Deadly Additive Read online

  5

  For Sledge and his companions, the long night march proved demanding but uneventful. As expected, night temperatures at the high Andean altitude dropped down near freezing. Sledge felt grateful for his warm clothing and the exertion of the march. Night vision goggles enabled rapid movement, and the trio slowed to night patrolling procedures only for the last four miles.

  On the footpath over the mountain pass, Mario halted them short of the watershed and crept forward alone. He returned presently to report a four-man outguard located, as Ramón Ramirez had forecast, on the watershed itself. He then led his group in a creeping ascent up a steep slope to bypass the outguard. As the dim light of false dawn arrived, they established themselves on the ridgeline above Diego Contreras’s village.

  By agreement, Mario and Sledge carried satellite phones which, for security reasons, had no pre-set numbers. The phones were turned off except for actual sending of messages. As the trio took positions on the ridgeline, Mario punched in the Ramirez agency’s number and spoke a single word, “Posición.” He gave Sledge a nod to signify that his report had been acknowledged, turned off the phone, and hooked it onto his belt.

  While the other two provided security, Sledge found a concealed spot where he could observe the entire village. Careful to shield his binocular lenses from the sun’s reflections, he settled in for what might be an all-day vigil.

  Superficially, the village looked like any other. But there were too few women and the men carried rifles wherever they went. The dead giveaway, once Sledge located it, was a communal cooking site hidden under trees at the east, or up-valley, edge of the village. Sledge watched the familiar mealtime ritual of armies around the world. Armed men came to the feeding area in groups and ate their meal under the trees beyond. When they left, other groups replaced them.

  The guerrilla strength, however, was at least twice the one hundred that the elder Ramirez had estimated. Well, that was the breaks of the game. Plans had to change with the situation. But Sledge did see one hopeful sign. By units, the men were cleaning weapons and receiving an issue of ammunition—sure indicators of an impending operation.

  Traffic patterns identified the village headquarters hut, and presently Diego Contreras appeared in the doorway. Through binoculars, there was no mistaking him. Sledge’s fingers tightened on his rifle. It was a long shot for an AK-47, but Sledge thought he could pull it off.

  Images of Alita’s torn and bleeding body flashed before him. Fury seized him and he wanted nothing more than to bring the same destruction to the man who had her murdered. He centered the rifle sights on the guerrilla commander’s chest. One slight squeeze of the trigger…

  Then reality set in. His mission was to rescue two women. Killing Contreras was at best a gratifying extra. With a sigh, Sledge lowered his rifle and went back to analyzing village activity. He had to find out where the women were being held, if indeed they were still here. That small hut at the west, down-valley edge of the village looked like a good candidate. The two armed guards at its door had to be guarding something.

  As he watched, a peasant woman carried a tray from the cooking area to that hut. An armed guard went with her. They spoke briefly with the two by the door, one of whom shifted his rifle to one hand and opened the door with the other. He used no key. The woman and her escort emerged after a few moments and returned to the cooking area.

  Perhaps an hour later, the same woman returned to the hut, this time accompanied by two guards. When they came out, they brought a second woman with them. Sledge’s pulse quickened, for the newcomer showed a full head of blonde hair. The captive carried her head high and moved decisively, even under guard. The foursome disappeared into the trees behind the hut and returned a few minutes later.

  The universal call of nature, Sledge guessed. The episode was repeated immediately with another blonde woman. This one imitated the self-confident bearing of the first. She didn’t quite bring it off, but Sledge gave her credit for trying. By now he was sure he’d found the two kidnapped women. More than one pair of blonde female prisoners in this region? Too improbable to consider.

  Half an hour later, Diego Contreras and two riflemen emerged from his headquarters and walked directly to the prisoners’ hut. The guerrilla commander was armed with a pistol and carried hand grenades attached to a shoulder harness.

  Sledge grimaced. If the women were moved, he’d be facing a totally new situation. He dreaded the prospect of stalking the guerrillas and trying to improvise a rescue plan. Besides, Mario and Javier weren’t obligated to follow him for that.

