The Echo of Violence

by Jordan Dane

  But money made people crazier, even someone as solid as Joe.

  Most days, LaClaire tolerated his penchant to play a modern-day Robin Hood because there was always more money coming in. He kept the greenbacks rolling, and Joe held up his end of their bargain. They were partners, even though LaClaire called him boss. Hell, he trusted the guy as much as he could trust anyone.

  And until this moment, he thought his faith had been justified.

  “Don’t push me into making a choice between you and this rescue mission, Joe.” Although Kinkaid meant what he said, the words came out harsher than he’d intended. He gripped the man’s shoulder. “Look, I’ll be okay. I have to do this.”

  Joe nodded. Stress still edged his face as he forced a smile. “After this, you and me are gonna take time off. We’ll kick back on a real beach, maybe one of them topless ones. Somewhere with no one shooting at us.”

  Kinkaid crooked his lip into a smile. Joe was blowing smoke. They’d never taken time off together. When they needed a break, they went their separate ways. And his friend usually went on the prowl for love.

  “You and me on vacation?” Kinkaid shook his head and grinned. “Face it, Joe. Male bonding is highly overrated.”

  His friend chuckled and shrugged. “You got me there. When I get time off, I’m usually looking for love in all the wrong places.”

  “Yeah, and your idea of romance usually means money changes hands and liquor is involved. But hey, nice try.”

  “Just don’t get killed this trip…or I’m gonna be pissed.”

  “For your sake, I’ll give it a shot.” Kinkaid shifted his gaze toward Alexa. “I gotta go. Never keep an armed woman waiting.”

  Southeast Cuba

  Sierra Maestra Mountain Range

  Late afternoon

  Alexa gave a hand signal for her team to take a break. Her GPS readings were off. Given the dense jungle cover, that was to be expected. She’d been using her compass and the map she’d studied last night. They were crossing the Sierra Maestra, a mountain range that ran westward across Guantanamo Province in southeast Cuba. The range rose abruptly from the coast where they’d put to shore, and the elevations were a secluded haven for terrorist training camps.

  They’d already encountered one camp after they’d heard the gunfire of training exercises. They had divided into teams and moved in closer to investigate until they’d seen enough and made the call to move on. It had taken time to rule them out as sympathizers aligned with the hostage takers—time they didn’t have.

  After they resumed the climb, they’d seen shanties with stone walls and rusted metal roofs dappling the hillsides. They weren’t alone and would have to skirt the locals. In hostile territory, they’d have to remain alert.

  She shrugged out of her pack and set it down before she sucked water off a tube from her hydration pack. Alexa held it in her mouth to quench her thirst and conserve her supply. Sweat was rolling off her body, and her hair and clothes were drenched. She had to keep hydrated to avoid muscle cramps or worse.

  She crouched and peered through a break in the dense vegetation to catch a sporadic breeze. Below her position she saw clouds casting long shadowy fingers onto lush valleys as the sun flickered a sliver of light through the darkening clouds. The horizon was thick with haze, and the air smelled of humidity. The weight of the muggy air was oppressive. Gray tufts clung to the ridges ahead and obscured the view. They had more climbing to do before they’d reach a good staging area.

  Alexa hoped they’d find something before the rain hit. Any rain would wash footprints away and force them to use other signs to find a trail to follow.

  She had two men scouting ahead, looking for tracks and signs of movement. They’d report back soon. And she had two others standing guard while the rest of her team took a breather. Alexa stood and stretched before she rested against a boulder near the trail to drink more water.

  The heat closed in. And the damned bugs.

  Every member of her team had humped in a load and carried water, supplies, and munitions on their backs. She had done her part. And in the steamy jungle, the burden had taken its toll. They had stayed off the worn trails, fearing they might be booby-trapped, and trekked the steep climb running parallel to the narrow path. The going was slow. They’d covered only two klicks an hour. Fighting the underbrush had been tough. Lactic acid had built up in her muscles and made her legs burn, even as she rested. The mountainous terrain and the heat would normally be her first concern for the team, but the weather had her worried too.

