Once they’d returned to the village, Nick had been given some food and a place to sleep. He was told not to try to escape, or the consequences would be severe and immediate. He took that to mean he would probably be killed. He did ask to be able to clean up, since he was still covered with the muck of what had been Kerry’s head. He was escorted to a nearby stream and allowed to wash the grime and blood off under armed guard.

  He hadn’t seen Nõn in several days when finally they came to question him. After his questioning was finished, the tribal elders called them to a meeting.

  The interpreter began the meeting speaking for the tribal elders. First they thanked Nõn for freeing the boy and getting him to safety. Then they explained their belief system had no tolerance for beating or harming children. This was a sin that would deny a person’s soul entrance into where ‘Ewandama’ is, ‘Ewandama’ being their most cherished god.

  The interpreter paused and then addressed Nõn. “In our culture, your visions and spirit guide would be the sign of someone who has the powers of a Jai and has learned to harness these powers to become a Shaman, however we do not allow women to be Shaman. This is new to us, to see a woman with such powers. You are welcome to stay here with the Wounaan, if you wish.”

  The meeting went on for several hours, with Nick and Nõn asking and answering several questions. The tribal leaders wanted the camp removed from their lands. Nick had a suggestion that would solve all of their problems.

  The director was in his office when the call from the technician’s satellite phone came in. He expected the technician to have an update on the last hunt and answered the phone.

  “Do you have an update?”

  The voice he heard was not the technician’s; instead, it was the Wounaan interpreter.

  “I speak for the tribal elders of the Wounaan people. Camp Baroota is on our lands and is now forever closed. We will allow the lone survivor who remains to leave our lands. Anyone who attempts to return to the camp will be killed. That is all.”

  The line went dead.

  Back in the Darien Gap, Jay had cleaned up the camp and was on his way to the airport. The driver had been given instructions to take him to the Sambu airfield and ensure that he left the Wounaan lands. When Jay arrived at the airport, he called the director as well.

  “Speak!”

  “Sir, this is Jay, update on the final hunt. The sponsors were successful in locating the two remaining trophies, and they’re on their way home. The camp is shut down until the next hunt.”

  “Anything else I need to know, Jay?”

  “No, sir. The hunt went by the numbers, as usual. Looking forward to your next task order, sir.”

  “That’s good news, Jay, good work. I will speak to you soon.”

  The director hung up and made another call. The time had come to cut ties with everyone involved with Baroota.

  Nearing the Texas coastline in the Gulf of Mexico, Pat was drinking some kind of rum and mango mixture while she sat watching the boat captain fishing for swordfish.

  His phone rang, and he smiled as he spoke to the director. The conversation was quick and precise. The boat captain hung up and smiled at Pat.

  “My son, asking if he can borrow the boat when we return. Would you like another drink while I fish, madam?”

  “Please, yes, they’re amazing,” replied Pat.

  The captain took her glass and returned a short time later with another. Sipping the drink, Pat watched as the captain yelled out he had a fish on the line and started the long battle with the fish. Pat fell asleep as she watched, the glass falling out of her hand and spilling onto the deck of the boat.

  When she next woke up, she found her hands tied. The captain was cleaning the fish he’d finally brought onto the boat and was dumping one bloody mass after another into the water around the boat.

  He smiled and said, “Hello, sleepy head. I was hoping you’d wake up. The chum is sure to bring sharks, and I wanted you to see them.”

  Pat tried to move but couldn’t. Somehow, she did not like the tone of the captain’s voice; something was different, menacing.

  Watching the water, the captain cried out, “Yes! Yes! They’re here, come and look.”

  He went to Pat and picked her up, helping her walk to the boat’s edge so she could watch the sharks feasting on the now lifeless swordfish’s bloody intestines and organs.

  Moments later, the immediate area around the boat was filled with sharks thrashing through the water, competing for the bloody remains.

  Pat, drooling, was fascinated by the fierce display of the sharks’ hunger. She was still heavily drugged and unable to concentrate.

  The captain laughed and remarked, “Look at how hungry they are, let’s see if we have anything else to feed them!” He smiled at Pat and shoved her into the crimson foam created by the sharks’ urgent thrashing.

  The captain watched while Pat attempted to keep her head above water, crying out to him to help her. He smiled and raised a glass of rum to her in a toast, waiting for the sharks to attack. He didn’t have to wait long. Pat was treading water as well as could be expected drugged, fully clothed, and hands still tied together. She had only a few moments before she’d drown. Violently, she was suddenly pulled under the water. She fought her way back to the surface. Her left foot had been removed in one clean bite by the Mako shark that had attacked her. Panic had set in, and Pat was screaming to the captain to help her when she was pulled under again. The feeding frenzy was in full force now, as Pat never returned to the surface of the water.

  The captain watched for several minutes, glad to finally have the foul woman off his boat. She’d been a very unwelcome guest on his boat. When the director had called and told him to dispose of her, he was elated.

  He picked up the cellular phone and called the director to inform him the problem had been taken care of.

