Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

A n hour and a half later, their plane began its descent toward Bogotá. Nine thousand feet above sea level, Bogotá filled a basin in the Eastern Cordillera Mountain range. Among the largest cities in the world, it covered the plateau like a patchwork quilt, home to nearly eight million people who clustered into neighborhoods of differing wealth and ethnicity, with the slums pushed up against the hills. Regardless of wealth, every citizen was privy to a mountain view.

As their airplane floundered through the thin air, the pilot addressed the passengers, alerting them to the local time and the weather. Maggie watched Jake adjust his watch, turning it back an hour to 5:32 P.M.

“You brought your watch with you?” She’d left hers at home. “You know they’ll probably take it from you.”

“I’m counting on it.”

She was still puzzling his reply when their plane bounced three times before landing at El Dorado International Airport. Maggie had to peel her fingers off the arms of her chair. At least it wasn’t raining, this being August and one of the drier months of the year.

“We’re good.” Jake’s soothing tone told her he was conscious of her fear.

As the plane continued leisurely toward the terminal, she peered outside at the familiar mountain range. When the doors opened, admitting the one-of-a-kind scent of South America, she relaxed further, having had positive experiences in this part of the world. And when Jake clasped her elbow as they strode up the jetway with their carry-ons, a portion of her old confidence welled inside her.

It wasn’t long before their identical jackets, which, in hindsight, they should not have been told to wear, caught the attention of the Colombian customs agents inspecting their backpacks. All they’d brought with them were limited items Charles had instructed them to bring, along with the first-aid kits that had come inside of the backpack delivered to her door.

“You’re both with the UN?”

“Yes.” Jake’s dampening tone suggested to the official that he had better not ask any more questions. The UN’s agenda needed to be kept secret since Colombia’s counter-narcotics company, the JUNGLA, would jump at the chance to find out where the FARC were hiding.

To Maggie’s relief, the customs agent asked no more questions. After pawing through their packs, he returned them with a dismissive nod. Then, it was time to have their passports stamped and their tourist visas scrutinized.

A dour-faced customs official eyed both items, comparing the photos in their passports to their faces. “Which area of Colombia will you be visiting?” He spoke in English, the universal language of travel.

Maggie’s heart thumped unnecessarily. Their passports would certainly hold up to inspection, and Colombia’s visa policy was a lax one.

“ Juust Bogotá.”

Jake’s reply, spoken with a heavy French accent, teased a giggle out of Maggie, which she squelched at the last instant. Back in Paris, his impersonations of the French had never failed to make her laugh.

“Which hotel?”

Jake looked at Maggie, then shrugged. “We don’t know yet. We have no reservations.”

“Hmph.” His mouth pursed in disbelief, the official nonetheless stamped their passports and handed back their Type-V visas. His suspicious gaze traveled from Jake’s face to Maggie’s. “Enjoy your stay.”

“ Merci .” Jake snatched up both passports and slid them into a zippered pocket on his thigh before he ushered her swiftly toward the exit.

Pretending to adjust the strap on her pack, Maggie glanced back at the official as they walked away. Her heart skipped a beat. “He’s making a phone call,” she relayed in French.

“Walk faster.” Jake gripped her elbow again and drew her into the crowd thronging toward the exit, eyes peeled for Charles, who’d said he would be picking them up.

Maggie spotted Charles first, lounging beside an advertisement for the TransMilenio Rapid-Transit System. At their approach, the Frenchman turned and marched ahead of them through the sliding glass doors, giving no sign that he’d actually seen them.

Humid air, choked with the smell of car exhaust, enveloped them as they hurried after their French counterpart. Charles was waving down a taxi. As they caught up to him, he opened the rear door for Jake and Maggie, his dark eyes snapping with urgency. “Montez.” Get in.

Maggie ducked into the back seat with Jake right behind her. Charles slammed shut their door, then slipped into the front seat. “Hotel Hacienda Royal.”

“ Sí, se?or.” The driver pulled away from the curb, immediately switching lanes to overtake the taxi in front of them.

