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kybercrystals94 · 6 months ago

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The Hostage

(Part 8)

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Master Post here!

Rated: T | Words: 4741 | Summary: Plan: Four Minus One

“Yes…yes, I’m here.”

Hunter can’t breathe, his lungs turning to stone in his chest. He isn’t sure if he’s actually awake, or if this is some sort of cruel, grief induced dream. But it’s her voice, the familiar lilt of her accent entwining the frantic words tumbling through the static of the channel.

Her voice speaks again, a desperate question, “Can you hear me?”

“Omega…” Hunter chokes out, an emotion too raw to identify in this moment fractures the precious name. He tries again, forcing a breath. “Omega, where are you?”

“I’m alive, I’m safe,” Omega says gently, her tone comforting. “I can send you my coordinates.”

Hunter can’t seem to make his voice work again, reasonable questions and words suffocated in his utter disbelief. She’s alive…not dead…alive…alive…alive…

Echo pushes forward. “Can you send them now?” he asks, voice steady as a stone in a stream.

There is a brief pause, and Hunter’s heart aches with panic that the connection is lost. But Omega’s young voice returns, “We’re sending them now.”

The sound of an incoming message chirps beside him. Tech immediately begins transferring the sent coordinates to the navigation system, pulling up an ETA using Omega’s local time zone as reference. Hunter doesn’t like the time that calculates.

“Who is with you?” Echo asks, keeping his focus on the call. Hunter realizes he hadn’t even processed that Omega said “we”.

“A friend. He’s helping me.” Omega says, confident but evasive in her answer.

It twists a sharp feeling of fear in Hunter’s gut; however, Wrecker seems undisturbed, leaning forward to crow, “We’re coming, Omega! You just sit tight!”

“I will, Wrecker.”

Hunter can hear the smile in her voice, see it in his memories. She’s alive. She’s waiting for them…and she’s alive.

Tech poses the next question. “How will we locate you once we arrive?”

“I can’t go back to the spaceport…Syko is there,” Omega says, the name spoken with an uneasiness that makes Hunter’s blood burn cold under his skin. “He’s still looking for me. But I will get you a message. My friends said they would help me. I trust them.”

Hunter's voice revives, hoarse and thick. “Omega, you’re alright? You’re not injured?”

“I’m okay, Hunter. I promise…” Omega says, the words absorbing that gentle cadence all her own. She adds, regretfully, “I have to go. I’ll see you soon. My friend will find you.”

“It will take us three rotations to arrive at your coordinates,” Tech relays the information quickly, but he adds more softly, “As you said, we will see you soon, Miss Omega.”

Omega doesn’t say anything else, the transmission ended, their connection to their resurrected sister severed with no hope of regaining it. The realization is enough to make Hunter’s knees feel weak. He stumbles back, barely managing to collapse into one of the cockpit seats instead of the floor.

“That was really her,” Wrecker says, voice low, “Omega’s really alive!”

“She obviously was not on board the destroyed vessel, not even in the general vicinity. This Syko she spoke of must have established the ruse in order to prevent us from attempting to locate Omega,” Tech says, moving to the pilot’s chair to begin preparations. “Unfortunately for him and exceptionally fortunate for us, Omega is far more resourceful than most would ever assume.”

Wrecker laughs. “Yeah, she is!”

While his two more animated brothers are distracted, Hunter leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees, and burying his face in his hands. Horrified guilt crashes over his floundering relief. If Omega hadn’t gotten away from this Syko, she would have been alive, wondering, and hoping for rescue while they mourned her death.

While reason whispers reassurances, shame screams accusations.

A hand falls on his shoulder, but Hunter doesn’t lift his head, unsure what his face might express in his vulnerability. He needs to gather up his resolve, rebuild his crumbled wall of composure. For now, he simply sits in destruction, focusing on his breathing.

“We’re gonna get her, Hunter,” Echo says. “We’re getting our sister back.”

Hunter nods. He doesn’t know how his brother has functioned seamlessly through the whiplash of realities. I’ve lost so many, Hunter.

Dropping his hands, Hunter keeps his gaze on the floor. “I want to know everything we can about Syko,” he says, and his voice trembles with barely suppressed rage that froths up from the chaos of emotions inside him.

Echo’s tone matches the vehemence. “On it, Sarge.”

They’re going to make Syko regret every decision he has ever made.

<<>><<>><>>><<>><<>><<>>

Paa tries to ignore the girl at his side, shrouded in that ridiculous hood that Gawynn used to wear in the cold season. He has to admit that she’s a quick learner. The moment she picked up on his reluctance to converse, she shut up, content to be his little shadow as they navigate the city streets.

It was too dangerous to bring Tiiona along for the call. Too dangerous for Tiiona, that is. He doesn’t want the woman caught up in any of this underground business. So he tells her as little as possible, refuses to come to her apartment anymore…even though he desperately misses the warmth of a familiar place that feels safe and reminiscence of happier times. Times before the Empire. Times before Gawynn left.

“You’ll take care of Mother. Promise me.”

He promised, but Tiiona makes it karking hard when she adopts every sorry stray she finds on the street.

“Thank you for helping me find my brothers,” a small voice says.

Paa looks down, brown eyes stare up.

“I did it for Tiiona,” he mutters. “I owe her.”

The girl – Omega – smiles. “She’s a good person.”

Paa only nods.

Tiiona waits for them at their meeting place. As they approach, her guarded expression soothes and she smiles warmly, holding out her hand to Omega. The girl goes to her easily, takes her hand and Tiiona tucks the child under her arm, as she used to do with Gawynn and Paa when they were small.

“Did it work? Did you contact your brothers?” Tiiona asks Omega.

Omega nods. “Yes! They said they’ll be here in three days. Paa said that he’ll meet them at the port when they come.”

Tiiona meets Paa’s eye, a gentle sparkle of pride that makes Paa stand a little taller under the glow of silent praise. “You see,” Tiiona says to Omega, “I told you my friend would help you.”

