Kidnapped and a Daring Escape (24 page)

    
"No, I didn’t."

    
"Our survival depends on watching our environment. Maybe I’m a bit
paranoid seeing danger everywhere, but it has kept us safe until now."

    
Yes, it has. I could be dead by now without you, flashes through her
mind. She nods and looks at his profile, an almost black silhouette
against the light of the moon.

    
"But Bianca, you’ve not yet given me an answer to my question."

    
"Which question?"

    
"About getting too close to the truth. Tell me."

    
She lowers her face and murmurs: "Yes, you were right. I was terribly
hurt." She hesitates for a moment. She has the urge to say more.

    
"Go on, Bianca."

    
"How do you know there is more?"

    
"The look in your face tells me." He smiles.

    
"Things have not been going well with Franco." She turns to him and
stops walking. Suddenly, like the floodgates being opened, she has the
urge to pour it all out. "Ever since the start of the trip he was distant. He
got easily impatient over minor matters and was often cynical. When I
dared pointing it out, he belittled me, telling me not to be so touchy, to
show a bit of humor. He did it not only to me, but also to other students.
I thought it might be the stress of having to look after us, having to
arrange everything, but he refused help. He didn’t even want to kiss me
anymore, just a quick peck on a cheek and only when nobody was
around. He didn’t want any hanky-panky between students and said we
had to lead by example."

    
"And when he hurt you in front of me, you blamed me because it was
my apology that caused it. Wasn’t that so?"

    
"Yes … Oh André, I’m so ashamed." She hides her face on his chest.

    
"You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. Look, if we hadn’t gone through
all this together, we might never have gotten as close as we are now." He
pauses. "I feel that you love me, even if you’re not yet willing to admit
it to yourself."

    
"I do love you," she murmurs, relieved that she finally has the courage
to voice it, feeling safe in his embrace.

* * *

They resume their ride. The road passes through a wasteland of deeply
eroded valleys, almost bare of any vegetation. André reckons that it is the
continuation of the wasteland he spotted from that ridge, prior to their
encounter with the four pursuers. In places the road gets even worse than
before, full of small rocks that have rolled down from the often steep
scree slopes. He has no choice but to switch the headlight on low beam
and slow down drastically if he does not want to risk skidding. The strain
of holding the handlebars in a tight grip is taxing. It takes almost an hour
before they climb out of the wasteland over another low pass up and
down numerous switchbacks, and reach the first patches of woodland.

    
They are going around a wide bend coming out of a small forest when
the headlights of two vehicles almost blind him. The vehicles are
stationed on the road in front of what looks like a bridge, some three
hundred yards farther on at the bottom of a long declivity. A roadblock,
is André’s instant reaction. He immediately switches off his light, brakes
sharply and says: "Hold on tight."

    
"What’s happening?"

    
"A road block, probably the military," he replies, while turning the
machine around and going back around the curve into the forest, avoiding
using the brakes and thereby activating the brake light. At a place where
he earlier saw a partially overgrown track, probably the old road, he
slowly enters, keeping on the gravel, making sure to leave no signs of
disturbance. The track keeps more or less parallel to the road maybe six
to eight feet below the road surface. He kills the engine and lets the
machine slowly roll down.

    
"Wouldn’t they let us through? Would they detain us?"

    
"No to the first, yes to the second. We’ve no papers. I don’t even have
my driver’s license — the first thing they’ll ask for. I don’t want to risk
it."

    
Half a minute later, a vehicle passes by at high speed on the road
above, while they continue rolling silently down the track.

    
"So what do we do?" Her voice betrays her anxiety.

    
"If we’re on the old road, which I think this track is, then there must
be a ford at the river. That should get us past the road block."

    
"And if it isn’t?"

    
"Then I’ll think of something else."

    
As they get closer to the bridge, he sees a ramp leading down to the
river. His heart takes a leap. What luck, he rejoices; there is a maintained
ford for the use by heavy trucks. About thirty yards from the bridge he
engages second gear. Almost instantly, the machine roars into life. He
switches the headlight on, accelerates and shoots across the shallow
water, up the ramp on the other side and back onto the road.

    
"We made it," he shouts, speeding away, just as the rattle of machine
gun fire erupts, quickly followed by Bianca’s scream.

    
"I’ve been hit."

    
"Where?" he shouts, continuing at his mad pace.

    
"I don’t know. I just felt it in my back."

    
"Does it hurt?"

    
She hesitates for a moment. "No."

    
"Can you move your legs?"

    
Again she hesitates a second. I hope it’s not her spine, he prays
silently.

    
"Yes."

    
"And still no pain?"

    
"No."

    
"We’ll check it out later, but you tell me if you get any pain."

