Chapter 1 - TAKEN

Colombia’s El Tigre trading post is used mostly by adventurers and hikers setting out to climb the South American nation’s jungle covered mountains or to go rafting down one of the Orinoco’s myriad white water tributaries. I am not an adventure-bound outdoor sort of girl. I do love being outside and running but I’ve never in my entire life considered trekking through the tropical rainforest or braving class five rapids. And, yet, here I am trying to sleep in an uncomfortable bed thousands of miles away from home.

 

Only, I can’t sleep because I’m worried about finding my dad and because of the oppressive humidity. I know I need some rest but the air is so thick I can practically swallow it and the mosquito netting around my creaking bed prevents even the smallest breezes off the river from reaching me. Sweat pours down the back of my neck, so I pull my long, curly black hair up into a ponytail, dab the moisture with the sheet and try watching the small black and white television on the dresser to make myself sleepy. But the only station the old TV can pick up this far in the jungle is fuzzy and shows nothing but reruns from last year’s World Cup. 

 

The thought occurs to me to go to the bathroom and splash water on my face, but the only bathroom is at the end of the hall and shared by the whole floor. And somehow the idea of a young woman like myself walking down a dark hall to use a bathroom shared by grungy adventure seekers brings to mind all those movies that end with some overweight cop shaking his head saying things like, “How could this happen to such a good kid?” 

 

Not that I couldn’t handle myself. I know I can. But it’s just not worth it. With my sheets drenched from sweat and the helicopter-like buzzing of mosquitoes whirling around my head, I drift into to a fitful sleep just after midnight. It’s not long before I start to dream and then my dream becomes a nightmare.

 

I am being chased by faceless men with guns and heavy black beards and I don’t know who they are. I’m running through the dense jungle but my legs feel like they’re slogging through pudding. As I try to go forward, limbs and vines pummel my face scratching my cheeks and arms. I can hear my faceless pursuers getting closer. Their footfalls get louder as they close in. Broken branches snap under their heavy, military boots that cut through the foliage effortlessly. They are shouting and yelling at each other.  Somewhere in the back of my mind I know it isn’t real. I toss and turn, but no matter what I do, I can’t force myself to wake up.

 

My heart beats so hard, I’m sure it will explode. I can hear them getting closer. They’ll be on top of me in seconds. I race into the unknown not sure where I’m headed or why they are chasing me. I stumble and fall to my knees. My hands dig into the dirt as I scramble to get back up. My mouth opens to scream but there is no sound. Then just as a small groan emerges from the back of my throat, I feel thick hands wrap around my neck ready to choke the life out of me.

 

I bolt straight up in my bed, clutching the sheet to my pounding chest. I try to gulp the wet air and force it deep into my lungs, but I can’t catch my breath. Sweat pours down my face and my bed might as well be the river. My favorite Ramones T-shirt is soaked so I dig through my backpack, and find a dry white tank top and cargo khakis to put on. I lift my heavy ponytail off my neck and fan myself with a Colombian soccer magazine from the nightstand. Gazing out the window, the full moon shimmers on the majestic Orinoco and casts long shadows over the rough-hewn wood floor.

 

I stare out the window, trying to collect myself. Looking out across the silver coated landscape I ask myself, Haddie Green what in the world are you doing here? I’m two thousand miles from New Providence. This is nuts. 

 

It may be nuts but I’ve got to find my father. He’s all I have left. He’s been missing three maybe four days. I don’t know anymore. My time is all confused after the long plane trip and the bush plane ride to El Tigre. The only thing I know for sure is that I am thousands of miles away from my own bed at an outpost in the middle of a jungle in Colombia sitting by the open window trying calm myself and catch a breeze off the Orinoco River.

 

Now that my heart is beating at its normal resting rate all I can think is,This is hopeless. I shouldn’t even be here. It will never work. I should be at my prom tonight having a normal kid’s life. Instead, I am completely alone and my father is out there…somewhere. Falling back into my pillow, tears silently roll down the sides of my face.

 

Thoughts of Chance Baker standing on my front porch in his tuxedo and high tops holding a corsage and then seeing the note I left fills my head. ‘Family emergency. Had to leave town. I’m so sorry. Haddie.’ What else could I have said? ‘Chance, Sorry I can’t go to the prom with you but my father was kidnapped and his boss convinced me to fly to South America with him because he told me if we involved authorities they would kill my father. So, maybe we can grab a burger next week? Later, Haddie.’

 

What do I care? It doesn’t even matter now. I’ve already missed the prom and Chance probably hates me. Wiping away a tear I know that I’d give up a million proms if it would help me and Dr. Waters find my dad.