“You’ll have to describe them to me,” Paa tells Omega. “So I’ll know who to look for.”

For the first time since Paa has known Omega, which, admittedly, isn’t long at all, the girl shows hesitation. She leans a little further into Tiiona’s side, first looking up at the woman, then her focus returning to Paa. “They’ll stand out. You won’t miss them…they’re…soldiers.”

“Soldiers,” Paa echoes, frowning. He looks at Tiiona, wondering if she knew this; however, the muted look of surprise on her face is evident.

Omega swallows. “They aren’t with the Empire, I promise. They’re…we’re…clones. We escaped.”

“Deserters,” Paa grumbles, “Even better. Probably wanted.”

“They’re careful,” Omega insists, desperately, pulling away from Tiiona’s protective hold and stepping toward him. “They won’t cause any trouble.”

“It’s not only them I’m worried about,” Paa growls. “Helping you is putting us in danger. With whoever this Syko is and the Empire.”

Omega starts to say something, but Tiiona cuts her off, addressing Paa. “Omega didn’t ask for this life, Paa. Just like you didn’t ask for yours, all those years ago. Helping her is the right thing to do, no matter the risks.”

Paa’s chest feels tight, emotion balling a fist in his throat. He tries to think of some sort of rebuttal.

Promise me.

“No, you’re right,” Omega says to Paa, broken but understanding. “I have put you both in danger. I’m sorry…I…I didn’t have anyone else.” She turns to Tiiona, “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I wish there was some way I could repay you.”

Tiiona shakes her head. “You’re not going anywhere, Omega. I intend to see this through. It isn’t safe out here, and as long as your brothers are away, you’re under my protection. I won’t have it any other way.”

Paa takes a long breath around the beating lump in his throat. “And Tiiona is under mine, which means you are too.”

Omega blinks at them, hands clutched around the cloak’s tie under her chin. “You’ve already done so much,” she whispers.

“Until you’re back with your brothers, we haven’t done enough,” Paa says. It’s decided. It is what Gawynn would have said, would’ve done. Just like her mother.

Paa won’t let them down.

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

The walk back to Tiiona’s apartment is quiet between the two of them, and Omega wonders if Tiiona is upset that she lied by omission. She and her brothers being clones is a rather big omission.

Paa listened intently as Omega described everything she thought he might need to know to locate her brothers. She even described Syko to the best of her memory, knowing that he is likely still searching for her. If he was willing to fake her death and murder a fellow bounty hunter just to get to her…the price on her head must be substantial. The Kaminoans are desperate.

“Desperate people are dangerous people,” Echo had told her once.

She didn’t doubt it.

Her brothers might not be thrilled that Omega told all that she did to Tiiona and Paa; however, she is also desperate. She would never have been able to find her brothers without their help, and if they wanted to, they could have already returned her to Syko for a price. Omega likes to think she is a reasonable judge of character, and she trusts Tiiona, and Tiiona trusts Paa. Besides, Paa reminds her a little of her brothers, seemingly aloof, at first, but fiercely protective. She likes him, even if he doesn’t seem to like her.

“Why doesn’t Paa come to your apartment?” Omega finally dares to ask.

Tiiona, who guides Omega through the streets with a gentle hand on her shoulder, glances down at her distractedly. “Hmm?”

Omega asks again, raising her voice only a little. “Why do we have to meet Paa in that alley? Why doesn’t he come to your apartment?”

Tiiona's distracted expression becomes thoughtful, eyes lifting again to watch the streets around them as they walk. “He thinks he is protecting me.”

“He’s not?”

“He worries who might follow him, who might try and use me to get to him,” Tiiona says. “So perhaps he is protecting me, but who is taking care of him? Being alone is not good for anyone.”

Omega nods, understanding the pains of loneliness all too clearly. So many years on Kamino were spent alone, even when Nala Se was there. Nala Se cared for Omega in her own way, maybe even loved her; however, Kaminoans did not experience companionship in the same way the clones did, and Nala Se’s version of a nurturing relationship felt starved and empty compared to what Omega experienced with her brothers now. She hadn’t even realized how deprived she had been until her brothers.

“Are your daughter and Paa friends?” Omega asks.

Tiiona smiles, but it is a smile so sad that Omega regrets the question before it is even answered. “They were inseparable as children, attached at the hip, those two. I always thought…” her voice breaks and peters off to nothing.

Omega doesn’t press, and Tiiona doesn’t continue.

They walk the rest of the way to the apartment in silence.

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

“When can we expect delivery?” the Kaminoan representative asks.

Syko pretends to check his data pad, flicking through meaningless tabs. “My ship took extensive damage. It is still undergoing repairs. I do not have a solid timeline.”

“Find another ship then,” the rep says, their smooth voice riddled with impatience, even as their expression remains ever passive. “This is unacceptable.”

“What is unacceptable is you sending me to coordinates that landed me in the middle of a firefight,” Syko lies. “I was nearly killed, not to mention your bounty.”

There is a hiss of staticy air as the Kaminoan sighs on the other end of the transmission. “We will allow one more rotation for repairs. After that, your payment will be reduced.”

“You cannot afford to make threats. I still have your precious cargo. Cut my pay, and I just might start cutting fingers off your little clone. Fair’s fair, after all.”

Syko is delighted when the remark seems to strike a chord in the kriffing long neck, even if the visible reaction is a mere blink of bulbous eyes. “That is unnecessary. However, we expect the girl to be delivered as soon as repairs are complete.”

“Of course,” Syko sneers with a sarcastic smile. “I would never keep a loyal client waiting if I can help it, I assure you.”

He cuts the transmission with a slam of his fist.

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

“Dropping out of hyperspace now,” Tech says out of habit more than necessity. His brothers are already in the cockpit, strapped in. Wrecker has been hounding him every couple minutes about their ETA, even though Tech has told him repeatedly that the incessant question won’t make them arrive any faster.