    
While they talk, he occasionally checks the rear mirror. The second
vehicle has turned and taken up the pursuit. They’ve no chance, he muses
to himself, as long as Bianca is OK. Let’s show them what a motorcycle
can do on these curvy roads. He continues racing around the turns and
twists of the road as fast as he dares. The road surface has, in fact,
improved. At the end of a straight, he again checks the rear mirror. The
vehicle has not come into sight yet. He has already gained more than half
a mile on it. Checking periodically for lights, he observes the vehicle
falling farther and farther behind.

    
A short time later the road surface becomes paved and they drive
through a small town. The sign at its entrance names it La Sierra. He
rides through at a fair speed while keeping the motor noise as low as
possible.

    
"No pain yet?"

    
"No, but it definitely felt like having been punched in the back."

    
"Maybe the banknotes stopped the bullet," he jokes, not really
believing it. It is more likely that she was hit by a rock flicked at her by
a bullet, he figures.

    
The road out of town is also paved and continues for thirty kilometers
more or less on a northerly course. It passes over hilly country through
picturesque farmland and several sleepy villages. In the little town of Las
Rosas they join the major road from Popayàn to Pasto, part of the Trans-America Highway. All too quickly another tortuous pass of many
switchbacks slows them down. By then there is a hint of dawn toward the
east and he can ride without lights.

    
"Holding up, Bianca?"

    
"Yes," she replies, hugging him more tightly for a few seconds.

* * *

Coming over a small hill, he sees below them the expanse of red roofs
and white buildings of a sizable town. It must be Timbio, he reckons, and
gets that soon confirmed by a road sign. He guesses the hour to be around
eight in the morning and is surprised that there is so little traffic, just a
couple of cars and scooters and a few pedestrians, most of them well-dressed. Then he remembers. The day is Sunday, and they have wanted
to do shopping. It will have to wait until tomorrow.

    
He begins looking for a convenient place to abandon the motorcycle,
the faster the better, he reckons. Foreign looking, riding without helmets,
their risk of being stopped by police rises sharply. They come past a
church. A steady stream of worshipers is entering it. To its right a few
cars and a two dozen or so scooters and motorcycles are parked on the
gravel. For a moment he is tempted to leave the machine with the other
motorcycles, but then decides against it. There are too many people
around who could see and remember them because of their unusual
clothing. So he rides on. A short stretch later, a road sign points to a
soccer stadium. That may just be the right place at this time of day.
Nobody around yet.

    
He rides down the road. There is ample parking space all along the
small stadium. At the far end, trees provide some shade. That is where he
parks the Honda. Bianca again needs help to get off the machine. He
steadies her and removes her backpack.

    
"I’m so glad to be off that seat!" she exclaims, as she exercises her
legs. "I can still feel the vibration of the motor on my legs."

    
"But it was fun, especially the last stretch on the paved road."

    
"Yes, but I’ve never sat on a motorcycle for that long and over such
horrible roads, and it took me a while to relax. I was terribly scared at the
beginning, and you were going so fast. And that punch into my back gave
me a real fright. What do you think happened?"

    
"Let’s check to pack."

    
There is in fact a small hole roughly at the level of the shoulder
blades. He opens the pack and pulls out the two shrink-wrapped bags of
twenty-dollar notes. There is a bullet almost completely embedded in one
of the tight bundles. Its tip just pierces the other side, but the metal frame
of the pack must have stopped it. His hands begin to shake, and he sees
Bianca go all white. He holds her close, stroking her until her trembling
ceases.

    
"Are you all right?" he murmurs.

    
She only nods. Suddenly, he smiles. "Now you see how wise it was of
me to take that money along. It saved your life."

    
"You could not know that and it is not funny." She emphasizes each
word.

    
"No, it was too close, but it’s true nevertheless."

    
He puts the plastic bags back into the pack and takes off his rain
jacket.

    
"Why do we stop here?" she queries, her voice still shaken.

    
"We’ll continue into town on foot and tomorrow take the bus to
Popayàn. We then blend in better with the people. Riding that bike makes
us a target for the police." While he says that, he folds up the jacket and
stuffs it into the pack. "Take your jacket off too. We will be less
noticeable in shirts."

    
While she does, he wipes all surfaces on the machine that he might
have touched. He answers her questioning look: "Finger prints."

    
A few minutes later they leave the parking area. André briefly glances
back at the Honda. It is a beautiful machine. He guesses, that with the key
still in the ignition, somebody else will soon steal it.

    
Half an hour later they wander through the town square. People are
just coming out of another old church and stand around chatting. On the
far side of the square is the sign for the bus depot, so he steers toward it.
It is always a good place to find notices for cheap accommodation. They
indeed quickly spot a cork board with cards of various sizes and colors
pinned to it. One of them shows a small diagram with directions to Casa
Familiar Yacinta, a guesthouse in one of the side street a few hundred
yards beyond the bus station.