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Authors: John Gilstrap

Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Thrillers

Hostage Zero (34 page)

BOOK: Hostage Zero
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“How was Evan?” Jonathan pressed. “Was he in good health?”
A sudden wariness changed Isabella’s face to a mask of suspicion. All trappings of hospitality evaporated. She seemed suddenly angry. “Leave now,” she said; but she didn’t rise.
Jonathan recoiled. He looked to Boxers and got the shrug he knew he was going to get before he looked. “Have I done something wrong?” he asked.
“Leave,” she said again. “I want no part of this.”
Jonathan made no effort to comply. In fact he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Isabella, if I have offended you, I apologize.”
She glared. “You offend me by being here,” she said. “You see my daughter, I tell you about the devils on the hill, and all you care about is the white boy. The American. The gringo. My son is dead. Many sons are dead because of the devils, but no one cares. The white boy—your Evan—is another mother’s son. I help you help him, and I bring danger to all the people of my village. You don’t care about my people, I don’t care about yours. You must leave now.”
Harvey cleared his throat, drawing all eyes around to him. “Where are the men?” he asked.
“Dead,” she replied.
“All of them?”
“All who were old enough to fight. The others work up there.” She pointed toward a spot in the air that only she could see.
“What work do they do?” Jonathan asked. He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from her.
“Coca drug,” she said. “They have a factory up there. Young men and boys put to work up there. We stay here and bring them food.” She looked away as she said the last part, and Jonathan interpreted that to imply other services that one would expect from a village of slaves.
“Why don’t you leave?” Harvey asked.
“They are our sons,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “They work or they die. We stay or they die. If they try to escape, then we die. That’s why they work for the devil.”
“Jesus,” Harvey breathed.
Jonathan had seen it before, in all corners of the third world. The average American, accustomed to twenty-four-hour cable television and air-conditioning on demand, found it impossible to comprehend the suffering endured by the other eighty-five percent of the world’s population. While we prosecute hate speech, the rest of the world enslaves their enemies.
Jonathan sighed noisily. “If you help us, we will fix it for you,” he said. “If you can help, we can make them stop hurting you.”
Boxers got squirmy in his chair. “Um, Scorpion?” he said in English. “What are you doing?”
Isabella looked interested. “I don’t think I understand,” she said.
“We’ll kill some, and make the others too frightened to ever hurt you again.”
“We need to talk,” Boxers said in English.
“There are only three of you,” Isabella said.
“But we’re very good at what we do,” Jonathan countered.
“Scorpion, stop!”
Jonathan slammed the table with his hand. “Quiet!”
“Are you listening to what you’re saying?” Boxers railed. “Do you think maybe a team meeting is in order?”
Jonathan’s eyes flared. He shifted to English. “What’s the alternative? What would you have me do? We’re just going to sneak in, take our one precious cargo, and then leave the rest for these people to live with?”
“That’s exactly what I’d have you do,” Boxers fired back. “That’s the mission. We’re surgical, remember? Not tactical. In a perfect world we sneak in and sneak out and never fire a shot. You’re talking about going to war.”
Jonathan cocked his head. “Since when did you start backing away from starting wars?”
“When I learned to count and discovered that three against a lot was really bad odds. What they have going here is not our fight. It’s their fight.”
“But our fight is going to make it worse for them.”
“So? Our fights
always
make things worse for
somebody
. It’s what we do.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” Jonathan stood. He thought more clearly when he paced. “Just once, wouldn’t you like to actually finish the job we started? Just once, wouldn’t you like to solve the problem behind the problem and bring justice to everybody?”
Boxers looked confused. “Are we still talking about Evan?”
“Think about it,” Jonathan went on. He was on a roll. “Vietnam, Grenada, Mogadishu, Heavy Shadow, two Gulf Wars. Hell, Afghanistan. We moved in, we did what we had to do, and then we left a mess behind. We told ourselves we were successful because we achieved our objectives, but then we left misery behind.”
“What’s this ‘we’ shit?
We
did our jobs.
We
would have stayed for as long as it took. But
we
were just the muscle for the assholes in Washington. Don’t lay their shit on me.”
