Guaviare Jungle, Colombia

October 19

Zoe’s willingness to work hard without complaint was rewarded. After several backbreaking hours the day before gathering load after load of firewood, she’d been allowed to move freely about the camp and eat with the other hostages. And a candle stub and box of matches were waiting in her hut that night. She used the feeble light to search the area around the hammock for spiders before she retired, so weak and sore from her labor she had trouble getting comfortable enough to sleep. Then a thunderstorm had blown in a few hours before dawn, making further sleep impossible.

Everything in this environment was reduced to animalistic basics, she thought. The hostages’ main objectives were centered on their primal needs for food, water, warmth, shelter, health, and sanity. The rebels treated them as dogs to be trained, doling out an immediate reward for mindless obedience and punishment for misbehavior.

Her feet throbbed. They were badly swollen, and every muscle in her body ached as it never had before. She couldn’t endure much more without collapsing. She’d made it through the day before only through sheer determination.

But as awful as her situation was, it was nowhere near as bad as that of the other hostages. They had endured this hell for as long as two years, and Kylee looked to be in danger of losing her life as well as her mind. In the late afternoon, Zoe had been able to spend some time with her, the one hostage she hadn’t really talked to yet.

Kylee had been sitting on the ground outside her hut, rocking back and forth with a glazed expression, seemingly unaware of her surroundings. She was so painfully frail and thin it was clear she couldn’t survive much longer; her foot was so badly infected the rebels had to carry her everywhere. Zoe sat beside the Aussie for an hour, trying to communicate with her, but Kylee had failed to even acknowledge her presence. Once again, Zoe had wondered where the rebel doctor had gone and whether she’d be back.

Now as she lay in her hammock, Zoe listened to the sounds of the jungle and the camp coming awake, delaying the necessity of putting her weight on her tortured feet. The buzz of insects seemed ever-present, punctuated by the howls of animals and laughter from the rebels. She was beginning to get some sense of the routine and the pecking order of the guerrillas and filed away every detail of everything she saw and heard. Something might be useful if an opportunity arose for escape.

Guards were posted along the perimeter of the camp around the clock, some of them within sight and some not. In the evenings, after the hostages were locked up, off-duty rebels usually gathered around the fire pits for a couple of hours to socialize. Most of them staggered off drunk to their cots. The river where they all bathed was likely close to the camp—Zoe had seen rebels carrying water make a round trip with their buckets in less than ten minutes. Perhaps the waterway could lead her to a village.

A full bladder finally pushed her out of the hammock. After relieving herself in the bucket, she went to peer out toward the kitchen tent. Her stomach was growling, but the cook was only now building up her fire, so breakfast was at least an hour away.

Zoe hated everything about this place, but perhaps most of all she hated her total loss of control. Because she was now totally dependent on someone else’s whim, she’d gained a new appreciation for the pampered life she’d led.

Breakfast was a mushy mass of oatmeal, brown sugar, and some unrecognizable, half-rotten fruit. She was hungry, but pushed the bowl away after only a few bites when she found a bug in one of the lumps of fruit.

Marcella joined her, frowning at the uneaten food, and patted Zoe’s hand sympathetically. “They are taking us to the water later, to bathe and wash our clothes. It will lift your spirits. You’ll see.”

Zoe looked down at herself. The pantsuit she had lived in since her kidnapping was so caked with dried mud she could detect only small patches of its original navy color. The arms and legs were badly shredded from the long march here through the thorny underbrush, as was her once-beige silk blouse. She couldn’t imagine how foul she must smell after so many days of marching and hard labor without a shower or deodorant. Somehow she’d gotten used to it, except for rare moments when she caught a whiff of herself.

She almost laughed, remembering how she’d once complained when her father’s secretary had mistakenly booked her into a three-and-a-half-star hotel during a business trip. How outraged she’d been because the room had no bath salts or down pillows. The bed was too firm, the decor too cheap, the room service inferior.

Amazing how, in only a week, the prospect of being allowed to bathe in a cold jungle stream could suddenly sound like heaven.

Though Fetch hadn’t slept for well over sixty hours, she was able to push aside her fatigue and insistent, splitting headache for the long hike back to the camp that held the Western hostages. Her mission demanded her there, so she returned at her first opportunity, trekking alone through the jungle. The noonday sun shot brilliant beams of light through the rare open spaces of the canopy overhead.

In two seconds, she’d gone from fast asleep to alert on her feet, rifle at the ready, when Barriga and another rebel had entered her tent without warning three nights earlier.

The rebel chief told her that a hostage from the neighboring camp had taken ill and she was to leave right away. The FARC didn’t give a damn about the well-being of hostages and tended their injuries only because they weren’t worth a cent to them dead. It was all about protecting their merchandise.

Fetch had made her cot with military precision, prepared her medical kit, and grabbed a duffel with a change of clothes. She didn’t want to leave the hostages she was assigned to, but it would be impossible if not dangerously suspicious to refuse. She also didn’t mind a few days away from Zoe Anderson-Howe.

Ever since the Brit had arrived, she’d managed to irritate, infuriate, and disturb Fetch. She wasn’t sure why Zoe got under her skin. The woman certainly wasn’t the first hostage to fight against her predicament, but she was the first to so bluntly confront the trigger-happy soldiers and play Russian roulette with her own life. Did Zoe not care what happened to her? Or was she really naive enough to think that her father’s money was all the leverage she needed to stay alive? Either way, she’d picked a dangerous course.

She couldn’t relate to Zoe’s reaction at all. She was used to following orders even if she didn’t agree with them, even if the outcome made her miserable. She was a soldier, trained to obey and serve. A soldier was to show initiative in dire situations only, never in regard to her own safety or sanity. Granted, plenty of times since she entered the FARC she’d felt like taking them all out, one at a time. But she had to endure these megalomaniacs and focus only on the hostages.

The only time she’d ever gone against protocol, and while on assignment no less, she had ended up losing all that had ever mattered to her. As much as she hated to admit it, the organization was right. She couldn’t even dream of sharing a future with someone.

That said, she couldn’t help but wonder how Zoe would cope in her absence. So far she’d managed to keep the Brit alive long enough to get in and out of trouble every few hours. But how long would Zoe survive on her own? She was nothing like Sam, a competent woman and soldier trained to deal with dangerous situations.

