And then I heard a voice I recognized. One I’d listened to from countless YouTube videos and documentaries about the Colombian cartel. Videos my therapist at the Veterans for Mental Health insisted I avoid, but which I couldn’t resist watching whenever I was drunk or lonely or missing my dad.

  The voice of Juan Gonzalo Blanco.

  He called out to the other men and then passed by the bathroom door. He was moving in the opposite direction, left to right. He was going somewhere by himself.

  I opened the door wide enough to slip through, then walked out into the hall like I belonged. I don’t know if the other men saw me because I was focused solely on the man in front of me, walking into a bedroom by himself. I followed him inside and closed the door, then locked the deadbolt.

  I pulled out my pistol and placed it against the back of Blanco’s head.

  “Stay silent and turn around slowly.”

  He raised his hands, then turned around obediently.

  He had a face like Benicio del Toro. Strong eyebrows and eyes that seemed to squint unnecessarily, spreading wrinkles across his face. His hair glistened with gel. He wore a white dress shirt and a lime-green tie, and black slacks with a brown belt and matching brown leather shoes. He looked like he’d come from a fucking business meeting. A corporate Vice President, not a drug boss.

  His dark eyes held fear. That gave me more pleasure than anything else I’d seen in the world. He was afraid of me in that moment because I was going to kill him.

  But not yet.

  Keeping the gun aimed at his forehead, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the object I’d brought along. A photograph of my father in his uniform, smiling in his office the day he took command of Fort Lewis.

  “This is my father,” I said, I was proud of how strong my voice sounded. “He was killed four years ago at the Bogotá airport. I am here to kill you, but first I wanted you to know why.”

  It was the speech I’d rehearsed for four years. One I never imagined I would get to actually make. The fear in his eyes changed to curiosity for a moment, and then it changed to the last thing I expected to see. Mirth.

  He let out a surprised laugh. “You are not an American commando!” he said in nearly flawless English. “You are a sad little girl.”

  “I’m not sad. Not for much longer.” My finger tightened on the trigger.

  Although he kept his hands raised he nodded at the photograph. “I remember that day. Your father was with that man. The sniveling politician. I celebrated their deaths with a fine bottle of wine. It was a great victory for me. A message sent. You understand?”

  No words would come to my lips. Do it, Juliana. The time had come. I had to kill him. The longer I waited…

  The way he looked at me sent a shiver up my spine. With only a glance it seemed like he knew everything about me, my history and my future, my hopes and dreams and pain. He leaned forward so that his forehead touched the barrel of the gun.

  “If you are going to kill me, do it.”

  Do it, the voice in my head repeated. Pull the trigger.

  “You will never get another opportunity such as this.” He continued leaning forward, and I took a step back from him. Then another step. “Unless you cannot,” he said sadly. “You are not a soldier. You are just a sad little girl who cannot understand global politics.”

  Each word was a whip cracking against my emotional barriers. I tried to pull the trigger but my finger wouldn’t obey.

  “Like so many Americans, you lack the spine for decisive action.” His tone was bitter. He was disgusted. “Just like your father and the politician he came here with four years ago.”

  He backed me up until I reached the wall. A knock came at the door and someone called out for Blanco, but he never took his eyes from me. The intensity in his gaze was terrifying.

  “Do it,” he said. “You have dreamed of this day, surely. Kill me! Put a bullet in my skull!”

  Do it Juliana, I begged myself. Kill him. Kill Juan Gonzalo Blanco. You’ll be making the world a better place.

  But no matter what I told myself, I couldn’t do it. I was too weak. My hand trembled so violently it was all I could do not to drop the gun. Tears streamed down my face.

  Blanco lowered his hands. “I suppose not.” He looked almost disappointed as he took the gun from me as if it posed no danger to him at all.

  His hand swung the gun, and a flash of pain blinded me.

  41

  Juliana

  My world was a blur.

