Colombia

South America

September 2012

“Here it comes,” Kirsten said, leaning over the old bridge, waving. Marcus joined her, but they stopped when gunshots sounded, and the minibus engine quietened. The vehicle was below them, a kilometre away, on the winding jungle trail.

When the pair peered over the low wall, gunshots sounded and stone chippings flew all around them. They dropped with their backpacks against the wall.

Marcus panted. “What are we going to do?”

Kirsten looked around. “Let’s get back into the jungle.” She ran across the trail, into the undergrowth, but reappeared. “Do you want to die, Marcus?”

“No, but—”

“Come on,” she called, and waved.

As Marcus reached the tree line there were gunshots, and bullets thudded into the sandy trail nearby. He turned, and raised his hands.

A battered jeep skidded to a halt, and the gunman leapt from the passenger seat. He ran forward and crashed the butt of his rifle into Marcus’s head, sending him to the ground, dazed and groaning.

“Shit,” Kirsten muttered, crouching within the dense foliage fifty metres away.

The jeep had contained the driver, and the gunman, and behind it was the minibus, driven by a man in combat uniform. Another appeared at the back doors. All four bandits wore battle fatigues but a variety of headgear. They each carried a rifle. The driver of the jeep aimed his weapon at Karl, indicating for him to get into the minibus. One bandit remained behind, while the other three entered the jungle abreast of each other.

Kirsten crept deeper among the waist-deep greenery, remembering that she didn’t know Marcus. They’d met twenty minutes earlier at the stone bridge, only because it was the nearest rendezvous to catch a regional tourist minibus.

Marcus had explained that he was a botanist, and had been in the jungle for five days. He was thirty, unattached, and planned to visit jungles in four South American countries. He’d been so excited relating his discovery of a rare flower that he’d failed to ask about his new acquaintance’s background.

This was fine with Kirsten, who’d spent the past three weeks alone. Like Marcus, she was thirty, and had flown from London to Bogota; Colombia’s capital. Unlike the botanist, within two days of arrival, Kirsten had bought a few necessities, and set off into the jungle to relax, to be at one with nature, away from other people, and the stresses of her regular life. 

Kirsten was pulled from her reverie when a bandit approached, pausing nearby to relieve himself. The man hung his assault rifle over his right shoulder on its sling, sighing as he urinated noisily over a bright tropical flower.

Kirsten stood silently, gripped his loose neckerchief with both hands and pulled tight. She cut off his air supply, and simultaneously prevented any sound. While maintaining her fierce grip, Kirsten tucked her left foot in front of his legs, and he dropped to his knees, his struggles ending as he fell forward onto a large saturated flower among the greenery

While the other two men slowly waded through the dense jungle, occasionally pausing and listening, Kirsten moved down the gradient. She paused within the tree line to assess the situation on the trail. Behind the jeep, the minibus sat silently, the back doors open, the passengers guarded by the bandit with a US-issue M16 rifle.

The seats in the back of the minibus were bench style, running along both sides, meaning that the passengers faced each other, and not towards the front or rear. Two people sat with their backs to the jungle, while on the opposite side, Marcus was staring between them straight at Kirsten’s dirt-smeared face, as she partially rose out of the greenery.

When Kirsten gave a thumbs-up sign, Marcus nodded, and wiped the blood from his forehead. The next signal from the woman in the trees was a forefinger pointing first at Marcus, and then at the man standing outside with the rifle. She moved her hand as if it were inside a glove puppet, her fingers and thumb touching and parting.

Marcus wiped his head again, and turned to speak in Spanish to the man guarding the minibus. When he got a response, to maintain the conversation, he explained that he’d found a rare flower. The bandit shrugged, but importantly, he’d turned to face the back of the minibus.

“Pssst,” Kirsten whispered.

The sentry was still turning to respond when a mud-covered hand covered his mouth and a hunting knife was thrust deep into his lower back, perforating several internal organs. By the time the broad, partly-serrated blade was twisted, and withdrawn, the dead man was being lowered slowly to the ground.

“Oh my ….” Marcus murmured, seeing the bloody knife in Kirsten’s hand.

The young Scandinavian man and woman sitting opposite Marcus stared in silence, the woman retching, and covering her mouth.

Shouts in Spanish were heard in the jungle as the remaining bandits called out for their missing colleague. They shouted, and fired short bursts as they rushed between the trees.

“Marcus,” Kirsten said, and glanced at the jungle. “Can you drive?”

“Yes … yes—” He climbed out.

“Reverse the minibus back across the bridge.”

“What about you?” he said as he jumped into the driver’s seat.

“If I’m not with you in ten minutes, drive to the nearest town.” Kirsten winked at the young couple, and closed the back doors. She dragged the dead bandit to one side, lifted his M16, and checked the ammunition. The US rifle was preferable to the Kalashnikov she’d recently acquired, which was slung from her shoulder.

When the two bandits exited the jungle, they turned, raising their weapons, to aim at the rapidly  retreating minibus. Two short bursts of automatic fire followed, but came from nearby, behind the bandits. 

Sgt Kirsten Reid, was one of three women in 40 Commando, Royal Marines, but two tours in Helmand Province, Afghanistan had tempered the warrior within.

*The End*

Author’s Note:

This is a 1,000-word story created from a photo prompt.