My God, is she going to point the finger at me?
“So he’s not dead?” said Joaquin.
“Oh, he’s dead, all right. He was about to name names. I couldn’t let him do that.”
I nearly buckled at the knees. Is she still bluffing?
“You scammed me,” said Joaquin.
“No. You scammed me. Killing the prisoner wasn’t part of the deal. Now, hand him over if you want the whole three million.”
I could hardly speak, but I forced out the words. “Alex, what the heck is going on?”
She didn’t answer.
Joaquin said, “What’s the matter, yanqui? Did she fool you into thinking that Jaime acted alone? Did you really believe that a little insurance dweeb in Miami has guerrilla friends?”
I looked at Alex, the former FARC girl. “My God, you know him. That’s why he agreed to a simultaneous exchange. He knew we wouldn’t call the police, because someone on the other side was on his side.”
“Quiet, Nick.”
Joaquin jerked my dad forward. “Everyone, shut up. I’m in control here.”
“That’s right,” said Alex, speaking more like the calm negotiator. “And you can still be the big winner. All three million. No one to split it with.”
My eyes darted back and forth from Alex to my father to Joaquin. She may have scammed us at the beginning, but when it came to the money, I knew that she was bluffing Joaquin. Was she trying to make amends?
“Whose side are you on, Alex?”
“Stay out of this,” she answered.
“I’d like to know that, too,” Joaquin snapped. “Whose side are you on?”
“Do you want the money or don’t you?”
“Does this mean you’re not taking your cut?” he asked.
“I said you could have it all.”
“But I want to hear you say it to your client. Tell the yanqui that you’re not taking your cut.”
“I was never getting a cut.”
“What do you call fifty percent?”
“Every penny of it was Jaime’s.” She was staring at Joaquin as she spoke, aiming her gun right at him, but I sensed that she was talking for my benefit. “All I wanted was for you and your thugs to leave my family alone.” She raised her voice, as if to make sure I heard. “That’s all I ever wanted, Nick. Just to buy a little peace for what’s left of my family in Bogota.”
“Such a sad story,” Joaquin said with sarcasm.
She adjusted her aim. “Someone should have killed you a long time ago.”
“A long time ago I should have let you bleed to death on the side of the road with a knife in your back.”
“You don’t own me just because you pulled me out of a ditch. And you can’t make me come back to you by threatening my family.”
“But I could make you scam the yanqui.”
Even in the dim light I could see the anger on her face. One look at my father confirmed that we were sharing the exact same fear: Alex was about to squeeze off a shot at Joaquin, but anything less than perfection would kill the hostage, the human shield.
“Alex!” I shouted, reaching for my gun.
In the same instant my father broke free from Joaquin’s grasp. A shot rang out as he rolled to the ground, but it missed and shattered a clay pot. I dived to the ground and fired repeatedly at Joaquin. Alex was shooting, too, as she and Father Balto ran for cover behind the big statue. Joaquin fired back, as did someone else from behind a dirt pile, and the barrage of bullets erupted as if it were a war zone. My father was out of sight, having slid behind a gravestone. Joaquin fired a few more shots in his direction, but Alex and I pinned him down with gunfire. I crouched low behind my marker, bullets whizzing over my head.
Suddenly all was quiet in the darkness.
I sat crouched behind the headstone, breathless from the exchange of gunfire, my back against cold granite. Darkness had completely overtaken us, no moon or stars in the night’s overcast sky, just a dim glow from distant city lights. I listened carefully for any movement about me, but I heard only the sounds of my own erratic breathing.
“Brothers, please,” shouted a brave Father Balto, but three quick gunshots sent him scampering back into hiding.
That son of a bitch just tried to kill the priest!
My hand shook as I dug the cell phone from my pocket. I dialed the police and tried to speak to a dispatcher in Spanish, but the wireless reception was terrible, and my scattered thoughts produced only fragmented sentences, partly in English.
“Las pistolas. Los kidnappers en el Cementerio Central.?Ven aca, por favor!”
Bullets sailed over my head. In my panic I was making no sense, and my talking was giving away my position to the enemy. The dispatcher hung up on me, and I held little hope that Colombian police would actually come charging into the cemetery at night to stop an ill-described gunfight.
I crouched low to reload my weapon. My first shoot-out, and it was going to be to the death of one of us. But who would fall? And who was on which side? In my mind I quickly replayed the last exchange of gunfire. Alex had fired at Joaquin. That meant she was in my camp, despite anything she’d said. But someone else with Joaquin had been firing what sounded like an automatic weapon. That made it two against two, at best. Father Balto was unarmed, but he was with Alex. The only unprotected player was my father. A sick feeling came over me, as I knew what I had to do. Somewhere in the darkness among all those gravestones, my father was hiding, praying for his life.
I had to find him before Joaquin did.
74
Matthew thanked the Lord for darkness. In the confusion of gunfire, slithering across the grass like a snake on his belly, he’d found his way to an overcrowded collection of tall markers that stood one beside the other, almost on top of one another, a veritable forest of towering stone crosses and statues of patron saints.
His hands were cuffed behind his back, his ankles tied, and his mouth gagged. It was a bit of ironic luck that Joaquin had removed the blindfold to torture his eye. The left one had blistered and swollen shut from the cigarette burn, but the right one gave him the precious advantage of sight.
He lay perfectly still, almost afraid to breathe. The slightest movement could reveal his whereabouts, which would be deadly. He knew that Joaquin had brought him here to avenge the death of Cerdo, to execute the prisoner right before his son’s eyes. Matthew was ready for that. For weeks he’d been preparing himself for the possibility of his own death. One thing, however, he hadn’t prepared for: the death of his son in a botched rescue effort.
He burrowed into hiding at the base of a huge stone marker, pleading with his Maker to take him and not Nick.
Nothing moved, not anywhere. I was peering out over the top of my marker, some dead stranger’s resting place. Somewhere across the grounds, hiding behind one of those countless slabs of stone, were Joaquin and his well-armed buddy. I’d been waiting for one of them to break toward my father, or at least in the direction I’d last seen my father go. Maybe they were being patient. Or maybe they’d already made their move, and I’d missed them. I couldn’t risk it. I had to take the offensive. But to where?
Had I been my father, I would have crawled toward the cluster of old monuments beneath the two sprawling oak trees. Compared to the rest of the cemetery, it was like midtown Manhattan, towering granite everywhere, lots of little places to get lost. On hands and knees, keeping low to the ground, I headed in that direction, one monument at a time.
Matthew’s heart nearly stopped. He hadn’t budged from his hiding spot, hadn’t made a sound. Lying in the darkness with hands and feet bound, he felt invisible and vulnerable at the same time. He knew it was only a matter of moments before Joaquin would spot him.