Stolen

StolenC.R. AlvarezISBN (Print Edition): 978-1-66789-335-8ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-66789-336-5© 2023. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. CONTENTSCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONECHAPTER TWENTY-TWOCHAPTER TWENTY-THREECHAPTER TWENTY-FOURCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVECHAPTER TWENTY-SIXCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTTWENTY-NINECHAPTER THIRTYCHAPTER THIRTY-ONECHAPTER THIRTY-TWOCHAPTER THIRTY-THREECHAPTER THIRTY-FOURCHAPTER THIRTY-FIVECHAPTER THIRTY-SIXCHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENCHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHTCHAPTER THIRTY-NINECHAPTER FORTYCHAPTER FORTY-ONECHAPTER FORTY-TWOCHAPTER FORTY-THREECHAPTER FORTY- FOURCHAPTER FORTY-FIVECHAPTER FORTY-SIXCHAPTER FORTY-SEVENCHAPTER FORTY-EIGHTCHAPTER FORTY-NINECHAPTER FIFTYCHAPTER FIFTY-ONECHAPTER FIFTY-TWO CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE CHAPTER ONEThe lorry was an antique. It rattled and swayed as it moved along the dirt track through the jungle. The men in the back were lined up like dominoes, ready to be knocked over with each pothole, root or rock they hit. They winced and groaned as the thread-bare tires hit another big rut and shot them off their wooden bench.Each man wore faded green army fatigue pants, stained white t-shirts, heavy soled boots and square hats that kept their faces out of the sun for part of the day. None of them were military but these were the clothes given to them to do the work. They did not complain because no one would listen. They sat stoic as their journey took them deeper into the bush where no smart, white man would ever venture. The men on the open end of the truck slouched away from the dust that was being kicked up by the thin tires. It was always believed that the rain fell constantly in the jungle. It was not so. There was a rainy season which was creeping quickly upon them and then a drier season that was safer for travel. This day had taken them from the mountains where the crop had been harvested and into this dense jungle where they would unload the lorry onto a riverboat heading downstream. The trip was already five hours long and most of the men were ready to get out and shake out the knots in their sore muscles.The landmine buried in the road hit the truck with so much force, the entire vehicle was lifted off the track. Fire bloomed upwards and attacked the men with such relentless fury that most were dead before they could scream for mercy. The two men in the very back were thrown free. The man on the left sailed through the air, his arms flailing, legs running as if he could control his flight. His body hit head first into a huge tree, snapping his neck and killing him instantly. The man on the right was also thrown high and far. His body sailed off the truck and into the heavy undergrowth. He was impaled by stiff shoots of bamboo and long thorns, pinning him to the ground as if he was a fly on an examination board. The sticks shot through his right thigh, his left abdomen and his right shoulder. He screamed in pain as the jungle took him captive, crucifying him to the earth.Trying to escape the torment that surged through his body, he attempted to roll over. The sharp, wooden shoots held him down. Laying back, he took a deep breath and stared at the canopy of leaves and foliage above him. It seemed from a great distance he heard a few guttural cries from the men he had been beside. They gradually faded away and only the crackling of flames of the burning lorry remained. Finally, even that disappeared and the staked man could hear the incessant noises of the jungle. A small animal nearby snuffling in the grass, a cacophony of birds calling from the trees and insects buzzing around his face and the blood from his wounds. He lifted his left arm and grabbed the bamboo shoot that had impaled his shoulder. At first he tried to break it off, but that only started new blood flowing and an agony like white-hot fire searing down his arm. Placing his hand under his armpit, he attempted to lift his pinned arm upwards. The cry that erupted from his lips was primal in its essence of pain and he lay back panting like a trapped, wild animal.Tears tracked down his dirty cheeks, and he sucked at the salty liquid that hit his lips. Closing his eyes, he realized how hopeless and helpless this fate had left him. He wondered about his friends in the lorry and whether any of them had survived. Seven months ago he had his entire life before him as if he were on a throne beckoning it to come forward. Now, he was dying in the jungle, and no one knew where he had gone.Male voices woke him. Without thinking, he tried to sit up and yelped in pain as the spikes held him in place. He groaned and then tried to cry out for help. Craning his head toward the sounds of feet pounding the vines, leaves and bushes, he raised his free arm and once again croaked out for help. His voice was so quiet, he knew they would not hear, so he tried to manufacture some spit in his mouth and swallow it to loosen his vocal cords. Again, he called for help. Again, it was too soft for the men to hear.The language they spoke was Spanish and sounded urgent and angry. One voice stood out above all and it was demanding and commanding. They continued to beat the brush all around him, and he couldn’t understand why they had not found him.His left hand pushed around the damp leaves hoping to find a rock or a branch that he could throw to grab their attention. His head swiveled in a vain search for anything he could toss. Moist leaves, coiled vines and more