Chapter 1 #2
She became a librarian for the freaking Library of Congress and lives a quiet life with her cats and her books. She’s soft, warm and kind in all the ways I’m sharp and prickly. Lucy doesn’t understand my need to chase dangerous stories, but she’s never tried to change me either.
Unlike Ryan or basically everyone else in my life.
When I told her about the Colombia trip, she didn’t lecture me but just said, “Be careful. I have a bad feeling about this one.”
“I’m always careful,” I’d told her.
Famous last words.
I exhale and shift my position in the dirt, trying to get comfortable.
I’m hoping that Lucy has called everyone by now—my editor, my mother, the State Department—and organized some kind of search committee.
That’s who she is—the type who shows up and refuses to give up anything truly important without a fight.
I hope she’s not blaming herself for not stopping me and I hope I get to see her again.
The stupidest part of all this is that I know exactly why I’ve been kidnapped.
It’s all because of Larry Aldridge, the real estate billionaire, the same asshole mastermind behind the university fraud that Anna Kim exposed.
Senator Vance got arrested for her crimes, David Klein cut a deal, but Aldridge managed to slip away.
His crimes weren’t just domestic and his money didn’t only come from crooked real estate deals.
Aldridge’s money came from Colombia, from working with the Reyes cartel.
And I found the paper trail that can finally take that asshole down.
I discovered the shell companies in Panama, the wire transfers through Cayman banks and real estate purchases in Miami that were obviously money laundering.
It was all there, if you knew where to look.
I’d been chasing this story for months. Jonus warned me it was dangerous. My editor was nervous about the expense report. But I had a source, a local guy who said he could connect me to someone inside the cartel who wanted to talk.
It was a setup. Obviously. I see that now. I was sloppy and eager and wanted the story so badly I ignored every red flag. And now I’m in a pit in the jungle, and Larry Aldridge is going to make sure I never publish what I know.
I’ve heard the guards mention his name twice.
“Aldridge wants this handled.”
“Aldridge is getting impatient.”
And earlier today, the scary one said something that made my blood run cold.
Manana.
Something happens tomorrow.
I bite at my lip again, trying to gather my strength and my smarts to figure a way out of this predicament.
If I can’t find a way out, I’m going to die here.
I don’t think they’re planning to ransom me or let me go.
Tomorrow, someone is coming to make me disappear, which means if I’m going to get out, I have to do it tonight.
I look up at the slats again. I’ve been working on the boards above me for three days.
There’s one in the corner that’s slightly rotted.
I’ve been prying at it with a surprisingly tough, flat, little rock I found.
Whenever the guards aren’t paying attention I loosen the nails, creating just enough gap that I think I could squeeze through.
Most of the walls of this pit are too slick to climb up, I’ve tried and gotten nowhere.
But just yesterday I made a few cut outs in the wall that seem firm enough to gain purchase.
Tonight, I’m going to try to bust out of here.
I don’t know my exact location and I don’t have shoes or supplies. The jungle will probably kill me if the cartel doesn’t. But “probably dead in the jungle” is better than “definitely dead in this pit.” And for all I know, this is when they’ll finally decide gang rape is a great idea.
I’ve been watching the guard rotation. The lazy day guy leaves at sundown, and the night guy takes about twenty minutes to settle in and start his gambling games. There’s a window there. Small, but real.
My feet are going to be a problem. Even though Ryan thought I needed to exercise more, I was actually in reasonable shape, taking long walks most days in my Georgetown neighborhood. But I’ve lost muscle over the past twelve days, and I’m dehydrated, and I haven’t had a real meal since—
I exhale, forcing myself to stop that line of thinking.
I can do this. I have to do this.
Three hours later, just before he leaves, the day guard brings my evening meal, if you can call it that.
Half a dirty tortilla, some rice, a bottle of questionable water that’s half empty.
He doesn’t usually look at me as he passes it through the gap in the boards.
But tonight he pauses. “Lo siento,” he says quietly. Almost like he means it.
I’m sorry.
My stomach drops. He knows. They all know that tomorrow is going to be bad.
The guard leaves, and I sit in shock, listening to the shift change, ready for my window. But then something different occurs. The night guy settles in earlier than ever before, the sound of his phone game starts up, tinny and annoying.
Shit. It would’ve been best to escape during those twenty minutes when neither guard was fully paying attention. Now I’m stuck with the alert one. The one who actually checks on me.
I eat my tortilla slowly, conserving every bite, and drink my water in small sips and try to calm my racing heart.
It doesn’t matter. I have to try anyway.
Tomorrow they’re going to kill me. Bad odds tonight are still better than no odds tomorrow. I’ll wait until he’s deep into his gambling, cursing at his phone, distracted by whatever money he’s losing. It’s not the window I wanted, but it’s all I’ve got.
Tonight. It has to be tonight.
I’m about to stand and start working on my climb along the wall when I hear something in the distance. Could it be thunder?
I freeze, listening.
Another sound. Closer now. That’s not thunder.
Gunfire.