 

Dr. Waters, my dad’s boss, has a meeting lined up tomorrow with someone who is supposed to take us up the Orinoco to the last village where my dad was before he was kidnapped. I need to be at my top tomorrow but I’m so tired and worrying about the stupid prom and whether or not my father is okay isn’t doing anything for me except making me anxious. I stare through the gauzy mosquito netting and out the window at the silver sky. My need for sleep trumps the sweat and sadness I feel. My eyelids grow heavy and I drift off once more.

 

It’s not long before I’m dreaming of being chased again. But something is different from my first dream. This time a hand clamps down hard over my mouth. There is a smell of gasoline mixed with sweat and some sort of food that turns my stomach and causes me to gag. I resist the urge to throw up. I’m so groggy and yet my mind yells, Come on, Haddie. Wake up! This isn’t a dream. Wake up right now!

 

I can feel my teeth cutting into my lips causing blood, my blood, to spill into my mouth. I force my eyes to open completely. The horrid scent coming off the hand over my mouth causes hot bile to gurgle up my throat. In the back of my mind I hear my Uncle Ami yelling, Get up, Hadassah! This is not a test. Get up now. Throw him off balance Defend yourself.

 

With my eyes now wide, I look up at the stranger whose hand is on my mouth and I glance around the room. He is not alone but he is the one I must deal with first. I kick off my drenched sheets trying to free myself, but there are more hands grabbing at me now; pulling my legs. I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe! I try to kick at my assailants but I can’t move because they have me pinned against the bed. I reach for anything that I can use as a weapon.

 

I know there’s a lamp on the nightstand, so I try to grab it but my hand gets wrapped up in the mosquito netting. Someone ties a sweaty cloth around my head to blindfold me. My eyes burn as I try to peek through the material to catch a glimpse of my attackers. I reach for the lamp one more time, trying to knock it on the floor in the hope that the sound will wake up somebody, but the lamp was just out of reach.

 

Panicked groans emanate from my throat. Then another set of hands grabs my hair and pushes my head back into the pillow. My hair feels like it’s being ripped out by the roots. Tears stream down my face. The smell of gas grows stronger making it harder to breathe.

 

Then, for some unknown reason, they stop grabbing at me but do not loosen their hold on me. I squirm harder than before but the hands push me down so hard, I think my legs might break. I hear them talking in anxious voices. They’re speaking Spanish but they’re mumbling.  I’m not too bad with Spanish. I’ve taken three years of it but that’s in the classroom. Right here, right now, I understand almost nothing because they’re speaking so fast. As the men whisper to one another, I count the voices. There are at least three maybe four of them.

 

The door to my room creaks open and someone new enters the room. It’s a man. I can tell from the sound of his heavy boots pounding across the wooden floor. He must be the one in charge because the others immediately stop talking.

 

 

With the confusing voices hushed, a moment of clarity strikes me. If they were going to kill me, they would have done it already. My clothes haven’t been ripped from my body, so they aren’t here to rape me. What could these thugs need with an eighteen-year-old girl from America? Oh no! No. No. Maybe they’re human traffickers. Maybe the leader is telling them not to damage ‘the goods’. I am not ‘the goods’!

 

My mind races as they chatter amongst themselves. The one with his gross hand on my mouth thinks they’ve got me subdued and loosens his grip. Whatever I decide to do now, I have to commit to doing it because I’ve seen enough crime shows to know that what a victim does in the first few minutes of a kidnapping is crucial. I come up with an idea. It’s probably a stupid idea, but I decide to take a chance and alert someone. Maybe if I wake up the whole trading post someone will come to my rescue.

 

I open my mouth and taste sweaty, gasoline and grime-coated flesh. I know his hand is probably crawling with germs. But at this point, I have nothing to lose. I bite down on his hand like I am tearing off a piece of tough steak, grinding and ripping the meat of his thick hand with my teeth.

 

He yanks his hand from my mouth, yelping in pain. I try to cry out for help, but the only sound that comes out is a weird guttural noise but it’s loud enough that the others scramble to cover my mouth, leaving my left arm free. That’s when opportunity presents itself. My hand shoots into the darkness grasping the lamp on the nightstand. Then with all the force I can muster, I smash it against the back of someone’s head and I hear one of my attackers collapse to the floor. The leader, the one with the heavy boots, speaks forcefully trying to get the situation under control.

