Show No Fear Page 18

  He could hear his teammates shouting in consternation and alarm, their cries scarcely audible over the sound of rushing water.

  Stunned, stuck halfway across the bridge, Gus met Buitre’s gloating gaze and knew. The man had tried to dump him in the river. The son-of-a-bitch. Suddenly, the nightmare Gus had suffered the other night seemed all too much like a warning he had ignored.

  Too bad for Buitre, he could still make his way across with what was left of the bridge. But would Buitre try to shoot him then, as he had in his dream?

  A blur behind the deputy caught his eye. He realized Lucy was fighting Carlos’s hold in an attempt to climb onto the distressed bridge and rescue him. He’d never seen a look of pure terror on her face before.

  He tried to send her a reassuring wave, but the bridge was rocking violently. The rope that had served as a railing now trailed into the water. “Stay back!” he shouted, projecting confidence so she would know not to worry.

  Carlos kept a firm grip on her, which, Gus knew, was no small feat. He hoped he could count on the Spaniard to keep the upper hand.

  Right now he needed to focus on a plan.

  The bridge now resembled one of those trick ladders strung up for kids in amusement parks. Gus was confident he could apply the laws of physics to keep the bridge from tipping over too far. On the other hand, did he trust Buitre not to shoot him if he made it to the other side?

  A violent shudder had him glancing up, distracted.

  Buitre again. The man was climbing out, presumably to rescue him.

  Bullshit. More likely he was going to try to hurl him into the giant wash machine below.

  “Get back!” he yelled, but the deputy’s eyes glittered with malice as he inched closer. With rising dismay, Gus realized Buitre was headed to a knot similar to the one he’d manipulated on the other side.

  He was going to release the other railing. And suddenly Gus knew: this bridge had been designed to be dismantled, so the FARC could dump the enemy into the river.

  He watched with rising consternation as Buitre eased a loop over the head of the knot while at the same time extending his free hand, so that, to the others, it looked like he was helping.

  The bridge gave a familiar lurch. Before the rope could slacken under Gus’s hand, he dropped onto his stomach, wrapping his arms and legs around the wooden slats. A wet mist coated him as the bridge swayed, jerked downward by the falling rope. Tipping ninety degrees, he clung like a cat in a tree, wondering what his odds were if he fell into the seething water.

  Glancing up, he met Buitre’s mocking gaze, read the cruel smile on his face, and realized the man fully intended to kill him. Somewhere along the line, he’d convinced himself that Gus and Lucy were spies. Had he convinced the FARC leadership, as well? Was he acting on orders to destroy them?

  If so, then Lucy was his next target.

  Oh, hell no.

  Adjusting his grip, he began to drag himself toward Buitre, toward shore. He would have to pretend to take Buitre’s hand, then rip him off the ropes and throw him into the water before the man could pull a gun on him.

  Then he and Lucy would have to detach themselves from the rest of the team, call the JIC, and get the hell out.

  Grimly determined, one part of him aware of Lucy’s hysteria and Carlos’s battle to keep her contained, Gus pulled himself inch by inch over the slick, swaying boards.

  Suddenly, with a loud squeak, the board under his left arm tore from the track beneath it. Gus groped for a different board to clutch, but it was too late. His upper body had twisted too far. Gravity had hold of him now.

  The rubber of his boots squeaked as he slipped. He knew he was going to fall. There was nothing left to do but ensure he hit the water at an angle that wouldn’t kill him.

  With Lucy’s scream sounding in his ears, he plummeted toward the river, somersaulting.

  CHAPTER 14

  Splash! With catlike agility, Gus managed to enter the river feet-first. Water slammed up his nostrils and closed over his head with the force of a collision. Immediately, the current seized him up, projecting him downstream at a frightening clip.

  To protect his limbs, he curled into a ball. He could see nothing under the water but shades of dark brown. A log clipped the side of his head, leaving his ear ringing. He slammed into a boulder and glanced off of it. The current dragged him through the branches of a fallen tree.

  Desperate for air, he clawed for the surface and realized his boots were weighing him down.

