Show No Fear (23 page)

T
HE SUNLIGHT WAS JUST BEGINNING
to wane when the door of the
casita
crashed open, startling its dozing occupants. “Someone is coming!” Estéban announced, ducking out again.

Gus leapt up to watch through the window. The others shared hopeful glances. “It’s Buitre and Fournier,” he finally confirmed.

The negotiator had been gone for over twenty-four hours.

They greeted him at the door, enthusiastic in their welcome. “I have much to tell you,” the Frenchman cheerfully announced
as he stepped across the threshold.

They drew him toward the fireplace, where embers still glowed in the wake of their evening meal. Buitre shut the door, keeping
the younger rebels out, himself inside.

“Is it done?” the Italian asked, his face alight with hope.

“Tell us everything,” S¸ ukruye pleaded. “You’ve been gone so long, Pierre. We were growing worried for you!”

“It is done,” said Fournier, darting an uncomfortable glance at the deputy. Buitre had placed his back to the door to watch
them with a coy expression. “Well, at least, the process is underway,” he amended.

“Where is Señor Álvarez?” Carlos asked, drawing attention to the Argentine’s absence.

“He was released earlier this afternoon,” Fournier relayed. “I imagine he will soon be with his family.”

S¸ukruye clasped her hands to her heart. “Then we must be leaving soon, as well,” she breathed.

“Yes, yes,” said Fournier with another uncomfortable glance at the door.

Lucy slanted Buitre a look of her own. There was something creepy about him just standing there, holding a jug in one hand.
Why did she get the sense that he was gloating, his dark eyes focused for the most part on her?

As the Frenchman gestured for them to gather nearer, Gus looped an arm around Lucy’s waist, drawing her stiff body closer.
Weakness undermined her determination to remain aloof. She caved in to it, forgetting his presumption, as she let the memory
of his touch burn a lasting impression in her mind, to cherish later.

“We went all the way to Puerto la Concordia,” the Frenchman divulged at just above a whisper. “There we met a lawyer, a FARC
supporter, who had a telephone, a fax, and dial-up Internet. I was able to fax Jay Barnes’s request for payment to his insurance
company.”

The kiss Gus placed on Lucy’s temple briefly distracted her. Another memory, filed away for later.

“The money will be wired to a bank in Bogotá,” Fournier added, his gray eyes alight with optimism, “where one of my associates
will pick it up. In addition, the ten FARC prisoners will be released and delivered, under guard, to my associate. Both the
officers and the money will be boarded on a Red Cross helicopter and delivered tomorrow afternoon to the airfield at the foot
of the mountain, where Commander Marquez will be waiting to relinquish Jay Barnes and the body of Mike Howitz.”

“Tomorrow!” S¸ukruye exclaimed, her eyes glimmering with tears of relief. “Oh, you have done well, Pierre!” she praised him.

It seemed a little premature to dole out accolades, thought Lucy, resisting a glance up at Gus. What about the red tape Fournier
had mentioned the other day? A whole host of things could go wrong, delaying the helicopter’s arrival.

“Not I. All of us,” Fournier insisted.

“Then you must celebrate,” Buitre spoke up abruptly, interrupting. Pushing off the door, he swaggered closer, extending the
jug in his hand. He thrust it at Fournier. “A gift from Front Commander Rojas,” he announced.

“Thank you,” said Fournier uncertainly. “What is it?”

“
Chicha,
” said Buitre with an enigmatic smile.

“Fermented cassava,” translated Carlos with a guarded expression.

What was the deputy up to? Lucy wondered.

“Try it,” he insisted. “It is better than
panela.
”

Never one to offend a host, Fournier removed the cork and took an obliging sip. He swallowed, wheezed, and cleared his throat.
“Not bad,” he decreed. “A bit like English cider. Thank you, Deputy Buitre.”

Buitre inclined his head. “Everyone must try it,” he insisted with a steely smile.

Lucy considered the offer. Was this a friendly gesture on the rebel’s part, or a hostile one? The FARC had nothing to gain
from harming them, not when they’d yet to receive their ransom payment. On the other hand, she could not forget Buitre’s suspicions,
nor his hostility when he confronted her about the map.

To her incredulity, she watched Gus take a hearty swig. Was he that certain the drink hadn’t been laced with poison?

