The CIA part was in English, or at least he just recited the letters. They start talking too fast for me to follow and I hear something like Amerikaneesh, the Kosztylan word for “American.”
CIA. Fucking CIA. Alarm bells start going off in my head. My knees buckle a little and I feel the blood drain from my face as my stomach drops. Melissa stands there with a blank look on her face. She’s checked out, just great. I do my best to pretend I didn’t understand, blinking and gazing blankly at the wall. I look away from the map as my heart pounds, hoping they don’t think I’m some kind of spy.
Brad and Bearded General go back and forth for a few minutes, talking about supplies. I can’t understand every word but with context and some guesswork I can rough out what they’re saying.
“You did not tell me there would be extra merchandise.”
“It was a last-minute addition. These help workers are too questioning. Keep stumbling on the operation.”
Bearded General laughs. “Too bad for them. Not bad for us. Last merchandise we sold very much money, wealth for cause. Bought new shipment for trade. You bring more weapons, we bring more (something I can’t make out).”
I stare at the floor, hackles rising on the back of my neck. They keep talking about merchandise and trading stuff. I remember my kooky Twentieth-Century History professor from school and the day he spent ranting about the CIA, Operation Paperclip, Iran-Contra, the cartels, drug running. He had this whole map laid out with all these connections between the CIA and drug runners and stuff. I thought he was nuts, but it sounds like that’s what they’re talking about here.
I wonder what the merchandise would be, though. The crates were marked food, but some were clearly military crates painted over. I’ve seen pictures. Besides, an identical crate sits in the tent just now, with the top pried loose.
Sitting inside, in a bed of blankets and straw, is a long black tube with a sight, a grip, and a trigger. Some kind of rocket launcher or grenade launcher or something. The bomb parts sit in a neat row next to the launcher, big tubes that taper to a fatter width and narrow again at the tip. They look like those RPG things the bad guys use in video games. Looking around the tent reminds me of Red Dawn, except Brad is no Patrick Swayze.
The alarm bells are getting louder. Is Brad selling them weapons? What did he mean by merchandise? It sounded like they were selling the merchandise for drugs, whatever it is.
I keep my head down. They think we don’t understand. I don’t think Melissa does. She just smiles blankly like she’s trying to make a good impression. I tug on her arm, trying to get her attention.
Brad says something like, “The extra one stumbled on us while we were loading the truck. I try to bring once upon a time. Second one too smart. Wasn’t planning to bring her. Damaged goods. Blonde untouched. Lot of money.”
Untouched, what?
Bearded General eyes Melissa. She smiles, again trying to make a good impression. She’s probably thinking about how awesome it is to support these brave, democratic freedom fighters. When Bearded General looks at me I feel like some insect is crawling over my skin, down my top, and up my shorts.
“Older one no good. I keep. Blonde lot of money. Keep away from these dogs, yes. They ruin goods. Can have other one as long as I get first. Take them both to my tent. Broker arrives when sun gets up.”
Oh fuck. Fuck me. The wheels stop spinning and slam into place. If they’re not talking about selling me and Melissa to someone, they’re playing the world’s most unfunny practical joke. I weigh my options in two or three seconds, grab Melissa’s arm, and bolt.
She just stands there and almost falls down.
“What are you doing?”
“Run, you idiot. They’re going to kidnap us. They’re traffickers!”
Neither Brad nor Bearded General seem especially concerned by my outburst, nor do they raise any alarm when I run out of the tent with Melissa.
It becomes clear why. One of the fighters drives the wooden buttstock of his gun into my stomach. Hard. It knocks me on my ass and rams all the air out of my lungs. They grab Melissa by the arms and she starts screaming and flailing, which only prompts them to grab her harder.
Her screams of fear and pleas for help turn into a shrill cry of pain as they twist her arm until I think it has to be broken, and she arches in agony, trying to relieve the pressure. The fighter holding her takes the opportunity to shove her at his friend, who grabs her dress and pulls hard. Melissa screams and starts to cry, begging them to stop.
Brad casually steps out of the tent, aims a sleek black pistol in the air, and pops off a shot. The crack jerks all the fighters’ heads around to face him, and he bellows in Kosztylan, too fast for me to make out anything more than a stream of profanity.
The fighters shove Melissa to her knees and she begs for mercy in a mishmash of English and Solkovian.