Running from the Devil

They ran quietly, most too exhausted to even grumble about being driven to and fro on the path. By eight o’clock, the sun had burned off the mist and the heat had risen to over eighty degrees.

Kohl carried Drake, another soldier, and jogged next to one named Washington, who had jerry-rigged a splint for his leg that allowed him to move with enough speed to keep up. They turned a corner in the path.

“Well, look at that.” Kohl pointed. A can of Coke, dented and rusted, sat on the dirt. He pulled his leg back to kick it.

“Stop!” Miguel said.

Kohl froze, his toe mere inches from the can.

A man stepped out of the jungle, twenty feet in front of Kohl. In one hand he carried an AK-47 with an attached grenade launcher, and the other was wrapped around Boris’s collar. Miguel raised his rifle, but the old man reached over and placed a hand on his arm.

“Don’t shoot, it’s Señor Sumner!”

Sumner looked at Kohl, still poised over the can. “I recommend you listen to your commander over there and avoid moving that can.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the trigger for a pressure-sensitive land mine.”

A passenger gasped and several moved away from the can.

“How do you know?” Kohl said.

“I devised it.”

“Works for me,” Kohl said. He lowered his foot and stepped carefully away. He hefted Drake higher on his shoulder. “I’m Private Gabriel Kohl. Why the can as a trigger?”

“You ever walk by a can you didn’t want to kick?”

Kohl looked sheepish. “I guess not.” Then he brightened. “Hey, Boris. You okay, boy?”

Boris wagged his tail.

Sumner watched Boris and raised an eyebrow at Kohl. “You know this dog?”

“He’s a land-mine-sniffing dog we borrowed from the Colombian military.”

“That explains a lot. He’s saved my hide three times in the past few hours.”

Sumner sauntered over to Miguel and stuck out his hand.

“Cameron Sumner, Air Tunnel Denial program.”

“Major Miguel Gonzalez, special operations.”

Sumner waved a hand at the Coke-can mine. “How’d you clock it?”

“I’ve seen the technique used during an operation in Lebanon.”

Kohl stepped up to Sumner. “Is Ms. Caldridge with you? Is she okay?”

Sumner went still. “How do you know about her?”

“We…”

Miguel waved at Kohl to silence him. He saw the emotion that rippled over Sumner’s face at the mere mention of Ms. Caldridge. He didn’t want Kohl’s enthusiasm for her to rub Sumner the wrong way. The last thing he needed was a man as skilled as Sumner pissed off.

“She sent a text message after the flight went down. Then we found another note hidden in her suitcase, and the passengers told us what happened at the watchtower.”

Sumner seemed to accept this explanation. “I don’t know where she is. After we burned the watchtower, helicopters came. I used the grenade launcher while she ran.”

“Was she okay?” Kohl said.

Sumner gave Kohl a measured look. “She was angry. Very angry.”

“How angry?” Miguel said.

“Rodrigo escaped. Instead of getting the hell out the area for her own safety, she insisted on burning down his checkpoint.”

“Do you blame her?” Kohl said.

“I don’t blame her, but I tried to talk her out of it. She has no time to waste on revenge if she wants to survive this mess. And if she gets her wish and has an opportunity to kill him in cold blood, it will haunt her the rest of her life.”

“Maybe not. Maybe it will free her. I mean, maybe it will be…what’s the word?” Kohl said.

“Cathartic?” Miguel supplied.

Kohl snapped his fingers. “Yeah, that.”

“It won’t,” Sumner said.

“How do you know?” Kohl said.

“Because I’ve done it.”

45

“WERE YOU THE ONE SNIPING AT THE HELICOPTERS?” MIGUEL pointed at Sumner’s rifle with the attached grenade launcher.

“I was.”

“That was some shootin’, mister.” Washington piped up from his seat at the edge of the path.

“Thank you.”

“How many were left when you were done?” Miguel eyed the sky, as if he thought the copters would suddenly reappear.

“Two, but there’ll be more. Those were Cartone cartel guys, along with some guerrillas. Those groups never get along, but here they were actually cooperating. Do you have any idea why?”

“Do you know anything about this area?”

Sumner nodded. “We’re fairly close to the pipeline now. Once we get within five miles of it, this jungle is going to be swarming with guerrillas of every shape and size. Their soldiers are good, but they’re high on drugs most of the time, so don’t expect anything like rational behavior. What about the special forces there? Are they still guarding the pipeline?”

Miguel shook his head. “Not likely. Last I heard the Colombian government asked them to leave.”

“Asked them to leave? Why?”

“When your plane was hijacked, the U.S. suspended aid to Colombia unless the Colombian president agreed to extradition.”

Sumner got an enlightened look on his face. “So that explains the fighting. The Cartone cartel and the paramilitary groups hope to put an end to the crisis and restore their sweet deal with the Colombian president?”

Miguel nodded. “Something like that. The FFOC and Rodrigo’s group are fighting back.”

“And we’re stuck in the middle,” Sumner said.

“Hopefully not for long. I expect some more rescue helicopters in three hours.”

The group marched forward. Boris loped between Sumner and Miguel. Sumner spelled the passenger and carried the injured soldier. Miguel carried Drake.

“This guy’s leg looks bad,” Sumner said.

“He’s not the worst. Drake here is. He hasn’t woken up at all.” In the distance came the drone of helicopters.

Miguel looked at his watch. “Shit, we’re late.” He stepped onto the path and waved the flagging passengers forward. “Let’s go. That’s our ride!”

Washington hobbled forward. “We gotta run. I am not missing that train.”

A Blackhawk extraction helicopter appeared above the path. Miguel’s phone crackled to life.

“Major Gonzalez?” The man spoke in a thick southern accent.

“I’m here. Come on down and pick up these civilians.”

“There’s a clearing one hundred yards north on the path. We’ll put down there. But you better make it quick. There are three enemy copters behind us, and they’re all headed this way. These guys are better armed than most military bases.”

“Most of it’s ours. We sell it to Colombia and they steal it.”

“In Arkansas we call that free enterprise.”

They reached the pickup location just as the first helicopter came into view. It touched down and took on the injured soldiers. The old man and several women followed. The pilot waved several more on. The second copter landed and loaded more passengers. This pilot took on extras as well.

Then the third touched down. It was the pilot from Arkansas.

“Come on in! We’re short on birds, so I’m gonna fly heavy. You got six enemy copters coming your way, each packed to the brim with guerrillas, drug guys, and I don’t know who all.”

“How far?”

“Thirty minutes away, no more.” The pilot watched as the passengers packed into the helicopter. “Where the hell you get all these people?”

“The guerrillas walked them right to us,” Miguel said.

“I can’t fit you all.”

“Take the civilians. I’ll take care of myself.”

“That’s a death wish.”

“You got any better ideas?” Miguel said.

The pilot shook his head. “No, but I do hate to leave you here, and that’s for sure.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Miguel said, with more confidence then he felt. The copter soon was filled to the brim and beyond. Miguel watched as Boris got his turn to load. Kohl waved him into the copter.

The dog refused to move. He swung his head back and looked at Miguel.

“Come on, Boris, up,” Kohl said.

Boris sat down.

Kohl put his hands in the air.

Miguel walked over and waved at Boris. “Come on, get in the copter, Boris.” He patted the copter’s doorway. “Up.”

Boris whined.

“He doesn’t want to go either, sir,” Kohl said.

“I can see that. Boris. Up. Now,” Miguel said.

Boris lay down.

“Now, that’s a well-trained dog,” the pilot yelled over the rotor noise.

Miguel gave up. “Put the other shepherd in the copter.” Miguel stepped away to allow Natasha to load. Boris followed Miguel, his tail wagging behind him like a flag.

Miguel, Kohl, and Sumner were left.

“Room for one more.” The pilot yelled over the noise of his rotors.

The men all looked at one another.

“You’re the civilian, Sumner. Get on,” Miguel said.

Sumner shook his head. “I don’t leave without Caldridge. I’m going back in to find her.”

Miguel eyed Sumner. He had no real authority over the man, and he knew it. He sighed and turned to Kohl.

“I ain’t leaving without her, either,” Kohl said.

“I’m giving you a direct order, Private,” Miguel said.

“Sir, I gotta stay!”

Miguel pointed to the open field. Kohl turned to look, and Miguel punched him in the head. Kohl dropped like a stone. Sumner looked as surprised as hell.

“Put him in,” Miguel said.

Sumner shook with laughter as he grabbed the unconscious Kohl under the arms. Miguel took the legs, and they heaved him into the copter.

“When we get there you want him sent to the brig for insubordination?” the pilot asked.

Miguel shook his head. “That was a heat seizure you saw. I never touched him and there was no insubordination.”

The pilot grinned. “Got it.” He reached back into the copter and grabbed a small pack. “Woman named Stromeyer from Darkview said to tell you that Banner is out of communication. And she sent you this.” He threw field rations to Miguel, and more to Sumner. “And this is from me.” The pilot handed him a pocket cigar humidor. “They ain’t Cuban, but they’re great. There’s one in there for him, too.”

Miguel nodded to the pilot. “Thanks.”

The pilot got a grim look on his face. He saluted both men before returning to the controls. The helicopter rose slowly into the air and flew away.

46

BANNER SAT IN A GRIMY ROADSIDE BAR IN A PARAMILITARY-CONTROLLED town near the border of Venezuela. He drank sips of coffee so thick that the grounds formed a silt pile at the bottom. They slid into his mouth. He swallowed without blinking and scratched absentmindedly at his day’s growth of beard.

He’d taken steps to alter his looks. His hair was dyed black and he wore dark contact lenses to dim his blue eyes. The measures were only half successful. Two women who loitered at the bar had already marked him as a wealthy outsider. They’d approached him, twining their arms around his neck, telling him how handsome he was, and whispering the things they would do to him. For a price, of course. Their bodies were warm and full and he’d enjoyed the brief contact. He’d thanked them for the offer, bought them both coffees, and sent them on their way.

Ten minutes later, his good friend Raul Perez sauntered into the bar. Perez nodded at the bartender, ordered an espresso, and took a seat at the bar stool next to Banner.

“Hello, amigo, you don’t like our girls?” Perez said.

Banner shrugged. “I like them just fine, but my interest is elsewhere.”

Perez gave him a shrewd look. “And how is Major Stromeyer?”

Banner eyed Perez over the rim of his coffee cup. “Still my employee.”

Perez chuckled. “And therefore untouchable. You know, for a covert operator, you sure do follow the rules.”

Banner smiled. “I’m a business owner now. I haven’t a choice. And you? How is your business? I brought you some medicine for the clinic.”

Perez rubbed his hands together. “IV bags? Needles?”

“And six boxes of vaccines.”

Perez slapped him on the back. “Excellent.” The bartender pushed an espresso cup in Perez’s direction. “Hey, Juan,” Perez said, “bring your little girl to the clinic tomorrow. Vaccines for everyone compliments of my friend here.”

Juan the bartender smiled but said nothing.

Perez downed the coffee in one gulp. “Come on, Banner. I have someone I think you should meet.”

Banner shoved some money under his saucer and stepped away from the bar. Juan reached over, picked up the coffee cup, and pushed the money back at him.

“Thank you for the vaccines, señor.”

Banner took the money and stuffed it in the tip jar. “For the niños.”

Juan nodded his thanks.

Perez drove his battered jeep down the dirt road to the outskirts of town. Educated at a medical school in Grenada before President Reagan decided to “free” it, he’d met Banner during the evacuation. Perez had practiced in hospitals in Miami before returning to this border town. He’d started his clinic to help the local people. Ten years ago, when a paramilitary group threatened to bomb the clinic unless he agreed to pay protection, he’d called Banner in a panic. Banner managed to convince the guerrillas that harassing the only doctor in town was a very bad idea. The convincing took a while. Every day for three straight weeks, Perez’s clinic treated the broken arms and noses of a stream of guerrillas. The same ones who had demanded protection from him were now forced to accept his care. He’d done it quietly and without question. At the end, the guerrillas not only viewed Perez as an untouchable entity but as a friend. Now they routinely brought their own families to him to treat.

The clinic consisted of a series of connected cinder-block buildings in an L shape. Paint peeled from the walls, and the last building’s second floor remained unfinished. Long pieces of rusted rebar jutted out from the roof.

“Still haven’t completed that wing?” Banner said.

Perez sighed. “Every time I try, something arises that requires the funds go elsewhere. Like the person I’m taking you to meet.”

Banner stepped into the cool hallway of the inpatient wing. It smelled like astringent antiseptic and ammonia. A ceiling fan with one broken blade turned slowly overhead. The piece creaked as it completed each turn. Perez waved Banner into a room on the right.

A large woman with tightly curled gray hair and tubes running out of her arm sat up in the room’s only bed. She looked to be in her late sixties. Her skin was gray, but her eyes were bright with intelligence. She wore a hospital gown that tied at the back. Banner could see the strings poking out from behind her neck. The gown had a bizarre, faded pattern of blue flowers intermixed with pictures of teddy bears. The bears wore little blue diapers. Banner gazed at it in fascination. Perez broke his reverie.

“I’ve brought someone for you to meet,” Perez said to the woman. He spoke in a hearty voice, his usual good humor moving up a notch.

“Does he have a cigarette for me?” the woman said, a sly look on her face.

Banner tore his eyes from the diapered bears and laughed.

Perez put on a frown. “Gladys, those are coffin nails.”

Gladys waved a hand in the air. “But it’s my coffin, now, isn’t it, Dr. Perez?” Perez shrugged, giving up.

Gladys peered at Banner. “I’m Gladys Sullivan.”

Banner reached out and shook her hand. “Edward Banner.”

“What’s wrong with your eyes?” Gladys said.

Banner heard Perez suppress a laugh.

“Why do you ask?” Banner said.

“They look surreal. Like liquid tar.”

“I’m wearing colored contact lenses. But I’m surprised you’ve noticed. Most people wouldn’t be able to tell.”

“What’s their real color?” Gladys said.

“Blue.” Banner saw no reason to lie to the woman. He’d liked her on sight, and her request for a cigarette in spite of her obvious dire health condition indicated a woman who knew what she wanted.

Gladys gave a satisfied nod. “That’s better. I like it when a man tells the truth.” She gave him a critical look. “I have to say, each man I see on this journey is better looking than the last. You, mister, are a stunner.”

Banner didn’t know what to say. He was used to women flirting with him in the sideways manner women had, but rarely had a woman so blatantly placed her thoughts on the table. He did his best to ignore Perez, who grinned at him from the corner of the room.

