A Cut Above (13 page)
Yeah, it’s me here. Calamity Jane in Colombia.
You didn’t really think I was going to get out of the country that easy, did you?
Up ahead, a clunker-junker of a truck, with three different colors of paint smeared across three different areas and enough dents to give it a well-chewed appearance, sits diagonally across the road, blocking all access. Facing us are three men; each one cradles a machine gun.
“I can’t believe this,” I whisper.
Max reaches out and takes my hand. “Just pray.”
You know Murphy of the famous law? He’s got nothing on me.
The bandits with the hokey handkerchiefs over their mugs swarm the SUV. They proceed to dump the driver into a patch of tall grasses, waving their guns all over the place. When the man doesn’t stand back up, I pray he’s only unconscious.
My heart pounds and my stomach churns. Max hangs on to my hand the whole time. And I pray—keep on praying, actually. Non-stop.
Then, as Max and I continue to shake in the backseat of the vehicle, the bandits yank open both our doors. I feel like I’m going to throw up. But I don’t have the luxury. The brutes drag Max and me out of the questionable safety of the SUV, and we stand at the roadside, wondering what will happen next.
We don’t have to wonder long.
As we watch the creeps ransack my new purse—
with
the cell phone in it, which, by the way, they don’t give back—I hear an engine approach. I let my tension ease, happy for the possibility of help, or at the very least, a distraction. Not that I’m crazy enough to think we can overpower three thugs with machine guns.
A navy blue SUV comes around the curve we’d just conquered, and I catch sight of a face that tickles my memory, but I can’t quite place. Strange, since I don’t know anyone here in Colombia.
I try to catch Max’s attention. “Pssst!”
“This is no time for a chat.”
“I don’t want to chat. I want to survive.”
Then I hear voices raised in argument, a real one, not like Max’s and my minor spat, in the vicinity of the blue SUV. When I look in that direction, I see the kerchiefed goon drag that driver out too. The guy seems to have only one technique; everyone gets treated like trash. And then I recognize the man in the goon’s clutches. It’s the uniformed guard I’d met at the embassy the night my first purse was taken.
Hmm. . . coincidence? Don’t think so.
Out the side of my mouth, I whisper, “Looks like the cavalry has arrived.”
“Huh?”
“The guy who just got here. He’s a guard at the embassy. I saw him there the other night. Maybe they sent him to help us—”
I stop. He wasn’t on his way to help. My anger grows into rage. “They put a nanny on my tail! The embassy had him follow me. How else would he know to be here?”
“Easy, Andie. You were the victim of a crime. You went to them to report it and get a new passport. What did you want them to do?”
“Get me the new passport. Not shadow me around the country.”
Two of the gunmen dive into Mr. Cruz’s SUV, then emerge with Max’s and my suitcases. Swell. First the purse, now this. Don’t you just love international travel?
“Come on, Andie. You really think the embassy’s likely to let a high-profile American TV personality roam alone around one of the most violent countries in the hemisphere
after
she’s mugged?”
“High-profile? I’m not Simon Cowell or Barney the Dinosaur under my makeup, for goodness’ sake.”
He snorts.
The embassy guard lets out an agonized grunt and collapses to the ground. The creep who obviously knocked him out kicks the motionless man’s shoulder.
“No!” I cry before I can stop myself.
Max slaps his palm over my mouth.
A goon takes aim at my head.
I collapse back against Max, thankful for his warm, solid support. “This wasn’t a gig I wanted. I knew better than to come to Colombia. I told Miss Mona this was a lousy idea. I’m tearing up my passport when I get back home.”
A glance up at his face reveals anger and frustration in his blue gaze, lips clamped tight, jaw squared and iron-hard. His stare hasn’t left the bandit, even at my dopey attempt to ease the terrible tension. His arms slowly wrap around me, draw me close, and then slowly begin to ease me behind his bulk.
