Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

W hen Maggie woke up at the crack of dawn, her head was on Jake’s chest, her arm around his waist. Shocked by what she’d done in her sleep, she froze. Heat flooded her face. When had this happened? Surely he’d noticed, unless he slept very soundly.

She ordered herself to ease away from him, hoping he wouldn’t waken and catch her in his arms. But she lacked the will to move just yet. Instead, she lay there, enjoying the dense but supple texture of his upper chest and shoulders. She could hear his heart beating, slow, steady strokes. His manly scent still reminded her of rain showers. The chest hair under her arm made her want to comb her fingers through it to find out if it was as soft as it looked.

Don’t you dare, Maggie .

Her heart had begun to thud. Breaking out in a light sweat, she managed to peel herself off him. With great exertion, she squirmed out from under his heavy arm, moving it out of the way so she could lie back down.

Then she closed her eyes and willed herself to fall back to sleep. Instead, she listened to Jake breathe. He didn’t snore. She turned her head to look at him. His profile in the muted light was so familiar that her heart clenched. In college, she’d thought him handsome in a nerdy way. But there was nothing nerdy about the profile of the warrior sleeping next to her.

With difficulty, she tore her gaze to the blinds by her feet. The sun was brightening by degrees behind the bamboo slats, slowly filling their cubicle with morning light. How surreal that she was lying on a mat near the top of a mountain with the only man she’d ever loved?—and romance was out of the question, regardless of how attractive he’d become.

The blare of a recording shattered the camp’s peaceful quiet. “?Despiértense todos. Arriba y ándale!” Maggie bolted upright, startled by the unexpected reveille, bellowing for the trainees to wake up, get up, and get going.

Jake’s hand coming to rest on Maggie’s bare lower back made her want to throw herself at him. Appalled by her response to him, she tossed back the blanket. “Time to get up.” She jumped into her remaining clothes and her boots and left the bungalow before he did.

Minutes later, Jake joined her in watching the young rebels exercise under Mondo Gallo’s eagle eye. In the middle of the camp, the mondo had them doing burpees, push-ups, and lunges. Maggie had to laugh at their form. Jake couldn’t watch.

Shortly after drills, the FARC and the peacekeepers shared an uninspired breakfast of leftover rice and more agua panela . The sickly-sweet drink was getting old already. Desperate for carbs, Maggie forced herself to drink it.

Once breakfast was over, Comandante Marquez jerked his head at the Argentine and said, “Vámonos.” Let’s go. “Mondo Gallo is in charge. We will be back in three days.”

Watching Marquez and Arias cross camp toward the .50-caliber machine gun, Maggie met Jake’s speculative gaze. Rojas was smart to avoid using the handheld radio for his communication, preferring to do it in person. Spy drones couldn’t pick up face-to-face communication. But was his camp so far away that it took three full days to get there and back?

The good news was Marquez was wearing the watch he’d stolen from Jake, which meant the JIC would soon have the coordinates for Rojas, if only briefly, unless Marquez gave the watch to his leader as a gift?—or had it taken from him, as Jake had.

A vision of Gallo swaggering toward them tempered Maggie’s hopeful thoughts. Uneasiness swept over her as he hitched his trousers in a gesture of self-importance while running a hostile gaze over the peacekeepers.

“Oigan.” Listen up . “I am the commander now. If any of you cause mischief, I will lock you in there.” He pointed to a wooden shack standing at the far edge of the camp, nearly swallowed up by the forest. It appeared so rotten and dilapidated that it might collapse at any moment. “It is filled with hornets and bats. Don’t cause me any trouble.” With a dark look, he stalked toward the officers’ quarters to enjoy being king of the castle.

The UN team all regarded one another. What were they supposed to do in the meantime?

Boris suggested some team-building exercises. Maggie, used to working alone, wanted no part of that. Seeing several of the teenage boys heading toward the bull’s-eye field, kicking a soccer ball between them, she suggested, “Why don’t we play soccer with the kids?” What she really wanted to do was find out whether any of them knew where the hostages were kept.