 

I take in a deep breath hoping I’ve found my voice and I scream, “Help me! I’m being raped! Please somebody!” I thrash violently just as Uncle Ami had taught me. My legs and arms are like windmills whirling to make contact with anything. I tighten my fists and strike out with vengeance hoping I can connect a punch to a sensitive part of the body. I hit something. A back, a shoulder? I don’t know. But I won’t go down without a fight so I keep hitting.

 

I hear the leader shout, Stupido! Then I feel something heavy, a bat or maybe the butt of a gun, hit my head and a sudden, sharp pain shoots through my skull which may or may not be shattered. The pain is intense and radiates down my neck and back. My eyes roll up in my head. A bright light races through my brain just before everything goes dark.

 

***

 

My eyes flutter. I shake my head and wonder if what had happened was real. My head aches. I feel like I have been asleep for days. It takes a few seconds for me to realize that what I thought was just a terrible nightmare is real. I feel the blood vessels pulsating in my head, throbbing like they might explode. It’s dark and everything is blurry. And I have the weirdest sensation that I am falling, only I’m not.

 

After a few minutes, the pain in my head eases slightly, but the throbbing remains. I try to rub my skull which feels like it was cracked by the blow to my head but my wrists are tied together with rough, bristly ropes. It hurts to breathe.

 

I twist and turn to get air into my lungs but it doesn’t help. And I feel contorted and like I’m…swinging. I can also feel a painful burning that stings my ankles. That’s when I realize that my ankles are tied together, too. Every second of consciousness registers new pains and aches throughout my body. My eyes feel heavy and I drift off again.

 

When I wake back up I wonder if I have been out for seconds or days since all I see is darkness. I’m covered with bug bites. And I still feel like I’m swinging. Oh no, I’m going to be sick.

 

I try to cover my mouth but my hands are still tied together. I blink my eyes and my vision starts to come into focus. Surrounding me are tall trees, vines, and underbrush. Tiny gnats swirl around my face sticking to my arms and neck. A few tents are set up around a dwindling campfire. A dirty, green, beat up truck is parked in the distance. But something is wrong with what I see, Why is everything sort of upside down? What’s going on?

 

That’s when I realize I am the one upside down. Well, not completely upside down. In fact, as I swing there, I imagine I must look like an oddly shaped ‘J’ because my hands and feet are tied to a rope suspended from a gnarled tree branch. Somewhere in the jungles of Colombia in the middle of the night, I am dangling like a piece of meat behind the counter at Sam’s Deli on Market Street. I blink a few times to make sure I’m not dreaming. No. I am wide awake. Oh, crap! What do I do now?

 

The heavy air is moist and thick as I try to gulp it down, but hanging upside down like a human candy cane makes it difficult to breathe. To be honest, it feels like there’s a stack of bricks sitting on my chest but at least I am able to get some air into my lungs. At this point I’m happy to say that other than having a killer headache, sore muscles, and some seriously bad rope burns, I’m okay. And so long as I’m okay, I can try to think of something to help free myself.

 

Looking around, I know my captors must be asleep and since I’ve not been thrown in a cage and shipped off to some wacko, I know they’re not human traffickers. That can only mean one thing. These are the men who kidnapped my father. Somehow they knew I was at the El Tigre. I must have something they want. Whatever it is at least I am one step closer to my dad. 

 

I survey the landscape. No one is around. I see four tents and a truck in a clearing. I also see a fire that is dying out. Then I spot a dirt road that twists off into the jungle.

 

A noise at the edge of the clearing catches my attention. I wiggle and twist my body to spin myself around. A short, pudgy man with a stub of a cigar in his mouth pushes his way through the bushes adjusting his pants like he had just gone to the bathroom. There is no way he washed his hands. He’s got a rifle slung over his oversized camouflage jacket and matching camo-pants. He staggers and trips over a tree trunk by the fire. I notice his right hand is bandaged and it has a red spot where blood has soaked through.

 

Gross! Gross! Gross! He’s the man whose foul smelling hand had shoved my head into my pillow. I know I should be nervous, but hate fills every inch of my body.

 

He walks towards me, cigar in his good hand, with a gapped-tooth smile spreading across his face. From this angle, it’s impossible to tell exactly how many teeth he’s missing. He runs his unbandaged hand through his thick, greasy hair like he’s trying to fix it, only there’s no improvement. From the looks of it, his hair probably hasn’t been washed in months, maybe years. He moves within a couple of feet of me, and I spit in his general direction. It’s probably a dumb move, but it’s not like there’s a whole heck of a lot I can do at the moment.