Maggie groped for a nonexistent seat belt while she shrugged off her backpack. She caught Charles’s eye as he craned his neck to peer out the rear window. “Do we have company?”

As if comprehending her French, the driver veered into the oncoming lane, playing chicken with a bus loaded full of passengers, before lurching back onto the right side. Maggie seized Jake’s arm without thinking. Dear heaven!

Charles smirked, clearly impressed. “I dare anyone to catch us.” He stuck to speaking French. “Javier is the craziest driver in Bogotá, but he works for us, and his record is flawless. How was your flight?”

“Good.” Jake had to pitch his voice louder as they’d just turned onto a boulevard laid with stone, causing the tires to rumble. “Nothing out of the ordinary, although these backpacks drew some attention.”

Seeing Jake untie the laces of his right boot and haul it off, Maggie watched with increasing perplexity as he reached inside it, pried up the sole, and then shook out an oddly shaped device. When he pulled up a retractable antenna and held down a number on the keypad, she guessed the device was a satellite phone. So, this was how they would keep in contact with the outside world.

“Hey, Hulk, this is Iron Man. We’re here. Do you see us?”

Jake had switched back to English and, given the names of superheroes he was spouting, he’d lapsed into code speak. Hulk had to be one of his teammates situated at the Joint Intelligence Center within the U.S. Embassy, and Jake was asking him if their microchips were showing up on the Joint Intelligence Center’s geodesic map.

“Great. Let Wolverine know, and I’ll see you all this evening.”

This was the first Maggie had heard of any kind of meetup. She waited for Jake to end his call with the JIC before asking, “Iron Man?” Her lips twitched. It suited him perfectly. “Did you pick that name yourself, or was it given to you?”

Jake worked to put his phone back into his right boot. “One of our teammates is obsessed with superheroes. He gave me the name. Not sure if it’s a compliment or what.”

Fighting a smile, Maggie watched him pull his boot back on. A question occurred to her. “How’s that thing charge?”

“It doesn’t. The battery should last a week, and there’s a spare one in my other heel.”

“Huh.” That didn’t leave them any wiggle room should they have to stay longer than two weeks. “Those heels had better be waterproof.”

“Yeah.” His flat tone told her he shared the same concern, which was in no way reassuring.

Neither was her first look at their accommodations once they reached the hotel. The single queen-sized bed raised a red flag. Considering Jake’s broad shoulders, sleeping together on that thing would resemble a contact sport, which?—recalling the allure of that one kiss on the plane?—made her pulse flutter with the hope that she might get another one.

“ C’est une belle chambre .” Nice room . Unaware of her unprofessional thoughts, Jake placed his backpack on the luggage rack by hers while sending her a nonverbal cue to help him sweep the room for bugs.

The methodical procedure cleared errant thoughts from Maggie’s mind. “Il n’y a rien ici.” There’s nothing here . Sinking into the upholstered chair by the window, she winced at the twinge in her hip.

Jake’s gaze sharpened. “Your incision’s bothering you.” Alarm colored his voice.

“ Non, c’est bon. I’m a little sore, that’s all.”

“It hasn’t healed yet?”

“Of course, it’s healed.” The lie slipped out of her.

He clearly didn’t buy it. “Stand up. Let me look at it.”

“Non!” She wasn’t giving him any excuse to force her off this assignment. Bolting off the chair, she dodged past him toward the marble-tiled bathroom, where she promptly closed the door in his face and then locked it.

With a calming breath, Maggie flicked on the light and turned down the waistband of her slacks while regarding the upper curve of her right hip, where the microchip had been implanted. She sucked in a breath at what she saw.

The Band-Aid she had stuck on that morning was blood soaked. Peeling it back, she was disturbed to see a small, gaping cut. What had happened to the single stitch that was keeping it closed? Had it dissolved? Rubbed off?

Sterilize. As her training kicked in, she washed her hands under scalding water, soaping them thoroughly. After drying them on a towel, she tugged fresh tissues from a tissue box, applied pressure to the wound, then rolled her pants back up to keep the tissue in place while she went to fetch her first-aid kit.

