Intimate Danger. Amy J. Fetzer
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wanted to teach them a lesson about being bullies, he couldn’t afford the attention so early in the game. The trio moved deeper into the valley and he let them pass, then motioned to the boy.
“What’s your name?”
“Pablo.” He crawled out of his vined hideout.
“Nice to meet you.” He didn’t offer his name.
“They were looking for you, senor.”
Highly unlikely, Mike thought. “Who are they?”
“Smugglers. Drugs, weapons, sometimes just food. We never know. They only come through looking for strangers.”
Okay, that he’d buy. Clear out the untrustworthy, threaten the locals, and you’ve got the bases covered since it was unlikely the police would come this far to the border.
“They go to the river,” Pablo said.
“Show me.” Mike followed the boy, watching his back, and the kid brought him near a stream. With a finger to his lips, Pablo smiled devilishly, then spied through the underbrush. There were crates stacked in two flat-bottom boats floating in the water. No one else.
The bullies were taking their time getting here.
“They wait till they are alone before coming to the water,” the child whispered.
Then Mike heard voices and footsteps and drew the boy back as the trio of young men appeared from the east, and immediately started unloading the large wood boxes, rocking the boats. Hell. The men were only about forty yards away from their positions.
Drug or small arms transport, he figured, but why here? Without checking his GPS, Mike figured he was sitting on the border and there were easier ways to get round here. A jeep for one. Ecuador’s military patrolled here because the nearest checkpoint for a border crossing was about forty miles behind him, and while this stream fed into the many tributaries snaking through Ecuador and Peru, it was nearly a hundred miles to the mouth of the Amazon. A boat would run into hazards till deep water. Of course, once they were on that river, it could take them anywhere in South America, but on foot in any direction put them right at the base of Andean mountains. The roughest terrain on the planet, Mike remembered.
For a moment, he considered capturing the three for a little interrogation, but nixed it. His priority was the UAV and the Hellfires, but if the UAV didn’t crash in Ecuador, then it drifted into Peru. How far? was the question. He could use a couple of squads of Marines, because the chopper crash was reported at sixty miles farther south in the Andean valley. But so far, his intel sucked canal water.
He focused on the men when one, a hothead, tried telling the others what to do. They weren’t having it. A mutiny.
The kid gripped his arm, watching. Mike glanced down at the tiny hand, then shifted and caught bits of the argument. They’d stolen the crates from a local drug lord. Not a smart idea. Cartels were misers and wanted all their profits in their pockets.
Arguing heatedly, they lost their hold on the crate and it hit the ground. The lid cracked, and for a moment they all just stared at the spilled contents, then started accusing the others of stealing whatever they thought was inside. Mike almost laughed.
It was a bunch of blocks. The men stomped around, swearing, kicking at the dirt and the contents. Then Mike heard tourist souvenirs. Always check the cargo first, pals. Two were screaming at each other when the tallest man’s chest exploded, taking his lungs out his back. Mike pushed Pablo down and aimed in the direction of the shot. He couldn’t see a thing. A second later, another shot came, knocking the second guy backward off his feet, a clean hole in his forehead even before the report echoed. Mike was admiring the precision hit as the third jumped into the boat, paddling furiously, and for a second it looked like he’d get away. The jungle hovered over the stream, darkening it in spots, shielding the young man.
The shot cracked, the report a couple of seconds later.
He was about six hundred yards away, Mike thought, in the hills. No noise suppressor, but a scope. That meant the shooter didn’t care who saw him.
He felt a hand on his leg and looked down. He’d almost forgotten about the boy. Mike motioned Pablo toward the village as he eased back, careful not to disturb the bushes and give the sniper another reason to shoot.
“Pablo, did you see a small plane crash here?”
The boy frowned. “No, they fly over the fields sometimes, but no, senor. No crash.”
How’d it get so off course and why didn’t satellite imagery pick it up?
Mike delivered the boy to his worried mother, who grabbed Pablo’s ear and berated him for not staying with her. The child looked almost grateful at the ass-chewing.
Turning away, Mike walked south, thinking he wasn’t going to trek all over Ecuador and Peru for the UAV. Someone at Langley had dropped the ball. He didn’t have squat and he needed accurate intel. If Langley couldn’t get it, he’d have to do it himself.
Pablo chased him, grabbing his sleeve. “You leave, senor?” Pablo sounded so young and fragile right then.
“Yes. If anyone like those guys show up, stay with your mother.” The kid had seen too much, and if anyone knew, he’d be dead very quickly.
“No, senor, you leave without the American?”
Mike stopped, turned sharply. Jesus. “What American?”
Four
A rat clung to the wall, looking back over his shoulder as if he were running from a predator.
“Go on, it’s a nice fat bug, you’ve worked hard for it, eating your way through…” Clancy’s gaze flicked to the hole in the wall. “Whatever.” She looked at the creature. He was already done and moving on. How rude, she thought, then chuckled to herself.
American jails were so much nicer. At least they gave you food, water, and a cot. Inside here was nothing but a smelly bucket.
“Oh, this is so cool,” she said, but just didn’t quite make the tone she’d hoped for. That one that gives you the rush of adrenaline that tells you you can achieve it. “Alas, poor Clancy, I knew her well.”
God. I’m getting squirrelly.
She blamed it on whatever they gave her to put her out. For hours or days, she wasn’t sure. All she recalled was the long-haired guy ordering her thrown in the vehicle before everything went black.
She tipped her head back and noticed the rat was gone. “Eat and run, I get it. I’m not good company right now.”
The door rattled like dungeon chains and she braced herself for another round of “Hey, chica, you wanna do me?” A soldier appeared. At least she thought he was a soldier. Her military training only saw the wrinkled uniform, the abundance of facial hair, and the lack of soap anywhere near him.
“Who are you talking to?” he said, his face against the bars.
Was it her that smelled that bad, or him? “Water. Got any?”
“I got something for you.” He grabbed his crotch.
Oh, like that’s new? “Mouth is too big.” She pursed her lips tightly.
He looked ready to kill her, then laughed like Boris. But right now, she’d strip for a Diet Coke. Two days in here was enough for anyone.
He tossed her a small plastic bottle and she jumped at it, drinking greedily. He found her so oddly amusing that he started telling the story before he left the cell block.
Cell block. Mom would be just so proud. Bless her heart, she can’t help that she’s stupid, but she just shoulda stayed home. She’d only wanted information. Something to help her find the troops. She’d had to be cagey about it too. The team were Spec Ops guys, and she didn’t want to give away whatever they were doing here, but after getting out of the country on a cruise