Jonathan opened his palms, as if balancing an invisible tray. “But don’t you see? You just made my point. Washington isn’t in on this. This one is all
us
. The scope of what we do is our design. What we do or don’t do is all on us. We can do this right.”
Boxers rose, too, and when he did, Isabella and Harvey both stirred uncomfortably. If this came to blows, it’d get real ugly real fast. And no one in his right mind would put a dollar on Jonathan to win. “Jesus, Scorpion, why do you always pull this shit? Why is there always some fucking moral dilemma to lay on me? These people were born badly, okay? Whoever spins the luck wheel before we’re born let it stop a tick or two early for all these poor fucks. But we can’t fix it all. Even if we had enough ammo, we couldn’t carry it, and sooner or later some lucky fucker is going to drill me. Again.”
Harvey raised a finger to interrupt. “Are you saying—”
“You shut up,” Boxers snapped, thrusting a finger in warning. If it had been a gun, Harvey would have been dead.
Jonathan nodded that it was a good time to sit quietly. He wanted to hear Boxers out. He valued the Big Guy’s input on his occasionally quixotic plans.
“And what about the Guinn boy?” Boxers said. “You’re going to risk his life while you’re saving the third world?”
“His life is already at risk,” Jonathan said.
“Which is why we’re here. How do you think he’s got a better shot at getting home? By us sneaking him out under cover of darkness, or by touching off a running firefight?”
That point scored. Jonathan wanted to argue. He wanted Boxers to be wrong, and he wanted to fight for these people. But Big Guy was right. Evan Guinn was the target of this op. It began and ended with him, and whatever resources they expended needed to be expended exclusively for the mission. On another day, under different circumstances, or maybe even with more manpower, this was a fight they could afford to wage.
But not today.
“We could give them the extra weapons,” Harvey said, flouting danger and daring to speak.
The others turned in unison to face him.
“The weapons we left behind at the bottom of the hill. The ones that Josie’s guys surrendered. We could leave them for the villagers to fight back. They won’t need us.”
Boxers stood a little taller and planted his fists on his hips. “Just like that, huh? Just give ’em to the locals and leave? No training? Is that the way y’all did it in jarhead school?” He snorted a laugh. “Explains a lot of the Marine marksmanship I’ve seen.”
“They’ll be as trained as the people they’re shooting at,” Harvey said, ignoring the interservice dick-knocking.
“Or they’ll end up providing additional weapons to the bad guys,” Jonathan said. “Either on purpose or otherwise.” He shook his head. “I was wrong,” he said. “It was a stupid idea.”
Harvey stood. “No, it wasn’t. It’s the right thing to do.”
“Says the medic,” Boxers scoffed.
Harvey took two steps closer to the Big Guy, craning his neck to stare him down. “Exactly, says the medic. The very same medic, in fact, who just did his best to repair what may be irreparable damage. Chances of bearing children maybe five in ten. Then there are the facial cuts. You want to see?”
Boxers tossed his do-you-believe-this-guy smirk to Jonathan, but Jonathan wasn’t receiving.
“Come on,” Harvey pressed, grabbing Boxers’ sleeve. “Come on in and take a glance. See if it’s worth fighting for.”
Boxers yanked his arm away. “I don’t need to see what I already know,” he said. “I’ve seen it before. Don’t care to see it again.”
“But you don’t mind letting it happen some more, right?”
“It’s not our
job
to stop it. Our
job
is to rescue a little boy who needs rescuing.”
“A white boy,” Harvey mocked. “Just like Isabella said. We love ’em if they’re white, but put a little color on ’em and we don’t care so much.”
“Who the
fuck
are you to lecture me?” Boxers growled. “You’ve got no idea what I got in my heart. You’ve got no idea what I want to do and what I don’t. What I’m telling you is that professionals don’t think with their hearts. They think with their heads. I don’t know where jarheads come from, but where I come from, it’s a professional’s job to push all that shit aside and concentrate on the fucking mission. If I’m gonna die in some fuckin’ stink hole like this place, it’s gonna be because I was trying to do my job.”
“And these people?” Harvey made a wide sweeping gesture with both arms. “What about them?”
“They are
not
my job. Not this time, anyway.”
