“All set?” Luther asked, rousing his laptop with a deft touch. “This is where you’re headed.”
The top of Lucy’s head tingled as she beheld a satellite photo of a snow-capped mountain.
“It’s called La Montaña,” the former football player continued. “The FARC have retreated onto this fourteen-thousand-foot
monstrosity to recoup their losses. Due to heavy desertion, it’s believed the number of rebels has fallen below ten thousand.
The Colombian army has cut off their food and fuel supplies. They’ve burned their coca fields. Some say this is the end of
the rebel movement.
“But up here on La Montaña, we don’t know what the rebels are doing. The paths they’ve networked are completely invisible
under the triple-canopy jungle. Our spy planes have yet to pinpoint significant populations or intercept communications. It’s
like they dropped off the map, only we know they haven’t, because they’re still holding two Americans hostage.”
“Your job,” inserted the station chief while fixing a stern eye on Gus and Lucy, “is to find Barnes and Howitz and discover
what the FARC are up to on that goddamn mountain.”
Lucy knew the objective, only she’d had no idea how big and formidable that mountain was. It made her think they’d be looking
for a needle in a haystack.
“Any questions?” asked Lieutenant Lindstrom, drawing the briefing to a close an hour later. The legs of his chair creaked
as he leaned back in it.
“Do we have an escape-and-evasion plan?” Lucy asked. “One that doesn’t entail you coming to our rescue?” The lieutenant had
just touched on all the things that could go wrong. Gus could run out of battery power for the cell phone. The rebels could
suspect deceit and turn on them. Lucy didn’t want to rely on SEALs coming to the rescue. She wanted to be able to save her
own hide, the way she’d always done.
With a thoughtful look, the giant tapped a key and zoomed in on the mountain’s peak. “Right here,” he said.
Studying the satellite image, Lucy realized there were actually two snowy, jagged peaks on La Montaña, separated by a clear,
pristine pool of water.
“The FARC have a radio station up here,” he added, pointing out a structure built into a cave on the side of the mountain.
“This is where they broadcast ‘La Voz de la Resistencia.’ Intel suggests it’s minimally protected, so if you had to, you could
subdue the unfriendlies and announce a mayday on their frequency. The NSA monitors every word they broadcast and would alert
us immediately. In theory, we can land a helo up there and pull you out.”
“It’s not going to come to that,” asserted the station chief with confidence. “Just play your part as UN peacekeepers and
nothing’s going to happen to you. This Fournier fellow is a damn good negotiator. Who knows, he might get the FARC to let
the hostages go and save us the trouble of extracting them.”
Right, and then we’ll all go home to Kansas and live happily ever after.
Lately, Lucy didn’t have much faith in best-case scenarios.
“Anything else?” Luther asked.
The reality of their impending departure cut into her consciousness like a razor. She concealed her sudden anxiety behind
a cool shrug and glanced at Gus, who shook his head.
“In that case,” said Whiteside, who seemed eager to wrap things up, “we’ll call it a night. When does the UN team get under
way?”
“First thing in the morning, sir,” Gus told him as he and Lucy stood up. Eight more SEALs sprang politely to their feet.
Whiteside turned to the OIC. “I want your night shift in the embassy by midnight, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll be there.”
With the branch chief breathing down their necks and the SEALs calling farewells and well-wishes, Gus and Lucy left the safe
house, stepped through the pedestrian gate, and realized it was nearly dark. “Wow, what time is it?” she asked, aware that
Gus was touching her again.
He glanced at his watch. “Five-thirty. I think we’d better catch a taxi.” It had stopped raining, but the mountain chain flung
its shadow over the city, making it feel later than it was.
Back on Jiménez de Quezada, they waited for a taxi to come along. One finally slowed before them. A cathedral bell tolled
quarter till as they slipped into the back, giving directions to the hotel.
As Lucy settled on the plastic-wrapped seat, Gus pulled her against him, and her hand landed on his thigh.
Whoa.
His legs hadn’t felt like
that
back in college, like they were hewn out of oak trees. Awareness tingled up her fingers, inspiring her imagination as she
envisioned herself seated in his lap, her arms coiled around his shoulders, kissing him the way they’d kissed on the airplane…
“Hotel Hacienda Royal,” he said to the driver, who took off with a squeal of his tires.