“Thank you, Ms. Sullivan.” It was all Banner could think of to say. He didn’t think Perez had brought him to Ms. Sullivan so that they could have an extended discussion of his looks. To his relief, the doctor changed the subject.

“Gladys has a story to tell you, Banner.” Perez ambled to the door. “While she does, I’ll just arrange to unload the booty you brought.” He left Banner and Gladys staring at each other.

“I’m from Flight 689,” Gladys said.

Banner started. A chrome chair with a torn red vinyl seat cushion sat in the corner. He snagged it, placed it next to her bed, and sat down.

“Perez told me about you. He said you were working with the government on the hijacking.”

Banner nodded. “I am, in a manner of speaking. I’m here to collect a helicopter.”

Gladys heaved a relieved sigh. “I think I’m the last person to see Emma Caldridge. She saved my life. And I’d like you to save hers,” she said.

An hour later, Banner stood next to Perez’s jeep. “Will she live?”

Perez rocked his hand back and forth. “Hard to say. She needs a triple bypass and to stop smoking. She also needs helicopter transport to a major city. I had one lined up through a relief organization, but she ceded her spot to a child with meningitis. Now she has to wait at least three more weeks.”

“If it hasn’t happened by the time I get back, I’ll try to arrange transport.”

“What’d she say?” Perez said.

“She rode with a band of cartel flunkies out of the hijack area. While on the ride, she saw a caravan of trucks carrying what sounds like Dragunov semiautomatic rifles with telescopic sights.”

Perez gave a low whistle. “Cartels arming for a fight?”

Banner shook his head. “Apparently not. She said they were headed to the ocean to be smuggled into Miami. She said some American businessmen were assisting in the transport. She knew this because she’d seen them earlier at a checkpoint location.” He yanked open the jeep’s door. “But that whole story isn’t what worries me. What worries me is that these gunrunning Americans were focused on finding one particular passenger.”

“What’s so special about this passenger? Didn’t most die in the crash? And the rest taken hostage?”

Banner nodded. “The only people that know this passenger is alive are with the Department of Defense. Looks like our hijacking friends have some help from the inside the States.”

Perez’s mouth dropped open.

47

EMMA RAN INTO THE SMALL PRISON HUT AND STUMBLED OVER Maria, who was hovering just inside the doorway. Vivian crouched at the edge of the pit, staring downward. Alvarado hung there, his body impaled on the sticks. One went straight through him and came out his back. His arms were stuck out at ninety-degree angles from his body. He looked like he’d been crucified. Blood was everywhere.

“Did you push him?” Emma said.

Vivian shook her head. “No. He slipped when he reached the edge and fell straight forward.”

“I know he deserved it, but it looks awful.”

“He would come here every week and taunt me. He called me Rodrigo’s ‘ace in the hole’ and then he’d laugh. Once he took one of the men, brought him to the edge of the hole, and shot him in the head. The body fell on me and he made me carry it out and bury it. I hated him.”

Maria said something in Spanish.

“Maria says that God let him fall.”

“Maria has much more faith in God’s sense of fair play than I do,” Emma said.

All three women were silent, staring at the body.

Maria spoke up. She chattered at Vivian and waved her arms around in the air.

“Maria says we must move the body. She says the children should not know what occurred here.”

Emma nodded, but she shivered. All three women fell silent again. They stared at the dead man.

“Let’s go,” Emma said.

They lowered the ladder down the hole. Maria handed Emma one end of a rope. Emma grimaced as she wrapped the rope around Alvarado’s chest and tied it into a slipknot. She climbed out and waved to Vivian.

They heaved on the rope. The body slid off the sticks and slammed into the side of the hole with a sickening thud. They walked back, dragging it up onto the ground.

“Now we bury him,” Emma said.

Two hours later, they stood in the jungle and patted dirt over the grave site. Maria held a burning torch. No one said anything. Emma thought it was the worst moment of her life so far.

“You need to hide in the jungle again. The village is not safe,” Emma said.

“Maria is leaving with the children. She will not return until she is given a sign that Rodrigo is dead.”

Emma glanced up. “What type of sign? We may not be able to return for a long time.”

Maria patted Emma’s arm while she spoke to Vivian.

“Maria says that God will give her a sign. She is sure that Rodrigo will meet his end soon. She thanks you for freeing her and the children.”

Emma shook her head. “Vivian, does she understand that I am a terrible shot? That this plan could fail?”

Vivian translated for Maria, who smiled as she replied.

“She says that God will guide your hand. Things are in motion now that will call the end to Rodrigo. She says you set those things in motion, and she thanks you for it.”

Emma wished she could have such faith in God. As it was, she thought that their situation was worse than before. Rodrigo and Alvarado were a team. When Alvarado failed to return, Rodrigo was bound to wonder what happened and come looking.

“What do you think, Vivian?” she said.

Vivian hesitated a moment. Then she shook her head.

“I do not share Maria’s faith. I think we need to kill him or he will kill the children, as he once threatened to do.”

“I agree with you, but you aren’t staying here. Two years in that hellhole is enough. You’re free now. Go with Maria and don’t return to the village until you hear that Rodrigo is dead. I’ll try to get the news to you somehow.”

Vivian hesitated. “I don’t want to leave you here alone.”

Emma gave her a little push. “Go with Maria.” Vivian left to join Maria and the children hiding in the jungle, taking her torch with her.

Emma sat in the bushes at the edge of the little camp and thought about Sumner. She closed her eyes and tried to feel him. Tried to discern if he still lived and worried about her. She remembered watching a television show about miracles in ordinary life. The show’s host interviewed person after person, all of whom told incredible stories of impossible phenomena. Stories about speaking to people after they were dead, having premonitions of both good and evil before events occurred, and of returning to life after near-death experiences.

Emma hadn’t scoffed at the stories exactly, it was clear that the people were in deep pain and soothing themselves in any way they could, but she didn’t believe them, either. She believed that many such premonitions were nothing more than animal instinct. The subconscious mind made connections based upon actual occurrences, and it put the puzzle pieces together in a way that felt surreal but was not. Yet now she sat in the bushes and tried to conjure up some of the same feelings. She wanted Sumner to be alive.

Twenty minutes later, Emma watched Rodrigo and Mathilde walk into the small village. She picked up the rifle and sighted Rodrigo’s back.

And then she froze.

The image of Patrick on his deathbed, clutching his rosary, bloomed in her mind. She shoved the image away and refocused on Rodrigo’s back.

“Maria!” Rodrigo bellowed the name.

Emma inhaled deeply and started to squeeze the trigger. Then she froze again.

“Don’t think, just shoot him. He’s not even looking this way.” Emma talked to herself as she tried to motivate her finger to depress the trigger. Still, her hand stayed frozen.

Have you ever killed a man in cold blood? Sumner’s words ran through her head.

Not only in cold blood, Sumner, in the back, too, she thought.

She sighted Rodrigo’s spine dead center, between the shoulder blades, her vision focused on just that spot. She hovered there for a second, trying to conjure up her rage from the watchtower. She felt the anger still, but the awful image of Alvarado dead on the sticks kept intruding, sending waves of revulsion through her. The finality of death weighed on her.

Emma lowered the gun.

Two pickup trucks and a black SUV roared into the village. The pickups had the word DAIHATSU painted on their hatches. Each one was filled with boxes marked BANANAS—PRODUCT OF COLOMBIA. The top banana box on one truck was open. Instead of carrying bananas, it was loaded with long thin rifles. Each rifle had a telescope at the top. Emma watched as a soldier backed one of the pickups deeper into the foliage.

Smoking Man emerged from one of the pickups, followed by his bodyguards. He marched toward Rodrigo. At one foot away, he hauled off and punched him square in the face. Rodrigo staggered but swung at Smoking Man. His offensive move was short-lived. The two bodyguards grabbed his arms and pinned his hands behind him.

Smoking Man struck Rodrigo in the stomach. He wound up to punch Rodrigo again, when the roaring sound of diesel engines echoed through the air. Two large army trucks, the type used to transport personnel, barreled into the small village. A Range Rover followed. The vehicles stopped in a cloud of dust. The doors on the Range Rover swung open, and two men dressed in businessman’s attire stepped out. They marched up to Smoking Man.

A long conversation ensued. Soon the men were yelling at one another. Emma gasped when she heard the lead businessman address Smoking Man in clear American-accented English.

“You had her in your hands and lost her. Not only her, but the hostages as well. You told me this loser”—the man stabbed a finger at Rodrigo—“could handle the job. Well, we’re not depending on you or your men anymore. See those soldiers?” The man waved at the trucks filled with paramilitary soldiers. “They’re here to take over after you and your men recover that woman. You will listen to them.”

Smoking Man took a drag off his cigarette and spit on the ground in the direction of the new set of guerrillas. His show of defiance spurred the American man to yell even louder.

“I don’t give a damn what you think of them. I’m going to get the bloodhounds back on her trail.” The man stalked back to the cab, reached in, grabbed a briefcase, and threw it at Smoking Man. “We’re leaving. Either you find her or there will be no more.” He turned to his men. “Make sure they get it right and then drive those trucks to the beach.” He pointed at the two Daihatsus.

Four soldiers jumped out of the transport vehicles and trained guns on Rodrigo and Smoking Man. The lead American stormed into his Range Rover. The second followed more slowly. He avoided looking at Rodrigo or Smoking Man. The Range Rover started with a roar and drove away.

Smoking Man threw a gun at Rodrigo before spinning around to head back to his car. He made a great show of nonchalance as he sauntered past the four soldiers. They kept a rifle trained on him but let him pass. He slammed into the SUV and disappeared in his own cloud of dust. An expectant silence settled over the village.

Emma could focus on only one thing, the hounds. If the men brought back the dogs, the chances were high that they’d catch her this time. She couldn’t afford that until she completed what she came to Colombia to do. The only way to evade the dogs was to be far away when they came, and to get away in a vehicle, leaving no trace of her scent.

She turned her attention away from Rodrigo to the Daihatsu trucks.

48

SUMNER, MIGUEL, AND BORIS SLOGGED THROUGH THE JUNGLE in the general direction that Sumner believed Emma had run. Miguel held a compass out in front of him and warned Sumner when they deviated the least bit from it. They kept a straight line, allowing the dog to jog in the front. They’d managed to avoid two land mines, thanks to Boris. To Miguel, the jungle held a quiet, waiting feeling. The sky glowed amber, the way it did twenty minutes before a tornado hit. Miguel had experienced a tornado in Oklahoma, and he never forgot that amber sky and the feeling of peace right before all hell broke loose. He’d never really understood the term calm before the storm until that day. Now he knew the phenomenon existed.

Sumner was a man on a mission. Miguel liked working with him. He rarely spoke, except for essential things, and he moved with a stealth that Miguel admired. He didn’t seem overly desperate to find Ms. Caldridge, more like quietly determined. Miguel felt as though he would not stop until he did.

Rodrigo should be worried. He is no match for this man, Miguel thought.

They broke through a stand of palm and stumbled onto a trail.

“Does this look familiar at all?” Miguel said.

Sumner shook his head. “Whole damn jungle looks the same to me, I’m afraid. Feels the same, too. Hot, wet, and dangerous.”

Miguel nodded. “Maybe this is a good place to take a little break. Boris could use some water.”

Miguel poured a small amount of water into a tin cup. Boris lapped it and looked for more when it was empty. They started again. They had walked fifty paces when Sumner gave a low chuckle. He pointed to a tree with a crude X scraped into the trunk.

“She thought ahead,” Miguel said.

“She always does.”

An explosion ripped through the air. They smelled the smoke before they saw the fire. A large plume of black smoke rose into the sky.

“Now what?” Miguel said in exasperation. They headed toward the smoke. It took an hour for them to reach the plume’s location.

They stood there, struck dumb by the devastation. It was the pipeline. The large metal tube was an ugly metallic blight on the green landscape. Metal tripods held it off the ground. Dark smoke roiled from where the guerrillas had bombed it. Oil spilled everywhere, oozing across the grass and stones, turning the green field to black. Miguel gagged at the stench. His feet slipped on the slick grass. Someone had set makeshift oil drums under the gaping hole to collect what they could.

A small tin shack sat at the end of the field. It leaned sideways, looking like a poor man’s version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

“Let’s canvass it first,” Sumner said. He worked his way around the shed in a large semicircle. Miguel followed behind, trying not to slip on the oil. They reached the back of the structure.

“No windows. Anyone could be inside,” Miguel whispered.

Sumner nodded. He reached out and pulled on the wooden door. It was spattered with oil, and opened with a smooth swing. The dark interior smelled like burning tar—the kind of smell that roofers make with their tar-melting vats. Sumner’s eyes stung from the fumes.

The hut had ragged wooden walls and a dirt floor. A blackened kerosene stove sat in the corner. The rest of the hut was bare except for a small wooden desk made of plywood. It hugged the far wall, with a matching chair pushed in front of it. On top of the desk sat a briefcase, open. Around it, stacked in piles, was more money than Sumner had ever seen outside of a bank. He reached over and lifted a small packet off the stack. He fanned the bills, watching them flutter in order.

“Ten-dollar bills,” he said, “and they’re still crisp. New money. Payoffs?”

Miguel peered at Sumner in the gloom. “Didn’t work. They bombed the pipeline anyway.”

“Maybe the payoff was to make the guard look away so they could bomb the pipeline,” Sumner said.

“If so, why leave it here? Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Sumner grabbed a handful of bills and shoved them into his pants’ pockets. He gave another handful to Miguel.

“Put these in your cargo pockets. We may need this to bargain our way out of a tough spot.”

Miguel counted the stacks, then snorted. “I can carry a grand total of six thousand dollars. If that buys me anything, I’d be surprised.”

Sumner shrugged. “It’s something.”

“That it is,” Miguel said.

They stashed as much cash as they could and headed back outside. The stench in the air surrounded them. Miguel pulled out a compass and waved toward the broken pipeline.

“That way is the sea. We should be close now. We’ll have to work our way to the other side and head down that hill.”

They jogged to the pipeline, angling under it. Miguel swung his head from side to side, looking for movement or any sign of an enemy. Sumner waved toward a tree. They slipped behind it.

“It’s too quiet,” Sumner said in a whisper.

“I agree. Do you see anything?” Miguel said.

“No, but the hair is standing up on my neck. Not a good sign.”

“You know what to do in case of an explosion, right?” Miguel whispered.

“Run like hell?” Sumner said.

“No. Drop to the ground and open your mouth. That way the shock waves will flow through your body instead of blasting it apart.”