  And so did Kinkaid.

  He looked grateful for the break. Keeping to himself, he pulled away from the others to down what looked like aspirin when he thought she wasn’t watching. His skin looked pale and clammy—and not from the muggy heat. His normally alert eyes were sluggish and hard to read. Something was definitely wrong even though he was holding up his end of the bargain.

  Carrying her Colt M4 Carbine assault rifle over her shoulder, she stood and walked to where he lay sprawled on a small rise with his back against a tree.

  “You mind company?” she whispered.

  He gestured an invitation with a hand and barely looked up.

  “If we stick to high ground,” she said as she retrieved insect repellent from her belt pack, “we get better reception for our GPS units and SAT phone. This dense canopy can mess up our readings.”

  While she talked, she sprayed bug juice on her clothes and skin.

  “Yeah, that’s good,” he whispered with eyes closed. “Just don’t get us caught on a ridge with our asses showing. We’d make easy sniper targets.”

  “How are you holding up?” she asked.

  “I took a tumble off a ridge the other night. It’s nothing. I’m good.”

  “Ah, thanks. That explains everything.” She leaned her head back against the tree she shared with him and closed her eyes, her assault rifle across her belly. “And you’re a lousy liar, Kinkaid.”

  Alexa waited for his sarcasm. When she got nothing except for a cloud of insects that buzzed her face, she settled back and dialed into her surroundings. Eerie sounds echoed through the jungle, the life-and-death struggle for survival. The ground smelled of decay, wet wood, and damp rich earth, a primeval odor that was all too familiar. And in the distance she heard the birds in the trees and the flutter of wings as they flew. Without opening her eyes, she pictured them from her memory and their sounds—brightly colored parrots, finches, and hummingbirds that hung motionless in the air.

  When she slowed her heartbeat to doze in the heat, she heard Kinkaid’s breathing. His easy rhythm signaled he’d fallen asleep. She imagined the two of them in another time and place on a lazy Sunday morning sleeping in. And it wasn’t difficult to picture his bare tanned skin under white linens with those hypnotic green eyes luring her to bed.

  She pictured sweat beading on skin, hands clutched together in a fevered pitch, and the grinding of two bodies in the throes of orgasm. Her breathing and heart rate escalated as she imagined what he would feel like inside her. With eyes closed, she fantasized about making love to Jackson Kinkaid on a warm Sunday afternoon when all they had was time. She fought the urge to smile and took a deep breath.

  She’d had such thoughts before about him, and she understood physical need and the urgency of sexual attraction. But making a commitment to one lover—would she ever settle for a life like that?

  And more to the point, would she ever want to?

  “Marlowe.”

  She heard a male voice whispering near her. Hank Lewis wanted her attention.

  “Yeah, Hank.” When she opened her eyes, she saw the short muscular man with his burr cut crouched near her. “What is it?”

  “Booker and Rodriguez are back,” he told her.

  Manny Rodriguez and Adam Booker had scouted ahead for the team. While one tracked and focused on the trail, the other flanked his position to keep watch. They rotated their assignments to keep their eyesight fresh.

  �
�And?” she asked.

  “Manny picked up a trail.” Lewis smiled. “The tracks fit our head count.”

  She returned a grin and punched Kinkaid in the arm. “Wake up, sleeping beauty. Time to work.”

  If Kinkaid had seen distinctive footprints of the hostages and their terrorist captors, his memory would be put to the test. With any luck, the tracks her scouts had found would be the bastards who killed and abducted innocent civilians. Once they had a trail to follow, the chase would be on.

  And when the team caught up with the men, they’d carry out their brand of justice.

  The zing of a machete echoed past them and down into the valley below as the lead man cleared a path where the overgrown vines were too dense. Sister Kate and the other hostages had been climbing a tapering mountain trail since dawn. And although the exertion and the altitude made it hard for her to breathe, she knew better than to complain. She still had no idea where they were or where the men were taking them. They’d been ordered to keep their heads down and hadn’t seen anyone else since they’d landed.