  The boots with the sat phone that had finally worked.

  The electronics in his heels were probably ruined by now. He wasn’t going to be calling the JIC anytime soon.

  Plus, if he shucked the boots, he’d get to breathe.

  Breathing was good.

  Sluicing along underwater, he struggled with the laces and tugged the boots off, his lungs and his nasal passages burning.

  He used his jacket to slow him down. Tearing it open, he dragged it behind him like a parachute, then shook it off and strained again for the surface.

  At last his head broke free. He gasped for air, only to be yanked under again. But he’d glimpsed enough of his surroundings to determine where the shoreline was, in which direction to swim.

  Minute by minute, he made his way toward the dark mud and bowed branches at the river’s edge.

  After what seemed like hours but may have been as little as fifteen minutes, Gus crawled onto shore, gasping and weary. He pulled himself onto the embankment and staggered to his feet to survey his surroundings. Swiping a hand over his eyes, he couldn’t believe what he saw.

  On the other side of the river, La Montaña rose skyward in a precipitous tangle of vegetation. But on this side, the terrain was as flat as a prairie, dotted with banana and papaya trees, as far as the eye could see.

  Knocking water from his ears, Gus turned full circle to get his bearings. Pebbles and sticks gouged his feet. Looking down, he saw that one of his feet was encased in a muddy sock; the other was bare.

  Great. Perfect. He was miles from Lucy and shoeless.

  If Buitre had acted under orders, then the FARC had come to suspect him and Lucy, enough to try to dispatch them. And that meant Lucy was next. Oh, fuck no. He had to get back to her and save her before it was too late.

  A shudder of disbelief racked his body. He hugged himself to ease his shock. Why am I even surprised? he asked himself. His nightmare had been a warning that he’d foolishly overlooked. He’d sworn to Lucy that he would protect her. Goddamn him for being an idiot! How was he supposed to do that when they were miles apart?

  * * *

  “WHAT THE HELL?” said VINNY, who was looking forward to his watch ending in eight minutes. Pulling his limbs in from a full-bodied stretch, he sat forward, eyeballing the red dot that was Lieutenant Atwater as it moved with amazing speed away from Lucy. “Sir, you need to see this!” he exclaimed.

  Within a second, Lieutenant Lindstrom loomed over him. Harley and Haiku abandoned what they were doing to gawk over his other shoulder.

  “What’s he doing?” Harley demanded.

  “He’s on a river,” Vinny realized. “Maybe he’s in a boat.”

  “Not unless he’s whitewater rafting,” countered the lieutenant. “How fast is he moving?”

  Vinny drew a line on the monitor and hit two buttons. “Like twenty miles an hour.”

  With silent concern, the SEALs watched the red dot travel farther and farther from the blue dot. Not one of them voiced the possibility that Lieutenant Atwater might be dead. Moving through water at that speed without a helmet or life vest was asking for trouble.

  “Haiku, call the station chief,” commanded the OIC, suddenly decisive.

  “Sir, he’s slowing down,” Vinny alerted him.

  Lieutenant Lindstrom leaned in. Chief Harlan did the same. Haiku crossed the room to make a phone call.

  “Can you zoom in any closer?” asked the LT.

  “A little,” said Vinny, tapping the
appropriate key.

  “Come on, sir,” muttered Harley as they waited on pins and needles for any indication that Lieutenant Atwater was still alive.

  The red dot moved, no more than a millimeter, but it definitely moved. “He’s good,” Vinny declared.

  “Sir, I’ve got the station chief on the line,” Haiku announced.

  “Just a second,” the lieutenant murmured, keeping his eyes glued to the red dot.

  It moved again.

  “He’s got to be walking. He just covered five yards,” said Vinny, having drawn a line to determine the distance.

  With a nod, the OIC moved to the phone to update Whiteside. He hung up a minute later, looking thoughtful.

  “What’d he say, sir?” Vinny asked, too impatient to wait.

  The lieutenant’s jaw flexed. His dark blue eyes looked troubled. “He says we wait an hour for Gus to contact us. If we don’t hear anything by then, we go in for an extract.”

