[Earth II] The Filipino-Columbian War: And Hell Followed..

by **Layarteb** » Sat May 30, 2020 9:23 pm

OOC: This is the second part of a larger series of threads known as the The Filipino-Columbian War, a 21st century conflict between the Empire of Columbia and the Socialist Republic of the Philippines. For more information, please see the OOC Thread. To participate in this thread you must be a member of Earth II. All active, Earth II participants, please speak to me over Discord or through telegram concerning your role in the thread - if you would like one. The first part can be found here.

The Filipino-Columbian War: And Hell Followed...

Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - Viktor Vasnetsov

And I looked, and behold a pale
horse: and his name that sat on him
was Death, and Hell followed with
him. And power was given unto them
over the fourth part of the earth, to
kill with sword, and with hunger, and
with death, and with the beasts of the
earth. (King James Version, Revelation 6:8)

.:.
Chapter I
Uncommon Bedfellows

• • • † • • •

Sunday, January 12^th, 2020 | 10:45 hrs [UTC+8]
Intramuros, Manila, Philippines | Iglesia de San Agustín de Manila
14° 35' 19" N, 120° 58' 32" E

Brandon Simms rose as the priest gave the final blessing and stepped down from the altar ledge. He would lead a small procession down the main aisle of the church and out to the front doors where he stood there to shake the hands of anyone leaving the church, offering final blessings and getting a few minutes edgewise with his congregation that he could not get from the altar. He did this three times every Sunday for that was how many masses he gave at the Iglesia de San Agustín de Manila, a church that was over four hundred years old. To the country's heavy Catholic populace, Iglesia de San Agustín de Manila was a beacon of history, especially to the residents of Intramuros, where the church had been built and situated. It was the oldest stone church in the country and though the church hosted tourists during appointed times, Sunday was for mass only.

It was why Brandon went to this church. A foreign service officer with the Columbian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, he'd been in the country for four years now. It was his first posting since graduating in 2016 and taking the oath of his office. Attached to the political office, he'd come to the country a lapsed Catholic but found a reinvigoration of his faith ever since walking into this very church during a tourist visit. It was only his first time without the walls of the embassy's protective compound and to say he was nervous was understating how Brandon felt that morning. Yet Father Juan, who now passed him with a smile, muttering some final prayers to the Lord Almighty over his congregation, was there to make him comfortable. The aged priest was in his sixties then as he was now and he saw the nervous Brandon and picked him immediately for a foreigner, not that it was too difficult.

Brandon had grown up in wealthy Connecticut and he'd gone to Yale. His parents expected him to become a businessman or lawyer but instead, Brandon revolted against his ivy league upbringing and left the country at the first chance he could. Of course, he hadn't been prepared for the world outside of Connecticut, let alone Columbia, let alone the Philippines. The government might have been hostile to the Empire but Brandon found, through his now many trips outside of the embassy's walls, the people weren't so malevolent. Yes, the general opinion was negative of the Empire but not necessarily of the Columbian people. What he found, initially, was a guarded group of adherents who regarded Brandon as an outsider at first but who gradually came to accept his presence over the months and the years. Father Juan gave more than a number of sermons about the acceptance of all of God's followers, regardless of where their birthplaces lie, almost always speaking out to his congregation to accept Brandon's presence. Years later, he was no longer seen as an outsider or even as a "Columbian" but as a Catholic. Brandon appreciated it, appreciated the baked goods they brought sometimes just for him, appreciated the mothers who brought in their daughters for Brandon's eyes to catch. He had to admit there was some comicality to it all but nevertheless he continued to show up, each and every Sunday week after week.

He had no indication that this morning would be any different from the countless ones past as he walked down the aisle, waiting for his turn to shake Father Juan's hand and thank him again for delivering a great sermon. Walking down the aisle, he scanned the faces of those present. Most of them were faces he saw every week but a few were foreign to him, perhaps people coming out of the darkness like he had once done. He didn't think much of it. He was an officer in the political section, of middle ranking, no longer the junior-most officer but hardly in the running for section chief or departmental attaché. He spent most of his time working on policy analysis coming out of the Central Committee. It wasn't the most exciting work but he enjoyed it and so that was how it went day-to-day.

As he approached Father Juan, Brandon gave a smile and held out his hand. The elderly priest took it and smiled, "It is good to see you in this new year. I hope to see you next week."

"Every week Father unless something should prevent me," Brandon answered. As he did, the sound of a car moving at high speed transformed into the grating sound of a white panel van screeching to a halt just twenty meters from the church. Smoke rose from where the tires had gripped the brick roadway on General Luna Street and stopped the vehicle. The side door was thrown open and three men jumped out, a fourth coming out of the passenger seat. All of them were armed with submachine guns and all of them were dressed in black with their faces covered. The man who jumped out of the passenger seat aimed his weapon into the air and let off a burst of gunfire that pieced the quiet, somber, morning air around the church. It sent into a panic nearly everyone around as men and women, some clutching their children, scattered in the opposite direction away from the church. Those close to the church ran inside of safety. Brandon was one of them but not Father Juan.

Two of the four men came bounding towards the priest as he stood between them and the front door. The other two remained with the van, guarding the street while the driver remained inside, ready to slam his foot onto the accelerator and speed away. "This is a house of God!" Father Juan shouted to them as they approached, undeterred by their weapons, accepting that he may die but not accepting that he would cower. He shouted at them again, speaking in Filipino, in an authoritative voice that could command the unruliest teenager but these men weren't unruly teenagers. They approached rapidly, weapons shouldered, and before Father Juan could stop them further, one of them knocked him clear out of the way with the butt of his weapon. The strike was so swift and so several that Father Juan fell to the ground like a lump of bricks. The two men entered the church but they didn't have to go far.