Esme, who’d come out of the bungalow looking better that morning, immediately declined, as Maggie knew she would. Boris shook his head. “I’m too old for that.”

Bellini laughed. “And I’m too lazy.”

But Charles jumped to his feet enthusiastically. “I’m game. How are your fútbol skills, Jacques?”

Jake shook his head. “No, no. I can’t even see the ball. Lena’s the soccer player.”

The Frenchman tipped his head at Maggie. “Shall we suggest a game? Two against four. You think they’ll go for those odds?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’d better be good.”

The Frenchman gave a modest shrug. “I’m not too bad.”

Curious to see what happened, Jake followed Charles and Lena so he could see the game better, allegedly. Positioning himself by the sandbags that surrounded the machine gun, which was currently unmanned, he watched the boys receive Charles’s offer with surprise. In unison, they glanced at Gallo’s brick quarters, then shared a look and shrugged. Sure, why not?

For the first time, Jake noted nets already strung up on either side of the field. They’d played soccer here before. The terrain was almost flat but only a little larger than a tennis court. Lena took up a fullback position, and Charles played center forward, letting the ball slip right by him as the game began.

Sitting on the sandbags, Jake glanced casually back at the machine gun. It had only a short belt of bullets, suggesting the FARC were as low on ammo as they were on food. Returning his attention to the game, he watched Lena defend the goal against two fleet-footed youths. Admiration put a smile on his face as she put her long legs to work and stole the ball from under one boy’s feet, then passed it up to Charles, who let it slide right by him again.

The look of pure annoyance on Lena’s face made Jake chuckle. Her passionate nature, as evident as it had been twelve years ago, was a cultural trait she’d picked up growing up in Venezuela. Being hotheaded wasn’t the best characteristic for a case officer, but she made up for it with her awareness of the environment, something Jake struggled to emulate.

Stealing the ball away a second time, Lena bellowed at Charles to hold on to it. At that moment, the door at the little quarters creaked open. Turning his head, Jake was dismayed to see the disagreeable mondo glaring at them from across the camp.

Shoot. Jake fully expected him to interfere.

The players didn’t notice. Three of the four boys were swarming the Frenchman. All at once, Charles shifted into a whole new mode of playing, dribbling past all three astonished defenders as he worked his way up the field. Lena abandoned the goal and sprinted past him toward their own goal. Charles booted the ball directly at her, and Lena sent it straight between the defender’s planted feet, right into the net.

From the corner of his eye, Jake watched Gallo drop his gun holster back inside his building, hang a key ring on a nail outside, and head toward the field.

The players finally caught sight of him and stilled, no doubt figuring their game would be over. Gallo jerked his thumb at one of the boys, indicating he would take the kid’s place. Well, at least he wasn’t adding to the grossly unfair odds. Even so, Jake suffered misgivings.

The rebels took possession of the ball, with Gallo himself dribbling up the field. Jake held his breath as Lena defended cautiously against the mondo ’s encroachment.

Wedging a foot between his, she managed to steal the ball back and punted it to Charles, who once more weaved between three defenders. With Gallo covering Lena aggressively, the Frenchman kicked the ball toward the goal himself. It went right past their goalie, who dived the wrong way.

The score was France 2, Colombia 0.

Charles sent Lena a subtle gesture that meant, Let the FARC score next . Jake agreed. No need to make their hosts unhappy.

Once more, Gallo brought the ball up the field, circumventing Charles. Even with two forwards wide open, he kept the ball for himself, bearing down on Lena, who put up a half-hearted defense. Gallo stalled, showing off his dribbling skills. Just as he broke forward, pushing toward the goal, he slipped on mud and landed hard on his back.

His four subordinates hooted with laughter. Marshaling her own smile, Lena nudged Jake’s respect to a whole new level by stepping forward and offering Gallo a hand.

