Men rushed in on Dylan, struck him, drove him to his knees, each blow making Gabriela’s heart constrict.
Ruiz led Gabriela downhill toward a clearing where there were more men and several vehicles. He shouted to his men. “Don’t kill him! He needs to be alive for the reporters. Our partner in Venezuela will decide what to do with him.”
Reporters?
Shit!
They would parade Dylan in front of the cameras—the very thing the US had wanted to avoid at all costs—and then they would torture and kill him.
“I-I need to let Mother Narcisa kn-know that I’m safe—and Father Alberto.”
“We will let them know. You are soaking wet and shivering.”
“I t-tried to get away from h-him on the w-water, but he was f-faster and stronger.”
“Of course, he was. He is a military man, and you are a young woman and small.” He called to one of his men. “Get me a blanket for the good Sister.”
Good Sister.
Ruiz didn’t fool her. They planned to interrogate her, too, to find out as much about Dylan as they could and to understand why he’d taken her. They wouldn’t hesitate to kill her if they believed she knew something about their smuggling operation at the Mission. If they discovered she wasn’t a nun, they’d take turns raping her first.
Ruiz led her to a Land Rover, where one of his men opened the rear passenger side door and helped her inside. Ruiz took a wool blanket from one of his men and handed it to her. “This should warm you,Hermana.”
“Bless you for your kindness,señor.”
He stood there for a moment, watching her. “Do you not know who I am?”
Gabriela looked him straight in the eyes, enjoying this moment. “I’m sorry,señor, I do not. I have lived much of my life cloistered and am not a worldly person.”
She could tell that this came as a blow to his ego, but he brushed it aside. “Of course,Hermana. I am Sergio de Anda Ruiz, a well-known Colombian businessman. These men you see—they are my army.”
“I am grateful to you, Señor Ruiz, and to your army.” She let tears come into her eyes. “You have rescued me against all hope.”
He got into the front passenger seat, shouted for his driver, another man getting into the back seat with Gabriela, rifle in hand.
Gabriela caught just a glimpse of Dylan being dragged to a white van and shoved into the back but did her best to show no emotion, comforted only by the Glock jabbing her in the back. In the dark, no one had noticed her weapon, and, so far, they hadn’t searched her.
“Don’t worry about him. We will take care of him.”
Gabriela gave Ruiz a grateful smile. “I just want to be back at the Mission and wearing my habit and veil once more.”
“He forced you to dress like this?”
“He stole these clothes and made me wear them. He said I was too recognizable.”
“Malparido gonorrea.”Gonorrhea bastard. “Pardon me, Sister.”
“You have done a good thing today, Señor Ruiz. I’m sure that God forgives you.”
Gabriela held the blanket close, closed her eyes, did her best to listen.
“We take them back to San Antonio del Táchira and wait. Our associate is inbound on a helicopter and is bringing media with him. Then we hand them over.”
Somehow, Gabriela had to free Dylan and escape Ruiz and his men before this associate—almost certainly Luis Sánchez—arrived with the reporters.
If she failed, everything they’d suffered and struggled for would be for nothing—and Dylan would die.
* * *