watched the soldier standing guard across the street. As they boarded
their van to continue the journey, he spoke into his walkie-talkie. The suspicion that the army was tracking the team’s movements
congealed into certainty as a motorcycle, driven by two more soldiers, pulled out of an alleyway and started chasing them.
Lucy met Gus’s eye and he nodded toward the Frenchman.
“Monsieur Fournier,” Lucy called up to him. “I believe we’re being followed.”
With a grimace, Fournier looked back at the motorcycle, then gave directions to their driver to outrun it. “The last thing
we need,” he grumbled, “is to lead the army to the FARC and start a war.”
In the end, Mother Nature got rid of the soldiers for them. The sky darkened abruptly. Leaden clouds opened up and rain poured
down. The motorcycle floundered. Soon it was just a speck behind them, eventually disappearing altogether.
The team members smiled at one another in relief. Their van slogged on, traveling over a highway that went from asphalt to
gravel, to a muddy trail riddled with potholes of deceptive depth.
With every hundred meters, the road seemed to narrow until it was just wide enough for one car. Windshield wipers beat a frenzied
tempo but never succeeded in clearing the fogged glass up front. The music on the radio crackled and faded into static. The
driver turned it off.
A somber silence descended over the occupants of the van. Lucy dragged air into her tight lungs and wondered if the others
were thinking what she was thinking: They’d come this far; now there was no going back.
Staring out a fogged window, all she could see were coca fields and banana groves. A swollen brown river ran parallel to the
road for a while, then veered away. With every hundred meters, she felt their isolation deepening.
“There’s La Montaña,” Fournier finally announced.
Peering up the length of the van, Lucy felt her mouth go dry. The ominous-looking mountain had planted itself squarely before
them, its twin peaks buried in rain clouds. Somewhere in the looming mass of vegetation, Howitz and Barnes remained hostages.
If she didn’t screw her courage on tight, they might never make it home.
It was dusk when they arrived at the last outpost of civilization, Puerto Limón, a tiny pueblo at the foot of the mountain.
In the single-story
ranchita
advertised as an inn, the UN team was warmly greeted by their indigenous hosts, offered bread and goat’s cheese for supper,
and dismissed to private bedrooms.
“Sleep well,” called Fournier, instructing them to awaken early for another dawn departure.
Lying on a twin-sized mattress made of straw, Lucy realized that, while thoughts of sharing a queen-sized bed last night had
unsettled her, she was looking forward to the feel of Gus’s arms around her tonight, a circumstance that secretly worried
her. She wasn’t growing reliant on him, was she? Of course not. All she needed from him was his body heat.
Beneath the glow of a naked lightbulb, she could feel the mountain’s looming proximity. Anxiety sat like a heavy weight on
her chest. How was she supposed to throw it off?
Lucy Donovan operated alone. She was utterly self-reliant.
Or had the experience in Venezuela robbed her of her self-sufficiency? What then? It was her job to combat terrorists. She
didn’t know any other kind of life—didn’t want to. She couldn’t afford to be
afraid.
The door groaned suddenly inward. Gus ducked into the room, his damp head nearly touching the ceiling. At the sight of her
cowering in the bed with the blanket pulled to her chin, his jaw hardened. He whipped off his glasses, set them by the bed,
and bent low to whisper, “You can’t fight fire with fire, Luce.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re trying to scare off your PTSD. That’s not the way to cure yourself.”
“I don’t have PTSD,” she insisted rigidly. “And I am not scared,” she
their van to continue the journey, he spoke into his walkie-talkie. The suspicion that the army was tracking the team’s movements
congealed into certainty as a motorcycle, driven by two more soldiers, pulled out of an alleyway and started chasing them.
Lucy met Gus’s eye and he nodded toward the Frenchman.
“Monsieur Fournier,” Lucy called up to him. “I believe we’re being followed.”
With a grimace, Fournier looked back at the motorcycle, then gave directions to their driver to outrun it. “The last thing
we need,” he grumbled, “is to lead the army to the FARC and start a war.”
In the end, Mother Nature got rid of the soldiers for them. The sky darkened abruptly. Leaden clouds opened up and rain poured
down. The motorcycle floundered. Soon it was just a speck behind them, eventually disappearing altogether.
The team members smiled at one another in relief. Their van slogged on, traveling over a highway that went from asphalt to
gravel, to a muddy trail riddled with potholes of deceptive depth.
With every hundred meters, the road seemed to narrow until it was just wide enough for one car. Windshield wipers beat a frenzied
tempo but never succeeded in clearing the fogged glass up front. The music on the radio crackled and faded into static. The
driver turned it off.
A somber silence descended over the occupants of the van. Lucy dragged air into her tight lungs and wondered if the others
were thinking what she was thinking: They’d come this far; now there was no going back.
Staring out a fogged window, all she could see were coca fields and banana groves. A swollen brown river ran parallel to the
road for a while, then veered away. With every hundred meters, she felt their isolation deepening.
“There’s La Montaña,” Fournier finally announced.
Peering up the length of the van, Lucy felt her mouth go dry. The ominous-looking mountain had planted itself squarely before
them, its twin peaks buried in rain clouds. Somewhere in the looming mass of vegetation, Howitz and Barnes remained hostages.
If she didn’t screw her courage on tight, they might never make it home.
It was dusk when they arrived at the last outpost of civilization, Puerto Limón, a tiny pueblo at the foot of the mountain.
In the single-story
ranchita
advertised as an inn, the UN team was warmly greeted by their indigenous hosts, offered bread and goat’s cheese for supper,
and dismissed to private bedrooms.
“Sleep well,” called Fournier, instructing them to awaken early for another dawn departure.
Lying on a twin-sized mattress made of straw, Lucy realized that, while thoughts of sharing a queen-sized bed last night had
unsettled her, she was looking forward to the feel of Gus’s arms around her tonight, a circumstance that secretly worried
her. She wasn’t growing reliant on him, was she? Of course not. All she needed from him was his body heat.
Beneath the glow of a naked lightbulb, she could feel the mountain’s looming proximity. Anxiety sat like a heavy weight on
her chest. How was she supposed to throw it off?
Lucy Donovan operated alone. She was utterly self-reliant.
Or had the experience in Venezuela robbed her of her self-sufficiency? What then? It was her job to combat terrorists. She
didn’t know any other kind of life—didn’t want to. She couldn’t afford to be
afraid.
The door groaned suddenly inward. Gus ducked into the room, his damp head nearly touching the ceiling. At the sight of her
cowering in the bed with the blanket pulled to her chin, his jaw hardened. He whipped off his glasses, set them by the bed,
and bent low to whisper, “You can’t fight fire with fire, Luce.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re trying to scare off your PTSD. That’s not the way to cure yourself.”
“I don’t have PTSD,” she insisted rigidly. “And I am not scared,” she
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