Sumner looked at Miguel a long moment. “Thanks for the tip,” he said.

Miguel smiled. “Let’s move, shall we? Flush these losers out of hiding. I’ll be damned if I can spot them, and I can’t tell you how badly I want to get to that beach. I’ll go first, you watch for snipers.”

Miguel left the tree line and ran in the direction of the beach. He felt Sumner’s eyes on his back. He also felt a presence to his right. Whoever had targeted them was sitting in the trees. Miguel estimated the sniper was fifty feet ahead of Sumner’s position. He would draw even with him in ten seconds. He prepared to drop and fire.

The explosion came out of nowhere. It blew apart a section of the pipeline five hundred yards from Miguel’s position. Miguel hit the deck and opened his mouth. He watched Sumner out of the corner of his eye. Sumner dropped and turned his head toward the blast. The shock wave hammered through Miguel. It rattled his bones and he felt his tongue suck backward into his mouth.

A second explosion came on the heels of the first. A huge plume of fire shot skyward, fed at the base by the oil pumping out of the pipeline. Black smoke roiled into the sky. An inky sludge seeped downward, starting a slow spread across the grass.

The sniper stepped out of the trees, on Miguel’s right. Miguel clocked him with his peripheral vision only. His body felt like a thousand fists had hammered into him, making the simple act of turning his head seem too difficult a maneuver. It was only after the sniper snapped his rifle into firing position and Miguel felt the adrenaline dump into his system that he was able to move. He lurched upward. He saw the sniper’s muzzle flash. Felt the bullet thud into him. It knocked him sideways, but he did a funny two-step with his feet, which allowed him to stay upright for a brief moment. He didn’t feel any real pain. A detached side of his mind registered the lack of pain in an almost clinical way. He dropped to his knees and hung there, unable to stand, but unwilling to fall to the ground. The sniper took a step forward, farther into the field. Miguel heard a shot from behind him, and he watched the sniper’s chest explode in a red flume. He wanted to congratulate Sumner on the shot, but now the pain was upon him. It was a violent, terrible, clawing agony that snatched his breath away.

Boris ran up to him and started licking his face. Miguel felt someone grab him from behind. He started to struggle, but stopped when he heard Sumner speak.

“Get up, Miguel, the beach is on that far side of the hill. You said you wanted to get to the beach, didn’t you?” His voice held a cajoling note. Miguel tried to laugh, but pain shot through his side as he took a breath.

“The wound must be bad, Sumner, because that’s the longest sentence I’ve ever heard you say.”

Sumner’s grin was strained. “I’ll look at it when we get to that boat.”

Miguel let Sumner help him up. Boris danced in front of them, running forward, tail up like a flag, and then circling back to run alongside. Miguel leaned on Sumner and they limped down the beach. A cabin cruiser floated in the water, anchored twenty feet out into the water.

“That thing isn’t a boat, it’s a small yacht.” Miguel could barely get the words out.

“Looks like we’re about to steal a cartel leader’s pleasure ride,” Sumner said.

Miguel wanted to respond but found that he couldn’t. Stars danced before his eyes and his side hurt like a bitch. They reached the beach and Sumner continued forward, plunging knee-deep into the water and dragging Miguel with him.

“Canvass it first,” Miguel said. His voice was so weak that it came out like a whisper.

“No time,” Sumner said.

“You’ve got that right,” a man’s voice said behind them. Sumner turned to look into the face of the man at the airstrip with the two bodyguards.

49

BANNER TOUCHED HIS HELICOPTER DOWN TO REFUEL AT AN AIRSTRIP, where the signing of paperwork ensued. While he stood at the dirty counter in the tiny airstrip, his phone rang with the ring tone he reserved for Stromeyer.

“Tell me some good news,” he said without preamble.

“Everyone’s pounding down my door to speak to you, and none of them believe that I can’t reach you.”

Banner smiled at the phone. “Your reputation for knowing everything precedes you. Now you’re reaping the results, eh?”

He heard Stromeyer’s snort from five thousand miles away and down the phone line. “Margate is losing it. Word just came that the pipeline was blown and two U.S. soldiers were captured seconds later. The implication is that they deliberately blew the pipeline in retaliation for the hostage situation and order to evacuate.”

“What soldiers?” Banner shifted the phone to his left hand to allow him to sign yet another piece of paper that a hangar employee shoved under his nose. “None of ours is anywhere near it, and I thought Margate gave the order to extract the rest.”

“Miguel is one and Sumner is the other.”

Banner stopped writing. “Who captured them?”

“A high-ranking member of the FFOC.”

Banner slammed out of the small office. The sun hit him full force. He shoved on a pair of wraparound sunglasses. Almost smiled at the instant relief they gave him.

“Where are they being held?” He strode quickly toward his helicopter.

“Don’t know. I think at the pipeline. But word is that Miguel is injured.”

“Get me the coordinates for the pipeline. I need to know where to find them.”

“I’ll send them in an attachment to your phone. I’m also going to route Margate to you.”

“Can’t you hold him off a little longer? I don’t feel like dealing with the man.”

“Honestly, I’m afraid if he doesn’t speak to you soon, he’ll give an order that will just make everything harder.”

Banner couldn’t argue with her logic. “Fine. Send him through.”

Within seconds, Banner heard the beeping sound that indicated another call was coming through.

“What did you do, have him on hold?”

“You bet,” Stromeyer said in a sweet voice. “Banner?” Now she sounded serious.

“Yes?”

“I still don’t trust him completely.”

“I know. I’ll tread carefully.”

Banner heard her click off the line before he could respond.

“Banner, explain to me how two of your soldiers got near the pipeline hours after the last soldiers had already been evacuated.” Margate’s anger burned through the line. Banner swung into his helicopter before answering.

“When did Major Gonzalez become mine?” he asked.

“The moment he disobeyed a direct order to evacuate. I’m arranging the paperwork to have him arrested the moment he steps back into the States.”

Banner took a deep breath to avoid snapping at Margate. The man pissed him off to no end, but he needed to keep his cool if he was to save Miguel’s career. “Major Gonzalez operated under a joint order of the DOD and my organization. I have not received the paperwork to withdraw my people, and so he did not leave.”

There was a short silence on the line. “What people? I understood that the only soldiers in the area were regular military special forces,” Margate said.

“General Corvan signed a memo naming my organization as part of the rescue mission. He had to in order for me to be present at the initial meeting.” What Banner said was a technicality only, but he was more than willing to stand behind it to protect Miguel’s decision to overstay his welcome. Now it sounded like Miguel and Sumner were being set up to take the fall for a bombing.

“If he’s under your umbrella, you’d better be prepared to answer to the Colombian government regarding this bombing. I don’t expect them to offer any leniency.” Margate was already working an angle, Banner could tell. But he didn’t care. He’d figure out the details later. Now he needed to get to the pipeline and pull Sumner and Miguel out of whatever nightmare they’d encountered.

“Margate, I doubt they’re responsible for the bombing,” Banner said. “What possible motive could they have?”

“The oldest one in the book, Banner. Money. Colombian government says their pockets were loaded with cash and an entire briefcase of the stuff was nearby.”

Banner stopped fiddling with the helicopter while he absorbed this information. He thought about Gladys’s claim that American businessmen were involved in arms trafficking. He was tempted to tell Margate, but reason prevailed. Time enough to figure out what was going on after he’d located everyone he needed to find.

“I’m sure there’s a good explanation, Margate.”

“Glad you’re so convinced.”

“Where did the Colombian government get their information about the cash?”

Margate coughed over the line. “The FFOC. They’re demanding two million in ransom and safe passage back to their enclave in the south.”

Banner couldn’t believe his ears. “Wait a minute! This accusation comes from the FFOC and you and the Colombian government believe them? Have you lost your mind? Why would you believe anything a bunch of paramilitary killers tell you?”

“I am inclined to believe them because this Gonzalez seems to have gone off half-cocked. He should have evacuated with the rest. When he disobeyed a direct order, it tends to make me wonder why.”

“Your last extraction helicopter was full, so he never had a chance to evacuate. Plus, he’s helping Sumner find Emma Caldridge.”

“I hope you’re right, Banner. If not, then I intend to hang the guy high. The passengers are freed, the military evacuated, and the mission accomplished. As far as I’m concerned, this hijacking has been brought to a successful conclusion. The last thing I need is a couple of rogue soldiers wreaking havoc on our political allies. They’re on their own.”

“And Ms. Caldridge? She’s still stuck out there.”

“She’s a casualty of the situation. I think you’ll agree that losing only one of the survivors is a very acceptable outcome.”

Banner had to clamp his teeth together to stop himself from raining insults on Margate. “I don’t agree at all. I intend to do my best to bring all three of these people back to the States alive.”

“You are free to try, Banner, but we won’t pay Darkview’s expenses from this moment forward, and if you are captured, expect us to deny that you even exist.”

“I’m a contracted security force, Margate. When was the last time you guys acknowledged our existence under any circumstances?” Banner shut off the phone before he felt compelled to tell Margate what he really thought of him.

50

EMMA MOVED TOWARD THE WAITING TRUCKS. THREE OF THE four soldiers milled around near the first truck, leaving the one truck closest to the trees shrouded in shadows. She couldn’t see the fourth soldier.

She checked on Rodrigo. He stood in the village center, as if waiting. I wonder where Mathilde is, Emma thought. Just then Mathilde stepped into the village. It was as if Emma’s thoughts had conjured her.

Emma crept closer to the truck. She heard a footfall behind her. She spun around to see the fourth soldier pointing a rifle at her chest. It was the boy she’d helped escape from the truck at the airstrip almost a lifetime ago. His eyes widened as he recognized her. They stood that way, facing each other, for what felt like an eternity. Emma saw a bead of sweat run down the boy’s face. It dripped into the bandanna he wore around his neck. His lips were parted and he breathed rapidly in and out, as if he’d just completed a run. Emma felt as if she could see his thoughts racing through his head.

Rodrigo’s voice as he spoke to Mathilde echoed through the clearing.

The boy started. He jerked his head toward the truck in the trees. In two short strides he was at its side. He waved at her impatiently. Emma jogged over. Put her foot on the bumper. The boy reached out and supported her arm to help her swing her leg into the truck bed. It was a strangely chivalrous gesture under the circumstances, but it told Emma more about the boy’s character than any words could have. She insinuated herself between the boxes of rifles, moving them gently aside. They were stacked three high. When she was able to lie down, she lowered herself onto her back. She stared up at the sky. The boy hovered over her, worry in his dark eyes. He moved the boxes on top closer together, until a shadow fell over Emma. She could see the boy’s face through the remaining shaft of light shining between the boxes. The boy caught her eye. He gave a curt nod. She felt the truck bounce as he jumped off.

The tangy smell of metal was all around. The flatbed’s steel bottom felt cold against the backs of her arms. She would have given anything at that moment to be able to see what Rodrigo and the others were doing, but she dared not lift her head. Her hands were down by her legs, palms flat against them, straight. She touched the cargo pocket of her pants. Felt the lumpy stones of the rosary. She slid her fingers in the pocket. Wrapped them around the rosary, tight. She thought of Gladys. She pressed the stones into her palm, took a deep breath, and waited.

After what seemed like forever, but must have only been minutes, she heard a man walking next to the truck. His feet crunched on the stone ground. She felt the truck cant to one side as someone stepped onto the wheel well. A shadow fell across her face. She looked up and locked eyes with Rodrigo.

“So, lady, there you are.”

He shoved the boxes aside, grabbed her arm, and hauled her upright. He yelled to Mathilde as he dragged Emma across the back of the truck to one of the huts. He dumped her on the ground. Mathilde sauntered up and kicked dirt at Emma. The bits of earth landed in Emma’s eyes.

Rodrigo gave an order. One soldier stepped forward, uncoiling a rope in his hand as he did. In seconds he had Emma’s hands and feet tied. Rodrigo motioned the soldiers away. They all nodded and shuffled to their vehicles. The young boy soldier moved the slowest. He cast Emma a look full of sadness and apology as he walked by. The soldiers climbed into their vehicles and drove out of the village. Only a few of Rodrigo’s guerrillas remained. They hovered forty feet away, on the edge of the jungle. Rodrigo motioned Mathilde into the hut.

Emma wasn’t alone for long. Mathilde reappeared. She strolled to Emma.

“Rodrigo called the Americans. They come. We will be paid a lot of money for you, but why they think you are worth it, I don’t know.” She yanked Emma’s backpack off her back.

“You won’t need this anymore,” she said. She tore into Emma’s backpack and rummaged through the contents, throwing the various items in the dirt. Emma watched her empty the small side pocket. She pulled out the remaining tube of Engine Red. Swiveled it open.

“Nice color,” she said.

“It’s mine. Don’t use it.”

Mathilde analyzed the lipstick. “It’s new. I shall try it.”

“No,” Emma said.

Mathilde raised an eyebrow. “You don’t tell me what to do.” She went back into the hut. After a few moments, she returned. In her hand was a small round mirror. She smirked at Emma and brought the Engine Red to her lips. Emma lurched to her feet. The ropes around her ankles hobbled her, and she fell to her knees.

“Don’t! It’s poison. It will kill you.” Emma infused the warning with all the intensity she could.

Mathilde flipped her hair. “I will look beautiful while I watch you die.”

“I’m telling you, it’s poison. Do not touch it.” Emma pleaded with her.

Mathilde ignored her. She prepared to apply the lipstick.

“Mathilde, don’t!” Emma was frantic. “You’ll kill us all.”

“Liar,” Mathilde said. “I saw Maria in the forest. She wears it. You gave it to her.” She leaned forward. “We will deal with her later.” Her gaze returned to the mirror, and she rubbed the stick across her lips, leaned back to look at her image. The color complemented her olive skin and dark hair. She threw Emma a superior look.

Within seconds, she started to sway. The blood left her face in a rush, rendering her skin pasty white. She started to cough. She clawed at her neck and made gagging sounds. Panic rose in her eyes. She staggered to the hut’s door, holding her throat, just as Rodrigo stepped out. She dropped to the ground, writhing. Rodrigo asked her a question in Spanish, but all she did was show him the lipstick still clutched in her hand before she pointed to Emma.

Rodrigo rounded on Emma. “What have you done?”

Emma wanted to cry. She shook her head. “I told her not to touch the lipstick. It’s poison.”

Mathilde began foaming at the mouth. Rodrigo stepped back in revulsion. He stormed over to Emma, his machete drawn. He grabbed her by the hair. Placed the machete at her throat.

