100 Hours
Page 51
A third table stands at the rear of the tent, and I search the ground and every surface I pass as I make my way back, adrenaline firing in my veins.
Then the table comes into focus. Two rows of cell phones stand upright, like toy soldiers lined up for battle.
I lean forward for a closer look and see that each one is taped to a small, square package, connected to the phone with thin wires.
My heart racing, I pick one up, and am surprised by how much it weighs. The package on the back is soft, like clay, and the words stamped on its paper wrapper read, “C-4 High Explosive.”
I’ve seen enough action movies to know what C-4 is and to understand that they’re using the cell phones as triggers. One call to the phone will detonate the C-4 it’s strapped to. But . . .
No.
I squint in the dark for a closer look at the phone in my hand. The screen is cracked in the corner, just like Maddie’s. I bend to look at the others. Second from the left, a block of C-4 is taped to a phone still in the purple designer case I gave Penelope for her birthday.
The terrorists have turned our cell phones into bombs.
My palm slick with sweat, I carefully set Maddie’s phone back on the table. Each improvised device is no taller or wider than the phone it’s taped to, and no more than two inches thick.
In the movies, a brick of C-4 that size will blow open a safe. It might demolish a whole room. These bombs won’t teach the United States much of a lesson.
And even if they would, there’s no reason they need to be assembled in the jungle and not on US soil.
A piece of this puzzle is missing.
“¡Baja eso!”
Outside, Óscar shouts in Spanish for Indiana to put down the guitar.
“No hablo español,” Indiana replies. The he starts singing again to a chorus of laughter. But I know his time is up, and so is mine.
I scan the rows of phones until I find mine, then carefully tuck it into the waistband of my shorts. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it yet, but I am not letting them use my phone to kill people.
“Put it down!” Óscar shouts from outside, and I flinch so hard the bomb falls from my waistband onto the floor. My heart jumps into my throat.
I’m about to be blown up by my own cell phone.
But nothing happens. C-4 must be very stable.
Pulse racing, I pick up the bomb and slide it deeper into my waistband this time. On my way back to the tent entrance, I notice a box of phones that haven’t been made into bombs, and suddenly I understand how the explosives are supposed to work. The unaltered phones will be used to call the bomb-phones, which will trigger the explosion.
Holden’s is on top of the pile. The Eminem quote on the back of the case is a dead giveaway.
I snatch it and slide it into my pocket.
I peek between the tent flaps to make sure no one’s watching before I rejoin the other hostages.
When he sees me emerge from the tent, Indiana stands and gives a deep bow. The hostages all clap, except for Holden. Óscar snatches his guitar and shoves Indiana toward the others with the barrel of his rifle.
My hands are still shaking by the time I slip back into the circle around the fire pit. Indiana sits down next to me and takes my hand. He has no idea that I am dressed like a suicide bomber, and I can’t tell him without drawing attention.
Terrified, I glance around to see if anyone saw me, but the guards are gathered around a fire making tea, teasing Óscar in Spanish about the fact that Indiana is a better musician. Pen and Holden are whispering to each other on the other side of our pit.
Rog is watching us. Watching me.
But he only gives me a smile and a small nod, then retreats to the edge of the clearing to lean against his favorite tree trunk.
“Genesis.” Domenica scoots closer to me as I subtly tug my shirt down, terrified that my stolen bomb will be discovered. “What did you find in there?” Her last few words carry no sound, so I have to read them in the shape of her lips.
She saw me.
6 HOURS EARLIER
MADDIE
I sit up straight, suddenly wide-awake, and the hammock sways beneath me. “Luke! Did you hear that?” He mumbles something unintelligible, so I shake him.
A second bang echoes toward us. Luke sits up, disoriented, and nearly turns the hammock over before he realizes where we are. “What was that?”
Before I can answer, we hear a third bang, and now he’s awake. “Where did that come from?” I ask, staring into the dark jungle. “Can you tell?”
He turns toward the sound, digging his phone from his pocket, then pulls up the compass app. “West.” When he closes the app, I see the time on his home screen. It’s not quite ten p.m. We only slept for half an hour.
His phone has no cell service, and its power is down to 3 percent.
“Come on!” I toss back the mosquito netting and turn on the flashlight. “If it came from the west, it has to be Silvana and her men.”
Luke grabs the flashlight and turns it off again. “We can’t hike at night, Maddie. If we use the light, they’ll see us coming from a mile away.”
“Okay, then we’ll walk on the beach, but stick close to the tree line so we can hide again if we need to. Let’s go!”
Climbing down a tree with no light is far from easy, and I tumble at least a third of the way to the ground. But then I’m up again, pulling on Luke’s arm as soon as his boots hit the jungle floor. “Leave the hammock. We’ll come back for it.”
“Maddie . . .”
“We’re so close, Luke.” To Genesis. To my insulin. To Ryan’s murderer. “But if you want to stay . . .” He’ll be safer here in the tree.
Luke groans. “Come on.”
We head west along the beach, and a few steps later, we hear another bang. I pull Luke to a halt in the sand, with the sharp metallic impact still ringing in my ears. “What is that?”
“I don’t know,” he whispers. “But it sounded close. Maybe just around that bend.”
We stare at the moonlit curve in the coast, where a thick patch of jungle hugs the shore. The banging, like a hammer hitting metal, echoes toward us again. “Come on.”
We pick our way through the brush as carefully and quietly as we can in the dark, and I pray that we don’t run into a snake or a caiman. Within minutes, we hear voices shouting orders, then I see a flash of light through the foliage.