  She caught glimpses of darkening clouds and noticed that the overcast sky had the smell of rain. And the wind had picked up. She felt the strong breeze most on the ridges they had crossed. And in the distance, she had seen the whitecaps. The ocean churned and had become choppy. A storm was coming.

  By dusk, they made camp early, and bowls of food were handed out. At the bottom of rusted metal containers was a brown paste that they had to eat with their fingers. It smelled slightly rancid, but Kate forced herself to eat. The children did the same. And not one complained.

  George had gotten worse. And no one had given him any food or water.

  When she received her rations, she took some to him. The man lay sprawled on the ground under a stand of trees. His suit looked disheveled and filthy and was stained with his blood. Kate looked over her shoulder to make sure none of her captors were watching before she knelt by him.

  “Here…you need this more than I do,” she whispered.

  She raised George’s head to give him her share of water. The man looked into her eyes with a mix of gratitude and fear as he choked down the liquid. When she offered him food, he refused. His face had taken on a sickly gray pallor with spots of color where his skin was flushed with heat. A raging fever had stricken the poor man.

  “I’ll bring more when I can,” she promised. “Now, let me have a look at this.”

  She peeked under the dressing pressed to his shoulder and decided nothing could be done. Parts of the makeshift bandage was stuck to the wound, and the bullet hole was still bleeding, a slow and steady ooze. She’d tried to keep the wound clean, but she didn’t have fresh bandages, and infection had set in. The flesh around the bullet hole was red and swollen and hot to the touch. And foul-looking pus aggravated the injury and gave off a nasty odor.

  Since there was no exit wound, she believed the bullet was still inside. George needed a doctor. She knew it, and by the look in his eyes, he did, too.

  “Thank you…S-Sister.”

  She dabbed the sweat from his forehead with a dirty cloth and felt the heat radiating off his skin. Raindrops pattered the leaves above George and fell onto his face. He was slow to blink them away. The man was getting weaker.

  “Your fever is worse.” She clutched his hand and felt him squeeze her fingers. “I wish there was more I could do.”

  “There is, Sister. My son.” He cleared his throat and choked. His lungs wheezed with the effort. “If you make it home, please tell my son…that our last thoughts were of him. And that we will always love him.” He tried to smile and didn’t have the energy. “He got married last year…and they’re expecting a baby. Our f-first grandchild.”

  He stumbled over the word “first,” and she knew he was thinking of his dead wife. She wanted to comfort the man and tell him they’d all make it home again, but she knew that wouldn’t be true. If George didn’t get medical care soon, he’d be dead before help could arrive.

  “Tell me about your son.” She forced a smile and stroked his brow. “Where does he live?”

  She listened to what George told her. He grew very still to focus on what he said. And for a brief instant, the pain in his eyes faded as the rain slid down his cheek and drained into his tears.

  She committed every word to memory. If she lived through this nightmare, she wanted to tell a son how much his father loved him. But before George finished, Kate felt a harsh jab at her back. When she turned, a young man holding a rifle aimed it at her and yelled words she didn’t understand. He nudged his head, and she shifted her gaze where he pointed.

  The terrorist leader stood in the clearing near the fire. The sight of him knotted her stomach.

  “I’ll be back…when I can,” she muttered to George and squeezed his hand. “You rest now.”

  She glanced toward the children and they grimaced as they huddled in the rain. Being the oldest, Joselyne clung to the others. The girl’s eyes welled with glistening tears, but she resisted the urge to cry out. Sister Kate forced a smile and nodded her reassurance, then stood and went with the armed young man.

  Standing in front of the man in charge, she kept her head down and avoided looking into his fierce eyes until his silence forced her to look up. He stared down at her in disgust as if she were vile. Of late, every encounter between them had become a competition for him to win, as if he had something to prove to her. This she did not understand, not when he was clearly in charge.