Exiting the bathroom, she ran smack-dab into Jake, who was standing just outside the door.

She reared back. “Don’t ever stand outside the bathroom when I’m in it!” In her outrage, it was all she could do to speak French.

He sent her an easy shrug. “ Pas de problème . There aren’t any bathrooms where we’re headed.”

Annoyed that he was back to undermining her confidence, she shoved him out of her way?—which was a lot harder than it used to be?—and crossed the room to get to her pack.

“It’s bleeding,” he guessed as she unzipped the pouch on the side and pulled out the first-aid kit.

As she marched back toward the bathroom, Jake stepped into her path. His hand closed like a manacle around her wrist.

“ écoute-moi .” Listen to me . His gentle tone was oddly menacing when paired with his steely grip. “Even the smallest cut will fester in the wilderness. I can’t let you proceed with this assignment.”

Tempted to stamp as hard as she could onto his booted foot, Maggie drew a deep breath and summoned logic to argue her case. “What are you going to do? Call Gordon and tell him I’ve got a little cut? I’ve also got a hangnail.” She held her right hand up in front of his face, tempted to hold up just her middle finger. “Does that disqualify me, too?”

“I have a new word for your vocabulary.” He seemed to change the subject while tightening his grip as she tried unsuccessfully to twist her arm free. “ Travail d’équipe .” Teamwork . He articulated the syllables clearly. “That’s how Navy SEALs operate. That’s why our casualty rate is as low as it is. We watch each other’s backs. I know you’re used to working alone, Lena. But how’s that been working for you?”

She’d needed rescuing twice, and he knew it.

“ Nous sommes partenaires maintenant .” We’re partners now . “That means if you’re going to wind up getting sick over an infection, then I have the right to know.”

She’d always admired Jake for his unflappable logic. Where she tended to be hotheaded and impulsive, he was ever calm and reasonable.

“ Bien . Whatever. I’ll show you the cut, and you’ll see that it’s nothing.”

“Good.” With a nod and a grimace of apology, he released her wrist.

As Maggie marched back into the bathroom, he followed, making the spacious room feel half its actual size. Planting herself before the mirror, she was conscious of heat stealing into her face as she rolled down the waistline of her slacks and pulled back the tissue, which, to her relief, had only the smallest speck of blood on it. “See?” She switched to English, speaking quietly. “No big deal.”

Jake bent over, putting himself at eye level with the incision. A furrow appeared on his forehead. “Looks like you rubbed the stitch off. Have you been running? You were told not to run.”

“No.” An outright lie. She’d run at least twenty-five miles since Saturday.

He straightened with a disappointed look. “I’ll need to stitch it again.”

“What!?”

“Relax. I’ve had plenty of practice. Let’s see what’s in your kit.” He opened the box she’d placed by the sink and peered hard at the contents while proceeding to sterilize his hands. “Good. We have two needles and even a vial of lidocaine.”

“You’re not stitching my hip. It’s just a little cut. It’ll heal.”

The implacable look he sent her was one she didn’t recognize.

“You will let me close the incision, or you’re not my partner anymore.”

Ouch. Well, when he said it like that, it hurt her feelings a little. “Fine!” Gosh, he wasn’t leaving her much of a choice.

A knock at the door startled them both, making Maggie regret her switch to English.

With a look of frustration, Jake dried his hands while Maggie went to answer the door.

“It’s Charles,” she announced after peeking through the peephole. “Bonsoir, monsieur . Entrez vous.”

“ Bonsoir, madame . ” The Frenchman’s dark gaze took note of Maggie’s flushed face before addressing Jake as he approached from the bathroom. “I’ve just come from speaking with the lead negotiator, Boris Mayer. He says the Italian, Leo Bellini, and the Turkish woman, Esme Simsek, will arrive late this evening, so he’s postponing our briefing until eight in the morning, which leaves you plenty of time to sightsee tonight.”

His emphasis on the word sightsee was clearly code for something. Maggie glanced at Jake and guessed they were meeting with the other SEALs.

