Back on Solid Ground (24 page)

The
helicopter had taken off with Stacy screaming hysterically. The man who had
pulled her into the helicopter had held her down while Stacy punched and kicked
at him, and yelled obscenities.  

“Shut her
up!” the pilot yelled, and the man punched Stacy in the face and knocked her
out.

When she woke
up, her hands and feet were bound and she had a dirty rag in her mouth with
electrical tape covering it.  She didn’t know how much time had elapsed since
they had left the island, be it minutes, hours, or days.   The side of her face
was throbbing and her head was spinning. Her mind was completely fuzzy and all
she could think of was Muhammad Ali and that she hoped she didn’t have
permanent brain damage.

The
helicopter landed and the man who had slugged her transferred her onto a small
airplane, and they took off again.  They landed some time later on what she
assumed was a private airstrip, because there were no other planes around. 
From there, Stacy was dumped in the back seat of a car and she was bounced
around for several more hours on poorly maintained roads as the driver dodged
potholes and wandering livestock.  Finally, the driver pulled the car off the
road at a dirty roadside motel in the middle of nowhere.  The man carried Stacy
to a filthy room and removed the rope that bound her hands and feet.  He gave
Stacy a wicked smile.

“This is
going to hurt,” he said, in heavily accented English, and he ripped the tape
off her mouth. 

The dirty rag
had protected her lips, but her cheeks stung like she had been slapped and she
instantly thought of Niki and how she had slapped him in the kitchen.  Stacy
pulled the disgusting rag out of her mouth and tried to get up enough saliva to
swallow.  Her throat felt like sandpaper.

“I need some
water,” she said in a raspy voice.

The man
motioned to the sink and disappeared outside.  Stacy turned on the water and a
murky brown sludge came out. 
Gross
.  She turned the tap off and the man
came back in with some sweatpants and a T-shirt and threw them at her.  “Put
these on,” he said, then he left again and closed the door behind him.

Stacy went
into the tiny bathroom and wormed her way out of the wetsuit and put on the
clothes the prick had thrown at her.  She looked in the dirty little mirror
that hung over the sink and her hand instinctively went up to her cheek.  There
was an ugly bruise that went from her temple down below her cheekbone and she had
a wicked black eye.  

She went back
out to the room and sat down on the bed.  The mattress didn’t give a bit and
she pulled up the bedspread to see if it was indeed a mattress. 
What kind
of company would make a piece of shit mattress like this?
Stacy thought.  
Her mind wandered.
How would I market and advertise this piece of shit?
she asked herself, then she answered,
I would take its most awful feature
and trumpet it as an advantage:  “The world’s firmest mattress, by
Piece-of-Shit Mattress Company!”  I could sell it,
she thought
.

The door
opened and Stacy snapped back to reality.   The prick was back with a can of
Coke in his hand and he offered it to Stacy. 

“Thank you,”
she said, accepting it, but the can had already been opened and Stacy was
afraid to drink it, thinking it may have been drugged.  She handed it back to
him, “You first,” she said.

He took it
from her and turned it upside down and drank the whole thing, then turned
around and went back outside. 

“
Prick,
”
Stacy said, under her breath.  She laid down on the mattress of steel and tried
to think clearly and about something relevant, but her mind kept wandering. 
I
must have a concussion,
she thought. 
That’s relevant. 
But then her
mind went off on another tangent
.  How many concussions did Troy Aikman end up having?
she wondered.  She got up and shook her head, trying to
clear her mind, then she went to the window and opened the blackout curtains
just a fraction and peeked out.  The prick was standing by the car talking on a
cell phone and there was a second man standing outside her door with a
sidearm.  There were two other cars parked outside the motel, but she didn’t
see any other people around.  The prick was off the phone and he was headed to
her room.  Stacy ran to the bed and sat down just as he opened the door.

He stood in
the doorway.  “Make yourself comfortable.  You’re here for the night.”  He
closed the door and Stacy heard the car start up.  She ran to the window and
cracked the curtains again.  The prick was leaving, but the guard was still
posted outside her door.  Stacy was psyched. 
One on one, I can handle. 
But
she had to work fast. There was no telling when the prick would be back. 