  Soon, though, Contreras and his guards returned to their headquarters. Sledge sighed with relief. The women still might be moved, but the signs were favorable. Their hut seemed the only island of inactivity in the now-bustling village.

  At midmorning, the guerrilla units moved out eastward toward the head of the valley. Contreras, carrying a light pack and accompanied by a radioman and three riflemen, fell in behind the second unit. The guerrillas must be taking the bait on the Brinkman-Ramirez deception plan. By noon, no more than twenty men and perhaps five women remained in the settlement. Afterwards, Sledge watched the posting of two-man outguards above and below it. He noted the time interval at which guards were changed.

  That done, he brought Mario and Javier to the observation point, outlined his plan, and asked their opinions. Both agreed to it. Javier crept down the ridge to scout out guerrilla outguards on the down-valley side of the village. At mid-afternoon, he returned to report its position and the absence of any other security on that side.

  “The outguard is your responsibility,” Sledge told his companions. “I’ll do the job in the village.”

  Another hour found them under cover in the woods near the prison hut. As always before an operation, Sledge felt a familiar tightening of his stomach muscles. With it came a heightening of his senses—a necessity for survival in the deadly world of small-unit combat. A voice within him cried out that he abhorred what he was about to do, but with an effort of will he smothered it. He grounded his pack, made a final check of his silenced pistol, and waited.

  Mario and Javier slipped away toward the outguard.

  Sledge heard helicopters approaching from the lower end of the valley. The sound grew to a roar as four aircraft passed directly overhead. Their din should cover any noise his companions made disposing of the outguard. Satisfied, Sledge moved to the edge of the trees behind the prison hut.

  The hut had no rear door. That meant he had to risk entering from the village side where there were two guards and no cover. His pistol at ready, he moved to the front corner of the hut. There he paused and listened. He heard nothing except the receding sound of helicopters far up the valley. From this position, the village appeared deserted, but there was no telling what he might find in front of the hut. He took a deep breath, readied his pistol, and stepped past the corner.

  A single guard stood facing away from him, rifle slung loosely over one shoulder. Sledge aimed his pistol at the guard’s head and spoke in a soft voice.

  “Hola.”

  The guard spun around, struggling to unsling his rifle.

  The silenced pistol coughed.

  A small red spot appeared on the guard’s forehead. As he crumpled, Sledge leaped forward and seized the rifle before it hit the ground. Bodies fell quietly, but dropped weapons made an abominable racket.

  Watching the door with the corner of his eye, Sledge propped the dead guard into a sitting position beside it, his rifle across his lap and his head leaning forward on his knees as if asleep. That was the reason for shooting him through the forehead. The guard’s present position exposed his neck to view, and there must be no tell-tale blood showing in an obvious place.

  Sledge made a quick survey of his surroundings, but saw no signs that he’d been spotted. The second guard must be inside the hut with the women. But guard or no guard, Sledge had to go in to bring the women out. He would be most vulnerable when he first stepped into
the hut’s darkness, his eyes not yet accustomed to it. He shut one eye to start it adapting. Those few seconds would not make it fully effective, but at least he wouldn’t be totally blind when he entered.

  Sledge knelt and listened beside the hut’s door. Not a sound. The guard could be anywhere inside. He might have been alerted by the muffled shot. He might shoot the first thing that came through the door. He might even use the women as a shield. Sledge removed a hand grenade from his shoulder harness and made sure its safety pin was firmly seated.

  He didn’t know what awaited him on the other side of the door, but he had to find out before someone saw him and gave the alarm. His jaw muscles clamped tight, and something like a cannonball formed in his stomach. He opened the door slightly and tossed in the grenade, its safety pin still in place.

  Then, pistol raised, he kicked the door open and burst into the hut.

  ****

  Earlier that morning, Kristin Halvorsen had awakened with the sense that something had changed. Sounds of increased activity penetrated the prison hut’s thin walls. The first glimmers of daylight showed through a few cracks in the shutters, but the hut’s interior remained black as midnight.

  Kristin lay unmoving in that frigid darkness, careful not to wake Jocelyn, who slept beside her on the earthen floor. Each had been given one blanket, but necessity had driven them to share blankets and body heat in the Andean cold.