“Poison. Is it true?”

Emma nodded. “It’s true. It’s a weapons-grade nervous system disrupter.”

“Who made it?”

Emma sighed. “I did.”

“Will she live?” Rodrigo jutted his chin at Mathilde’s prone body.

Emma sighed again. “No.”

“Is there a cure?”

“I can make a liquid that will halt the poison. An antidote. But it would be for us. She is lost.”

“What do you mean, for us?”

“The molecules release into the air, like a miasma. It works as a nervous system disrupter and paralytic.”

Rodrigo pressed the machete closer. “I don’t understand these English words!”

“Think of rabies—you know the word rabies?”

Rodrigo nodded.

“The lipstick kills on contact, but it also kills through secondhand exposure. When the stick is rubbed on warm skin the molecules release into the air like a cloud, affecting anyone in a ten-foot radius. For those of us subject to secondhand contact, death is delayed. We have twelve hours.”

Rodrigo started breathing faster. “Make the cure.”

“I need to get to the Lost City. The only plant that will reverse the effects grows there. I destroyed all the others in my lab, because the same plant can create the weapon.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Emma waved her bound hands at Mathilde. “What’s not to believe?”

“I mean about us. We have not touched the poison.”

“I told you, it’s in the air. You just can’t see it. And don’t tell me that you don’t believe. You were there when the Americans came looking through the hostages. You wanted to know why it was so important that they find me? Well, now you do. They’re arms traders. They’re looking for the poison to sell on the black market.” Emma watched comprehension dawn in Rodrigo’s eyes. He thought a moment.

“The Lost City is a six-hour walk from here. We cannot get there and back in twelve hours.”

“We only have to get there, not back. I’ll make the antidote once we arrive.”

“I tell you, we can’t go there. The path runs through Cartone cartel territory.” Rodrigo shrieked the words into Emma’s ear.

Mathilde started convulsing. Rodrigo shot a look at her, jerking on the ground. He was sweating. Emma could smell his fear. She sought a way to calm him down, to reassure him before he exploded.

“You’re wrong,” she said in a patient voice. “We can go there. We’ll pay the protection money. That’s what the tourists do. That’s what I did when I went there last year.”

“I told you, I can’t go there. It’s Cartone cartel territory. They’ll kill me on sight.”

Now Emma understood. “But I can go there. I have gone there.”

“The cure. Now.” Rodrigo pushed the machete again. Emma felt a sting. A line of warm blood ran down her neck.

“What you are demanding is impossible. I told you, I need to go to the Lost City. You can stay here. Send one of your men with me. They weren’t close enough to be affected. Have one walk with me and another one waiting on the path. The fresh man can run the antidote back to you in time. Or come with me. Perhaps the Cartone foot soldiers will not see you.”

“The soldiers line the path to the Lost City. You will not see them, but they will see you, and for sure will know me,” Rodrigo said.

“Then you must send someone with me to run the antidote back. Decide now, Rodrigo. You need to release me, quickly.”

Rodrigo stayed still, breathing hard. After a moment, he lowered the machete, cut through the ropes binding Emma’s arms, and stepped back.

“So. Go. But do not double-cross me. You have eight hours. I’ll find your friend, and each hour you are late, he will lose a piece. First his left arm, then his right.” Emma didn’t doubt that Rodrigo would track Sumner.

“First you put down your weapons, order your men to do the same, and lay face-first on the ground.”

“No!” The cords stood out on Rodrigo’s neck. Mathilde made a groaning sound. Her eyes rolled back into her head as her throat convulsed.

Emma pointed at Mathilde. “You’ll look like her in twelve hours, Rodrigo. Put down your weapons. If you don’t, you’re a dead man, because I refuse to go.”

“You will die, too, if you don’t make it.”

“If you don’t put down your weapons, then I know you will track my friend the minute I leave here. Either you put down your weapons or I don’t go. It’s that simple. But decide quickly, Rodrigo. We’re wasting time.”

The remaining guerrillas gathered around Mathilde, wide-eyed and silent. Rodrigo gave a sharp order.

The men looked at one another, confused. Emma assumed that their confusion stemmed from the nature of the order. Rodrigo bellowed the same order. This time the men jumped to obey. Their guns rattled as they were dropped, one on top of another, in a pile. They unbuckled their ammunition belts and removed the weapons strapped to their ankles. They lowered themselves to the ground, face-first.

Emma turned to Rodrigo. “Now you.”

His face was red, his lips pressed tight. He tossed his machete at her feet, so close that she had to jump back to avoid being cut. He lowered himself to the ground.

Emma recovered Rodrigo’s machete. She went to the pile of weapons. Unloaded each one and took the three ammunition belts.

Emma retrieved her backpack next to the fallen Mathilde. The woman no longer convulsed. She was dead.

Emma pried the lipstick tube out of her clenched hand. She tied up each man. Rodrigo was last. He glared his hate at her. Emma didn’t flinch. As she tied him, she bent closer. Her face was only inches from his.

“The next time you mess with me, you die. You’ve been in over your head this entire time, Rodrigo, deeper than your small brain can comprehend.” She stood. Waved at the man they called Manzillo.

“Let’s go. We don’t have much time.”

“Manzillo!” Rodrigo shouted to the farmer, who stepped forward. He spoke in Spanish so the American lady wouldn’t understand him. “Show her the way to the Lost City. Get back here as fast as you can. After she gives you the cure—kill her.”

51

THE PATH TO THE LOST CITY WAS STEEP AND ROCKY, BUT AT least it was clear. Emma didn’t need a machete to navigate it. She ran in long strides, working her way up the mountain. She settled into a race pace, but she knew she wouldn’t sustain it for twelve hours. She was too hungry, thirsty, and tired. Manzillo ran next to her, huffing and puffing. In the distance came the baying of hounds. Louisiana State was back with his bloodhounds. She remembered Mathilde saying that Rodrigo had called the Americans. They must have discovered him bound and tied and were mounting a search for her.

After an hour of running, she came to a fork in the path. Manzillo stopped.

“Which one goes to the Lost City?” Emma said.

Manzillo pointed to the left. “There. But I no longer come with you.”

“What about Rodrigo? Who will take him the antidote?”

Manzillo shifted his gun higher on his shoulder. “I don’t care. He is the devil. I will not help him live only to watch him kill again. If you want his life on your shoulders, then you take him the cure. But know this, lady, if you save him, then many more people will die. This is the way it is with Rodrigo. You will have these other people’s death on you.”

“Kill one to save many?” Emma said.

Manzillo nodded. He pointed to the path. “Go that way. There are no more forks.” He turned and trudged away.

Emma took a swig of the liter bottle in her backpack and resumed running. As she ran, she racked her brain to try to remember how many water crossings remained between her and the Lost City. When she’d made the hike the year before, she had started from a different location. Now she estimated that she was more than halfway there, much closer than the six hours Rodrigo had estimated. During the initial trek she thought she navigated seven or eight water crossings. At this height she might have two left; one would be waist-deep. Perhaps a water crossing would dilute her scent enough to make the dogs unable to track her, but she doubted it. Besides, it wouldn’t take much for her trackers to figure out that she was using an existing trail. They had to realize she was headed to the city. If they knew enough to hunt her, then they knew why she was in Colombia.

The rains came, turning the track to mud. She sank ankle-deep, pulling each foot out with a loud sucking sound. The run became a slog at a sloth’s pace. The mud forced her to exert more energy than straight running, because of the strength needed to free each foot from the mire. The rain created its usual drumbeat noise, canceling out the howling dogs. This drove Emma’s adrenaline higher. She hated not knowing how far they were behind her. The rains subsided. Emma strained her ears to listen for the howls. They were there, in the distance. Softer. The rains must have slowed them down, too.

Emma turned a corner and came upon an indigenous village. Round huts with conical, pointed thatch roofs sat in a semicircle. Several women cooked over an open fire while two children played in the dirt near them. All stopped and stared at Emma. One woman gave a sharp command to a child of about ten. He took off, running. He entered a hut on the far side of the village.

Within seconds, Emma was surrounded by men and women. She remembered the village from her trek the year before. She was close now. Close to the place that these people held sacred.

A wizened man stepped out of the farthest hut. Long white hair hung down his back. He held a large staff as a walking stick. He wore the trousers of the same burlap material that all the villagers wore, with a rope belt. The villagers parted to allow the man to walk toward Emma. When he reached her, he stared at her, saying nothing. His dark eyes held concern and the wizened look of a man with the knowledge that comes only from many years of living.

“I’m in trouble. I need your help.” She put her hand in her pocket. Fingered the rosary there. She pulled it out and started worrying the beads between her fingers while she watched the old man. He said nothing. Far off in the distance came the baying of the hounds. Emma worried the beads faster.

“They want the poison I can make from the special plant I found in the Lost City. The one with the black berries. I made it by accident and refused to give it to them. Now they are hunting me.”

The man said nothing.

“I must reach the Lost City. But I don’t know if I can make it. I haven’t eaten and my legs are weak.”

The old man gave an order. A younger man, dressed in the burlap pants of the indigenous but sporting expensive black Wellington boots, stepped forward. From a pocket he dug out a woven pouch. He handed it to the old man. The old man upended it. Several coca leaves fell into his palm. He waved at another young man, who stepped forward with a gourd. The young man opened the top of the gourd and used a stick to pour powder onto the leaves. The old man rolled the leaves between his palms. He held the resulting roll out to her.

For the indigenous people, coca was sacred. It figured in their religious rituals as well as their daily lives. They also used it to maintain energy. While chewing coca, they were able to work long hours without stopping or eating.

Emma knew that the man believed he was offering her a gift of great value, greater than food. She didn’t want to insult him by refusing, but she was wary of going near it. During her trip the year before, she’d been careful to avoid any contact with it.

Emma knew exactly how it worked its magic. How it changed exhaustion to exhilaration, suppressed appetite, and helped control altitude sickness. What areas of the brain it affected to alter its chemistry. How its effects then dissipated, leaving the person who used it feeling bereft, depressed, and drained. How those people who were unlucky enough to get addicted started on an endless cycle of lesser and lesser highs, with deeper and deeper lows, until they felt trapped in a soul-depleting hell. Like the man who’d driven his car into Patrick’s. The autopsy revealed that the man had both alcohol and cocaine in his system. He’d been drinking the alcohol to “unwind” after a long night fueled by coke.

As a chemist, Emma had access to pure cocaine, as well as any other controlled substance she might have needed for her research. This access made her cautious. She had never tried cocaine.

She knew what the man held in his hand was fresh and unprocessed. This was coca in its pure form. If she chewed the leaves, it would release its energy-elevating power for hours, much longer than any food she could eat.

The old man held it out to her as an offering. Emma stood there, her breath heaving. She needed the immediate boost it would give her. She wasn’t sure how it would interact with the poison that she knew was filling her system, but she assumed the chemical reaction wouldn’t be good. It would likely accelerate the poison’s effects as it juiced her bodily functions. She didn’t know how much more quickly it would allow the poison to kill her, but she knew she wouldn’t get to the Lost City without it. And if she didn’t get to the Lost City in time, she was dead anyway.

“What do I do?”

The young man took another set of leaves from the pouch, added the alkali, and put the leaves in his mouth. He chewed, opening his mouth wide and closing it, exaggerating the motion to show her what he was doing.

She reached out, put the leaves in her mouth, and chewed. The coca had a pleasant, pungent taste. Her mouth became numb in seconds. She swallowed and her saliva tasted bitter. She coughed, choking on the acrid liquid. Emma felt the drug’s effects almost immediately. She could feel her body start a low hum. She nodded to the old man.

“Thank you,” she said.

The old man stepped forward. He reached out and touched Emma’s hand holding the rosary. His hand felt rough but warm as it closed over hers. She stopped her fingers’ compulsive movements on the beads. He held her hand in his palm, stroked her fingers open, and removed the rosary. He placed it over her head like a necklace. When he was finished, he stepped back, nodded once, and waved her toward the trail.

She took the hint and started running once more.

Emma reached the Lost City late in the afternoon. Clouds hovered over the site. A heavy mist blanketed the area. She heard thunder in the distance.

The entrance to the city began with twelve hundred stone steps. To the left, another flat stone had a crude map etched into it. Emma started her climb, moving as fast as she dared on the slippery stairway.

Her heart raced. Blood coursed through her veins at an alarming rate. She could hear it pulsing in her ears. She felt short-winded. She knew it wasn’t from the run, despite its grueling nature. She’d run much farther and faster before under worse conditions. It was the cocaine combining with natural adrenaline produced by the run that was overloading her system. Her nose started to bleed. Large dollops of blood fell onto the stones. She used the bottom of her shirt to wipe it away. She was halfway up the steps when the poison started to kick in.

It began with small convulsive movements in her leg muscles. Her right thigh began to twitch. Just a little at first. Within minutes, the entire length of her leg began to spasm. She struggled to control the leg in order to place it in front of her. She lost her footing on the slick stone. She tumbled four steps down. She rose again, fighting her convulsing leg in order to move forward.

She no longer heard the hounds howling behind her. But within seconds of having that thought came the beating sound of a helicopter’s rotors. She didn’t have to speculate as to its destination. She knew it was after her.

She made it to the top of the stairs and collapsed on the plateau. The Lost City lay before her. It consisted of several flat stones raised from the ground in staggered progression, each one covered in green moss. They looked like individual stages. Mist shrouded the area, clinging to the trees and drifting through the open spaces. She needed to find the leaves growing around the third platform.

She limped across the flat plateau. Her leg continued to spasm, flailing out of her control. She hopped on the remaining leg to the platform and the prize.

The plant was there. Several grew at the platform’s base. It looked like a common weed, with the exception of the small black berries sprouting from the top, like flowers. She fell to her knees. Her bad leg refused to bend, so she sat down, leaving it straight. Her leg bounced on the dirt as she sat there. Like it had a mind of its own. Emma did her best to ignore it.

She ripped two plants out of the ground, shook off the dirt from the roots, and shoved the plants into the tin bowl from her backpack. She hobbled over to the trees to find firewood. Her right arm started shivering, her biceps twitching. She used her left hand to collect the wood. The helicopter sounds grew louder, but whether they were close or still far, Emma couldn’t tell.

By the time she’d collected enough wood to build a fire, her entire right side was convulsing. Hopping on the left leg was no longer an option. She started to crawl back to her backpack and her pot, dragging her twitching leg in the dirt. Thunder boomed above her, the noise echoing through the trees. She fought down the panic that accompanied the sound. She needed to start a fire and make the antidote before the rains came and doused everything.