 

Taking a puff on his cigar, the gross, snaggle-toothed henchman steps closer and raises his bandaged hand in front of my face. He strokes my cheek with it. Leaning in close me, his stubbly beard scratches my cheek. Being upside down puts me in the perfect spot to get a good whiff of his breath, which reminds me of spoiled meat left in the back of a refrigerator for months, only worse.

 

He gets close to my ear and clears his throat. “Hola Señorita. We are now alone.”

 

Chapter 2 - THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE

As if having some gross, pudgy little man invade my personal space weren’t enough, I have the world’s worst headache, and I am literally turned upside. This is crazy. What am I doing here in the jungle of South America? How stupid was I to think I could find my father?

 

I should be sitting at the dinner table, filling out my housing forms for college, getting a part time summer job at the mall, or hanging out with Chance by the bay watching the sailboats drift across the water. For crying out loud, I’m eighteen. I should be with my friends at the prom. I should be going with them down to the beach to watch the sunrise. Most of all, I should not be hanging upside down from a tree with a short, toothless, cigar breath evil man with drool running out the corner of his mouth caressing my cheek.

 

Ignore it, Haddie. Close your eyes. Go anywhere but here. But where? When? And then it comes to me. Three weeks ago I was having the best day of my life…

 

***

 

The state track and field finals were held at Providence High School. And I was preparing for my race. My last race. For four years I had dominated the 400-meter hurdles. I was even the first freshman at Providence to ever medal in the event. And I was preparing myself to medal once again. I was sitting next to the field house stretching out my hamstrings with my friends, Stacey and Morgan, while people filed into the stands when something totally unexpected happened.

 

Chance Baker walked up to us like he’d known us forever. Do you know how much confidence it takes for a guy to approach a group of girls? But then again, that’s Chance – confident but not cocky. He didn’t need cockiness. With a full ride to Chapel Hill to play football, he knew who he was and wasn’t worried about what other people thought of him.

 

“Hey Haddie.” I looked up at the mention of my name and saw his smile. That smile. Chance’s teeth are toothpaste commercial perfect and his wavy hair is cute the way it looks messy on purpose. And his skin was warmly sun-kissed thanks to his job as a lifeguard. I’m tan, too. Only my olive skin and dark hair isn’t what I think of as attractive because it whenever I’m at the airport or anywhere I get the nastiest of stares like I’m plotting something evil.  

 

But I’m not. I can’t help my genetic code. When my mother was alive, it wasn’t so bad because she was one hundred percent Israeli and gorgeous and would tell me to be proud of my Anglo-Israeli heritage. Staring at Chance, standing there sort of Adonis-like, I can’t help but wonder what our kids would look like. When I realized I probably had that dorky deer-in-the-headlights look, I coughed to clear my already clear throat and asked, “Hey, Chance. What’s up? You staying for the meet?”

 

He cleared his throat, too. “I just wanted to come wish you good luck. You’re gonna rock it today. Nobody can touch you. Oh, and...”

 

Chance sort of nodded his head, which I took as him wanting to speak in private. I stood up, brushing grass off my legs and then put my curly black hair into a ponytail. I could feel Stacey and Morgan staring at me, trying not to giggle, and acting like they were tying their shoes so they could eavesdrop. They didn’t have to. They know I would have told them every single word he said as soon as he walked away.

 

Chance looked at the ground as we meandered toward the side of the bright orange and blue field house with a larger than life Minuteman painted on the side of the building. “Hey, I know it’s short notice, but, well you know Courtney and I broke up a couple of weeks ago and I was wondering if you’d like to go to prom? With me.” If I hadn’t been there to see it with my own two eyes, I would never have believed Chance Baker could be ... nervous about anything. But he sure did sound nervous. “What I mean is would you like to go to prom with me, Haddie?”

 

I was, in a word, stunned. Everything around me sort of melted away. The bleachers which were full of cheering fans and parents sounded like they were mumbling and the starting gun that fired behind me sounded like a kid’s pop gun. I looked around wondering if it was some sort of joke but Chance wasn’t that kind of guy. And when I saw Courtney, the cheer captain and now his ‘ex’, with her long blonde hair, perfect skin and fake smile glaring at me like a cobra ready to strike, I knew for sure he was being serious. Not many people get under my skin. But Courtney and her cookie-cutter minions do. Courtney, though, is the worst of the lot because of her icy blue eyes. Not clear blue eyes like the sky; pale blue like the creepy kids in The Shining.

 

Oh, was she ever mad. And why was she so mad? Because the greatest guy in school, her former boyfriend, was asking me to the prom – no gimmicks or cutesy stuff, just a straightforward question and no doubt expecting my reply to be Yes.