  Kristin watched her friend’s face in repose and marveled again at their strange friendship. In their college years at Radhurst, Jocelyn had been the very picture of a rich man’s spoiled daughter. Seemingly believing in nothing and interested only in pleasure, she stayed on the go. She had the financial means to go as she pleased, but if she failed out she would have to return to the dominating father she despised. So, without appearing to study, she made consistent Bs in subjects that held no interest for her. Enviously, Kristin thought her friend had to work at not making the dean’s list.

  Kristin herself was as driven as Jocelyn was carefree. The daughter of public schoolteachers in Minnesota, she could never afford a prestigious school like Radhurst except on scholarship. Nor did she have connections to smooth her path after graduation. So she drove herself into graduating with honors, as she had since driven herself to excel in the male-dominated world of journalism. Now she had the story of a lifetime if she could only live to write it.

  From the sounds she heard, Kristin sensed a new level of tension. There seemed to be more voices than usual out there, along with the now-familiar sound of rifle bolts being slid open and sprung shut. The guerrillas were doing something different today. She’d bet it had to do with yesterday’s flyover by the helicopter.

  Jocelyn awoke, and Kristin whispered her suspicions about the new activity. Wrapped in blankets, they hobbled about in the cold darkness to drive the stiffness from their bodies. Their breakfast arrived cold, as always, carried by a sullen woman escorted by an armed guard. Normally, someone would open the shutters at this time, but today they remained closed. The woman lit an oil lamp that cast a circle of dim, flickering light. They ate the rough food in silence, moved by hunger’s necessity.

  The woman returned later with two guards and escorted Kristin on the usual morning visit to the outhouse. Kristin risked a question as soon as they were outside the hut.

  “Señora, when will they return us to my father?”

  The woman appeared frightened. “I do not know,” she muttered. “You must not talk.”

  As they walked, Kristin’s eyes confirmed what she had deduced by sound. The number of guerrillas in the village must have doubled. Everyone worked busily on equipment, and the air tingled with nervous anticipation.

  When Jocelyn came back from her turn outside, she and Kristin held a whispered conference. Neither could decide how the new activity might affect them. The answer was not long in coming.

  The door of the hut banged open, and two armed guerrillas entered. Close behind came Diego Contreras, wearing a shoulder harness with four hand grenades affixed to it. He bore himself erect, jaw set, eyes hard.

  Before he could speak, Kristin demanded, “When will you send us back to my father?” She felt as frightened as ever by this brutal man, yet something inside her found time to marvel at how easily she wore Jocelyn’s identity. If she really got used to it, Jocelyn might never get it back. Kristin noticed that Jocelyn had sidled over to the periphery of Contreras’s vision.

  The guerrilla leader ignored Kristin’s question. “You were very bad yesterday when the helicopter flew over. Your orders were to stay in the hut, but you showed yourselves outside. That means you cannot be trusted.”

  Kristin sniffed. “I was bored stiff and wanted to see what was going on. Surely there’s no harm in that.”

  Contreras’s jaw muscles flexed again. “I hold your father in high esteem. Nevertheless, I must tell you that curiosity can prove fatal.”

  Kristin pretended to misunderstand. “I didn’t see any weapons on the helicopter. How could it hurt us?”

  Contreras appeared to consider the idea. “You are in a war zone.” His voice softened. “In our struggle, we are hunted by both the Colombian army and the paramilitaries, the death squads whose atrocity you saw near Chozadolor. If you are caught in a military operation, I cannot take time to help you.”

  Liar. You started out threatening us yourself, and now you pretend the threat comes from your enemies.

  Contreras squared his shoulders. “The Colombian army will test us in battle this afternoon. They don’t suspect that we know their plans. You should be safe here, but you must stay inside. Their helicopter pilots may shoot anything that moves. Be sure they do not see you.”

  Kristin tried to ask if the pilots were not just as likely to shoot up the village huts, but Contreras spun on his heel and left without answering. Soon afterward, one of the usual two guards entered. He sat in a chair beside the door, his rifle cradled in his lap. “My orders are to keep you inside,” he said. “Do not come near me and do not talk.”

