The hostages include a father, a mother, a sixteen-year-old daughter, and a nine-year-old son. If things go south for any reason, the overreaching goal is to protect the kids at all costs, but again… not overly worried about it. Everything about this event seems pretty par for the course, and it’s a sad world when that can be said about kidnappings, but they happen all too frequently in Latin America.
We’re all miked up with earpieces, and I hear Jackson’s voice coming across in a low rumble so his voice doesn’t carry. “Targets spotted. I count eight armed men—three armed with what look like old Soviet AK-47’s and the others with machetes. It appears all hostages are intact.”
None of us move, waiting for the ELN members to reach the designated clearing where we’d been given coordinates to meet. Jackson’s com crackles, and he continues, “Guns are on the kids.”
Makes sense. They know our highest priority is the kids’ safety, and if they only have three guns, they’re going to keep them on their most prized possessions.
Bodie’s voice comes across. He’s set up a little to the south of the group. “Two have pistols in the backs of their waistbands.”
“Start moving in,” Kynan, who ended up joining the mission after Malik opted to stay back in Pittsburgh, orders us.
We all move, slipping as quietly through the dense foliage as we can until we come back together as a group.
All of us except Ladd. He’s up in a tree somewhere with his sniper rifle, ready to pick off enemies if needed.
Kynan, Bodie, Jackson, and I enter the clearing just a few moments after the kidnappers. All hostages are accounted for, but despite the dirt and sweat on them from being hauled around the jungle for the last several days, I can see exactly why they got kidnapped. They’re all wearing designer clothing, not that I can identify by brand, but I know expensive when I see it. I suspect the family has already been alleviated of luxury items like watches, jewelry, and handbags. They were begging to be kidnapped.
All four family members have gags in their mouths, tied so tight at the back, their skin has turned white along the borders of the cloth. They look appropriately terrified, especially the daughter. I hope to hell she and the mother haven’t been violated, because absolute safety is never guaranteed.
One of the men with a machete steps forward, clearly the leader. They’re all wearing olive-green camo pants with military-style shirts, but their attempts at having a unifying uniform fall flat. They look dirty and slovenly, but these guys are just the muscle for the higher echelon of this group.
The leader starts speaking in Spanish, rapidly firing off words that are meant to intimidate us white rescuers. Little do they know both Ladd and I speak Spanish, but I let him have his fun. He goes on about stupid Americanos traveling in their country, just begging to have their wealth lifted, blah, blah, blah, blah.
Each of us stares blankly back at the man, pretending ignorance. I give him a halting, “No hablo Espanol.”
He smiles, a tooth missing in front, and inclines his head. “I merely bid you welcome to our beautiful country. We are looking for a mutually beneficial exchange that is conducted respectfully and safely. My name is Miguel.”
Keeping my expression bland, I hold my silence. Kynan is our spokesperson—and the one carrying the money. He steps forward, pulling the backpack off and holding it down by his side.
Miguel eyeballs the bag a moment before staring at Kynan. “My boss has been thinking about this, and he feels the family could perhaps be a little more generous in their offering. He’s requesting another five hundred thousand as a gesture of goodwill and gratitude for us keeping the hostages in good condition.”
It strikes me that this man is no dummy despite his slovenly appearance. He may not be anywhere in the top ranks, but he was clearly chosen to lead this little mission because he’s smart, fairly well-spoken, and has balls of steel.
Kynan nods toward the hostages. “I’ll hear it from the hostages now. Remove their gags so I can get assurances.”
Very smart. He’s not even entertaining the man’s request for more money, but it sure sounds like he’s considering it by asking for personal verification of their welfare.
Miguel instructs his men to remove the gags, and they do so efficiently. The dad rubs at his jaw while the little boy tries to spit, nothing coming out, and the mom and daughter both swipe at their mouths as if to rub the filth off.
Looking directly at the dad, Kynan asks, “Have you been treated well?”
He appears affronted by the question. I’m sure he’d like to go on a long-winded rant about how it’s not being treated well to be dragged through the jungle, made to sleep on the ground, and eat military rations for several days. Instead, he wisely holds his tongue and nods.