Show No Fear - By Marliss Melton Page 0,57

here was a leader worthy of his respect.

Rainwater spattered the hood of his poncho. It was hard to hear Captain Vargas’s question while hiking up a steep grade. Something about a woman. “Say again, sir?”

“Who is the younger woman behind you?” This time the words reached him clearly.

Buitre resisted a backward glance. “She’s part of the United Nations team. A Spaniard. Why?”

“I’ve seen her before in my country. And she’s not a Spaniard. She’s American—a spy.”

Triumph exploded in Buitre’s bosom, filling him with dark satisfaction. He knew it. He’d just known the woman was a spy. She had been too confident from the first, too alert. “Captain, sir,” he pleaded, as righteous fury swirled in him, “you must tell me everything you know.”

By the time Buitre put his radio away, his mind was filled with visions that made him grind his teeth. The bitch had been caught by the Elite Guard, snooping around a weapons depot in northern Venezuela last year. They had left her beaten and bound, intending to blow up the warehouse with her in it. Only American aircraft had swooped down on them like a mother eagle defending her young. The gunships had destroyed the Elite Guard’s convoy, killing all of them but two: Captain Vargas and a man named Santiago.

Buitre seethed. He couldn’t resist a quick glance back. Certainty ripped through him as the bitch met his gaze, her eyes cool and watchful.

He’d known she was different from the start.

But what about Gustavo, Luna’s soft-spoken husband? Was he also a spy? Buitre glanced back at the bigger man. Oh, yes. He pretended to be myopic, clumsy, unskilled in shooting a weapon, but he was powerfully built, athletic enough to keep both himself and the burly Italian from slipping on the muddy trail. Buitre had glimpsed first-hand his perfect calm in the face of a threat. He had no doubt Luna and Gustavo worked together, had no doubt who they worked for.

The CIA had aided the Colombian army for decades, helping to destroy the rebels’ coca crops, helping to pinpoint their cocaine laboratories hidden in the jungle. And now Luna and Gustavo—no doubt fabricated names—had stolen the map that specified the location of the last four rebel camps!

¡Carajo! If they managed to convey that information to the CIA, it would spell disaster for the FARC. Yet Buitre dared not mention the map’s disappearance. It was his fault he hadn’t secured his quarters that morning.

He would have to persuade his commanding officers that the couple were frauds, American spies. If the FARC intended to prevail, then those two could not be allowed to leave La Montaña alive.

“NO SATELLITE PHONE, NO RADIOS,” the Argentine explained as they stood inside a bare brick shelter dripping rainwater on the dirt-packed floor. This casita where the Argentine slept lay just a mile or two short of Commander Rojas’s camp, he alleged. Given the pile of hammocks dumped inside the door, this was where the UN team would all sleep tonight.

“I don’t understand,” Fournier stammered through chattering teeth. They were all soaked and miserable, except for Gus, who seemed impervious to the chill.

“The front commander is a very private man,” Álvarez explained without resentment. “The use of modern communication would give away his global positioning to the enemy.”

Too late, Lucy thought. He should’ve stuck with carrier pigeons and ditched the radios.

“Then how am I to reach my contacts and fulfill our end of the agreement?”

“We will be escorted down the mountain to a landline telephone.”

“More walking?” Fournier exclaimed in dismay.

“No, no. They have all-terrain vehicles. We will ride.”

Fournier looked relieved. “All of us, or—”

“Just you and me,” said the Argentine.

Gus spoke up. “Wouldn’t a younger man be more comfortable on the back of an ATV? Perhaps Carlos or I could take your place,” he suggested to the lead negotiator.

Álvarez shook his head. “Only Mr. Fournier,” he insisted. “He is the one with the contacts.”

“When do we go?” asked Fournier. “Our time is limited.”

“We go now,” said Álvarez. He turned to the rest of them. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. There are hooks on the wall for your hammocks, firewood for the fireplace. You may boil rice twice a day, but the fire must be extinguished by sunset.”

“How far away is Rojas’s camp from here?” Lucy spoke up, earning a frown.

“I don’t know,” said Álvarez, heading toward the door. “I don’t ask questions.”

Asking questions was dangerous, obviously. But inquiring minds wanted to know. Would they get to meet Commander Rojas, or would the Argentine always