  Pain throbbed in my head. I heard men laughing. I blinked but saw only glimpses of boots and wooden floors and white plastered walls full of tiny imperfections.

  I was being dragged by my feet into a crowded room. My arrival created a stir of excitement. Someone lifted me into a chair and then tied my hands behind the back. I didn’t have the energy to do anything but slump my head on my chest.

  A splash of water hit my head, jolting me up.

  Blanco stood in front of me surrounded by five men dressed more casually. They chatted among themselves, giddy and excited. Like they’d caught a prize bass at the fishing competition and were waiting on the judge’s announcement. Only Blanco looked serious. Deadly so.

  I tried to turn my head but even that simple motion sent dull pain pulsing through my temple. I groaned and closed my eyes. It felt like the worst hangover of my life.

  Blanco kicked my shin gently to get my attention. “Open your eyes, please. I would like you speak with you.”

  One of the men said something. Blanco turned and snapped back at him. “My colleague from Neiva believes you are not a threat. Only a silly girl. But I am smarter because I know there should be no silly girls here in the Amazon.” He crouched down, putting his face on the same level as mine. “You are not merely a silly girl, are you?”

  I tried to collect enough saliva to spit in his face but my mouth felt like it was filled with cotton. Wasn’t that a sign of a concussion? I probably had a concussion. That was pretty far down on my list of immediate concerns.

  Blanco examined something in his hands. My knife. He held it out for my inspection. “Whose blood is this? How many of my men have you killed?”

  One of the men who spoke English laughed as if the thought of me killing someone was amusing. I made myself grin at them as I said, “Not enough.”

  One man translated my words. Blanco’s posse all laughed.

  “She has spirit,” Blanco said. He barked an order and two of the men left the room. “How did you find my compound?”

  “I had a tracker on your helicopter,” I lied. “Brought me right to you.”

  Blanco scoffed. “If you had a tracker on my helicopter you would not have arrived so quickly. I think you were already here waiting. Was it Juan Suarez?”

  He searched my face. I tried to keep it blank but I must have failed because Blanco immediately nodded. “I thought so. Suarez had many political enemies, but his death was too soon after the barge destruction to be coincidence.” He sighed. “I should have trusted my intuition and canceled today’s meeting.”

  “I enjoyed destroying your drugs,” I said with a feral smile. It felt good to let it out. If I couldn’t kill him, at least I could taunt him. “How much money did you lose when that barge went up in smoke? How many tens of millions?”

  Blanco shrugged. “The amount I lost that day may be a lot to a person such as yourself. But to me, it was inconsequential.”

  I thought about the bunker full of gold bars, cash, and cryptocurrency. That reminded me of what Gregor had left behind: the bombs. How long until they detonated? The sun was shining out the window. I did some quick math: 20 minutes leaving the compound, 20 minutes returning by myself, at least 20 minutes waiting and watching before making my move. However long I had been unconscious.

  The bombs could go off at any moment. Suddenly it felt very dangerous sitting here in the house. But if they went off while Blanco was here with me…

  “Why are you alone?” he asked.

  Maybe I could distract him long enough for the bombs to go off. Maybe. “Why haven’t you killed me?” I asked.

  “Because I enjoy conversation with new people. Why are you alone? There were two people who destroyed my barge on the Orinoco.”

  “My partner didn’t want to come this far,” I said smoothly. “He wanted to rip off the drug barge and escape with a few bricks. I couldn’t pay him enough to try assaulting your compound, so I came alone.”

  Someone shouted outside. Blanco held my gaze a moment longer then went to the open window. He spoke a few words with the person outside and came back, turning my knife over in his hands again.

  “So that is who you slew with this.” He made a clicking noise with his tongue and shook his head. “You came all this way. You had your chance. You caught me alone and put a gun against my head. And you could not do it.”

