the exchange goes down without a hitch. There will be a lot of posturing, and their leader will try to extract more money, but in the end, it should happen without a single bullet being fired. Deeper back in the jungle surrounding us is a Special Forces unit for the Colombian military that will do nothing more than observe as the exchange goes down. If things get heated, they are backup for the Jameson crew and will come in guns blazing.
We hope.
Hell, they could be on the ELN’s payroll for all we know, but this is how it’s done.
We’d been thoroughly prepped by the negotiator as well as a representative of the family. It was the brother of the man taken, and he apparently had no trouble coming up with the three million dollar ransom that was ultimately agreed upon. We also liaised with a colonel in a Colombian Special Forces unit, and we spent hours brainstorming every contingency.
The hostages include a father, a mother, a sixteen-year-old daughter, and a nine-year-old son. If things go south for any reason, the overreaching goal is to protect the kids at all costs, but again… not overly worried about it. Everything about this event seems pretty par for the course, and it’s a sad world when that can be said about kidnappings, but they happen all too frequently in Latin America.
We’re all miked up with earpieces, and I hear Jackson’s voice coming across in a low rumble so his voice doesn’t carry. “Targets spotted. I count eight armed men—three armed with what look like old Soviet AK-47’s and the others with machetes. It appears all hostages are intact.”
None of us move, waiting for the ELN members to reach the designated clearing where we’d been given coordinates to meet. Jackson’s com crackles, and he continues, “Guns are on the kids.”
Makes sense. They know our highest priority is the kids’ safety, and if they only have three guns, they’re going to keep them on their most prized possessions.
Bodie’s voice comes across. He’s set up a little to the south of the group. “Two have pistols in the backs of their waistbands.”
“Start moving in,” Kynan, who ended up joining the mission after Malik opted to stay back in Pittsburgh, orders us.
We all move, slipping as quietly through the dense foliage as we can until we come back together as a group.
All of us except Ladd. He’s up in a tree somewhere with his sniper rifle, ready to pick off enemies if needed.
Kynan, Bodie, Jackson, and I enter the clearing just a few moments after the kidnappers. All hostages are accounted for, but despite the dirt and sweat on them from being hauled around the jungle for the last several days, I can see exactly why they got kidnapped. They’re all wearing designer clothing, not that I can identify by brand, but I know expensive when I see it. I suspect the family has already been alleviated of luxury items like watches, jewelry, and handbags. They were begging to be kidnapped.
All four family members have gags in their mouths, tied so tight at the back, their skin has turned white along the borders of the cloth. They look appropriately terrified, especially the daughter. I hope to hell she and the mother haven’t been violated, because absolute safety is never guaranteed.
One of the men with a machete steps forward, clearly the leader. They’re all wearing olive-green camo pants with military-style shirts, but their attempts at having a unifying uniform fall flat. They look dirty and slovenly, but these guys are just the muscle for the higher echelon of this group.
The leader starts speaking in Spanish, rapidly firing off words that are meant to intimidate us white rescuers. Little do they know both Ladd and I speak Spanish, but I let him have his fun. He goes on about stupid Americanos traveling in their country, just begging to have their wealth lifted, blah, blah, blah, blah.
Each of us stares blankly back at the man, pretending ignorance. I give him a halting, “No hablo Espanol.”
He smiles, a tooth missing in front, and inclines his head. “I merely bid you welcome to our beautiful country. We are looking for a mutually beneficial exchange that is conducted respectfully and safely. My name is Miguel.”
Keeping my expression bland, I hold my silence. Kynan is our spokesperson—and the one carrying the money. He steps forward, pulling the backpack off and holding it down by his side.
Miguel eyeballs the bag a moment before staring at