Gus, Carlos, and Lucy to keep them on their feet as they slipped and slid down the tortuous, often near-vertical path. Distracted by Bellini’s clumsiness, Gus fought to keep his eyes on Lucy, his instinct for danger twitching.

  This was the path he’d stumbled along the other night. It led straight to the camp of the Elite Guard. Surely Buitre wouldn’t flaunt the FARC’s secret weapon in front of the UN team members. Surely the Elite Guard had packed up and moved on, and the team wouldn’t just walk up on them.

  If they hadn’t, and one of them recognized Lucy, the shit was going to hit the fan.

  “Luna!” He wanted to warn her that they were getting close, only she was several yards ahead of him, fighting to keep S¸ukruye upright. Rain drowned out the sound of his voice. In the next instant, he spotted the camp, a little ways off the path, half-concealed by the vegetation. To his dismay, several soldiers were visible, hunkered under tarps strung between the trees.

  Keep your head down, he willed Lucy.

  Maybe they’d just march right past and his concern would be unwarranted.

  “Chamo!” called a voice from higher ground.

  The greeting cut through the pounding rain, startling the other team members, who hadn’t noticed a platoon of men hiding in the trees.

  Buitre hollered back, and two men detached themselves from the group to approach him.

  Oh, fuck, thought Gus.

  LUCY KICKED HERSELF for being caught off guard. If the Turkish woman hadn’t needed so much help hiking, she’d have seen the soldiers hiding just off the trail. A flash of pea green alerted her immediately to who they were. Now all she could do was to turn her back on them, affecting concern for her companion, who was battling a cramp.

  “You’re okay,” she said to S¸ukruye, who doubled over, pressing a hand against her side.

  Lucy’s heart galloped. Over the Turkish woman’s gasping complaints, she strained to hear what Buitre was telling the Venezuelans. Something about shelter being available for the officers, up at Cecaot-Jicobo.

  That was the camp they’d just vacated.

  Buitre was offering their bungalow to the Elite Guard. A vision of them sleeping in the corner cubby she had shared with Gus put a bitter taste in her mouth.

  “¡Vámanos!” Buitre shouted, and she was forced to turn around. She kept her face averted, kept her eyes on S¸ukruye’s unsteady, mudstained boots.

  The two Elite Guards were still standing to one side of the path, watching them file by. Damn it! Didn’t they have anything better to do?

  As she squeezed past them, shrinking inward to make herself invisible, a cold wave of panic washed over, shortening her breath, causing her to squeeze S¸ukruye’s arm with too much strength.

  The Turkish woman glanced at her sharply. “What’s wrong?” she demanded.

  Lucy gave an infinitesimal shake of her head and compelled her forward. “Keep moving,” she urged through lips that felt bloodless. Her scalp tingled as she felt curious eyes slide over her.

  Her heart didn’t cease to thud until they’d floundered another mile or more without a hue and cry raised. In her soaked jacket and pants, Lucy shivered with belated relief. Her weak knees trembled to support them both as S¸ukruye leaned on her heavily.

  Once the path gave a sharp turn, she cut a look back at Gus, who all but pushed Bellini from behind up a slick incline. Across the distance between them, he sent her a faint, encouraging smile, one that meant, All is well. I’m right behind you.

  His eyes, however, still reflected turbulence.

  With that unexpected encounter behind them, little else could go wrong, she assured herself. The exchange was cut-and-dried. Fournier seemed confident of fulfilling the team’s promises within the seventy-two-hour time limit. All the rebels had to do was bring Jay and Mike’s body down from Arriba, force Jay to write his insurance company requesting the ransom money, and hand the note over to Fournier, who would take it from there.

  In seventy-two hours they’d be back in Bogotá, and Lucy would be soaking her aching hip and her bug-bitten body in a hot tub in a five-star hotel.

  Of course, that was if everything went as planned, and when was the last time that had happened?

  BUITRE’S RADIO CRACKLED. “Deputy Buitre?” Recognizing the voice of the Elite Guard leader, Buitre groped under his soaked poncho and put the radio to his ear.

  “Sí, capitán?” he inquired smartly. Now, here was a leader worthy of his respect.

  Rainwater spattered the hood of his poncho. It was hard to hear Captain Vargas’s question while hiking up a steep grade. Something about a woman. “Say again, sir?”

  “Who is the younger woman behind you?” This time the words reached him clearly.

  Buitre resisted a backward glance. “She’s part of the United Nations team. A Spaniard. Why?”

  “I’ve seen her before in my country. And she’s not a Spaniard. She’s American—a spy.”

  Triumph exploded in Buitre’s bosom, filling him with dark satisfaction. He knew it. He’d just known the woman was a spy. She had been too confident from the first, too alert. “Captain, sir,” he pleaded, as righteous fury swirled in him, “you must tell me everything you know.”

  By the time Buitre put his radio away, his mind was filled with visions that made him grind his teeth. The bitch had been caught by the Elite Guard, snooping around a weapons depot in northern Venezuela last year. They had left her beaten and bound, intending to blow up the warehouse with her in it. Only American aircraft had swooped down on them like a mother eagle defending her young. The gunships had destroyed the Elite Guard’s convoy, killing all of them but two: Captain Vargas and a man named Santiago.

  Buitre seethed. He couldn’t resist a quick glance back. Certainty ripped through him as the bitch met his gaze, her eyes cool and watchful.

  He’d known she was different from the start.

  But what about Gustavo, Luna’s soft-spoken husband? Was he also a spy? Buitre glanced back at the bigger man. Oh, yes. He pretended to be myopic, clumsy, unskilled in sho
oting a weapon, but he was powerfully built, athletic enough to keep both himself and the burly Italian from slipping on the muddy trail. Buitre had glimpsed first-hand his perfect calm in the face of a threat. He had no doubt Luna and Gustavo worked together, had no doubt who they worked for.

  The CIA had aided the Colombian army for decades, helping to destroy the rebels’ coca crops, helping to pinpoint their cocaine laboratories hidden in the jungle. And now Luna and Gustavo—no doubt fabricated names—had stolen the map that specified the location of the last four rebel camps!

  ¡Carajo! If they managed to convey that information to the CIA, it would spell disaster for the FARC. Yet Buitre dared not mention the map’s disappearance. It was his fault he hadn’t secured his quarters that morning.

  He would have to persuade his commanding officers that the couple were frauds, American spies. If the FARC intended to prevail, then those two could not be allowed to leave La Montaña alive.

  “NO SATELLITE PHONE, NO RADIOS,” the Argentine explained as they stood inside a bare brick shelter dripping rainwater on the dirt-packed floor. This casita where the Argentine slept lay just a mile or two short of Commander Rojas’s camp, he alleged. Given the pile of hammocks dumped inside the door, this was where the UN team would all sleep tonight.

  “I don’t understand,” Fournier stammered through chattering teeth. They were all soaked and miserable, except for Gus, who seemed impervious to the chill.

  “The front commander is a very private man,” Álvarez explained without resentment. “The use of modern communication would give away his global positioning to the enemy.”

  Too late, Lucy thought. He should’ve stuck with carrier pigeons and ditched the radios.

  “Then how am I to reach my contacts and fulfill our end of the agreement?”

  “We will be escorted down the mountain to a landline telephone.”

  “More walking?” Fournier exclaimed in dismay.

  “No, no. They have all-terrain vehicles. We will ride.”