Harvey gave up that fight and turned to Jonathan. “Boss, don’t back down. You were right the first time. We’ve gotta do what we came to do up there at the top of the hill. That’s a sure thing. But after we do, what about all these villagers? They’re going to pay the price for our success.”
“You make like they’re innocent,” Boxers said, reengaging. “That’s bullshit. Where I sit, these villagers might not be the monsters that the others are, but their fingerprints are on this business, too. They know what’s going on up there, and they let it happen every single day.”
“They’re powerless to stop it!” Harvey yelled.
Jonathan held up a hand for his turn. “Not entirely,” he said. “Big Guy has a point. In World War Two, Eisenhower held townspeople accountable for the concentration camps. They accepted soldiers’ business in their shops, and they kept roads clear for the shipment of people to the death camps. Wasn’t it Edmund Burke who said, ‘All that is necessary for evil to triumph is that good men do nothing’?”
“Exactly,” Boxers said. “Thanks for seeing my side.”
Jonathan gave him a hard look. “We’re good men, Big Guy,” he said with a wink. “We’ve gotta do
something
.”
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-SIX
After taking Evan’s picture, El Jéfe assigned a new guard to escort the boy farther into the jungle, past the cluster of huts that he presumed to be the headquarters for whatever was going on.
Evan had never been so exhausted—never in his entire life. Every muscle ached, and every square inch of skin screamed from the onslaught of God only knew how many different varieties of bugs. He’d known from the History Channel and Discovery that prehistoric times still reigned in the jungles, with man-eating plants and insects, but Jesus. How did the people who lived here get anything done when three-quarters of every calorie was burned up by either slapping something or scratching the bite that an unslapped something left behind?
Only a few minutes into the hike, they emerged over the crest of a hill onto a rolling vista that might once have been beautiful. There were fewer trees here, affording a view of thick ground foliage that swept downhill from where he stood to a little valley, and then uphill again on the other side. Evan wasn’t good at judging distances, but he guessed that it had to be a half mile or more between where he stood and the opposite peak.
The field of bushes had an undulating feel to it, as if it were alive. For an instant, Evan thought it might be the wind, but the rhythm wasn’t right. It wasn’t natural. When he realized the truth of it, his heart skipped a beat. The place was alive with children scattered among the bushes, working their asses off stripping leaves from the branches and stuffing them into sacks that were slung over their shoulders.
He saw only boys among the workers and only men—some of them teenagers—among the guards who watched over them. The children all wore tattered remnants of what had once been poor people’s rags, though some wore nothing at all. Evan pegged the workers’ ages at somewhere between eight and maybe fourteen years old.
Evan’s arrival startled a soldier who looked like he might have been sleeping. He jumped when one of Evan’s escorts called his name, and he fumbled with his rifle—an AK-47, Evan thought—but then stopped when he recognized them. The guard who called his name had been part of Evan’s parade ever since he’d first met up with Oscar in the field. He spoke with rapid words and an angry tone to the man who’d been sleeping, and the guilty guard looked more terrified with every word that was being fired at him.
Evan’s guard finished his diatribe by shoving the younger man in the chest hard enough to make him stumble over his own feet and fall backward into the undergrowth.
Evan didn’t understand a word of it, but he was pretty sure he got the gist. “
Estúpido
” probably meant in Spanish more or less what it sounded like in English.
It wasn’t lost on him that his captors treated everyone else much more harshly than they treated him. It’s not that they were nice—far from it. It was more as if he weren’t even there—better still, as if he were a dog or a piece of furniture. Whichever, he was obviously a valuable dog or piece of furniture.
Finished with delivering his tongue-lashing and obviously pleased with himself, Evan’s guard led the way into the endless field of bushes. He said something into his radio, and then they stopped again. A couple of minutes later, a man emerged from the brush. He was very tall, very black, and wore more or less the same tattered-shorts uniform as the workers. On his belt, though, he carried a coiled whip; in his hand, a well-worn Louisville Slugger baseball bat.
Evan’s stomach knotted in fear. This man with the glistening skin and powerful muscles was bad. Evil was written all over him just as surely as if it had been drawn with Magic Marker.