Jarred from her fantasies, Lucy brought her thoughts back to the present. Knowing Gus’s teammates would be monitoring their
every move from the JIC was oddly reassuring. “I think I see what you meant about having someone watch your back. It must
be nice,” she murmured.
Gus glanced at her sidelong. “Any one of those guys would give his life for you. Me included,” he added, tightening his embrace.
Lucy’s heart thudded unevenly. There was something highly disturbing about the thought of Gus giving up his life for her.
“Don’t say that,” she muttered. “Nothing’s going to happen to me—to us.”
His answering silence reminded Lucy of his deep reluctance to partner with her on this assignment. She’d just have to prove
to him that she was made of tougher stuff than he thought she was.
As the taxi gave a sudden turn, she glanced sharply out the window. The driver had just put them on a narrow, unlit side road.
Maybe he was taking a short cut, she reasoned, meeting his darting gaze in the mirror. She elbowed Gus, who looked at the
street they were shooting down and said to the driver, “This isn’t the way to Hacienda Royal.”
“My mistake,” said the man. He slowed down, swinging the nose of the taxi into a dark alleyway as if to turn around. But then,
twisting suddenly in his seat, he pointed a pistol at them. “Hand me your wallets!” he demanded fiercely, a desperate glitter
in his dark eyes.
Lucy froze. Gus’s warning squeeze told her he would handle it, which was well and good, because she felt paralyzed.
“Easy, easy,
señor,
” he said, holding both hands up. “We don’t carry much cash, but you are welcome to all of it.” Keeping one hand in the air,
he grubbed in his pocket with the other while Lucy swallowed convulsively, battling to bring her panic under control.
Greedy for Gus’s cash, the driver held out a hand to take it. If Lucy had blinked, she would have missed what happened next.
Under the guise of handing over his wallet, Gus broke the driver’s nose and snatched his gun away. With a scream, the driver
doubled over, blood gushing through his fingers. Removing the clip from the man’s pistol, Gus dropped it on the floor of the
car. He reached across Lucy to open her door, but she was already halfway out of it, adrenaline rocketing through her system,
accompanied by the cowardly urge to run like hell.
Get a grip!
she scolded herself as Gus grabbed her elbow and hustled her along the crumbling sidewalk. With a glance over his shoulder,
he tossed the gun over a high wall.
“Damn it,” he said, sounding only slightly irritated, “now we’ll definitely be late.”
“Not if we run,” she urged, sounding shaken. What was wrong with her? A little show of hostility and she was falling apart.
But the violence had been so startling, bringing back memories of being on the receiving end. Her heart was hammering. She
was breathing too fast. She couldn’t afford for Gus to notice, either, or he’d find a way to leave her behind.
“Running will tear your incision,” he argued.
“We can’t be late,” she insisted. “Come on!” She urged him into a quick trot, and, almost immediately, her agitation subsided.
Fueled by adrenaline, she flew along the sidewalk, scarcely hampered by the boots she would wear into the jungle.
Beside her, Gus easily kept pace as they raced in silence, down dark, deserted sidewalks, past storefronts whose doors and
windows were barred by gates of steel. A light drizzle began to fall, dampening their clothing. At last, the lights of the
hotel twinkled up ahead of them.
One block from the hotel, they slowed to a walk, catching their breath before pushing into the lobby through the revolving
front doors.
Four middle-aged adults rose from the plush seats as they entered, flushed and damp. The silver-haired gentleman with patrician
features glanced at his watch.
Carlos stepped forward to pull them over. “You’re late,” he scolded, tempering his impatience with concern. “I was beginning
to worry.”
“Our mistake,” Lucy apologized, mindful of keeping Gus’s Spanish to a minimum. “We took the TransMilieno and got off at the
wrong stop,” she added, smiling cautiously at the others.
“Well, you’re here now,” said Carlos. “Everyone, this is Luna de Aguiler and Gustavo, her husband. Luna works in my office
in New York. Her husband is a human-rights officer also stationed in New York. Luna, Gustavo, this is Pierre Fournier, our
lead negotiator.”
“A pleasure,” Fournier asserted, shaking Gus’s hand first. He held Lucy’s hand for an extra-long moment. “I was in New York
last year. I don’t remember you,” he said, sounding puzzled.