  “It is your turn to plead for your miserable existence.” The leader raised his chin and looked down his nose at her. “And you will speak for the children. Their lives depend on you.”

  “How?” she asked.

  “You will use my phone…and contact Jackson Kinkaid. He is a wealthy American businessman, and you are an American nun. He would pay for you, yes?” The man looked at her with a smug expression, as if he had just revealed a secret of hers.

  “Jackson Kinkaid?” Her eyes grew wide.

  She counted Kinkaid as a friend, but not in the conventional sense. He was someone she had respected from the first time they met. And she understood what had mattered most to him and comforted him when he needed it. Beyond that, she never pried into his secrets. She accepted him the way he was, and he had done the same for her. Few would understand their bond—least of all the angry man standing in front of her now.

  “I don’t have a phone number for Mr. Kinkaid. I only have his mailing address. That’s all.”

  “You are lying.” The man yanked her by the throat and pulled her toward him. Her feet dangled under her, barely touching the ground. She felt the blood rush to her face.

  “Please…I’ve told you all I know,” she cried.

  Kate heard the children screaming behind her. When she looked over her shoulder to find them, the man tore the veil from her head and threw it to the ground. He stepped on it and ground it into the dirt with the heel of his boot. And with his hand, he yanked her head back. He gripped her hair until her scalp burned.

  “You will do this thing. Now!” he yelled, and fixed his eyes on her. His spittle mixed with the raindrops that struck her face and she winced.

  “I can’t. I’ve told you.” She had no idea how much he understood, and she tried to explain. “The charitable foundation he set up is private. As far as I know, they don’t advertise their good works. I only have his mailing address, I swear it.”

  “He gave money to the school.” He glared at her. “And that party was in his honor. This I know from the news. And others here said he was at Dumont Hall and that you know him well.”

  “He’s a contributor to the school, yes. And yes, I know him. But only as a patron to the academy.” Most of what she’d said was the truth and not what he wanted to hear.

  He stared at her and tightened his grip as the rain got worse. The pain made her wince, and she held her breath. He looked as if he were making up his mind about what to do next. Given the anger seething in his eyes, she wouldn
’t like the outcome.

  “If you cannot reach him, then you are of no use to me…and neither are those children.” He pulled a machete from his belt and yelled an order for the young man with the video camera to follow him.

  The man dragged her by the hair into the jungle. She tried to keep up, but he moved too fast. She fell in the slick mud, and he didn’t stop. Branches tore her tunic and exposed her legs to cuts. And she heard the roots of her hair pop as they were yanked from her head. He hauled her away from the others. And some of his men followed, cheering and hoisting weapons above their heads in victory.

  And when they got to a small clearing, the man beat her with his fists. She crumpled to the muddy ground and curled into a ball, protecting herself from his kicks. It all happened too fast—the blur of images and her sudden rush of terror. She couldn’t breathe.

  Oh please, dear God. Not like this.

  Grimacing in pain, she was hauled to her knees, yanked by her hair again. And the man with the video camera came forward and shoved through the bodies standing before her.

  Her death would become a mockery recorded for the amusement of these cruel men. They knew nothing of her life, nor did they care. And all her sacrifices in service to God meant nothing. Nothing! Her passing would serve no vital purpose in this forsaken corner of the world.

  Inside, she wanted to scream, until she heard the cries of the children in the distance. Their torment overshadowed any agony she felt for her own fate. In truth, she had let them down.

  Now they’d have no one to look out for them.

  CHAPTER 10

  The sun glowed like a dying ember on the horizon, despite being smothered by a thick ceiling of clouds. And the rain had intensified. Although large drops pelted the trees, branches filtered the deluge and shielded them from the blowing downpour. The steamy heat had subsided, but the high winds and lightning posed a new threat. Alexa knew her team needed shelter to weather the worsening storm. And she’d seen a shallow stone overhang that might give them enough protection. They’d have to backtrack to make it.