He hangs up before I can say anything, leaving me standing here, staring at my phone. I put it away and then sling my bag back over my shoulder, looking around for any clue as to where to go from here. I’m not going to get anywhere until morning, so I head over the abandoned building. I just hope the fire doesn’t attract any unwanted attention before I can get out of here…
17
I managed to get some sleep underneath a desk in the old control tower, on the second floor of the building, overlooking the airstrip. A commotion outside woke me up, so I’m peering out the window at the scene. Fire crews and ambulances blast their sirens, dealing with the immediate situation. There’s an EMT checking on Jericho, who’s now gesturing frantically at his colleagues for a gurney, so he must still be breathing.
Tough bastard, I’ll give him that.
While much has changed in the last few years, especially the relationship between North and South America, I’m still not sure it’s worth heading out there. The drug trade around these parts might be a legitimate business nowadays, but that doesn’t mean crime and corruption don’t exist anymore. No police down there, though, which tells me all I need to know.
I’ll wait for everyone to clear out before trying to find my way back stateside as soon as possible.
Five minutes or so pass. I hear a noise from outside the airstrip, and a moment later, three convertible Jeeps come racing through the gates, all of them rusty, battered, and full — four men in each; one driving, three armed with an AK-47. They all do a lap around the scene before screeching to a halt next to the fire engine. There are three firemen I can see, plus three EMTs, so they’re out-numbered.
So who the hell are these new guys? All the cartels have either disbanded or gone legit, thanks to President Cunningham’s influence. There’s no rebel activity in this part of the world that I’m aware of… they could be local militia, I guess. But would this kind of situation warrant military intervention? Even in Colombia?
I should go down there. It doesn’t look like the EMTs and firemen are going to survive otherwise, plus I might be able to convince the guys with guns I’m an ally, which might lead to me getting out of here… Granted, me going down there might result in everyone getting shot, too, but I can’t just sit here with my thumb up my ass waiting. God knows what Hussein and his powerful friends are up to right now, and the longer I’m out of the game, the more chance they have of disappearing and carrying out whatever it is they plan to do if they manage to get their hands on Cerberus.
I massage my temples and take a deep breath, trying to focus my mind on the task at hand and forget everything else for the time being. With that done, I stand, gather my bag and head for the door. Instinctively, I touch the barrels of both Berettas, holstered at my back.
Just in case.
I walk out of the building, holding my arms in the air. Time to play my part and get the hell out of here.
“Hey, guys!” I shout. “I need your help here!”
Everyone turns to look at me, all the guns immediately aiming in my direction. One of the men shouts back, but it’s in Spanish, and I don’t understand him. I make sure my palms are facing him, and my arms are wide, giving the impression I’m on the defensive and not a threat to them.
“Does anyone speak English?” I shout again as I approach.
A man on the right of the group gestures at me violently with this rifle. “American?” he shouts back.
“Yes, American,” I reply, sounding grateful. “Do you understand me? Can you help me?”
The man quickly translates to another in the group, who I assume is in charge. He then says something to me, which the first guy interprets.
“Who are you?” he asks. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m an American. That was my plane,” I say, pointing to the flaming ball of metal behind them. “It was hijacked, and I was brought here. I managed to escape, but I need to get back home urgently.”
He explains what I just said to his boss, who eyes me wearily. He lowers his rifle and walks toward me, a few of the group following him. He shouts something to me again, and I look to the first guy for clarification.
“Who hijacked your plane?” he asks.
I shrug and reply, “I don’t know. But they were also American. Definitely military. Possibly special forces.”
This causes urgent murmuring among the group, finally silenced by the man in charge, who says something. His friend translates once more. “You will come with us. We will talk more.”
I nod. “Thank you. Do you intend letting these people go?” I ask, pointing the firemen and EMTs.
“What’s it to you?” he asks after a moment of discussion.
‘I just don’t want anyone getting hurt because of me. I’ll come with you and answer your questions, if you agree to let these people go about their business and leave here unharmed.’
The man smiles. “And what if we don’t agree?”
I take a deep breath, preparing to go for my guns if I need to. “Then we’ll have a big problem,” I say. “There are people looking for me — important people, with lots of resources. I don’t want to have to tell them you were anything other than accommodating. That would be very bad for you.”
A tense silence falls on the scene, as a hushed discussion ripples through the group of armed men. The firemen and EMTs look nervous, glancing at each other, and at me. I remain calm. I’m not too worried — whoever these guys are, I suspect we’re simply on their turf and they want to know why. Any kind of local presence will operate on fear, but I doubt they’ll want to kill anyone they don’t have to.
After a few moments, the boss shouts to all the firemen and EMTs in Spanish. They all nod, quickly get into their vehicles, and drive away. I watch until they’re gone, leaving twelve, armed, unidentified hostiles, and me…
“So,” I say. “Where are we going?”
The one who speaks English walks over to me and, before I have a chance to react, raises the butt of his rifle and hits me on the side of—
I open my eyes slowly, my head banging from the impact earlier. I’ve got no idea how long I’ve been out, but it’s light outside, so I’m guessing a good few hours. I look around and see I’m sitting in a room filled with expensive décor. There are six men around me, covering the exits and windows — all of whom I recognize from the airstrip. I’m in a comfortable, cream armchair in the center of the room. There’s a nice rug underneath my feet with a glass table on it. There’s a matching chair opposite me, and a large sofa completing the set to the right.
In front of me, along almost the entire wall, are tall windows overlooking the ocean, with trees just outside. The ceiling is high, and made up of wooden beams. Works of art and expensive ornaments adorn the sides of the room and the other walls.
I’m pretty confused, but I remain silent and seated. I figure it’s best to say nothing and wait for the owner of whatever mansion I’m sitting in to introduce himself.
I don’t have to wait long. A man walks in from the left, tall and probably on the rough side of fifty. He’s got short, black hair and a thick mustache, both flecked with gray. He’s wearing an orange silk shirt, white trousers, and sandals. He’s smiling at me, which is a little weird, but at least he’s not likely to kill me in the next five minutes, which is a bonus.
“I’m sorry for the way in which you were brought here,” he says to me, sitting down in the chair opposite. His accent is thick, but his English is good.
“Beats getting shot,” I say to him with a weak smile, rubbing the base of my neck, which is feeling stiff.
He laughs loudly, looking around the room at his men, who all join in on cue.