down.
Earlier, morning rain had pelted down in buckets, welcoming and cool for the thirty to forty minutes it had lasted. In its aftermath, the sun boiled down through the tree cover; now steam rose from the forest floor like thick, damp heat from a dryer vent. Wet ferns and leaves clung like her soaked clothes, slicing her bare arms and legs and drawing insects to the scent of the blood oozing from the thin cuts; moss and grass clawed at her sodden sandals, bogging her down in the muck on the more level stretches.
Thank God they stopped much sooner in the day to make camp. Watching but unable to hear their conversations, Darcy got the impression that this was a predetermined spot. Like they'd planned on stopping here for a reason.
And something about that conclusion added an additional element of unease. Were they meeting someone here? Or was this where they planned to kill her and bury the body?
She shook off the thought and concentrated on the good news.
She was bug bitten, bruised, cut, and hungry—but she was alive. Her captors suffered the same fate. While they were more acclimated to the jungle heat and better dressed in long-sleeve shirts and pants to combat the sting of the jungle, they had to be as exhausted as she was. From what she could tell, they had little food, less water. The only thing that was abundant was the tension. And it was mud thick.
While she couldn't hear what they were saying at the moment, she'd kept an ear open through the laborious march. Verbal spats had broken out with too frequent intervals among the terrorists. Apparently "thick as thieves" didn't hold any weight with these guys. The only thing that tied them together was their extremist doctrine of hate. Right now that hate was focused on her—the cause of their infighting.
While they were fluent in English—if necessary, they growled orders to her in English—most of the men conversed in Tagalog. At times they reverted to the local dialect—Chavacano, a bastardization of Spanish and English—apparently thinking that she couldn't understand them.
They were wrong. Darcy had held her current post in Manila for close to two years. As she had with her other posts in Lima and Tel Aviv, she'd familiarized herself with the local languages. In the case of the Philippines there were many, but she'd concentrated on the two most widely used in the area—Tagalog and Chavacano.
Her efforts were serving her well now as they made camp amid renewed arguments and vicious glares in her direction.
As she'd done from the onset, she continued with a low profile. She sat in silence. She didn't make eye contact. She didn't complain. She did what she was told and prayed that Ben—Rahimulla—could keep the younger warriors at bay.
But as she drew her knees to her chest and gauged the mood, she feared that some of the younger, angrier members of the group would eventually hold the most sway. They still wanted to rape her. And then they wanted her dead.
Can't have it both ways, boys, she thought, for once in her life understanding the true meaning of gallows humor.
The terrorists constantly challenged the wisdom of capturing a hostage associated with the U.S. Embassy. They feared American reprisal if it was proven they were responsible for her abduction and argued that they had nothing to lose by killing her, withdrawing to Basilan Island, and joining a greater force of their Abu Sayyaf brothers.
A small faction, led by Rahimulla, held out for holding her for more ransom—no doubt his attempt at keeping her alive. It also confirmed her original conclusion that they'd already been paid by someone to abduct her. And thinking about who had most likely paid them, she realized that was the biggest betrayal of all.
She couldn't think about that now. Instead, she prayed that they would keep listening to Rahimulla, go for more money than they'd already received. At least then she had a
Earlier, morning rain had pelted down in buckets, welcoming and cool for the thirty to forty minutes it had lasted. In its aftermath, the sun boiled down through the tree cover; now steam rose from the forest floor like thick, damp heat from a dryer vent. Wet ferns and leaves clung like her soaked clothes, slicing her bare arms and legs and drawing insects to the scent of the blood oozing from the thin cuts; moss and grass clawed at her sodden sandals, bogging her down in the muck on the more level stretches.
Thank God they stopped much sooner in the day to make camp. Watching but unable to hear their conversations, Darcy got the impression that this was a predetermined spot. Like they'd planned on stopping here for a reason.
And something about that conclusion added an additional element of unease. Were they meeting someone here? Or was this where they planned to kill her and bury the body?
She shook off the thought and concentrated on the good news.
She was bug bitten, bruised, cut, and hungry—but she was alive. Her captors suffered the same fate. While they were more acclimated to the jungle heat and better dressed in long-sleeve shirts and pants to combat the sting of the jungle, they had to be as exhausted as she was. From what she could tell, they had little food, less water. The only thing that was abundant was the tension. And it was mud thick.
While she couldn't hear what they were saying at the moment, she'd kept an ear open through the laborious march. Verbal spats had broken out with too frequent intervals among the terrorists. Apparently "thick as thieves" didn't hold any weight with these guys. The only thing that tied them together was their extremist doctrine of hate. Right now that hate was focused on her—the cause of their infighting.
While they were fluent in English—if necessary, they growled orders to her in English—most of the men conversed in Tagalog. At times they reverted to the local dialect—Chavacano, a bastardization of Spanish and English—apparently thinking that she couldn't understand them.
They were wrong. Darcy had held her current post in Manila for close to two years. As she had with her other posts in Lima and Tel Aviv, she'd familiarized herself with the local languages. In the case of the Philippines there were many, but she'd concentrated on the two most widely used in the area—Tagalog and Chavacano.
Her efforts were serving her well now as they made camp amid renewed arguments and vicious glares in her direction.
As she'd done from the onset, she continued with a low profile. She sat in silence. She didn't make eye contact. She didn't complain. She did what she was told and prayed that Ben—Rahimulla—could keep the younger warriors at bay.
But as she drew her knees to her chest and gauged the mood, she feared that some of the younger, angrier members of the group would eventually hold the most sway. They still wanted to rape her. And then they wanted her dead.
Can't have it both ways, boys, she thought, for once in her life understanding the true meaning of gallows humor.
The terrorists constantly challenged the wisdom of capturing a hostage associated with the U.S. Embassy. They feared American reprisal if it was proven they were responsible for her abduction and argued that they had nothing to lose by killing her, withdrawing to Basilan Island, and joining a greater force of their Abu Sayyaf brothers.
A small faction, led by Rahimulla, held out for holding her for more ransom—no doubt his attempt at keeping her alive. It also confirmed her original conclusion that they'd already been paid by someone to abduct her. And thinking about who had most likely paid them, she realized that was the biggest betrayal of all.
She couldn't think about that now. Instead, she prayed that they would keep listening to Rahimulla, go for more money than they'd already received. At least then she had a
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