Speaking in a language that Brandon didn't recognize, the two men talked with one another and then aimed their weapons at him. "Get up," one shouted in broken and poor English. Brandon obliged. "Move!" The man shouted again and he pushed Brandon out of the church before kicking him hard into the lower of his back. The kick sent Brandon tumbling onto the ground and that was the desired effect. Before he could move, the same man who'd kicked him had jumped onto him, putting his knee into Brandon's back. Violently, he yanked Brandon's arms behind him so that he could restrain the Columbian with a plastic cable tie that he yanked almost too tightly onto Brandon's wrists. Then a black hood went over Brandon's face and the two men hurried him into the van. The other two men jumped back into the vehicle and the driver slammed the accelerator. The van left the scene just as loudly as it had arrived, having been there for all of forty-five seconds.

• • • • ‡ • • • •

Sunday, January 12^th, 2020 | 14:10 hrs [UTC+8]
Ermita, Manila, Philippines | Embassy of the Empire of Columbia
14° 34' 39" N, 120° 58' 38" E

Sandra Orona was the legal attaché in the Columbian embassy in Manila and on this particular Sunday, like all Sundays, she would relax in the confines of her apartment on the embassy's grounds and catch up with her family back at home. At forty-five, she had lived a very tumultuous life that had played havoc on many of her relationships, both personal and familial. At twenty, she applied to the Federal Justice Agency and entered the academy training within weeks of her college graduation, barely saying goodbye to her friends and her family before she was in Virginia for the 26-week course. She graduated high in her class and was put in as a probationary agent in Ireland - of all places - for two-and-a-half years before she was granted the status of special agent at twenty-five. Seven years later, she was made a senior special agent thanks to hard-earned performance merits and several successful case conclusions while working in the Major Crimes Section, particularly arson. She personally cracked the case on two serial arsonists in Ireland during her time there.

Then it was back to Columbia-proper where she was put in the FJA headquarters in Columbia City. At thirty-seven, she was looking at another upcoming promotion when she was seconded to an anti-narcotics task force. Late on a summer night in August, her team initiated a no knock warrant on a house in Cleveland, Ohio that had been under surveillance for several years as a drug house connected with the cartels in Mexico. The raid went badly and three men were injured, one killed as he took three rounds to the chest and neck upon making entry. The tactical team that had gone through the door took the brunt of the damage and the shootout that ensued turned the entire neighborhood upside down. Seven suspects were killed in the shootout and several rounds almost hit Sandra as she waited outside. Those bullets weren't meant for her but they came through the opened windows as the suspects inside made a stand. She called it quits shortly thereafter and took her experience to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Now, eight years later, she was the new legal attaché with barely four months in-country. She was learning quite a lot and quite fast.

The majority of her time had been spent getting to know the staff and getting to know the country. The strict, law-and-order approach of the Central Committee might have given the impression of a crimeless country but it was anything but. The country had a robust black-market sector that smuggled everything from drugs to people. Corruption amongst local officials was less than a lot of other countries, thanks largely to the stratocratic system but it wasn't non-existent. There were also major problems with domestic violence and murder with Quezon and Manila being the most dangerous cities in the country. Needless to say, Sandra had her hands full most of the time, which was why the weekends were almost sacred.

Columbians rarely visited the Philippines, if just because of the hostile nature of the government and so she spent less time worrying about tourists who committed local crimes than she would have in any other posting. Still, there were a lot of embassy personnel to worry about and enough Columbian businessmen that she wasn't able to lean back in her chair with her feet up every day. So, it both came as a surprise and not a surprise when her cell phone started ringing with the number with the number for the police headquarters in Manila. She would be the first to hear about Brandon Simms' kidnapping.

She hit the answer button and put the phone to her ear. It was General Guillermo Espada on the other end, the head of the Philippine National Police and not someone she would ever find herself speaking to except at perhaps an official, diplomatic function. "Madam Sandra Orona, Columbian embassy, yes? I am General Espada of the PNP." He asked in English.

"Yes sir, that is me, how can I help you today?" she said.

"First accept my apologies for calling you on a Sunday. There has been an incident with an embassy officer by the name of Brandon Simms," the general said. Sandra searched her memory but she couldn't put a face to the name. She worried what the man had done. She hoped it wasn't anything serious that would cause a major, diplomatic incident.

"All right general, what did he do?"

"Do? Nothing ma'am, I apologize, no he did not do anything. He was abducted this morning," she looked at the clock. It wasn't morning by a long shot anymore.

"What details can you give me?"

"Not very many I am afraid. He was abducted at approximately 10:45 in front of Iglesia de San Agustín de Manila, it is a church in Intramuros." She knew it because it wasn't even a mile away. She'd heard the gunshots around the time that he was saying but she assumed it was a police action and nothing further. She hadn't investigated too deeply except to find out that they weren't gunshots aimed at the embassy. "Five masked men abducted him as he was leaving the church. We do not have much information right now I am afraid."

"General, this is a major problem, we need information."

"We will certainly provide it as best as we can ma'am. You may call on me directly." He hung up after that and she set in motion the protocols that were required of her but she also didn't like the lack of information. She was still an agent of the FJA at heart and hearing so little information when she knew they'd have more did not sit at ease with her. Determined to do her own investigating, she very quickly readied herself to leave, knowing where he'd been kidnapped, which was where she would start. However, she wasn't going to go alone and she requisitioned one of the security officers accompany her for the simple fact that they were legally allowed to carry weapons in the country - she wasn't.