 

I remember seriously thinking about whether or not I should jump up and down and shout abso-freakin-lutely! But, no. I decided to play it cool. Taking a deep breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth, as I refused to reek of desperation I said, “Sure, it sounds like it could be fun. But we need agree upfront that it’s a friend sort of thing ... after all, I wouldn’t want to make anybody angry.” I nodded in Courtney’s direction.

 

“Courtney? Forget her. She’s always angry. But if that’s the way you want to do it. Sure. No strings. It’ll be just a couple of friends having a nice dinner and doing a little dancing.” He leaned against the field house and tilted his head.

 

Still playing it cool, I went to lean against the field house but stupid me I underestimated how close I was to the wall. “Exac—whoa!” Misjudging the distance by half a foot, I fell bumping the side of my head on the cinder block wall. Chance grabbed me, steadying me. His strong hands gripped my shoulders to keep me from falling down completely.

 

“You okay?”

 

“Yeah, just a little nervous about the race I guess. I’ll talk to you on Monday about it some more. Uh, sorry, I’ve got to bolt now or coach will ream me out.” I turned to head back to my friends, staring heavenward hoping Chance would think of my stumble as ‘cute’ instead of ‘totally klutzy’.

 

“No problem. Lots of luck, Haddie.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

I walked back to Stacey and Morgan and saw that Courtney, the cheer demon, had left the vicinity. Maybe she knew she’d totally lost any chance with Chance and she was now dateless for the prom. I couldn’t help but snicker and think, Good riddance.

 

We watched our fellow Providence High Minutemen Track Team members compete in a few events until it was Stacey’s turn. Stacey anchored the 400-meter relay. I felt bad for her because the two middle links were weak. I thought she would never have a chance at a gold medal and there was nothing she could do about it. But Morgan and I weren’t going to do anything but shout and scream for her. Going into the final hand-off of the baton, Stacey was a good twenty meters behind. Then it was like Stacey decided to kick it into overdrive because she closed the gap and came in second by only three steps. She medaled! Everyone was thrilled for the relay team because second in the whole state is nothing to sneeze at. But Morgan and I were ecstatic for Stacey because she was the one who really won that race.

 

Then it was my turn. My race. I did a group high-five with my girls before I headed to lane three. 

 

Showtime. I stretched a few more times as the freshmen boys’ team set up the hurdles on the track. I hoped the little red-haired guy in my lane knew what he’s doing. But seeing him struggle trying to carry the hurdles for my lane didn’t leave me feeling confident. Just line them up on the marks, genius.

 

I looked into the stands and spotted my father in the front row. My dad; ever the professor. He never missed a race even if he had to cancel his class, which I’m sure his students didn’t mind one bit. As a tenured archaeology professor and the author of a dozen best-selling books, the university let him do pretty much anything he wanted. Heck, he could probably cancel class all semester or show up in footy pajamas and his boss, Dr. Julian Waters, the dean of his department, wouldn’t say a thing to him. Apparently, higher education has its own rock stars, but it’s a little like being “king of the nerds” as my dad would say.

 

My dad my looked stiff in the stands but at least, he wasn’t like Stacey’s dad who was wearing a T-shirt with her picture screen-printed on it and stretched out over his ample stomach. No. My dad just sat there like a nerd in his glasses and sport jacket. His blue eyes, the only thing I inherited from him, sparkled as he looked at me. Funny, when I think of all those nasty looks people give me in the airports, I do get a thrill out of looking up at them with my big blue eyes.

 

Why do people do that? Why do they think it’s okay to judge someone just because their skin is darker, no matter what shade of dark it might be? If I was more like my mother, I’d go straight up to those people and smile just like she would have and then something like, “Is there something I can help you with? You seem interested in me. Is it my shirt? I got it at the mall. Or maybe it’s my shoes?”

 

My mom always did that sort of thing. She called it ‘Socratic Confrontation’. She approached people with questions that forced them to answer one of two ways, politely and apologetically or they would be dumbstruck and not be able to answer. In that instant, standing at the blocks staring at my dad I thought of how rough the past two years must have been for him sitting there in the stands watching me without her by his side. Both our lives changed in an instant because some idiot swerved into her lane. She’d gone out to get some ice cream for dessert and never came back. And just like that—she was gone.

 

My life was never the same again. I thought I would never be happy again. But after two years, there have been moments of happiness like winning my races because I could hear her in my head urging me forward. Of course, I felt pretty happy when Chance asked me out. And looking in my father’s blue eyes, made me happy, too. They’ve always inspired me and make me feel safe. His eyes and the memory of my mother’s never give up, never give in attitude remind me I can do anything I set my mind to.