The thought of what he’s contemplating sends a chill right through my veins. That I can read him like this is something I’ll have to think about later. Right now? Now, I’m scared.
For him.
“No, Max. Don’t. Please don’t put yourself in any more danger. I should never have been here in the first place, and right now, I wish more than ever that you hadn’t come. I—I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you because of me.”
“
Ey!
” one of the bandits bellows. He then rattles off a truckload of words, and I do catch “
silencio
”—silence— within the flow. Then he jabs the machine gun in the direction of the truck blocking the road.
“
Vamos! Al camión.
”
Max nudges me gently from behind. “Looks like he wants us to head on over there.”
“But that poor guard . . .” I look at the man lying in a patch of golden grasses on the shoulder. The sense of helplessness is almost more than I can bear.
“There’s nothing you can do for him right now. Let’s go before they help us to the same fate as our driver and the embassy guard.”
I shudder on my way to the truck. When we reach the vehicle, one of our captors points to the open tailgate—with his gun, of course. I look at Max.
He shrugs, then holds out his hand.
“Are you kidding?” I take another look inside the truck’s open cargo bed and quit counting after I get to twelve huge black bags. I don’t need super-duper-X-ray-vision powers. Get this: from the scent of it all, they’re full of trash. “It stinks up there.”
“It stinks up there, but there’s a machine gun down here. Which would you prefer? The choice is pretty clear to me.” “Put that way . . .” I roll my eyes, brace myself, grab his hand, and clamber up into the putrid truck.
He follows.
Another whiff, and I turn my eyes skyward.
What’s up
with another dose of Colombian trash, Lord?
The minute Max is seated next to me, our backs—you got it—against squishy trash bags, the goon with the gun slams the tailgate shut, yells to his pals, and one of them cranks up the noisy engine. The contingent of crooks piles into the cab, one jabs the barrel of his gun out the open rear cab window— aimed right at us—and the vehicle starts to roll.
I look at Max. “Do you really think they’re going to get this great big honking piece of ugly junk—”
A yell breaks over the rattletrap’s ruckus. When I crane my neck to peer over the side, I see the embassy guard rise to his feet, rocky, teetering, but with a determined look on his face. He takes a step toward the truck, then another.
A shot rings out.
The guard falls to the ground, hands clutching his leg where blood blooms across his thigh.
“Stop!” I yell.
Max again slaps a hand over my mouth.
The rank rattletrap rolls away. Sobs rip through me. Every inch of me wants to jump out, run over, and see to the man who came and tried to help me, but the gun aimed at us holds me back. My frustration and misery grow with every roll of the tires beneath us.
As our new chariot rattles on down the twisty, fog-frosted road, I lean on Max’s shoulder and pray. What else can I do?
I trust the Lord.
Several hours later, the crummy vehicle slows down. I blink awake, and notice we’re far from the Andean highlands where our captors ambushed us. The sky burns a bright blue, the sun overhead beats down, and the trash exuds the pure essence of putrefaction.
I gag.
“How can you stand it?” I ask Max when I think I can talk without humiliating myself.
“Who says I can?”
“I don’t see any green around your gills. I’m sure if you look, you’ll notice that verdant hue all over me.”
He shrugs. “You get used to it.”
“How? I’ve been here just as long as you, and I’m about to lose it—literally.”
Alarm widens his blue eyes. “Please don’t. I think we’ve arrived wherever they’ve been taking us.”
I again peer over the side. This time, from my vantage point, all I see is a patchwork of green and gold flatlands and the dusty road we’ve traveled. “Who knows where it is they’ve zipped us to. All I know is I’m ready to ditch this odoriferous form of transportation—too much luxe and glam. Know what I mean?”
“Too well,” he says, his voice, in comparison to mine, tight and serious.
The truck coughs to a stop. Against the wishes of my stiff joints and cramped muscles, I scramble up. A sweeping look around tells me we’re far from Bogotá, far from the Muzo mining region, far from everything but a sprawling
hacienda
.