• • • † • • •

by **Layarteb** » Tue Jun 09, 2020 8:26 pm

• • • † • • •

Sunday, January 12^th, 2020 | 15:15 hrs [UTC+8]
Intramuros, Manila, Philippines | Iglesia de San Agustín de Manila
14° 35' 19" N, 120° 58' 32" E

Sandra Orona had always resembled Helen Hunt in a way, not enough to be a stunt double or a doppelganger but enough to bear some similarities. Like Helen Hunt, Sandra had blonde hair and she was 5'7" but unlike Helen Hunt, she was part Latino, which gave her a much darker complexion. Her father had been born in Puerto Rico while her both had been born in Western Virginia. She had more of her mother's physical features but bore her father's complexion. Spending four days a week in the gym also kept her from resembling her parents, neither of whom were considered "in shape" by any stretch of the imagination. They were far from obese but they carried plenty of extra weight in their guts.

When she first requisitioned an escort, she was going to be assigned a 27-year-old former army paratrooper named Charlie "Bull" Thorn but Charlie wasn't her first choice for anything. He didn't have the tact or the grace to deal with sensitive situations. He didn't know how to conduct an interview or an interrogation so she nixed that right away and instead took a relative newcomer to the embassy, the 24-year-old Jake Townsend who had only served his conscription period of 24 months. He'd gone to college, majored in something useless, and then he joined the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, utilizing his military background to get an "in" with the security division. This was his first posting and he'd only been in Manila for nineteen weeks, enough to know the map of the city but not enough to be on anyone's radar. Townsend would draw two firearms from the armory, the standard-issue duty-carry pistol and the standard-issue backup pistol. The former was a SIG Sauer P320 Full Size and the latter was a SIG Sauer P230 Compact, both chambered in .357SIG. Townsend grabbed the backup on the assumption that if a firefight ensued, Sandra would be using that weapon for herself.

Sandra drove. It wasn't a particularly far ride but she didn't trust that Jake knew his way around as well as she did. He was there for muscle and protection in case the shit hit the fan, in case they pulled up and the police tried to arrest them, in case they pulled up and found an angry crowd. Unless the situation warranted, he was merely be seen and nothing more. They left the embassy at precisely 15:00 and twelve minutes later, Sandra was parking the car approximately eighty meters from the church. The police had cleared out the area of cars and put up yellow caution tape, which left an abundance of open parking spots that would otherwise be legal. Since the car had diplomatic plates, the idea of being ticketed or towed was nonexistent. If anything, the police wouldn't want them around and they'd try to shoo them.

Getting out, they walked the eighty meters down Real Street, turned left onto General Luna Street and stopped. Expecting to see a throng of police cars still, Sandra was surprised to see nothing out of the ordinary. It was as if a crime hadn't even taken place and she looked at her watch. It was 15:15 and the crime had happened not more than four-and-a-half hours earlier. Given the nature of the crime, she still expected to see forensics teams on site, perhaps even a police foot patrol maintaining the crime scene. What she saw suggested no crime even took place, which more than alarmed her. She'd suspected something was fishy when she'd received the phone call from General Espada but now the hairs on her neck were tingling. Whatever happened, she quickly surmised, the police weren't going to be trying too hard to solve it. They'd come to a conclusion and stick by it, regardless of what the evidence showed. It was AL604 all over again, she thought to herself as they made their way into the church's parking lot, ducking under some more caution tape.

The area seemed deserted but she found the doors to the church open and so she went inside. It was largely empty and quiet. Being the respectful albeit lapsed Catholic that she was, she took some holy water and blessed herself. For fear of not knowing what to do, so too did Townsend. Then, they walked up the main aisle and towards the front, where a pair of elderly women were seated, giving their personal devotions. Sandra genuflected and took a seat in the pew next to them, "Disculpe mi interrupción, pero estoy buscando al padre Juan. ¿Me ayudarías a encontrarlo?" [Would you please pardon my interruption but I am looking for Father Juan. Would you help me find him?] She asked them, having searched the church online before she left her apartment, finding the head priest's name easily.

"Una Columbiaina" [A Columbian,] the woman said and then smiled, "he's not here. Those heathens put him into the hospital." She answered then in English, explaining, "I was a school teacher for many years. I taught English to international students," she smiled again. She was easily in her eighties. Again, these weren't a people who hated Columbians on a personal level, least of all in the house of God.

"Heathens? I don't understand."

"Earlier today, this morning, after mass," the other woman - equally as old - chimed in, also in English. They weren't talking loudly for they were respectful of the sanctity of the church but they could easily be heard. "Those heathens, the Muslims," she nearly spat at the word, "they took that nice Columbian boy."

"Were you here?"

"Oh yes we were, we're always here on Sunday. It is our day for the Lord," answered the first woman. "I am Rosa and this is Cecilia."

"I am Sandra. I am a security officer with the embassy and I am investigating what happened. Can you tell me what happened? What you saw?"

"Did you call the police?" Rosa asked.

"They called me."

"That happened many hours ago."

"Bureaucracies are slow ma'am," Sandra smiled, "I won't write down your names."

"No you can write them," Cecilia answered, "we don't care much for those people." Rosa shook her head, "They're terrorists down there." She was referring to the sizeable Muslim populace in Southern Philippines and the animosity towards them pervaded every facet of Filipino life, especially in the elderly. "If they could behave that would be one thing but they kidnap people for ransom all of the time and what do the police do?"

"Nothing," answered Rosa, "too many young men and women have been ruined by them. No we will tell you what happened; after all, Father Juan is in the hospital. Maybe you can avenge him. It's not right, you do not hurt a priest, especially not here!"