Zoe thrived on flirting with adversity. How could she possibly keep Zoe safe without becoming too obvious, especially since it would take a task force to keep her out of trouble? The difference between Sam and Zoe was almost comical. Sam, the cute, blond, girl-next-door type, and Zoe, the bombshell playgirl. Never anyone’s girl next door, because rich people don’t have neighbors.

But why was she even comparing them? Fetch couldn’t put her finger on it, but it had something to do with the way Zoe made her feel when she looked at her. She rubbed her face to force away the memories. She didn’t want them and she didn’t need them, but mainly they were irrelevant.

Generally, her life was a blank canvas, and she’d learned to find comfort in that fact. Fetch didn’t want to ever feel homesick or even miss the comfort of a well-worn pair of jeans. She didn’t want to glance at anything animate or inanimate before she shut the door for an assignment. Detachment had helped her stay alive.

Her assignments lasted longer and were more uncertain than those of other ops. As long as she didn’t have anything or anyone to miss, or miss her, she could bear these long absences and uncertainties. She especially didn’t want anyone worrying about her when she was gone, because someday she wouldn’t return. It was only a matter of time, and she didn’t want to put anyone through that kind of pain. Especially not someone she loved. Now, more than ever, after Sam’s death, she knew what it was like to be left behind to mourn, to have to live with the resulting hollowness.

Fetch was attached only to memories, because she didn’t have any power over them. She couldn’t walk away from those like she could from everything else. She had tried to, in the months that followed Sam’s death, but eventually gave up and was partly relieved. She wanted to hold on to the one person that made her feel more than just a soldier, a trained machine, more than one of the guys. That’s all she had been considered most of her life, just one of the guys in the barracks.

Initially, she had fought for her place in a world comprised of and defined by men. She had to prove that she was just as good by being ten times better. She had to accept and silently deal with the sexual and sexist remarks and self-serving compliments, until she became deaf to them. But when Sam looked at her, she’d made her feel what whole platoons of men never had. When Sam had said she was beautiful, Fetch believed her. For the first time, she didn’t feel uncomfortable or lied to, that those words were yet another prelude to, “I’ve had a hard-on for a month so let’s fuck.”

Sam had made her feel like a woman. Not a lust object, or a soldier, or a buddy, but a desirable woman. God, how she missed that feeling.

Fetch shook off the memories as she neared the camp with Zoe and the other Western hostages. She was ready to collapse. She’d stayed at her patient’s bedside the whole time she was at the other encampment. The FARC expected her to save the hostage no matter what, or her own life was on the line. The sleepless nights had taken their toll. Her headache had reached new limits and her heart was booming from exhaustion. She was desperate for a few hours of solitude and rest.

Her spirits lifted slightly when she rounded a bend in the trail and recognized where she was. The river that ran near the camp was just ahead, which meant she was only minutes now from the chance to finally sleep.

As she closed the distance, she heard voices coming from the river. A woman was yelling in English, something about wanting clean clothes. It was Zoe. Fetch suppressed the urge to roll her eyes and picked up her pace.

When she reached the clearing, she spotted Zoe up to her waist in water, her back turned. She was naked, trying to wash her clothes, all the while complaining loudly to one of the female guards on the bank that she needed something new to wear. A handful of other female rebels were in the river as well, bathing and doing their own laundry. Most were ignoring Zoe.

“Just look,” she said angrily as she held up her shredded pantsuit and ruined silk blouse. “How the hell do you expect me to get into these again? They’re nothing but rags.”

She had a point. Most of the time, hostages received a mismatched change of clothing when their own had become too worn out to wear. Most likely, Zoe’s big mouth and even bigger attitude had prevented her from getting any favors.

Fetch approached one of the other women guarding Zoe. “What’s going on?” she asked in Spanish. Zoe continued to rant to the rebel on the opposite bank, unaware of her presence.

“The British woman is upset about her clothes,” the woman replied.

“Then give her something clean to wear.”

“That’s not my decision,” the rebel said. “I want to, especially since she was good yesterday and today.”

“Good?” Fetch couldn’t believe what she was hearing, but the guard nodded.

“She gathered wood yesterday and helped the cook this morning clean the dishes.”

Fetch knew her shock registered on her face. “She did?”

“Si. But the others don’t want her to have any special favors. They give her very little to eat, and today she not even eat that. Coming here, she had to sit to rest, she is so weak. If she does not eat more, she will get sick like the other soon.”

Fetch walked to the edge of the river. Zoe still had her back turned. Her upper torso was covered with scratches and insect bites. A few looked infected, but more worrisome was the visible outline of her spine. She was losing weight too fast. Not good.

“I hear you’ve been demanding clothes,” Fetch called, “and that you’ve been a lot more accommodating lately. Maybe you deserve them.” She tried to sound condescending for the other soldiers’ benefit. “I might even arrange something for you if you’re extra nice at dinner,” she added, hoping she could get Zoe to eat tonight.

Zoe froze when she heard the medic’s voice. How long had she been there? She was glad the doc was back, since she was the only person who seemed to care about her well-being. But her ever-present superior tone had already gotten on her nerves. Who the hell was she to determine whether she deserved a damn clean anything?

Ordinarily, Zoe wasn’t shy about her body. Most people found her attractive, not that their opinion usually mattered. She was comfortable in her own skin and not the slightest bit prudish. But for some reason, the medic made her all too aware of her nakedness. She held her ratty blouse to her chest and thought about the best way to respond. Every reaction here had repercussions, both good and bad.

She could swallow her pride and make sure she got new garments, or she could go with her anger, which would get her absolutely nowhere. If she’d learned one thing so far in this hell, it was that, unlike in the real world, playing the obedient zombie got you places.

Zoe slowly turned around, with the biggest smile she could muster. “Yes, I have been a rather good girl today, Doc,” she said brightly. “I think I’ve definitely earned some clean… well, whatever passes here as clothing.”

She waded toward the woman, her eyes on the river as she negotiated the rocky bottom, her sore feet protesting every step. A wisp of breeze chilled her wet skin as she emerged, and she shuddered. When she got to the shore, she glanced up and stumbled when she saw the medic’s expression.

The doctor was openly staring at the uncovered half of her body. She’d seen that look before, from men and women alike, and had rarely been affected. But this was different.

