Show No Fear - By Marliss Melton Page 0,23

his back. “In the meantime, you will sleep there.” He pointed to the bamboo-and-thatch bungalow from which Álvarez had emerged earlier.

Leaving Buitre with last-minute instructions, Marquez marched off with the Argentine, plus a small detachment of soldiers, back the way the UN team had just come.

Had they passed Rojas’s camp on the way here? Lucy wondered. What about the hostages? Maybe they’d walked right by them without even realizing.

Buitre swaggered toward them, suspending her thoughts. A ripple of unease ran through the team members as he hitched his trousers in a gesture of self-importance.

“Oigan,” he commanded. Listen up. “If any of you cause mischief, I will lock you in there.” He pointed to a shed standing some distance from the camp. It appeared so rotten and dilapidated that it might collapse at any moment. “It is filled with hornets and rats. Stay out of my way,” he added. With a dark look, he turned and stamped into the building they’d just evacuated to enjoy his electricity and, presumably, to rest.

The UN team members looked at one another.

“What shall we do?” the Italian asked.

“Let us have a look at our accommodations,” Fournier suggested, leading S¸ukruye by the arm. Bellini followed them, but the three Spaniards—Carlos, Luna, and Gustavo—remained outside, braving the drizzle to confer out of range of anyone’s hearing.

“Where do you think we are?” Carlos murmured.

“The eastern side of La Montaña,” Gus replied, “at an altitude of maybe ten thousand feet?” He lifted his gaze to peer through the thinned trees. The mountain’s twin peaks were just discernable in the drifting mist. Somewhere up there was the radio station broadcasting the Voice of the Resistance.

“I agree,” said Carlos.

“Why don’t we ask the kids?” Lucy suggested, nodding to the handful of youth wandering toward a small field, passing a soccer ball between them. While the female rebels stayed busy cleaning utensils and toting firewood, the boys had broken away to play Latin American fútbol.

Carlos sent them each a measuring look. “How are your soccer skills?” he asked.

Gus gestured to Lucy. “She can play. I have two left feet.”

“Let’s suggest a game,” said the Spaniard with a twinkle in his eyes. “Two against five. You think they’ll go for those odds?”

“You’d better be good,” Lucy countered, gesturing for him to lead the way.

“I’m not bad,” he said with a modest shrug.

GUS WATCHED CARLOS AND LUCY walk toward the field. The ball rolled to a stop as the four teens noted their approach. As Carlos issued the invitation to a match, they glanced in unison at Buitre’s brick hooch.

The deputy was evidently resting. Regarding one another, they shrugged. Sure, why not?

“Come on, Gustavo. We need another player,” Carlos called, waving him over.

Gesturing that he couldn’t see to play, Gus put his back to the trunk of an orange tree and waited to see what a soccer game could accomplish in the way of recruiting young informants.

The goals were marked by Russian-made AK-47s placed on either end of the flattest terrain. Lucy opted to defend the backfield and play goalie. Carlos played forward. With a nod, the game began.

Gus frowned in bemusement as the Spaniard let the ball slip away from him. It was up to Lucy to defend against three fleet-footed youths.

Then he couldn’t help but smile a little. PTSD or no PTSD, she was proving an uncomplaining and resourceful partner. With her long legs and quick feet, she held her own against the practiced youths, stealing the ball out from beneath a young man’s feet and passing it up to Carlos, who immediately let it go again.

Gus chuckled at her look of pure annoyance. Her temper, as daunting as it had been eight years ago, intrigued him as much as her cutting awareness. Regardless of his extensive training, no matter how hard he paid attention to what was going on around him, he tended to overlook the details, to lose himself in abstractions. Lucy, on the other hand, was a pro. He may have thought he could handle this op alone, but he couldn’t. He was glad she’d insisted on accompanying him, despite the risk to his heart.

Stealing the ball away a second time, she yelled at Carlos to hang on to it. In that same moment, the door of Buitre’s quarters creaked open, and there stood the disagreeable deputy, glaring at them from his porch stoop.

Damn, thought Gus, wondering if the man would interfere.

Back in the game, three rebels swarmed the Spaniard. All at once, Carlos went into high gear, dribbling