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Back Whirlwind Save as PDF
Chapters (95)
  1. Title Page
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. 52
  54. 53
  55. 54
  56. 55
  57. 56
  58. 57
  59. 58
  60. 59
  61. 60
  62. 61
  63. 62
  64. 63
  65. 64
  66. 65
  67. 66
  68. 67
  69. 68
  70. 69
  71. 70
  72. 71
  73. 72
  74. 73
  75. 74
  76. 75
  77. 76
  78. 77
  79. 78
  80. 79
  81. 80
  82. 81
  83. 82
  84. 83
  85. 84
  86. 85
  87. 86
  88. 87
  89. 88
  90. 89
  91. 90
  92. 91
  93. 92
  94. Also by DAVID KLASS
  95. Copyright Page

I’m upside down and facing into a corner. All I can see right now is your dirty feet. Maybe they sleep in hammocks. Maybe they snooze on the floor. I don’t see that it makes a heck of a lot of difference. Tomorrow morning they’re going to come back and machine-gun us as they eat their huevos rancheros.

There are no beds, no chairs, no table, no clothes. Nada.

I’ve got Gisco’s attention now. Okay, there’s nada. The significance being?

This isn’t a home. It’s not a dwelling place.

Then what is it?

A lab, I think.

What?

Don’t you smell those chemicals?

No, they muzzled me with some stinking rag. I can’t smell anything. If I twist my head, maybe you can tug the cloth off a bit.

Yeah, I’ve got it. I’m tugging. It’s stuck. I’m going to give it a hard yank.

OW! That’s my ear!

Sorry.

Okay, that’s the muzzle rag. Good. Can you move it a little more? Ah, fresh air! Or should I say foul air.

Can you tell what those chemicals are? Come on, any dog who can pinpoint a chicken at a half mile should be able to spitball a few chemicals in a home laboratory.

The dog sniffs. Hydrochloric acid.

What’s that used for?

I’m not sure. Gisco sniffs again. And something fruity. Lime, I think.

Hydrochloric acid and citrus? Weird. What else?

Alcohol.

Are they mixing margaritas?

Gisco doesn’t find this amusing. Jack, we’re in mucho trouble.

Why? What is it now?

Remember those green plants in neat rows?

You mean the pumpkin patch? Or I thought it might have been a cucumber garden.

Coca plants, Gisco corrects me. They’re using this mountain hut to process a crude form of cocaine.

A shiver of cold fear travels rapidly down my spine like a mountain centipede seeking a new hiding place. Are you sure, Gisco? It’s hard to believe we randomly crashed our balloon above a nest of drug smugglers.

Growers. Distillers. Smugglers. Killers. Whatever. It explains why they’re so suspicious of strangers.

Yes, I agree. No wonder they’re planning on shooting us. Okay then, we have to escape and find a way to patch our balloon before they return. Any bright ideas?

No, but some more bad news. Our situation is deteriorating by the second.

Gisco, we’re marooned—or maybe I should say unballooned—high up in the Andes, imprisoned by drug smugglers, who are planning to return in the morning and Uzi us into condor feed. What could be worse?

I hear footsteps. They must be coming back a little early.

30

30

The door of the hut is yanked open. I prepare myself to be dragged in front of a two-man firing squad.