She piled wood in a small pyramid. It was damp, but so old and sun-dried that Emma didn’t think burning it would be a problem. She pulled dry grass from the base of the platform and tucked it around the wood. She fumbled in her backpack to find her silver lighter. She flicked the top open, but had a hard time focusing on the roller piece long enough to light it. After a couple of tries she managed to start a flame. Emma sat there twitching, watching the fire ignite. Shooting pains started in her right leg. Her right arm jerked up and down, and now her left thigh started to spasm. Only her left arm remained calm. She used it to pull her liter bottle of water from the pack, filled the pot with water, placed it on the fire, and sat down to wait.

By the time the water was near boiling, Emma’s entire body was jerking. She was sure she looked like a victim of St. Vitus’ dance. She focused on removing the pot from the fire to allow the liquid to cool. In her disintegrating state, this simple act became so difficult as to be impossible. She clenched her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering. After taking long, deep breaths, she managed to knock the pot off the fire without spilling its precious contents.

The thunder crashed above her now, interspersed with flashes of lightning. Fat raindrops began to fall. Through the noise she heard the helicopter approaching. Emma decided to drink the liquid hot. Once the muscles in her throat began to spasm, she wouldn’t be able to swallow. She put the scalding rim to her lips and drank. It burned all the way down. She drank half the pot. It took all her strength to hold it steady. When she was done she lowered it to the ground like it was fine china. She lay down by the still-burning fire while the rain fell and the thunder crashed.

The helicopter heaved into view, flying high above her head. A searchlight on the front raked over the Lost City. Emma curled as close to the platform as she could.

The helicopter began its descent. Although she still shook from the poison, Emma forced herself to rise. She didn’t have much time to accomplish what she’d come to Colombia to do. She shoved a hand in her backpack to remove the lipstick Mathilde had used. She swiveled it open and dropped it into the pot of antidote, neutralizing it.

Next she began to pull up the plants, throwing each into the fire. As far as she knew, these were the only plants like this in existence. Once they were gone, the ingredients for the formula would be extinct. No one would ever be able to make the weapon she had again. She pulled the last plant from the ground and threw it into the fire when the helicopter began settling onto a cleared space about two hundred yards from her.

52

EMMA WATCHED THE HELICOPTER TOUCH DOWN. HER MUSCLES still twitched, but the left thigh was already still. By no means could she walk, but she wasn’t getting any worse, either. Three men stepped out of the copter. Smoking Man, his bodyguard, and Gerald White, Emma’s boss.

Emma felt as though someone had kicked her. All the pieces began to fall into place. White was the one she’d told when she’d noticed the plant’s unusual qualities, White was the one she’d gone to when the strange man claiming to be from the Department of Defense came to demand the formula, and White was the one she’d consulted when she was deciding to fly back to Bogotá.

He ran to Emma. The still-beating helicopter rotors and crashing thunder drowned out any sound of his approach. When he reached her, he picked up a stick and used it to fish the still-burning plants from the fire. He managed to rescue a few scorched leaves and stems. When he was finished, he turned on her.

“Are you insane? Killing the plants! Do you have any idea what these are worth?” He looked at the fire. “You burned them all, didn’t you?”

Emma just stared at the man she’d grown to respect. “You told Mondrian about the poison.”

“Of course,” he yelled at her. “How the hell else do you think they learned of it? You were too stupid to see the value in what you’d discovered. Do you have any idea what it’s cost me to track you down?” White picked up the tin pot and fished out the lipstick. He shoved it under her nose. “Does it still work?”

Emma shook her head. He kicked her in the thigh before tossing the lipstick into the fire. He grabbed the pot, turned it over, pouring the liquid onto the ground. He flung the pot away.

“That was the antidote,” Emma said.

“Do you think I care?” White’s face turned a dark red as he raged at her. “Do you know how much a weapon like this will garner on the arms market? Hundreds of millions. And the uses! A female terrorist could be sent into Parliament or Congress, and with one application of lipstick wipe out an entire room. No bombs to carry. No chance to be caught at security.”

“She’d die on contact.”

“And the autopsy would show nothing.”

“Did you bring the plane down just to get to me?”

White snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself. I could have gotten to you every time you walked into the lab.” White leaned in close to her face. “I already have a buyer for this weapon. They were working up the hijacking for their own purposes. When you said you were going to Bogotá, we decided to kill two birds with one stone. It was an opportunity too good to pass up.” White blew on one of the still-smoldering plants.

“My buyers want some modifications. They want to punch up the residual effect, have the molecules travel much farther than ten feet, and to delay the direct effect on the user to give her time to slip away. I told them if anyone could do it, you could.”

Emma’s right arm stopped twitching. Her leg continued to bounce.

“It’s over now. I’ve burned the plants,” she said.

White laughed like a hyena. “You can’t possibly think that. You, of all people.”

Emma said nothing.

He leaned in to her. “I guess you’ll just have to make new ones.”

Emma shook her head. “How in the world would I make new ones without the original?”

“With your artificial chromosome technology, of course.”

Emma went cold. “With what? I don’t have the original plant’s chromosomes. The technology won’t work without them.”

White picked up some of the scorched plants. “With these.”

White waved over Smoking Man’s bodyguard. He turned back to her. “They don’t have the ability to reproduce, that’s true, but they’ll suffice as chromosome donors. You’ll just have to insert their chromosomes into a roomful of plants that can reproduce.”

“I won’t do it,” Emma said.

White stared at her. “Oh, I think you will. I promised these buyers a weapon, and if I don’t deliver, they’ll kill me. We have your Mr. Sumner. Rodrigo’s there. He’s twitching like hell, but he’ll live long enough to administer his unique form of torture. You’re going to watch. When he’s done, we’ll start on you. Don’t worry, we won’t kill you, we’ll just give you that added incentive to do what needs to be done.” He turned to the bodyguard. “Put her on the helicopter.”

The bodyguard hauled Emma to her feet, wrapped her arm around his neck, and dragged her to the copter. Her right leg still jerked out of control as it plowed through the mud. He hauled her into the copter, placing her in the back where the seats, if there ever were any, had been removed. He handcuffed her hands with plastic tie cuffs. White and Smoking Man took seats near the pilot. White buckled up, but Smoking Man didn’t bother. He crossed his legs.

They rose into the air. The lightning sparked all around them, followed by crashing thunder. The rain came harder, pounding on the helicopter’s windshield. Within minutes, it became a deluge. The rain hammered the sides of the copter while the wind buffeted the machine. They pitched and rolled through the night.

“Can we make it back?” White yelled to the pilot, who responded in Spanish.

“What’d he say?” White asked Smoking Man.

“The storm is bad. One hit from the lightning and down we fall.” Smoking Man removed a cigarette from his shirt pocket. He flicked on a lighter. Emma saw his grin by the lighter’s flame.

“You don’t seem worried,” White said.

Smoking Man just shrugged.

The rolling worsened. One flash of lightning lit the entire cabin. Emma thought she could hear the sizzling as it streaked by. The pilot swore in Spanish.

Smoking Man’s bodyguard clutched his stomach, groaning. The lightning illuminated the interior of the helicopter like a strobe light. Emma could see White clutching the sides of his seat. His knuckles went white. Smoking Man smoked. The tip of his cigarette glowed brighter with each pull.

Emma used her legs to brace herself against the metal side of the helicopter. Her left leg had ceased its twitching some time ago. Each time the machine bucked, her back slammed into a steel support. She could feel bruised spots along every inch of her spine. She wished with all her might that she was back on her swollen, blistered feet and working her ruined shins. Those aches and pains were more welcome than this. She railed at God in her head: You spare me from the plane crash and Rodrigo and poison only to kill me now? Some benevolent being You are. If God heard her, the only response was another boom from the heavens.

Lightning struck the helicopter halfway through their descent. One minute they were lowering in a controlled fashion, and the next they were plummeting downward. The pilot yelled an oath. Emma lost her grip on the floor. She skittered sideways until she slammed into the back of Smoking Man’s seat. The bodyguard muttered something that might have been a prayer, and White gave an incoherent yell. Only Smoking Man remained silent.

They landed with a bang, catapulting into the tree line. Emma heard the branches splintering as they plowed through them. The windshield cracked. The helicopter ground to a halt.

Emma lay against the sidewall, catching her breath. She watched the pilot shake his head. White slumped in his chair, breathing heavily. Smoking Man unfolded from his seat. He patted the pilot on the back. The rain poured down the sides of the helicopter, like a waterfall. Smoking Man leaned into White.

“You want to bring her now?”

“I want to get the hell out of this helicopter,” White yelled over the noise of the rain. “We’ll deal with her in the morning.”

Smoking Man gave an order to the bodyguard, who looked pale as death. The bodyguard staggered toward Emma. He pulled her back to a sitting position against the sidewall before handcuffing her ankles together with another plastic tie cuff. He followed White, the pilot, and Smoking Man out into the downpour.

Emma sat in the dark, dank helicopter thinking of Sumner. She pictured Rodrigo torturing him in front of her. The thought was unbearable. She tried to think of options. She could sabotage the artificial chromosome procedure. Deliberately arrange it so it would fail. White was a scientist, true, but only she knew how to insert the chromosomes. The process was tricky and prone to failure, even when she’d done it. White wouldn’t know she’d sabotaged the trials until the formula failed to work. At least she would have bought a little time to make an escape plan.

One thing Emma was sure of; she wouldn’t make the weapon again. If she and Sumner died for her refusal, then so be it.

53

EMMA STARTED AWAKE HOURS LATER. THE LIGHTNING LIT THE interior of the helicopter, throwing eerie shadows. The thunder still boomed, but long after each flash. The storm was losing its force. The rain pattered on the helicopter’s side rather than buffeting it like before. She heard irregular footfalls outside. She listened as someone’s steps crunched toward her, making a strange lurching sound. The rhythm was step, drag, step. She felt a stab of fear.

The helicopter shook. Rodrigo hauled himself into the cabin. He clutched a bottle of whiskey in his left hand and his ever-present machete in his right. The lightning illuminated him. His right side twitched and jerked with a palsy, his right leg bounced back and forth. He tried to raise the bottle to his lips. His hand shook like an alcoholic with withdrawal symptoms. He prevailed and managed to drink a huge swallow. He began moving toward her, his lips twisted in a snarl. The helicopter lit with a huge crash of lightning, then plunged into darkness so deep that Emma couldn’t see Rodrigo. She struggled sideways, pushing herself with her legs while she scooted along the wall. Her panic rose with each second that she couldn’t see him.

The lightning flashed again. Rodrigo was on his hands and knees now, only a few feet away from her. The machete flashed as he used the hand that held it to crawl forward. His entire body convulsed as the poison took over.

“You spilled the antidote. The gringo told me,” he said. He spoke in a jerky fashion, as if he couldn’t control his vocal cords. The helicopter went dark. Emma pushed harder with her legs. Her shoulder hit the end of the cabin. There was nowhere left to go.

The lightning sparked, illuminating the helicopter’s interior like a strobe light. Rodrigo loomed over her, frothing at the mouth. He raised the machete, gasping as his throat convulsed. The helicopter went black. Emma screamed and scrabbled against the floor. She felt her foot hit Rodrigo. He fell on top of her, convulsed once, then stilled.

Emma pushed at his body with her bound hands. She was in a complete panic at just the thought of Rodrigo so close. She managed to move most of him off her. His body pinned her legs to the floor.

She sat that way for a long time. She tried to take deep breaths to slow her racing heart, but each time the helicopter interior lit up, all she saw was Rodrigo’s face, contorted in a death mask. After what felt like forever, the rain stopped and the sky took on a transparent color. Birds started twittering in the trees. She felt the helicopter lurch sideways again. The boy soldier stepped in. He shot worried looks all around, his gaze coming to rest on Rodrigo’s body lying across her legs.

His eyes widened. He pulled Rodrigo’s body the rest of the way off her. He slid his own machete out of a beaded sheath and started sawing at the plastic cuffs around her ankles. When he was finished, he indicated she should turn around to allow him to work on the handcuffs. He had those cut in seconds. He operated in complete silence.

Emma heard a man call a name, somewhere in the distance. The boy’s head shot up. He nodded once to her before leaping out the side door. She was free. Emma didn’t hesitate. She crawled out of the helicopter, which was embedded in the trees. The ground was still wet from the downpour, but the heat was already rising, even though the sun was a good hour away.

She slunk around the copter’s tail. To her right was a dirt road that sloped gently down into the water, forming a boat landing. A long sleek yacht floated in the water not fifty feet from the landing. It bobbed gently in the swells. Its windows were bright spots in the gloom. A deck light shone on the water.

The Daihatsu pickup trucks were lined up at the edge of the landing. They still carried their cargo. Emma could see the boxes labeled BANANAS arranged in neat rows in the pickup’s bed.

She craned her neck the other way. The waning moon broke through the clouds, bathing the area in light. The road opened onto a grassy field that sloped upward and was lined on one side by trees, the other side by the ugly, metallic pipeline. The pipeline sat on four-foot-high tripods, running like a large snake along the trees. In the distance, Emma saw the tip of a column of flame. The pipeline burned steadily.

She returned her attention to the yacht. They were going to offload the guns onto it for transport. She was certain. And she was just as certain that not every weapon would make it to the boat. She needed one if she was going to survive.

Time to move, she thought.

Emma jogged to the pickups, keeping low, watching for the soldiers to return. When she got to the first pickup, she reached into an open box and pulled out one of the rifles. It was close to the same design as the AK-47, but even Emma, with her lack of experience with weapons, could see that it was a technological leap forward. It was sleek and felt powerful in a way the AK-47 wasn’t. The high-tech scope on the top looked like the weapon had been designed for a marksman or a sniper. Someone who would hide in cover and had the expertise to shoot the enemy at a distance and with skill. Someone like Sumner. No one like Rodrigo and his band of losers. She thought of the damage that even one shooter with such a weapon could do from a hidden position in a high-rise building. She fiddled with the rifle a moment, checking to see if it was loaded. It wasn’t. Emma wanted to spit, she was so disappointed. She climbed into the truck to rummage through the boxes. The open box contained some spare ammunition. She grabbed it, jumped off the truck, and retreated a hundred feet into the trees. She squatted down next to one to analyze her new weapon.

Despite its advanced design, or perhaps because of it, the gun was easy to load. There was no denying that it was a step up from her other weapon. She peered through the scope. It gave her an excellent view of any target, but adjusting to it felt awkward. Up to this point she’d shot at someone only in the heat of the moment, and failed miserably when she’d had the time to think. This gun required the calm of a professional.