Hunter has the goodwill to simply lean over and check the data for himself, doing it almost as often as Wrecker asks.

Echo is the only one who has been remotely tolerable during the three day journey.

However, Tech cannot find it in himself to be exasperated with his brothers. After all, if it were possible, he would speed up the clock with not even a nanosecond’s hesitation. Every moment they are not at their destination is another moment that the bounty hunter has an opportunity to seize their sister again. With no possible way to make contact with Omega, nor any clue as to who her mysterious messenger will be, their only intel will be what they have gleaned on Syko.

A prolific bounty hunter, Syko is likely contracted to the Kaminoans as Bane and Fennec were. What Tech cannot figure out, no matter how many times he turns the facts over in his mind, is why Syko would bother sending them to find Kedess, make them wait an extended period of time, and then hand over the coordinates of a ruse ship to blow up to make it appear that Omega was killed. There are so many unnecessary steps involved between taking Omega initially and falsifying her death.

Ultimately, he reassures himself when he becomes overwhelmed by the aimless idiocy, the mystery will be solved once Omega is safely in their custody. He is sure that she was attentive enough to piece together the method to Syko’s madness.

Tech has not given himself time to properly process the fact that Omega is alive versus the fact that she was – in their minds – very dead. However, there is a task before them, tangible steps to take, and problems to solve. The universe which was on end has begun to be righted. They can get Omega back. She is not lost to them forever. Not as she was before.

The three days in hyperspace were long but not idle, and a plan is in place.

As Tech docks the Marauder, ignoring Echo’s muttered demand to slow down, Hunter says, “Everyone remembers the plan?”

A chorus of singular words of confirmation answer the question.

Hunter is standing before the ship has even stabilized. “Let’s track ourselves a bounty hunter.”

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

Paa slouches against the far wall of the spaceport, his factory shift having ended an hour ago. He already did a walk around, and didn’t see any ship that matched Omega’s description of what she called the Marauder.

He does catch a glimpse of Syko, Omega’s kidnapper. It’s hard to miss him in his bright coat, the fool. If he thinks he’s gonna sneak up on anyone in that ridiculous thing, he’s got another thing coming. Not that Paa minds. Makes it easy to keep an eye on the freak. Kidnapping kids put Syko near the very top of Paa’s mental scumbag list.

Skyo is making his way around the port, showing a holo image to anyone who will look at it. Paa has a feeling he knows exactly what the image is of. His suspicion is confirmed when Syko approaches him. The creep has a stricken look on his face, eyes wide and innocent. It takes every ounce of Paa’s self control not to roll his own eyes and sneer.

An image of Omega glows from a puck in Syko’s hand. “Have you seen my daughter? I’ve been searching for her all over the city. I fear the worst.” The monster’s voice trembles, his eyes shining with the fake tears.

Paa bites the inside of his cheek. Syko missed his calling in holo dramas.

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Paa says, and he can’t stop himself from adding, “It must be hard, misplacing someone that important to you.”

Syko’s expression flickers, confusion and maybe a hint of irritation.

Eh. His acting could use some work.

Both of them are distracted by an incoming ship. A modified Omicron-class attack shuttle, just as Omega described it. It is coming in far faster than it should be, receiving loud curses in several languages from bystanders. Syko’s little anxious father act evaporates like a puddle of water in a twin sun desert, a curse of his own breathed angrily. “That kriffing little brat,” he seethes.

“What was that?” Paa asks.

Syko looks at him, surprised, like he forgot Paa was there. But his face hardens, and he stalks away without answering.

Paa returns to his stance against the wall. Syko knows that Omega called her brothers, and knows that her brothers are here. Given his cute little comment about the kriffing little brat, Paa doesn’t think for a second that the man plans on letting Omega leave without a fight. Somehow, he needs to warn the clones that the bounty hunter is here, is aware, is plotting. They’re soldiers, they can figure out the plan from there. Paa isn’t trained for any sort of confrontation, nor is he armed except for the small knife in his boot. But that blade only wards off cowardly muggers and petty thieves.

A few minutes slip by before Paa sees three armored men. They aren’t wearing helmets, and their faces don’t look like the faces of the clones Paa saw in news holos from the war. They are not even the same sizes. Weren’t clones supposed to be identical? And there’s only three of them, Omega said she had four brothers. Maybe one stayed with the ship.

From this distance, he can’t really see their facial features anyway, but one of them does have long hair, which Omega said one of her brothers had. So it probably is them, Paa’s just overthinking the whole clone thing.

Paa is still trying to decide how to approach the clone trio when he notices Syko has reemerged from wherever he crawled away to. Whatever Paa does, he has to do it fast.

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

This isn’t how Syko had wanted things to go; however, he can work this turn of events in his favor. After all, the rogue troopers are here for only one reason, and they’ll lead Syko straight to his bounty. He just needs to follow them until they retrieve his destructive, insufferable package, and then take them out. Much easier said than done; however, he’s getting desperate. It is only a matter of time before the Kaminoans demand to see evidence that he still has the kid in his possession.

Syko returns to his ship and sheds his crimson coat, tossing it haphazardly, before snatching up his much more subdued brown coat. He stashes an extra blaster inside, along with a knife. He doesn’t have armor like these clones seem to wear like skin; however, he only needs to catch them by surprise. Again, much easier said than done.

Taking a breath, Syko reminds himself that he is one of the top hunters in the guild for a reason.

“C’mon,” he mutters to himself, “you’re not gonna let a few meat droids get the best of you.”

He pointedly ignores the irritating thought in the back of his mind that whispers, the little one did.

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

Hunter, Wrecker, and Tech step off the Marauder in most of their armor, sans helmets. As opposed to most situations, they want Syko to recognize them. Obviously, the bounty hunter did his own research on Clone Force 99. He will know them when he sees them.

Just as they planned.

Echo watches from the transparisteel window of the cockpit as his brothers make their way across the spaceport. Most eyes are on them, following their movements, mostly annoyed stares given Tech’s less than graceful landing; however, one figure stands out, a tall man wearing dull, gray attire. He stands upright when he sees the Batch moving. His head swivels, searching the port for a moment, before looking back at the Batch.

