Page 54 of Code 6
“As soon as you can get there.”
“I’m all sweaty and in my running clothes.”
“I don’t care if you’re covered in baby oil and wrapped in a bedsheet. Get down to the theater before I change my mind. I’m going to produce your play sooner than I thought.”
The pages in Kate’s hands fluttered in the breeze. “I’ll be there by nine,” she said, walking fast, talking even faster, and reading faster still as she started on her way.
Chapter 23
Patrick’s eyes were finally adjusting to the darkness. He was staring at the thatched roof overhead, grateful for the pinhole of daylight that connected him to the outside world.
His hunch about the huts had proved correct. It had been years since the FARC’s surrender, but their former camps and strongholds stood like ghost towns in Colombia’s mountains. Patrick had stumbled on an eerie reminder of a kidnap-and-ransom industry that had funded decades of war and terrorism. Like so many others held captive before him, a tiny hut with a dirt floor was his cell, and he was at the mercy of a band of well-armed guerrillas. He could hear them talking right outside his hut.
“El Rubio esmuypeligroso,”said one of them, which made the others laugh. Translated: “The Blond is very dangerous.”
The name fit Patrick, but he also got the joke. Patrick was a gamer, so he knew that “El Rubio” was also the world’s most notorious narco trafficker in a popular Grand Theft Auto video game called the Cayo Perico Heist. If only he could have gotten his hands on the Perico Pistol, El Rubio’s weapon of choice, a distinctive handgun that was a cross between a real-life P08 Luger and James Bond’s golden gun.
Patrick’s leg was cramping. He tried to stretch it out, but the hut was too small for him to stand up straight or lie flat. He sat with his back against the door, extended his legs, and leaned forward to touch his toes. The chain that tethered him to the post wasn’t long enough to allow him to reach forward and touch his toes. He wondered how long he could stand this. He wondered how many days, weeks, or months the hostages before him had been forced to live this way.
He wondered what those two yellow dots in the darkness were.
They seemed to be staring at him from the corner of the tiny hut, a pair of fixed, beady eyes. It was too dark to see any facial features, the shape of the head, or the body. But if the frozen eyes were any indication, the entire creature was locked in an unshakable pose. Stiffened with fright, maybe. Or poised for an attack. The piercing eyes glowed brighter, and finally they blinked. A chill ran down Patrick’s spine, and one question came to mind:
Do snakes have eyelids?
He was pretty sure they did not. But the jungle was filled with strange predators, all of them hungry. This one seemed to sense Patrick’s fear. Slowly, the eyes were creeping closer, and Patrick had to make a decision. Calling out for help was not an option. That would only startle the creature, and he could end up dead from a venomous bite. If he broke down the door, he could be shot by his captors. He feared the bite more than the bullet. On the mental count of three, he drew his knees up to his chest, braced his feet against the center post, and pushed with every ounce of his leg strength.
The door flew open, and Patrick burst from darkness into the daylight. A screeching noise followed him out, which only propelled him faster. His wrists were still shackled, and as the chain pulled taut, all but his hands had made it outside the hut.
“Don’t shoot!” he shouted.
The guards were laughing hysterically. Patrick counted five of them, each dressed in combat fatigues and toting a semiautomatic rifle. They’d obviously put the creature in the hut, another good joke at El Rubio’s expense. Patrick watched the animal scamper into the forest. It was a strangle jungle species unknown to him, perhaps harmless. Perhaps not. Either way, Patrick was relieved to be rid of his yellow-eyed cellmate.
“Bienhecho, Carlos!” one of the men said. Patrick assumed it meant something along the lines of “that was a real knee slapper, Carlos.”
Carlos unchained the prisoner, still laughing. Then his smile faded, and he directed Patrick with the point of his rifle.
“Walk,” he said in English. “That way.”
As Patrick recalled, “that way” was out of the thick forest and toward the river. He rose and started walking. Carlos was right behind him, and four other guerrillas were behind Carlos, still sharing a laugh over El Rubio and his four-legged cellmate. Patrick guessed it was the oldest trick in the FARC joke book, locking the hostage in a hut with some nocturnal creature, and these goons never got tired of it.
The vegetation thinned as the walk continued, and Patrick caught sight of the river across the savanna. The flowering poppy field that Patrick had crossed on his way to the camp was farther downriver, and the guerrillas had him marching along a path that took them in the opposite direction. The cramp in Patrick’s leg worked itself out, and he was walking without a limp as they reached the dirt road near the river.
“Haceralto,”said Carlos, and Patrick stopped on his command.
One of the guerrillas came up behind him and blindfolded him with a scratchy black rag. The first thought that came to Patrick’s mind was that this place, in the middle of nowhere, was the one his captors had chosen for his execution. He expected that, any moment, one of the men would press a lit cigarette between his lips, followed by Carlos yelling, “Fire!” He waited, but no cigarette came. Then a gun went off, and Patrick dropped to the ground.
The guerrillas burst into laughter once again. Patrick couldn’t see them, but it was an even bigger belly laugh than the one triggered by the yellow-eyed creature in the hut. Carlos had fired his weapon into the sky and made the hostage shit his pants. What a riot.
In the distance, as the guerrillas’ laughter subsided, Patrick heard the distinctive sound of tires on a dirt road, a vehicle approaching. Carlos ordered him to stand up, and he did. Patrick could hear the engine running, the brakes squeak as the vehicle came to a stop, and then silence.
“Vaya,”said Carlos, and he nudged Patrick forward with the barrel of his gun.
Patrick took small steps, the blindfold making it impossible to see where he was going, but he assumed they were heading to the vehicle, which was better than the firing squad. Carlos ordered him to stop and grabbed him by the shoulder to make sure he did. Patrick heard a car door open. Someone shoved him inside—the backseat, he presumed. Patrick hadn’t realized how foul-smelling these guerrillas were until one of them slid into the backseat to his right, and another to his left, sandwiching him between his captors. The engine started, but then suddenly Carlos was shouting in Spanish at the driver. He was speaking too fast and with too much urgency for Patrick to translate, but something was afoot. The guerrilla to Patrick’s right flung open his door, grabbed Patrick, and dragged him out of the vehicle. Patrick heard the trunk pop open, and two men picked him up like a duffel bag and threw him inside. He landed with a thud up against the spare tire, and the lid slammed shut.
Patrick heard the car doors opening and closing as the guerrillas piled into the vehicle. The driver found first gear, and they pulled away slowly. Patrick was on his left side, his back to the spare tire. He shifted his weight to get more comfortable. His head was near the wheel well, and he could hear the tires kicking up dirt and loose stones as they continued down the road. They’d gone less than a mile, he estimated, when the vehicle stopped.
It was dark, hot, and hard to breathe in the trunk, but Patrick was focused on only one thing: listening. He heard another vehicle approaching. It stopped right alongside them. Then he heard Carlos from inside the car, telling the others to let him do the talking. This was no ordinarycampesinothey were encountering along the road. Patrick suddenly realized why the hostage had been moved from the backseat to the trunk.