Jamie Freveletti - Running from the Devil

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.