Huh. Maybe you could fight fire with fire.

When Gallo slapped her hand away viciously, Jake saw red. While Lena bit her lips and squared her shoulders, Jake pushed off the sandbags and stalked toward the field.

The soldiers saw him and stopped snickering. Charles whirled and intercepted his path, laying a deterring hand on Jake’s chest. “Easy, easy. It’s just a game. Relax.”

It took Gallo another minute to roll to his feet. He sent Lena a murderous look as if she was the reason he’d fallen.

Mallacht air . This was just what they didn’t need?—a rebel leader with a bone to pick.

Muttering threats to his soldiers, Gallo limped off the field toward his quarters to nurse his injured pride.

Once he was out of sight, the four original players approached the newcomers wearing hesitant smiles. It seemed, by humiliating Gallo, the peacekeepers had won over the rebels-in-training. One youth trotted off, then returned minutes later with two hard-boiled eggs for the victors.

Lena accepted her egg with relish, peeling off the shell with fingers that shook. As she took a bite out of it, her gaze landed on Jake, who hadn’t been given an egg since he hadn’t played. Her wide eyes conveyed guilt.

“Mange-le.” Eat it , he assured her, ignoring the rumble in his stomach. She probably had less body fat on her than he did.

Utilizing his supposedly limited Spanish, Jake applied himself to learning the kids’ names?—Julian, Estéban, Chucho, and David. Each young man was eager to share his tale of woe. Julian and Estéban had been forced into service, their families threatened at gunpoint if they did not release their sons to the rebel’s keeping. Chucho had been sold by his family for three bags of rice. Only fairer-skinned David, who wore the insignia of a squad leader on his jacket, admitted he had dropped out of college to join the dissident’s cause. His father had been a white anthropologist, and his mother an Arhuaco Indian.

Holding David’s intelligent brown eyes, Jake read both caution and youthful idealism in their depths. The product of disparate social classes, he had chosen to identify with his mother’s people, the downtrodden indigenous, whom the FARC claimed to represent, insisting the Havana Accord of 2016 had done nothing to make their lives any easier.

Lena, having listened in silence while savoring her egg, startled Jake by throwing out the million-dollar question. “Do you know where the American hostages are kept?”

The younger boys shook their heads with credible ignorance. Chucho joked that he didn’t even know where his own home was. But David looked away and shrugged. “?Quién sabe?” Who knows .

David definitely knew. Lena had timed her question perfectly, ferreting out their best informant within a day of their arrival at the FARC’s camp. Jake’s admiration for her made him want to pick her up and kiss her, but he managed to restrain himself.

The sound of Gallo’s door creaking open let them know their party was over. Within seconds, he was bearing down on Chucho, who’d offered the eggs to the winners.

Grabbing him by the scruff, he shook the boy forcefully. “Why do you waste our food on these strangers? Our own people are starving. You think they’re here to help us? They are friends of the American spies.” He began pulling Chucho toward the dreaded shed he’d pointed out earlier, the key chain back on his belt loop.

Jake made a grab for Lena as she started after them, but she shook him off.

“Excuse me, Mondo Gallo.”

Her firm but deferent tone made Gallo wheel around with a look of incredulity. Out of the corner of his eyes, Jake saw Boris coming their way with a worried expression.

“I’m the one who caused you to fall. Perhaps you should take your anger out on me.”

Gallo released Chucho immediately and stepped toward Lena. “You wish to take his place?”

Knowing Lena, she would sacrifice herself without flinching. Jake cut in front of her, then tugged her away from the mondo . “Cuidado.” Careful. He stared hard at the mondo.

Boris rushed up to disperse the tension. “Come now, everyone. It’s starting to rain. Why don’t we lie down until the rain is over?”

As a group, the peacekeepers turned away, leaving Gallo to rant at his underlings.

