Under the Wire

Under The Wire

Cindy Gerard

The Bodyguards Book #5

As always, this book is dedicated to the brave men and women of the U.S. military who defend, on a daily basis, all that we hold dear.

Also to my sisters in the trenches—you know who you are. May you always meet your deadlines, always make the lists, and always know that I answer to "friend."

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I had a wonderful time researching this book. Some of my sources include
Sri Lanka,
Edition 2, Bradt Travel Guide, written by Royston Ellis;
Sri Lanka,
9th edition, Lonely Planet Publications, written by Richard Plunkett and Brigitte Ellemor;
Insight Compact Guide: Sri Lanka,
written by Martina Meithig; and the Lonely Planet
Sinhala Phrasebook,
2nd edition, written by Swarna Pragnaratne.

Through reading these wonderful books and consulting various maps, I fell in love with Sri Lanka, its beauty, its cultural diversity, and its stunning and varied topography, which ranges from the diamond blue waters of the coastal cities, to the arid region of the north, to the lush and exotic beauty of the rain forests. It is my fondest hope to someday visit this amazing place. Just as it is my hope that the people of Sri Lanka may someday see total peace between the Sinhalese and the Tamil.

For the sake of the story and in an attempt to showcase Sri Lanka's incredible beauty, I took many liberties with location and geography. The same can be said for the portions of the book set in Nicaragua. Many places are real. Many, however, have been fabricated to enhance and entertain but were drawn from various areas of the country and do actually exist—only NOT where I put them. I take full responsibility for those calculated errors.

Special thanks to:

SSG Ian Trammell, USAREC, my go-to guy for all big things that go boom.

Mark Pfeiffer from the Weapons Info news group for his generous and expert assistance in pinpointing appropriate weaponry.

Gail Barrett, for her generosity of time with my Spanish translations, and the always resourceful KOD-CNN loop for putting me in touch with Gail, who consulted her friends Kuni Takebe of Spain and Margarita Unger of Colombia.

Sgt. George Sanchez—my Nicaragua connection and stand-up soldier.

And last but not least, Tommy—for putting up with deadline dilemmas and settling for frozen pizza too many times while I finished this book.

PART I

Nicaragua, in the midst of the Contra revolution against the communist Sandinista government, seventeen years ago

CHAPTER 1

Managua, Nicaragua, July 10, 1:25
a.m.

Manny Ortega awoke from a dead sleep. Fully alert. All senses vibrating with awareness.

The sharp crack of breaking wood splintered the night silence like a gunshot. A blinding light pierced his eyes like a needle and glinted off the barrel of a Simonov carbine locked dead center on his chest.

Four Sandinista soldiers towered over his rumpled bed. Their faces were hard. Their weapons, ranging from the SKS to an AK-47 and a pair of Tokarev pistols, were drawn. The emblems on their uniforms identified them as members of Gen. Jorge Poveda's death squad.

Dios.

Trouble didn't get any deeper than this.

Yet Manny's first thought was to protect his lover. He reached for her, but Lily was gone. He was alone in the bed that smelled of sleep and sex and the scent of her. The tangled sheets beside him and under his palm were as cool as the night breeze drifting in through the open window. Relief that Lily was safe registered peripherally as a hard boot hit him midthigh.

"Levantate, perro traicionero, o te matamos ahi mismo."
Get up, traitorous dog, or we will kill you where you lie.

Manny shifted from shock to self-preservation mode. He raised his hands, smiled, and did what he did best: lied through his teeth.

"Traidor? Amigos, tienen al hombre equivocado. Soy uno de ustedes."
Traitor? Friends, you've got the wrong man. I'm one of you.

He nodded toward their uniforms—the same uniform he wore, although his reasons for wearing it were much different from theirs. "Soy Manolo Ortega. El teniente Ortega."
I am Manolo Ortega. Lieutenant Ortega.

"Sabemos quien eres, marrano contra. Y tambien lo sabe el general. Porque su puta americana, ella tambien abrio las piernas para tu placer, eh? Y tu le dices todo."
We know who you are, Contra pig. So does the general. Because his American whore, she spread her legs for you, too, eh? And you tell her everything.

Pain exploded through his head as the butt of the SKS slammed into his temple. He fought both dizzying nausea and the blinding effect of the blow as they dragged him from the bed, then ordered him to pull on his pants. Blood ran down his face and into his eyes as they shoved him, barefoot and shirtless, at gunpoint from his sister's third-floor apartment, where he'd spent the last week with Lily.

His American whore . . . you tell her everything . . .

The soldier's words hit Manny full in the face as he stumbled down the stairs.

Poveda's whore? Lily?

Manny didn't want to believe it. But they could only be talking of Lily Campora of the diamond black eyes and beautiful smile.

No torture the tyrannical general could inflict now that he knew Manny was a spy for the freedom fighters could be as painful as thinking Lily might have betrayed him.

He didn't want to believe it. And yet... she was gone. As if she had known Poveda's men were coming for him.

Betrayed.

He had been betrayed.

He'd been a fool.

And now he was a dead man.