Echo lifts his macrobinoculars, examining the man’s features. He’s not Syko, but he might be Omega’s contact. Echo only lets his gaze rest on the stranger a moment more before returning to his watch. They need to take care of the bounty hunter situation before they retrieve Omega. They are not risking her life again, not with someone as cunning and malicious as Syko nearby…and as long as Syko is breathing, he’s too close, no matter where he is in the galaxy.

It isn’t until the Batch disappears from sight that Echo finds exactly who he’s looking for. If they hadn’t studied every blurry security holo they could get their hands on the past three rotations, Echo might have missed him. He’s pretty good.

But the Batch is far better.

Echo says into his comm, “You’ve got a shadow.”

“Roger that,” Hunter replies. “You know what to do.”

“Already on it.” Echo moves to check on their other interested observer. The man is watching Syko move after the Batch. Either the bounty hunter has made a name for himself in the port, or this man knows who Syko is too.

Either way, Echo’s gonna find out.

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

Paa has to remind himself several times that he’s doing this for Tiiona, for Gawynn. An awful combination of nerves and adrenaline make him feel like every part of him is shaking, but when he glances at his hands, they seem mostly steady. The blood roars in his ears, blocking out most of the sounds around him in the semi-crowded evening streets. He doesn’t know where the clones are even going, Omega told them that someone would meet them at the spaceport, not wherever the kark they were stalking off to.

The clones are far ahead of him, he can only see them because the largest clone stands a shoulder and a head taller than anyone else around. Syko, between them, weaves in and out of view.

A hand closes hard over Paa’s shoulder. “Don’t make a sound,” a voice hisses in his ear.

Paa wasn’t planning on it, but he nods anyway, his hand in his coat pocket where the hilt of his short bladed knife is nestled in his palm.

“Who sent you?” the voice asks. “Why were you following those men?”

The fourth clone. Paa releases the breath he’d been holding. “You’re one of the clone brothers,” he mutters to the hand still gripping his shoulder.

The voice huffs. “So you are Omega’s contact.”

“Yeah,” Paa says, shrugging off the clone’s hand. He turns around to face the man, and finds himself staring into the face of a droid. “You’re not a clone.”

The droid reaches up and taps his head with a scomp attachment at the end of his right arm. “Disguise. Now, where’s Omega?”

“Safe,” Paa says, “but your friends aren’t. The bounty hunter is following them. Where are they even going? Omega told you I’d find you at the spaceport.”

“Let’s just say Syko is getting what’s coming,” the droid…clone…or whatever he is…says.

“The others know that he’s following them?” Paa asks.

“All part of the plan. Syko will be taken care of.”

<<>><>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

They know where they’re going, Tech having studied a recent map of the city and finding an area that is under sporadic construction and practically abandoned when funds for the project dried up. Tech speculates it is a location with a high crime rate, so the sound of a blaster bolt, if heard at all, will not be out of the ordinary. Nor will it be surprising if a body turns up.

With Tech taking point on navigating them through the maze of streets, Hunter’s thoughts are able to wander from the task at hand. How many days did Omega roam these very streets, afraid and alone, before she found someone willing to help her make contact. Omega is resourceful, but she’s also a child, vulnerable and naive. They’ve been training her in their downtime and on jobs; however, she had her brothers to fall back on if the situation got tight. Right now, she didn’t even have a weapon to protect herself.

He sees the feebly lit streets, dark shadows hoarded in the alleys, hiding places for any number of criminals who would eagerly take advantage of an unattended little girl. Everything is dirty, a thick layer of grime and pollution clinging to the buildings and streets. Foul smells waft from vents in the road. The vehicles are loud and sputtering, emitting nauseous fumes of their own. Hunter’s enhanced senses recoil against the exposure without his helmet to filter out the reek. Omega escaped to this…survived in this…

Hunter swallows. His heart feels sick. He let this happen.

I’m alive, I’m safe…my friends said they would help me…I trust them…

Maker, he hopes that’s true.

Resisting the urge to check in with Echo, Hunter realizes the streets have begun to clear out, fewer pedestrians crossing their path. It’s almost time to confront the demon that took their sister from them.

“The dead end is the next left,” Tech says, voice quiet enough not to carry beyond the three of them. “There should be an access ladder on the right side of the alley.”

“Stick to the plan, lads,” Hunter says, fingers already twitching to reach for his blade.

They turn left into the alley.

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

When their prey makes it to the alley, he pauses at the corner, hesitating, before leaning around to look. To his evident surprise, it is empty, despite being closed in. There is only one entrance, one exit.

Unless you look up.

Syko suspects something and reaches into his coat, presumably for a blaster, as he steps around and into the closed space. He thinks to glance up a moment too late.

Hunter drops first, disarming and shoving Syko up against the wall in one fluid motion. Before Syko can react, the sharp edge of a vibroblade presses against his neck. If he struggles, he will be slit. It is a simple deduction, and the man makes it in an instant, eyes going wide.

Tech and Wrecker step up behind their brother, blasters drawn.

“Where is she?” Hunter asks, a guttural sound that sounds more animalistic than human, raged fueled.

Syko manages a small shake of his head, a twitch of movement. He knows there is no point of lying. Tech can see it in his eyes. “She escaped. I don’t know where she is. But you know that, she contacted you. She’s alive.”

“But you took her from us, you made us think she was dead,” Hunter says, pressing the blade a little harder into soft, exposed skin.

The man wheezes out a pathetic whine. “I–I didn’t take her,” he whispers, “That wasn’t me.”

“Is that what Omega will tell us?” Tech asks, his blaster still carefully trained on Syko’s temple.

“It’s true, it’s true, please,” Skyo wails. “Please don’t kill me.”

“But you did make us think she was dead,” Wrecker growls. “You made us believe our sister blew up on that ship.”

