Deadly Additive Page 7

  “Maybe you ought to tell me who you are,” Sledge said as he severed the man’s bonds.

  “My name is Glenn Vickers.” The man made the simple statement and fell silent. He worked his fingers to restore circulation, then shook hands with Sledge and added, “Thank you for rescuing me.”

  Why was the man so close-mouthed about himself? Sledge was curious, but he had more pressing things to worry about. “Are there any guerrillas nearby?”

  Vickers’s thumb pointed over his shoulder. “About twenty in a village a couple of miles back. That’s where they picked me up.” He pointed forward in the direction they’d been traveling. “I don’t know what’s over that way. They must have been taking me somewhere. They saw the helicopter and got in a lucky shot. You know the rest.”

  No, I need to know your business here and what the guerrillas had against you.

  But questioning Vickers could come later. They had to move before the sound of firing brought reinforcements.

  “Raúl,” Sledge said, pointing to the body of the largest guerrilla, “take that man’s jacket and put it on. You’ll need it where we’re going. Vickers, you collect their weapons and ammunition—and one more jacket. We’ll have a use for all of those.”

  Vickers gave Sledge a reluctant look but complied. Sledge recovered his pistol and returned it to his holster. When he looked again, Vickers and Raúl had draped themselves with the guerrillas’ ammunition belts and carried two rifles apiece slung on their shoulders. Sledge scooped up what little ammo remained and stored it inside his jacket. No use leaving it for the unfriendlies.

  When they rejoined Sledge’s group, they found Mario awake and alert. His wound was not bleeding. Sledge made introductions all around. The women seemed to share some secret joke between them, but Sledge had no time to worry about it.

  “The guerrillas will find us if we stay here,” he said, “but we have an alternate plan.” He pointed southward toward a range of mountains. “We move across those mountains into the next valley. The planned pick-up time was supposed to be first light, but I’ll call our people in Bogotá and change it to afternoon. We can’t travel at night because we don’t have night vision goggles for the newcomers.”

  The news was greeted with a few sighs, but everyone began packing up. Sledge taped the split in Raúl’s forehead. “Stitches would be better,” he said, “but we don’t have the stuff to do it. You’ll have a scar on your forehead to match the one on your cheek.”

  Raúl grinned. “No matter, señor. I will wear my biography on my face.”

  Each to his own taste, Sledge thought. But now he needed to call and arrange for the other helicopter. He unclipped the satellite phone from his belt and prepared to punch in the number.

  What he saw made him recoil. Between the five and the eight on the phone’s number pad was a neat round bullet hole. He would make no more calls with that phone.

  No wonder he’d felt the strike of the guerrilla’s first shot as well as heard it. The bullet had struck closer than he’d thought and hit the phone clipped at his side. Someday one would do more than come close.

  But Sledge had planned duplicate communications. “Mario,” he said. “My phone is busted. I need to use yours.”

  Mario showed a sad face. “I am sorry, señor, but I do not have it. Somewhere in the firefight last night it became lost.”

  9

  Kristin had watched in shock and dismay as the helicopter went down. Then her emotions became mixed. She felt relieved when Sledge went to investigate. The memory of his iron grip immobilizing her head still rankled, and his presence made her feel an unwelcome pressure. Beyond that, she resented him as the chief obstacle between her and her photographs. She had to play along with him now because she had no idea how to get back to Chozadolor. But that would change once they reached Bogotá.

  If they got back to Bogotá. Suddenly, she wanted Sledge to return. He’d brought them out of the guerrilla camp, and he’d handled the deadly firefight at the watershed well enough. He was still a dumb gorilla, but she felt more confident when he was around.

  Javier gave her and Jocelyn more glorified candy bars to keep their energy up, then took his post as a lookout about a hundred yards away. Mario was sleeping.

  Sledge returned with two new men. In spite of her warnings to Jocelyn, Kristin couldn’t resist exchanging an amused glance with her during Sledge’s introductions. She hated her dependence on him. Possessing one small bit of knowledge he didn’t share gave her a much-needed feeling of superiority. She wished he would stop calling her brat, and she wished Jocelyn would quit winking at her whenever he did.

