Hostage Zero

Jonathan ran the options and couldn’t come up with any. Clearly, they’d been made. Jonathan had known all along that it was a possibility given Josie’s betrayal, but he’d been hoping for a break. If they aborted this landing and headed for another airport, they’d just prolong the inevitable, and they certainly couldn’t fly all the way to the States in a helicopter.

“Go ahead and land,” Jonathan stated.

“What’s Plan B?”

“I don’t have one,” Jonathan admitted.

“Maybe Panama will take us.”

“Look at your gas gauge,” Jonathan said, pointing. “Even if they’d take us, we don’t have enough fuel to get there.”

“Well, we can’t fight that many.”

“True enough.”

“And I ain’t rotting in some jungle jail cell.”

“One crisis at a time, Box,” Jonathan cautioned. “Put us on the ground and I’ll give diplomacy a shot.”

“I’ve still got about a hundred rounds of five-five-six diplomacy there on the floor,” Boxers quipped, eyeing his cache of weapons on the seat next to his.

“There are more lives than ours in play, Big Guy. Just get us on the ground.”

Boxers sighed loudly enough to be heard over the ambient noise. He shook his head in disgust and squared up the aircraft for a landing. “This shit grows old, Digger,” he said. “This shit grows very, very old.”

Jonathan pulled his. 45 from its holster and placed it on top of the other weapons. Depending on the mood of the soldiers, he’d get to say a lot more without a gun on his hip than he would with one.

He turned to his passengers. In Spanish, he instructed them to stay where they were after they landed, to wait for the ambulance people to come and get them. Then he told Evan in English, but with the addition, “You don’t leave with anybody but Big Guy or me, okay?”

“You mean die on the street before getting into the car?” Evan asked.

The familiarity of the phrase startled him, and it must have shown in his face.

“You told us that at an assembly,” Evan clarified.

That earned him a wink. “I remember that. One way or the other, we’re getting you home today.”

Jonathan positioned himself in the doorway to the cargo bay as they made their final flare to land, standing there like a human X, his hands and feet braced in the opening. As the wheels touched and Boxers killed the engine, the soldiers moved forward, even as the rotors were still turning.

“I have wounded children in here,” he called out in Spanish. “I’m bringing them in for medical care. Please don’t harm them any more than they’ve already been harmed.”

A young officer-a lieutenant-peered beyond Jonathan, and his face showed deep alarm. He saw the rivulets of blood on the floor and the clusters of small people who created them. “My God, what happened?”

“Slave drivers up in the mountains shot them. The drug manufacturers. They shot these boys just as they shot their fathers before them. My friend and I rescued them and brought them here for medical assistance.”

Confusion invaded the officer’s look of horror. “That’s not what we were told.”

“Well, it’s the truth. In any case, can you please let the medicos through so that they can get to doctors?”

The soldier hesitated.

“They’re just children, Lieutenant,” Jonathan said softly. “Let’s give them a chance to be adults.”

The lieutenant nodded and gave the appropriate orders. Thirty seconds later, soldiers and ambulance personnel alike were lifting children out of the helicopter and placing them on stretchers.

“Not the one with the blond hair, or the boy next to him,” Jonathan said twice. “They’re with me. I’ll take them to the doctor myself.” It was a long shot, but if he presumed that he’d be allowed to go free, maybe it would come to pass.

Boxers remained still and quiet in the pilot’s seat. They’d had a tacit understanding for years that Boxers would never allow himself to be taken prisoner, and Jonathan had no reason to suspect that anything had changed. If it came to that, there’d be violence of a very high order.

As the last of the children were being carried away from the helicopter, two soldiers with little to do suddenly looked startled and snapped to attention. Stiff hands shot smartly to their brows as they saluted in unison.

Jonathan followed their gaze and saw an older man approaching. He acknowledged the salutes, but he did not encourage them to stand at ease. Jonathan knew from his gait alone that he was a general officer, and when he stepped more squarely into the light, the three starbursts on his epaulettes confirmed it.

Etiquette and years of indoctrination made Jonathan stand straighter in his presence. Even if you didn’t respect the man, you respected the rank. For all Jonathan knew, he might end up respecting both.

“So you are the invading American army I heard about?” the general asked in impeccable English as he approached.

Jonathan scowled. “Excuse me?”

“I recognize this helicopter,” the general said. “It belongs to a friend of mine.”

“If that’s the case, sir, then with all due respect, you need better friends. The owner of this helicopter was a murderer and a kidnapper.”