The ranch house, a white stucco structure, wears an age-softened red-tile roof. Wide windows set at even intervals are covered with graceful, wrought iron grilles whose beautiful floral patterns do nothing to diminish their true protective purpose. The wide wraparound porch is shaded, and wood- and-rattan rockers are arranged in comfy groups around a couple of small wooden tables. A knock-your-socks-off pair of carved mahogany doors sweep open as I stare.
A woman in a pink uniform and white apron runs out, chattering in rapid-fire Spanish. But when she gets within fifteen feet of the truck, she slams on the brakes. Her nose twitches, wrinkles. She turns her face to a side.
“Pee-yuuu!”
“My thoughts exactly,” I murmur.
The driver and his pals spill out of the truck’s cab, their response to her chatter defensive and loud. It’s good to see she’s not buying any of it. A kindred spirit on the subject of refuse might be an ally. And we need all the allies we can get.
She resumes her tirade, and then, to my surprise, smacks the driver on the shoulder, points at the truck, and yells some more.
One of the goons trots over to our high-class hot-wheels, then drops the tailgate. He waves at us, and we hop down. I’m only too glad to get away from the stench.
From the way the uniformed woman bellows at the men, I begin to hope our ordeal might be coming to an end. But then, when she comes to our side and points toward the house, one of the goons closes in on Max’s side, his machine gun at the ready. I sigh. Not over yet.
Inside the house, I again experience the welcome change in temperature, thanks to the eighteen-inch-thick walls. And while I’d love to take the time to check out the too-cool antique colonial furniture and the fortune’s worth of art pieces, our escorts make it plain we have places to go, people to see. They hustle us down a corridor flanking a magnificent red-tile-floored courtyard filled with a handful of trees in huge clay tubs, masses of red geraniums in painted pots, and black-painted iron furniture cushioned in hibiscus-patterned fabric. The air of old-money gentility crashes head-on against the reality of the gun aimed at us.
It’s more than obvious that the goons, and now the woman I suspect is the housekeeper, are doing a take-me-to-your-leader. I’m not sure I want to go there. On the one hand, I want the ordeal to be over; I want to know what these people want with us. On the other hand, I’m afraid once I do know what they want, they’ll be ready to dispose of us. If you know what I mean.
I’m into recycling, not disposables. I’m not ready to wind up in a dump, next to diapers and empty food containers.
At the end of the corridor, we reach another of those amazing carved mahogany doors. The woman opens it and gestures us inside. The machine gun–toting goon does not follow.
Once my eyes adjust to the dimmer light, I see an elegant office, its walls lined with bookshelves up to the ceiling. At the matching pair of windows on the far wall hang lush velvet draperies, unexpected in this remote country location. Underfoot, a large oriental rug cushions my steps in red, blue, cream, and black luxury. A broad wooden desk dominates the center of the room.
I blink. Then I blink again.
Am I seeing things?
There, in the tall executive-style leather armchair behind the desk, sits an older
woman
of stunning beauty. Her sleek silver hair is woven into a braided coronet high on the crown of her head. Creamy skin is unmarked by wrinkles and enhanced by the lightest touch of expertly applied makeup. Large brown eyes are focused on us, while red-glossed lips remain neutral.
A welcoming smile would be nice. Especially since I’d expected a slimy weasel at the end of our not-so-excellent adventure.
But she makes it way clear this isn’t time to play nice,
capisce
?
“So you are Andrea,” our hostess says in a Spanish-accented alto voice. She stands, staring at me as though through a microscope.
Her height surprises me; most Colombians I’ve seen so far tend toward the shorter end of the spectrum. She looks me eye to eye, and I stand at five foot ten.
“You’ve gone to a whole lot of trouble to meet me,” I say. “Would you mind telling me why all this drama was necessary?”
“I expected something different,” she says, ignoring my question, her gaze still glued to moi. “I don’t know why, but I thought you’d be smaller, more girlish.”