  The boat’s motor fired up as the captain pulled away, leaving the scene for the seabirds that had already started to land, searching for any remaining scraps.

  Two days after Pat had disappeared into the waters of the Gulf of Mexico, Nõn and Nick were escorted to the nearby village of El Real de Santa Maria by the Wounaan. It was the nearest village that had modern services. The interpreter for the tribal elders had made arrangements for them to stay with a friend for a few days while they decided what their next step would be. As far as the director knew, they’d been killed. Jay also believed the Wounaan had killed them. To the rest of the world, they’d perished in the faked plane crash staged by Pat and Jay after the team had been drugged. They’d officially been declared lost in the “crash” after one of the bodies of the flight crew had been found along with some of the faked C-130 wreckage.

  They talked through many plans and agreed they had to be extremely careful who they contacted. They had no idea how deep Jay and the director’s dark tentacles had ventured into their lives. Contacting anyone could bring them both to the attention of the director once again.

  After several hours of brainstorming, Nõn quietly said, “I think I know someone who might be able to help us. She’s the international correspondent for NPR and is assigned to Mexico and Central America.”

  “NPR? Really? You think NPR is going to be able to help us?”

  “You might be surprised what they can do. They work within the system, but outside of it, if you understand the subtleties of what that means. I just need to get her number and call her. If she can help us, she will.”

  An hour later, Nõn had the number and was calling.

  “Hello?”

  “Carrie?”

  “Yes, who am I speaking with?”

  “It is Nõn, how are you?”

  “Nõn? What? Is this some kind of sick prank? Nõn is dead. Who is this?”

  “I’m Nõn, and I need your help, and I need you to keep me dead. I am in a bit of trouble, and I have nowhere else to turn.”

  “OK, tell me something only Nõn would know. Anything at all.”

  Nõn replied, “Are you sure you want me to do that?”

  “Sure, impress me with your knowledge.”

  “You confided in me once after we had been drinking margaritas that you had been having an affair with your husband’s secretary. You made me promise never to tell anyone, and you told me no one else knew about it.”

  “Holy shit! Nõn, it is you. What the hell happened? We were told you were on a plane that crashed in the Pacific Ocean and everyone was lost. What happened?”

  “I will explain later, Listen to me, for now I am dead, and I need to remain that way. I have some powerful people who wanted me dead, and I would like for them to continue thinking I am. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, so what can I do? Where are you?”

  For the next two hours, the women talked. Nõn explained that she was not alone and that she was with the other person she could trust. He too had to remain dead. They needed transportation, passports and new identities. Could she do that?

  “It will take some time. I have some contacts who may be able to pull that off. Let me see what I can do, can you give me a number to reach you at?”

  “I’ll call you, best to be careful until we know what we are up against.”

  “Agreed. I’m so glad you’re alive, thank you for reaching out to me. Call me back in two hours, and I’ll have an answer for you.”

  Two hours later, Nõn and Nick had a plan. It would take a few days for them to get back to the U.S., but it was now possible to get back home. Carrie had arranged for them to meet a contact in Central America who would provide them with American passports and identities. They just had to meet the contact in San Miguelito Panama. Once they had their new identities, they should be able to travel freely. Once they had their new identities, Nõn was to contact her for money and flight arrangements.

  It seemed too easy to be real after the events of the past two weeks. However, the next day they arrived in San Miguelito and met with Carrie’s contact. They had new passports and Virginia state driver’s licenses complete with their photos within hours.

  After they’d returned to their room at the interpreter friend’s home, Nõn called Carrie to thank her for the identification.

  Carrie had made flight arrangements to enable them to land in LAX the following day. Carrie had set up an international wire transfer of five thousand dollars to an account in Panama. She explained the SWIFT code for Panama was BAGEPAPA and the money would be waiting for Nõn at the Citibank located at Av 17B Nte, Panamá City, Panama. Once they had the money, they needed to get to the Tocumen International Airport. Their flight would be an eleven and a half hour long trip on United Airlines. She’d booked two economy seats under their new names on flight #717, which had one stop in Houston, Texas, and then went on to LAX. Carrie said she would meet them there.

  When Nõn explained the itinerary that Carrie had set up, he was impressed.

  “Jesus, she works for NPR? Really, this is some detailed planning in less than two days.”

  “Well, reporters have to work fast. Sometimes a story breaks, and it takes some logistical skill to be the first one there. She has had a lot of practice,” Nõn explained with a sly smirk.

  The following day, they picked up the money and then hailed a cab to the airport for the remaining twenty-kilometer drive to Tocumen International Airport. Nick looked out the window of the Chrysler Pacifica as the driver skillfully negotiated the chaotic Panamanian traffic. The city was remarkably clean and well maintained.

  Nick thought to himself, I could live here under different circumstances.

  Nõn cleared her throat and then hesitated; she was struggling with asking Nick a question, not really sure she wanted to know the answer. Finally, she spoke.

  “I have to admit, I am a little bit curious what motivated you to come here on this mission. I get the impression that if the original mission would have been real and we actually found human traffickers, you would have slaughtered everyone we found holding the children. Am I correct?”