He thrust the jug at her, wafting potent-smelling fumes in her direction. She took a wary sip. Liquor seared her throat and
left a sour-sweet taste on her tongue.
Chicha
wasn’t bad at all. She hoped it would ease the ache in her hip.

The others followed suit, all but S¸ukruye, who declined. “I don’t touch liquor,” she explained.

“Drink,” Buitre cajoled, but the woman refused, withdrawing quietly to her hammock.

“You must toast Señor Álvarez,” Buitre suggested, his voice, his mannerisms friendly. Then again, even serial killers had
their charming moments.

As the floor seemed to shift beneath her feet, Lucy reached for Gus, who looked down at her sharply.

“To Señor Álvarez,” said Fournier. His eyes seemed brighter than usual as he passed the jug to Gus.

The jug made another round. Lucy was pleased to feel the ache in her hip subsiding.

Bellini spilled some and giggled.

Gus suddenly staggered, lost his footing, and made a grab for Lucy. Together they crashed onto the dirt-packed floor.

Buitre roared with laughter. “You like that, eh?” he asked, bending over them with a grin. The room’s shadows turned his face
into a grotesque mask.

“Sorry,” Gus muttered, his speech slightly slurred. Amazingly, he’d managed to keep his weight from crushing her.

“I’m okay,” said Lucy, rolling away and helping him to his feet. “That’s enough for us,” she announced, guiding Gus to his
hammock. He fell into it, lifted his feet, and rolled right off the other side, landing on the floor again.

Buitre roared with appreciation. Lucy set her teeth.

“Gustavo has no tolerance,” she explained, even as it occurred to her that Gus was intentionally putting on an act. He didn’t
trust Buitre’s intentions any more than she did. And one way to satisfy the deputy was to feign inebriation.

“We should all retire,” Carlos suggested, taking the jug from Bellini, who tried to sneak another swig. “The sun is almost
down,” he added, tossing water onto the embers to quench the fire.

“We hung a hammock for you, Pierre,” chimed in S¸ukruye, beckoning him to the other corner.

As the team members backed away, Buitre threw a final smirk over his shoulder and left, bearing the jug with him. With a curt
word to the rebels outside, the deputy departed. Minutes later, darkness descended with breathtaking speed. The vibration
of insects filled the air.

“Buitre meant no harm, I’m sure,” Fournier commented, breaking the thoughtful silence.

“Are you okay, Gustavo?” Carlos inquired.

Gus’s only reply was a subtle snore.

“He’s sleeping,” Lucy told the others, knowing he wasn’t. Buitre had hoped to see them make fools of themselves. Gus had given
him what he’d wanted, sparing the others and managing, at the same time, to speed him on his way.

She had to admire his quick thinking, his self-sacrifice. She reached over, intending to give him a quick pat. Fast as a trap,
he caught her hand, proving himself still awake. To her bemusement, he lifted it to his mouth and placed a warm, tender kiss
on her palm.

Lucy’s breath caught. James used to do the same thing, murmuring, “Love you, Luce.”

She loved him, too. But she was never going to say it out loud to him and mislead him into thinking they had a future together.
If she made promises now, what would happen when she couldn’t keep them? And worse, if she did try to keep her promises, how
much would they both have to give up to make their relationship work?

One of them had to be realistic, and at the moment it looked like it was going to be her.

So if the exchange went off as planned tomorrow, this was their last night together.

The realization smothered her like the impossible darkness.

In a moment of sentimentalism, she savored the creak of the ropes beneath her, the feel of Gus’s chest rising and falling
under her hand, her fingers loosely twined with his.

Anyone could fall in love, she reasoned. But love should not require the surrender of everything she’d worked for and believed
in. A strong woman didn’t need a man to feel whole.

*      *      *

T
HE DESCENT TO THE
airfield at the base of La Montaña began with a harrowing ride on ATVs that bumped and fishtailed down winding, rutted paths.
The muddy tracks ran up and down the mountain like veins linking Rebel Central to the Guayabero River.

It was a glorious day for a hostage exchange.

Patches of blue sky flashed here and there where the canopy thinned. The air felt crisp and cool in Gus’s face. It was tempting
to just hold on to Lucy, seated between him and David, and enjoy the ride. But seeing a pile of crates hastily concealed under
cut branches, he tried to fix their coordinates in his mind, thinking they should be seized before the rebels got the chance
to use them.