Syko’s eyes slide to the left and he swallows.

“Answer. Him,” Hunter orders, tone too even to be safe.

Skyo begins to sob. “Yes, yes, I did. But it was only because I feared for my life.”

“You were correct to be afraid,” Tech says, and he pulls the trigger.

TBC

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theorganasolo · 5 months ago

Text

omg I really loved this! I feel like you really captured the feeling of those episodes well.

thank you for writing and sharing with us!

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Word Count: 5k (so much for short drabble)

Rating: Mature

Summary: You work for the DEA in Colombia. Until one of your missions goes terribly wrong.

Notes: This is the first fic for my 10k follower celebration!!! Thank you, @lokischocolatefountain who requested “I’ll be here when you wake up” with Javier Peña. I hope you like it 🤭 This fic was very much inspired by Gabriel García Márquez' "Noticia de un secuestro" ("News of a Kidnapping") which I highly recommend if you're interested in what Narcos (Season 1) only covers in two episodes, namely the kidnappings of prominent figures in Colombia by the Medellín Cartel in the early 90s. As ever, huge thanks to Dani @alexturner who took the time to ask, "What does this mean?" and made me realize that I, in fact, don't know the answer to that question.

***

It’s night again. Or maybe it’s dawn. You don’t know. The blacked-out windows don’t let in any light. Your days are no longer structured according to the laws of nature (morning – midday – afternoon – evening – night), but according to the laws of your captors (wake up – bathroom – food – nothing – food – sleep). Maybe you’re awake all night and sleep all day. Maybe you only sleep for four hours and are awake for twenty. Neither your mind nor your body can tell the difference any longer.

Right now, for example, you’re in the “nothing” part of your day. It’s just you, rolled up on your mattress in your corner, and your thoughts, looping and looping, making you relive how you ended up here, in this room, somewhere in Colombia. And every single day, right at the end of “nothing” and the start of “food”, you come to the same conclusion: It’s all your fault.

It started with your childhood, you think. No, you can’t blame everything that went wrong in your life on your father, but he certainly did his bid – no matter what you did, it was never enough. Not even when you applied for a transfer to the embassy and you got selected, the youngest woman in DEA history who got an assignment like that. All he had to say to you was, “Huh”. So of course, you had to do better than that.

Here, in Colombia, you found yourself surrounded by men just like your father, old men in suits who sneered at you, confusing you with a secretary, asking you to make coffee and take notes. Old men with guns and enough war stories to fill a book, calling you “little lady” and pinching your cheeks. Old men that were just there, leering at you from corners and doorways. And they all had the face of your father.

Still, no one forced you to raise your hand that Thursday afternoon your floor ran out of coffee, the same afternoon Noonan called you all to a meeting and asked for a volunteer. “Dangerous assignment,” she said, “likely to get you killed.” You should have listened to her. But the looks on all those faces when you raised your hand and said, “I’d be happy to do it,” were worth it. Almost. Because, ultimately, it was the beginning of the end.

One of the men on guard duty today swears loudly and another one growls at him to be quiet. Sometimes they forget there’s a life outside those blacked-out windows and they’re not the only people in this city. You forget that too, but then you hear the voices of people living their lives, the sound of a car backfiring, a dog barking somewhere. If one of you makes the wrong noise, surely, you’ll be discovered.

The three men with you today (tonight?) know that, and so do you. They’re playing cards by the light of a dirty kerosene lamp, sitting so closely together their knees are touching. If they stretched out their legs, their feet would be touching your mattress. The room you’re in is barely big enough for one person, let alone for four. It’s the only room you’ve seen in months, apart from the bathroom they take you to once or twice a day. It’s across a small hallway you haven’t seen because they blindfold you. Every time, for every trip.

You can barely remember a time when not everything you needed to survive was dependent on another person. The autonomy you prided yourself on, your ability to achieve everything on your own, to survive everything on your own, those have been taken away from you. Could you even use the bathroom if no one gave you permission first? You doubt it.

You didn’t need anyone’s permission to go on that undercover mission that ultimately landed you in this tiny square room that is now your entire world. You were the fastest to volunteer, you fit the profile they were looking for: fluent in Spanish, low level enough to not be able to spill any secrets should you get arrested, pretty. It was supposed to be so easy. Infiltrate the Medellín cartel, gather intel, report back. There was even a plan in place to extract you should anything go wrong. And go wrong it did, and nothing was there to break your fall.

Before that, before you watched boys play cards all day, before your only window to the outside world was a small TV, there was one person who tried to get you to back down. You thought he didn’t think you capable of anything because you’re young, inexperienced and a woman, but in hindsight you should have listened to him. It doesn’t matter that the others called him an asshole and you thought he was trying to dissuade you because he was jealous. He knew what he was talking about and you should have listened to him.

The man closest to you lights a cigarette, his face briefly doused in a gloomy red light. You think of them as men because it somehow makes it easier, but he looks barely 16. Your room quickly fills with smoke and you try to suppress a cough so they don’t hit you again.

That’s how this all started, with you getting punched in the stomach.

Your undercover mission asked a lot of you, maybe too much. You were aware that it might be necessary for you to sleep with some of the men you were trying to get close to, and when they asked you about this back at the embassy, you wouldn’t have any problem with it... Until it was about to happen. The man touched you, breathed into your face smelling of cheap alcohol and expensive cigars, and in a moment of sheer panic, you fought back and blew your cover.

That’s it. That’s all. You ruined the mission because you couldn’t lie still for five minutes, and now you’re paying for it.

You know there have been attempts to find you and you know you’re not the only hostage. Right at the beginning, you shared a room with a Colombian journalist who, before that, had shared a room with a famous Colombian TV presenter. You know there are negotiations, you sometimes see on TV that a hostage is returned to their family. One time, there were shouts and sirens and gunshots, but they blindfolded you and put you in a truck. That’s how you ended up here, in this room.