Jake nodded. “ ?a a l’air bien .” Sounds good .

The Frenchman pitched his voice lower. “Your destination is ten miles from here. I scoped it out this morning. You can either take a taxi or the TransMilenio . Either way, be careful. The streets of the city aren’t safe after dark. A bient?t .” He swiveled toward the door.

The words aren’t safe echoed in Maggie’s head. She and Jake were a heck of a lot safer in Bogotá than they would be in the wilderness where they were headed.

The instant Charles closed the door behind him, Jake swung toward her. “We’re not going anywhere until your incision is closed.”

Maggie found herself back in the bathroom with her slacks rolled down just far enough for Jake to sew the incision shut. She eyed their limited supplies while switching back to English and keeping her voice low. “You shouldn’t use the lidocaine. We might need it.”

Seated on the closed toilet seat with a syringe in one hand and the vial of lidocaine in the other, Jake looked up at her. “I’m using it.”

“You don’t think I can handle the pain?”

He met her defiance with a wry smile. “I’m sure you can, Lena, but I doubt I could handle hurting you.”

Lines like that were the reason she’d fallen for him in the first place.

Swallowing hard, Maggie watched him drain the little vial and prayed they wouldn’t need it later. As he commenced injecting lidocaine around the incision with infinite care, tenderness quilted her heart. As gentle and considerate as he apparently still was, it astonished her that he’d become one of the toughest operators on the planet.

Once the site was numb, he irrigated the tiny wound with the bulb-shaped squirter, using bottled water. Then he dabbed the area dry before sanitizing it with an alcohol square.

Maggie couldn’t feel a thing. Watching him thread the curved needle, she admired his hands, which looked powerful, with long, dexterous fingers. He slipped the thread through the tiny eye on his first try, proving his eyesight to be perfect.

“Is that self-absorbing thread?” She snatched up the box and read it. “Yes.”

For the next minute, he plied the needle, pulling the edges of her skin together. A memory floated up from the depths of her mind: Jake treating her skinned palms after she slid down the banister on the steep run of stairs in Montmartre and wound up doing a face-plant. She’d always been the reckless one, him the caretaker.

“All set.” Having knotted the thread, Jake snipped it with the tiny scissors in her kit. “Keep a layer of this ointment on the cut until it heals and cover it with a Band-Aid.” As he went to squeeze the tube, Maggie took it from him.

“I’ll do that. Thank you.” His ministrations were clouding her judgment. “What time is it?” She stepped away, putting some badly needed space between them.

Jake checked his watch. “Time to start heading for the safe house.”

She’d figured that was where they were headed. “Well, let’s go, then.” She covered the incision with a Band-Aid and rolled her pants back up. “Allons-y.”

A short time later, they slipped from the hotel’s fire exit wearing their rain jackets in anticipation of cooler weather. The sun had set behind the rim of mountains to the west, leaving the sky a mellow hue that beckoned darkness and cool night air.

Maggie swept a practiced eye up and down the steep, stone-laid street. Their hotel, like the majority in Bogotá, was situated in La Candelaria district, close to the historic center of the city, where colonial charm and museums abounded. “I used to live near here.” She turned toward Jake. “Have you been to Bogotá before?” she asked in French.

“ Non .”

“Do we have time to walk a little? I could show you around.”

Jake pulled his sleeve back to check. “ Oui , we could walk for maybe twenty minutes, but let’s at least travel in the right direction.” As he adjusted his stance, she guessed the watch had a compass on it.

“What’s the district called where we’re headed?” Not that she didn’t trust his compass to get them there.

“Quinta Camacho.”

She knew exactly where that was. “ Parfait . It’s this way. Come on. We might have time to see the best of Bogotá.”

As she struck out down the narrow street, the fresh stitches on her hip rubbed a seam on her slacks. Not again . Maggie was about to shift the way her pants sat on her hips when Jake threw a companionable arm around her shoulders. Oh…okay…

Given their legend as a married couple, his familiar behavior made perfect sense, but this was how they used to walk together, back in Paris.