On their way to the bungalow, Jake grabbed a hold of Lena’s hand and squeezed it. “Look, I admire you for doing that,” he said in French, “but I’m going to try and save you every time. So if you don’t want me butting heads with our hosts, please think before you act.”

As she shot him a frown, Charles, who caught up to them, said in her ear, “Jacques is saying he would die for you, madam. Don’t be a fool like I was and take such devotion for granted.” With those admonishing words, he brushed past them and headed toward their shelter.

Lena turned her frown at Jake. “You would die for me?”

The blunt question was so typical of her that he could only smile. “I’d rather not, but if I have to, absolutely.”

For some reason, his answer didn’t please her. With a shake of her head, she stalked ahead of him, hurrying toward the building. “I need a nap.”

Jake heaved an inward sigh. When would Lena realize her well-being was all that mattered to him?

An hour or so later, Jake awoke for a second time that day to a voice blaring over a radio. Given the dialect of the announcer, this had to be the Marxist from Cuba whom Arias had told them about. Jake turned his head only to find Lena missing.

“Lena?” He jerked his elbows. No answer. Through the veil of their mosquito netting, he could tell her boots were gone. The sun was back out. And given the bend in the blinds, she’d slipped out of the rear of the building.

Berating himself for not wakening at her exodus?—how could he have missed it??—he crawled out from under the mosquito netting. Surely, she wasn’t wandering around the FARC’s camp alone? He hauled on his own socks and boots before exiting the same way.

“Lena!” Encountering her tracks, he followed them along the back of the building, pushing away the fronds that brushed against his shoulder. No reply. When would she learn that partners did everything together, and that included taking potty breaks? Not only were jaguars and poisonous snakes on this mountain, but he didn’t trust the rebels?—Gallo most especially?—not to harm her. “Lena!”

“I’m here.”

The surly sounding response seemed to come from the earth itself. Jake looked down, then ducked to peer beneath the raised bungalow. There she was, crouched just around the corner, trying to lure a brooding hen toward her.

“Here chicky, chicky.” She made kissing sounds that caused the chicken to cock its head.

Jake gave a laugh that was part relief, part amusement. “Are you planning to wring its neck and eat it raw if it comes to you?”

“I want to know if it’s sitting on eggs.”

Clearly she was as ravenous as he was.

Giving up on the chicken, she backed out from under the bungalow and joined him behind the building, out of sight of any others. Speaking in hushed French so as not to disturb the occupants still napping nearby, she grabbed his arm. “There’s got to be something in the woods that we can eat. Please find us some food while the rebels are busy. I know you know how.”

He didn’t have it in himself to deny her. “All right, but listen.” He waited for her to meet his gaze. “You can’t just leave my side and vanish anytime you want. Something could have happened to you, and I’d never know what. We’re partners now, remember?”

She had the audacity to cast her gaze toward the sky.

The urge to shake some sense into her surprised him. Catching her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he growled, “Promise me.”

Color bloomed in her cheeks, giving rise to a rush of desire that made him want to crush his lips to hers. Easy, Jake .

“Fine. I promise. Let’s go.” Tugging his hand away from her chin, she hauled him straight into the forest.

Jake’s assertion that he would give up his life for her was messing with Maggie’s head. She didn’t deserve that level of commitment, not when they would go their separate ways when this was over.

“No, this way.” He pulled her toward a slope that wasn’t so steep. The vegetation had already swallowed them, blocking their view of the camp, even though they weren’t that far away. The chittering monkeys, birds, and insects gave her a false sense of isolation.

Maggie cast a nervous glance uphill. “You sure you can find the way back?” Out here, she stuck persistently to French. A rebel could be lurking close by, and they’d never know it.

“Sure. We’ll follow our tracks back.” Jake pointed to their prints in the mud. “ Allons-y . I need to make a phone call while we look for something to eat.”

All Maggie could think about was food. But then raindrops pattered on the broad leaves overhead, and she fretted that their tracks would wash away. “This is far enough, I think.”

