Hostage Zero (23 page)

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Authors: John Gilstrap

Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Thrillers

BOOK: Hostage Zero
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As a lump grew in his throat, he refused to let himself cry again. He’d already been a pussy for running after the car. And what had that gotten him? If this was where they were going to drop him off, it had bought him nothing. Maybe less than nothing.
“Stay here,” Mitch commanded. Without waiting for an answer, he pulled open his door and stepped out. He crossed in front of the vehicle and strode to the center of the clearing, where he stopped. With his arms outstretched and his legs spread to shoulder width, he slowly pivoted 360 degrees, and then stopped.
“What’s he doing?” Evan asked the driver. He craved someone talking to him, but he wasn’t surprised when the driver remained silent. He probably didn’t even understand.
After maybe thirty seconds had passed, the surrounding jungle squeezed out four dark-skinned men armed with rifles—Evan thought they were M16s based on what he’d seen on the History Channel. The men were dressed like soldiers: camouflaged uniforms that hadn’t been washed in a very long time, which, he thought, matched the appearance of the men wearing them. For a second, he thought they were going to shoot Mitch on the spot, but then they approached him.
As they got closer, three of the four men held back, while the fourth approached Mitch like an old friend.
Mitch and the other man chatted for a couple of minutes. They shared a laugh, and they shook hands again before walking together toward the SUV. Evan’s heart jumped as his stomach cramped. They were coming for him. He crab walked to the far side of the backseat, adding space between him and the approaching kidnappers.
This was his last chance to get away. He turned to the left-side passenger door to pull the latch and yelled at the sight of another soldier standing on the other side. He had no idea where he’d come from.
Mitch and the other man were here now, and both back doors opened simultaneously, a stern-faced soldier on his left, and coldly smiling Mitch on his right.
“Don’t even think about it, kid,” Mitch said. “You’ve got a long hike ahead of you, and it’ll be a lot harder with your hands tied. Make us do it, and we will. It’s your call.”
He had no choice. This was why it was better to fight to the death before being taken. After that first moment, all the options were shitty ones.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the soldier that Mitch had been talking to. “My name is Oscar.” He reached a hand into the car, and Evan recoiled, almost falling out the other door on the far side.
The soldier closest to him reached out to catch him, but it wasn’t necessary.
“Why are you doing this?” Evan asked. He heard the whiny tone in his voice, but he couldn’t help it.
Oscar’s features softened. He didn’t smile, but it was close. “I realize that this must be frightening for you,” he said. “How could it not be? You go to bed one night, and then in so short a time, you’re in so strange a place. I’m sorry that it had to happen this way.”
“What
is
happening?”
“You’re embarking on a new adventure,” Oscar said. His eyes didn’t frighten Evan as much as Mitch’s did.
“I don’t need a new adventure. I don’t
want
a new adventure.”
Oscar smiled gently. “I understand. Unfortunately, we don’t always get to choose the events in our lives. You need to come with us, Evan. No one means to harm you. In fact, these guns are intended to protect you.”
Evan looked to the soldier who’d tried to catch him. The soldier gave him that quick smile that adults always give to kids when they make eye contact. The one that was meant to say that they were not a threat. It was also the smile of every child molester.
Can you help me find my lost puppy?
“We have a long way to go before dark, Evan,” Oscar said. “We need to get moving.”
His mind raced for a way to stall. “Where are we going?”
Oscar cocked his head. “Does it matter? One way or another, I have to deliver you. As my friend Mitchell here said, it will be so much easier if you come along easily.” He let that sink in, then motioned with a flick of his fingers for Evan to join him. “Let’s get started, shall we?” He stood to his full height, and pivoted to the side of the door, opening a corridor for Evan to step outside.
In the end, he had no choice. He scooted on his butt across the bench seat and out into the weeds. They stabbed at the soles of his feet and tickled his legs—not in a way that made you want to laugh, but in the way that made you want to take a shower.
“Good for you,” Oscar said. “You chose well.” He extended his hand again. “Let’s make it official. I’m Oscar, and it’s nice to meet you.”
Evan stared at the hand for a few seconds, and then he took it. “Evan Guinn,” he said. Oscar’s palms were as rough and hard as granite. He stopped short of saying that it was nice to meet him.
Releasing Evan’s hand, Oscar turned to Mitch. “We’ll take good care of the boy,” he said. “Rest assured.”