  The shame washed over me like nausea. Gregor had warned me killing someone wasn’t easy. Even after stabbing the guard in the jungle, and slitting the throat of the man outside the house, I couldn’t do it to Blanco when I had the chance. Was it because the other guards were armed, whereas killing Blanco would have been in cold blood?

  Or was I a coward?

  “I know why,” Blanco said, reading my mind. “You were unable to kill me because, deep down, you know your father’s death was not my fault.”

  “It was your fault!” I shouted. “You killed him!”

  “I did no such thing.” He turned to the man next to him and spoke in Spanish. “My colleague from Neiva agrees. I did not shoot the Americans in Bogotá.”

  “You ordered their deaths,” I said. “You sent men to kill him.”

  Blanco reached into his pocket and came out with my photograph. He held it toward me so I could see. “Your father was a soldier. He came to my country in his uniform and helped sow discord among the people of Colombia. I ordered them to be killed out of self-defense.”

  “My father wasn’t a soldier!” I said. “He was a… a… a paper pusher! Nothing more than an administrator! He didn’t even have a weapon.”

  “Words are more dangerous than rifles,” Blanco mused. “I possess my power because I have convinced the Colombian government to look away from my actions. To ignore me. Senator Peter Williamson,” he said, mouth twisting and making the name into a curse. “That man’s words threatened my power more than a thousand soldiers could.” He spread his hands. “I was forced to act. I had no choice.”

  “You can justify it however you want, but you’re a murderer.”

  “We are all murderers.” He smiled viciously. “How many men did you kill along the way here? Suarez and his bodyguard? Young Miguel outside with his throat slashed? Miguel was only 17. Were you aware of this fact? Not even old enough to vote in Colombia’s elections. He was a boy, a boy you murdered.”

  “No,” I said.

  “You are just like me,” he insisted. “So was your father. Murderers, all of us.”

  “No!” I screamed. “My father was nothing like you!”

  His words stung because I knew they were partially true, at least concerning me. Two weeks ago, I’d been a hacker preparing for a presentation at Defcon East, whose biggest concern had been buying deodorant that would keep her armpits from sweating through her blouse while she was on stage. Now I’d killed two men. Men who probably deserved it, but they were deaths nonetheless.

  And the thing that frightened me the most? I didn’t care. My hate for Blanco was so great that I would have killed a hundred men just to get to him. I didn’t even need to pause to do the mental math. Any number of deaths was worth reaching Blanco.

  And then I blew my chance. It was all for nothing.

  One of the men Blanco had sent away returned with a bundle of gear in his arms. My pack, laptop, rifle, and helmet.

  “Not just a silly girl after all,” Blanco said, hefting the rifle approvingly. He handed it to someone else and then took my helmet. He turned it over in his hands and examined the inside, holding up the headset part to his ear to listen.

  “I do not believe you are alone,” he declared.

  “It’s the truth.”

  “I believe you have teammates in the jungles surrounding my compound.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “I believe that if I turn on this microphone and speak, your teammates will hear my words,” he said slowly. “And I believe if I tell them we have captured you they will come out with their hands raised.” His face darkened. “Especially if they hear your screams.”

  I froze in the chair as I realized he was right. Donovan, Gregor, and Michael might be waiting at the river for me… But they wouldn’t remain there if they heard my screams over the comms. They would do the stupid, macho thing that men did and storm back here to attempt to rescue me. Like a princess requiring rescuing in a fucking fairy tale.

  And Blanco would be waiting with a trap.

  Getting captured sealed their deaths. Blanco knew it.

  “How many are there?” he asked, holding up the helmet threateningly. “Answer my questions truthfully and perhaps the others need not die. We may ransom you back to the government instead.”

  I doubted he would do that. What kind of ransom could entice a man with a bunker full of gold and cash? He was going to kill us regardless of what happened.

  “Three,” I said, defeated.

  “Like the musketeers,” he laughed. “And where are these three musketeers now?”

  “Gone,” I said. “We were retreating from the compound when I saw your helicopter fly overhead. They continued on while I came back for you.”