 

I checked my laces and placed my feet in the starting blocks. My final race as a high school student lay before me. Then that weird thing happened. It always happens when I race. All the sounds, the cheers and yelling ... all the noise dies away. Things move in slow motion. My vision narrows on the lane. I don’t notice the competitors beside me because I stopped racing against them a couple of years ago. Now, I race against myself because of something my father instilled in me.

 

Unlike my mother who was always doing triathlons and raising money for the National MS Society, my father has been more of a spectator than an athlete. But he’s incredibly smart and says things like: The race is against yourself. Focus on the goal, not on others. Do your best and everything else will fall into place. I ignored his advice for a while, but not long after my mom died and I came in second place in a qualifying heat, when I should have won the race. I decided to try things his way.

 

At the next heat, I blocked out my competition like he said. I focused on his words. Okay Haddie, this race is against myself. I have to focus on the goal, not on others. And I heard my mom’s voice telling me to never give up, never give in and ... I won. In fact, I blew away the competition. And that was the day I started winning for me because looking around to see where my competitors were cost me valuable time. From that day on, I never looked back.

 

The starter’s pistol fired. I blazed out of the block easily five meters in front of the other seven lanes. Nobody entered my peripheral vision. The first hurdle approached and looked really small. I remembered how tall the hurdles appeared four years ago when I was a freshman. I glided over the first one. Picturing myself in my mind, I was perfect. My strong leg extended straight as a board, toe pointed. My off-leg bent exquisitely behind me. Exhaling as I landed, my vision locked on the next hurdle. One down, nine to go. Forty yards to the next one.

 

Then something happened. As I cleared the second hurdle, my left foot grazed the top of the bar. My knee buckled and I landed hard on the track. Pain shot through my knee down to my ankle but I rolled and jumped straight up. Beth from Westwood caught up to me in lane five. I felt blood trickle down my leg but I kept running. Trying to block out the noise, I looked at the third hurdle. I clipped it, too. My leg buckled again only I didn’t fall. 

 

What’s going on? I haven’t hit a hurdle in years. My heart started beating faster as the runners in lanes one and two passed me.

 

My father’s voice echoed in my head. Focus. I glanced to the sidelines and noticed Courtney and her minions laughing and pointing at my stumble. I heard their laughs and the gasps from the crowd. I tried to force them out of my head. You can do this. Just get to the next hurdle. I narrowed my gaze on the obstacle ahead of me and that’s when I noticed something wrong with the hurdle. It was…uneven. That’s weird.

 

Quickly glancing at the base of the upcoming hurdle I saw a rock wedged under the right leg of the hurdle. So, when I got to it, I jumped a little harder and a little higher to clear it. On the back straight away, I picked up speed. I looked at the base of the next hurdle and saw that it was flat and I cleared it without any issues. But the next hurdle had rock under it, too.

 

My mind raced to figure out what was going on and then I realized what was up. That little red-haired jerk sabotaged me. Anger shot through me, giving me a burst of energy. It was a good thing, too because it took every ounce of energy I had to add an extra stutter step, throwing off my stride, to regain my rhythm just so I could add two inches to every jump. But I did it.

 

Heading for the last hurdle, I was neck-and-neck with lanes one and two, but Beth was three steps in front of all of us in lane five. Lucky for me though, Beth started celebrating in her mind too soon and was running out of steam. When I saw this, I tapped into something deep inside and accelerated. I ignored the pain in my knee and dug in for the final sprint.

 

The New Providence students screamed as I broke the tape just ahead of Beth. I was wiped out, but the last thing I wanted to do was fall down flat on my back because it makes you look weak. I told myself, Do not collapse, Haddie. Do not! Be cool. Be cool.

 

I walked over to Beth to shake her hand even though she was leaning over and holding her knees as she gasped for breath. After our handshake, she fell to the ground and I stood up straight, smiling to the cheering fans in the stands even though my legs were shaky and my knee hurt badly. I just kept walking as if I were fit as a fiddle.

 

I gave a wave to my dad. He smiled, like usual. He never jumped up or shouted. He simply nodded his head. Staying in control is another lesson my father taught me. He told me, ‘Even if you feel like you’re coming apart at the seams, Haddie, you need to keep it together.’

 

After enjoying a brief celebration with Stacey and Morgan I saw the little red-haired jerk helping clear the track for the next race. I caught up with him after he walked behind the field house to stack the hurdles and spun him around by his shoulders. The other freshmen scattered.

 

I pinned him against the wall. “What did you do to my hurdles?”