It was entirely unexpected and inappropriate, especially considering her current situation, but Zoe felt a rush of unexpected warmth at the appreciative ogling. And the sudden realization that the doctor found her attractive made her involuntarily re-examine the medic, knowing she was lesbian. She studied the woman beneath the fatigues, seeing more than just a soldier for the first time.

The doc certainly had a fabulous body, that was apparent, especially since she wore only a pale green tank top and slim-fitting camo pants. The day was warm, and sweat had made the shirt cling to her upper torso, outlining her breasts, the dark areolas of her nipples faintly visible through the thin fabric.

When Zoe’s own nipples hardened in response, she forced her gaze upward to the doctor’s face. The medic was really beautiful, Zoe realized with a start. Her long, dark lashes framed eyes the color of coffee beans. Smooth, olive skin, high cheekbones, even features. Her short hair was nicely cut and suited her oval face and long neck. How had she not noticed all this before? Had she been too self-absorbed?

Get a grip. What was she doing? She was in the jungle fighting for her life, and now she was preoccupied with how attractive one of her guards was? Stockholm Syndrome, maybe. She’d read about it—when hostages began to have irrational, positive feelings about their kidnappers.

She forced those thoughts from her mind, determined instead to utilize this new knowledge. The doctor’s expression had shifted from confident and in control to uncomfortable in a matter of seconds. She could use that.

If the doc and the other rebels made Zoe’s life miserable, then she could try to profit from the doc’s weakness. She dropped the shirt from her chest as she walked the rest of the way out of the water, standing naked before the medic. The doctor didn’t even try to look away; her eyes were now fixed on Zoe’s breasts.

“How nice do you want me to be at dinner?” Zoe asked provocatively. “In other words, what’ll it take to get a clean shirt?” She drew closer, practically pushing herself up against the medic. “Well?” Zoe added when the woman didn’t reply.

The doctor’s gaze traveled upward, to her mouth. “I…uh…food…eat.”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say, but that came out very ‘special needs.’”

Zoe smiled and put her hand on the medic’s chest, between her breasts.

The doctor finally looked away. “I meant, if you promise to eat tonight, I’ll try to get you some clothes.” She said it just above a whisper, as though she didn’t want the others to hear. “Cover yourself. Now.” When she gestured toward a stack of towels on the bank beside them, Zoe could see that the doctor’s hand was shaking.

“Or what?” Zoe teased, keeping her hand on the medic’s chest. “We won’t be able to contain ourselves? We’ll finally give in to that undeniable attraction and have a go at it right here? Is that what you want? Will that get me a pair of clean underwear?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” the rebel doctor replied, tiredly rubbing her temples. “I realize you’re used to getting what you want and who you want, but I am not interested in you.”

“I can tell you’re a dyke.”

“So? You’re not my type. And I’m certain I’m not yours. You don’t have to screw me to get a pair of panties.”

Zoe pulled her hand away. How dare she talk to her like that? She didn’t know whether she was hurt, disappointed, or both. But either way, she was angry. “Screw you? I’d rather peel off my skin and jump in a tub of salt.”

“I know,” the doc said, taking two steps backward. “So what exactly are you trying to accomplish?”

It was one of those rare moments when Zoe didn’t know what to say. “I was just…” Just what? What was all this getting her? She was pissing off the one rebel who’d shown any real caring for the hostages. “Nothing.”

Chapter Sixteen

Fetch’s headache was blaring so furiously she found it hard to think. This unexpected and confusing interaction with Zoe had disoriented her. She had to end this exchange and get some rest, sort it all out later.

One thing was clear. She certainly couldn’t encourage this inexplicable change in Zoe’s behavior, whatever the motivation behind it. If she tried this sexual come-on with any of the other rebels, it would have disastrous consequences. She picked up one of the towels from the stack and tossed it to Zoe. “Cover yourself,” she repeated, as she feigned an expression of distaste.

Zoe caught the towel and wrapped it around her torso. “Happy?” she snapped.

“Do you care?”

“No. Now do you think you can take your disdain somewhere else?” Zoe stood there dripping, her head held high, her expression one of challenge.

“There’s nothing I’d like more, but you need clothes. Wait here while I get you something to wear.”

Surprise registered on Zoe’s face. “What did I do to deserve such generosity?” she asked sarcastically.

“Just wait here.” Fetch was no longer in the mood for conversation. She needed to lie down for a while.

“I’ll wait in my hut.”

“You can’t enter the camp looking like that.” Fetch forced herself to remain aloof, but she was having a hard time keeping her eyes off Zoe’s chest. The towel was so small it barely covered Zoe’s ample breasts, exposing far too much cleavage, and ended just below the dark triangle of hair she’d glimpsed at the apex of her thighs.

“You should have thought about that before you allowed me to wash my rags. How did you think I would walk about without a change?”

“Like the rest. With your clothes wet.”

Zoe looked shocked. “You’re all animals,” she shouted.

The female guerrilla standing nearby turned in their direction, as did some of the women bathing in the river.

“Keep your voice down,” Fetch said between her teeth.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Zoe’s hands, at her sides, became fists. “You’ve all been ordering me around and treating me like a friggin’ criminal. How much more humiliation will I have to endure in this hell? Why hasn’t anyone sent for me?” Tears sprang to her eyes.

“I told you, it takes time.” Fetch knew she should appear cold and indifferent, but how could she blame this woman for wanting to get the hell out of here?

“How much bloody more time? Days, weeks, months? What? Some of these people have been here for years.”

Fetch couldn’t lie. “Probably later than sooner.”

Zoe just stood there, her face expressionless but for the tears now streaming down her face. Fetch wanted to put her arm around her to comfort her but couldn’t.

“I told myself this morning that if I complied, if I played nice, I would manage to make the best of this hellish situation,” Zoe said. “Maybe even…I don’t know, convince you to let me go for good behavior. But then I remembered the other hostages. They’ve been here so long most don’t even know what month it is. Some look like they don’t even care anymore. And that one, the Aussie…Kylee? I think she’s simply gone mad. She was plucking out her hair and eyebrows this morning. I tried to talk to her and get her to stop, but she was completely out of it. Finally she just collapsed, and they dragged her back to her hut like a lamb being taken away for slaughter. Nothing I do will matter, will it?” She stared off mournfully into the distance.

“Nobody gets out of here for good behavior,” Fetch said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Zoe looked at her, a sudden storm brewing in her deep blue eyes.

