Gray Resurrection (3 page)

That was, until three months ago. 

Her letters had suddenly become less
frequent and a lot shorter, until they had stopped completely four weeks
ago.  Now she was back, and with a foreigner in tow.

He had told the truth when he’d told Sam
that he hadn’t taken bribes from Abu Sayyaf.

However, there was always a first time.

He punched in a number and waited a
moment for the recipient to pick up.

“Pare, I have something you might be
interested in...”

Chapter 3

Monday 16th
April 2012

Grant didn’t know if it was the lack of air-conditioning
or the food he’d eaten at Alma’s house, but he woke up just after midnight
covered in sweat, the thin cotton bed sheet sticking to his naked body. 
He headed into the bathroom and stood under the weak shower, allowing the tepid
water to slowly wash away the layer of perspiration.  As he dried himself
he realised after five minutes that he was no longer towelling off water: he
was back to the layer of sweat that had replaced it.  Giving up on the
fruitless exercise, he walked back into the bedroom where he grabbed a local
newspaper and used it to fan himself.

He turned on the television, knowing
that trying to get back to sleep would be futile.  The music from a talent
show blasted into the room and he jumped for the remote, turning the volume
down to an acceptable level.  After flicking through the channels he
settled on cock fighting, although he saw more adverts than action.  That
was the trouble with TV in the Philippines: they showed four minutes of the
program followed by five minutes of advertisements.

Grant was just learning how to get
bigger breasts when he heard a knock at the door and he immediately assumed it
was someone coming to complain about the television being too loud.  He
dashed into the toilet and grabbed a towel to wrap around his waist, then
opened the door a little and peered through the crack.  As he did so he
was shoved backwards and four men ran into the room, weapons raised and
pointing at him.  Two of the men had handguns, the other two rifles which
he recognised as American M16s.

“On the floor!” one shouted.  Gray
complied, a little too slowly for their liking, and he got a rifle butt in the
shoulder for his troubles.  He sank to his knees, still holding the towel,
and weighed up the men before him.

Three of them were about five feet six
tall, about average for Filipinos, while the one who’d struck him dwarfed them
by a good fourteen inches.  The rifle looked like a toy in his huge hands
and he was the only one without facial hair.  Grant decided to designate
him ‘Ox’, because the dumb-looking giant probably couldn’t spell it, but he
looked like he could lift one.

Grant considered fighting his way out,
but they had too much distance between them, whether by training or chance, he
didn’t know.
 
Any attempt to take one of
their weapons would afford the others enough time to give him the bad news, so
he decided to wait and see what they wanted:  The longer he managed to
play this out, the more he could learn about them, in particular their
strengths and weaknesses. 

It didn’t take long for them to reveal
the reason for the visit.

“We are Abu Sayyaf,” one of them said,
and Grant decided he was the leader of the little group.  “You will come
with us.”

“What for?” Grant asked, feigning
fear.  Back in his Army days he’d been taught that by acting submissively
in these situations his enemies would most likely be more lenient, whereas
someone who was antagonistic would be watched more closely and treated with
more aggression.

“You will be our hostage.  You are
a rich man and will pay us a million dollars.”

“I haven't got a million dollars,” Grant
said, incredulous.  “I just work in an office.”

“Liar!”  The shout was punctuated
with another blow from the rifle butt, this time to the back of the head. 
He collapsed, his vision blurred and bells ringing in his ears.  “We know
you are a businessman and have a company in Manila.  You will pay us!”

One of the men grabbed his clothes from
the chair and threw them at him.

“Put your clothes on,” Leader shouted,
while another emptied Grant's bag out onto the bed.  After handing the
mobile over to his boss he put the rest of the belongings back in the bag and
swung it over his shoulder.

Grant dressed slowly despite their
prompting, pretending to fumble with his clothes as he desperately thought of a
way out.  Leader had backed away to the door, covering him with his
pistol, and Grant realised that there would be no escape while they were in the
room.  The situation got worse a moment later.

“Anton, tie his hands,” Leader said, and
one of the men stepped forward and produced something from his pocket.  It
looked to Grant like the flex from a lamp, and he put his hands out, palms
facing each other.  Anton was having none of it, and he gestured with his
own hands to show that he wanted Grant to place one wrist on top of the
other.  These guys have had practice, Grant thought as he followed Anton's
instructions.

With his hands secure they ushered him
into the hallway, but even here they were too spread out for him to take them
all down, even if his hands had been free.  Once down the stairs he saw
that the reception desk was empty, and Ox used the muzzle of his rifle to urge
Grant through the front door where a battered Toyota saloon was waiting. 

Leader opened the boot and told him to
climb inside, and he looked round for a possible alternative.  There was a
sprinkling of people on the streets and he considered crying out for help, but
his captors were either blissfully unaware of the onlookers or, more ominously,
they didn’t care.  If it was the latter, then attracting their attention
was unlikely to do him any good, so he complied once more.

The lid slammed down, blotting out the
meagre street lighting.  The air inside the cramped compartment was
stifling.  The car then took off and his whole body rattled as they
navigated the uneven streets, his head crashing against the lid of the boot
every time they hit a pothole.  By the time they reached the outskirts of
town a trickle of blood was already running down his forehead, and things only
got worse once they hit the dirt roads leading out of Isabela City.

Grant knew the situation wasn’t going to
improve anytime soon, but one advantage he had was that they didn’t know about
his military past.  They thought he was just a businessman, and he would
happily keep up that illusion until the time came.

The pace of the car slowed but the
jostling continued for another thirty minutes, then abruptly stopped.
 Grant heard and felt the occupants climbing out and the doors slamming
shut, and a moment later the boot was opened.  Grant closed one eye to
protect his night vision, expecting light to come flooding in, but the night
was pitch black.  As he was being dragged out of the car he realised that
the reason for the utter darkness was that they had driven deep into the
jungle, and not even the night stars could penetrate the tree tops.