Mitch clearly didn’t care one way or the other. He climbed back into the truck. The last thing Evan heard before the door closed was, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
As the truck’s engine revved, Oscar gently pulled Evan out of the way. The SUV drove in a wide circle through the clearing to turn around, and then it was gone.
He was alone now with his new captors. Evan became aware of Oscar’s rough hand on his bare shoulder.
“Try not to be afraid,” the man said.
Evan fought to control his breathing, which had started to chug like a train as he fought back the tears.
“I promise that no one wants to hurt you. I know that there’s been some of that in your past, but you’ll find none of that here.”
Evan scowled and looked up at the man. What did he know about his past?
“We know a lot about you, Evan. I am not in a position to explain these things to you, but it’s very important to us that you remain safe. That can be difficult in this country, and that truly is why I am accompanied by these gentlemen with the guns.”
Evan’s vision blurred with tears, and he swiped them away. People who didn’t mean harm didn’t kidnap people.
“The man who just left,” Oscar went on. “That was Mitchell Ponder. He is a very, very dangerous man. Now that he has left, I promise you that you are safe.”
“But why am I here?” If he could just know that one thing, then maybe something would start to make sense. Just that one bit of information might make him relax. Just a little.
Oscar sighed and cocked his head. It was a look of genuine sympathy, Evan thought. “Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s start walking so that we don’t waste any more daylight. I’ll try to think of a way to tell you something without betraying the confidences that I have pledged to honor. I know it’s not really the answer you’re looking for, but will it make do for a while?”
Again, there was no choice. Evan nodded.
They walked in single file, with two of the armed soldiers in the front, followed by Oscar and then Evan. Three soldiers brought up the rear.
The jungle swallowed them all.
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SIX
Jonathan’s team arrived in Colombia by flying to different cities on different airlines with flight times scattered across the clock. Boxers had left first, through Miami to Panama City and on into Cartagena. Twelve hours later, Jonathan and Harvey flew on different flights that took labored routes to Santa Marta, arriving within ninety minutes of each other. Jonathan made sure his was scheduled to arrive first, just in case Harvey needed additional encouragement after he’d touched down.
They found each other in baggage claim, then headed out into the thriving sauna that was Santa Marta. “I’m hating this already,” Harvey said. “In case you were wondering.” He ran a finger under the collar of his T-shirt.
Jonathan opted not to tell him that as hot as it was here on the coast, it was going to get a hell of a lot hotter in the jungle. Here, at least, they had a breeze.
“Are we winging it now, or do we have a plan?” Harvey asked.
Jonathan didn’t honor the question with an answer. “We need to visit a friend,” he said.
They grabbed a cab, and Jonathan directed the driver to a hostel downtown that was known to cater to American college students on their obligatory narcotics pilgrimage. Even by the squalid standards of the neighborhood, the hostel was a dump.
“Oh, yeah,” Harvey groused. “This just gets better and better.”
Jonathan silenced him with a glare and paid the driver. He added a generous tip, which, at least in the old days, was the equivalent of buying blindness and deafness, in case anyone asked questions.
Together on the street in front of the entrance, Jonathan placed his palm on Harvey’s chest to get his attention. “I need you to be my silent partner in here. Felipe is an old friend, but a suspicious one, out of necessity.”
“How do you know each other?”
Jonathan answered with arched eyebrows.
“Oh.”
“No names, either. If pressed, you’re Mr. Smith.”
Harvey’s shoulders sagged. “Smith? That’s the best you could come up with? Why not Jones?”
Jonathan smiled. “Because it’s already taken.”
The hostel was less shoddy on the inside than it was on the outside. More house than hotel, the place had the well-worn look of too many parties thrown by too many young people, of whom none were visible at the moment.
Jonathan called, “Hello?”
An ancient raisin of a man stepped in from what Jonathan knew to be the kitchen, and the mutual recognition was instantaneous.
“Hello, Felipe,” Jonathan said in English.
“Señor Jones!” the old man exclaimed. A snaggletoothed grin consumed the lower half of his face. He shuffled over, his arms outstretched to enfold Jonathan in a bear hug. Given his five-foot-three stature, it was really more of a cub hug, but the thought was there. “It has been too long!”
Jonathan had never adjusted to the Latin American
abrazo
—the man-hug—but he did his part by patting the old man on the back. “Too long,” he agreed.
“You look good,” Felipe said as they broke the embrace. He patted Jonathan’s chest. “You skinny. You have neck now.” The old man laughed.