"So they hurt him? How?"

"Smacked him in the head with their gun I thought he was going to die the way he hit the pavement, we all thought we were going to die, we thought they were going to shoot us!"

"How many were there?"

"Well there was the driver, he must have stayed because they left so fast," answered Cecilia, "then there were two men who came up to the church, they had the guns, one of them hit our Father Juan. We are here praying for him, that he can recover."

"So three, any more?"

"Maybe? We did not see if any stayed with the car."

"What kind of car?"

"It was a white van; they came out of the side of it."

"You didn't catch the plate did you?"

Rosa laughed, "My dear," she put her hands on Sandra's, "my eyes work one maybe two meters away without my glasses, not very far with them."

"I understand. Then they took the Columbian, they took Brandon?"

"Yes, they came right for him, like they wanted him," Cecilia said, "Father Juan tried to stop them, which was when they hit him."

"Did they shoot their guns?"

"Oh yes," Rosa said, remembering, "oh yes. They came up so fast, they made such a racket, speeding up the street, then slamming on their brakes. I hate how people drive like that but yes they shot first, it made us all scared. Father Juan was not though."

"I like Father Juan."

"So do we, so does everyone, he is such a kind man, so loving."

"Was it quick? Do you recall how long they were here?"

"Not long, a minute, two? It happened so quickly."

"How were they dressed?"

"Their faces were concealed, they had all black on, like you see those terrorists on the news whenever they have someone to ransom."

"Did the police question you?"

"No, they didn't really question anyone but Deacon Pablo."

"No one?"

"No one," Cecilia said, backing up her friend. "Is that unusual?"

"Very. Is Deacon Pablo here?"

"No he is with Father Juan."

"Can you tell me what hospital he is in? I'd like to talk to the deacon. Perhaps he can give me some more information."

"Oh yes he is right down the street at Seaman's Hospital. It is just down the street down Cabildo."

"Yes, I know it, thank you. I shall light a candle for Father Juan and pray for him."

"You are a Catholic?" Rosa seemed surprised.

"Of course."

"They tell us you are all pagans."

"I'm sure they tell you a lot of things about us."

"That they do," Rosa said, "I hope you find that boy, he is such a good boy. He is here every Sunday; he helps out a lot. He did not deserve that."

"No one does ma'am, doesn't matter where they're from," Sandra smiled and stood up, gave a blessing and left the church, lighting a candle as promised and leaving two pesos in the donation box.

Outside of the church, she began to look around the area. "Why wouldn't the police question anyone?" She asked herself rhetorically as she walked around. "They had to be there," she said after looking down at the dried blood from where Father Juan had been struck. She pointed almost right to where the van had stopped and she walked carefully towards it. "Look around for shell casings."

"Yes ma'am," Townsend answered, having said nothing since they'd left the embassy until this very moment.

Hunching that the police didn't get them all and suspecting the use of automatic weapons, Sandra took a wider search area and she very quickly found what she wanted, two spent shell casings in the gutter of the street. "Here we go," she said and she opened her bag and pulled out a small, evidence collection bag. She grabbed both without putting her fingerprints on them and eyed them through the bag, "AKM ammo."

"How's someone got an AKM in the middle of Manila in this country?"

"That's really simple Townsend, because they aren't from Manila. Those ladies in there were extremely clear who did this. When the general called me to tell me what happened we had barely any information. I got more information talking to those two ladies than the chief of police gave me so what does that tell you?"

"They're hiding something ma'am."

"They're hiding something," she repeated, "not bad Townsend. What did you major in?"

"Criminal justice ma'am," he said and almost right away, Sandra let out a loud laugh, "what ma'am?"

"Stop calling me ma'am for starters. I guess you couldn't do much with the degree?"

"I didn't want to become a cop ma," he caught himself, "miss?"

"Orona for fuck's sake Townsend. All right you're my partner on this, let's see if we can't put those collegiate skills to use. Of course, the classroom and the real world are different. So, what did you notice in there or around here?"

"Carelessness, they didn't bother to wipe up the blood and they only interviewed the deacon. They left evidence around and they didn't even block off the area so there's probably more evidence to be had here. Should we look for cameras?"

"Good idea, look around let's see what we can find."

"Well just look up and behind me then, I saw it coming in here," and right over the church's door was a camera that looked out over the entire area, right where the crime would have happened. "Do you think they took the tape?"

"Yes I bet they did if just to hide what happened. We have to talk to the deacon. Come on, we'll walk it's four hundred meters from here, if that much." They set off down General Luna Street, took a left on Victoria Street, a right onto Cabildo Street, and there was the hospital at the next corner.

• • • † • • •

by **Layarteb** » Wed Jun 17, 2020 8:47 pm

• • • † • • •

Sunday, January 12^th, 2020 | 15:55 hrs [UTC+8]
Intramuros, Manila, Philippines | Seaman's Hospital Manila
14° 35' 15" N, 120° 58' 39" E

Sandra and Jake walked through the front doors of the hospital and were hit the powerful but distinct antiseptic odor that all hospitals have. They were greeted by a clean and comfortable waiting room with a muted television on one wall, vending machines on another, and chairs that allowed family and friends to sit in comfort for extended periods of time. Dead ahead was a nurse sitting at a receptionist's desk with a clock above her and a number of signs in a multitude of languages. This was a hospital that primarily catered to merchant seamen who needed medical attention following the docking of their ship in the Port Area directly to the southwest of Intramuros. Sandra and Jake took it all in and walked up to the desk where the nurse receptionist was waiting for them. She'd spied them as they'd come through and immediately sized them up as foreigners - not that it was hard to tell. "How can I help you?" The nurse asked in English first, "Are you injured or are you here to visit someone?" She continued. Her English was accented but clear enough to the two Columbians.