He pointed it out to Lucy, who sent him a subtle nod. She’d already seen it. He admired that about her—her awareness, her
instincts. What drove him crazy, though, was her stubborn insistence on isolating herself. She was still a victim of survivor’s
guilt. It was perfectly plain to him. Her refusal to plan a date with him, let alone a honeymoon, had nothing to do with the
rigors of her job. She didn’t think she had a right to be happy again. It was really that simple, that sad.

The path forked, and David broke right, followed by Estéban, Manuel, Julian, and Buitre, who carried the other four team members
on the backs of their vehicles. Minutes later, they passed the hidden stockpile a second time, and Gus realized the rebels
were driving them in circles to disorient them. The airfield probably wasn’t as far away as they wanted them to think.

David forked left this time. Several hundred meters later, he pulled off the trail and cut the engine. The drivers behind
them did likewise. And that was when Gus heard it, the roaring of a river. Helping Lucy off the ATV, he felt tension in her
fingers. He couldn’t blame her, either.

Given the looks of the other team members, they dreaded a river crossing. Reluctantly, they trailed Buitre toward the break
in the canopy.

A gushing expanse of caféau-lait-colored water had carved a canyon of mud out the side of the mountain, at least thirty feet
wide. Sticks and branches swirled downriver, caught up in its torrential current.

Seeing the bridge that crossed the canyon, the team members moaned in dismay. At least they wouldn’t be crossing via a steel
box on cables. But the bridge itself was narrow and fraying. A fine mist, rising from the seething water, dampened both the
rope and the boards, making them slippery, subject to decay.

No way had boxes of weapons been carried across this bridge. There had to be another way down the mountain, Gus realized.

But either Buitre didn’t want them running across Venezuelans on the main path, or he got his jollies out of scaring them.

“Not to worry,” Fournier reassured them while keeping hold of S¸ukruye’s arm. “Just picture the helicopter coming to take
us home.”

Pale with fear, she nodded and clung to him.

The team members lined up. “Only two at a time,” Buitre cautioned. “You’re last,” he added as Gus took his place in line.

Uneasiness feathered Gus’s spine.
Why last?
he wondered, sending Lucy a reassuring nod as she glanced at him sharply.

The worry that creased her forehead was a comforting sight. She could pretend all night and day she didn’t have feelings for
him, but he knew otherwise. Whether he could convince her that she deserved happiness was another question altogether. How
could he compete with her survivor’s guilt?

At least her self-destructive tendencies had been tempered by wariness, thanks to PTSD. The longer she lived, the more he
stood a chance of winning her back.

“Hold the rails and walk across quickly,” he advised the others. “Try not to leave the bridge shaking.” The oscillations would
get worse with every crossing. “Fournier and S¸ukruye should go first,” he added.

“I will give the orders,” Buitre sneered, sending across David and Manuel, who made the crossing look easy. Julian and Carlos
were told to cross next, followed by Estéban and Bellini, who sent the bridge rippling but safely reached the other side.

It was up to Fournier to coax the Turkish woman across the writhing suspension. She wailed with every step, racing the last
few feet to arrive on solid ground. Only Lucy, Gus, and Buitre remained.

“Let Luna go,” Gus insisted, sensing a trap.

Buitre sent him a careless shrug. “Of course,” he said.

Maybe the trap was just in Gus’s head. “See you on the other side,” he whispered, dropping a kiss on her soft lips. The worry
in her wide eyes was unmistakable.

“I’ll be right behind you,” he promised, repeating the words he’d said a few days back. He meant them with everything that
was in him.

As Buitre barked at her to get going, she backed away from Gus, drew a deep breath, and stepped bravely onto the undulating
bridge. With his heart thudding heavily, he watched her power her way across. If something happened now, he’d be hard pressed
to help.

When she was two thirds of the way across, Buitre followed her. Gus watched his every move with suspicion, but he trailed
Lucy without incident, and soon she stood on the opposite shore, waving back at him.

If this wasn’t a trap, then why was his intuition screaming at him to beware? Buitre hadn’t messed with Lucy. Maybe he intended
to mess only with Gus.

Remembering his nightmare, Gus stepped onto the lurching bridge with tension in every muscle. He’d completed dozens of obstacle
courses throughout his training. If Buitre thought he was going to shake him off this sucker, he had another thing coming.