Jonathan laughed, too. The last time the two had seen each other, Jonathan had been part of a Unit operation in which he and his squadron mates were supposed to disappear among the locals to gather intelligence against the drug cartel. Felipe had been an important link in the communication chain, and he had always teased Jonathan about being in far too good shape to ever blend in.
“I’m getting old and soft,” Jonathan conceded.
Felipe pinched his cheek. “No, you look good. You look healthy.” He turned to Harvey and extended his hand. “Who is your friend?”
“This is Mr. Smith,” Jonathan said. “He’s a business associate. He doesn’t say much.”
Felipe enfolded Harvey’s hand in a friendly double grip. “Think of the coincidence,” Felipe said. “Yet another business associate named Mr. Smith.”
Harvey grinned. “Seems we’re a dime a dozen,” he said.
Felipe turned toward the back of the building and beckoned his guests to follow. “Come, come. We catch up.” As he passed the tiny front desk, he leaned across the counter and produced a tent-card that read
CLOSED
. In English.
Felipe caught the knowing glance from Jonathan. “Yes, the American dollar is still good to me,” he said. He beckoned again and led the way out the back door into a tiny courtyard that truly hadn’t changed a bit in the decade-plus since Jonathan’s last visit. The same tufts of grass peeked through the same spaces between the same broken bricks. Even the aluminum lawn chairs looked as rickety as before.
Felipe lifted two of the chairs a couple of inches off the ground and rattled them against the bricks. “Have a seat. I’ll get us some coffee.”
Jonathan gasped, “Coffee! Jesus, Felipe, it’s a hundred and ten degrees.”
“Only thirty-eight Celsius,” he said with a grin. “Sounds much cooler.”
“Thanks anyway,” Jonathan said, waving the offer away.
“Beer then,” Felipe said. “Or tequila. Whiskey?”
Harvey started to take the beer bait, then retreated from Jonathan’s glare.
“Nothing, really,” Jonathan insisted. “Thank you very much, though.
Muchas gracias.
” Jonathan sat in the proffered seat, and gestured to the other one. “Please, Felipe. Sit with us. Let’s just talk.”
The old man’s smile gave way to a look of concern. “I don’t like that tone, my old friend. I’ve heard it before. Soon I fear you will tell me that this is not just a pleasure trip to revisit the goods times with Felipe.”
They shared a smile. Both were fully aware how much Jonathan despised this part of the world. Heat, corruption, violence, and poverty combined to form a perfect storm of misery for which Jonathan had no tolerance.
“My mission is nowhere near as large or difficult as in the past,” Jonathan said. “If that makes you feel any better.”
Felipe settled himself into his seat and crossed his legs. For a man of his apparent age, he’d always moved with considerable grace. “I hear you’re working with your old friend José,” Felipe said. He noted the startled look and added, “What, you think I don’t have ears anymore?” Clearly, he wanted Jonathan to know that he was still in the loop.
“So how is Jammin’ Josie these days?”
“He’s hungry. Just like all of us.”
“Is he still trustworthy?”
“Was he ever?”
Jonathan made a rocking gesture with his hand. “I never had a problem with him. At least he never betrayed me.”
“That’s because he feared you,” Felipe said with a wry smile. “That makes you different. If he still fears you, then I suppose he is still trustworthy. Your big friend—what was his name?”
“Mr. Smith,” Jonathan said. As if Felipe didn’t already know.
“
Sí.
Señor Smith. What ever came of him?” He looked to Harvey. “I hope he is well.”
“Oh, he’s fine,” Jonathan said. “We still work together. In fact, the plan is for me to join up with him tonight.”
“Does José know?”
“Not yet.”
Felipe laughed—a deep-throated peal that came from his soul and brought tears to his eyes. “Well, once José learns that the other Mr. Smith is with you, he’ll be very,
very
trustworthy.”
Jonathan joined him in the laughter. Throughout the world—from Cleveland to Samoa—Boxers was a big man. In South America he made Gulliver look short. Jammin’ Josie was afraid of him at a level that made “terrified” seem like a small word. Boxers had always relished it, and Jonathan had always used it to his advantage.
As the laughter settled, Jonathan killed the frivolity. “We make light of Josie’s shifting loyalties, but I need to know for real if he has gone bad. A child’s life lies in the balance.”
In South American culture, family meant everything, so Jonathan knew that Felipe would understand the urgency.
Felipe’s expression wrinkled. “Your business here is not about drugs?”