Jake must have agreed as he put his back to a tree and started taking off his boot. Maggie tamped down a growl. Phone call first, then food. She could wait another minute, only the process took far longer than it ought to?—imagine if this was an emergency.

“Keep an eye out,” he requested as he pulled up the antenna and then powered it up.

The high beep it emitted made Maggie jump. “ Pleurage , that thing is loud out here!” She had totally overlooked the sound it made when they were still in the civilized world. A droplet of cold water struck her cheek. Seeing Jake pull the phone from his ear and frown at it, she guessed, “No reception?”

“Non.” He glanced at the weeping canopy. “Let’s try somewhere else. This is a dead zone.” After jamming his foot back into the boot, Jake shoved the laces inside instead of tying them. He grabbed Maggie’s hand and pulled her with him another hundred yards, where he tried calling again.

“Anything?” Her stomach was literally on fire.

“Nothing. The canopy’s too dense for the electromagnetic waves to penetrate.”

For a second, she forgot about her hunger. “Well, what about the trackers we’re wearing? They’d better penetrate, or the JIC won’t know where we are.”

Given the firming of Jake’s mouth, he wasn’t sure their trackers worked any better than the sat phone.

Maggie’s agitation rose as she watched him put away the phone and lace his boot back up. “You’re saying the only place that phone might work is in the camp.”

“We can’t use it in the camp. Come on. Let’s find some food.”

They hadn’t gone ten steps when Jake caught sight of something. “There.”

With hope, Maggie eyed the distinctive orange balls dangling among its spade-shaped leaves. “Are they edible?”

“Non.” Jake snapped off a leaf and showed it to her. “This is cordoncillo , also known as matico . I’m surprised it grows at this altitude. Every time you see this tree, I want you to tear a leaf in half and rub the juice onto your incision. It’s an analgesic and antiseptic .”

The English words, pronounced as if they were French, made Maggie snicker. But then she coughed at the peppery odor the leaf exuded.

“Here.” He squeezed some of the juice onto her finger. “Do it now.”

Maggie delved a hand under her jacket to rub it on her incision. The resulting burn had her sucking air through her teeth.

“Stings, huh? That’s not a good sign.”

“No, it’s fine.” She adjusted her clothing. “Jaques, I need food now .”

“Sure. Sorry.” Jake peered around, then drew her over to a shade-loving tree growing in the understory. Whitish globes that dangled among dark green leaves.

“Is that fruit?”

“Yes, garcinia. Look for fruit on the ground that’s not rotten.”

Rain pelted their backs as they bent over, picking through the fruit that had already fallen. Lena found one that still looked intact and started peeling off the spiky outer casing. Her hands were shaking. If only she’d started this assignment a little overweight instead of underweight.

“Looks like lychee.” She popped the translucent globe into her mouth and brightened as she chewed. “Mm. Tastes like it, too.”

He wrested his attention upward. “Same fruit family.”

Following his gaze, Maggie saw dozens of more garcinia fruits hanging on a branch too high for them to reach. A howler monkey hung on it, looking down at them.

“Hey, mon ami ,” Jake called, “would you throw some fruit down here for us?”

The monkey grinned as if laughing at their predicament.

Jake grimaced. “I’m not going to be able to climb this.”

Maggie wasn’t giving up that easily. The one piece of fruit had only whetted her appetite. “I’ll climb onto your shoulders like I did in Fontainebleau. Once I’m on the lower branch, I can shake the fruit loose.”

“C’est une mauvaise idée. You could fall . ”

“So, if I fall, you’ll catch me.” She grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. “Please, Jacques, I’m starving, and I’m grincheux , and I’ll be cranky all the time if I can’t get some calories.”

Looking unhappy with his decision, Jake crouched as he’d done at Fontainebleau when she’d wanted to stand on a high boulder.

Holding the hand he held out, Maggie stepped on his upper thigh, then his shoulder, while grabbing the lower branch. He slowly straightened and turned, making it possible for her to sit on the branch.