“I realize this is a horrible situation for you but it’s not—”

“Sorry?” Zoe repeated, louder. “Are you kidding me? Sorry is what you say to someone for accidentally stepping on their toe, not deliberately ripping away their life.”

“It can’t be any other way.”

Zoe took a deep breath. “Look, I’ll do whatever it takes. Get me out of here and I’ll pay you whatever you want. I won’t even go to the police,” she pleaded.

Fetch had heard all this before. Desperate hostages would promise virtually anything.

“Not that I could lead them back to this place anyway,” Zoe mumbled almost to herself as she scanned the dense jungle around them.

“It’s not about personal gain,” Fetch said. “I have no need for money.” That was one of the few truths she’d spoken so far. Fetch did her job because she believed in her cause. She wanted to help and save people. Sure, the EOO paid well, like most private organizations, but she kept only a fraction to support herself. Her lifestyle was very low-maintenance, and she didn’t see the point of wasting her money on ridiculous luxuries when she could use it to help others instead. The bulk of her earnings went to charities and research institutions. Foundations, like Doctors Without Borders and War Child.

“Of course. The money is for your noble cause,” Zoe shot back. “Tell me again how drug trafficking fits in that righteous…”

Fetch watched a transformation take place. Zoe closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as though she was calming her anger and reconsidering what she was saying.

When she opened them again she smiled, and her tone changed from sarcastic to seductive. “None of my business, is it?” She stepped forward and ran a finger slowly down Fetch’s chest. “My judging you will not make things better for me.”

“No, it w…won’t,” Fetch stuttered as Zoe slowly traced a path down her stomach.

“But I can offer something your precious cause can’t,” she added provocatively. “Don’t push me away again, Doc. I know you want me.” Zoe cupped Fetch’s face tenderly with one hand. “You’re a beautiful woman.”

Fetch grabbed her wrist. There it was again. Those same words, said all too often. “Don’t say that,” she snapped as she pushed Zoe’s hand away. “We’ve already been through this.” She wanted to feel indifferent, or used, like all those other countless times when men and women had tried to seduce her just to get something from her. That was clearly Zoe’s motivation as well.

Why, then, did her heart want to believe Zoe was being sincere? And why did Zoe make her feel as Sam had, looking at her that way, like she was a beautiful, desirable woman? She wanted to look away, but Zoe’s gaze held her fast. Her stomach was full of butterflies; she had to stop where this was going. “If I wanted to have you I would. I don’t need your permission.”

“But that would be rape,” Zoe said. “And you don’t look like the type.”

“You don’t know my type.”

“I know you’re not like the rest,” Zoe stated with conviction. “You wouldn’t be a doctor otherwise. You help and heal people. I can see your compassion when you’re around the other hostages. I felt it when you tended to my wounds. Frankly, I don’t understand why you’re here.”

Fetch shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

“Maybe, but there’s more.” Zoe studied her, head tilted to one side, gaze unflinching. “You’re not as detached as you think. Not when you’re around us. Seeing the Aussie woman like this pains you. I’ve seen you sneak food into her hut. You care, though you almost seem to hate that you do. In fact, you seem remote only when you’re around your own.”

Fetch didn’t know how to respond. No one had ever seen her as anything but detached, not even she herself, because she considered it a weakness. The only other person who had ever thought otherwise was Sam. This conversation was taking a turn she didn’t care for. “I have to get back to camp. I’ll have one of the women bring you clothes.”

“Think about my offer, Doc. Get me out of here and I could make it worth your while.” Zoe started to reach for her once more, but Fetch caught her wrist again and kept her at a distance.

The prospect of Zoe touching her wasn’t repugnant. In fact, she was apparently so starved for the gentle contact of another woman her body was involuntarily reacting to every glancing caress. But she absolutely could not let this happen, and she had to make it clear to Zoe that this new tactic could only lead to disaster. “I don’t doubt that. Seems like you’ve had plenty of practice.”

Zoe scowled. “Don’t believe everything you read.”

“For the record, be careful who else you make that offer to. It could get you raped or killed, or both—and not necessarily in that order.” Fetch said it flippantly but felt anything but as she walked away.

She was in the dense patch of jungle between the camp and the river when Zoe marched rapidly past her. Fetch was so self-absorbed, replaying their conversation in her mind, she didn’t react right away. Picking up her pace to catch up, she said, “What are you doing?”

“Going to my God damn hut,” Zoe called over her shoulder, never slowing.

“You can’t be seen like this.” Fetch grabbed her from behind, wrapping her arms around Zoe’s, pinning her against her body.

Zoe struggled to break free. “Let go of me!”

Fetch held on tight as her mind and body involuntarily memorized their forced spoon-like embrace. Where she had clamped her hands together at the base of Zoe’s breasts, she could feel the curve of them with every one of Zoe’s rapid exhalations. Zoe’s ass was firmly pressed against her groin. Fetch involuntarily thrust her hips forward, and when Zoe groaned, Fetch moved her hands down the towel, stopping low on Zoe’s abdomen. Fetch inhaled the clean scent of her hair, and as her face brushed against Zoe’s exposed upper back and shoulder, she shuddered at the sensation of warm, soft skin against her cheek and bunched the towel in her fist, wanting nothing more than to pull the fabric away to touch that warm body.

“If the men see you like this, there won’t be any stopping them,” she whispered, her lips beside Zoe’s ear.

“What’s the difference between you and them?” Zoe began to breathe even more heavily, and Fetch wondered if she was doing the same. “You want to fuck me as much as they do.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Fetch snapped, and turned her around, but still held her by the arms. “You’re playing with your life.”

“You’re the one playing with my life,” Zoe yelled. “Now let me go.”

Zoe tried to pull away again, but Fetch only tightened her grip. “What are you trying to prove?” she asked, forcing Zoe to look her in the eyes.

“That I still have some God damn say in my life!” Zoe shouted. Without warning, she managed to knee Fetch, hard, in the crotch.

Fetch was so taken aback she released Zoe and bent over, wincing.

Zoe took off like a rabbit.

It was almost half a minute before Fetch recovered enough to go after her. She’d just broken into a run when Zoe screamed. Picking up speed, she found her in a small clearing. A guerrilla she didn’t recognize had evidently tackled Zoe and now had her pinned under him on the hard dirt. The towel had been stripped off and tossed to the side; Zoe was naked, and the rebel’s hand was between her legs. With the other, he had one of her hands pinned over her head. She was fighting hard, kicking and scratching with her free hand, trying to get out from under him, but he easily overpowered her.

