Page 19 of The Perfect Stranger

Chapter Seven

I was in a white room, white ceiling, white walls, white tiles, watching my target. He didn’t have a face. I didn’t know what he looked like. But he was the man I was sent to kill. He too was wearing only white. There was pulsing dread smothering the room that felt like it was closing in on me. I stood my ground, finger on the trigger as I watched Luis Santos stroke the pin of the grenade. He held it like it was something precious, something of value. He was talking, but I could hear no words.

“Help us,” came my father’s strained voice, yet he was nowhere to be seen.

Santos laughed, snickering, the taunting sound echoing in the room. His finger slid over the metal one more time. I lunged at him, but I fell through his body like he was a ghost in haunting. And then, as he laughed some more—head falling back in amusement at my demise—he pulled the pin slowly from the grenade.

There was a noise. It wasn’t the sound of a grenade exploding. It wasn’t the sound of everything around me being destroyed by sheer force. It was simply the sound of a twig snapping. Clear and crisp under the weight of something heavy.

I left the dream, my eyes opening wide bringing me back into reality. Jase too was wide awake, his Glock fully loaded and ready to take a shot. It was dawn, the sun was starting to break through the jungle’s canopy, and the rustle of fauna could be heard around us. But the twig? Only a large animal or human could do that.

Jase, still with his NV’s on, pointed in the direction of the noise. I followed his line of sight with my own Glock.

Two legs, two arms, the shape of a man and the shadow of his rifle by his side appeared. He moved with a careless sway, possibly intoxicated. He walked a few feet, then stopped, only to recommence his journey. He wore loose fitting green army combats, the shirt unbuttoned revealing a sweat and grog stained white shirt.

I tapped Jase on the shoulder, who instantly broke watch to follow my silent instruction. We headed in opposite directions, our Glock’s now with silencers pointed at the lone man. Whether he was truly alone, I didn’t know. He had to of come from somewhere near, which meant we had camped too close within enemy lines.

The man’s crunching footsteps and grunts as he swiped angrily at leaves and branches in his way, was loud enough to drown out any noise from our stealth-like steps. Jase was closing in, so I picked up pace. His Spanish was too rusty, and I wanted to hear every word this man had to say. He came to a sudden stop and so did we. There was nothing about of interest that challenged his attention, only his apparent desperate need to relieve himself. The sound of urine hitting the leafy debris reached our ears. Jase’s eyes switched to mine, and I could tell he was smiling. We couldn’t very well interrupt a man during this process. Instead, we waited, guns still poised at the mystery jungle wanderer. What felt like a lifetime later he finally stuffed himself back in his pants and turned to leave. He made a full turn before facing the wrong end of my Glock. His eyes widened in horror and confusion. When he gathered his senses, he fumbled for his semi-auto hooked lazily over his shoulder.

“No es buena idea,” I warned, letting him know his instincts to fight were not the brightest of ideas. “Give.”

He stilled, nostrils flaring.

“Last warning.”

Reluctantly, and without breaking eye contact, the man handed over his weapon. He was sobering up fast.

“You speak English?”

He held out his hand and waved it to say ‘so-so.’

He was a rebel soldier, who while often secluded away from high populated areas, targeted tourists who were mostly of English-speaking origin. That meant, most if not all rebels, possessed a decent level of English.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked, so far demonstrating a sound knowledge.

“That’s not your concern right now.”

He flinched feeling the barrel of a Glock pressed into his back.

“Take a walk with us,” Jase instructed.

Weaponless and without choice, he walked with us back to camp. He sat opposite, waiting, observing us, not with the hatred I expected, but more with curiosity.

“I have some questions for you,” I began.

His face became void of any tell-tale emotion.

“Who are you working for?”

Silence.

I allowed thirty seconds grace. When he still didn’t answer, Jase rounded on him, hooking his left arm around the man’s neck, squeezing tight. Immediately, his face reddened, eyes wide in desperation. He kicked out and bucked until Jase finally loosened his hold.

“Who are you working for?” I asked again.

“The rebels.” He looked confused like I should know the answer already. I did. But I had a point.

“Where is the rebel camp?”

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