At first, you focused on the stories of the people who made it out alive, not on the stories of the people who didn’t. You’re DEA, and even though you fucked up, you know those three letters are like a protective spell woven around you. Yes, they will hold you captive for as long as possible, yes, they will use you to fight everything you stand for, but they won’t kill you. The more time passes though, the more you doubt anyone is still fighting for your safe return. They might not kill you, but you also won’t be getting out of here.

With every day that passes, with every day you grow weaker and more tired, those men stare at you more and more. At first, they didn’t dare to look at you, ignored you when you tried to talk to them, acted like you weren’t there. Now you catch their eyes on you frequently, hungrily taking you in. They still don’t touch you – not like that, anyway – but they hit you when you’re too loud, they press their fingers over your mouth, the smell of cigarettes and gunpowder making you gag, and sometimes their hands wander, to the small of your back, to your side. Even if you make it out of here alive, you won’t make it out of here unharmed.

It's a different day. At least you think it is. You sleep more and more during your period of nothing, but it isn’t a restful sleep. If anything, it makes you more tired, wearier. You dread waking up and you dread falling asleep and you dread being awake. But something is different today, something has changed while you were asleep. There are only two men with you tonight, and they look at you more and more, their faces unreadable. It unnerves you more than their openly lustful gazes. You pretend to ignore them as best as possible, but it’s hard when you don’t want to turn your back on them.

A third man comes into the room, one you haven’t seen before. He’s big, broad, a tight shirt stretching over his belly, lines around his eyes, thinning hair on his head. He doesn’t look at you, just steps over the two boys and switches on the TV that comes to life with a static crackle. On your mattress, you come alive too, your heart starting with a painful lurch. Whatever it is, this can’t be good for you.

You barely recognize the face on TV. It takes you about a minute to make sense of what you’re seeing, so unfamiliar you’ve become with the ambassador you used to take orders from. She looks the same – it’s you who has changed. Her suit is still perfectly pressed, her hair is still perfectly styled, she still speaks into the cameras in that calm, no-nonsense voice. It’s you who you don’t recognize, you who doesn’t make sense anymore.

It also takes you a while to understand her, to make sense of what she’s saying. You hear the words “hostages” and “negotiation”, and you know she’s talking about you and whoever else there may be, but definitely you. It would explain your captors’ faces. Something has happened, some new development that’s inconveniencing them. Maybe this is it. Maybe you’re being set free. Maybe even tonight. The thought makes you feel light-headed; you have no idea who you are outside of these four walls and that mattress.

“… end of negotiations. We will no longer regard terrorists as equal opposites in this. Any American hostages they might still have, or pretend to have, will, from today onward, be considered missing in action.”

What does that mean? Surely, they wouldn’t just … they wouldn’t just let you die, would they? You’re DEA, you can’t be missing in action, you’re not a soldier. The cartels can’t kill you, they wouldn’t do that. Just how the US wouldn’t abandon you, wouldn’t go on TV to sign your death warrant in front of a live audience. It doesn’t make sense.

You turn to your captors, as if looking for guidance, but they look just as lost as you. Even the big man. He keeps running his fingers through his thin hair, sweat beading on his forehead. One of the boys looks at him too, as if waiting for orders, the other is running the tip of his index finger through the dust on the floor. Why won’t they look at you?

“So we just kill her?” asks the boy who keeps staring at the big man. His name is Andrés Felipe. You know that because another boy let it slip once. You’re not supposed to know their names, and Andrés Felipe made sure that mistake would never happen again, but by then it was too late.

“Not yet,” the man answers. “We have to wait.”

Andrés Felipe groans. “What for? You heard that woman on TV. They’re done negotiating.”

“You don’t know that,” dust boy chimes in. “It could be a ruse.”

Andrés Felipe laughs at him. “As if you know anything about politics. You can’t even read.”

You look at Andrés Felipe then, truly look at him. You need the distraction. You need to pretend it isn’t you they’re talking about, as if your fate doesn’t depend on these three men. And there isn’t much else to do in this room but look. Andrés Felipe is young, younger than you, but older than dust boy. His face is free of wrinkles, free of the tell-tale signs of hunger and a tough upbringing in the favelas. He isn’t here because he needs to be, he’s here because he wants to be. Which also explains why he dares to speak up in front of the big man, whose maturity puts him in charge.

You don’t like Andrés Felipe, never have. Maybe it’s because knowing his name humanizes him and it’s easier to hate a human than some faceless, nameless villain. Maybe it’s because of the cruel glint in his eyes, or the way he beat up that boy who revealed his name. And now there’s his eagerness to kill you. There is no reason for you to feel any sympathy toward him.

“He’s right,” the big man says then. “Maybe they want us to kill all the hostages so they’ll have an excuse to send in the military.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” Andrés Felipe responds. “Everyone would know they’re liars.”

“They’re not,” dust boy dares to speak up again. “Missing in action also means they can be found. If you’re missing, you’re not dead. If the missing people die –”

He can’t finish his sentence because Andrés Felipe slaps him. “Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The big man doesn’t come to dust boy’s aid. He just smirks. “Quit it, you two, we’re sitting tight until we get our orders.”

“I’m fucking done waiting!” Andrés Felipe shouts and you flinch. He’s too loud. Someone will hear him. And they don’t have any reason to keep you alive now. It’s easier to shoot you and then run. “All I’ve been doing is waiting. Do you think I don’t have anything better to do with my time?”

The big man shushes him. You wish he would hit Andrés Felipe, put him in his place, but he just crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I say we wait.”

You close your eyes and breathe in deeply. Andrés Felipe says something else in that sharp, nasally voice of his, but you refuse to listen. Nothing good can come of it. Either they will kill you or they won’t. You’re too weak to think about either of these options. And you’re not going anywhere until those orders arrive, so you might as well …

When you wake up, the room is quiet, and you immediately know something is wrong. Even before you feel the cool, sharp blade against your neck, and before you smell the stale breath of the man holding it, cowering above you.