Lucy’s skin seemed to shrink. “I must have been out of the office,” she agreed.
Carlos introduced Bellini next, an effusive Italian who bestowed three kisses on Lucy’s cheek and apologized—ironically—to
Gus for his wretched Spanish.
S¸ ukruye Kemal, a Turkish woman in her midfifties, had worked for the Turkish Red Cross for twenty years before transferring
to the UN. She was small and dark, with a compassionate gaze, and Lucy hoped the woman was tougher than she looked, or the
rigors of the jungle would cripple her.
“Come,” said Fournier, gesturing to the hotel’s restaurant. “Let us dine in style tonight. Who knows when we may enjoy fine
food again?”
Hours later, Lucy stood under a scalding shower, paralyzed by anxiety. Fournier had stared at her hard all evening. Visions
of La Montaña loomed like a dark cloud in her mind. And her cowardly reaction to the taxi mugging filled her with self-doubt.
What if her PTSD was here to stay?
She couldn’t let Gus see her like this.
And yet Gus was part of the problem. He was the one who continuously fed her fear, implying that she was somehow on a quest
to destroy herself. And then there was her shattering awareness of him. She would have to share a bed with him and, at the
same time, maintain her professional edge, which was being called into question anyway.
Fed up with her anxiety and the realization that she was dawdling, Lucy shut off the shower and got out. Coiling her damp
hair in a towel, she exited the bathroom in her boxer pajamas and found Gus inserting his cell phone in the sole of his boot,
a sight that knotted her stomach all over again.
“Does it fit?” she asked, briskly rubbing her hair.
“Barely,” he replied. He stood up to depress the heel fully into place. “A better question is,
Is it waterproof?
”
Lucy peered out from under the towel. “Would they give it to you if it wasn’t?” she asked.
The anxious question had him glancing at her sharply. He sat back down and took the one boot off. “What’s the matter?” he
asked, watching her closely.
“Nothing.” She tossed the towel over the back of the chair and picked up her hairbrush, dragging it through damp snarls. “Fournier
seems a bit suspicious, that’s all.”
He stood up, coming to stand behind her. The sight of his broad shoulders filling the mirror did little to soothe her. “You
can stay here tomorrow if you want to, Luce. I’ll go by myself.”
She whirled on him, holding up the hairbrush like a weapon. “Stop saying that!” she hissed. “I don’t need your negativism
undermining my self-confidence.”
“It’s not a question of self-confidence. You were traumatized at the warehouse. That’s not going to go away just because you
want it to.”
“You see?” she said, menacing him with the brush.
“What are you going to do with that?” he asked, a hint of laughter in his eyes as he glanced at her weapon.
“Don’t mock me,” she warned. “I can have you doubled over and begging for mercy in five seconds.”
“Go ahead,” he offered, visibly bracing himself.
“Forget it.” She shoved at his chest, needing space to clear her thoughts. Turning her back on him, she went back to brushing
her hair.
For a nerve-racking minute, Gus just watched her. Awareness tightened Lucy’s nipples, putting twin points on the front of
her pajama top.
“A massage would help,” Gus announced unexpectedly. “You’re way too tense.”
Startled, Lucy put the brush down. Oh, no. A massage wouldn’t help anything. “Maybe you’re projecting your anxiety onto me,”
she bluffed. “I am perfectly fine.”
“You’re right,” Gus agreed with a nod. “I’m the one who’s tense.” He stripped off his T-shirt unexpectedly. “How about you
massage me?” Suddenly he was standing in a pair of gray gym shorts and nothing else.
Lucy’s gaze fastened helplessly on the expanse of naked chest. The lean youth she had loved in college had, in addition to
widening his shoulders six inches, grown a six-pack and chest hair—lots of chest hair, the same russet brown as his head.
It furred his upper chest before narrowing into a line that bisected his abs and arrowed into his gym shorts. “I suck at giving
massages,” she protested stonily.
“No, you don’t. Come on, Luce. Don’t be chicken.” He sprawled gracefully across the coverlet, exposing a back that was all
swells and ridges and thick, dense muscle. “It’s just a massage.”
Who was he calling chicken?
Resentment bolstered her courage. Seeing that he was watching her, she marched over to the bed and casually chopped his back,
her hands bouncing off the resilient slabs of muscles. “There,” she said, straightening.