Torchwood: Exodus Code

of the bus. They had no sooner found cover than the shooting began again in the piazza. Isela kept watching the bus, waiting for Juan to crawl out next, but he never did.
    In the piazza, no one screamed. No one yelled. No one raised any alarm. Isela had not expected anyone would. Like everyone else in the village, when a kidnapping was in progress they all had a part to play, especially if they wanted to stay on the mountain and be protected.

64
    THE KIDNAPPING OF Señor Olivares Donoso, one of the wealthiest men in South America, a man with links to the three families, was in play and Jack recognised that so far nothing was going according to plan – not his, not the kidnapper’s, or, he surmised, the CIA’s.
    From a corner inside the compound, Jack activated his comms unit.
    ‘Cash, do you read? Cash!’
    Nothing. Static.
    Jack tasted sage, heavy and distinct. And ginger, stronger than before. And then the voices in his head started, a serenade of low-pitched humming.
    Too soon. Too soon to lose my mind, he thought. I need my notebook if this is going to work.
    Jack’s stomach knotted at the state of the bus, on its roof, steam hissing from its engine, no movement from anyone inside, but he had no time to react let alone get to the wreckage to help Gwen and the
Ice Maiden
crew. Seconds after Isela’s shot, Castenado’s men swarmed from the barracks, leaving the inside of the hacienda protected only at its distant corners.
    This might be Jack’s only chance to search for his notebook. He knew that if either the CIA or Castenado’s gunmen won this fight, he’d not be free to roam the mountain and time was ticking away.
    Five hours and fifty-eight minutes.
    Jack darted into the canopy of the jungle shading the perimeter of the tropical gardens and the terraced courtyards. When the last of Castenado’s armed guards charged past heading out into the piazza, Jack slipped his belt from his pants and jogged in line behind the last man. When he was sure he was at the end of the line, Jack snapped his belt against the guard’s head, the buckle drawing blood. The guard whipped around. Jack smashed his fist into the guard’s throat. He crumpled. Dragging him behind a copse of bougainvillea, in seconds Jack had stripped the guard of his automatic weapon, and the night goggles hooked to his belt.
    Before abandoning the body, Jack took the guard’s shades too.
    Jack silently slipped inside the main house, finding himself in a glittering foyer, its ceilings flecked with gold leaf, its walls covered in Diego Rivera-like murals depicting scenes from the family’s dark and chequered history.
    Jack figured he had about three minutes to get to Castenado himself before the piazza outside became a bloodbath. Jack wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, but a simple kidnapping had become something much more. He thought he had an idea what, but he couldn’t take the time to stop and check for sure.
    A curving marble staircase dominated the foyer. Jack knew from his earlier reconnaissance that Castenado’s private offices sat at the back of the house, looking out at the peak of the mountain.
    ‘Hey, who the hell are you?’ A large heavily armed American stepped out on to the corridor, blocking Jack’s advance .
    Jack had about ten seconds to make his decision. Footsteps pounded down the hallway behind the guard. In seconds, he’d be surrounded.
    ‘I need to talk to Castenado, and I need to do it now.’
    Jack was surrounded.
    ‘No one gets past me unless I say so, and I want to know who the hell you are.’
    Jack raised his hands into the air. ‘Tell your boss that I need to speak to him about Renso Castenado.’
    The guard squinted at Jack. ‘Are you some kind of nutcase?’ He took two steps closer to Jack, his gun pointing at Jack’s chest.
    ‘No doubt about it, but you really don’t have time to debate the point with me,’ said Jack staring down at the gun.
    Without warning an explosion from outside shook the building. Jack pivoted, taking out the guard directly behind him, catching his gun in mid air, then rolling across the floor, the second guard’s bullets shattering a statue of Inti the Sun God displayed in an alcove.
    ‘Hold your fire!’ a man called to the guard about to take another shot at Jack, who was scrambling back to his feet, arms raised, prepared to return fire at the two guards who remained standing.
    A tall, olive-skinned man in grey trousers, a loose white tunic, carrying a black