pile of sandbags. The rain had passed, leaving him shivering under a plastic tarp, sitting on a stool in a puddle of mud.
Bleary-eyed, he watched the iridescent blue bird shoot through rays of sunlight combing through the trees. Wiping drool from the corner of his mouth, he shook off the tarp and cut a surreptitious glance toward the quiet camp, hoping no one had caught him sleeping.
Up into the hours of dawn, David had debated whether or not to share his observations with the deputy. Buitre was ten years his senior, with combat experience that made him dangerous, quick to pull the trigger. Yet they had shared confidences before. Six months ago, Buitre explained to David how the FARC intended to make a comeback. They had offered the Venezuelans their remaining coca processing plants in exchange for military training and supplies. From that point forward, the FARC’s focus had shifted from profit to revolt.
David’s dream of an honorable revolution seemed to be taking shape before his very eyes.
A flash of movement up the trail caught his notice, and he called the standard warning, relieved to hear Buitre’s reply. The deputy strode into view, pulling Carmen, Maife, and Petra behind him, strung together by a rope.
The girls kept their eyes downcast, their shoulders bowed. David took one look at them and wavered. Could he trust the judgment of a man as unfeeling as Buitre? He liked Luna and Gustavo. He didn’t want to see them tortured or killed. He certainly didn’t want to see them taken hostage, for that was a tactic of the FARC that he abhorred as much as the selling of cocaine.
On the other hand, he had a dream, a vision that Colombia would, in his lifetime, be ruled by a just Marxist government, one that made no distinction between Indian or blanco. He could not allow any outsiders to interfere. “Deputy Buitre,” he called, summoning his superior.
Freeing the women, Buitre altered course to cast his shadow over him. “What is it, Squad Commander?”
David’s mouth turned dry. For a second, he questioned his suspicions. But then, he was certain of what he’d seen and heard. “It’s the couple on the UN team, sir. I think you were right to say they are different than the others.”
Buitre frowned. “Go on,” he urged as David dug for courage.
“I’ve overheard them speaking English—twice. American English,” he qualified.
The deputy’s eyes narrowed into dark, suspicious slits. “Are you certain?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir. There were Americans at my university. I used to practice English with them.”
“What else?” Buitre snapped, guessing that there was more.
David’s heart beat uncomfortably fast. He hated telling tales, and yet…He had his dream to protect. “I caught the woman leaving your quarters at dawn the other day, soon after you left to meet with the Venezuelans. She claimed the older lady was sick and she was looking for the medicine you took from her backpack.”
Buitre’s scar paled. His fists curled. “How long was she in my quarters?” he asked, flashing a malignant look at the bungalow.
“I don’t know, sir,” David answered. “When I saw her, she had just stepped out.”
“Did she take anything?”
“I saw nothing in her hands.”
With an angry growl, and not a single word of thanks, Buitre turned and stalked to the little shelter. David winced as he made to kick a wandering chicken from his path, only the bird scuttled wisely out of harm’s way.
A knot of anxiety coiled in David’s gut. What now? He had every right to protect his dream, especially now with the revolution to be waged in more honorable ways. Yet he feared Buitre’s temper would cloud his judgment and the Americans—if that was what they were—would pay with their lives.
BUITRE FLIPPED THE SWITCH on his generator, shattering the camp’s peaceful quiet. Normally, he roused the troops at dawn with a harsh call for muster, but David’s confession had fixed his thoughts on the possibility Luna and Gustavo were spies. He pushed into his quarters, peering suspiciously around the cramped, musty space.
If Luna was a spy, what could she have found that would undermine the rebel cause? He had carried his radio with him that morning. The only other source of information was the officer’s log.
He snatched it up, flipping through the yellowed pages, seeing nothing amiss. Snapping on the light, he sat down for a closer look, sifting carefully through the pages. He paused, turned back, noting a discrepancy in the dates. There was a page missing. Running a finger along the