Memories assaulted her. They’d toured the entire city in lockstep like this, like nothing could ever come between them. She’d forgotten how good it felt to fit snugly under his armpit. Her left stole around his trim waist, and the discomfort of her stitches was forgotten.

Down the narrow, cobbled street, they ambled through a small colonial-era neighborhood with stucco buildings painted in vivid hues, either gold or pink or blue. The complex cultural history of the conquest was apparent everywhere she looked. Lights in a café window blinked on, illuminating a colorful mural of an indigenous woman adorning the opposite wall.

“That’s one of Guache’s murals,” Maggie explained. “His paintings are the most vibrant. There’s another one coming up.”

Jake studied them both with grave interest.

Finally, the narrow street spilled them onto Calle 11, a wider thoroughfare surging with traffic. Here, historic buildings gave way to twentieth-century architecture, including the occasional high-rise. Streetlamps blinked on, lighting their way along the cement sidewalks. The warmth and scent radiating off Jake’s body stole into Maggie’s awareness. How, after all these years, did he still smell like a summer rain shower?

A famous landmark caught her eye, as its whitewashed walls and arched windows were lit up by floodlights. “That’s the Botero Museum coming up.”

“Botero?”

“You know. The sculptor and painter from Colombia who makes his subjects look, uh, how do you say, rondelet .” Rotund .

“ Ah, oui .” Jake cut a look at her slender body and grinned. “He should sculpt a fat Lena.”

Maggie scoffed at the vision that came to mind.

“You’d still be beautiful.”

She let the compliment pass, pretending it didn’t warm her. The gold dome gleaming over the rooftops ahead gave her something to say. “And that’s the Museo de Oro on the next block.”

“The one with the gold, er…?” He gestured to indicate the dome, clearly not knowing the word.

“ D?me. Oui , there are more than fifty-five thousand pieces of gold in there, most of them artifacts from the Incan empire.”

“I’d love to see that.” Jake checked his watch. “ Hélas , there’s no time tonight. In fact, we’d better grab a taxi at the next street.”

Probably a good thing since she realized her incision was stinging.

Jake cut her an astute glance. “You good?”

“Oui, très bien.” She sent him a carefree smile.

A minute later, they were crammed into the rear seat of a tiny yellow taxi zipping along back streets headed toward Quinta Camacho. In lieu of hotels and apartments, the neighborhood of Quinta Camacho was filled with private homes, many surrounded by walls topped with broken glass to discourage thieves. The taxi slowed alongside a curb, Jake paid the fee, and they both got out.

As the cab pulled away, he put his arm around her shoulders again. “We walk to the next street over.”

The neighborhood was dark and quiet, suggesting it enjoyed less crime than much of the rest of the city. On the following block, Jake drew her to a pedestrian gate with wrought-iron bars and an intercom but no house number. He poked a long finger at the button.

A gruff voice came out of it. “Sí?”

In perfect Spanish, Jake announced them.

Once the lock clicked open, they pushed into a lush little garden where they were met by a silver-haired gentleman wearing a white Guayabera shirt. The stranger inspected Maggie, then thrust out a hand. “John Whiteside, station chief.”

She recognized the name. “Oh yes, you replaced Norris. He was the station chief during my assignment here.”

“Welcome back to Bogotá.”

“Thanks. It’s good to be back.”

Jake got a handshake. “Lieutenant Carrigan. Come on in. Your men are waiting for you.”

Following Whiteside into the safe house, they entered a tiled foyer that led them into the building’s large living space. Whiteside hung back as they ventured in, and four fit men sprang to their feet, eyes locked on Maggie.

“Evening, sir. Ma’am.”

Their civilian clothing in no way disguised that these were special operators?—Navy SEALs, to be precise. Maggie was pleased to recognize two of them from when Jake had plucked her out of Venezuela.

He drew her closer. “Guys, a couple of you remember Magdalena. Lena, this is Harm, aka the Hulk.” He gestured to the bald, blue-eyed SEAL who had manned a .50-caliber sniper rifle while covering their retreat from the warehouse. “You’ve met Bambino, our resident Spider Man.” The mid-twenties SEAL of Italian descent was grinning like he had the scoop on an inside joke.