  Blanco frowned. “Retreating?”

  “We came to kill you, but you weren’t here,” I said. “So we left.”

  “Why did only you return?” he asked, deadly quiet.

  “I…”

  His eyes widened with realization. He strode to the door and shouted commands to the men downstairs. When he returned his face was filled with worry.

  “The money,” he said. “Did you come to take it? No, it would take you days to carry all the gold out…”

  “We stole your cryptocurrency,” I said. I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading on my face.

  Blanco clenched his jaw. He turned the helmet microphone on and said, “Good morning! This is Juan Gonzalo Blanco. I have a very attractive young blonde woman with me.”

  “Juliana,” I said.

  “Juliana is with me,” Blanco said, eyes filled with fury. “Perhaps you would like to see her live?”

  This was my chance. If I was quick enough I could tell the others not to follow me, that it was a trap, that I was dead no matter what happened. The mic was open. Maybe they would believe me and escape while they could.

  I opened my mouth.

  The crack of a single gunshot sounded outside. Blood sprayed from Blanco’s chest and he fell against the wall. CRACK, CRACK, CRACK, came individual shots, felling each of the men inside the room one by one. The man holding my pack had the presence of mind to slide away from the window but then a bullet flew through the wall, hitting him in the head and crumpling him like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

  A blond hulk appeared at the window, rolling inside and coming up with his rifle aimed with tattooed arms.

  “Donovan!” I shouted.

  He moved to the doorway, then when he confirmed it was clear he quickly untied my hands. He wrapped me against him and I clung to his hard body, allowing his warmth and strength to radiate confidence back into me.

  “You’re safe now,” he mumbled. “You’re safe.”

  All I could do was cling to him. I didn’t want him to ever let me go.

  “I thought I lost you, Jules,” he whispered into my hair.

  “I’m sorry,” I said with tears in my eyes.

  “Me too. You okay?”

  “No.”

  His fingers caressed the back of my head. “At least you’re honest.”

  Shouting rang out downstairs, followed by the staccato sound of automatic machine gun fire. Then an explosion shook the ground so violently that I almost fell to my knees.

  “The bunker? I asked, waiting for the house to collapse around us.

  “That’s Gregor creating a distraction, although he’s 15 seconds late.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got five minutes before the bunker goes. Here.”

  He tossed me a pistol, then waited. I didn’t realize what he was waiting for until he jerked his head toward the corner.

  Everyone in the room was dead… Except Juan Gonzalo Blanco. He’d been struck in the gut, not the chest. He groaned while blood pooled all around him.

  Donovan gave me an encouraging nod. Oh.

  Despite the chaos of gunfire outside, I slowly walked over to Blanco. When his eyes found me he smiled. His white teeth were stained red with blood.

  I aimed the pistol. My hand wasn’t shaking anymore.

  Blanco sneered. “Just a murderer after all. Killing me only proves me correct.”

  “Maybe I am,” I admitted. “But my father wasn’t. He was a good man.”

  I pulled the trigger.

  42

  Juliana

  The gunshot echoed in the room. It didn’t really register with me, though it was impossible not to hear it in such a close space. I barely even saw Blanco’s body go limp.

  I was numb to it all. I felt nothing.

  Donovan grabbed my arm and whirled me around. “We have to go!”

  He went to the window and then pulled back. Bullets crunched into the wood outside the window, the deadly vibrations passing through the floor and into my boots.

  Donovan put his hand to his microphone. “Men down behind the shed.” The crack-fire of new gunshots rang out from the trees. One by one the men shooting from the shed went silent.

  “Watch the door,” Donovan told me, then leaned out the window and let out a barrage of three-shot bursts from his rifle.

  With my back to the wall I aimed the pistol at the door. Another explosion went off somewhere outside, and I could hear boots stomping on the stairs inside. My grip tightened on the gun as I looked down the sight.

 

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