  “Uh…” Harley was the first to point out Whiteside’s idiocy. “Sir, if the sat phone went down the river with the lieutenant, he won’t be using it to call anybody.”

  “Right,” said the OIC, sliding his hands into his pockets. He deliberated for a split second longer. “Haiku, get the rest of our guys in here, ASAP. We need to move on this.”

  THE SHRIEK THAT HAD ERUPTED from Lucy’s throat when Gus plummeted toward the water had been the last utterance she’d made. Even when they’d spent hours searching for him, putting off the exchange at the airfield to scour the shoreline, she had retreated deeper and deeper into her thoughts, keeping silent.

  The team members—all but Fournier—had rallied around her, embracing her, offering words of reassurance to which she was incapable of replying. She knew she was in shock. For the first time in her career, she didn’t know who was standing where; where to find the closest option for cover in the event of sudden violence; how far they had traveled looking for Gus.

  Her thoughts scurried through her mind like a rat in a maze, seeking answers and not finding them. How had the bridge suddenly and mysteriously collapsed when it had felt stable just minutes before?

  Instinct told her Buitre was to blame. Only how? He’d still been crossing when the first side collapsed. And then he’d risked his life by venturing back out to reach for Gus’s hand. Helping, or hindering? For then the second side had collapsed, and Gus had lost his grip, slipping into the water.

  He’d been missing for hours now. The team members had called his name till they were hoarse. They’d squandered precious time searching for him until, at last, Fournier announced they would continue to the airfield or risk forfeiting their agreement with the FARC.

  To Lucy, he’d muttered an apology and the promise to send a search party back for Gus. But the odd look in his eyes told her the incident had solidified certain suspicions in his mind regarding her and Gus. He made no overt accusations; still, a coolness in his demeanor left his promise sounding hollow.

  Fournier’s suspicions resurrected her own. Had Buitre tried to kill Gus in such a way as to make himself look blameless?

  If so, he was in for an unpleasant surprise. Navy SEALs didn’t drown, not if they were conscious. And she’d seen Gus hit the water in a controlled manner, feet first. Of course, that was that last she’d seen of him.

  But she had faith that he had escaped the torrent farther downriver. She envisioned him climbing ashore miles from where they’d searched. She knew he’d return for her, if he was able. That’s what partners did.

  “Come,” said Carlos. Linking his arm with hers, he appointed himself her protector in Gus’s stead. Given the watchfulness in his dark eyes, he, too, was worried that the FARC had guessed Gus and Lucy’s true identities.

  She needed to stay vigilant. She needed to expect the worst. But shock held her in its icy grasp. She followed his lead, blindly, down a worn path that wound toward the base of the mountain. Despite Carlos’s reassuring grip, isolation and fear took up residence in her heart. She felt Gus’s absence as she would a missing limb.

  Thank God for the microchip that jarred her hip with every step. The JIC still had her on radar. Gus, too, for that matter. They could see that they were separated. They were bound to respond.

  Hurry! She thought, sending them an anxious, kinetic message. Get here quick!

  The trees thinned abruptly and the sun grew brighter. With a start, Lucy realized they had descended to the valley. Branches gave way to a clearing of wild grass, about the size of a football field, illumined by a hot sun.

  “We’re here,” Fournier announced, looking straight through Lucy as he glanced back at the others.

  He led them into the field and stopped, peering around. A cinderblock building with a red-tiled roof stood baking under the naked sun, a clear landmark to pilots. Grooves worn into the tall grass indicated that the field was used as a runway.

  “There’s no helicopter,” S¸ukruye remarked with worry.

  “Perhaps they came and left already,” added Bellini anxiously.

  “No, no,” Fournier reassured them. Shading his eyes, he peered upward at the cloudless sky. “They haven’t come yet.”

  Jumpy with suspicion, Lucy peered behind her and watched Buitre give orders to David, Manuel, Julian, and Estéban. She strained her ears to overhear what he was telling them. David’s stunned expression corroborated her fear that Buitre was sending them back to hunt for Gus, to kill him if they found him. In the next instant, the four youths turned and melted into the forest.

