Jamie Freveletti - Running from the Devil

Smoking Man threw a gun at Rodrigo before spinning around to head back to his car. He made a great show of nonchalance as he sauntered past the four soldiers. They kept a rifle trained on him but let him pass. He slammed into the SUV and disappeared in his own cloud of dust. An expectant silence settled over the village.

Emma could focus on only one thing, the hounds. If the men brought back the dogs, the chances were high that they’d catch her this time. She couldn’t afford that until she completed what she came to Colombia to do. The only way to evade the dogs was to be far away when they came, and to get away in a vehicle, leaving no trace of her scent.

She turned her attention away from Rodrigo to the Daihatsu trucks.

48

SUMNER, MIGUEL, AND BORIS SLOGGED THROUGH THE JUNGLE in the general direction that Sumner believed Emma had run. Miguel held a compass out in front of him and warned Sumner when they deviated the least bit from it. They kept a straight line, allowing the dog to jog in the front. They’d managed to avoid two land mines, thanks to Boris. To Miguel, the jungle held a quiet, waiting feeling. The sky glowed amber, the way it did twenty minutes before a tornado hit. Miguel had experienced a tornado in Oklahoma, and he never forgot that amber sky and the feeling of peace right before all hell broke loose. He’d never really understood the term calm before the storm until that day. Now he knew the phenomenon existed.

Sumner was a man on a mission. Miguel liked working with him. He rarely spoke, except for essential things, and he moved with a stealth that Miguel admired. He didn’t seem overly desperate to find Ms. Caldridge, more like quietly determined. Miguel felt as though he would not stop until he did.

Rodrigo should be worried. He is no match for this man, Miguel thought.

They broke through a stand of palm and stumbled onto a trail.

“Does this look familiar at all?” Miguel said.

Sumner shook his head. “Whole damn jungle looks the same to me, I’m afraid. Feels the same, too. Hot, wet, and dangerous.”

Miguel nodded. “Maybe this is a good place to take a little break. Boris could use some water.”

Miguel poured a small amount of water into a tin cup. Boris lapped it and looked for more when it was empty. They started again. They had walked fifty paces when Sumner gave a low chuckle. He pointed to a tree with a crude X scraped into the trunk.

“She thought ahead,” Miguel said.

“She always does.”

An explosion ripped through the air. They smelled the smoke before they saw the fire. A large plume of black smoke rose into the sky.

“Now what?” Miguel said in exasperation. They headed toward the smoke. It took an hour for them to reach the plume’s location.

They stood there, struck dumb by the devastation. It was the pipeline. The large metal tube was an ugly metallic blight on the green landscape. Metal tripods held it off the ground. Dark smoke roiled from where the guerrillas had bombed it. Oil spilled everywhere, oozing across the grass and stones, turning the green field to black. Miguel gagged at the stench. His feet slipped on the slick grass. Someone had set makeshift oil drums under the gaping hole to collect what they could.

A small tin shack sat at the end of the field. It leaned sideways, looking like a poor man’s version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

“Let’s canvass it first,” Sumner said. He worked his way around the shed in a large semicircle. Miguel followed behind, trying not to slip on the oil. They reached the back of the structure.

“No windows. Anyone could be inside,” Miguel whispered.

Sumner nodded. He reached out and pulled on the wooden door. It was spattered with oil, and opened with a smooth swing. The dark interior smelled like burning tar—the kind of smell that roofers make with their tar-melting vats. Sumner’s eyes stung from the fumes.

The hut had ragged wooden walls and a dirt floor. A blackened kerosene stove sat in the corner. The rest of the hut was bare except for a small wooden desk made of plywood. It hugged the far wall, with a matching chair pushed in front of it. On top of the desk sat a briefcase, open. Around it, stacked in piles, was more money than Sumner had ever seen outside of a bank. He reached over and lifted a small packet off the stack. He fanned the bills, watching them flutter in order.

“Ten-dollar bills,” he said, “and they’re still crisp. New money. Payoffs?”

Miguel peered at Sumner in the gloom. “Didn’t work. They bombed the pipeline anyway.”

“Maybe the payoff was to make the guard look away so they could bomb the pipeline,” Sumner said.

“If so, why leave it here? Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Sumner grabbed a handful of bills and shoved them into his pants’ pockets. He gave another handful to Miguel.

“Put these in your cargo pockets. We may need this to bargain our way out of a tough spot.”

Miguel counted the stacks, then snorted. “I can carry a grand total of six thousand dollars. If that buys me anything, I’d be surprised.”

Sumner shrugged. “It’s something.”

“That it is,” Miguel said.

They stashed as much cash as they could and headed back outside. The stench in the air surrounded them. Miguel pulled out a compass and waved toward the broken pipeline.

“That way is the sea. We should be close now. We’ll have to work our way to the other side and head down that hill.”

They jogged to the pipeline, angling under it. Miguel swung his head from side to side, looking for movement or any sign of an enemy. Sumner waved toward a tree. They slipped behind it.

“It’s too quiet,” Sumner said in a whisper.

“I agree. Do you see anything?” Miguel said.

“No, but the hair is standing up on my neck. Not a good sign.”

“You know what to do in case of an explosion, right?” Miguel whispered.

“Run like hell?” Sumner said.

“No. Drop to the ground and open your mouth. That way the shock waves will flow through your body instead of blasting it apart.”

Sumner looked at Miguel a long moment. “Thanks for the tip,” he said.

Miguel smiled. “Let’s move, shall we? Flush these losers out of hiding. I’ll be damned if I can spot them, and I can’t tell you how badly I want to get to that beach. I’ll go first, you watch for snipers.”

Miguel left the tree line and ran in the direction of the beach. He felt Sumner’s eyes on his back. He also felt a presence to his right. Whoever had targeted them was sitting in the trees. Miguel estimated the sniper was fifty feet ahead of Sumner’s position. He would draw even with him in ten seconds. He prepared to drop and fire.

The explosion came out of nowhere. It blew apart a section of the pipeline five hundred yards from Miguel’s position. Miguel hit the deck and opened his mouth. He watched Sumner out of the corner of his eye. Sumner dropped and turned his head toward the blast. The shock wave hammered through Miguel. It rattled his bones and he felt his tongue suck backward into his mouth.

A second explosion came on the heels of the first. A huge plume of fire shot skyward, fed at the base by the oil pumping out of the pipeline. Black smoke roiled into the sky. An inky sludge seeped downward, starting a slow spread across the grass.

The sniper stepped out of the trees, on Miguel’s right. Miguel clocked him with his peripheral vision only. His body felt like a thousand fists had hammered into him, making the simple act of turning his head seem too difficult a maneuver. It was only after the sniper snapped his rifle into firing position and Miguel felt the adrenaline dump into his system that he was able to move. He lurched upward. He saw the sniper’s muzzle flash. Felt the bullet thud into him. It knocked him sideways, but he did a funny two-step with his feet, which allowed him to stay upright for a brief moment. He didn’t feel any real pain. A detached side of his mind registered the lack of pain in an almost clinical way. He dropped to his knees and hung there, unable to stand, but unwilling to fall to the ground. The sniper took a step forward, farther into the field. Miguel heard a shot from behind him, and he watched the sniper’s chest explode in a red flume. He wanted to congratulate Sumner on the shot, but now the pain was upon him. It was a violent, terrible, clawing agony that snatched his breath away.