"Yes," Sandra said, "we're here to see Father Juan please."

"What is your relation to him?"

"We're parishioners," Sandra lied. The nurse looked almost immediately skeptical of this claim, "We missed this Sunday's service and we heard about the terrible events so we want to make sure he is all right and to see if he needs any assistance while he's convalescing."

"You look like Columbians."

"We are," Sandra said, deflecting some of the hostility, "are we not to attend mass while posted here?"

"Are you from the embassy?"

"We are."

"What work do you do?"

"Visa approvals mostly, sometimes passport replacements for clumsy businessmen."

"And how long have you been attending Father Juan's services?"

"What nine months?" Sandra looked to Jake.

"More like ten now, I've been here what eleven?"

"Quite some time," Sandra said, pleased that Jake was quick on his feet. "Are we able to visit him?"

"Room 202 and no more than two of you to a room at a time and no more than thirty minutes at a time. Do not upset him!"

"Not at all ma'am," Sandra smiled.

"Wash your hands before you go in please," she said, pointing to a sink that had a very large sign that told visitors to do precisely that upon arrival. Sandra noted and the two went over to the sink and liberally washed their hands, soaking the soap into their hands. When they'd finished, they dried up and proceeded into the hallway. What struck them was an air of calmness over the hospital. There were no doctors or nurses scurrying around, no cacophony of noises and pages, no chaos. It was a relaxing place, a place that anyone could convalesce in and actually get better versus the hospitals back home, which could be unnecessarily frantic and busy.

They moved up to the second floor via a wide staircase adjacent to the entrance to the wards. From there, it was simply down the hall to Room 202 where the door was open. Sandra peered in and knocked, asking in Filipino, "May we come in?"

"Come in," a man in a chair by Father Juan's bedside said, "who may I ask are you?" He stood.

"My name is Sandra Orona and this is Jake Townsend, we're with the Columbian embassy. If Father Juan is up to it, I have a few questions for him."

"What are your roles?" The man asked, forming something of a barrier between them and the priest. This was most certainly Deacon Pablo.

"I am in charge of security and Jake is a security officer and my escort."

"Please have him wait outside, he is not needed in here, this room is safe," the deacon asked. Jake didn't have to wait for Sandra's cue, he excused himself from the room and found a chair outside where he sat down. In the room, Sandra asked who the man was and he identified himself as Deacon Pablo.

"May I ask you some questions?" She asked. Father Juan nodded.

"But you may speak English, your Filipino isn't very good," he laughed then winced in pain. His head was wrapped up pretty tightly and his face showed significant bruising.

"Thank you," she said, taking the seat where Deacon Pablo had been, "how are you feeling?"

"Like someone hit me with a machine gun. I presume you are here about Brandon?"

"I am."

"Did you talk to the police?"

"Padre, I found out more information from your parishioners than I did from the police."

"Why am I not surprised," he said, "shut the door." Deacon Pablo complied, gently shutting the door. Father Juan was in a single room so there was no threat of anyone else overhearing them. Hospitals weren't bugged by the secret police of the Philippines. "The police didn't want to know much from us either. Isn't that right?"

"They asked me only basic questions," Deacon Pablo answered, "nothing beyond the basics."

"What impression did you get?"

"Only that they were looking for the surface-level information, nothing further."

"Your parishioners suggested that Brandon was targeted, would you agree?"

"I would," Father Juan answered, "they knew precisely who to come for and when. I suspect they had someone communicating with them from inside of the church. We don't turn anyone away, even strangers. That isn't the Lord's bidding. Even when they are foes."

"Do you know who they were?"

"It should be easy," Father Juan said, "they were Moro. I could tell from their dialect, from their language. When I was a young priest, I did some missionary work down on Jolo. Never was I in a more hostile land."

"Do you speak their language?"

"No, I'm afraid I could never quite grasp it enough to speak it but I can recognize it."

"What else do you remember? Anything about their vehicle, about how many there were?"

"The vehicle was plain, a white panel van, nothing special. Three got out of the van, one from the passenger side, a man stayed at the wheel. Two came up to get Brandon and I stood between them and this is my reward," he moved his face slightly to show the damage, "the doctors say I will heal but it will be tender for a while."

"I would like to help find what happened to Brandon and I noticed something about your church. You have a surveillance system. Did the police request footage?"

"They didn't even ask," Deacon Pablo said, "you would think they would ask?"

"Is the video saved?"

"Yes, the tapes last seventy-two hours."

"May I have a copy? I am interested in finding Brandon."

"Of course," said Father Juan before his deacon could interject or say anything to the contrary, "Brandon came to us as a lost young man. My parish initially regarded him with suspicion but every Sunday he came and every Sunday he won over more and more people one-by-one. You must understand. Our government tells us that Columbians are the evil menace. They've told us this from our birth and so what are we to believe? Brandon changed the opinions of many of my parishioners. For that I am grateful. Pablo, please bring them to the church, get them the tapes. I'll be find here for a while, I should think I need to rest anyway. The painkillers are wearing off and I just don't have the strength to endure the next few hours without them."

"Yes Father," Deacon Pablo answered.

Twenty minutes later, they were back in the church as the deacon copied the footage over from the hard drives to a thumb drive that Sandra provided him. He wasn't too fond of what happened, of the nonchalant attitude that the police took, of what he perceived as an insult and an affront to God. Before he handed back the thumb drive, he hushed his voice and said to Sandra, "The police don't want to solve this. They want you to leave the country. Brandon doesn't deserve that. They've kidnapped him for now, probably for ransom. But how long will they hold him as ransom?"