Then the table comes into focus. Two rows of cell phones stand upright, like toy soldiers lined up for battle.
I lean forward for a closer look and see that each one is taped to a small, square package, connected to the phone with thin wires.
My heart racing, I pick one up, and am surprised by how much it weighs. The package on the back is soft, like clay, and the words stamped on its paper wrapper read, “C-4 High Explosive.”
I’ve seen enough action movies to know what C-4 is and to understand that they’re using the cell phones as triggers. One call to the phone will detonate the C-4 it’s strapped to. But . . .
No.
I squint in the dark for a closer look at the phone in my hand. The screen is cracked in the corner, just like Maddie’s. I bend to look at the others. Second from the left, a block of C-4 is taped to a phone still in the purple designer case I gave Penelope for her birthday.
The terrorists have turned our cell phones into bombs.
My palm slick with sweat, I carefully set Maddie’s phone back on the table. Each improvised device is no taller or wider than the phone it’s taped to, and no more than two inches thick.
In the movies, a brick of C-4 that size will blow open a safe. It might demolish a whole room. These bombs won’t teach the United States much of a lesson.
And even if they would, there’s no reason they need to be assembled in the jungle and not on US soil.
A piece of this puzzle is missing.
“¡Baja eso!”
Outside, Óscar shouts in Spanish for Indiana to put down the guitar.
“No hablo español,” Indiana replies. The he starts singing again to a chorus of laughter. But I know his time is up, and so is mine.
I scan the rows of phones until I find mine, then carefully tuck it into the waistband of my shorts. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it yet, but I am not letting them use my phone to kill people.
“Put it down!” Óscar shouts from outside, and I flinch so hard the bomb falls from my waistband onto the floor. My heart jumps into my throat.
I’m about to be blown up by my own cell phone.
But nothing happens. C-4 must be very stable.
Pulse racing, I pick up the bomb and slide it deeper into my waistband this time. On my way back to the tent entrance, I notice a box of phones that haven’t been made into bombs, and suddenly I understand how the explosives are supposed to work. The unaltered phones will be used to call the bomb-phones, which will trigger the explosion.
Holden’s is on top of the pile. The Eminem quote on the back of the case is a dead giveaway.
I snatch it and slide it into my pocket.
I peek between the tent flaps to make sure no one’s watching before I rejoin the other hostages.
When he sees me emerge from the tent, Indiana stands and gives a deep bow. The hostages all clap, except for Holden. Óscar snatches his guitar and shoves Indiana toward the others with the barrel of his rifle.
My hands are still shaking by the time I slip back into the circle around the fire pit. Indiana sits down next to me and takes my hand. He has no idea that I am dressed like a suicide bomber, and I can’t tell him without drawing attention.
Terrified, I glance around to see if anyone saw me, but the guards are gathered around a fire making tea, teasing Óscar in Spanish about the fact that Indiana is a better musician. Pen and Holden are whispering to each other on the other side of our pit.
Rog is watching us. Watching me.
But he only gives me a smile and a small nod, then retreats to the edge of the clearing to lean against his favorite tree trunk.
“Genesis.” Domenica scoots closer to me as I subtly tug my shirt down, terrified that my stolen bomb will be discovered. “What did you find in there?” Her last few words carry no sound, so I have to read them in the shape of her lips.
She saw me.
6 HOURS EARLIER
MADDIE
I sit up straight, suddenly wide-awake, and the hammock sways beneath me. “Luke! Did you hear that?” He mumbles something unintelligible, so I shake him.
A second bang echoes toward us. Luke sits up, disoriented, and nearly turns the hammock over before he realizes where we are. “What was that?”
Before I can answer, we hear a third bang, and now he’s awake. “Where did that come from?” I ask, staring into the dark jungle. “Can you tell?”
He turns toward the sound, digging his phone from his pocket, then pulls up the compass app. “West.” When he closes the app, I see the time on his home screen. It’s not quite ten p.m. We only slept for half an hour.
His phone has no cell service, and its power is down to 3 percent.
“Come on!” I toss back the mosquito netting and turn on the flashlight. “If it came from the west, it has to be Silvana and her men.”
Luke grabs the flashlight and turns it off again. “We can’t hike at night, Maddie. If we use the light, they’ll see us coming from a mile away.”
“Okay, then we’ll walk on the beach, but stick close to the tree line so we can hide again if we need to. Let’s go!”
Climbing down a tree with no light is far from easy, and I tumble at least a third of the way to the ground. But then I’m up again, pulling on Luke’s arm as soon as his boots hit the jungle floor. “Leave the hammock. We’ll come back for it.”
“Maddie . . .”
“We’re so close, Luke.” To Genesis. To my insulin. To Ryan’s murderer. “But if you want to stay . . .” He’ll be safer here in the tree.
Luke groans. “Come on.”
We head west along the beach, and a few steps later, we hear another bang. I pull Luke to a halt in the sand, with the sharp metallic impact still ringing in my ears. “What is that?”
“I don’t know,” he whispers. “But it sounded close. Maybe just around that bend.”
We stare at the moonlit curve in the coast, where a thick patch of jungle hugs the shore. The banging, like a hammer hitting metal, echoes toward us again. “Come on.”
We pick our way through the brush as carefully and quietly as we can in the dark, and I pray that we don’t run into a snake or a caiman. Within minutes, we hear voices shouting orders, then I see a flash of light through the foliage.