The presence of the new man transformed Evan’s guard from abusive bully to timid wimp. As the two of them spoke, it was clear that Evan was the topic of conversation, and the angry set of the black man’s face told the boy that he wasn’t welcome here.
When their brief conversation was done, the guard put a hand on Evan’s shoulder and pushed him closer to the black man. In the staccato conversation that accompanied the push, Evan heard his name.
“Ah, so you are the prince,” the black man said. His tone was leaden with sarcasm. “Welcome to your new home.” He held out his hand.
Evan took it. He was going to say, “Pleased to meet you,” but before he had the chance, the man’s grip closed like a talon.
“My name is Victor,” he said. “You are mine. You will do what I say. If you are too slow or if I am in a sour mood, I will hit you with my whip. If you try to run away, I will break your legs with my baseball bat. Do you have any questions?”
Evan found himself transfixed by the way the man handled the bat. When he talked about breaking his legs, he twirled it in a manner that projected perfect intimacy with its potential to inflict damage. Evan shook his head no—a silent lie. He was filled with questions—consumed by them—but nothing was more clear to him at the moment than the fact that the correct answer was no, he had nothing to ask.
“
Bueno
,” Victor said. He then spoke rapidly to the guard, who laughed and walked away after giving Evan an angry glare that the boy felt he hadn’t earned.
Victor poked at Evan’s belly with the baseball bat, but he bent in the middle and jumped back, avoiding contact. Victor laughed. “Good reflexes,” he said. “They will serve you well among the other workers. Come.”
He led the way down the hill into the thickness of the bushes. As if it were even possible, the heat and the humidity both doubled. Most of the bushes were taller than Evan, and the height of the foliage blocked whatever semblance of breeze there once had been. Within a minute, his skin was slippery with sweat, which in turn summoned more insects.
“What is this place?” Evan asked.
“Your home.”
The answer was intended to frighten him, and it succeeded. But Evan wasn’t going to give his captor the satisfaction of showing it. “I meant the bushes,” he said. “What are they?”
Victor scowled. “You have hair like a girl.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Perhaps I should cut it off.”
Evan looked him straight in the eye. “If you want to, you will. I’m not big enough to stop you.” Actually, right now, in this heat, he sort of hoped he would. He’d have welcomed a buzz cut. But he sensed that these people wouldn’t let him cut his hair even if he begged for it. Whatever this was about, taking his picture was an important part of it. Since they’d already shot his photo twice in the last couple of days, it only made sense that they’d want to take it again, and if that was the case, they’d want him to look like himself.
Victor asked, “Have you heard people say that money does not grow on trees?”
Evan nodded.
“These bushes”—Victor brushed them with the tip of his bat—“prove that to be wrong. These leaves are U.S. dollar bills. Over there are Euros. And rubles and rupees and pesos. The work we do here makes people very wealthy.” He plucked a few leaves from one of the bushes and offered them to Evan. “Here.”
Evan took them, held them in his fist. They looked like any other leaves, green and oval-shaped. He looked at Victor.
His captor stripped a few leaves for himself and tucked them between his cheek and lower gum, the way people back home dipped snuff. “You chew the leaves. Suck on them. Make you feel happy. Make you feel strong.”
Evan remembered the nice old lady from the village spitting out the bits of paper that looked very much like these leaves. He handed them back. “No, thank you.”
Victor looked offended. “Coca leaves. Very good for you. Like Coca-Cola.”
So that was it. They’re making cocaine up here. Evan had watched a documentary once about the development of soft drinks, and he remembered that early on, Coca-Cola had cocaine in it. They’d removed it years ago, but apparently, a hundred years later, Victor still hadn’t gotten the word.
Evan dropped the leaves onto the ground and brushed his hands together. “No, thank—” A flash of light behind his eyes and an explosion of pain cut off his words as Victor knocked him on the back of the head with his bat. The boy yelled and bent over as he grabbed the wound. A second, harder blow to his right hip dropped him to his knees. From there, he curled into a protective ball, terrified of where the next hit might land.
“Stand up,” Victor commanded.
Sensing another blow, Evan raised a protective hand blindly, not daring to look where it might be coming from.