Stacy went in
the bathroom and closed the door.  She took the grimy mirror off the wall and
tapped the corner against the sink, breaking off a long and narrow triangular
shard of glass.  She wrapped a stained washrag around the bottom portion and practiced
different grips until she found the one that felt best, then she went back out
to the room.  Stacy took a deep breath, and knocked on the outside door. 

The guard
opened the door and while he still had his hand on the doorknob, Stacy slashed
deep into his wrist with the blade and blood gushed out everywhere.  She shoved
the door open and the stunned guard lost his balance and fell forward, but he
grabbed Stacy by the hair as he went down and smashed her head against the
cement floor.  Stacy could feel her teeth rattle and she was fighting to stay
conscious.  She was scrambling backwards on the floor, but he grabbed onto her
leg and pulled her back towards him.  The guard was losing a massive amount of
blood but he was undeterred.  He got on top of Stacy and backhanded her hard in
the face several times and his blood splattered everywhere.  She was seeing
little white dots floating around and the room was spinning.  He pulled his
hand back to hit her again but Stacy swung her hand up and brought the blade
down deep in the guard’s neck.  His eyes glazed over as he reached up to try to
stop the bleeding.  Stacy squirmed out from underneath him, the guard’s mind
now on his own survival, and she crawled into the corner of the room and
watched in horror as the man bled to death in front of her. 

Stacy broke
down in sobs and  she leaned over and threw up what little contents were in her
stomach.  She got up and pulled the bedspread off the bed and tried to wipe
herself off, then she went outside.  The sunlight was blinding and she had to
shield her eyes.  Stacy ran to each car, but there were no keys in either of
them, so she started banging on the doors of the motel.  The curtains moved
from inside one of the rooms but no one answered.

“Please, help
me!” Stacy cried, banging on the door.  “Please!”  Stacy could hear people
arguing from inside and finally a middle-aged man with a full beard and
mustache opened the door a crack.

The man took
one look at Stacy and gasped, horrified.  He looked around outside and pulled
Stacy into the room and closed and locked the door.  A woman had gotten up out
of bed and was putting on her clothes, and both she and the man were rattling
off Spanish so fast that Stacy had no idea what they were saying.

Her legs were
shaking so badly Stacy could barely stand so she leaned against the wall for
support.  She was crying hysterically but managed to ask, “Do you speak
English?” 

“Who did this
to you, chica?” the man asked. 

“I was
kidnapped,” Stacy said, trying to stop crying.  “Am I in Mexico?”

“No, Colombia,” he said.

“Colombia?” Stacy said under her breath.  Her head was pounding all over and she felt like
she was about to pass out.  “I have to get away from here.  A man is going to
come back for me.  Please help me.”

The man looked
over at the other woman and Stacy could see that he didn’t want to get
involved. 

“I have lots
of money, tengo mucho dinero.  I’ll pay you,” she said, pleading with the man. 
Her legs gave out and Stacy fell to her knees and she reached out for the man
with her bloody hands.  “Please,” she said, sobbing.  “Please, get me away from
here.”

“You’re
American?” the man asked.

She shook her
head yes.  “United States,” she said. 

The man
looked down at Stacy and put his hand on her head, then he looked over at his
wide-eyed woman friend.  “Vamanos,” he said. 

He helped
Stacy into his little car and the three of them sped away from the motel. 
Stacy curled up in the back seat and immediately passed out.

When the man
woke her up she was in Bogota.  Stacy’s head was pounding so hard she could
barely sit up.  She propped herself up on her elbow. 

“La
Embajada,” the man said, pointing to the building.

Stacy looked
out the window and tried to focus. “
The Embassy,
” Stacy whispered, then
she passed out again.  The man pulled Stacy out of the car, and picked up her
lifeless battered body and carried her toward the building.

“She’s
American,” the man said, and the guard opened the gate. 

 Niki had
fallen asleep on top of the covers with his clothes on and four hours later,
Jason was at his door.

“You awake?”
Jason said, pounding on the door.

Niki dragged
himself off the bed and opened the door.  “What?” Niki said, squinting.