“In Colombia, my friend, I’m afraid that everything is ultimately about drugs. First and foremost, though, my business is about a kidnapping.”
“For ransom?” Felipe had been around long enough to understand that not all abductions are created equal.
“Not this time. For controlling information.”
Felipe showed his palms, his fingers pointing down. “What could a child know?”
“I can’t share the details. But I can’t afford betrayal.”
Felipe raised his hand, as if taking an oath. “On my mother’s grave, José mentioned your coming only to impress me. For all I know his intentions are good.” He paused. “He just talks too much. Is there a way I can help you?”
“Does the name Mitchell—or Mitch—Ponder mean anything to you?”
Felipe’s eyes darted to the corners of the courtyard. He tried to cover his fearful twitch, but it was too late.
Jonathan smiled. “Felipe, it’s me. You know that I’ll die to protect your secrets.” He said this without hyperbole, and Felipe knew it.
“Señor Jones, I hope that we have been friends long enough for you to know that I do not frighten easily.” This from a man who’d pointed a finger in the face of Pablo Escobar, the mass murderer in charge of the Medellín drug cartel that Jonathan had personally helped to dismantle in the nineties.
“You’re among the bravest men I know,” Jonathan assured.
Felipe said, “This man Ponder frightens me. Because you mention him, I assume he is involved in what you must do.”
“He is.”
“Then be careful. Extraordinarily careful. This man is known here as
El Matador
. The killer.”
Jonathan made a face. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think? With all respect, your country is full of matadors.”
Felipe shook his head emphatically. “Not the same. Not like this Ponder. He reminds me of Pablo. He is that—how do you say it?—ruthful.”
“Ruthless,” Jonathan corrected. “After taking down the original Pablo, I’d think that the wannabe Pablo would be easy.”
“We had two governments and thousands of people working to take down Pablo. Things are different now, no?”
Jonathan didn’t bother to point out that elements of the Colombian government was more hindrance than help the first time around.
“Ponder is a gringo,” Felipe continued. “You know how we Latinos are. Gringos lead, we follow. Ponder has paid the politicians well to allow him to make his cocaine in the jungle. The
policía
and the
politicos
all say that they are running the drugs out of our country, but they only care about the makers who do not pay well enough. Ponder, he pays good. Very, very good.”
Jonathan was confused. “So if the pockets are all fat, what’s the killing about?”
“Farmers and villagers who resist are killed in the worst ways. He hacks off hands and feet, then arms and legs as people watch. He makes people suffer horribly before he cuts their throats. He takes villagers’ children to labor in the coca fields. Many parents never see their
hijos
again.”
A bullshit bell rang in the back of Jonathan’s head. “Come on, Felipe. You make Ponder sound like a monster from a bedtime story.”
“Those stories all come from someplace. I’m telling you, he is the man that children of the future will learn about from their grandparents.”
“It doesn’t make sense, though. You terrorize the people, and they start to plan their retaliation.”
Felipe made a puffing sound and threw up his hands. “It might not make sense to you, but it is always the way things are done.” His eyes twinkled. “When there is no Señor Jones on your side, fear is all that many people have.”
Jonathan caught the barb, but he wasn’t sure how to interpret it. Was Felipe suggesting that he liberate entire villages while he was liberating the Guinn boy? Surely not.
Felipe said, “I still do not understand why a man like
El Matador
would come all the way to America to kidnap a child.”
“That’s the million-dollar question for us, too,” Jonathan confessed. “But his is the name that keeps popping up. Tell me about these coca fields. Where are they?”
“Places where you have been before, I suspect. In the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. No better farmlands to be found in all of Colombia.”
Jonathan had indeed been there before. He recognized the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta as some of the most punishing terrain in the world, where jungles were impossibly thick, and where Indian tribes lived undiscovered until the early 1970s. The mountain range ran north-to-south just east of the city of Santa Marta and featured Pico Cristóbal Colón, which, at 18,000 feet, was the fifth most prominent in the world. Back in the day, it was as lawless a place as any on earth.
Funded by billions of U.S. dollars, the paramilitary groups of the 1990s had been driven out by the Colombian government, but the open secret that no one wanted to acknowledge was that a drug war that attacks only the supply side of the equation is doomed to failure. As long as U.S. senators and their aides continued to party in their private offices on the products that they pledged to eradicate, a native population for whom cocaine is the sole source of income will find a way to keep the manufacturing chain going.

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