  Nick thought about how to explain his motivation for participating in the mission. Finally, he just said, “Yes, you’re correct.”

  “Why? What motivates you to be so angry towards these people?”

  “What makes you think I need to be angry or motivated to harm them? Your question implies it’s either/or. What if the answer is neither?”

  “That makes no sense to me.”

  “There are some things you just don’t want to know about me, Nõn, some things I tell no one. Why didn’t you mention the scars that cover you from head to toe? My guess is you don’t like talking about them, that every time you look in the mirror, those scars remind you that in some way you’ll never be free from your demon. You’re forever marked by the time you spent in his sadistic care. Bottom line is, we both have our scars, yours are just more visible. Trust me, mine are there.”

  “But for me, the one big difference is I didn’t come here to kill anyone, I was forced into it. I came here to document and educate the rest of the world about the issue of human trafficking. You have a dark side that’s difficult for me to comprehend. There were a few moments back there at the camp I found myself afraid of you. Seriously afraid.”

  Nick said nothing. Looking out the window at the city, he seemed lost in the majestic views of Panama. There was an uncomfortable silence in the taxi as they continued towards their destination. Finally, Nick uncomfortably cleared his throat and smiled an uneasy smile at Nõn.

  “How about I tell you about a hypothetical situation that may have actually happened? I knew this guy once who had been raised in what might have been less than favorable circumstances. Most people who have lived under these conditions end up being different than the rest of us. They become famous or infamous, with names like Bundy, Gacy, Ramierez, and Wuornos. The media would have you believe they’re animals, but they aren’t. They just never had the process of becoming what they were interrupted. No one stopped the train wreck that their lives were, no one stepped in and derailed it. Do you know the name Ressler?”

  “No, I know the other names, but not Ressler.”

  “Ressler was the guy who first formed the profiling unit for the FBI. Cutting edge stuff at the time. Personally, I think a lot of what he did was just common sense. Anyway, our hypothetical guy studied a lot of his cases and read every book he wrote, looking for clues as to what made people like the Gacys and Bundys different. He wanted to know was there a process that derailed who they were becoming? Could it be stopped? He found out there was. The difference between their lives and the rest of us that have shit storms for a life is the people who came in and derailed it. They showed concern for the person who was off track and headed towards infamy. Coaches, teachers, anyone who made them realize there was another choice. They didn’t have to hunt their own kind. They could choose to be something else.”

  Nick paused, wishing he’d just ignored her question, wishing he could rewind this conversation and come up with some smartass comment to defuse the tension in the car.

  Meanwhile, Nõn said nothing, listening. The layers of who Nick really was were being slowly peeled back, and as frightening as it was, she somehow already knew and understood this, she just hadn’t heard it verbalized in such a way.

  Nick continued, “So there are many potential Gacys and Bundys out there, walking among the sheep. Nuclear weapons that have been disarmed, the warhead is still inside them, but the fuse has been turned off. Does that analogy make sense?”

  Nick didn’t wait for an answer. “In my profession, there’s this really stupid saying that we’re sheepdogs protecting the flock from the wolves. The sheep don’t like the dogs or the wolves, and don’t appreciate what the sheepdogs do. That bullshit is repeated over and over by the overweight, soft handed, candy ass crowd I worked with. I never understood it that way. To me and perhaps our hypothetical guy, it feels more like this, mixed in-between the wolves and the sheepdogs, there are some that are hybrids. Not wolf, not dog, and definitely not sheep. They fit nowhere. They understand the sheep dog thinks with a siege mentality, which is doomed to fail. Better to hunt the wolf, with a wolf. Rather than wait for the attack, become the attacker.” Nick was finished with his explanation and looked at Nõn with his eyebrows raised. “Understand?”

  “Sounds like a very difficult position to be in, one foot in many worlds. Understood by none of them. Sounds like your wolf is very isolated.”

  Nick said nothing and looked out the window. A few moments later, the cab pulled into the airport parking lot. Nõn got out and paid the driver. There was a lot to mull over in Nick’s hypothetical answer. Two hours later, their plane began its flight to Houston, with Nõn beginning to understand Nick was much more a mystery now than ever.

  They’d been on the plane about 30 minutes when a steward offered them both a beverage.

  Nõn replied, “Yes, I would like a bottle of water.”

  Nick interrupted that request immediately. “What she meant was she’d like a rum and Coke, make that two, one for each of us.” Nõn looked at him with a curious look. Nick replied, “Really? Another bottle of water on another plane? I don’t think so!”

  The steward raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Nõn said, “Yes, I believe I will have a rum and Coke.”

  Once they landed in Houston, the plane taxied to Gate E #11. Processing through TSA from an international flight was the first real test of their new identities. They passed the TSA checks with no difficulty. Once inside the terminal, Nick stopped and stared at the monitors. There on a monitor he saw a flight from Houston to Colorado Springs, Colorado. It was United flight #5970, in two and a half hours he could be just a few miles from home. The flight would have him landing at dusk in the springs. He could be home an hour later. Home!

 

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