worth.
Matthew said nothing. JoaquAn turned away, then said something in Spanish to the smaller guard that Matthew didn't quite hear.
Adelante, said the little one. Another surprise: The voice was a girl's.
As commanded, he started walking back toward the truck, but she gave him a shove in the other direction, prodding him again with the AK-47. They walked through chest-high weeds until they came to a small clearing of softer grass with the cold black ashes of an extinguished campfire in the center. Two mules were tied to a tree, both bearing a mountain of gear and supplies. Beside them were two goats, a large black one and a smaller white one.
Stop, she said in Spanish. On your knees, eyes forward.
Slowly he knelt in the grass, his arms at his sides. He could sense she was standing behind him, but he didn't look. He felt vulnerable, defenseless, and now he regretted the insults he'd hurled at JoaquAn. These losers had murdered his friends, but he'd have to hold his tongue. They'd kill him just as quickly, especially if he continued to antagonize their leader in front of his little band of juvenile delinquents. He braced himself for some kind of disciplinary action, possibly a beating.
He heard footsteps behind, heavy boots coming swiftly toward him. He didn't look back. He just gritted his teeth, expecting a swift kick to the kidneys. JoaquAn suddenly whisked past him, then stopped, a long serrated knife in hand. He got down on one knee and began to sharpen it on a rock, the grinding noise piercing Matthew's ears. When he finished, he held the blade at eye level, the metal glistening in the setting sun.
Matthew could not tear his eyes away from the eight-inch blade.
Then, in one swift motion, JoaquAn wheeled, reached behind him, and grabbed the smaller goat by the throat. He pinned the animal on its back, jabbed the knife in its underbelly, and slit upward, tearing the ribs from the sternum.
It screeched in utter agony, a sound unlike any Matthew had heard since his days in Vietnam. It convulsed and kicked, still alive, blood spewing onto the ground. Matthew could hear the last breaths sucking through the gaping wound, through the sliced lungs.
JoaquAn rose, unmoved by the horrific sounds of pain. He simply watched and listened as the animal's screeches gradually weakened, its life-ending throes losing their kick. The agony lasted a solid minute, and then JoaquAn seemed bored. He unholstered his pistol and shot the dying goat in the head.
Then he turned toward the prisoner.
My God, is this the way I'm going to die?
Matthew preferred to be shot making a run for it than to be mutilated by this butcher. His muscles tightened as JoaquAn drew near. He was about to lash out, but he held back at the last instant, convincing himself in that tense moment that he was surely worth more alive than dead to JoaquAn.
JoaquAn wiped the bloody knife on Matthew's shirt, one flat side and then the other. Don't ever run from me, he said in a low, threatening tone. I promise, death will not come so quickly for you.
Matthew glared at him, wishing he could just deck this monster.
Up, ordered JoaquAn.
Matthew rose, saying nothing. So much for JoaquAn's promise to treat him well. Matthew had the feeling it was only the first of many lies.
JoaquAn said, What you said before is true. This is crazy. We are all crazy. Then he turned to his guerrillas and shouted, ABienvenidos a Locombia!
They laughed. It was a wordplay on Colombia that Matthew had seen before in newspapers, with no exact translation. But he got the drift. Welcome to Crazyland.
At JoaquAn's command, one guerrilla took Matthew by the left arm, the other by the right, as they led him to the pack mules.
Chapter 8
I had a bizarre dream that night. My family owned a gold mine. We agreed to pay the kidnappers a king's ransom for my father's release. It was delivered in a dump truck, tons of glittering gold dust. The guerrillas came with shovels and wheelbarow. When the
Matthew said nothing. JoaquAn turned away, then said something in Spanish to the smaller guard that Matthew didn't quite hear.
Adelante, said the little one. Another surprise: The voice was a girl's.
As commanded, he started walking back toward the truck, but she gave him a shove in the other direction, prodding him again with the AK-47. They walked through chest-high weeds until they came to a small clearing of softer grass with the cold black ashes of an extinguished campfire in the center. Two mules were tied to a tree, both bearing a mountain of gear and supplies. Beside them were two goats, a large black one and a smaller white one.
Stop, she said in Spanish. On your knees, eyes forward.
Slowly he knelt in the grass, his arms at his sides. He could sense she was standing behind him, but he didn't look. He felt vulnerable, defenseless, and now he regretted the insults he'd hurled at JoaquAn. These losers had murdered his friends, but he'd have to hold his tongue. They'd kill him just as quickly, especially if he continued to antagonize their leader in front of his little band of juvenile delinquents. He braced himself for some kind of disciplinary action, possibly a beating.
He heard footsteps behind, heavy boots coming swiftly toward him. He didn't look back. He just gritted his teeth, expecting a swift kick to the kidneys. JoaquAn suddenly whisked past him, then stopped, a long serrated knife in hand. He got down on one knee and began to sharpen it on a rock, the grinding noise piercing Matthew's ears. When he finished, he held the blade at eye level, the metal glistening in the setting sun.
Matthew could not tear his eyes away from the eight-inch blade.
Then, in one swift motion, JoaquAn wheeled, reached behind him, and grabbed the smaller goat by the throat. He pinned the animal on its back, jabbed the knife in its underbelly, and slit upward, tearing the ribs from the sternum.
It screeched in utter agony, a sound unlike any Matthew had heard since his days in Vietnam. It convulsed and kicked, still alive, blood spewing onto the ground. Matthew could hear the last breaths sucking through the gaping wound, through the sliced lungs.
JoaquAn rose, unmoved by the horrific sounds of pain. He simply watched and listened as the animal's screeches gradually weakened, its life-ending throes losing their kick. The agony lasted a solid minute, and then JoaquAn seemed bored. He unholstered his pistol and shot the dying goat in the head.
Then he turned toward the prisoner.
My God, is this the way I'm going to die?
Matthew preferred to be shot making a run for it than to be mutilated by this butcher. His muscles tightened as JoaquAn drew near. He was about to lash out, but he held back at the last instant, convincing himself in that tense moment that he was surely worth more alive than dead to JoaquAn.
JoaquAn wiped the bloody knife on Matthew's shirt, one flat side and then the other. Don't ever run from me, he said in a low, threatening tone. I promise, death will not come so quickly for you.
Matthew glared at him, wishing he could just deck this monster.
Up, ordered JoaquAn.
Matthew rose, saying nothing. So much for JoaquAn's promise to treat him well. Matthew had the feeling it was only the first of many lies.
JoaquAn said, What you said before is true. This is crazy. We are all crazy. Then he turned to his guerrillas and shouted, ABienvenidos a Locombia!
They laughed. It was a wordplay on Colombia that Matthew had seen before in newspapers, with no exact translation. But he got the drift. Welcome to Crazyland.
At JoaquAn's command, one guerrilla took Matthew by the left arm, the other by the right, as they led him to the pack mules.
Chapter 8
I had a bizarre dream that night. My family owned a gold mine. We agreed to pay the kidnappers a king's ransom for my father's release. It was delivered in a dump truck, tons of glittering gold dust. The guerrillas came with shovels and wheelbarow. When the
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