Page 40 of Fear No Evil

“All in your head?”

“Do you see a pen and paper lying around?”

“There’s some in the officers’ quarters.”

No sooner did she mention that building than the screen door swung open and out stepped Gallo, clutching his handheld radio. He yelled at David, who was cleaning his weapon along with the rest of the kids, to clean up the camp. Marquez would be back in half an hour.

Finally! Lena cast Jake a look of relief. “Let’s pray Arias has proof of life so we can get the ball rolling.”

The commander and the Argentine had been gone for three days. Between their two batteries, they were down to nine days of power left on the sat phone that had yet to connect with the JIC. “Amen to that.”

A beat of silence followed his reply. As Lena turned her head and met his gaze, he could tell she wanted to tell him something. “What?”

“I hope you still pray.”

He blinked. “I do. But you used to tease me about it.”

“Well…that was before.”

“Before what?”

She looked away, apparently self-conscious. “You used to tell me one day I would need to ask for God’s help.”

“I remember.”

“Well, that day came in Morocco,” she admitted unexpectedly, “when I wasn’t sure I would make it to the”‍—she glanced around, making sure no one was close enough to hear‍—“to the place where you picked me up.”

Picturing the way she’d looked with her face bludgeoned, crippled by pain, he could imagine she’d been terrified. “Did praying help?”

She raised her eyebrows. “It did, actually. Unless it was just adrenaline.”

For Jake, it made no difference. “Think of it this way. If God created us with all of our marvelous complexities, then who made the adrenaline? God did. So, it was Him either way.”

She cast him a tolerant smile. “I could never win an argument with you.”

“Is that why we don’t argue? And here I thought it was because we got along so well.”

“Don’t flirt with me, Jacques.” Her request held a hint of desperation.

He was about to ask, “What are you afraid of?” when she announced, “Oh, here come Marquez and Arias now.” Pushing off the ledge, she put several yards between them, making it abundantly clear she was done with their deep conversation.

Jake grimaced. Not to worry. They still had days to spend together. And with God’s help, he would win her over yet.

Joining Lena and the other peacekeepers in welcoming Arias back, Jake’s gaze went straight to the commander’s left wrist as he marched into camp with the Argentine. The watch was gone, which meant either Marquez had sold it or he’d gifted it to Rojas. The CIA might know that man’s exact coordinates without him even realizing it.

Marquez ordered Arias and the peacekeepers to get straight to business. They squeezed into the officers’ quarters a second time, an even tighter fit with everyone packed inside, eager to discover what progress had been made. They gave the desk chair to the Argentine, who seemed to have aged overnight. In the last three days, he’d grown a prickly-looking mustache but no beard. Beads of sweat glimmered on his brow.

Speaking in a low voice, he forced all of them to lean forward so they could hear his words over the drone of the generator out back. “It takes three hours to reach Rojas’s camp.” He wiped his brow with his stained sleeve.

Jake met Lena’s sidelong glance. Would that beKi-kirr-zikisor the unnamed site near the top of the mountain?

“Yet I have brought proof of life, as you requested.” Arias withdrew two wrinkled letters from the front pocket of his jacket and surrendered them to Boris.

The German tugged on the switch of the dangling lightbulb, which substantially brightened the room, before perusing both letters in silence. “These appear to be authentic.” He passed one letter to his left, the other to his right.

When the letter from Jay Barnes fell into Jake’s hands, he overheard the breath hitch in Lena’s throat as she leaned in to peruse it with him. Given the water splotches and the smeared ink, it appeared as if Jay had been weeping when he wrote it‍—or getting rained on. The letter was addressed to his bride, Amelia, to whom Jay poured out his distress at being kept away. He hoped to be released by Labor Day, which was the only reference to time, apart from the date the letter was written, July 28, just over a week ago. The FARC had anticipated the request for proof of life even before Boris suggested it.

Passing the letter off to Bellini, Jake watched Lena take the letter from Mike Howitz and skim it briefly. As it was written in English, a language she professed not to know, she handed it to Jake, who waded his way through the sloppy handwriting, just managing to glean its message. He looked up. “Señor Howitz mentions that he missed his son’s birthday. Does anyone know when that was?”

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