 

“I didn’t do…”

 

Taking a step back, I threw a roundhouse kick just inches from his nose. My Uncle Ami would be furious at me for using my skills to intimidate someone who was not a threat but I decided it would be a valuable learning moment for the twerp. “Look, I’ve studied martial arts for eight years, punk. I know it was you. Now, tell me why you did it?”

 

He swallowed hard and looked for his friends to help him out but they scattered. “Courtney said she’d kiss me if I put rocks under your hurdles. She’s hot, you know.”

 

“Yeah, I know.” I shoved him into the side of the field house. “Trust me, kid she’d never go through with it. She’d find a way to embarrass you instead. That’s how Courtney rolls.”

 

He looked dejected. “Yeah, I kinda thought so.  Hey, I’m sorry, Haddie. It was a great race. I’m glad you won.” Then he took off, giving me double thumbs up as he scurried away.

 

I heard my father’s voice and turned to see him with his arms outstretched. My father always hugged me after a race, regardless of the sweat and smell. “Great job, Haddie. You won state. Now let’s go get your knee checked out.” 

 

As we walked back towards the bleachers he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped the sweat off my face. A few years ago, this would have embarrassed me. But now I understand that it’s just his little ritual and I knew it wouldn’t last too much longer, so I decided to savor the moment.

 

My father put the cloth away then he pulled out an envelope. “I think this is for you.”

 

I rubbed my finger over the raised crimson letters of the return address: Harvard University, Office of Admissions. Only the envelope was already opened. “Uh, Dad?”

 

“Sorry, kid, I couldn’t wait. I had to see what they said.”

 

“You know that’s a federal offense.”

 

“So sue me.”

 

My hands shook as I scanned the page quickly not really comprehending the words. But I did pick up the words “track scholarship” and “academic scholarship.” I did the math in my head then jumped into my father’s arms screaming, “Full ride!”

 

“I’m so proud of you, kid.”

 

That was a great day. No. It was the best day of my life. I had scored a date to the prom with Chance Baker which was awesome, I’d just won the state championship for my division, I’d received a letter from Harvard telling me I had earned a full ride to the prestigious university, and I got to enjoy an ice cream sundae with my dad. Yes, all in all, it was an absolutely perfect day. I wish I could go back to that day.

 

But no.

Chapter 3 - MEET PABLO

The hazy memory of my perfect day and the state championship fades and I feel a rough hand stroking my cheek. My mind tries to grapple with my situation. Everything is wrong. But it only takes a minute to remember my perilous situation especially since I’m now face to face with the pudgy man. No, it’s more like I’m nose to nose with him which is two inches worse. Apparently, he has the first night watch. Looking at the stub of the cigar hanging out of the corner of his mouth, I imagine his last bath was months ago. Or if I am judging solely by the stench of his body and the foul smell of fish and beer on his breath, it might have been at least a year.

 

The ropes dig into my wrists. Luckily, I’m able to bring my bound hands to my face to keep his hot, moist breath off me. “Hola, Haddie Green. Santiago – he say to me you will be mine when we are finished with you.” He emitted a gruff laugh that led to a cough and other bodily noises. 

 

Gross. He’s ... he’s Jabba the Hut’s ugly little brother.

 

Hanging there like I am makes thinking clearly almost impossible. But it doesn’t stop me from goading the smelly kin of Jabba. I twist and turn my hands trying to loosen the ropes. “Well, I cannot wait to meet this Santiago to tell him thank you. And when, pray tell, will Santiago be finished with me? I can’t tell you how excited I am to grab a cup of coffee with you; maybe we can discuss our favorite bands. Are you a Coldplay kind of guy? Or are you living Livin’ la Vida Loca here in the jungle?”

 

He squeezed my face like a vice grip. “Ha. You es divertida. You make me laugh, Haddie Green. But no one is coming for you and no one knows you are here. And when you lead Santiago to what he wants, no one will need you any more. So you will be mine. Then you can bite my hand all you want.”

 

His head moves slowly like one of those cheesy romantic movies where the first kiss takes ten minutes. His lips are cracked and chapped by the sun. Black stubble and sweat dried dirt covers his face. And with the various odors that drift off his body, I decide he and the others must have been traipsing through the jungle for days. His face gets closer to mine. And before his diseased looking lips get too close to my mouth, I gather up as much saliva as I can muster and spit in his bloodshot eyes.

 

“Estúpida chica!”

 

He smacks my face and I start to spin. Pain radiates from my cheekbone and travels to the back of my head to my neck. He stops me from spinning and I manage to spit once again at him even though I feel like I am going to pass out. I scream, “Leave me alone!”

