John Gilstrap - Hostage Zero

What she got instead with Santa Marta was a modern if slightly threadbare city on the seashore that housed the Hotel Santorini, which itself sported perfectly acceptable air-conditioning, and whose bartender knew his way around a good caipirinha. And why not? She was a heck of a lot closer to the birthplace of the national drink of Brazil here in Colombia than she was in DC, where she’d first tasted the concoction.

Brandy sat in the lounge near a window that gave her a panoramic view of the Caribbean, watching the street vendors hawking their wares to tourists whose pockets were the targets of roving street urchins. She found comfort in the two beefy soldiers guarding the front doors. Actually, maybe they were policemen; they all wore the same uniforms in this part of the world. Either way, their presence put a lot of brawn and bullets between her and any of the criminals out there.

For the thousandth time in just a few days, she had to pinch herself to believe that she was actually here doing this. After she’d gone home from her last meeting with Secretary Leger, her doorbell had rung, and when she’d answered it, there was a young man in a crisp white Navy uniform, absent the ubiquitous white-on-black name tag. His equally white hat sat at a studied angle over his brow.

“Ms. Giddings?” he’d said. He had that sunny-but-tough Academy look.

“I’m she,” she’d said, and instantly she’d regretted the Wellesley grammar.

He presented an eleven-by-seventeen-inch manila envelope. “I’ve been ordered to deliver this to you personally.”

She took it without thinking. “Ordered by whom?”

“You’re to read it carefully and speak to no one.”

She’d actually giggled at that. It sounded like something out of a movie. “Is this from-” She cut herself off, just in case. “Who sent it?”

The young officer grasped the visor of his cap with his thumb and forefinger, a gallant tip of his hat. God, he was gorgeous. “Have a good day, ma’am,” he said.

The envelope contained a second envelope, along with a U.S. passport with her picture but a new name, plus unsigned instructions for her to appear at Andrews Air Force Base in less than three hours, prepared for several days in a warm climate. She was to tell no one of the correspondence, and she was to make no unusual preparations before leaving.

The Andrews flight had taken her to Hurlburt Field in Florida, and then onto a commercial flight under her new name to Santa Marta. At a precise hour, she was to be sitting at this bar in this hotel, with but one mission: to hand the second envelope to a man who would come by and speak to her.

It was like being a freaking spy. It took everything she had just to keep her hands from shaking. Could it possibly get any cooler than this?

Five times now she’d identified men in the crowd who she knew-absolutely knew — would be her contact, only to be disappointed as they glided past her to either meet someone else, or to get a drink, or to do whatever else they did instead of proving her right.

She needed to settle down. If she made eyes at any more men, she was going to get thrown out on the suspicion of being a prostitute.

Without conscious thought that she was doing it, Brandy repeatedly stroked the envelope she’d been dispatched to deliver, tracing her finger along the line where the flap sealed against the paper back. She’d been unable to contain her curiosity on the plane, and while in the lavatory she’d sneaked it open to take a look inside. She wasn’t at all surprised by what she’d found. What did surprise her was how little emotion she felt when she realized that because of her actions people would soon be dead.

Commotion to her left drew her attention to the front door, where one of the soldier-policemen seemed to be having a dustup with someone. When she craned her neck for a better angle, she nearly laughed out loud when she realized that the other side of the confrontation couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. If she wasn’t mistaken, it was one of the boys she’d seen trying to score on the tourists just a few minutes ago. Poor kid probably tried to pick the wrong pocket and got caught.

Did they cut off people’s hands for stealing in Colombia, or was that somewhere else in the world?

Brandy tired of watching the show, but as she was turning back to her drink, the strangest thing happened. The policeman stood straight and looked directly at her. Then he pointed.

She instinctively turned in her seat to see who was standing behind her. No one. Her stomach flipped.

She turned back around, and sure enough, the man in the green camouflaged uniform was walking right toward her. He had the urchin with him, his fingers clamped on the boy’s ear. The kid walked cockeyed with oversized strides to keep up.

Brandy felt an inexplicable urge to hide the envelope. She couldn’t do that, of course, because it would call attention to the very thing she was trying to conceal. What on earth could be going on?

The officer brought the boy close enough that they could speak softly. “Excuse me, senorita,” he said in a heavy enough accent that she could barely understand his words. “Are you…” He let go of the boy’s ear, and gestured for him to complete the question.

The boy cleared his throat. “Hello, Mrs. Chalmers,” he said in far better English than his escort.

Brandy stiffened in her seat, her skin electric with chills. That was precisely the sign she’d been waiting to hear. Her mind raced for the countersign. Jesus, don’t blow it now. “Hello, Peter,” she said. “How is Aunt Consuela?” It had seemed like such an odd patter when she was memorizing it, but now she realized that the boy had been part of the plan from the beginning.

“She is ill,” the boy said. “She wants to see you.”

That was it. The entire countersign had been completed. The chances of it being an accident-that a random conversation could follow the same pattern-were zero. But what was she supposed to do now? Just hand the package to a boy?

The kid seemed to be reading her mind because he glanced at the package, and then very subtly shook his head no. Without moving his head, he eyed the policeman.

“You know this boy?” the officer said. “He is bad boy. Very bad boy. Thief.”

Oh, great. Now she was going to have to pay a fine for him or something. “No,” she said, hoping that her smile looked genuine. “He’s a friend of mine.”

The cop looked very confused. “He is friend? Esta un amigo? ” Apparently he thought it might make more sense if he heard it in Spanish.

Brandy nodded and smiled more widely. “ Si. Yes. He’s my amigo.”

Definitely a cop, Brandy thought, not a soldier. He was examining her. “But you not from Colombia,” he said.

Oh, shit! She drew a quick breath, and her heartbeat doubled. Truly, she was not cut out for this line of work. What was she supposed to say to counter that?

The kid took care of it. He darted the two-step distance that separated them and sat on her lap, wrapping his arms around her neck. “Don’t let him hurt me,” he said a bit too loudly, drawing attention from others in the lobby. “He hits me and kicks me. Don’t let him!”

The move startled Brandy, but nowhere near as much as it startled the cop. He seemed keenly aware that he was being watched.

“We’ll be okay,” Brandy said to the officer. Then she gave a little wave to the others in the lobby. “Really, we’re fine.”

The cop hesitated, but in the end had little choice but to slither away.

When it was just the two of them again, the boy released his death grip and eyed Brandy’s chest. “Nice boobies,” he said.

A laugh escaped her throat before she could stop it. “ What? ”