“On your feet now,
chico
, or I will truly hit you. Those were only light taps.” He poked him with the end of the bat, eliciting a yelp. “Stand now, or get hit again.”
Stunned by the suddenness of the attack and aching from the points of impact that were already starting to swell, Evan scrabbled to get his feet beneath him. He stood, his hand still pressed to his head.
“When I say to do something, you do it,” Victor said evenly. His tone made him sound like the voice of reason. “Now pick up those leaves I gave you.”
Luckily, they’d fallen in a clump on the dirt path where they’d been walking. Unluckily, they’d fallen in mud. As Evan picked them up, he noticed how filthy his hands were. He might as well never have washed. Perhaps that’s why no one else did.
He displayed the three leaves for Victor, spreading them in his fingers as you might show a hand of cards.
“Put them in your mouth,” Victor instructed, and he watched as the boy complied. “Chew them a little to get them soft, then settle them here.” He pointed to the dip-spot in his own mouth.
Evan chewed as instructed, in spite of the terrible, bitter taste. In seconds, he could feel his tongue going numb—not as thoroughly as with Novocain at the dentist’s, but that same sort of feeling.
“Be sure not to swallow them,” Victor said. “It should be okay to move them to your cheek now.”
Again, Evan followed directions and this time Victor watched expectantly. “How do you feel?”
“My mouth feels numb,” he said. “I don’t like it.”
“But how does your head feel? And your hip?”
Holy crap, the pain was nearly gone. He didn’t say anything, but apparently his expression spoke for him.
“See?” Victor said, smiling. “I told you the coca was good for you. Come.”
The walk continued. After a minute or so, they started to pass other people at work. It was as he’d suspected. The workers were all boys, and he was among the oldest. Most didn’t even notice him passing, but those who did registered a curious glance quickly and then went right back to stripping the leaves off the branches. Off to the left, Evan saw one kid squatted with his butt close to the ground taking a dump right in the middle of everything. Curiously, the smell of his shit was lost in the general atmosphere of rot and decay.
Victor bellowed, “Charlie! Where are you, boy?” Evan wouldn’t note it until later, but he shouted in English. After he didn’t get an immediate answer, Victor poked another boy with his bat. “Jesús,” he said, and the boy jumped. Victor asked him something in Spanish, and the boy pointed behind them.
“You stay here,” he said to Evan, and then he retraced their steps back a dozen yards. “Charlie!” he yelled, clearly finding the face he was looking for. “Come out here.”
A boy of about twelve emerged from the bushes, and Evan’s heart fell. It was the one he’d just seen taking the shit. He was nearly as dark-skinned as the others, but his hair was brown, not black, making Evan wonder if maybe genetics had less to do with his skin color than sun exposure. He was skinnier than the others, too. A rope kept his tattered shorts in place. He was beyond filthy, and his eyes had a dull look about them. Evan instantly disliked him.
“Look what I brought for you, Charlie,” Victor said as he brought the boy closer to Evan. “Another English speaker.” They were very close now. “Charlie, shake hands with Evan.”
The other boy dutifully raised his hand in greeting, but Evan hesitated. The kid had filthy hands, and there was no toilet paper out here. Figure it out.
He offered a fist for a knuckle-knock, and Charlie took him up on it.
Victor said, “Charlie, I want you to take charge of Evan.”
Charlie didn’t like the idea at all. He said something to Victor in Spanish, and Victor responded in a harsh tone. After a pause, Victor unleashed some more words, and Charlie caved.
Victor explained, “For the first few days, you work the same bag. Today you will learn, Evan. Tomorrow, you are half responsible for Charlie’s double production. You don’t want to fail. Show him, Charlie.” Victor made a spinning motion with his forefinger, and Charlie turned to display crosshatched scars on his lower back. He showed them just for a few seconds, and then he turned back.
“Tell our new friend how you earned those,” Victor encouraged.
Charlie cleared his throat and spoke to Evan’s feet. “From the whip,” he said. “Because I didn’t work fast enough.”
“
Exactamente
,” Victor said, smiling. “There are many scars here. I like giving scars.” As if reading Evan’s mind, he bent low till he was face to face with him. “And no matter how badly I make your back bleed, the pictures will always look just fine.”
BOOK: Hostage Zero
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