  They set off for the new pickup point with Javier leading. Next came Raúl and Vickers, carrying Mario seated between them on a rifle padded with a bloody jacket. She credited Sledge with rigging that. He’d carried Mario alone all the previous night, and fatigue had to catch up with him sooner or later. His face already showed it, though determination burned in his eyes.

  Kristin and Jocelyn walked behind the newcomers. Sledge brought up the rear, often dropping back to make sure they weren’t being followed, then jogging to catch up.

  The path soon wound along increasingly steep mountain slopes. Raúl and Vickers stopped often to catch their breath, but they always resumed their journey without complaining.

  Kristin’s legs ached until she wanted to drop, but she kept pushing herself along. She wasn’t going to give Sledge the satisfaction of seeing her act like a brat.

  The climb seemed to go on forever, but they crossed the watershed in late afternoon as shadows lengthened and the temperature plunged toward freezing. Soon afterward they stopped at a relatively flat area where Sledge said they would spend the night. The others grounded their loads and sat with their backs against trees, their heads slumped forward in near exhaustion. Even Sledge appeared to have reached the end of his tether.

  Jocelyn sat close beside Kristin. “I thought I’d freeze in those mountains last night. And I’m getting tired of this masquerade. When can we tell these people who we really are?”

  Kristin tried not to show her irritation. “We can’t. The main problem isn’t your father. It’s our false passports. We have to use them to get back into the United States.”

  Jocelyn sighed. “All I have to go back to is the same old war with my father. I married twice to get away from him and still didn’t succeed. I don’t know what to do.”

  “We’ll think of something. In the meantime, we have to help these people get us back to Bogotá.”

  The first few moments of rest felt good, but then a chill wind nipped Kristin’s cheeks. It stung her nostrils when she breathed. Wearily, she rose and sought shelter in a small depression.

  She shivered once, then steeled herself to endure a long, cold night.

  ****

  “What news, Tomás?” As evening settled in, Diego Contreras looked up from the map table in his headquarters. He’d been savoring progress toward his planned coup against the Colombian government. Another nine days…

  Before Tomás spoke, his facial expressions always told Contreras what kind of news he brought. Good news brought a display of gold-filled teeth, while bad news brought a countenance dark as a thundercloud. He’d worn the thundercloud earlier to report the outguard at the pass into the southern valley had been wiped out. There was only one face between the extremes: a moderate squint indicated that the news was serious but not catastrophic. This evening Tomás wore the middle expression.

  “The men on the island have complained about the shortage in our last shipment, Comandante.”

  “They can do nothing about it, Tomás, so let them complain. After we use the new weapons in our coup, we can make up the shortage and send them more.”

  “They have complained to—to the man who invented the weapons. He demands to meet with us at the factory three days from now. He is sure to make trouble.”

  “How can he make trouble? He has no army.”

  “He can stop sending u
s materials for the weapons. He is already angry that the men from Chozadolor were killed.”

  “That does not matter. He thinks the paramilitaries murdered them.”

  “We think he thinks that. But he is displeased that it happened so near the factory. If he finds out that we tested the new weapons on some of them…”

  Contreras’s eyes flashed. “He will not find out. We can stall him for nine more days. What else?”

  “A helicopter has crashed in the next valley to the south.”

  “That is good news. So why do you wear the serious face?”

  “Our men found no bodies in the wreckage. That means the pilot and any passengers escaped. Our men were collecting taxes at a nearby village. They captured a missionary there, a Norteamericano who was arousing the people against us. They tried him as an enemy of the people and sentenced him to be executed.”

  “They collected taxes and captured an enemy? That is good news.”

  “There is also bad. The four men who were taking the prisoner back to their base were ambushed and killed—two of them with a small-caliber weapon like the one used in the gringas’ escape.”

  “Then the same people who took our hostages ambushed our men.”