His eyes burned from the blood and the sting of anger. He could not bear to think that the woman he loved could have turned him in. But why else—
how
else—would Poveda have found a reason to send his thugs and brand Manny a traitor? The things he had told Lily in the dark of night, naked and spent, he had told no one else. So what other explanation could there be?

He could not think of that now. If he wanted to live, he could not think of
her
now. He had to figure out how to get out of this. Then he would deal with Lily Campora.

Anger rolled over his heartbreak. Resolve kicked him into survival mode. Talking himself free was not an option. Poveda's soldiers did not want to hear anything he had to say. He was on his way to prison—if he made it that far.

The Managua streets were midnight dark and as deserted as a ghost town when they hauled him roughly to an open military jeep, then took off down the pocked and cracked pavement.

The rope cut into his wrists where they'd tied his hands behind his back. Already he could feel the loss of circulation in his fingers. The business end of the SKS was still aimed at his heart.

And he was running out of time.

He glanced at the soldier riding shotgun in the front seat. Recognized him, though he'd never met him. Garcia. Poveda's hatchet man. Specialized, it was said, in using a stiletto. Garcia also had a penchant for employing electricity to make his victims talk. He particularly enjoyed using it on freedom fighters.

Manny didn't recognize the driver or, in the seat at Manny's side, the young corporal with the SKS. He watched Manny like a hawk, his eyes narrowed and intent on Manny's face.

Well trained,
Manny thought.
Always watch a man's eyes. They are telegraphs to his thoughts.
For that reason, Manny kept his eyes as blank as white paper.

The jeep rumbled past the airport on the outskirts of the city, then turned off Carrtera Norte and onto a back road; he didn't let on that he'd figured out where they were taking him. He'd heard of the torture camps deep in the jungles. And he knew of no one who survived them—which was why he could not let the soldiers take him that far.

Miles and maybe an hour went by. The city grew distant. Up ahead he saw the glimmer of moonlight bouncing off water and realized they were approaching the Rio Tipitapa Bridge.

He didn't so much as glance ahead or to the side.

He sat. He waited. Hunched over as if still dazed from the blow to his head and resigned to his fate. They would soon find out he was far from it.

The city lights were a memory as the jeep hit a slight incline leading to the narrow stone bridge he had known was coming up. Manny counted to five, then made his move.

With a sharp kick at his guard's chest, Manny dislodged the SKS long enough to sway the barrel up and away from him. The rifle discharged wildly into the air; the fire flash shot from the end of the barrel like mini volcanic eruptions as he stood and leaped from the moving vehicle.

He landed on the pavement with a bone-jarring jolt, then rolled like a square wooden wheel. His shoulder and hip screamed in pain, but he forced himself to his feet to the serrated screech of squealing brakes and guttural shouts.

He didn't wait to see if the soldiers had drawn on him. Off balance with his hands tied, he vaulted to the stone rail of the bridge. Without a backward glance and swallowing back his fear of heights, he launched himself toward the muddy Tipitapa, flowing fifteen feet below.

The night exploded in a hail of gunfire just before he hit the surface of the rapidly running river. The current sucked him under. He shot toward the riverbed like a bullet, found the silty bottom with his feet, and, praying he had the lung power, pushed off.

His lungs burned. His throat ached. But finally, he surfaced. On a gasping breath, he shook the water from his eyes. Then for the first time since Poveda's men had shattered his sleep and his illusions about Lily, he found something to smile about. The swift-running current had already carried him fifty yards downriver. This far from the bridge, there was no way the soldiers could spot him in the inky black night.

It was the rainy season,
gracias a Dios,
or he'd more than likely have broken both ankles landing in two feet of water instead of fifteen. His smile was short-lived. The current sucked him down again in a vortex of speed and suffocating darkness. Without the use of his arms, the river rolled him like a deadhead—a waterlogged stump— spinning him out of control. The harder he fought, the deeper the river took him.

Holding his breath, battling unconsciousness, he forced himself to relax, to sink to the bottom again, then pushed off with a prayer. For the second time, he broke the surface with a gasp, coughing mud-clogged water and sucking air. He was a good hundred yards downriver now. The jungle had thickened like a gray-green fog, closing in on the meandering path that years of spring and summer floods had cut into the bank as the Tipitapa flowed toward Lago de Nicaragua a hundred miles downstream.

It wasn't until his third trip down that he figured out what to do. The only way to fight the current and gravity was to go with it. When he surfaced the next time, he spread his legs and, using them as rudders, rode the river.

With concentrated effort, he let himself be a log instead of fighting the fact that he was one. Logs float. So he floated. Coughing and spitting and gasping for air. Sometimes on his back. Sometimes on his belly. However the river wanted him. But always with an eye toward the shore, searching for an opportunity to beach himself. But the night was dark; it was difficult to see, and staying afloat took most of his concentration.

He didn't know how long he drifted that way. Long enough that his strength had faded. And he suspected he knew the reason why.

Besides the bump and gash on his head from the rifle blow, one of the soldiers had gotten lucky. As Manny was free-falling off the bridge, he'd felt the round connect with his shoulder. Felt the slice, felt the burn.