Show No Fear

by Marliss Melton

  “THERE!” FOURNIER CRIED, pointing as a Red Cross helicopter burst into view from behind the mountain with a reverberating crescendo. The UN team members, who’d come to their feet at the first hint of its approach, waved a frantic greeting.

  Lucy’s eyes stung at the heartening vision of a red cross emblazoned onto the sides of the reconditioned Huey UH-1 Iroquois. If Gus were safely with her, she would get satisfaction out of watching its tail flare, watching the grass ripple like rings on the surface of a disturbed pond as powerful winds whipped her hair in her eyes.

  For ten days she’d craved her return to civilization, only Gus’s disappearance had stripped her of her anticipation. She didn’t know if she could leave him here.

  As the bird nestled onto the airfield and the thunder of the rotors diminished, Fournier held them back. “Wait,” he advised.

  With a clank and a rumble, the helicopter door slid open. A man wearing a dark uniform leapt to the ground, assault rifle cradled in the crook of one arm. Scoping the area uneasily, he waved them over.

  “Who is he?” Lucy asked Fournier as they struck out across the field. Glimpsing movement behind the window in the little building, she ducked behind Carlos, who kept a firm grip on her arm.

  Here they were, out in the open, while the FARC were barricaded in a concrete building, possibly heavily armed. The Huey’s mounted gun and torpedo launchers had been removed, leaving it utterly defenseless.

  The situation didn’t feel right. Then again, nothing had felt right since Gus had plummeted into the river.

  “Prison guard…” Fournier informed her. The wind snatched away the remainder of his words.

  They approached the helicopter in an uneasy knot, and Fournier shook hands with the guard, instructing him to release the officers and send them into the red-roofed building. Peering into the chopper, Lucy eyed the ten former rebels, sitting back to back under the armed watch of a second guard.

  One by one, they struggled up. Wearing orange prison suits with their wrists still cuffed, they jumped from the helicopter and trotted toward the cinderblock building. The door swung open and they swarmed inside, but Lucy could see nothing in the shadowy interior to indicate that Jay was inside, chafing for freedom.

  With her mind still numb with shock, it was hard to get a clear read on the situation. Aside from what had happened to Gus, everything was happening according to plan, yet she had a terrible suspicion they were all being duped.

  “Now what?” the prison guard shouted down to Fournier, looking worried.

  The enemy now outnumbered them ten to one.

  “Where is the money?” Fournier asked.

  The second guard swung a briefcase down to him. Hefting it, Fournier eyed his teammates. “Ready?” he inquired, indicating they should follow him.

  Uneasiness congealed in Lucy’s gut. In addition to outnumbering them, the FARC now occupied a strongly defensive position. Their precaution seemed a bit overdone, considering the Red Cross helicopter was stripped of all fighting capabilities.

  Unless the FARC knew something Lucy didn’t…

  CROUCHED BEHIND THE BROAD-LEAVED BUSH, Gus kept his eyes trained on the rebels as they ambled past him, close enough that he could have whispered, “Boo!” and they’d have spun around with muzzles blazing.

  He weighed his chances of taking them all at once. What he wouldn’t give for an assault rifle of his own. There was just one problem. Despite their orders to kill him, he didn’t want to kill them.

  His best bet was to let them go.

  Only by the time they ambled past, Buitre might have found the opportunity to kill or capture Lucy.

  The possibility of the latter had him suffering through hot and cold sweats. God knew what the FARC did to their captives.

  A mosquito flew into his ear, another up his right nostril, forcing him to squeeze his nose before it made him sneeze.

  The longest minutes of his life ensued as he waited for the quartet to disappear, arguing his fate as they continued back to the river to search for him, never realizing they had gone right by him.

  DUCKING THROUGH THE LOW DOOR, Lucy’s eyes adjusted swiftly to the darkness. The little building was crowded with men, none of whom had bathed recently, gauging by the odor of unwashed bodies. They lounged around Marquez, who sat behind a little table. At their entrance, a lone man crouching on the cement floor scrambled up, a steel chain swinging from his neck.

  Jay! Lucy swallowed her cry of dismayed recognition. As their gazes met, she touched her ear in the standard signal for You don’t know me. Immediately, he dragged his attention to the others.