Instinctively, Fetch leapt toward them, grabbed the rebel’s groping hand, and pulled his arm behind his back. Keeping it straight, she brought her elbow down on his outstretched arm and heard the bone break. The man fell to the side, squealing in pain and cradling his arm.

“Who are you? Fetch demanded, relieved to confirm he was a stranger. She’d have a lot of explaining to do if he was one of Barriga’s men, but she would’ve stopped him just the same.

The guerrilla screamed obscenities at her in Spanish, before he calmed enough to explain he was from a neighboring camp and had been sent to borrow supplies.

“Next time stick to your own hostages. This one is mine.” Fetch was angrier than she’d been in a very long time, and it wasn’t just the headache or the aggression due to lack of meds. She glanced over at Zoe, on her knees several feet away. She was clutching the towel to herself and shaking uncontrollably, terror in her eyes.

How dare this bastard touch Zoe. She looked down at the rebel again and, with blind rage, kicked him in the head. The man passed out. “Don’t ever touch her again,” she whispered in English.

She slowly approached Zoe. “Did he hurt you?”

“I’m okay.” Her voice shook, but Zoe had composed herself enough to wrap the towel back in place.

“Let’s go back to the river.” She offered her hand, and Zoe took it and got to her feet. “I’ll bring you some clothes myself.” Fetch sensed that the last thing Zoe needed right now was another soldier from the camp, even a woman, to be around her.

When they reached the water, Fetch sat her down on the grass. A few of the female rebels were still bathing. “I’ll be right back.”

“Aren’t you going to say ‘I told you so’?” Zoe asked softly, her eyes on the river. She seemed almost in a trance.

Fetch knelt in front of her so she could see Zoe’s face. “Just please be careful from now on.”

Zoe nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

After she’d given Zoe some of her clothes and gotten her settled into her hammock, Fetch lay down on her own cot. She still seethed with rage, but exhaustion finally overtook her and she nodded off. After only a couple of hours rest, however, loud sounds just outside roused her. Some of the male rebels were whistling and hooting at one of the female guerrillas about something.

She wanted to go back to sleep, but she was too concerned about how Zoe was faring to allow it.

Chapter Seventeen

Zoe sat in the corner of her hut, back against the wall, numbly watching the spiders and roaches climb over obstacles and up the rough boards of her prison. She was too distraught to think clearly.

What had happened at the lake with the soldier and the doctor had left her afraid and disoriented. One rebel had almost raped her and another had saved her. Except for her mother’s death, Zoe had led a fairly charmed life. No one had ever violated or even threatened her predictable and protected existence. She’d always called the shots and either won or lost the game, but no one had ever directed her future. Now, in the space of a week, she’d become nothing but a pawn in someone’s brutal game.

She wanted just to shut her eyes and find the only escape she could, in a dream. She even tried humming her mother’s song to find some peace, but sleep, just like the prospect of a future, eluded her. She finally gave up and sat on the floor, watching the spiders for a long while, then staring out between the boards. They’d taken her watch when she was kidnapped, so she had no idea what time it was. Late afternoon, probably, but she really didn’t care. It was almost funny, she thought, that when you hurt, time was measured in suffering: in its lessening and its ending, and not in minutes, hours, or days.

Marcella and her daughter were standing by the kitchen tent. They’d understand what she was going through. But as much as she needed someone to talk to, she couldn’t find the strength. She liked these strangers, but being around them also reminded her of how long she could be here. Listening to their stories only increased her despair.

The one person she did want to talk to, or at least felt she could be around, was the doctor. It wasn’t like the medic had given her hope, but at least she’d made her feel safe. And she’d shown her the first bit of kindness she’d experienced since her kidnapping. Zoe recognized the sweatpants, socks, and T-shirt the doctor had given her as the medic’s own—they’d been among the laundry on her cot that first day in camp. And when the doc had brought her back to her hut, she’d left without chaining that damn restraint around her ankle.

She watched the doctor’s tent for a long time, hoping she’d return and maybe spend some time with her. It was hot in the hut and she was so thirsty her throat hurt when she swallowed. When she no longer had the strength to sit up, Zoe curled up on the floor and cried. She hated feeling so weak after she’d just promised herself she’d do anything to survive, but she couldn’t find the energy to fight.

Spent from her crying jag, she leaned her head back and shut her eyes. She’d almost finally nodded off when a sharp rap on her door broke the quiet. She ignored it. Probably someone to tell her it was time for dinner or that she needed to help with hell knew what. She wasn’t interested in either, even if that meant losing the few privileges she had.

“Zoe, you in there?” She recognized the concerned voice of the medic and was relieved to hear it, but too tired for confrontation. She didn’t reply.

After a few seconds, the doc announced, “I’m coming in.”

She heard the door open and close, but remained where she was, eyes still closed, too bone weary to move. “Since when do any of you announce your entrance?” she mumbled.

“Zoe, what’s wrong?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Zoe whispered, mostly to herself. “Never been better.”

“Are you hurt?” The doc’s voice was closer, just above her now.

Zoe just shrugged. A few seconds later, a cool hand pressed against her cheek, startling her so much she flinched and opened her eyes.

The medic had crouched down in front of her. She was frowning and her eyebrows were knitted. She slowly removed her hand, her eyes never leaving Zoe’s. “It’s almost time for dinner. You need to eat.”

She shook her head. “Not hungry.”

“You have to,” the doc said. “You’ve had very little the last several days. It’s important you keep up your strength.”

“Are we going to go through this again?” Zoe plopped back against the wall again and shut her eyes. “I don’t care. Food is the last thing on my mind.”

“I know what happened earlier today was awful,” the medic said gently. “Along with everything else you’re going through. Stress and fear take a toll on the body. You have to—”

“I told you I don’t care.”

“I do.”

Zoe opened her eyes and looked at her quizzically. “You care about what I’m worth. Don’t bloody patronize me.”

“I do care, damn it.” The medic’s face blurred. Zoe tried to concentrate, to bring her back into focus, but the effort was too exhausting. “I couldn’t sleep, thinking about what might’ve happened,” the doc said.

Zoe barely registered the words. All she knew was how alone she felt. “I needed someone to talk to after the attack, but you just left me here and went away. I know you’re one of them but…it’s crazy.”

