James Grippando - A King's ransom

One of the male guerrillas caught Aida’s eye from across the camp. She smiled in return, interested. She rose from the fallen log she’d been sitting on, losing the smile as she addressed her prisoners.

“Nobody goes anywhere,” she said in Spanish. “And no talking.” She turned and headed for the party, soon out of earshot.

“Can you fetch me a bourbon and Coke, honey?” said the Canadian. His name was Will.

Matthew looked up from his plate of cold beans. Fortunately, Aida hadn’t heard Will’s crack, as she had absolutely no sense of humor.

The six were seated on the ground in a circle around a small pile of black, extinguished coals, the remnants of burned chuzco firewood. The campfire had burned out an hour before, not to be relit till the morning. Earlier, Matthew and Will had spent two hours gathering wood while three guerrillas almost forty years younger stood guard and watched. The prisoners carried back plenty, but every stick of it had gone to the guerrillas’ fire in the smoky hut.

The prisoners ate in silence. The Colombian woman was shivering from the cold. Matthew, too, was feeling a chill. A cool breeze was blowing down from the surrounding peaks, and the inescapable dampness only made it seem colder. A huge mosquito landed on Matthew’s forehead, and he squished it. The mosquitoes in the Andes were the biggest he’d ever seen, but they were slow-moving and didn’t seem to bite. Too cold for them, too.

Twenty meters away, the guerrillas were getting louder and drunker. Two of them had a hand on Aida’s ass, one on each side.

“Any bets on which one she blows tonight?” said Will.

No one answered.

“What’s the matter with you people? You hard of hearing?”

“Quiet,” said Jan, the Swede.

“Oh, so you can talk?”

“Quiet, you fool. Don’t make trouble for us while the guerrillas are drinking.”

“Aw, this is the biggest group of pussies I’ve ever met in my whole life.” He glanced at the Colombian woman, as if to confirm that she didn’t understand his English slang. Then he looked at Matthew and said, “With the possible exception of the fisherman here.”

“Nobody here’s a pussy,” said Matthew.

“That’s not what you told me in the woods.”

“I didn’t tell you anything in the woods.”

He smiled. “Got you there, didn’t I, fisherman? Just a little joke. We’re all going to go crazy if we don’t have a few jokes.”

Jan said, “Just shut up, will you please?”

The sudden crack of gunshot echoed in the valley. Another round followed, then two more. The guerrillas shouted, as if it were New Year’s Eve. The drugs were kicking in. That was a sure bet when they started discharging their weapons like drunken cowboys.

“Crazy bastards,” said Will. He was speaking loudly, not caring who heard him.

Jan glared. “I’m asking you nicely for the last time. Quiet, before you get us all in trouble.”

“What are they going to do? Take away a couple of beans from our dinner plate?”

“They can do plenty.” This time it was Emilio, the voice of experience-the one who’d been kidnapped before. “Trust me, so far we’ve been well treated. It can get much worse.”

“Stop talking,” said Jan. “All of you.”

“Why should we?” said Will. “Because Aida the little bitch says so?”

“No,” said Matthew. “Because she has a gun.”

Across the camp, the two guerrillas who had laid claim to Aida’s ass were now arguing with each other, probably about whose turn it was tonight. These were the times that made Matthew most nervous, when teenage boys with raging hormones, automatic weapons, and basuco racing through their brains started arguing over a girl.

Will glanced at the Swede and muttered, “They’re a bunch of punks. You gotta stand up to them.”

Matthew intervened. “Easy, cowboy. Now’s not the time to set them off.”

“I guess I pegged you wrong, fisherman. Thought you had balls.”

“I also have brains.”

“Are you calling me stupid?”

“I’m not calling you anything.”

“Because if you want to see stupid, don’t look my way. At least I wasn’t dumb enough to write a letter home just because Joaquin tells me to.”

Matthew did a double take. Joaquin had pulled him into the hut to write the note, so he wasn’t sure how Will knew. “There’s nothing stupid about putting my family at ease.”

“Fool. You’re helping the guerrillas, not your wife. The only purpose of that letter was to prove that you’re still alive, so the guerrillas can demand a big, fat ransom.”

The Swede chimed in. “What were we supposed to do, refuse?”

“ Yes. I did.”

“They asked you to write a note to your wife, and you said no?”

“Damn right. My wife and I had an understanding before I came to this country. If some Commie-ass rebels kidnap me, don’t pay the bastards a thing. No negotiation, no cooperation. Period.”

Behind them there was a sudden stir in the bushes. Out walked Joaquin and two other armed guerrillas. They had been eavesdropping on the prisoners, as on that first day when Joaquin had hidden himself in the field to see if Matthew would try to escape.

He stopped at the edge of their circle, then spoke to the Canadian. “Commie-ass rebels, eh?”

Will said nothing.

“Get up,” said Joaquin.

Will looked around for support, but the others avoided eye contact. There was nothing anyone could do. Slowly he rose.

“Your attitude needs improvement,” said Joaquin.

“I’ll work on it,” said Will.

“I’ll help you,” Joaquin said through a thin, sardonic smile. At his command, two guards rounded up the prisoners at gunpoint and followed Joaquin across the camp. They stopped at the stump where the guerrillas had been playing stick-’em with the knife. The blade was still stuck in the bark. Joaquin yanked it out, then called the other guerrillas over from their party. Aida had the giggles, and two others were staggering. Each of them had a strained expression, as if struggling not to look too intoxicated in front of their leader. They gathered on one side of the stump, the prisoners on the other.

“Put your hand here,” Joaquin told Will, pointing toward the stump.

Will didn’t budge. Matthew wasn’t sure if he was refusing to move or simply frozen with fear. It didn’t matter. With a nod from Joaquin, two guerrillas grabbed Will, brought him forward, and placed his right hand on the stump, palm down.

“Don’t do this,” said Will, his voice shaking.

“Spread the fingers,” said Joaquin.

“Please. I’m begging you.”

“Spread them!” Joaquin shouted. “Or you lose all of them.”

Will opened his hand, but not quickly enough. With a jerk, Joaquin forced the fingers as far apart as possible.

“This isn’t necessary,” said Will, his voice growing tighter. “I’ll write that letter to my wife, if that’s what you want.”

“Of course you will,” said Joaquin. “With your other hand.”

Standing and watching, Matthew knew that one man couldn’t stop this. Still, he couldn’t stand silent. It was a long shot, but he could think of only one possible angle in a country where 95 percent of the population was raised Roman Catholic.

“God is watching!” he shouted in Spanish.

The drunks snickered, but Joaquin didn’t. Just for an instant, Matthew saw a flicker of hesitation in Joaquin’s eye. It seemed to be saying that he wasn’t of the same ilk as the other guerrillas, that maybe he’d been raised with a conscience and had somewhere along the line taken a wrong turn. A very wrong turn.

Joaquin shouted back, “Shut up or you’re next!”