  “Thank God!” he croaked, staggering toward them, a mere shadow of his former self.

  “Jay Barnes?” said Fournier, extending him a formal handshake. “Pierre Fournier, United Nations. I presume you’re ready to go home.”

  “Yes,” Jay agreed, casting a fearful glance behind him. Lucy took the opportunity to study him. Ten months in captivity had come close to killing him. Once tall and robust, he was bent and thin, his skin a sickly shade of yellow.

  “Bring us the money,” Buitre prompted, impatiently waving Fournier forward.

  Drawing Jay into their midst, Fournier extended the briefcase to Buitre, who laid it on the table in front of Marquez. “Go ahead and count it if you must,” Fournier said. “Only where is the body of Mike Howitz?” he inquired.

  Buitre shoved a wooden box across the cement floor. “Don’t open it in here,” he warned.

  Eyeing the crude coffin, Lucy’s stomach roiled as she envisioned Howitz’s rotting corpse inside. Her hands curled into fists as blind fury exploded through her. The sons of bitches had killed him. And they were getting paid for that?

  “Thank you,” Jay was saying, shaking each team member’s hand, one at a time. He reached for Lucy, gripping her extra hard to convey both his grief and gratitude. She dared not meet his gaze. Buitre was watching them closely.

  Marquez snapped open the briefcase, lifted the lid, and sifted through the contents. Rebels leaned in on every side, eyeing the money greedily.

  Outside the building, the helicopter’s rotors began to spool. With a thud, Marquez closed the case abruptly. He met Fournier’s gaze and stood up. “Take the Americans and go,” he shouted over the noise. His dark, flat gaze betrayed no emotion whatsoever.

  Glancing at the other rebels, Lucy read the same secretive look in their eyes. Splinters of suspicion sank deep beneath her skin. Something was happening. If only she could predict what.

  But why would the rebels jeopardize the exchange when they’d gotten what they wanted? Was it just to punish her? Wasn’t trying to kill Gus enough of a punishment?

  “Remove Mr. Barnes’s chain,” Fournier replied, frustrating Lucy’s instinct to retreat as fast as possible.

  A soldier stepped forward with a key, and the deadbolt that kept Jay chained like a dog fell open. It dropped to the dirt floor with a heavy chink.

  Fournier nodded. “Bellini, Carlos,” he said, waving them toward the box. “Help me with this.”

  As the three men struggled to lift Mike’s coffin, S¸ ukruye held the door. Lucy grabbed Jay’s sleeve to escort him as quickly as possible into the gale force of the helicopter’s rotors.

  WITH THE YOUTHS FINALLY OUT OF SIGHT, Gus bolted from his hiding place, crashing downhill toward the rising thunder of the nearby helicopter.

  Leaves brushed at his face. The ground felt as slick as mud beneath his flying feet. God forbid he was too late!

  If Buitre had already harmed Lucy, what then? Gus would rather snatch his own heart out of his chest than discover that he’d failed her.

  He nearly burst through the tree line, exposing himself to view. At the last second, he skidded to a stop, then scrambled up and out of sight. From behind a kapok tree, he peered out at the field, searching for Lucy, unable to see her.

  The large grassy field seemed to dance beneath a hot sun. A Red Cross helicopter idling yards away from a building was c
learly preparing for liftoff, only Gus could see no one inside it but the pilots. Where was Lucy?

  Suddenly, the door to the building popped open. To Gus’s relief, Fournier stepped into view, bearing one end of a box. Carlos squeezed through the door while supporting the box in the middle, then Bellini appeared carrying the other end. Howitz’s body, Gus supposed.

  When Lucy and S¸ ukruye appeared, bearing a skeletal figure between them, he released a shuddering breath of relief. The exchange had gone off without a hitch. Poor Jay, he thought with a pang of pity. The man was scarcely recognizable from his picture.

  With cautious optimism, Gus watched the UN team move in a slow parade toward the helo. Again the grass in the field seemed to dance. He rubbed his eyes, certain his vision was playing tricks on him.

  But then the field came alive, and he realized with dawning horror that an army, hitherto disguised by blankets of straw, had been hiding there all along. Throwing off their camouflage, soldiers leapt to their knees, raised rifles to their shoulders, and opened fire on the building.

  Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat! A barrage of semi-automatic gunfire cut through the helicopter’s thunder. Astonished and terrified, the team whirled, stared, then raced toward the helicopter, seeking cover.

  Who the hell? Gus wondered, his chest swelling with fear as the red-roofed shelter fell under attack.

  From within the building came an answering volley.

  The bizarre vision made no sense. Horrified, certain to be shot if he interfered, Gus kept his eyes on Lucy as she and the other team members struggled to lift the box into the helicopter. The engines whined as the pilot pushed for speed in an effort to escape the unexpected melee.

  Colombian army, Gus realized, recognizing the distinct uniforms of the soldiers who had hidden in the grass. His astonishment mingled with rage. “No!” he ground out, his guttural cry drowned out by the firefight.

  The army had nearly jeopardized the start of this mission. Now they were wreaking havoc on its successful resolution. Why? Of course they resented the release of the ten FARC officers, but would they risk the lives of UN peacekeepers just to keep those officers from reintegrating?

  Get in, Lucy! With his heart in his throat, Gus watched as Lucy helped Jay into the helo.

  Thank God the army’s ammunition was being aimed at the building. For the moment, the FARC inside were pinned down, unable to return fire. The helo stood a fair chance of taking off, if Lucy would just get in!

  Carlos, kneeling in the doorway, reached out a hand to pull her up. She’d helped everyone else, making herself last to board. But Lucy hesitated, throwing one last look over her shoulder.

  With a pang of insight, Gus realized she was looking for him. Go, Luce! he wanted to shout. Go! But between the roar of the rotors and percussion of artillery, she would never hear him.

  Movement within the building caught his eye. Suddenly, the muzzle of an AK-47 poked through a shattered windowpane, and Gus’s blood turned to ice water. Even before a crack shattered the staccato of continuous gunfire, he knew that Lucy was the target.

  She crumpled where she fell.

  Gus stifled a hoarse shout. No! He watched helplessly as Carlos leapt from the doorway to snatch her up, but the weapon that had fired upon her discharged again, spewing rounds that clanked into the side of the helicopter. Struck by a bullet, Carlos reeled and dropped. The helo began to rise.

  Carlos groped for a running board. He reached for Lucy, but with only one good arm he couldn’t pull her with him. As the Huey made its ascent, Carlos was clinging for dear life.

  Slowly, slowly it gained altitude. Bellini and Fournier reached out hands to grab him, and Carlos eventually climbed back in.

  They’d left Lucy on the fucking ground.

  Every instinct shouted at Gus to run to her.

  But common sense kept him pegged to his hiding place. He gasped for breath, battling the impulse to vomit.

  Jesus, God, don’t let her be dead, he prayed, his gaze fixed on her unmoving figure. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was her partner. He was supposed to keep her safe. But she had looked to her own safety last, using her training to save the others—the very people who’d left her to fend for herself.

  Through eyes filmed with tears, he watched the helicopter rise higher and higher, out of range of rifle fire. Its shadow streaked across the golden grass, then it listed sharply to one side, shaking the earth beneath him as it thundered toward the mountain and disappeared behind the sharply rising canopy.

  WITHIN THE HUEY, CARLOS SCOOTED to the middle of the grooved floor and gasped his thanks. “We have to go back for her!” he shouted to Fournier.

  The Frenchman’s lips thinned. “No,” he refuted, his expression flat and guarded. As Bellini crawled to the rear, Fournier leaned forward to add, “You played me for a fool, Carlos. Luna and Gustavo de Aquiler were never one of us. But you already know that,” he accused, sitting back.

  Stunned, Carlos gazed up at him, still trembling in the wake of his close call. He sent an uncomfortable glance at the other team members. Together with a prison guard, they hovered over the freed hostage.

  “For your sake, I will say nothing,” Fournier added, “for I have long considered you my friend. But I will not put my people in jeopardy to return for two imposters. They are CIA, aren’t they?”

  Carlos refused to answer.

  “Let the CIA get them out,” Fournier decreed, veins appearing beneath the transparent skin on his forehead.