Blood dripped from his forehead into his
eyes and he wiped it away with his wrist.  He then stretched his legs,
glad of the chance to straighten them again after his short confinement, but no
sooner had he got the circulation going than Ox once more prodded him with the
rifle, suggesting he fall in behind Leader who was striding into the
darkness.  As he set off the lights of the car lit the men up, then
reversed and disappeared back in the direction of the main town.

“Emilio, you watch our backs,” Anton
said as he fell in behind his giant comrade.

After those few words they walked in
silence for three hours, fording a shallow stream before heading to higher ground
where the going was tougher on Grant.  His calves began to burn as they
took a circuitous route up the hill but fortunately Leader was also in the mood
for a break and ordered everyone to rest up.  While his captors dumped
their gear and sought a comfortable place to sit, Grant collapsed into the
foliage and began massaging his legs.  He hadn’t had a drink of water in
hours and knew from his jungle training days in the regiment that dehydration
was his most dangerous enemy right now.  Unless he got that under control
he would be in no fit state to walk much further, never mind find a way to
escape.

“I need a drink,” he shouted over to
Leader, who immediately came over and clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Keep your voice down.  The
Sundalos are everywhere.”

Grant waited until the sweaty palm had
been removed then asked what Sundalos were, a lot more quietly this time.

“They are the Armed Forces of the
Philippines.  They want to deny us our right to an independent Muslim
state.”

Grant was encouraged by the fact that
they were surrounded by the Army and it showed on his face, but his hopes were
soon dashed. 

“They are incompetent, but even an idiot
with a gun can be dangerous.  They don’t care who they shoot at, as long
as they fire in our general direction.  Sometimes they hit us, sometimes
our hostages.  I don’t think you should look at them as your saviours:
they are more likely to kill you than rescue you.”

With a grin, Leader returned to his
small backpack and took a swig from a half-full bottle of water before throwing
it over to Grant, who gulped it down.  It was warm and did little to
quench his thirst, but it would keep him going for an hour or two.

A few minutes later they heard faint
voices coming from below them on the hill, and Leader whispered for everyone to
start moving again.  No-one was sure if the voices belonged to soldiers or
civilians but they were taking no chances, and climbed ever higher while making
as little sound as possible.  Even Grant, who would have been as clumsy as
possible if it meant alerting a rescue team, did his best to keep the noise to
a minimum.

They trudged on for another two hours
until Leader suddenly raised his hand for those behind him to stop. 
Everyone dropped to a knee, even Grant.  He cursed himself for letting his
training take over but none of the others seemed to care; they were more intent
on finding out what Leader had come across.

After an interminable three minutes
Leader stood again and opened his arms.  From the darkness two men
appeared, both carrying rifles, and they each hugged Leader.

“
Salam
alaikum
!”
they said as they kissed each other on both cheeks.  Grant’s guards joined
in the greetings and when they’d finished one of the newcomers came and stood
over him.  He considered Grant for a moment and then rattled off some
Tagalog to his companions.  They grabbed Grant under his arms and lifted
him to his feet, then pushed him forward.  Once again Leader took point
and it was only a few minutes later that they arrived in the camp.

In fact, the camp was little more than a
clearing in the jungle, the remnants of the smaller trees they’d chopped down
to create it still littering the ground.  Larger trees were dotted around
the centre and all of them had hammocks swinging between them, some with more
than one occupant.  Over to Grant’s right he saw a small tent capable of
housing two, maybe three people at a push, and to his left he saw a group
huddled together on the ground.

There were four Filipinos, a Chinese
couple and three westerners, and Ox poked him with his rifle, gesturing that he
should join them.  He took a seat next to the white trio and the first
thing he noticed was their poor condition.  The two males were
undernourished, their faces having an almost skeletal appearance.  Both
wore shorts and T-shirts which looked like they hadn't been washed in months
and one man had a festering sore the size of a golf ball on his neck.  The
woman seemed in better health, though her clothes were just as ragged. 
Her shoulder-length blonde hair fell about her face and clearly hadn't seen
shampoo in a long time, but underneath all the dirt he could see a rather
striking woman.  Despite his circumstances something stirred inside him,
something he hadn’t felt in years.

She grabbed his arms, her grip
surprisingly strong.

“I'm Vick,” she said.  “Vick
Phillips.”

“Vick?” Grant looked confused.

“Short for Victoria,” she explained.

“Ah, I see.  Sam.  Sam
Grant.  How long have you all been here?”

Vick gestured to the men.  “Robert
Moore and I have been here since January and Eddie Halton arrived about three
weeks later.”

“What about the others?” he asked,
looking beyond the trio.

“The Chinese couple have been here for
about two months and don't speak a word of English, and the Filipinos...”

Her words drifted off and her eyes
glazed over as she stared towards the rising sun as it broke the horizon.

“The locals don't have the same value as
we do,” Moore explained.  “They tend to have a couple of weeks to come up
with payment or they are just taken away and never come back.  We heard
one of the guards joking about how one man's head bounced and rolled down the
hill.  That seems to be their favourite way of dealing with people.”

No wonder they all look petrified, Grant
thought.  He wasn't afraid of death, but he didn't like the idea of it
coming by decapitation.

“Have you heard anything about us?” Vick
asked.  “On the news, I mean?”

“I don’t really follow the local
news.  I mostly read the BBC news website.”

Vick look at him, imploring him to
continue.

“Sorry, but I haven’t seen anything
about you, any of you.  Are you sure the government know you’re here?”