Jake nodded at the next SEAL. “And this is Zen Suzuki, our communications specialist. He’s the one obsessed with superheroes. His call sign is Daken.”

Zen sent her a bow, betraying his East Asian influence while sending Maggie a peaceful smile.

Lastly, Jake gestured to a SEAL standing with his tan arm folded across his chest, unsmiling. “And last but not least, Lieutenant Villalobos, officer in charge. We call him Lobo. So, naturally, he’s Wolverine.”

That made perfect sense to Maggie since lobo meant “wolf” in Spanish.

As tall as Jake and intense in contrast to Zen, Lobo scarcely acknowledged her. “We’re all set up over here.” He gestured toward a laptop perched on the coffee table, where yet another, more senior SEAL could be seen on the screen jotting himself a note.

“Great.” Jake guided Maggie toward the couch that faced the laptop and pulled her down next to him, catching the eye of the man on the screen.

“Ah, Jake, good to see you there.”

“Thank you, sir. This is my colleague, Magdalena. Lena, meet Lieutenant Commander Strong, our operations officer.”

Maggie tapped her memory. Why did the mid-to-late-thirties SEAL look so familiar?

Keen gray eyes studied her. “Well, it’s all clear to me now, Jake.”

Lena shot a puzzled glance at Jake. But then the briefing got underway, and then the ops officer’s visage was replaced by the photo of a dense green mountain chain buried in mist. “You two are headed northeast of Bogotá into La Cordillera de los Cobardes in the Santander region.”

Mountain Range of the Cowards, Maggie translated. She’d heard of the area while working at the embassy. Due to its rugged landscape, the inhospitable region was home mainly to indigenous farmers but also offered refuge to drug cartels and antigovernment militias, like the ELN and the FARC.

“The Cordillera de los Cobardes is part of the highest coastal ranges in the Eastern Cordillera. The only groups who live there are rangers at the national park to the north, an indigenous tribe, and outlaws. To give you an idea, the average elevation is eleven thousand feet above sea level.” Strong zoomed in on the image. “But the FARC are believed to live on this fourteen-thousand-foot monstrosity right here, called El Castillo, ‘The Castle.’ You can see by how green the area is that it rains a lot, even when it’s not peak rainy season. There are no roads beyond La Esmerelda, where the FARC have arranged to meet the UN team and then escort you to one of their camps. Given the muddy terrain, transportation is done mostly on mules.”

“You can’t run in the mountains, Lena. They’re too steep.”

Maggie focused on El Castillo. The lower four-fifths of it was covered in foliage so thick she doubted there was a drone out there that could pick up thermal images of life forms under that canopy, let alone human beings. And the top was rocky and rugged and dusted with snow. If she were a rebel, she would hide there, too.

Strong continued, “We need to know where in this vast wilderness the hostages are being kept so we can get them out. We also need intel on possible infiltration and exfiltration sites. Right now, the only place we know we can land a helo is in this valley to the east.”

Strong panned toward the valley, crossing a river to get there. “Jake, you’ve got your watch with you?” The commander’s earnest face filled the screen again.

“Yes, sir.” Jake showed it to him.

“Okay. Let’s hope it ends up in the hands of the leader, General Salvador Rojas, though that’s not his real name, which no one knows. He’s called Rojas because of the red beret he wears.”

A grainy photograph of a rebel wearing a red beret filled the screen. Maggie stared at the resolute expression on the leader’s haggard face. In his mid-fifties, he looked as though he’d spent his entire life battling the powers that be.

She wrested her gaze toward Jake’s wrist. So that was why he wore the watch, even though they’d been told to leave anything of value behind. No doubt it was rigged with a GPS device like her watch back home. If Rojas ended up with it, he’d become a much easier target. Very clever.

Strong reappeared on the screen. “A word of caution. Colombia’s Counternarcotics Jungle Company, or the JUNGLA as they’re called, may try to follow you to the dissidents’ camp. Any altercation between the FARC and the JUNGLA could endanger Barnes and Howitz’s lives, so we don’t want this happening.”

