Hostage Zero

“My God,” he breathed. “My God, my God, my God…” He couldn’t begin to calculate the millions this was going to cost him. Into the intercom, he said in Spanish, “Look for white-skinned soldiers. Kill any that you see.”

Behind him in the cargo bay, the gunner made ready his AK-47.

They came in low and fast, barely above the treetops, sweeping by quickly to make the helicopter a harder target to hit. No one shot at them, however. No one moved. The dead remained still, but the physical devastation stood out in sharper relief.

“Incredible,” the pilot said.

And then it was gone, the tableau of destruction giving way to the blackness of the lightless jungle. “Make another pass,” Ponder ordered. “More slowly this time.”

The chopper slid to a stop in the air and then pivoted on its axis to reverse direction. “If we go too slowly, we’re more easily shot down,” the pilot warned.

“If they wanted to shoot us down they’d be firing their guns,” Ponder said. “And if they don’t they’re either dead or they’ve made their escape.” He took a deep breath. “It looks to me like everything’s dead.”

“I see movement in the jungle,” the gunner said. “On the right-hand side.”

Ponder turned. Thanks to the night vision, he could see them now. A dozen people moving about. They were children.

“Those are the workers,” Ponder said. At least they were still left to him. Even as the thought formed in his mind, he realized that with his soldiers and supervisors gone, the children would have to die now, too. He could not afford to let the story of his weakness filter back to the villagers.

“Look there,” the pilot said, pointing. “One of the supervisors is still alive.”

Sure enough, a dark-skinned man, barefoot and shirtless, staggered out into the clearing, waving his arms and beckoning the chopper down to the ground. The pilot parked the aircraft in a low hover, blasting the man with the rotor wash and making him cover his head.

“Do you recognize him?” the pilot asked.

Ponder shook his head. “I don’t know. He looks half-dead.” The man stood with a distinct list to his left, and he appeared to be wounded in the leg.

“It could be a trap,” the pilot said. “What do you want me to do?”

Harvey hoped he wasn’t overselling the limp. Playing decoy had never been a part of his repertoire in the past, and as he staggered out into the open, he couldn’t help but fear that his hunched, staggering gait was a little too Quasimodo. As the chopper slowed and drew to a hover, he knew that he had their attention, but as they continued to hover, he could feel the gun sights settling on his chest and head, readying to call his bluff.

He’d removed his protective gear, shirt, and shoes just to look more like the guards he was impersonating; but the lack of clothes meant no place to conceal a weapon. He was entirely dependent upon his acting ability and on Jonathan’s and Boxers’ marksmanship. Otherwise, he was going to die right here in a place where he’d never in a million years choose to live.

The roar of the rotor wash kicked up dirt and soot and firebrands, enveloping him in a cloud of crap that made it impossible to see anything.

Careful to keep in character, Harvey closed his eyes, covered his head, and hoped that God and great aim would make it all right.

When something changed in the pitch of the helicopter noise, he knew they’d made their decision to land.

Then the shouting started.

Crouched low, with the corner of the barracks as concealment, Jonathan settled his sights on the helicopter’s cockpit, while above him, Boxers had taken a kneeling pose to aim at the cargo bay, where the doors had been removed from this Cadillac of executive helicopters to provide for a door gunner. The plan was simple: the instant the wheels touched the ground, Jonathan would take out the pilot first and then the front-seat passenger, while Boxers killed anyone in the cargo bay. The whole thing shouldn’t take more than a few seconds.

Jonathan found himself feeling an odd paternal pride in Harvey and his willingness to take this risk. To willfully disarm oneself in the middle of a firefight took a unique brand of courage. When this was over-

A terrified scream split the night from behind. “Help! Mr. Jonathan! Mr. Jonathan! Help!”

As Jonathan scrambled to see, something heavy hit the side of the barracks building hard enough to create the sound of splintering wood.

Evan worried that he might have pissed himself. It was hard to tell in the pooled water under the sleeping hut where the crying and moaning and pleading continued without break. It probably didn’t even matter, except to him. It was just such a baby thing to do.

Lying here like this, unable to see anything that was going on around him, but hearing the sounds of so much violence, he had to talk himself into believing that they had not been abandoned, that Mr. Jonathan was stating a fact when he assured them that everything would be fine if they just didn’t move.