Hostage Zero (17 page)

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Authors: John Gilstrap

Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Thrillers

BOOK: Hostage Zero
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“What’s his name?”
“José Calderón. He lives in Panama City now, but he—”
Jonathan’s face brightened. “Jammin’ Josie? Guerrilla fighter, used to work out of Cartagena?”
“You know him.”
Jonathan chuckled at the memory. “Sure, I know him. He led us to Pablo back when I was with the Unit. Twitchy little guy, but he knew his business. I thought he was PNG in Colombia now.” He knew that Irene would understand the acronym for persona non grata.
“Did I not mention that he runs to the highest bidder?”
“Has he worked for you guys recently?”
Irene shook her head. “Not for us. Not for years. He did some work with the DEA toward the end of the last administration, and I heard he was trolling for work with the Agency in Nicaragua, but all of that has dried up. This getting-along business is putting a lot of contractors out of business.”
“How do we know the other side hasn’t picked up where we left off?”
“We don’t. In fact we don’t know a lot anymore.”
Jonathan always did admire blunt honesty. He’d also had a lot of good fortune with Jammin’ Josie. The man knew everybody, was trusted by people who counted, and was able to raise a small army, complete with weapons, on relatively short notice.
“And you know where you can find him?” Jonathan asked.
Irene gave a coy smile as she reached into the pocket of her suit jacket and handed him a card, complete with name and number. “He’s waiting for you to call,” she said.
C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN
The jungle had grown progressively thicker during the four-hour ride from Evan’s first prison compound. Mile after mile, the foliage pressed ever closer to their SUV as the road disappeared to little more than a trail. All the jungle had to do was take a deep breath, and the road would disappear completely.
Evan rode in the backseat next to a white man who seemed nearly as out of place as Evan did. He didn’t say anything, but he kept casting glances to the boy and then returning his eyes to the front as soon as Evan caught him looking.
Stare away
, Evan thought.
No harm in that.
But if he even thought about touching him, he’d wish he hadn’t.
As Evan had told Father Dom in the past, there wasn’t much good to come out of a shitty childhood, but you learned how to take care of yourself. If those assholes back at the school had attacked when he was awake instead of sound asleep, he wouldn’t be here right now.
He might not be alive, but he sure as hell wouldn’t be here—wherever
here
was. And the people who took him would be blind and walking funny.
“I am Mitch,” his seatmate said, extending a friendly hand. “And you are Evan, no?” The English was fine, but he had a different kind of accent. Sort of a cross between Mel Gibson (when he was being Aussie) and Michael Caine being Alfred the butler.
Evan looked at the hand, but didn’t move to shake it.
“So, you are fourteen?” Mitch pressed.
“Don’t talk to me, you fuckin’ perv,” Evan spat. He turned away to look out the window. He’d seen guys like this before. If you let them believe for even a second that you were an easy mark, they’d think they could do whatever they wanted.
The hand remained outstretched, unmoving. “Believe it or not, Evan, I am your friend.”
Evan tried ignoring him, but when the words wouldn’t dissolve into the air, he turned back around to face the man. “My friend, huh? Well, Friend Mitch, how ’bout you take me home?”
Mitch rolled his hand closed and replaced it on his lap. “I know that is what you would like me to do,” he said, “but for the moment that is not possible.”
The SUV hit a huge rut, jarring all of them, and making Evan feel good about putting his seat belt on. He kind of hoped that the bump might have knocked the others out, but was disappointed that they’d been wearing their seat belts, too.
“If you wanted it, it would be possible,” Evan said.
“Actually, no,” Mitch corrected. “I’m sure it’s difficult for you to understand, but even I could not make that happen.”
“
Even I could not make that happen
,” Evan parroted, mocking the accent. “It really sucks to be a victim, doesn’t it? Just you and me, sharing a jail cell.”
Mitch looked amused as he folded his arms and legs and nestled himself into the corner near the door. “Has anyone put you in a jail cell?” he asked.
The sudden change in demeanor made the boy uncomfortable. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but Mitch was projecting a new air of menace.
“It’s a real question, Evan. Have you seen the inside of a cell here?”
“I’ve seen my share,” Evan grumbled.
“I mean since you’ve been a guest with us. Have you seen a cell?”