"That's why I need to find him as soon as I can."

"Please do and we did not give you this footage, you must understand."

"I understand," she smiled, "I've been known to steal from time-to-time."

"Thank you." He said and he handed over the thumb drive. Sandra and Jake made for their car and then back to the embassy. Vigilant that the secret police might be following them, Sandra felt on edge from the moment she walked out of the church until the moment she passed through the gates of the embassy. She looked for tails, for anything out of the ordinary but there was nothing to see. If they were there, they were invisible; if they weren't there, they were invisible. What she held in her bag - the thumb drive - would prove to be invaluable evidence in piecing together the kidnapping, the entire crime. She just couldn't understand why the police would let Islamic terrorists capture someone, let along someone with diplomatic protection, and not be interested in solving the crime at all.

• • • • ‡ • • • •

Sunday, January 12^th, 2020 | 16:00 hrs [UTC+8]
Calatagan, Philippines | Port of Calatagan
13° 49' 21" N, 120° 37' 41" E

While Sandra and Jake were talking with the receptionist in the hospital, Brandon was being manhandled from one boat onto another a few hundred meters from the Port of Calatagan. He didn't know where he was, what time it was, how long he'd been held, or even where his kidnappers were taking him. In trying to reconstruct everything that had happened since his abduction, Brandon was drawing a lot of blanks. He'd had his hands restrained and a hood throw over his head at the church, then he was thrown into the back of a panel van, which drove erratically at first and then more calmly. It seemed that they'd been driving for hours before they finally stopped somewhere. He didn't know where it was but he knew it wasn't in Manila simply because it was quiet, peaceful almost. There, his kidnappers took him out of the van, ordered him to take a piss, and then pushed and shoved him into a house. The hood had never been removed but his wrist restraints were. He was given a glass of water with a straw and ordered to drink. His kidnappers didn't speak English but the few words of Filipino they did speak, Brandon understood easily.

They were in the house for a while before he was once again restrained, this time using duct tape, he knew from the smell and the sound it made. His legs were restrained at his ankles, his knees, and his thighs, his hands were restrained behind his back, and a piece of tape was put onto his mouth. The hood was never removed. Then he was put into a body bag and as dark as the world was, it got even darker when the zipper was closed. Claustrophobia set in almost immediately though Brandon had never been claustrophobic before. He panicked and was given strong and powerful punches and kicks until he stopped thrashing around. They aimed their shots at his body, at key points where it would hurt the most - his knees, his kidneys, his crotch. Then they were back in the van and driving. Once again, he didn't know for how long, didn't know that he'd been held captive for over five hours now, didn't know where they bringing him, only that when they arrived it was coastal for he could hear birds and the diesel outboard motors of small sampan boats.

He was put into one of these boats and brought a few hundred meters away from the port where he was now, over five hours since he'd been abducted from the church, since he'd been forcefully thrown into a van and driven out of Manila. He didn't know that the Filipino Coast Guard had their own station at the port or that his kidnappers walked him right past the coast guard booth. Money had been passed over and the coast guard officers looked the other way, didn't care that these men were moving a body in a body bag. He didn't even bother to ask, he just took the money and kept reading his magazine.

The boat he'd been thrown into was a motorized lambo, an Indonesian-type design that was popular throughout the Philippines for cargo transport. That's all he was right now, cargo. The four kidnappers who'd taken him aboard spoke cordially and casually with the boat crew, as Brandon could easily hear from the tones in their voices. They weren't speaking a language he recognized though so he couldn't tell what they were talking about though he assumed it was casual conversation just from the way they talked.

When the engines of the lambo fired up, the entire boat began to vibrate. Brandon was, by then, moved into a cabin below deck. He knew this because of the way he'd been carried down a set of steps and into a cabin. He was placed on a bunk but the zipper to the bag wasn't opened and so he lay there, terrified beyond belief. He tried to talk but he only sounds that came out were muffled from being gagged and he wasn't sure if there was even anyone in the room listening to him. The vibration made it impossible to hear if someone was present, to hear if there was something breathing nearby. The boat began to move, turning gently in the waters. It moved slowly at first, coming through the channel that linked this small bay with the deeper waters of the Verde Island Passage. The boat would largely be keeping close to the Filipino islands rather than heading out into the deeper, open waters of the South China Sea. It would mainly travel north and east of Mindoro and then down through the Tablas Strait and all the way to the Sulu Sea, transiting relatively slowly.

Brandon didn't know how long he'd be at sea for or where they were taking him but he began to put a few thoughts together. He knew that kidnapping was a major source of revenue for some of the country's gangs and trafficking groups, that - as a Columbian - there would be a sizeable ransom requested. He also knew that the Columbian government didn't pay ransoms, that it refused to legitimize the business of kidnapping. Whomever kidnapped him must not have known this or perhaps they did and that was the reason why he'd been specifically targeted. All he could hope for was that the police or even the embassy would be looking for him. He was too naïve to realize that the police had already concluded it wasn't worth investigating because it didn't suit the Central Committee's political needs. Sandra was still piecing together why they would tolerate such a condition herself.

For now, all Brandon knew was that he was on a boat, being taken somewhere, and that his abduction had been witnessed so the embassy would know. People would know. Someone would look for him, of that he was sure and hopeful, at least for now.