  “Sí, Comandante. Our men searched the area, but the enemy had gone.”

  For a few moments Contreras stared at the ceiling. “This narrows the possibilities for the gringas,” he said. “They cannot stay in that valley, nor do they dare come back into this one. So they must go one more valley to the south. Order our forces there to make a sweep of the valley beginning at dawn—check all possible helicopter landing areas and all people who have no business there.”

  “Do they bring them back here, Comandante?”

  Contreras’s jaw clamped tight. “No, Tomás. The orders remain unchanged. They are to kill them all.”

  He turned again to his maps and plans for the coup. Only nine more days…

  ****

  As the temperature kept falling, Kristin pulled her collar more closely around her neck and watched Sledge prepare his party for the night. He moved more slowly each time he stood, yet he kept going. Silently, Kristin vowed to do no less.

  Sledge checked Mario’s wound again, then spoke to Vickers. “I’m glad you’re with us, but I’d feel better if you’d say why the guerrillas had it in for you.”

  Vickers showed an easy smile. “They had me scheduled for a firing squad.”

  “Why?”

  “To make an example of me.” Vickers spoke as calmly as if he were ordering lunch. “I’m a missionary, and the Lord gave me too much success. I told the villagers God could do more for them than Karl Marx, and the guerrillas didn’t want God muscling in on their territory.”

  Sledge’s face hardened. “Maybe God didn’t either. He let them haul you off to a firing squad.”

  The missionary grinned. “But then He brought you along to rescue me. He works in mysterious ways.”

  Sledge scowled and turned away.

  Kristin tried to clear the air, but the best comment she could find sounded inane. “Going home is taking a long time.”

  Sledge’s scowl changed to a sardonic smile. “We’re in good shape, brat. It took Ulysses twenty years to get home.”

  How had a muscle-bound ox like Sledge learned about Ulysses? And she wished he’d quit calling her brat.

  He did not wait for a reply, but turned to Jocelyn. “This is tough going, but you’ll have plenty to write about.”

  To Kristin’s dismay, Jocelyn stepped out of character. “I do want to learn how to write feature articles.”

  Sledge snorted. “Don’t pull that helpless act on me. I know what you journalists do for a living.” He withdrew from the group, ignoring Jocelyn’s laugh.

  It was all Kristin could do to keep from laughing, too. Their identity switch was a pain, but it did have its amusing aspects.

  Raúl and Vickers moved over to join the women.

  “What made him so angry?” Kristin asked. She knew the answer. Since college, she’d avoided any talk about God. Believing in Him hadn’t gotten her parents any respect in their dinky public school system. She’d long since determined to be different.

  Vickers’s gaze held hers. “God’s name makes some people uncomfortable.”

  Kristin put on a smile and hoped the man’s probing glance didn’t find the reality behind it.

  Raúl brought the respite she needed. “You are a missionary, Señor Vickers? God makes a good joke when He calls a missionary who is already named for a vicar.”

  Vickers smiled. “Interesting coincidence, isn’t it?”

  Raúl turned to Kristin. “You must not be too hard on Señor Sledge. He is a man with much grief.”

  “From what I’ve seen, he hands out a lot of grief.”

  Raúl’s teeth gleamed. “Only to those who deserve it. You know that Colombian landowners must protect their properties from the guerrillas? A year ago, Señor Sledge trained the security force for one of our country’s best families. Some private armies become as bad as the guerrillas, but Sledge got rid of the bad apple seeds. He built a force that was not corrupt.”

  “Where does the grief come in?”

  “He won the love of Alita Serrano, the daughter of an aggressive prosecutor. You know the guerrilla comandante, Diego Contreras, who kidnapped you? Señor Serrano was holding three of his officers for trial. So Contreras had the good prosecutor and his family ambushed on their way to Mass. With a rifle grenade and AK-47s. It happened that Alita had persuaded Señor Sledge to go with them. All were killed except him, and he was wounded so badly that he survived only by a miracle. It is said he thinks God should have protected the family on its way to Mass.”

