Free Show No Fear by Marliss Melton Page B

I’ll search you for leeches and
     jungle ticks.”
    Lucy’s breath caught. “You’re kidding right?”
    “Sadly, no.”
    She grew conscious of every squirming, creeping thing around her. Wilderness stretched for miles in every direction. An ancient
     and instinctive fear rose up in her as she considered the possibility of a jaguar lurking close by.
    Snapping her eyes shut, she tried to melt into the solid warmth of the man holding her. With her stomach still hungry, she
     doubted she would sleep any better tonight than she had the night before. Out here, there was nowhere to run.
    Midmorning the following day, the trail ended abruptly, spilling the guerrillas and UN peace-keepers into a partial clearing.
    A handful of buildings stood in a thin, wet mist. Chickens pecked aimlessly in the mud. What was probably once the farm of
     a
campesino
had been commandeered by the FARC’s forty-eighth front and turned into an outpost, the perimeter of which was guarded by
     a fifty-caliber machine gun.
    Soldiers at the camp, mostly bedraggled teens, meandered out of a lean-to to eye the gringos as they staggered with relief
     toward the burning campfire.
    “Are the hostages kept here?” S¸ukruye whispered, betraying her ignorance. Still suffering the effects of altitude sickness,
     she held her head in her hands.
    “Probably not,” Fournier replied, sweeping the area with a practiced eye.
    Lucy met Gus’s eye. She was certain they were not. The camp had an air of restfulness about it. With several targets standing
     on one end of the clearing, it appeared to be a training camp, only there was no training going on now.
    “Who’s that?” Carlos asked as a light-skinned gentleman ducked out of a leaf-covered bungalow to approach them. He wore the
     same camouflage as the rebels, but his fair complexion and hesitant demeanor set him apart. Nor was he armed with any weapon.
    They all converged by the fire where Comandante Marquez made introductions. “This is Señor Álvarez,” he explained, which told
     them nothing. “He was brought in to represent the FARC in this negotiation. You may begin the process at once.” He gestured
     to a brick and clay structure with a screen door. “Step into the officers’ quarters.”
    The clatter of a generator and the light shining inside made the hooch a welcoming sight. Lucy’s confidence edged aside her
     misgivings. This was why she was here in this godforsaken jungle. Gus might have the advantage with his knowledge of the environment,
     but no one was better at reading people. She could interpret the smallest of nuances, the flicker of private thoughts, the
     flutter of eyelashes—details most people overlooked. It was a gift that couldn’t be taught, inherited from her father, making
     her the best.
    Once inside, Fournier insisted on more personal introductions. The thin, dapper Álvarez turned out to be an Argentine businessman
     with pipelines in northern Colombia. He explained that he was being forced to play middleman between the FARC and the UN or
     risk having his pipelines attacked.
    Lucy’d had no idea a middleman was needed, but it made sense. The FARC’s front commander, Rojas, wouldn’t want to show his
     face to outsiders.
    As they helped themselves to mismatched chairs around a worn table, she and Gus took stock of the single room, seeking items
     that might offer clues as to Barnes and Howitz’s location.
    The only other furnishings besides the table were a desk and a set of bunk beds. Stacked on the desk were several books of
     Marxist leanings, a worn notebook, and a pen. A shortwave radio had been left on the windowsill. Catching Gus’s eye, Lucy
     made certain he’d seen it.
    With tact and consideration for Álvarez’s unwilling involvement, Fournier got the meeting under way. “Have you seen the hostages?”
     he inquired.
    “No, no,” said the Argentine. “I arrived here only last night. Before that I was at my home in Buenos Aires.”
    “Then