“Fais attention.”

She had no choice but to pay attention because the branch was slick with moss. While clinging to the higher branch, Maggie scooted along the lower branch so she could shake the higher one more effectively. After several scoots, she gave the upper branch a good shake.

Thump, thump, thump.

Just as fruit hit the ground, Maggie slipped off her perilous seat. “Merde!” Hanging now on the higher branch, she watched it bow and then break. “Jacques!” All she could do was close her eyes and pray he caught her.

She crashed into him, and both of them hit the ground with a squishy thud, sliding immediately downhill. Gravity lassoed them, dragging them over slick layers of rotting vegetation.

“Hold on!” Jake’s English words were entirely unnecessary, as Maggie had a death grip on him.

As a sapling came into sight, Jake flashed out a hand and grasped it, bringing them to a jarring halt.

Lena, who was hanging on to his jacket, dug her toes into the loam to keep them anchored. Jake briefly closed his eyes, steadying himself with a deep breath. They were fine. He opened his eyes to Lena’s remorseful gaze.

“Je suis tres désolée.” I’m so sorry.

Man, she was cute when humiliated. He pretended her apology was for everything?—for choosing her career over a lifetime spent together. But, of course, she meant for falling out of the tree. “No big deal. Are you hurt?”

She rubbed her right kneecap. “I hit a root on the way down.”

The one that had whacked the back of his head, probably.

She stared up at the mudslide they’d created. “How are we getting back up there?”

If he’d said it once, he’d said it a thousand times. “Teamwork.”

His frustrated tone brought her wide eyes back to his. For once, she had no reply.

Jake offered up directions. “Look for something to hold on to about five feet above my head. See anything?”

“Um…Oh, there’s a vine by the root of a tree.”

“Good. Now climb up me, onto my shoulders and grab hold of it. Once you’re good, then I’m going to do the same thing and climb up you.”

Her gaze darted back to his. She swallowed. All this physical contact was clearly getting to her. Well, good. Maybe she’d realize what she was missing, not living her life as his other half.

By the time they arrived at the camp, covered in mud, the rain was falling in earnest and anti-American hour had given way to music?—not the native cumbia or traditional vallenato music Jake expected to hear, but modern, lyrical songs in Spanish.

Rather than return to their cubicle muddy and soaking wet, they sat by the empty firepit to let the rain shower down on them. Ten young rebels, including the two girls and their four soccer buddies, sat in the downpour singing to the radio,

Jake tuned his ear to the words.

Father, You are holy. In You, I put my trust.

What? He cocked his head, listening more intently. These FARC were Christians?

Remembering the missionary Lobo had mentioned in passing, Jake turned to Lena, who was staring at the kids like they wore halos over their heads. The two girls sang out with confidence while glancing self-consciously in their direction. The song came to an end, the music faded, and a voice came over the radio that was utterly unlike that of the ranting Marxist.

“Good afternoon, my children.” The speaker with the warm, soothing voice was obviously an American, given his accented Spanish. “Peace and love to you from Father Joshua. I hope you are feeling happy today, for, indeed, your Father in Heaven knows every hair on your head and is with you wherever you go.”

Jake met Lena’s wide eyes. He’d give just about anything to meet this missionary in person.

“Today’s reading comes from the book of Matthew, Chapter 14. ‘When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place??—’”

The radio cut off abruptly, causing all ten teens to exclaim their disappointment as they looked toward the boom box sitting on the windowsill of the officers’ quarters. In the next instant, the screen door flew open, and Gallo came swaggering out, railing at them to put their lazy backsides to work.

As they scuttled up to do the mondo ’s bidding, Jake felt sorry for them. These kids were no different from teens in North America, looking for meaning, trying to find hope where hope was scarce. Did Father Joshua know what effect his work was having? Imagine what would happen to the FARC movement if they all became Christians. It would fall apart.