Hostage Zero

“But why am I here?” If he could just know that one thing, then maybe something would start to make sense. Just that one bit of information might make him relax. Just a little.

Oscar sighed and cocked his head. It was a look of genuine sympathy, Evan thought. “Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s start walking so that we don’t waste any more daylight. I’ll try to think of a way to tell you something without betraying the confidences that I have pledged to honor. I know it’s not really the answer you’re looking for, but will it make do for a while?”

Again, there was no choice. Evan nodded.

They walked in single file, with two of the armed soldiers in the front, followed by Oscar and then Evan. Three soldiers brought up the rear.

The jungle swallowed them all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Jonathan’s team arrived in Colombia by flying to different cities on different airlines with flight times scattered across the clock. Boxers had left first, through Miami to Panama City and on into Cartagena. Twelve hours later, Jonathan and Harvey flew on different flights that took labored routes to Santa Marta, arriving within ninety minutes of each other. Jonathan made sure his was scheduled to arrive first, just in case Harvey needed additional encouragement after he’d touched down.

They found each other in baggage claim, then headed out into the thriving sauna that was Santa Marta. “I’m hating this already,” Harvey said. “In case you were wondering.” He ran a finger under the collar of his T-shirt.

Jonathan opted not to tell him that as hot as it was here on the coast, it was going to get a hell of a lot hotter in the jungle. Here, at least, they had a breeze.

“Are we winging it now, or do we have a plan?” Harvey asked.

Jonathan didn’t honor the question with an answer. “We need to visit a friend,” he said.

They grabbed a cab, and Jonathan directed the driver to a hostel downtown that was known to cater to American college students on their obligatory narcotics pilgrimage. Even by the squalid standards of the neighborhood, the hostel was a dump.

“Oh, yeah,” Harvey groused. “This just gets better and better.”

Jonathan silenced him with a glare and paid the driver. He added a generous tip, which, at least in the old days, was the equivalent of buying blindness and deafness, in case anyone asked questions.

Together on the street in front of the entrance, Jonathan placed his palm on Harvey’s chest to get his attention. “I need you to be my silent partner in here. Felipe is an old friend, but a suspicious one, out of necessity.”

“How do you know each other?”

Jonathan answered with arched eyebrows.

“Oh.”

“No names, either. If pressed, you’re Mr. Smith.”

Harvey’s shoulders sagged. “Smith? That’s the best you could come up with? Why not Jones?”

Jonathan smiled. “Because it’s already taken.”

The hostel was less shoddy on the inside than it was on the outside. More house than hotel, the place had the well-worn look of too many parties thrown by too many young people, of whom none were visible at the moment.

Jonathan called, “Hello?”

An ancient raisin of a man stepped in from what Jonathan knew to be the kitchen, and the mutual recognition was instantaneous.

“Hello, Felipe,” Jonathan said in English.

“Senor Jones!” the old man exclaimed. A snaggletoothed grin consumed the lower half of his face. He shuffled over, his arms outstretched to enfold Jonathan in a bear hug. Given his five-foot-three stature, it was really more of a cub hug, but the thought was there. “It has been too long!”

Jonathan had never adjusted to the Latin American abrazo — the man-hug-but he did his part by patting the old man on the back. “Too long,” he agreed.

“You look good,” Felipe said as they broke the embrace. He patted Jonathan’s chest. “You skinny. You have neck now.” The old man laughed.

Jonathan laughed, too. The last time the two had seen each other, Jonathan had been part of a Unit operation in which he and his squadron mates were supposed to disappear among the locals to gather intelligence against the drug cartel. Felipe had been an important link in the communication chain, and he had always teased Jonathan about being in far too good shape to ever blend in.

“I’m getting old and soft,” Jonathan conceded.

Felipe pinched his cheek. “No, you look good. You look healthy.” He turned to Harvey and extended his hand. “Who is your friend?”

“This is Mr. Smith,” Jonathan said. “He’s a business associate. He doesn’t say much.”

Felipe enfolded Harvey’s hand in a friendly double grip. “Think of the coincidence,” Felipe said. “Yet another business associate named Mr. Smith.”

Harvey grinned. “Seems we’re a dime a dozen,” he said.

Felipe turned toward the back of the building and beckoned his guests to follow. “Come, come. We catch up.” As he passed the tiny front desk, he leaned across the counter and produced a tent-card that read CLOSED. In English.