her career, she didn’t know who was standing where; where to find the closest option for cover in the event of sudden violence; how far they had traveled looking for Gus.
Her thoughts scurried through her mind like a rat in a maze, seeking answers and not finding them. How had the bridge suddenly and mysteriously collapsed when it had felt stable just minutes before?
Instinct told her Buitre was to blame. Only how? He’d still been crossing when the first side collapsed. And then he’d risked his life by venturing back out to reach for Gus’s hand. Helping, or hindering? For then the second side had collapsed, and Gus had lost his grip, slipping into the water.
He’d been missing for hours now. The team members had called his name till they were hoarse. They’d squandered precious time searching for him until, at last, Fournier announced they would continue to the airfield or risk forfeiting their agreement with the FARC.
To Lucy, he’d muttered an apology and the promise to send a search party back for Gus. But the odd look in his eyes told her the incident had solidified certain suspicions in his mind regarding her and Gus. He made no overt accusations; still, a coolness in his demeanor left his promise sounding hollow.
Fournier’s suspicions resurrected her own. Had Buitre tried to kill Gus in such a way as to make himself look blameless?
If so, he was in for an unpleasant surprise. Navy SEALs didn’t drown, not if they were conscious. And she’d seen Gus hit the water in a controlled manner, feet first. Of course, that was that last she’d seen of him.
But she had faith that he had escaped the torrent farther downriver. She envisioned him climbing ashore miles from where they’d searched. She knew he’d return for her, if he was able. That’s what partners did.
“Come,” said Carlos. Linking his arm with hers, he appointed himself her protector in Gus’s stead. Given the watchfulness in his dark eyes, he, too, was worried that the FARC had guessed Gus and Lucy’s true identities.
She needed to stay vigilant. She needed to expect the worst. But shock held her in its icy grasp. She followed his lead, blindly, down a worn path that wound toward the base of the mountain. Despite Carlos’s reassuring grip, isolation and fear took up residence in her heart. She felt Gus’s absence as she would a missing limb.
Thank God for the microchip that jarred her hip with every step. The JIC still had her on radar. Gus, too, for that matter. They could see that they were separated. They were bound to respond.
Hurry! She thought, sending them an anxious, kinetic message. Get here quick!
The trees thinned abruptly and the sun grew brighter. With a start, Lucy realized they had descended to the valley. Branches gave way to a clearing of wild grass, about the size of a football field, illumined by a hot sun.
“We’re here,” Fournier announced, looking straight through Lucy as he glanced back at the others.
He led them into the field and stopped, peering around. A cinderblock building with a red-tiled roof stood baking under the naked sun, a clear landmark to pilots. Grooves worn into the tall grass indicated that the field was used as a runway.
“There’s no helicopter,” S¸ukruye remarked with worry.
“Perhaps they came and left already,” added Bellini anxiously.
“No, no,” Fournier reassured them. Shading his eyes, he peered upward at the cloudless sky. “They haven’t come yet.”
Jumpy with suspicion, Lucy peered behind her and watched Buitre give orders to David, Manuel, Julian, and Estéban. She strained her ears to overhear what he was telling them. David’s stunned expression corroborated her fear that Buitre was sending them back to hunt for Gus, to kill him if they found him. In the next instant, the four youths turned and melted into the forest.
Buitre sauntered over to the Europeans. “You will wait here,” he commanded, pointing down at the sunny grass. “Comandante Marquez awaits in there,” he added, gesturing toward the cinderblock structure. “When the helicopter arrives, our compañeros must be presented to us first. Then you will bring us the money. If we are satisfied you have not cheated us, we will release the living hostage and the dead one.”
He glanced briefly at Lucy, his dark eyes cruelly mocking.
Fournier eyed the cracked and filthy windows of the cinderblock building. “Perhaps,” he suggested diplomatically, “you could assure us that the hostages are here?” The building appeared deserted.
Turning a deaf ear on his request, Buitre shouldered