“Are you
still asleep?” Jason asked, surprised.  He walked into Niki’s room and opened
the curtains and looked down at the Riverwalk.  “This place is cool,” he said. 
“I’m coming back here for vacation.”

Niki yawned
and lay back down. 

“Get up. 
We’re going to breakfast at Mi Tierra,” Jason said.

Niki
groaned.  “Aren’t you tired?” he asked.

“No.  I’m
hungry.  Get your ass up and go shower.”

Niki showered
and they checked out of the hotel.  “You drive,” Niki said, tossing Jason the
keys. 

Jason drove
down Commerce Street to Market Square.  There was a large produce market and a
Mexican market with all kinds of Mexican curios.  It was just like being in a
border town,  only with air conditioning and clean restrooms.  There were
people setting up food booths for some celebration in Market Square and
Mariachis, dressed in black pants with silver studs all the way down the pant
legs, were tuning their guitars.

Mi Tierra was
already packed and Niki and Jason checked out the bakery while they waited to
be seated.   When they were finally led to a table, Jason polished off a
Mexican breakfast plate while Niki picked at his food.  When they finished,
they headed for the airport.   It was just past 4:00 when they landed at the
airport in Bogota, Colombia.  Eli and Carlos were already there. 

“Thanks for
coming,” Niki said, when he saw them.  “What’d you find?” he asked Eli.

“A lot,” Eli
said.  “Corazon’s a known narcotrafficker in Bogota and in Medellìn and he’s a
member of the National Liberation Army.”  He hesitated, “He’s not a nice guy. 
He’s suspected of being involved in everything from kidnapping to hijacking. 
The guy from the island worked for him.”  Eli was leading them to the airport
exit.  “We need help on this,” Eli told his brother.  “I called in a favor from
a local.  He’s picking us up.”

“Who is it?”
Niki asked.

“Ramos,” Eli
said, knowing Niki might be pissed.

Niki stopped
and looked at Eli.  “The Revolutionary Forces guy?” Niki asked.

“Yeah,” Eli
said.

Niki smiled. 
“Good work, little brother,” he said, clasping his arm around Eli’s shoulder. 
“They’ll make a terrorist out of you yet.” 

Eli smiled
because it was good to see his brother smile.

“Did you get
anything on missing persons, anything that matched up with Stacy?” Niki asked. 

“There were
four other women kidnapped who pretty much fit Stacy’s description if you don’t
count height and weight.  They were all U.S. citizens, and all had red hair and
green eyes.  This was within the last seven years, and they were all taken
between Medellìn and Bogota.  Mind you, not all the reports I found had vital
statistics on the victims, so it could be more.”

Niki
swallowed hard.  “Any of the four ever turn up?” he asked, not wanting to know
the answer.

“No.  I’m
sorry, Niki,” Eli said.

“What are
you
sorry about?” Niki said irritably.  “You didn’t do anything. You’re just the
fucking messenger.”  Niki turned to Carlos, “Have you had any luck?”

“Not for a
while,” Carlos said.  “I was getting images from her earlier.”

“Like what?”
Niki asked.

“Like a small
plane, a landing strip, a dirty motel room,” Carlos said. “That type of
information.  She didn’t know where she was, but she was transferring images of
things around her.”

“That’s
amazing,”  Niki said.  “Could she tell you were getting her messages?”

“I don’t even
know if she knew she was sending them, to tell you the truth,” Carlos said.

“Do you have
any idea where she is?” Niki asked.

“I know they
followed a river from the landing strip to the motel, probably the Cauca or Magalena, but that’s not from Stacy – that’s strictly what I feel,” Carlos said.
“From there, I’ve completely lost her.”

They got
outside and Ramos waved them over.  They piled into his car and Eli filled him
in while they drove. 

“We’re
looking for an American woman who was kidnapped by a man named Martine
Corazon,” Eli said.  “He’s a known drug trafficker, and we think he’s trading
the girl for cocaine.   We don’t know that, but it’s our assumption.” 

“Who is the
woman?” Ramos asked.

“She’s a
personal friend,” Eli said.  “Her name is Stacy Trent.  I’ve done some research
and there’s a pattern of kidnappings that involved American woman that fit her
description.  Four others have disappeared within the last seven years between
here and Medellìn.”