“Yeah. That shitty little room where I woke up.”
Mitch raised a forefinger and wagged it slowly, duplicating the movement of his head. “That was a hut,” he said. “Every bit as nice as all the other huts in the camp. Only, unlike the others who live there, you had accommodations to yourself. You were being treated not as a prisoner, but as a guest.”
“Bullshit.”
“Such foul language from such a little boy.”
“I’m not as little as you think I am,” Evan said.
The smile returned. “Indeed. Have you been bound and gagged? On this trip, I mean.”
“Worse. I’ve been drugged.”
Mitch acknowledged the point with a twitch of his head. “But since you’ve awakened. No ropes? No handcuffs?”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not a prisoner,” Evan said. He genuinely didn’t like this man.
Mitch held his gaze for a few seconds, then turned to the men in the front seat. “Tito,” he said, drawing the driver’s eyes to the rearview mirror. He said something in Spanish.
The driver looked surprised, and Mitch repeated himself.
The driver spoke to the guy in the shotgun seat, and then brought the vehicle to a stop, right in the middle of the trail.
Mitch gave another command, and the electric lock on Evan’s door popped up. “Okay, go,” Mitch said.
Evan looked at the door, and then at Mitch, unsure what to do.
“Go ahead,” Mitch said, making a shooing motion toward the door. “You say you’re a prisoner, and I say you are free to go. So go.”
It had to be a scam, Evan thought. He’d open the door, and they’d shoot him. Or maybe they’d just drag him back inside and punish him for having failed some half-assed loyalty test.
“Go on,” Mitch said again, shooing more energetically this time. “Get out. Be free.”
Evan shifted his eyes back and forth again. What was he supposed to do? If he stepped out, then what? He was in a goddamn jungle, for God’s sake, nowhere near the top of the food chain anymore. He didn’t move.
“It’s no longer your choice,” Mitch said. His tone had turned harsh. “Get out of my fucking car.”
Evan felt the panic building. If he stepped out of the car now, and if they drove off, he’d be dead in days—sooner if the snakes and cougars and whatever the hell other creatures out here had anything to say about it.
Mitch unclasped his seat belt and leaned across Evan’s chest to pull the latch on the door and push it open. “If you make me physically throw you out, it will hurt you. Badly.” He popped the latch on the boy’s seat belt and pushed him toward the open door.
Evan shot his arms out to the side, bracing himself against the doorjamb with one hand while the fingers of the other tried to find something to grab onto in the leather seat. But his fingernails weren’t long enough. “No!” he yelled.
Mitch pushed harder. “I said get out of my car!”
The man turned in his seat and used the sole of his shoe to push him. Evan tried to hold on, but he could feel his butt slipping. One cheek cleared the seat, and he kicked out with his foot, snagging the map pocket behind the shotgun seat with his toes.
But it wasn’t enough. After three more inches, it was all about gravity. He felt himself slipping toward the ground. His right elbow and hip rebounded off the filthy chrome running board, and then he was surrounded by weeds. It was like drowning in green. For a moment, there was no up or down; leaves were everywhere.
He heard the door slam and felt the percussive thump that went with it. They gunned the engine. Not knowing where the tires were, Evan dropped to his side and curled up, trying to make himself the smallest possible target so that he would not get hit by the heavy vehicle. In his mind, he imagined his legs being slowly crushed under the tires. For the first time since he awakened in that shack, he felt real fear. Paralyzing fear.
“Don’t leave me!” he yelled, still curled in a fetal ball. His feet found the ground, and he stood. He could barely see the top of the truck above the high foliage. “Please don’t leave me!” He shrieked it this time. To his own ear, his voice sounded high and squeaky, like a girl’s.
He had to find the road. Without that, he knew he’d be lost forever. And once he found it, he could run after the truck and convince them not to leave him behind.
The road—the path, really—couldn’t be but a few yards away, but as he took his first step toward where he thought it was, a vine or some damn thing snagged his ankle and made him fall. Everything here was wet. The whole world smelled of mildew and rot.
Of dead things.
Of dead boys.
“Don’t leave me!” he shrieked.