  Time crept by. The noon meal did not arrive. A new guard replaced the first one. When Jocelyn spoke to Kristin, he brandished his rifle and muttered, “No talk.”

  As the afternoon dragged on, she analyzed again the horror she’d seen near Chozadolor. She and Jocelyn had stumbled onto the bodies, at least twenty heaped randomly in several piles. This was a full two weeks after the village men had been massacred, yet these bodies appeared fresh. The first thing she’d noticed was the blood—not from entry or exit wounds, but from noses, ears, and other body orifices. And the staring eyes of several bodies had pin-pointed pupils.

  She snapped all the photographs she could—at least twelve before she reached the end of that memory card. Confound it! She knew she was near the end of that one. Why hadn’t she changed to the new one? The bird pictures on the old one formed the cover story for her investigation. She couldn’t afford to lose them. So she frantically changed to the new memory card. In her haste, she dropped the old one. She didn’t stop to pick it up, but kept shooting pictures of the terrible scene before her. Jocelyn helped by using her own camera. Between them, they ought to have a complete photographic record.

  Then the guerrillas came, Kristin feigned an attempt to run, but actually kicked the used memory card out of sight under a bush. The men smashed her camera and its memory card. They searched her and took everything that looked like photographic supplies. But they never saw the memory card she’d kicked out of sight. She could still see a vivid image of one guerrilla throwing Jocelyn’s camera to the ground and shattering it with a burst from an AK-47. She noticed the men never approached the dead bodies. Indeed, they acted as if afraid of them. Somewhere in all of this was a career-building blockbuster story. She wanted it worse than she’d ever wanted anything. Somehow, some way, she had to go back and find that memory card. And she needed to interview the women of Chozadolor who had lost their husbands. Then she had to fit everything into a complete picture.

  A
complete picture? She was nowhere close. And until she recovered her photographs, she was nowhere at all.

  The sound of helicopters interrupted her thoughts. The guard leaped to his feet and listened. Kristin listened, too. More than one chopper this time. Four or five, maybe, but no more: far too small a force to stand against Contreras. The noise grew, passed overhead, and faded away up the valley.

  Then silence filled the hut, silence broken only by the creaking of the shutters in a gentle breeze. The guard remained standing, rifle at ready, listening. Listening for what? The sounds of battle up the valley? The helicopters’ return?

  The silence continued. Cracks in the shutters showed dimming light. That meant late afternoon. The oil lamp flickered and sputtered. A subdued noise sounded from outside, a clump like the fall of something soft and heavy.

  The guard’s eyes widened. He motioned the two women to one side of the hut and placed his back against the wall opposite the door. He trained his rifle on the door and slid a round into the chamber. The oil lamp sputtered again. The guard stood still, holding his breath. His rifle never wavered.

  Kristin and Jocelyn exchanged a questioning glance, then stared again at the door. Nothing happened for a moment. Then the door opened the merest crack and an object like a rock flew into the room. It bounced and rolled toward the guard’s feet. Terrified, Kristin recognized it as a hand grenade. She sat frozen, startled by the sound of her own gasp. The guard lowered his rifle and tried frantically to pick up the still-rolling grenade.

  The door flew open, and a huge man in uniform charged into the room. He held a strange-looking pistol with both hands and carried a rifle slung over his shoulder. The guard spun back toward the door and raised his own rifle. There was a spitting sound, and the guard’s motion stopped. His eyes glazed and he pitched forward onto the floor. Numb with horror, Kristin realized she had just seen a man killed.

  The apparition in the doorway cast its gaze around the hut, the pistol tracking back and forth across the two women. His image stamped itself indelibly on Kristin’s consciousness. Monstrous size, not tall but exceptionally wide. Powerfully muscled shoulders. A strong, well-featured face, but cork-blackened in crisscross patterns. In other circumstances it might have been pleasant, but now it was marred by a murderous pair of deep-set gray eyes more terrifying than those of Diego Contreras. Was this one of the savage paramilitaries she’d been warned about?