Jamie Freveletti - Running from the Devil

“Suggestions?” Banner said.

Miguel nodded. “Wait until they make contact and then send them whatever ransom they demand. It’s the best plan for getting those people out alive, and the price demanded will pale in comparison to the cost of a rescue mission.”

Whitter shook his head. “Absolutely not. The United States does not negotiate with terrorists.”

“Actually, we already have negotiated. There’s a tacit agreement between the United States and Colombia to allow the far-right guerrilla leaders immunity from extradition to the U.S. if they agree to lay down their arms. If that’s not negotiating with them, I don’t know what is.”

Whitter bristled like a porcupine under attack. “That deal was not cut by the United States. It was cut by the president of Colombia with the guerrilla leaders.”

“And the United States didn’t argue with it.”

“It’s still not the same as negotiating with kidnappers.”

Banner put a hand in the air to silence the men. “Miguel, help me out here. Did these paramilitary groups take the Colombian president up on his offer and lay down their arms?”

“Thousands did,” Miguel said.

“Then why do you think we’re dealing with a paramilitary group in this hijacking?”

“Because the president has been negotiating only with the far-right paramilitary groups. The far-left guerrillas, the FFOC, have not been approached by the Colombian government.”

“So you think this kidnapping is a bid to force the president of Colombia to begin negotiations with the far left,” Banner said.

Miguel paused. “Perhaps. It could also be an attempt to derail the peace process entirely. The process requires that the paramilitary groups return control of the country to the government. These guys may not be too keen on giving up that kind of power.”

“Or it could be unrelated and we are drawing the wrong conclusions.” Whitter stabbed a finger at Miguel as he said this.

“That is also correct,” Miguel said.

Banner liked that Miguel conceded the point to Whitter. It showed him that the man would not proceed on assumptions blindly.

“Alternative suggestions to negotiating?” Banner said.

“Pull twenty special forces personnel off the pipeline detail and gather them for a reconnaissance mission to find the crash site. From there try to determine the location of the passengers. Track them through the jungle, if that’s what’s required.” Miguel sounded determined.

Whitter shook his head. “No. It’s a waste of resources. Why go to an area that the Colombian military has already canvassed?”

“Because I don’t believe them,” Miguel said.

The undersecretary of the air force snorted. “You think these guys are lying?”

“There are those who say that the Colombian army has been hand in glove with the paramilitary groups for years. Even Colombia’s own special forces unit in charge of rescue operations has been implicated in a massacre of the Colombian police. I don’t think we can take anything for granted in an area as rife with corruption as this one.”

“I won’t go along with this,” Whitter said. He turned to Banner. “If we go there anyway, it looks as though we don’t trust the Colombian government. This country is an ally.”

For the first time, Miguel looked aggravated. “Mr. Whitter, that’s why I suggest that we use the men already posted in the area. We save valuable time and we avoid the questions that would arise from sending a wave of new military manpower.”

So that’s why I’m here, Banner thought, to provide unofficial muscle if Miguel’s plan fails. He glanced at Miguel and kept his voice mild. “Did General Corvan approve the mission?”

“He did, pending your input. He said that no one knew better than you how to run a search-and-rescue mission in hostile territory.”

“I’m flattered.” Banner and General Corvan went back to the early days, when they had taken turns saving each other’s hide.

“Who would be in charge of the mission?” Banner asked the question, but he figured he could guess the answer.

“I am. I leave tonight,” Miguel said.

5

LUIS RODRIGO STOOD IN THE BAKING SUN ON THE SCORCHED AIRSTRIP and watched his soldiers shove the airline passengers into a small circle. One man moved too slowly, and a guerrilla hammered him with the butt of his gun. The man dropped like a stone. Rodrigo’s first lieutenant, Alvarado, came to stand next to him.

“They are stupid and slow,” Alvarado said.

“Each is worth more money than you’ll see in ten years. You tell Jorge I see him hit another without my permission and I’ll cut off the hand he used at the wrist.”

Alvarado stepped back. “They are arrogant Americans. They need to know who is in charge.”

“I am in charge. I will decide who lives and who dies.”

“We made more money with the coca. This”—Alvarado swept his arm to take in the passengers—“this does not pay the same, and the risks are large.”

“Coca is dying every day. I don’t need to remind you of this, Alvarado. You see the herbicide-dusting planes flown by the Americans. The fields are withering. In two years coca won’t pay enough to cover the plane fuel to transport it.”

“Coca will always be profitable,” Alvarado said.

“For the cartels, yes, but not for us. We need to show the cartels that we can be profitable partners for them.”

Alvarado stared at the passengers. He pulled a cigarette out of a pack rolled in his sleeve and lit it.

Luis analyzed the hostages as he watched the plane get stripped. Most had the soft, obese, and overcivilized look of Americans. One drew Luis’s eye. He stood six feet three inches and weighed about one hundred eighty pounds. Seven inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Luis, he had dark hair and an athlete’s body. He moved easily, sweating in the heat, his mouth set in a grim line. This man smelled like danger to Luis. He made a mental note to watch him.

Luis swept his gaze over his men. Alvarado looked hung over, Juan’s pupils were the size of quarters, and Manzillo gulped from a bottle of aguardiente and stumbled over something that only he could see. The mental state of the rest was always suspect. If they weren’t armed, they couldn’t have subdued a fly. Armed, they were ticking time bombs waiting to explode.

“How many do we have?” Luis said to Alvarado.

Alvarado shrugged. “Fifty. Maybe sixty. Is this enough for the FFOC?”

Luis counted sixty-eight. “They expected more. Especially given the risk.”

“Then they should have let us land on a longer strip. I don’t like it, Luis. The gringos won’t take this lying down.”

Luis felt his irritation rise. Alvarado was right, but lately he’d been sounding like a broken record, always negative, always warning. This job was a joint effort of the FFOC and the northern drug cartels, and the first time they’d given Luis any role in one of their operations. The FFOC provided the expertise and detailed planning needed to hijack the jet, and the drug cartel provided the planes within the country that would transport the passengers to the exchange location once they were ransomed.

Luis’s role was to deliver the hostages and any valuables to a secure location in the mountains to await ransom. The FFOC and the drug cartels considered Luis’s small group of paramilitary losers to be expendable, and so gave them the most grueling and dangerous job.

Luis knew the majority of his men were morons, long past stupid and incapable of any thought beyond their daily hit. Still, he was proud that he had been able to turn them into some semblance of a military group. The FFOC had finally responded to his repeated requests to be given a job that would prove his value as a leader. He intended to make the most of it.