“I’m not the enemy here,” the doctor said. “There’s a lot going on I can’t talk about right now, but—”

Zoe could hear the doctor’s voice but her mind was so hazy it was hard to fully absorb what she was saying, and at the moment it felt irrelevant. “It’s crazy, but I feel safe with you around.”

The doctor cupped her face again. “Focus for a moment, Zoe.”

She wanted to comply, but she was just too weak.

“Look at me,” the medic said, louder, as she moved closer.

Zoe did her best to focus, but she felt like a camera with a broken lens. It took several seconds to bring clarity to the medic’s face, now only inches from hers.

Her gaze fixed on the doctor’s mouth. Her lips were lovely. So full and moist and inviting they transported her, at least momentarily, from her living nightmare. “I meant it, you know,” Zoe murmured hazily. “You really are beautiful.” She reached up and traced her thumb over the lush bottom lip. “And kind, and—”

The doctor gasped at the touch. “You need to drink and eat something, before you pass out,” she said softly.

“What I need is to kiss you.” Zoe bent forward and softly brushed the doctor’s lips with her own. Once, twice. Slow, barely connecting. The third time, she lingered, pressing their lips together with infinite gentleness. Then she opened her mouth enough to trace the edge of the doctor’s mouth with her tongue.

The doctor pulled away. “Stop,” she said breathlessly.

“Please kiss me back,” Zoe pleaded. “Make me feel…something, anything.”

“I can’t.” The doctor groaned and stood.

“Don’t go.” For a brief moment, she’d been able to push aside the hell she was in, and she was desperate to reclaim that escape.

“You’re coming with me.” The medic held her hand out to help Zoe up. “You’re going to eat, and I’m going to sit with you until you do.”

Zoe tried to get up. “Will you kiss me if I do?” she asked, and dropped back, dizzy and exhausted.

The doc’s eyes were sad, almost like she pitied her. “That can’t happen again.”

Fetch reached for Zoe to help her up, but before they touched hands, one of Barriga’s deputies opened the door of the hut, startling them both.

“There you are, Medica,” he said in Spanish. “The commander wants you. Now.”

His words and the man’s demeanor told Fetch that something was up, something important. He stood there waiting; he wouldn’t leave without her.

“I’m coming.” She headed toward the door but turned back to Zoe before she got there. “Please go out and eat something.”

Zoe didn’t respond, and she couldn’t wait. Fetch hustled over to the rebel chief’s tent. The deputy leading her pulled back the entrance flap to admit her.

Diego Barriga was alone, hunched over his laptop computer. He looked worried, and he didn’t try to hide it when he glanced up and motioned for her to sit on the bench in front of his makeshift desk. “We are facing a grave problem, Medica, one that threatens the very existence of The People’s Army.” He spoke in Spanish in hushed tones, clearly to ensure that the man standing watch outside would not overhear them.

“A plague is sweeping through the world,” he told her. “A fatal virus with no cure.”

Shocked, Fetch gripped the edge of the bench until her knuckles went white.

“It is very bad here in Colombia,” Barriga said gravely. “Thousands are dead already in San Jose del Guaviare, Bogota, and Cali. And now I hear that soldiers at two camps are showing some of the symptoms.” He looked down at his computer. “This is what to look for: a bloody cough, diarrhea, vomiting, chest pain, high fevers, headaches, sore muscles, weakness. They say people die very quickly after the symptoms appear, usually within only a couple of days.”

He looked up at her. “The Central Command has ordered we not tell our people about this danger. We cannot have panic or defections because soldiers are worried about their families. They are safer here, away from the cities. But we must do what we can to keep this at bay. We have stopped all leaves and transfers. No one will be allowed out of their current camp. We must make do with the supplies we have.”

Barriga stood and came around his desk to stand over her. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “We are lucky to have you here. You are a good medica, one of the best we have had. You will do what you can to keep us safe,” he said, “but you will not tell anyone what I have told you.”

Fetch’s mind raced as she absorbed the news. A global pandemic? With no cure? Was it in the United States? Had it reached the EOO campus? It was imperative that she contact headquarters immediately, both to find out the situation there and to reassess her mission. She had good intel to pass on now about the location of the hostages and the security around the encampment. If they could get the hostages out—and if it was still a priority in light of what was happening elsewhere—then they had to launch a rescue very soon, before the plague reached their camp.

“I’ll need all the information you can give me about this,” she told Barriga. “What is known about the progression of the disease, how it’s transmitted, a full list of possible symptoms. What medicines and treatments have been tried, and so forth.”

“I will have it for you soon.”

She stood and faced him. “As I’m certain you’re aware, sir, there is no way to ensure this is not already in our camp. A few of our people have been to San Jose del Guaviare in the last week. They may be infected, but not yet showing symptoms. We need to quarantine them in their huts immediately. We must also order everyone in camp to cover their mouths and noses with scarves, or whatever they have. They should avoid close contact with each other. Stay in their tents and huts. Post only minimal guards on the perimeter, spaced well apart. No congregating at meal times. Perhaps the cook can take the food around, or we can have them get their plates one at a time. We can tell everyone a bad flu is going around.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“I know that you said all travel is banned for the time being, Commander,” Fetch said. “But you must make an exception for me, if we are to have any chance of keeping this contained. We need medical supplies, especially surgical masks and gloves. They provide much more protection than scarves.”

She could see in Barriga’s eyes that he was about to object, so she continued. “I know what precautions to take, Commander, rest assured. I do not wish to further endanger our people. I have a mask to wear and will be very careful. If the Jeep is waiting for me at the end of the trail, I can be to town and back by tomorrow morning.”

He considered her request for a full minute before replying. “Very well. Give me a list of what you’ll need. I’ll make sure everything is waiting for you at our supplier. And I’ll radio ahead to the outpost to let you through.”

Fetch used the notepad on his desk to jot down what she required. “I’ll be ready to leave in ten minutes. Have the information I asked for waiting for me when I get back.”

She turned to go, but paused at the door and looked back at him. “Do you wish for me to make the announcement before I go?”

“No. I’ll take care of that,” he told her. “Go. And be fast. We need you here, Medica.”