She jogged up the hill, toward the leaping flame, away from the boat landing. She wanted to get her bearings, to see what she was up against. She ran through the soft darkness. Her feet made very little sound. Her shin flared with each step, but she ignored it. She was just thankful that it didn’t spasm anymore. She’d felt much worse at the end of a hundred-mile run. She knew she could handle the pain. She reached the point where the pipeline had been exploded open. Its twisted metal dripped oil into a large oil drum that was filling rapidly. Her feet slipped in the oily grass.

Light shone from a small hut that sat one hundred yards away. Emma could hear the soft murmur of voices. She inched along in the darkness toward the hut. There were no windows, but the door hung open. A triangle of light poured out from it. Emma stepped into position opposite the door. She used the scope to see into the hut. She gasped.

Sumner and a soldier sat on the floor against the far wall. Blood covered the soldier’s shirt, and he slumped sideways onto Sumner’s shoulder. The soldier’s face was contorted in pain. He kept his eyes closed.

Sumner looked unhurt, but grim. His eyes were red-rimmed and his beard more pronounced. He leaned against the leg of a desk or table while he supported the soldier and stared at something, or someone, just out of Emma’s vision. Both men had their hands tied and resting on their laps.

Smoking Man came into view. He yelled something in Spanish at Sumner, who answered in one short sentence.

So, one at least to eliminate, Emma thought. But where Smoking Man was, so were his bodyguards. Two more somewhere very close by, perhaps in the hut itself, and one was an excellent shot. She remembered that from the way he’d targeted the capybara at the airstrip.

A black Range Rover came barreling up. White slammed out of it and headed to the hut. One of Smoking Man’s bodyguards followed at a slower pace. Emma lowered her weapon. The odds had just changed for the worse. It was eight against two: Smoking Man, two bodyguards, four soldiers, and White. This impressive array of might against Emma, Sumner, and an injured soldier who looked as though shooting a gun was well beyond his capabilities just then.

Ridiculous odds, Emma thought. There was no way they’d survive in a shoot-out. She’d have to come up with something else.

She needed to find the four soldiers in order to determine their location. She jogged back along the stinking pipeline toward the beach, keeping low and in the shadows. When she reached the Daihatsu trucks, what she saw made her spirits plunge. The soldiers were busy stacking the boxes of rifles onto a small dinghy floating at the edge of the boat landing. When the dinghy was full, three of the soldiers hopped in and fired up the engine. They motored out to the cruiser, where Emma could just make out the features of the boy soldier. He stood on the deck, waiting.

One truck was empty, and the second nearly empty. Emma ran toward the last truck and clambered onto it. She needed at least two more rifles. She clawed at one of the remaining boxes. The lid came loose with a tearing noise that nearly stopped her heart. She crouched next to the pickup’s sidewall. The only sound that greeted her was the soft lapping of the waves against the shore. She hauled the rifles over her shoulder before running her hand around the box’s bottom to search for ammunition. She found two belts, a carton of cartridges, and a small rectangular box that contained long sticks of dynamite. She gathered it all up and shot off the truck just as she heard the dinghy’s engine fire up again.

Emma dragged her own weapon by its strap as she moved farther into cover. She dumped it onto the ground while she focused her attention on loading the new rifles. When she was finished she grabbed all of them and returned to her position outside the hut’s entrance. Soon one of Smoking Man’s bodyguards stepped into view. He held an assault weapon at his side while he took a long drag off a cigarette, blew the smoke out, and scanned around the hut.

Emma left the extra rifles in a pile behind a tree and proceeded to canvass the area, moving in a wide semicircle. Halfway around, she found a well-worn trail. She took it, moving as quietly as she could.

After four hundred yards, the path ended at a clearing. A long, low gazebo with a thatch roof but no walls ran the length of it. Long wooden tables with trestle benches sat under the roof. Plastic five-gallon cans and heaps of rubber tubing were piled all around, along with a huge mound of coca leaves. Glass beakers rested on the table. A wooden pallet at the end of the table was stacked high with plastic-wrapped bricks of white powder cocaine.

Emma wandered around the table, checking the items with a scientist’s eye. Several cans with pour spouts were lined up against one side of the gazebo. The first had the word ACETONE written on it in crude black marker. The second said PEROXIDE and the third PETROL. Emma knew that gasoline and acetone were often used to distill coca leaves into cocaine paste, but the peroxide threw her. She couldn’t figure out how it would be used in refining coca. She bounced the three components around in her mind, trying to find a link among them. Then it came to her. The peroxide could have a very lethal use.

Emma walked the length of the gazebo a second time, reading the labels on all the cans and glass beakers, looking for a specific ingredient. Sure enough, there it was, sitting at the farthest end of the table: sulfuric acid.

They were making bombs.

The synthesis of acetone peroxide carried with it so much risk that Emma was surprised the guerrillas would attempt it. The substance was volatile and unstable. When the two liquids were mixed, they could create enough force to blow off fingers. Add a blasting cap, and one could create a decent-size bomb.

Problem was, there was no telling when the mixture would explode. The only way to be safe was to cool the liquid to low temperatures. Acetone peroxide achieved a level of stability when cold. Emma couldn’t imagine where they’d cool the mixture. They would need a refrigerator or freezer, because the jungle environment would warm it far too fast.

She once again walked the length of the gazebo, this time looking for anything that could contain ice or dry ice. Nothing.

Perhaps they’re storing it farther away for safety in case it blows, Emma thought. She widened her search area. She found two coolers twenty-five yards into the trees. She knelt down and very gently removed the lid. There, nestled in a glass container labeled AP, sat the dried granules of acetone peroxide. Ice filled the remaining space. She opened the second cooler. This one was stacked with silver metal plates just like the ones she’d watched the guerrillas use to mine the road back at the airstrip. They, too, were covered with ice. Several rolls of duct tape lay all about.

An idea bloomed in Emma’s mind: AP explodes when jarred or pressed. She could use the AP to create her own pressure-sensitive mine. If she could bury it outside the hut’s entrance, the first person who stepped on it would be blown up. Her biggest challenge would be to add only the amount of AP needed to affect the individual stepping on the mine. She didn’t want it to destroy the hut, and Sumner and the soldier, with it. The other question was, How would she ensure that Sumner or the wounded soldier didn’t step on the mine first?

Emma shook off her indecision. It was the only idea she’d had so far. She’d solve these problems when she came to them. She got to work creating her mine. She took the AP out of the cooler, being careful not to jar the glass. She sprinkled it over a flat metal disk. Then, very slowly, she lowered a second disk over the first. She was impressed that the guerrillas thought to cool the metal disks as well. When held together with the tape, they would help keep the AP stable for a bit longer. She bound the ends of the disks together.

She made a second mine as quickly as possible. The outside temperature was rising steadily. When the disks warmed to above ten degrees Celsius, the AP would once again become unstable.

Emma carried her two mines back down the path. She moved with as much grace as she could muster so as not to jar them. She reached the spot outside the hut where she’d hidden the rifles and lowered the mines to the ground.

The situation at the hut seemed to have taken a turn for the worse since White had arrived. He paced back and forth in front of Sumner in agitation. Sumner watched White with his characteristic lack of emotion. White crouched down and spat directly into Sumner’s face. Sumner’s eyes remained blank. He gazed at White’s face, only inches from his own, with a level stare.

“Who the hell are you?” Sumner’s voice floated to Emma. She strained to hear White’s response.

“I’m your worst enemy, you just don’t know me,” White said. “Caldridge owes me the formula, and with your help, I’m going to make sure she delivers.”

Sumner frowned. Emma could see him trying to make sense of what White said. Before he could say anything, White backhanded him, hitting him in the face. Sumner pitched to the side but managed to catch himself before he fell on the wounded soldier. Emma felt her anger begin to bubble under the surface. She reached up and fingered the cross hanging around her neck. Worried the beads with her fingers. She calmed almost immediately. She took a deep breath.

Focus, she thought. The soldier leaning against Sumner looked unconscious, but for a second she thought she saw a flash of awareness in his body language. He was not as bad off as he wanted everyone to believe. She was right to have brought him a weapon.

It took an effort for Emma to divert her attention from the unfolding scene. She analyzed the dirt around the hut, trying to get a handle on the most likely traffic pattern. The grass was beaten to dust in a line outside the door that curved to the left. Twenty feet away sat a large, flat boulder. The path curved around it and continued down toward the ocean. Halfway down the trail, Emma saw the glow of a cigarette tip moving toward the beach. The second bodyguard was headed toward the water’s edge.

Emma lifted both disks off the ground, took a deep breath, and carried them to the path, taking care to stay out of direct line of sight from the hut. She placed the disks back on the ground before clawing at the dirt. She was sweating and in a state of near panic. The sun was rising and along with it came the heat. The AP would soon be too warm to handle.

While she worked, she heard White talking to Smoking Man, outlining a plan.

“Burning the plants set us back at least six weeks. It will take that long for her to grow new ones that can be infused with the chromosomes we need.”

She finished burying the first disk. She turned to the second. Her panic was taking over now. She didn’t want to remain out in the open any longer. The second bodyguard could return at any time. White’s Range Rover was parked next to the line in the dirt. She maneuvered the second disk through the open passenger-side window and lowered it onto the seat. The minute she let go of the mine she hightailed it back toward her hiding spot. Once in the trees, she used the scope on the rifle to look down the path. The second bodyguard was strolling toward the hut, still pulling on the cigarette in his mouth. Emma held her breath as he approached the buried mine. He walked past it, missing it by only a few inches before heading into the hut.

“Get started on him,” she heard White say. He waved at the bodyguard. “Go get her. She needs to watch.” Smoking Man repeated the order in Spanish. The guard loped off, once again missing the mine by inches.

Emma’s panic spiked even higher. The guard would discover that she was gone and raise the alarm. Whatever she was going to do, she’d better do it now.

The remaining bodyguard grabbed Sumner by the shirt. The wounded soldier rolled off him onto the hut’s dirt floor. The bodyguard dragged Sumner out of the hut straight toward the mine.

Oh, no, Emma thought. She targeted the bodyguard, preparing to shoot him in order to stop him before he dragged Sumner right over the mine. Six feet from the spot he veered off and headed to the flat boulder ten feet farther away. Emma lowered her gun.

Smoking Man snapped out an order in Spanish. Sumner said nothing, but Emma could see that he had gritted his teeth to prepare himself. For what, Emma couldn’t tell. She didn’t know what was going on, but Smoking Man, his second bodyguard, and White all stood around with an expectant air, so whatever they were preparing to do, it wasn’t going to be good. Her fingers returned to worrying the rosary stones.

There was a yell from the bodyguard who had been ordered to get her.

“He saying she’s escaped,” Smoking Man said.

White’s eyes bugged. “What?” Emma watched his face grow red with his rage. “Are you kidding me?”

The bodyguard ran up to Smoking Man, babbling in Spanish.

“She’s gone,” Smoking Man said.

White rounded on him. “Find her. Now. Tell him to get the pilot to use the helicopter to search from above.”

Smoking Man spoke in rapid Spanish. The second guard nodded and ran back down the path.

He didn’t come close to the buried mine.

White rubbed at his eyes with his beefy hands. For a brief moment, Emma relished watching him panic.

“She can’t be far,” White said.

Smoking Man pulled a cigarette out of a pack and lit it. He stared at White, a speculative look in his eyes.

“Did you take her away? Have your soldiers bring her to the buyers while we were up here?”

White looked indignant. “Why would I do that?”

“To keep the money for yourself. Cut me out of the deal.”

White drew himself up. “I wouldn’t cut you out. Besides, where would I hide her while I negotiated with the buyers? You’re the one with the network down here, not me. You’d find her in a heartbeat.”

Smoking Man just pulled on the cigarette, watching White with his hard, dead eyes.

“You want to see what we do to those who betray us?” He jutted his chin at Sumner, still held against the boulder. “Continue.”

The bodyguard stubbed out his own cigarette. He untied Sumner’s hands, grabbed Sumner’s right arm, and yanked it flat across the boulder, holding it in place. He dropped his weapon on the ground. He pulled a machete out of a holder attached to his belt. Smoking Man and White watched with anticipation for the bodyguard’s next move. He raised the machete high.

Emma realized in that instant what he intended to do. She let go of the rosary, flattened again onto her stomach, pulled the rifle into position, flicked it into automatic mode, placed the crosshairs on the spot where she’d buried the mine, and started firing. Bullets hammered into the ground above the device.

It exploded.

The force of the blast knocked both White and the bodyguard backward. The machete flew out of the bodyguard’s hand. White landed hard, but regained his feet and ran behind the hut. The bodyguard rolled to his stomach and crawled into the trees, dragging a bloody leg.

Emma wasted no time in sighting her second target, Smoking Man. She flicked the gun back to semiautomatic. She’d wasted only six seconds between blowing the mine and turning to her next shot, but they were enough to save Smoking Man. He dove downward. Emma’s single shot flew harmlessly over him, hitting the trunk of a tree growing thirty yards behind him. In a flash Smoking Man was on his feet. He dove behind the hut. Emma heard the ominous sound of helicopter rotors thumping in the dawn light, growing louder. The pilot was beginning his search for her.

At the sound of the shots, and the minute the bodyguard fell, Sumner was up and running toward the hut. Emma looked for White. She saw the driver’s-side door of the Range Rover open. Sunlight reflected off the moving window. White’s head and shoulders appeared above the metal door. Emma watched as he bent to put a key in the ignition. The Range Rover’s engine roared to life. The vehicle’s wheels spun on the dirt, kicking up a huge cloud of dust as White threw it in gear. He drove past the hut, headed away. The car bounced over the ruts in the dirt trail. Emma could hear the suspension squeak in protest. The car fell into yet another rut and the right side tilted at an angle.

The car exploded. Emma watched it burn with a strange mixture of elation and disgust. She dragged her attention away. She didn’t want to let herself feel anything over White’s death. She needed to keep her emotions in check until she got herself to safety.

Emma heard shouting from the soldiers at the boat. She couldn’t see them, but she knew they were coming. Added to the sound of the soldier’s yelling came the ever-increasing noise of the approaching helicopter.

54

EMMA HAULED THE REMAINING TWO RIFLES OVER HER SHOULDER and headed for the hut to deliver them to Sumner and the wounded soldier. Sumner was there, bending over the soldier, when gunfire exploded through the hut’s back wall. The bullets punched through the wood, creating a dotted line behind Sumner’s head. He hit the deck, pulling the seated soldier flat. Emma threw herself down. The bullets winged over her head.