  Buitre sauntered over to the Europeans. “You will wait here,” he commanded, pointing down at the sunny grass. “Comandante Marquez awaits in there,” he added, gesturing toward the cinderblock structure. “When the helicopter arrives, our compañeros must be presented to us first. Then you will bring us the money. If we are satisfied you have not cheated us, we will release the living hostage and the dead one.”

  He glanced briefly at Lucy, his dark eyes cruelly mocking.

  Fournier eyed the cracked and filthy windows of the cinderblock building. “Perhaps,” he suggested diplomatically, “you could assure us that the hostages are here?” The building appeared deserted.

  Turning a deaf ear on his request, Buitre shouldered his rifle and marched through the knee-high grass to join Marquez inside the building.

  Relieved that she hadn’t been overtly threatened yet, Lucy gave in to her shaky knees and sank gingerly down on the soft grass, bearing her weight on her good hip. The others followed suit, their gazes fixed on the sky for the arriving helicopter.

  Where are you, Gus?

  He’d warned her that if anything should happen to him, she should find water and follow it down the mountain to await rescue by the Navy SEALs. But she was already down the mountain, so now what? All she could do was to continue as a participant in the hostage exchange and hope she would be allowed to leave without incident.

  But how was she supposed to leave without Gus? Partners weren’t supposed to abandon each other.

  Just keep your head in the game, Luce. Keep vigilant.

  She knew to expect the worst. At the same time, she had a job to finish. She had sworn to herself she would get the hostages home, one dead, one alive. Whatever happened, she was obligated to fulfill that promise.

  IN THE TIME THAT IT TOOK to retrieve his jacket from the river, where it had snagged on the branch of a fallen tree, the voices calling for Gus had faded.

  Throwing himself down on the muddy riverbank, he used the knife still in his pocket to shred the jacket into strips, his movements precise and calm, a result of his training.

  Inwardly, his heart was screaming at him to hurry.

  In seconds, he had fashioned booties to protect his feet, already bruised and bleeding from the short distance he’d walked. The sturdy canvas would offer moderate protection, at least. To keep himself camouflaged, he draped his head with the remaining material and resumed his chase, moving stealthily upriver.

  They couldn’t have gott
en too far ahead of him, he assured himself.

  Nor did he blame Fournier for abandoning their search. The UN team’s priority today was to make certain the exchange took place the way it was supposed to. Come what may, they had to meet the helicopter at the airfield. That was the agenda.

  It was Buitre’s agenda that worried Gus now. No doubt he hoped to prevent the map, or knowledge of the map, from escaping. In order to do that, he would try to kill Lucy next. Too bad the information had already been disseminated and decoded. The FARC didn’t stand a chance.

  But that didn’t increase Lucy’s odds any.

  With a fierce grip on the knife, Gus cut diagonally through the jungle, hacking at branches and vines to save time. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. Thorns and spines scratched his bare arms, drawing blood. Mosquitoes swarmed him.

  When he stumbled across a path lined with fresh prints, he nearly wept with relief. Now he could cover ground faster.

  The booties lent him both stealth and speed. He raced down the path, confident of his ability to catch up. Already the sun was edging toward the mountain’s peak. Shadows crept like mercury up the trunks of trees. Gus ran faster, nearly plowing into the squad of rebels meandering up the trail ahead of him.

  With a jolt of adrenaline, he darted off the path, hiding behind a bush, slowing his heavy breathing. Goddamn it! What were David and his squad doing coming back this way?

  “But why would we kill him?” Estéban was asking. “I like Gustavo. He helped to repair our shelter.”

  “He is a spy,” insisted David in a torn and emotional voice. “And so is Luna. They are both spies.”

  Oh, shit, thought Gus. If the four kids caught sight of him, they apparently had orders to mow him down.

  At that very instant he heard in the distance the whop, whop, whop of an approaching helicopter. The exchange was about to go down in a location not too far from his hiding place.

  But until these kids moved past him, he was pinned down, forced to hold perfectly still, ignoring the mosquitoes swarming him. Goddamn it!