Maggie pictured her former colleagues helpless to defend themselves in a shootout.

“If you find yourself being followed by the JUNGLA, try to let us know. We can call them off if we must, but we’d rather not reveal that we have people on the ground. Jake, you’ll touch base with the JIC whenever possible. The phone in your boot seems to work.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any questions?” The commander tipped his head and waited.

Maggie’s curiosity got the better of her. “Have we met before?”

Several SEALs snickered, including Jake.

Strong sent her a humble smile. “I used to play quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys.”

“Ooh.” No wonder he looked familiar. Her father was a huge Cowboys fan. She’d probably grown up seeing his face on TV.

“One more question, sir.” Jake leaned forward. “Is there an escape-and-evasion plan in case something unforeseen happens?”

Maggie stiffened. Like what? Did Jake think she was going to fall apart on him? I can’t afford to.

The former quarterback thought a moment. “I think Lobo was working on that. Why don’t you check with him?”

They both looked at Lobo, who nodded.

“Will do, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Good luck to both of you. Lena, it was nice to meet you.”

“You, too, Commander.”

Strong disappeared, replaced by a screen that read Special Operations Web Connect before Lobo scooped up the laptop and started clicking keys. Maggie hid her secret worries. She had used the E & E protocol back in Morocco. She wouldn’t need it this time, not if Jake was with her.

When Lobo put the laptop in front of them again, Maggie guessed she was still looking at a satellite view of El Castillo.

Lobo leaned over with a finger on the keyboard. “Okay, if I zoom in on the top of El Castillo”?—he spoke with softened consonants that betrayed Hispanic heritage?—“you can see between the mountain’s twin peaks what’s left of a glacier. And right here”?—he pointed out the blurred image?—“are a couple of solar panels providing electricity to a radio station the FARC used to use to promote their Marxist views. These days, it’s used by a missionary to transmit his Sunday podcasts.”

“Missionary?” Jake sounded surprised.

Lobo kept talking. “If your comms go out, you could always use the radio station to broadcast an SOS. The FARC have a repeater up there for their handheld radios. Disabling the repeater would hamper their communication, since radio waves can’t bend around the mountain. If you need a quick exfil, it looks like there’s enough room on the shore of the lake on this side to land a rescue helicopter.” Lobo’s jungle-green eyes trekked toward the other three SEALs. “Should we firm this up as our E&E plan?”

One at a time, each man agreed, including Jake. Then they all looked at Maggie, who shrugged, surprised to be given a say in the matter. “Sure.”

Jake sniffed the air. “Do I smell food?”

Harm grinned. “Yes, you do, sir. The station chief insisted on feeding us tonight. Let’s eat!”

In the dining room, Whiteside was laying out paper plates and plastic utensils for the food he’d already set out. “Good. You’re done already. Come and eat while it’s hot. I’ve got four traditional dishes for you to sample.”

The men insisted Maggie go first in heaping food onto her plate. There seemed to be plenty to go around. A lighthearted banter flowed between the SEALs, making it apparent they were accustomed to each other’s company. With a twinge of envy, she imagined what it must be like having teammates to rely on.

As the meal wore on, Harm and Bambino helped themselves to seconds. But Maggie was stuffed, having eaten as much as she could. It might just be her last big meal for a while.

Whiteside brought in brownies from the kitchen. “Who wants dessert?”

As Maggie declined, Jake wiped his hands on a paper napkin. “We should probably head back to the hotel.”

All four SEALs at the table rose when Maggie stood.

“Luck to both of you, sir.” It was Harm who said this, his bright-blue eyes full of encouragement. “What’s that Irish blessing you taught us again?”

A smile danced at the edges of Jake’s lips. “Go n-éirí an bóthar leat.”

May the road rise to meet you. Maggie knew that Gaelic phrase, as well. But there weren’t any roads where they were headed, just an impenetrable mountain, drug lords, and rebel dissidents.

Maybe Jake was right. Maybe she wasn’t ready for this.