Fetch ran to her tent and emptied her backpack, taking nothing with her but her cell phone and charger, mask, latex gloves, flashlight, and water. She stopped at the kitchen tent for a block of panela, a rebel staple for long, fast marches because it provided a quick, potent energy boost. Made by boiling down the juice from sugar cane, it tasted like a blend of brown sugar and molasses.

Once she had negotiated her way past the booby-trapped perimeter, she broke into a run, her eye on the trail to avoid letting the myriad of vines and roots that encroached along the pathway trip her. She tried to stay focused on the task at hand, but her mind was churning as she wondered what was happening in the world beyond the jungle. She feared the worst: that the EOO itself might already have been irreparably compromised. They had all received vaccinations against every conceivable disease they might encounter, including shots of not-yet-approved drugs. But was it enough to protect them from this pandemic? Could this new virus already have wiped out all on campus, the governing trio, her fellow ETFs?

What if no one answered when she reported in? Should she return to the camp? Her sense of responsibility dictated she complete her mission and ensure the safe return of the hostages, even if it meant she had to try to do it on her own.

Perhaps the new restrictions she had suggested to Barriga would give her an opportunity. With only minimal guards about, she might be able to get most of the hostages out. But not Kylee. She was too weak, and couldn’t possibly travel on her infected foot. Fetch couldn’t bear to leave her behind, but would have to.

She thought of Zoe. Zoe had gotten under her skin, especially recently, and she refused to consider anything happening to her.

Thank God at least no one in camp had exhibited any symptoms. At least, not yet. No one but her. If she’d told anyone about her headache this morning, Barriga might never have let her leave. She was certain it had nothing to do with the virus. It was a side effect she had experienced on several occasions, especially when she’d had too little sleep. With a nap and some ibuprofen, it had faded to a manageable level.

By the time she reached the trailhead, dark had long fallen and she was soaked with sweat, but she’d covered the distance in record time. She put on her surgical mask and latex gloves. The small rebel outpost there was usually manned by three or four guerrillas. They were the lookouts for the main camp, charged with radioing an alert to Barriga at the first sign of any Colombian military or nearby aircraft.

Since Barriga had radioed ahead, the sentries let her pass, and a driver in a Jeep was waiting a short distance farther on to take her to San Jose del Guaviare, the provincial capital and nearest town.

She turned on the Jeep’s radio to listen to the news as they drove and got a much clearer picture of the extent of the pandemic. It was mostly a recap of the situation in Colombia but included updates on the global situation.

They reached the city a little after midnight. The streets of San Jose del Guaviare were empty of people and vehicles, and despite the mild evening, windows everywhere were closed. When they pulled up in front of the medical warehouse, Fetch told the driver she might be there a while, getting the supplies. He was happy to crawl into the backseat for a nap.

Fetch stole down the alley along the side of the building to the back, where she found a quiet place to call headquarters.

Engaging her scrambler, she dialed the number and held her breath until Montgomery Pierce picked up. “Fetch.”

“Are you all right?” he asked her. She’d never been so relieved to hear his voice.

“Yes, sir. I just heard about the virus. It hasn’t reached us, at least not yet,” she replied. “I think we’re still good. And there?” The question was entirely beyond protocol, but Pierce’s quiet response told her it was neither unexpected nor out of line. These were unusual circumstances.

“The situation is horrible but all ops are safe so far.”

“Are we protected?” she asked, referring to the score of vaccinations the EOO gave their operatives.

“Probably not.”

“I see. I have the intel required. Are we a go?”

“No,” he replied. “All necessary resources are unavailable, indefinitely.”

She wasn’t surprised to learn that the elite U.S. forces they’d planned to use for the rescue were tied up with higher priorities, and that the EOO itself had no way to assist on its own.

“You’re to abort,” he added. “And return ASAP.”

“That would compromise the whole operation,” she said.

“That’s correct.”

“They’d never let me back in and it would take months for someone else to infiltrate. These hostages have been here too long, sir. We need to get them out.”

“The organization’s priority is your safety.”

“I understand, but I can’t abandon these people. If the virus doesn’t kill them, the guerrillas will if they fall ill and are worth nothing to them.”

“It’s a sad situation, Fetch.” Pierce’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle. “But maybe the jungle is their best bet right now. It’ll take longer for the virus to spread there than in the cities.”

“Some are doing very poorly. I need to get them out.”

“Be here in twenty-four hours.”

Was she being recalled purely for her own safety, or did the EOO need every available op concentrating on the pandemic? “Are we working this one?” she asked.

“Some of our own are in the field.”

Fetch’s heart sank. She couldn’t leave the hostages to die in the jungle. But she’d never disobeyed any direct EOO order. “That’s a negative, sir. I’d like a few more days. This crisis may allow me to pull this off on my own.”

Pierce didn’t reply immediately. He had great faith in the judgment of his ETFs and gave such unusual requests weighty consideration.

“I can’t allow that. It’s dangerous and there’s nowhere safe to take them.”

“I’m not leaving without them, sir.”

Another long pause on the other end. “I expect you back in five days. That’s all you get. I’ll try to find a way to get a helicopter to pick you up. Give us the coordinates and an ETA when you know them.”

“Affirmative. Thank you, sir.”

“And Fetch?”

“Sir?”

“Take every precaution and make it back here in one piece. We need you.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, but Pierce had already disconnected.

Fetch jogged two blocks to the bus terminal, where she kept a locker. The place was deserted but for a lone clerk behind the counter who wore a scarf over his face. She picked up her duffel bag, which contained her GPS, Glock, silencer, and ammunition, binoculars, maps, and other gear provided by the EOO. She’d need it all if she was to have any chance of getting the hostages out of there on her own. As she trotted back to the medical-supply warehouse, she replayed the phone call in her mind. Things had to be very bad for Montgomery Pierce to express such personal concern. It wasn’t like him at all. Had he told her the whole truth about how much the EOO had been impacted by the crisis?

Her knock on the side entrance was answered by the owner, a man she was well familiar with from other resupply visits. A FARC sympathizer for nearly two decades, he was also wearing a mask. “Follow me,” he told her in Spanish as they headed into the warehouse.

It was a large building, usually packed with row after row of boxes on pallets. But the extent of the pandemic in Colombia was clear when she saw that more than half the stock of the building had been depleted.

She’d worried that he would have long ago run out of masks and gloves, but he’d apparently set aside an ample supply for the guerrillas. Everything she’d requested was waiting for her in a neat pile. She thanked him and quickly stowed the supplies in her backpack. Five minutes later, she woke her driver and they headed out of the city in the Jeep.