  Swallowing convulsively, Carlos turned his head to look through the helicopter’s open door. From this altitude, La Montaña had never looked more darkly menacing. With the sun sinking behind its mass, this side was a wall of dark vegetation, hostile and obscure.

  And Gus and Lucy were both alone down there.

  God help them both, Carlos thought.

  CHAPTER 15

  The field fell suddenly and inexplicably quiet.

  Staring at Lucy’s prone body through the lingering smoke and tear-filled eyes, Gus realized the Colombian army had ceased firing on the little building. Standing vulnerable to counterattack, they lowered their guns and waited, as if expecting—what, the FARC to surrender?

  It felt all wrong.

  Suddenly, the door of the beleaguered building flew open, and FARC rebels poured out of it, cheering. Cheering?

  To Gus’s astonishment, the army didn’t shoot them; they countered with a cheer of their own, jumping up and down, firing weapons at the sky.

  What the fuck?

  Gripping the tree in amazement, Gus gawked at the bizarre vision. Amid rebels and government soldiers, Lucy lay sprawled in the grass unmoving. Bile crept up his throat as he pictured her life’s blood pouring out of her.

  Buitre sauntered onto the airfield to gaze down at her, a smirk of triumph on his scarred face. He nudged her with a toe, and she stirred.

  She stirred!

  Swallowing down a cry of wonder, Gus watched as Buitre nudged her again, commanding her to get up.

  How could she? She’d taken a hit square in the chest.

  But she did. Somehow, miraculously, she did. As soldiers and rebels mingled, exchanging handshakes and clapping each other’s backs, Lucy rolled to her knees and lifted her head, looking around her in confusion.

  Some of the government soldiers were taking off their uniforms, shaking out of them as if covered in ants.

  And that was when Gus realized this was all a setup.

  Beneath the colors belonging to the Colombian army, the soldiers wore the pea green color of the Venezuelan Elite Guard. Son of a bitch!

  The pieces of the puzzle fell abruptly into place. Those weren’t Colombian soldiers. They were Venezuelans, the FARC’s new allies. Holy Christ!

  In a sneaky guerrilla tactic that involved dressing like the enemy, the allies had just convinced the fleeing UN team that Colombian soldiers had shot and killed one of their team members while attacking the FARC.

  The fallout would be tremendous. W
ithin hours, both the United Nations and the International Red Cross would condemn the Colombian army. The Colombians would fly into a frenzy to prove their innocence—something that could take months to prove. Only by then, the damage would be done. No one would believe the army’s claim of innocence. The government would lose big points in popularity.

  Gus didn’t give a shit about any of that. The only thing that mattered now was Lucy, who’d fallen into the FARC’s hands, just as she had in his dream.

  Watching Buitre haul her to her feet, he thought again of how the dream had been a premonition, one he should have heeded. Buitre had never intended to let him or Lucy leave the jungle. He should’ve grabbed Lucy that very night and spirited her out of there while the getting was good.

  Now she was hurt. Or was she? He searched the front of Lucy’s jacket for signs of a bullet wound. He couldn’t see any stains from here. Nor was she clutching herself, trying to staunch the flow of blood. It dawned on him that maybe she hadn’t been shot with a real bullet.

  Maybe the FARC didn’t want her dead. They wanted another hostage. They’d gotten rid of a dead spy and a sickly one, and now they had a healthy hostage and fifty million pesos to boot. Plus they’d tainted the reputation of the Colombian army, all in one fell swoop. Conniving bastards. He’d see them in hell before he let them take Lucy.

  Scanning the area, he calculated his odds. He was outnumbered fifty to one. His only weapon was a three-inch knife, dulled from hacking through vines. He didn’t even have shoes to protect his goddamn feet.

  He watched as Buitre coiled a length of chain around Lucy’s neck and bolted it. Snatching up the dangling end, he jerked her off her feet, laughing coarsely as she spilled to her knees. Gus couldn’t see Lucy’s face, but he didn’t need to. He knew she’d spit in Buitre’s eyes if given half a chance, consequences be damned.

  Gus’s blood boiled. His temple throbbed with murderous rage. He was going to kill Buitre. There wasn’t any question in his mind. And he was going to enjoy every goddamn minute of it!