• • • † • • •

by **Layarteb** » Wed Jul 08, 2020 8:56 pm

• • • † • • •

Sunday, January 12^th, 2020 | 17:45 hrs [UTC+8]
Ermita, Manila, Philippines | Embassy of the Empire of Columbia
14° 34' 39" N, 120° 58' 38" E

Jake pulled up to the exterior gate of the embassy and flashed his badge. From the passenger seat, so too did Sandra and they were let through the exterior gate. From here, Jake had to negotiate a slalom made out of Jersey barriers, which was designed to prevent car bombs from driving straight into the from façade of the embassy. Going more than 5 mph through the slalom was risky and going more than 10 mph guaranteed smashing into the concrete barriers. Jake kept it in between as the security guards watched with the suspicious look of all security guards, regardless of the fact that Jake was a security officer himself. Once through the slalom, they were stopped again at the inner gate and once again, they showed their badges but this time, Jake had to state that he was going to the motor pool to return the car. His entrance was logged and off he went, to the motor pool, parking in the first available spot he saw.

When they got out, Sandra looked across the roof and with a shrug of her shoulders said, "I'm going to need a partner in this. You did decent today and it might be an imposition to have to train someone new. You in?"

"I could be but you're going to have to clear it with my supervisor. You know how territorial they get in security."

"Who is it?"

"Madison," Jake answered and with that Sandra grimaced. Madison Hallway was notorious for being territorial. She was also six inches away from being transferred out for getting snippy with the wrong diplomat at the wrong time. Sandra could leverage that but it would take some wrangling. The polite thing to do would have been to go direct to Madison, state her reasons, and point to her title of "legal attaché," which was much higher than Madison's title. Yet despite this, she was going cross-department so her authority wasn't as definitive and it was unlikely she'd made her appeal. She'd have to go direct to Madison's supervisor, unless she wanted to try to pull the trump car right away.

She'd have to think about her strategy but for now, she and Jake made their way to the on-campus cafeteria for dinner. Sandra preferred to stay on-campus in this situation simply because it was safer to talk and she needed to try to bounce some ideas off of Jake, not so much to see what he thought but more because that was the best way for her to think. Sitting at a table across from one another, a cafeteria tray in front of them with a full-course dinner, Sandra began to revisit all of the facts of the case, thus far. When she was done, they were halfway through their dinner, "What I still can't put my finger on is why the government isn't interested in this. Jund al-Islam isn't a friend of the government." It was plainly evident who was responsible for the kidnapping and Sandra knew it within seconds of seeing the video tape, even if she'd knew it prior to that from the testimonies she'd received.

Jund al-Islam, or Soldiers of Islam, was the largest terrorist group operating in the Philippines and they'd sworn their allegiances to Al-Shams. They'd started out in the late 1970s as the Moro Liberation Army under the leadership of Ata Haddad. They weren't too concerned with Islamic jihad back then; they were more or less a rebel group that wanted independence for the Sulu Islands. Haddad was killed in 1994, rumor had it by his successors, Junaid Ganem and Nadir Handal. They renamed the organization Jund al-Islam though they sometimes referred to themselves as the Islamic Jihad of the Philippines. Their goals were altered as were their methods. They still wanted independence but now they wanted a fundamentalist, sharia state comprising of all Muslim-majority areas of the Philippines, which would be expanded to the rest of the region - with time of course. They embraced Islamic fundamentalism but they also embraced many of the criminal behaviors of a common criminal syndicate. They took on assassination jobs for income and built a business out of kidnapping for ransom. They even dabbled in counterfeiting, drug trafficking, extortion, human trafficking, and money laundering. They used violence and fear to maintain their standing, murdering those who stood in their way, raping woman as a message, and sexual abusing children as retribution for disloyalty.

The government had been conducting any number of security operations against them since the mid-90s with moderate success. Yet they were far from defeating Jund al-Islam, whose forces numbered over five hundred. To make matters worse for the government, Jund al-Islam allied with the Thrashing Dragons syndicate out of Nanfang, who helped them flourish in the drug trade, providing them with product to sell and weapons to buy. Jund al-Islam had plenty of other allies around the world too and within the Sulu Islands, especially on Jolo, they were entrenched. Kidnapping for ransom, their primary form of revenue, was mainly levied against businessmen and wealthy nationals, the kinds of people who had the means to pay the ransom. Captivity was regarded - by survivors - as a mixed bag. Some people were beaten and tortured, others left alone, it depended what Jund al-Islam wanted for ransom. The higher the price, the better the treatment, if just to encourage speediness in the payment of ransom.

Kidnapping a Columbian was new for them and it wasn't by mistake. Jund al-Islam had never kidnapped anyone they didn't intend on kidnapping, which meant that they knew who Brandon was, what his nationality was, and what that would imply. "It's calculated," Sandra said, as if to home in on the point after she'd give Jake a rundown on the group. "Why now? Why Columbians now? Foreigners certainly aren't 'off-limits' to JI but they've never targeted Columbians before."

"If they've never targeted us before then there had to have been a reason. A group like that, especially allied with Al-Shams, doesn't just ignore a juicy target like us."

"No they don't, which means someone was holding their reins back and that someone let go," Sandra said, sitting back and pushing her tray forward from the edge of the table. She was done eating and it wasn't sitting too well with her this development. "Who could have had sway over JI? Al-Shams. Al-Shams wouldn't have said 'Don't target Columbians' that's mad. No one else would have had enough sway."

"Unless it's Manila."

"Manila? That's ridiculous," said Sandra, almost laughing at the suggestion.

"Or is it so ridiculous it screams truth? This government screams law and order. They jail people for two weeks just for blowing a stop sign. Six months just for posting one negative comment online about the Central Committee."