As they drove, she worked on a plan to get the hostages out. She couldn’t take them to San Jose del Guaviare. The guerrillas would stop them long before they could reach it on foot. She’d just made the trip from the camp to the trailhead in less than six hours, but that had been at a run by a well-conditioned soldier used to the terrain.

It would take the hostages at least ten hours or more to walk that distance in their condition, and this time of year, the sun rose early, before six a.m. Even if they left at midnight, probably the earliest they could get away, the camp would awaken long before they reached the trailhead. Barriga would have alerted the outpost and the sentries would be waiting for them, likely reinforced with guerrillas sent by vehicle from town, while rebels from the camp would be close behind. She and the hostages would be trapped between them with nowhere to go.

And Fetch didn’t dare an alternate route through the jungle. That was too slow, and easily tracked, and Barriga would have men stationed on the way to town anticipating she might do that.

There were no other roads or settlements near the camp, so their only chance of escape lay in heading in the opposite direction, farther into the jungle interior. Barriga probably wouldn’t suspect she’d try that, at least not initially. But it would make for slower going. They’d all have to be loaded down with supplies because they might be on their own for several days until extraction was possible.

When the Jeep neared the trailhead, Fetch downed eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen and chewed the remainder of her panela in preparation for the long trek back to camp. As she ran, she thought more about the best way to get the hostages out: the when, the how, what supplies she’d need, and, most important, where she would lead them. She couldn’t take them to anywhere the guerrillas were well familiar with. And it should have a clearing close by big enough to land a helicopter.

She’d been transferred between several mountain encampments during her six months undercover. Each time, she’d used her FARC-supplied compass to roughly ascertain their locations. And whenever she traveled between them, she’d thoroughly scanned her surroundings, especially when on the high ridges where she had an unobstructed view for miles. She noted where every major clearing was, every abandoned coca farm and distant settlement, every sign of civilization at all, so she could give the best intel possible for any rescue attempt.

One of the high camps she’d visited was a two-or three-day march away. No, probably four, she reconsidered, given the slower rate the hostages could maintain. She remembered pausing on an overlook not far from there for water and seeing a brief flash of light in the dense valley below. Sunlight reflecting off a tin roof, she’d surmised. Impossible to see unless conditions were exactly right, so doubtful many guerrillas, if any, knew it was there. It was her best bet, especially because there’d been a small clearing not far away.

Fetch was exhausted by the time she arrived back at the hostage camp, just as the cook was serving lunch. Though the painkillers had helped, she needed a few hours’ sleep before she collapsed. Her medical training was needed here now more than ever before, and she had many sleepless nights ahead if the virus reached them. She’d be useless to the rest if she were wasted.

But she stopped at the commander’s tent first to update him and deliver a handful of surgical masks for him and his guards. She had donned hers as she entered the camp. Barriga had obviously already imposed the restrictions she’d recommended. Only four guards were positioned at the perimeter this morning, and most of the guerrillas and hostages were apparently eating in their tents. The few gathered near the cooking fire all had their mouths and noses covered, and were standing well apart from each other. Zoe was not among them.

The commander’s eyes were grave when she entered. He had a scarf wrapped over the lower portion of his face. Before she even had a chance to speak, he relayed the bad news. “Two of our soldiers have this virus, I think. After you left, I asked whether anyone felt sick, and Alejandro and Mateo said they both had been throwing up since last night. Alejandro went to town last week to post the Howe woman’s proof of life. They are quarantined in a hut at the edge of camp.”

The knowledge that the virus had reached them only added to the urgency of Fetch’s mission. Who knew how many more in camp might already be infected and not showing symptoms? Pierce had only given her five more days anyway, but even that was too long. She had to get the hostages out of there very soon. “This is bad, Commander,” she replied. “I will check on them immediately.”

Fetch slid the backpack from her shoulders and removed a handful of masks and gloves. As she set them on his desk, she said, “I advise we tighten the restrictions even further. Everyone should remain in their huts except the cook, who can deliver food and leave it outside. And me, of course. I advise even you, Commander, to remain isolated. Those soldiers who are currently sharing huts should be split up. Have we enough extra tarps and tents for all?”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“No one from other camps should be allowed in,” she added, thinking of the rebel who’d assaulted Zoe, “and we should pull all the guards.” Fetch hoped Barriga would bite.

For the first time, Barriga visibly bristled at her recommendation. Before he could object, she said, “I heard on the Jeep’s radio that all planes and helicopters have been grounded, except for emergencies. And the military right now is too busy keeping public order to think about us. Many have been killed by this virus as well. We’ve nothing to fear from them. But any or all of the guards may already be infected. Until we know how this spreads, we need to strictly limit who moves about the camp.”

Barriga considered her suggestion only briefly before shaking his head. “I don’t want our people mixing with the hostages. Because they will have to fend for themselves, we will leave them unchained. So I must keep some guards posted to make sure they don’t escape.” He got up, took off his scarf, and replaced it with one of the masks Fetch had given him. “I will tell them not to get close to each other.”

The chief had one final message, which was chilling. “If any of the hostages become ill, shoot them. We can’t risk them making our own sick, and I won’t waste our food on soon-to-be-dead people.”

Fetch spent the next hour going around the camp with her backpack, distributing the masks and latex gloves. She was happy that no one seemed to be panicking or unusually concerned about the precautions. They all believed it was just a bad flu. Some of the rebels even expressed delight at having the unexpected free time to lounge in their tents.

She found the Aussie hostage Kylee curled into a ball, asleep on her cot. She mumbled something when Fetch called her name but didn’t awaken, so she placed her latex-gloved hand on the woman’s forehead. Kylee felt feverish, but that was nothing new. She’d been running a temperature for several days from the infection in her foot. There was no evidence she’d been vomiting or had other symptoms of the virus. Fetch made a mental note to check on her again later.

The tent of the two infected rebel teenagers was at the edge of camp. Both had a high fever and complained of headaches and nausea. Alejandro was weak from vomiting, and Mateo had a bad cough. She gave them aspirin and Tamiflu, and encouraged them to drink as much water as possible to stay hydrated. After she left, she instructed the cook to make sure the boys were delivered food. It was all she could do.

She saved Zoe’s hut for last.

Date: 2015-01-11; view: 701