A second attempt to run made him fall again, so he decided to crawl. Sticks scraped the bare flesh of his back and belly as God only knew what stabbed at his hands and knees. Effectively blind in the foliage, he pressed forward. They were driving away, for God’s sake. He
had
to press forward. If he stopped—if he even slowed—they’d be too far away, and he’d never be able to catch up.
His head broke into the clearing first. Actually, it wasn’t a clearing as much as it was the absence of jungle. Leafy shit stopped brushing his face and shoulders, and all at once it felt as if there was more air to breathe.
It was the roadway. It had to be. It had wheel ruts. What else could it be?
But there was no truck.
“Hey!” he yelled. In return, he got only the sounds of a million insects and other creatures that he wanted nothing to do with. He had no intention of being something’s dinner tonight.
He turned to his right, the direction where the truck had driven off and started walking—a slow, dejected gait at first, burdened with the knowledge that he’d been left to die. A horrible daytime nightmare image of his body being ripped apart by vultures invaded his mind. He saw the stringy cords of his flesh and his intestines being pulled free of his carcass—just the way he’d seen buzzards and crows consume roadkill at home—and he picked up his pace.
Maybe there was still a chance that he could catch the SUV. Maybe they hit a rut in the road or they had to cross a stream so they’d have to slow way down. That would give him time to catch up.
But he had to move faster. He started to jog, and then to run. Rocks and sticks dug at his bare feet, but he didn’t feel any pain. There wasn’t room for pain today.
He picked up his pace even more, pumping his arms the way that Mr. Jackson, the PE teacher at the RezHouse and taught him. Evan had always been a good runner—a good athlete in general—and Mr. Jackson had taken a special interest in him. He said that he might be good enough to get a scholarship one day, but that when you get to that level of competition, all the little things mattered. Like pumping your arms just-so to get a little more out of every stride.
God, it was hot! As Evan rounded the first turn in the road, he felt the soaked, greasy tendrils of his hair bouncing against the back of his neck, and he swiped them away from his eyes. A hill loomed ahead, not steep but long.
Don’t stop
, he told himself. Stopping was too easy. That meant that dying was too easy. If he was going to die, it was going to be from exhaustion or dehydration. It wasn’t going to be for his nutritional value. He lowered his head and forced himself on. He watched his feet instead of the terrain because the terrain was too depressing.
How could people live in this heat?
After eighty-five steps, it became easier. He hadn’t even realized that he’d been counting. When he looked up, he saw that he’d crested the hill.
And there was the SUV, a hundred feet away. He could hear the engine idling above the noise of the insects.
Mitch stood at the back bumper. He wore all khaki, long pants with a short-sleeved shirt open at the neck. He’d assumed an expectant posture, leaning against the spare tire, his arms folded and his feet slightly extended and crossed.
Evan stopped at the sight of the man. He froze in his tracks, his chest heaving, his eyes stinging from sweat. He swiped at them with the palms of his hands, but that only made them sting more. Gasping for air, and his heart pounding, his body wanted to collapse onto the ground, but his brain wouldn’t let him—wouldn’t give Mitch the satisfaction.
Seeing the smirk on the man’s face, Evan understood right away that he’d been played. Just like with most grownups, this was all about power.
You need me, kid
was the message.
Without me, you’ve got nothing.
“Yeah, well you need me, too,” Evan mumbled aloud. He was done running. He kept his stride as casual as his trembling legs would allow as he closed the distance to the truck.
“Took you long enough,” Mitch said with a mocking smile.
Evan said nothing as he headed for his door. As he passed within range, Mitch reached out for him, but Evan twisted out of the way. “Don’t touch me,” he said.
He was vaguely aware that both the driver and the shotgun guy were also out of the car, watching with amusement.
Mitch seemed startled by Evan’s speed. He folded his arms again. “You don’t learn so good, do you, kid?”
Evan said nothing.
“Now, you need to ask permission to get back into my truck.”
Evan didn’t fully understand the look in the guy’s eyes. The way he kept shooting quick glances to the other men, he almost looked embarrassed.
Evan started for the door again, and again Mitch tried to grab his arm.
“Don’t
fucking
touch me!” Evan shrieked. The fierceness of his tone startled the henchmen.
“Don’t
fucking
tell me what to do!” Mitch shouted back.
“Now, either you ask permission to get back into that vehicle—either you show some respect—or I swear to God I’ll leave you out here to die.”

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