“Not one sound,” he hisses, and you recognize Andrés Felipe’s voice, uncomfortably loud in the quiet room. It’s so quiet, too quiet with just the two of you. The sounds of him unbuckling his belt are like explosions against your eardrums. You fight the urge to tell him to be quiet, but then your brain catches up with what your body already knows, and you kick your legs and shake your head.

You almost don’t feel the cut of the knife, but you do feel the hot drops of blood on your neck. “I told you to be quiet,” Andrés Felipe hisses. “Just don’t move.”

But you do, you do move, at least your hands that you ball into fists. You don’t want your life to end like this, in some shack somewhere in Colombia with a knife against your throat and a criminal inside of you. This can’t be it. They have to put you in front of a firing squad at least, don’t they? Not like this. Please, not like this.

Andrés Felipe touches your lower belly trying to unbutton your dirty pants, and you flinch, a terrified groan escaping your lips. The knife cuts deeper into the soft skin of your throat. “Shut up, you stupid bitch,” he growls.

Then there’s blood. Everywhere. It’s in your eyes, your mouth, you breathe it in, you taste it on your tongue. Andrés Felipe collapses on top of you, the knife landing on the mattress with a dull sound. You try to get out from under the heavy body, but you can barely lift his shoulders before your arm starts to tremble.

“Hey.” You wipe the blood out of your eyes to find a man kneeling next to you, shoving Andrés Felipe’s heavy body aside so you can sit up. You don’t know who he is, you’ve never seen him before, but he has to be someone higher up if he dared to kill Andrés Felipe. Because that is what just happened, you slowly realize. Andrés Felipe is dead and you’re covered in his blood.

The strange man reaches for you and you flinch away. “Ma’am, my name is Javier Peña,” he says, his voice steady and calm as if he’s been in this exact situation a million times before. “I’m with the DEA. I’m here to get you out.”

“The DEA?” you repeat, the English sounds feeling foreign in your mouth.

He reaches for you again, touches your shoulder, and this time you don’t flinch away. “You’re safe now.” He squeezes your shoulder, then stands up and holds out his hand to you. You take it and push yourself off the mattress.

“What happened?” you ask, trying to ignore the dead body, half its face gone.

“Maybe we should discuss this –,” Javier starts, but you don’t hear the rest of the sentence. Suddenly it feels like there are cotton balls lodged in your ears and the whole world turns dark, darker than it already is.

Someone is carrying you. You think you must be outside because you feel a light breeze on your face. You don’t remember the last time you smelled fresh air, but when you breathe in deeply, you’re enveloped in cigarette smoke and gunpowder. It’s not unpleasant, you realize with a start. It comes from a heavy leather jacket you’re wrapped in, and from the man carrying you. They never would have carried you like this, carefully, as if you might break, so you know you must be safe.

When you next open your eyes, you’re inside again. The room is so big it startles you at first. But the longer you let your eyes wander, the more your brain adjusts to help you realize you’re in a normal sized living room, sitting on a leather couch, a knitted blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You must have just sat up because your head is spinning and your limbs are trembling, but otherwise you feel like you can finally breathe again.

“Feeling better?”

You’re proud of yourself for not jumping at hearing his voice. “Yeah,” you answer, swallowing to wet your dry throat. You feel an unpleasant tug on your skin where Andrés Felipe cut you twice. “Where am I?”

You turn to look at him. He’s sitting on the couch next to you but with enough distance between the two of you so you don’t touch. He’s holding a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, trying to hide the look of concern on his face. It’s something you will see a lot from now on, people looking at you as if you’re about to break.

“You’re in my living room,” he answers.

“Why not,” you have to swallow again, “why not at the embassy?”

He taps his foot nervously so his leg is jumping up and down, takes a drag. “Us coming to rescue you … that wasn’t exactly sanctioned by Noonan.”

“So you really are DEA?” you ask, even though there are a million other things you should ask first. Like if the press conference you saw on TV was really true. If Noonan and the United States were really prepared to let the remaining hostages die. But the longer you look at the man next to you, the more familiar he looks.

Javier nods at the same time as you burst out, “You tried to warn me, didn’t you? Back at the embassy? You told me I was in over my head with this. You’re the asshole!”

The surprise on his face is almost enough to make you laugh for the first time in months. “I’m the what?”

You open your mouth, but instead of an answer coming out of it, you start coughing uncontrollably. Your sides are burning by the time you’re done, but Javier is right there next to you with a glass of water that you accept gratefully.

“Let me take a look at your throat,” he says, watching you swallow down the cool liquid.

If you think about it, you haven’t been touched in months. You know you’ll flinch away before he even touches you, so you stiffen your muscles, determined to remain in place.

He must see it all on your face. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know,” you say through gritted teeth.

His fingers are rough against your skin as he carefully tilts your head to the side. You barely flinch but you whimper because the movement hurts more than you would have thought. He hums quietly before standing up. “I’ll be right back.”

You raise your finger to your neck to find the skin there sticky with blood. Whether it is yours or Andrés Felipe’s you can’t tell. But the unfamiliar feeling makes you tremble again. You wish you could stop that, or at least suppress it. You wish the world would start making sense again. You miss your small room and your mattress and knowing what comes next. You don’t even know if Javier is telling the truth, if he really is who he says he is. Yes, he looks vaguely familiar, but until a few hours ago, you had no idea what time of day it was.

“Hey, hey,” Javier says softly. He is sitting next to you again, closer this time, but he’s still not touching you. “Breathe. You’re safe. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“None of it makes sense,” you mumble. You’re not sure if he’s heard you, but you do feel the pressure on your chest lighten.

“You have two cuts on your throat,” Javier goes on, shaking a small bottle of disinfectant. “They don’t look too bad, but I’d still like to clean them. Is that okay?”

How do you explain to him that you just spent months asking for permission instead of giving it? How do you explain to him that you don’t know how to decide anything for yourself anymore?

Not sure what to make of your silence, Javier goes on. “You can do it yourself if you want to. I can show you –”

You tilt your head to the side. “No, please. I want you to do it.”