Sumner wrapped his arms under the soldier’s to drag him across the hut’s dirt floor. He kept low, crawling on one knee as he dragged. His crouch saved him. Emma watched as bullets continued to shatter the wood, this time even lower. Either Smoking Man or the injured bodyguard was behind the hut, shooting directly into it in an attempt to kill anyone left inside. Emma needed to get around the structure to see who it was.

The helicopter appeared overhead. Emma looked up and saw the cracked windshield.

“Sumner, stay where you are!” she screamed over the din. Sumner reached the hut’s entrance but stopped. The bullet holes appeared behind him. The helicopter hovered above him. Emma recognized the pilot and Smoking Man’s second bodyguard. The guard held an automatic rifle in his right hand. He yelled something at the pilot, and the helo swung around and began descending. While it did, the guerrilla began firing down, over the hut’s roof. Smoking Man continued to punch holes into the back of the hut, each set lower than the last, while the hovering helicopter rained fire at the hut’s entrance. Sumner and the soldier were caught in the middle.

Emma pulled her own weapon. Her angle was all wrong, it was unlikely that she’d hit the man hovering over Sumner. She fired anyway. She targeted the pilot’s window. Her first shot hit the helicopter’s body and pinged off harmlessly. The second cracked through the glass. She heard a yell and the helicopter reversed course, shooting up and away from the hut.

Emma grabbed the rifles and ran to the hut. Once she cleared the trees, she looked to her right. She could see the soldiers pulling the dinghy onto the beach. The helicopter spun around and turned back to face her. She continued running to the hut, the rifles banging on her shoulder.

MIGUEL REMAINED IN A HAZE of pain. He felt Sumner hauling him across the hut’s floor. He could see the bullets flying through the back wall, but he couldn’t bring himself to help Sumner by taking over and crawling on his own. It was as if his legs belonged to someone else, they didn’t move at his command.

The rising sun hit his eyes when his head was two feet from the hut’s entrance. Sumner was dragging him along on his back, so he got a wonderful view of the helicopter hovering over the hut and the man inside preparing to blow them away. Miguel was too weak even to yell a warning, but he thought he heard someone scream at Sumner to stay put. Sumner reversed direction and shoved Miguel back inside the hut.

Seconds later, Miguel saw the helicopter veer off. He took a look outside to see what had scared it away. He was astonished to see a wild woman running toward him. Her skin was caked with dried mud and her hair hung past her shoulders in dreadlocklike clumps. She grimaced, revealing white teeth that glowed against her blackened face. She wore a dirty gray T-shirt torn at the neck. She was thin and tall, and moved in long, fluid strides. While she did, she removed a gun off her shoulder and catapulted it into the air like a spear. Sumner reached up and caught it in one hand. She threw another that sailed over them. It landed on the hut’s floor and skittered across to the far wall. She disappeared around the corner.

Miguel wasn’t leaving that weapon behind. “Sumner, let go of me. I need that rifle,” he said.

EMMA CRAWLED ON HER ELBOWS and knees, her weapon held in her hands, around the hut. She stopped at the corner and peered around it. Smoking Man was busy reloading. He stood up to deliver another volley. Before he could, the hut’s wall coughed up splinters of wood as someone from inside shot through it. Two of the bullets hit Smoking Man. One in his thigh, the other in his arm. He staggered away.

Emma was up in a flash and ran back around to the hut’s entrance. The wounded soldier was conscious and aimed a rifle at the back wall. He’d shot Smoking Man. Recognition flashed across his face when he saw her.

“You’re Ms. Caldridge,” he said.

Emma didn’t bother to ask him how he knew her name. Sumner was checking the back of the hut. He swung around at the soldier’s voice. Some strong emotion rippled across his face at the sight of her. She directed her attention to the soldier.

“We’ve got to move. The helicopter is still out there as well as a small platoon of soldiers.”

“How many?” Sumner moved to stand behind the open door to survey the area.

“Four. One is a young boy. Do your best not to kill him. He helped me escape.”

“Where are they?”

“Near the beach. There’s a cabin cruiser floating about fifty yards out in the water. If we can get to it, we can use it to get away.”

Sumner hauled the wounded soldier upright. “Come on, Miguel. We’re going on a cruise.”

The soldier turned sheet white for a moment, as if the act of standing made all the blood in his body head south. He wrapped one arm around Sumner’s shoulders.

“The rifle. I’m not leaving without it,” he said.

Emma slung the strap over Miguel’s other shoulder. “I’ll cover you both.”

Sumner grabbed Emma by the shirt and pulled her toward him. He kissed her, openmouthed and urgent. He broke away to look at her.

“In case we don’t make it,” he said to her.

All Emma could think to do was nod.

Sumner hitched Miguel higher on his shoulder. “On three!” he said, and began to count.

They burst out of the hut. The sun was up and the heat rising. It reflected off the pipeline’s metal and bounced off the oil-slicked grass, making the area stink even more than before. Sumner started a slow jog. He pulled on Miguel, who managed to move his feet only every few steps, forcing Sumner to half drag him along. Emma scanned the field, looking for the soldiers. They were at the base of the hill, next to the pipeline, moving in a crouch formation toward the hut.

The helicopter was back. It swooped over them. The shadow it cast covered Emma, blocking out the sun. She peppered it with bullets. It shot upward again and spun in a circle.

She ran sideways down the hill in order to watch the approaching soldiers. She fired a random shot in their direction. They scattered and ran for cover. Emma continued behind Sumner and Miguel. They passed the spot where she’d hidden in the trees. The box of dynamite was still there. Emma diverted sideways to snatch the box off the ground. She ripped it open while she continued moving. The helicopter flew somewhere to her right. She heard the sound of a second growing louder. If there were two, then they were doomed. She did her best to ignore it and focus on the job at hand.

The soldiers were huddled under the pipeline. They hid behind the narrow tripod legs, waiting for their chance. Sumner had dragged Miguel to the far left, using the trees as cover. The trees might help with the helicopter, but Emma expected the soldiers to fire on the men as they drew parallel. Plus, a huge German shepherd shot out of the wooded area, running full tilt at Sumner. Emma didn’t know if it was going to attack, but whatever it was going to do, Sumner was going to have to deal with it. She didn’t have the time to put it down.

Emma refocused on the immediate threats. She ran next to the oil barrel parked below the pipeline’s gash. Oil still poured into the can. She ran past it, then stopped dead as an idea came to her. She jogged back to the can, pulled two sticks of dynamite out of the box, and rammed them into the hole in the pipeline, fuses out. She pulled out the silver lighter, flicked it on, and lit the fuses. They sparked like Fourth of July sparklers on steroids. Emma sprinted like hell across the field toward where she’d last seen Sumner.

The helicopter was back and bearing down on her. The second helicopter roared out of the trees, rising up to Emma’s right. This helicopter had guns mounted on the front. Emma gazed into the telescope and put her crosshairs on the second helicopter’s pilot. She gasped. It was an American man in army fatigues. An American flag was stitched on the front of his shirt. Emma hesitated in the face of that flag. He bent forward to touch a switch, and the helicopter’s guns started firing on the guerrilla.

A huge explosion rocked the field. It blew Emma off her feet. Metal shrapnel landed all around her. One piece pierced her arm near the biceps. Her fingers lost all feeling. She regained her feet, only to be knocked down by a second explosion. Another piece of shrapnel hammered into her head. She saw stars dance before her eyes. A huge fireball flew out of what was left of the hemorrhaging pipeline. A line of fire surged from the metal in a solid wall of flame fed continuously by the still-pumping fuel.

She forced herself back up on her feet. The soldiers were gone. The portion of the pipeline they were hiding under was reduced to twisted metal. The helicopters were high in the sky and still battling it out. Emma saw Sumner swimming in the water, dragging Miguel, ten feet from the cabin cruiser. The dog swam behind them, also headed for the boat. The boy soldier was there, standing on the deck, holding a gun.

“Oh, God, don’t let him shoot them. We’ve gotten this far.” Emma said the prayer out loud. “Please, God, I don’t deserve this favor, but let them live. Make the boy understand.” She continued running down the hill. She made the beach and splashed into the water, never taking her eyes off the boy on the boat.

Sumner made it to the ladder. He was yelling something at Miguel, who grabbed the rungs and started to climb. When he was halfway up, the boy reached down to help him, pulling Miguel up while Sumner pushed from below. Miguel flopped over the railing. Sumner turned, grabbed the dog by the ruff, and pulled him up with him on the ladder. He threw the dog over the railing. He leaped lightly onto the deck, slapped the boy on the shoulder in thanks, and took the gun from him. The boy nodded and stepped back. Sumner checked the weapon and turned to the beach. She knew he was looking for her. She began her own swim to the boat. She turned her attention to the helicopters. The American in the helicopter fired again, and the guerrillas’ helicopter exploded into a thousand little pieces.

Within a minute, peace descended.

55

EMMA WATCHED SUMNER AS SHE SPLASHED DEEPER INTO THE water. He lowered the gun, put a hand to his eyes, and watched the remaining helicopter as it lowered to the beach. Emma followed its progress as well. It settled on the ground and grew quiet as the pilot cut the engine.

The helicopter door opened and a devastatingly handsome man with hair cropped close to his head and dark, almost black eyes stepped out. A thick stubble of beard gave him a slightly disreputable look, as did the AK-47 slung over his shoulder. He wore spotlessly clean jungle fatigues with high lace boots. His eyes swept the field and then locked on Emma. He smiled a dazzling smile.

“Ms. Caldridge, we meet at last,” he said.

Emma knew that her mouth hung open in shock, both at the unlikely appearance of such a beautiful man in this jungle hell, and at his use of her name. She snapped her mouth shut and swallowed once.

“How do you know my name?”

The man smiled. His teeth were straight and pearly white.

“I’m Edward Banner, special consultant to the Department of Defense. We received your text message after the crash. I had twenty special forces personnel searching for you and the passengers, as well as three helicopters prepared to extract you once we found you.”

“Had?” Emma said.

Banner nodded. “The Colombian government asked them to withdraw.” He consulted his watch. “By now most have been extracted. I was searching for two that I’m told stayed behind—Major Miguel Gonzalez and Cameron Sumner.” He waved an arm at the boat in the water. “Is that them?”

Emma nodded.

Banner scanned the beach. “You’d best get in the helicopter. We may only have a short window to get out of here before reinforcements show up.”

Emma shook her head. “Not me. I’ve had enough flying for a while. I’ll go on the boat with Sumner. The soldier with him is injured. Can you use the helicopter to take him to the hospital?”

“I have a doctor I know who will fix him up, no questions asked. I’ll get him in the copter and deliver him to you. I should warn you, the authorities in the U.S. are asking quite a few questions about Miguel’s and Sumner’s roles in the bombing of the pipeline. I may not bring them in until I can assess the mood over there.”

Emma snorted. “The pipeline’s all they can think about?”

“Guns and oil. For some, they make the world go ’round.”

“Then let them know that the soldier and Sumner just helped me stop a much bigger deal. My former boss wanted to force me to make an entirely new stealth weapon that he intended to sell on the black market to terrorists. I destroyed the weapon and its ingredients.”

Banner took a step closer to her, a concerned look on his face. “Where is this boss of yours?”

Emma pointed up the beach. “Back there. In that burning car.”

She watched Banner turn to look at the Range Rover, still burning in the distance.

“Do you know who his buyers were?”

Emma shook her head. “He claimed some shadowy figure from the Department of Defense wanted it, but he was a first-class liar, so there’s no way of telling.” She wanted to ask Banner for something, but hesitated.

He picked up on her hesitation. “Go ahead. Say what you’re thinking.”

Emma sloshed back to the beach and walked up to him. “Do you have a compass?”

56

STROMEYER SAT AT A CONFERENCE TABLE IN THE SOUTHCOM headquarters pounding on the keys of a laptop computer. The memo to suspend operations in Colombia was drafted, but not yet signed by Margate. Stromeyer was composing an e-mail to the bureaucratic heads of various obscure offices in the Department of Defense asking for further input on the memo’s language. She wrote, A decision of such import should be analyzed and approved by more than three branches of the Department of Defense. Protocol requires that these offices review and offer input. Darkview suggests that a committee be formed to determine the best approach to suspending the operation.

She hit send and sat back, satisfied. A committee would take days to appoint, convene, and inform. She hoped the e-mail would slow Margate’s signature even longer and allow Banner the time he needed to get the hell out of Colombia. Just then Margate himself slammed into the conference room, followed by Whitter and an assistant secretary.

“I just got word that the Oriental pipeline’s been bombed. The entire length of it is on fire. The third largest source of oil for this country destroyed in an instant. Where the hell is Banner?” Margate’s voice was low and held a thread of anger that Stromeyer had never heard before.

“I don’t know,” she said.

She watched Margate’s face suffuse with red. “I don’t believe you. Word is that you know everything, Major Stromeyer.”

“I’m flattered,” she said.

Before Margate could respond, there was a knock at the door.

Stromeyer was relieved at the interruption. “Come.”

Private Campbell, a female soldier newly recruited at Southcom, entered the room, followed by a man in his mid-forties. Private Campbell was charged to assist Stromeyer in debriefing the passengers. She was a quiet woman in her early twenties. Stromeyer found her to be efficient and friendly, two qualities she needed right now.

Campbell shot a worried glance at Margate before turning to Stromeyer. “The passengers are waiting to be debriefed. You’ll find the rest in conference room B. This man is Mr. James Barkett.”

Stromeyer shook hands with Mr. Barkett while Margate stood still. Barkett must have felt the hostility emanating from Margate, because he looked almost afraid to shake his hand. Stromeyer watched Margate’s face relax into a smile.

“Glad you’re back home, Mr. Barkett,” Margate spoke in an overly hearty voice and managed to make the sentence sound threatening rather than friendly. Barkett nodded, a wary look on his face. Stromeyer was impressed by the man’s caution. He was right to be careful around Margate. Barkett turned to Stromeyer.

“I wanted to meet you right away to tell you what I heard down there.”

Stromeyer raised an eyebrow. “All right.”

“One night, after we stopped for the day, three men came into the camp. They were obviously Americans. I overheard one talking to the man named Rodrigo.” Barkett hesitated.

“Go ahead, please.” Stromeyer urged him on.

“He said that the Department of Defense wouldn’t pay anything until Emma Caldridge was found. He said they were sending dogs.”

