winds whipped her hair in her eyes.
For ten days she’d craved her return to civilization, only Gus’s disappearance had stripped her of her anticipation. She didn’t know if she could leave him here.
As the bird nestled onto the airfield and the thunder of the rotors diminished, Fournier held them back. “Wait,” he advised.
With a clank and a rumble, the helicopter door slid open. A man wearing a dark uniform leapt to the ground, assault rifle cradled in the crook of one arm. Scoping the area uneasily, he waved them over.
“Who is he?” Lucy asked Fournier as they struck out across the field. Glimpsing movement behind the window in the little building, she ducked behind Carlos, who kept a firm grip on her arm.
Here they were, out in the open, while the FARC were barricaded in a concrete building, possibly heavily armed. The Huey’s mounted gun and torpedo launchers had been removed, leaving it utterly defenseless.
The situation didn’t feel right. Then again, nothing had felt right since Gus had plummeted into the river.
“Prison guard…” Fournier informed her. The wind snatched away the remainder of his words.
They approached the helicopter in an uneasy knot, and Fournier shook hands with the guard, instructing him to release the officers and send them into the red-roofed building. Peering into the chopper, Lucy eyed the ten former rebels, sitting back to back under the armed watch of a second guard.
One by one, they struggled up. Wearing orange prison suits with their wrists still cuffed, they jumped from the helicopter and trotted toward the cinderblock building. The door swung open and they swarmed inside, but Lucy could see nothing in the shadowy interior to indicate that Jay was inside, chafing for freedom.
With her mind still numb with shock, it was hard to get a clear read on the situation. Aside from what had happened to Gus, everything was happening according to plan, yet she had a terrible suspicion they were all being duped.
“Now what?” the prison guard shouted down to Fournier, looking worried.
The enemy now outnumbered them ten to one.
“Where is the money?” Fournier asked.
The second guard swung a briefcase down to him. Hefting it, Fournier eyed his teammates. “Ready?” he inquired, indicating they should follow him.
Uneasiness congealed in Lucy’s gut. In addition to outnumbering them, the FARC now occupied a strongly defensive position. Their precaution seemed a bit overdone, considering the Red Cross helicopter was stripped of all fighting capabilities.
Unless the FARC knew something Lucy didn’t…
CROUCHED BEHIND THE BROAD-LEAVED BUSH, Gus kept his eyes trained on the rebels as they ambled past him, close enough that he could have whispered, “Boo!” and they’d have spun around with muzzles blazing.
He weighed his chances of taking them all at once. What he wouldn’t give for an assault rifle of his own. There was just one problem. Despite their orders to kill him, he didn’t want to kill them.
His best bet was to let them go.
Only by the time they ambled past, Buitre might have found the opportunity to kill or capture Lucy.
The possibility of the latter had him suffering through hot and cold sweats. God knew what the FARC did to their captives.
A mosquito flew into his ear, another up his right nostril, forcing him to squeeze his nose before it made him sneeze.
The longest minutes of his life ensued as he waited for the quartet to disappear, arguing his fate as they continued back to the river to search for him, never realizing they had gone right by him.
DUCKING THROUGH THE LOW DOOR, Lucy’s eyes adjusted swiftly to the darkness. The little building was crowded with men, none of whom had bathed recently, gauging by the odor of unwashed bodies. They lounged around Marquez, who sat behind a little table. At their entrance, a lone man crouching on the cement floor scrambled up, a steel chain swinging from his neck.
Jay! Lucy swallowed her cry of dismayed recognition. As their gazes met, she touched her ear in the standard signal for You don’t know me. Immediately, he dragged his attention to the others.
“Thank God!” he croaked, staggering toward them, a mere shadow of his former self.
“Jay Barnes?” said Fournier, extending him a formal handshake. “Pierre Fournier, United Nations. I presume you’re ready to go home.”
“Yes,” Jay agreed, casting a fearful glance behind him. Lucy took the opportunity to study him. Ten months in captivity had come close to killing him. Once tall and robust, he was bent and thin, his skin a sickly shade of yellow.
“Bring us the