Javier stops shaking the bottle of disinfectant, grabs a cotton ball, and pours some liquid over it. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

He does hurt you. The second he touches the cotton ball to the cut, you want to scream. It burns so much you can hardly take it. But you grit your teeth and you don’t complain. Because you don’t want him to stop. You know it’s just the isolation and the confusion of the last hours and the fact that your world doesn’t make sense anymore, but the way he dabs the cotton ball across the cut, brow furrowed in concentration, makes you feel safe. And you can’t remember the last time you felt like this.

“You’re being so brave,” he mumbles, and surely you must have misheard or you must have imagined it, because he continues in a normal voice, “Tomorrow, you should go see a doctor. I don’t have any medical training and it doesn’t look too bad, but it can’t hurt to be safe.”

You raise your fingers to touch your throat and briefly brush his as he draws them back. “Thank you,” you say when you find your skin free of dried blood. The cotton ball in Javier’s hand is now a blotchy red. “What happened?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Javier says, standing up to dispose of the cotton ball. “I think he cut you with a knife.”

“No, not that.” You sink back against the couch cushions and tightly wrap the blanket around yourself. “With Noonan and the hostages.”

Javier, who is standing in the open kitchen with his back toward you, stiffens. “It was just you,” he answers, pretending to clean some dust off the counter. “You were the only American hostage left. Because it took so fucking long to find you.” He turns to you, cringing. “Sorry. I meant it took us forever to find you.”

“You can swear,” you tell him, your cheeks tingling from the unfamiliar sensation of a smile.

He walks back toward you, and it’s as if you’re seeing him for the first time. He’s no longer the jealous man who was trying to get you to back off from a mission he told you you weren’t qualified for. He’s the man who risked his job – and his life – to save you. And you don’t quite know what to do with that.

To your disappointment, he sits down in a chair, not on the couch, and lights another cigarette. “We had your location eventually. But then, two days ago, the cartel released the businessman, the only other American being held. We had to give them three men in exchange, and the exchange almost went wrong. Someone high up in Washington must have decided that’s enough.”

“So it was true, what Noonan said on TV?” You feel hot and cold all over. “It wasn’t a ruse? They were prepared to let me die?”

Javier nods. “Yeah, but I wasn’t.”

Your heart stops for a short while. “Why?”

He shrugs. “You’re one of us.”

“You warned me. You told me not to go on this mission. I thought you were jealous.”

He barks out a short laugh. “No, I thought it was a stupid mission. Too dangerous. Not worth risking the life of one of our agents for. And it was putting all our other informants at risk too.”

You look down at your hands, barely recognizing them underneath the dirt clinging to your skin. “What happens next? Will you get reassigned?”

“I won’t get a medal, that’s for sure.” He takes a drag of his cigarette and his face lights up with a red glow. “Noonan will thank me privately but reprimand me publicly. And then she’ll send you home.”

“Me? Why am I being punished?” Your voice, still hoarse from disuse, rings in your ears.

He laughs again, loudly this time. “Darlin’, Colombia almost killed you. I wouldn’t call it punishment.”

Your heart kickstarts at the use of the diminutive. “I want to stay here. There’s still so much to do.”

He stubs out his cigarette. “What you need to do is take things easy. You just went through a horrible ordeal you haven’t even begun to process. Even if you do stay here, you need a break first.”

You want to protest, but you can’t find the strength. You feel weary, exhausted, like you spent the last month trekking through the jungle without a break. Your body is a heavy lump you hardly have control over.

The next thing you feel is Javier’s arms around you as he holds you tightly. “Hey,” he says again, and you could get used to the softness in his voice. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“No,” you mumble, trying to push him away, suddenly trapped in the memory of closing your eyes and waking up to a man holding a knife cowering above you.

Javier doesn’t take no for an answer. “You’ll sleep in my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You’re still not sure this is such a good idea, but there is no alternative you can think of, and your body is begging you to lie down on cool, clean sheets and forget the world for a while. You let Javier pull you up, and you manage to stumble not more than once as he leads you into a dark bedroom. He doesn’t switch on the light.

“I’m going to let you sleep in,” he tells you, sitting you down on the edge of the bed. “Do you want me to leave the door open in case you need me?”

“No, that’s fine,” you answer, weakly kicking off your dirty shoes. You just want him to leave so you can close your eyes.

He runs his hand from the top of your head down to your neck in a well-practiced, automatic motion. “I’m a light sleeper – just shout if there’s anything you need.”

You nod, and he finally steps back with a smile on his face. “Good night, Javi,” you say, your head hitting the pillow before you can stop it. He’s already at the door when you add, “And thank you.”

You can’t have been asleep for more than a few minutes when the sound of gunfire wakes you. It’s not close by, but the echo of it still reaches you, and before your brain has time to process, your body is already responding with a sob that shakes you from head to toe.

“I’ve got you,” Javier says, wrapping you up in his arms. You bury your face against his naked shoulder, trying to steady your breath, but you’re crying uncontrollably now.

“I’m sorry,” you sob.

All he does is run his hand up and down your back. “Shhhh, I’m here. Nothing is going to happen to you.”

His warm breath against the top of your head makes your heartbeat slow down, and you finally manage to swallow your tears. “I’m so sorry,” you repeat, feeling like you’re about to die.

“Come on, lie down,” he urges you gently, trying to lower you toward the mattress.

“No!” You cling to him desperately, but he pries your arms off him without much effort.

“I’ll be here, okay?” he soothes you. “Right in that chair over there.”

You don’t know what chair he’s talking about; you didn’t notice one when he led you into the bedroom, but you stopped noticing things a while ago. “Don’t leave me,” you beg.

He brushes your hair out of your face and places a soft kiss against your temple. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

When you next open your eyes, there he is, asleep in an armchair in the corner of the bedroom, the early morning sun dancing across his skin.

#javier peña #narcos #the hostage #fic recs

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