“Dogs?” Stromeyer said.

Barkett nodded. “Tracking hounds. At the time I didn’t know who Emma Caldridge was, but later I saw her at the watchtower.”

“Why are you telling us this, Mr. Barkett?” Margate’s voice was still threaded with anger.

Barkett pulled himself up and stared at Margate. “Because I thought it was strange that Americans from the Department of Defense were negotiating with our captors. They obviously saw us sitting there, held hostage, but acted as though they didn’t care.”

Stromeyer felt her own anger rising. “Do you know anything about this, Secretary Margate?”

Margate snorted. “I do not.” He pointed a finger at Barkett. “What makes you think these people were telling the truth?”

Barkett hesitated. He shook his head. “I can’t be sure of anything they said. I’m just telling you what happened.”

Margate took Barkett’s arm and steered him toward the conference room door. “Thank you for that information. Rest assured that we will do everything in our power to determine if what those criminals said was true. Also, be assured that at no time before your actual rescue did we know how to find you. If we had, we wouldn’t have failed to act.” He ushered Barkett through the door and closed it behind him. He turned to Stromeyer. “Quite a story.”

“One that I intend to follow up on,” she said.

Margate gave Stromeyer one of his fake smiles. “Of course you must. But I’m pulling the plug on this operation and I want everyone out of Colombia now. You will not conduct your investigation from inside that country, is that understood? And Banner had better not be there.”

Before Stromeyer could respond, her BlackBerry started beeping with an incoming text message. She watched it scroll across the screen.

“Is that Banner?” Margate indicated the buzzing device.

Stromeyer nodded. “He said to tell you that Emma Caldridge has been rescued. That she claims to have destroyed a terrorist cell operating out of the States that was intent on getting her to create a new weapon for use against Americans.” She continued to read the unfolding message. “Ms. Caldridge says the ringleader of the group was her former boss. He was preparing to sell the weapon to an unidentified member of the Department of Defense.”

Stromeyer watched Margate and Whitter closely as they digested this information. Whitter looked shocked, Margate, not so shocked.

“Did she say who the person was who was attempting to buy it?”

Stromeyer shook her head. “We’ll debrief her when she gets back.” Stromeyer thought she detected speculation in Margate’s eyes, like he was running names through his head.

“That’s a serious claim,” he said.

“So was Barkett’s.”

Margate turned to Whitter. “Sit in on the debriefing. I want to hear everything this woman knows. I won’t have a turncoat in my operation.”

Stromeyer disliked Margate, but at that moment she almost admired him.

“What is this weapon she can make? Maybe she can make it for her own government?” Margate looked intrigued.

Stromeyer’s brief moment of warmth toward Margate was extinguished. His obvious desire for a new weapon of death was more like the man she’d come to know and dislike. She read the text. “Banner doesn’t describe it, but he says she destroyed the ingredients for it. No one can make it anymore.”

Margate shook his head. “That’s a shame.”

“Guess it’s lucky that she was able to avoid such an outcome, despite the damage to the pipeline.” Stromeyer couldn’t help but stick it to Margate a little. She could see the gears in his head turning as he considered the new information from all angles.

“It’s still tough, losing the pipeline like that. Repairing it will cost hundreds of millions,” he said, but now he sounded like he was already trying to backpedal from his earlier outrage.

“Shall I write a memo describing how the DOD and Darkview successfully thwarted a major terrorist arms purchase?”

Margate gave her a look that told her he knew exactly where she was headed. “You do that.” He left the conference room, trailed by his assistants and a thoughtful Whitter.

57

EMMA SAT ON A DECK CHAIR, WATCHING SUMNER FISH OVER THE side of boat. Miguel slept beside her on a deck lounger. The attached canopy protected him from the sun. Boris dozed on the deck next to him. The dog was never far from Miguel’s side. Miguel slept the day away. His injuries didn’t allow for much else.

Emma watched through slit eyes as Sumner sat in the fishing chair and played out the line of his fishing rod. The boy, a fourteen-year-old orphan whose name was Enrico, sat next to him in the jump seat, also watching. Enrico was well on his way to idolizing Sumner. He didn’t say much, and they didn’t ask him too many questions.

Sumner fished every day without fail, and he always managed to catch something good to eat. The cruiser was well stocked, but not with the type of food required for their long journey. It was jammed with alcohol, high-end vodkas and whiskeys, cigars from Cuba and the Dominican Republic, as well as some of the finest armament that money could buy. The tinned food was adequate, but Sumner’s daily catch inevitably made dinner something special.

They’d been cruising for a week, informing no one of their location or their destination. Only they knew that they were in the Caribbean Sea, headed to Key West by way of Puerto Rico. The radio crackled, starting Emma from her reverie. She grabbed the receiver.

“Banner?” she said.

“Yes. Everything all right there?” Banner’s smooth voice came over the line. A few days before, Emma had used the radio to call him and ask for a favor. Now he was reporting in.

“Fine. All clear.”

“Good. How’s Miguel?”

“Sleeping. The wound is healing and the pain seems to be receding. Tell Perez thanks for the assistance. It’s not every day that a doctor makes a cartel cruise-ship house call.”

“I will. And I have some new for you. Gladys Sullivan says hello. She’s in Bogotá recovering from bypass surgery. She told me to tell you that she still prays for you every day, in between cigarettes.”

“What! They’re allowing her to smoke?”

Emma heard Banner’s chuckle over the line. “I doubt it. Her brand of humor, is all. Vivian’s doing well also. She’s no longer in Colombia, but reunited with her family.”

“And Maria? Were you able to find her?”

“I was. She asked to be moved to another location. I arranged for her and the children to be relocated to the Christian ministry formerly run by Gladys’s sister. They didn’t know what to make of Maria at the mission.”

“Why is that? Maria is a wonderful woman, and very pious.”

“They said that she is the first indigenous woman they’ve ever met who wears red lipstick.”

Emma laughed out loud. “My Engine Red.”

“I assumed you had something to do with it. Rest assured, you have a convert. Maria wears it every day. I have to say, it suits her.”

“I’m glad I could give her something.”

“Maria says that she always knew that God would protect all of you. Between Gladys’s prayers and Maria’s faith, you seem to be well protected by the powers that be.”

“I’ll take any protection I can get,” Emma said.

“And you? Are the headaches and nightmares getting any better?” Banner’s voice was concerned.

Emma was suddenly uncomfortable. She’d been having debilitating headaches along with recurring nightmares. The dreams revolved around Rodrigo. He’d walk toward her. His head was cut off, and he cradled it in his arms. When the head saw her, it turned into White and it would scream at her. Emma would start awake, sweating. In the last seven days, she’d had the dream four times.

“Still there, I’m afraid.”

“It’s post-traumatic stress. When you reach the States, if they haven’t resolved, I’ll arrange for you to attend some therapy sessions. Southcom holds them weekly for soldiers returning from Iraq.”

“Thanks, I’ll consider it.” To Emma’s great relief, Banner changed the subject.

“I’ve arranged for a crew to relieve you of the weapons before you hit United States territory. Until then, you may need them. We’ve been unable to pinpoint who the American businessmen were that you saw, but they’ve got to be furious at the loss of their cargo.”

“What about this yacht? Perhaps it is registered in their name?”

“No. It’s actually owned by one Miguel Estanga della Petroya, known throughout Colombia as ‘Estanga 60.’ The most notorious drug cartel leader in Colombia. Word is he was shot twice and his boat stolen in a siege orchestrated by the United States’ DEA.”

“Smoking Man,” Emma said.

Emma heard Sumner chuckle from his seat. “A siege? Mr. Della Petroya is embarrassed to admit that two men and a woman shot him and stole his yacht?”

“That you, Sumner?” Banner asked.

“It is.”

“Well, both of you, listen up. I was wondering if you would care to ditch your day jobs and join Darkview. The pay’s good and the excitement just about nonstop.”

“Banner, I was just relishing the lack of excitement,” Emma said.

Banner laughed. “Well, give it some thought. You don’t have to decide now. I’d better ring off. Don’t want anyone tracking you guys. Emma, you turned off that GPS wristwatch I gave you?”

“It’s off. But I thank you for it. I’ll never go anywhere without a compass again.”

“Keep it. I’ll get another one.”

Emma hung up. She settled down on the deck chair to think about Banner’s offer and to watch Sumner fish. Despite her ordeal and the lingering effects, she had a feeling of lightness that she hadn’t felt in years, perhaps not ever. She knew it was because she had faced the worst that life had to offer, and the ordeal had given her a greater appreciation of the best. And that moment, sitting on the sunny deck, in a cool breeze, on the gently rolling boat, and watching the sun reflect off the undulating sea, was definitely one of the better times. She smiled.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Emma Caldridge’s story is, of course, fiction, but many of the various plants and techniques she uses exist. Thankfully, the key item, the weapon with the ingenious disguise, is a figment of my imagination.

I especially love the medicinal maggots. I’d read about their use in sores that appear intractable. My thanks to Ronald A. Sherman, MD, MSc, DTM&H, Department of Pathology, University of California, Irvine, for his assistance in explaining the collection and application of these amazing creatures.

Emma’s use of scopolamine, or “devil’s breath,” its Colombian street name, is based in fact. Scopolamine is a chemical that contains antinausea properties and in commercial use is a favorite of scuba divers. It’s derived from the datura plant, a member of the nightshade family commonly called jimsonweed. All parts of the plant are toxic. When ground to a fine powder and blown in the face of the victim, it is said to create hallucinations and a “zombie” effect that renders the victim completely suggestible. While the hallucinatory effects are well documented, and the drug can cause the victim to fall into a stupor, I have my own personal doubts about the zombie reports. My cynical trial attorney’s antenna started vibrating after I read the claims of a politician who denied responsibility for stealing cash by claiming that he did so only while in a zombie state after thieves used devil’s breath on him. Be that as it may, jimsonweed is no joke, and it can kill.

The leaves and branches of the neem tree are used the world over as an antiseptic, and the indigenous people of Colombia chew coca leaves to settle an upset stomach and as a tonic to impart energy. Coca tea is sold legally in some countries in South America.

The traveler’s palm exists, though it is not indigenous to Colombia, and one can drink from it as described. My thanks to the Landscapers at the CuisinArt Resort in Anguilla, British West Indies, for teaching me how to drink from theirs, showing me the neem tree, and describing the many other edible plants growing on the acreage under their management.

Cameron Sumner’s job is fictional, but is loosely based upon a former joint program between the United States and Colombia called the Air Bridge Denial program. For an in-depth look at how the real program worked, read the study issued in 2005 by the United States Government Accountability Office (GAO) at www.gao.gov. In fact, read anything listed on the GAO’s site. I am continually impressed by the quality of the reports that I find there. My thanks to Jess T. Ford, director, International Affairs and Trade, for his update on the report.

The Lost City exists, but the elusive plant that Emma destroys does not. The city, discovered thirty years ago by grave robbers, continues to be a six-day hike through paramilitary-controlled coca fields, past indigenous villages, and into areas that even a donkey cannot navigate. A group trekking to the Lost City was kidnapped in 2003, but I could find no other reports after that date.

Kidnappings in Colombia have settled down quite a bit in recent years thanks to the Uribe administration’s crackdown on the paramilitary organizations. The arrests have reached into the highest echelons of Colombian society and include some officials considered to be Uribe’s allies, as well as a cousin. However, FARC, Colombia’s best-known paramilitary organization, has vowed to once again increase its efforts. One can only hope FARC changes its stance, because Colombians are some of the nicest people I have ever met. My thanks to all who assisted me with this book.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book would not have been possible without the support and assistance of an entire army of people.

To my agent, Barbara Poelle at the Irene Goodman Literary Agency, whose great advice and good humor set me on the right track, kept me laughing, and helped me through the publishing gauntlet.

To everyone at HarperCollins/William Morrow who was willing to take a chance on a debut thriller writer.

To my initial editor, Carolyn Marino, whose editorial expertise was so good that reading her suggestions was like taking a condensed writing class. Two years ago I created a short “wish” list of thriller editors for the book and Carolyn was on it. When Barbara called to tell me whom I’d be working with at Harper, I was speechless. I was also ski-less, as I was just getting on a lift when the call came through and in my excitement forgot to strap on the skis.

To my second editor, Lyssa Keusch, who caught the pass from Carolyn Marino without missing a beat and who guided me through the next stages in editing the manuscript.

To Wendy Lee and Johnathan Wilber, who helped me with the myriad of details required in preparing the manuscript.

To Angela Swafford, Colombian author, journalist, and intrepid adventurer, who obtained clearance to ride with the Colombian army and tour the Cano-Limón-Covenas pipeline and generously shared her experiences with me.

To the professionals and friends who gave advice on technical matters, some mentioned in the Author’s Note at the end of this book. Any errors are mine. George E. Boos, retired commercial airline pilot; Ronald A. Sherman, MD, MSc, Dtm&H, Department of Pathology, University of California, Irvine; Jess T. Ford, director, International Affairs and Trade, United States Government Accountability Office; Sergeant Brandon Verstat, United States Marine Corps; Bill Edler and his wife, Carolina Diaz Osorio; and the woman scientist on the other end of the line at the University of Chicago Department of Molecular Genetics and Cell Biology who didn’t treat me like a nut when I called out of the blue and asked how to genetically reconstitute burned plants.

To Robert Thorson, Jill Griffiths, and Darwyn Jones, who taught me how to write copy, helped me create the perfect pitch, and edited my query letter.

To the other writers willing to give me their feedback: Lisa Rosenthal and the writers in her “Dig in” revision workshops, the Buck-town Library Writers’ Group, and the “Chicago Contingent.

To Dana Kaye, Darwyn Jones, and Marcus Sakey, who invited me to join the Contingent.

To my father, who enthusiastically read anything I mailed to him.

To my mother, who was willing to drop everything to read drafts of troublesome chapters, and who raised me to follow my dreams.

To my children, Alex and Claudia, who helped me run off the ski lift in my boots and still weren’t embarrassed to be seen with me.

And to my husband, Klaus, whose ultramarathon running inspired part of the book’s premise. Klaus encouraged me to write and didn’t flinch when I told him I was going to take a sabbatical from my law practice to do it. His love, support, and willingness to travel to questionable areas to help research my settings make life a blast. Thank you, my love, for driving the getaway car.

About the Author

JAMIE FREVELETTI is a trial lawyer and a runner. She lives in Chicago, Illinois. This is her first book.

www.jamiefreveletti.com

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