  “I see.” Kristin was moved to sympathy in spite of herself.

  “I remember the incident,” Vickers said. “Soon afterward, the three guerrillas were released.”

  Raúl nodded. “The next prosecutor saw the hand writing on the wallflowers. He created a technicality and let them go.”

  As the last light faded, Sledge reappeared carrying blankets. “We didn’t plan to bed down in the mountains, so we only brought three blankets. Mario gets one, the women share one, and Raúl and Vickers share the other. The temperature is near freezing, so don’t be bashful about sharing body heat. This is guerrilla country, so don’t show a light or make noise. Javier and I will alternate on guard.”

  “What will you and Javier do for blankets?” Kristin asked.

  “We won’t freeze. It’s not in our contract.”

  The night proved thoroughly miserable. She and Jocelyn clung together as they had in captivity. Jocelyn slept, but Kristin only dozed. During her long waking periods she heard Sledge move to check each member of his party. Presently he stood over her, a shadow darker than the surrounding night.

  “We’re all right,” she whispered.

  “Sweet dreams,” he whispered back and moved away. She thought again of his carrying Mario all the previous night. Unlike the others, he’d had no rest during the day. How long could he keep going without it?

  She must have slept then. Her next awareness came in the pale, chill dawn. Someone was gently shaking her shoulder.

  “Señoritas,” said Raúl. “It is time to wake up and smell the coffins.”

  Raúl might have spoken more accurately than he knew, Kristin thought as she and Jocelyn sat up and stretched. What she wouldn’t give for a cup of hot coffee! But Sledge handed out more of the same candy bars, breaking the last one in half and sharing it with Javier.

  “That’s the last of the food,” he said. “From here on it’s bread and water—except we don’t have any bread.”

  No one laughed. They moved out with the same procedure they’d used the day before, but traveling downhill made the going easier.

  From far down the valley, Kristin heard a helicopter. It cruised up and down the valley, then finally withdrew. Her hopes plummeted. The extraction was supposed to be at dawn, and she wondered if t
hey would get another chance.

  She sought out Sledge. “Do you think they’ll come back for us?”

  “The second alternate pickup is at one o’clock.” His face was drawn. “If that doesn’t work, we’ll walk to Bogotá.”

  They doggedly pressed on, their pace slowing as fatigue wore them down. The others’ faces were red-eyed and haggard, and Kristin wondered if she looked as bad as they. Sledge alternated with Raúl and Vickers at carrying Mario, who now spent much of the time in a daze. He needed a doctor, and soon.

  The sun had climbed to its zenith when Javier halted and raised his hand. “Señores and señoritas, the clearing lies directly ahead.”

  He and Sledge went forward and returned to report the area safe. As they occupied the woods next to the clearing, though, Sledge posted Javier and Raúl as lookouts on their back trail.

  While they waited, Mario drifted into sleep again and the others sat in silence. Jocelyn’s face reflected Kristin’s own anxiety, but the faces of Sledge and Vickers remained impassive. Kristin thought she had never seen time pass so slowly as she watched the hands on Sledge’s watch creep the last few minutes toward one o’clock. But she waited stoically. Yesterday she’d gotten her hopes up, only to see them dashed.

  The faint, familiar popping of helicopter blades sounded in the distance. Kristin’s hopes rose in spite of her resolution. The sound grew louder, and soon the helicopter appeared overhead. As before, Sledge stepped into the clearing and signaled with a mirror. The aircraft circled and began its approach.

  Suddenly, the sound of automatic weapons fire rose above the sound of helicopter. Not one weapon, but many. Javier and Raúl ran back to the group.

  “Guerrillas,” Javier shouted. “At least twelve of them.” He dropped behind a tree and aimed his rifle back down the trail. Raúl followed his example some twenty yards to his right. Sledge raced into position to the right of Raúl.

  The nearby strike of bullets startled Mario awake. Taking rifle and ammunition, he dragged himself into a position on Javier’s left flank. Kristin’s heart leaped in admiration for the man’s courage and willpower.