 

Stink-face’s bandaged hand grabs my lower jaw and he waves his index finger in my face. “You see this, chica? You gonna pay for what you did to me one way or the other.”

 

I scream louder, “Leave me alone! You’re hurting me.”

 

Finally, I see movement in one of the tents. Then a sleepy kid no older than me stumbles out. He’s wearing a dirty white t-shirt and green shorts. He yawns and stretches before turning my way. Jabba junior glares at me as the young guy jogs over to us.

 

The skanky thug pulls his dirty hand off my face. “¿Pablo está usted loco? Va a tener problemas con el jefe”

 

 I pay close attention to the conversation. But they’re speaking so fast it’s hard to keep up. At least I know his name. Pablo.

 

Pablo shoves the kid. “Silencioso Mauricio. ¿Ves lo que ella hizo para mi mano?” He raises his bandaged hand angrily to the kid called Mauricio like he might slap him.

 

I stifle a laugh when I realize Pablo is whining about his hand. I guess stinky Pablo didn’t like being bitten.

 

But Mauricio doesn’t even flinch at Pablo’s threat. He just shrugs his shoulders, as if he doesn’t care what Pablo does and tells him, “Okay. Pero estar en silencio. No despiertes Santiago. Recuerda lo que le pasó a Sergio.”

 

I wish I’d paid better attention in Spanish class. Geez, think Haddie. What does ‘Recuerda lo que le pasó’ mean? You have seriously got to brush up on your Spanish when you get home. Well, whatever it means, it wasn’t good for Sergio.

 

Pablo spits on the ground. “Esta chica no es la mujer de Santiago. Cuando ella le dice a Santiago lo que él quiere para saber ella es mía.”

 

I roll my eyes. Ella es mía? Oh, no Pablo. I am not yours. Nope.

 

Mauricio makes the shape of a gun with his hand and aims it between Pablo’s eyes. “Disparo Sergio entre los ojos. Un minuto, Sergio está comiendo arepas de huevo y beber chocolate caliente y luego...” He moves his thumb as if he’s shooting a gun. “Boom! No más Sergio. Ponele. Me observarla, por ti, Pablo.”

 

I might not be a UN translator but it’s not difficult to figure out that whoever the guy named Sergio was, he ticked off Santiago enough that Santiago shot and killed him. Mental note: Don’t make Santiago mad.

 

“Okay, okay.” Pablo takes the rifle off his shoulder and hands it to Mauricio as the two start to walk away. Pablo turns back towards me. “Regresaré por ti, chica. I come back for you.”

 

1. Hate. That. Man. Sure, yeah. You come back for me Pablo. Cut me down from this tree and I’ll knock you winding faster than you can say God Bless America!

 

They walk off into the darkness just out of earshot and I strain to hear what they are saying. But it’s impossible. I watch Mauricio light up a cigarette. The flame from the lighter illuminates his young face. Geez, he looks kind of like one of my friends in New Providence, except for the tattoo of a jaguar on his neck.

 

Safe from Pablo for the time being, I try to figure out what in the world this Santiago guy could possibly need me for. It’s gotta have something to do with my dad. But I don’t have anything. For Pete’s sake, I just got to South America. All I brought with me is my backpack, a couple of changes of clothes, my passport, some money, and my father’s notebook. Wait. Is that what they want? His journal? That’s got to be it. Geez, these guys might have guns but they’re idiots. They kidnapped me and left my bag in the room. How stupid is that? Maybe they think I memorized the thing. Is there a stronger word than stupid? 

 

 

As I hang there, I know have to get away. And I know I am the only one who can do anything to make that happen. I take in as deep a breath as I can get and let out a blood curdling scream followed by, “Pablo stop it! You’re hurting me! No Pablo!”

 

The pudgy man races back to me and covers my mouth with his bandaged hand. “What you try to do, get me muertos? I do nothing to you.”

 

I look beyond him and see people emerge from the tents and I count six men staggering from their sleep in the darkness towards me. Is one of them Santiago?

 

Then I see the flap on tent farthest from me open slowly and a tall, dark man with a fat mustache steps out. His shoulders are square and he looks like a brick wall. He moves deliberately as if he expects the trees to bow down to

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Texte: Chuck Chitwood
Bildmaterialien: Cover by Lauren McDade (Rights given to Chuck Chitwood)
Lektorat: L. Avery Brown
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 10.01.2015
ISBN: 978-3-7368-8425-0

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To Abigail, Chase and Zachary - You are my greatest adventures.