"Come with me," she said. Sandra had an idea in her head and with Jake in tow, she made for the intelligence section of the embassy. As legal attaché, she had a higher level of clearance, which made her privy to certain briefings. Jake didn't have but the basic level of clearance required to work in an embassy but she had a plan for that too.

The intelligence section consisted of three parts. There was a general area for receiving walk-ins and doing what might be considered routine tasks. Then there was a secure area, where the majority of the analysis was done. Then there was the vault, which is where the most sensitive work - including communications - took place. She didn't have access to the vault but she could have access to the secure area, with an escort. It was there that she met Roger Branch, who carried a title of case officer but who was really the deputy station chief, a very closely guarded secret. Almost immediately, there was a discussion about Jake's presence but Sandra worked that one through and the three of them moved to a secure conference room before anything could be said.

"I need to know intel on government operations against JI."

"Why? They kidnap our boy?" Branch asked.

Sandra, surprised at the question took a moment to answer, "And I thought you would know that already?"

"It's been a low-priority right now. What do you know?" After Sandra was finished giving him the scoop, Branch laughed, "If that doesn't stink of an inside job then what does. I'll go pull up what I can find, wait here. Might take ten minutes. Might take five." Branch got up and left, leaving the two of them in the conference room.

"You do realize everything you see in here is classified. That means no telling your girlfriend where you were."

"Got it."

"It also helps my case in getting you over to my side of the wall. I have a hunch. My hunch is that the government, since Flores' ouster, is trying to negotiate a peace settlement with JI and that's why they don't want to ruffle any feathers and JI, wanting good terms, decided to go for the big prize."

"Doesn't explain why they never went after Columbians before."

"It does. What did you say? 'Manila' right? Flores was the one holding the reins. He was fighting JI but he probably told them that Columbians were 'off-limits' if for the 'good of the Philippines' and I bet they agreed because JI wouldn't want to have to fight both Manila and us. Now Flores is gone and the Central Committee is trying to make a peace agreement, or a ceasefire even, with their biggest, domestic threat so that they can focus on us. JI's going to try to get some good money in the meantime and that means the gloves are off, we're targets."

"Which would mean we'd get zero cooperation from the government retrieving him."

"Exactly, so that makes recovering Brandon that much more difficult. If Manila's going to negotiate, on our behalf, they're going to want a lot in trade, and I do mean a lot." Branch entered the room holding a piece of paper in his hand. "That's it? One piece of paper?"

"It isn't much but it's something. Two weeks, or so, after Flores' ouster, signals intercepted a conversation between Chuang and an unknown male individual calling him from the Jolo Airport. The conversation was brief and we almost missed it. The translation is, 'We have a ceasefire.' That's all there was. One sentence and Chuang never answered back, he just hung up the phone."

"How's that for theory," Sandra said, slamming her palm on the table victoriously. "Government and JI has a ceasefire. Flores is out of office. JI has free range on Columbians for kidnapping. They probably started looking for one right then and there. The Central Committee isn't going to jeopardize the ceasefire with JI because so long as its in place, they can focus fully on us. Do we know what the terms of this ceasefire are?"

"Not a clue."

"Well you've got some digging to do then," said Sandra, "right now we can safely assume that Brandon is on his way to Jolo, likely by boat, which means there's no way to trace or find him. We need signals focused on JI."

"Yeah that's done, not even a question now."

"Which leaves us with the government. They're not going to cooperate so we might be on our own here. That's not going to make your jobs any easier. I'm going to take this to the ambassador."

"I'll tell my bosses too. All right so we got something. We got a lot. It'll be in the briefing tomorrow I'm sure."

"Thanks Branch, all right we're out of here. Make me proud," Sandra said with a smile. He escorted them back out of the secure area and began to work his end. Sandra would be working hers too, which meant that there was little for Jake to do for the rest of the evening so she let him go with the expectation that he'd be working with her going forward.

• • • † • • •

by **Layarteb** » Fri Aug 14, 2020 5:31 pm

• • • † • • •

Sunday, January 12^th, 2020 | 20:10 hrs [UTC+8]
Ermita, Manila, Philippines | Embassy of the Empire of Columbia
14° 34' 39" N, 120° 58' 38" E

Dorothy Zepeda walked through the open door to the anteroom outside of her office to find Sandra already waiting for her. The legal attaché had put in a special request with the ambassador and brought her down from her apartment at 20:00, on a Sunday, quite a feat. Walking past her off-hours secretary, who'd come down to unlock the door for Sandra, Dorothy merely motioned with her hand for Sandra to follow her. No words were spoken and Sandra was left to close the door while Dorothy took her place behind her desk. She wasn't dressed in her normal business attire but rather a pair of slacks and a blouse, casual attire for her while she lounged about her apartment. "Make it quick," the ambassador said sharply. It wasn't because she was uninterested in the matter or because she thought less of Sandra, on the contrary, her being there meant she took keen interest in both the matter and Sandra but it was a Sunday evening and she didn't want to dawdle.

"Thank you for seeing me ma'am," Sandra began but was cut off quickly.

"No horseshit. What do you have?"

"Jund al-Islam has him," before the ambassador could express her profound dismay and insist that Sandra work with her counterparts in the police, Sandra cut her off, "and it only gets worse from there."

"All right I'm listening," the ambassador said, a famous line of hers that she gave when she would simply listen to someone uninterrupted for as long as they spoke.

"Manila's entirely uncooperative on the matter. We went down to the scene and interviewed some witnesses to the abduction. They said police came through but didn't bother to ask them any questions, didn't even bother to review the surveillance footage from the abduction, which we have a copy of by the way. Police didn't even bother to collect any forensics at the scene, just showed up, shrugged their shoulders, and left.

"We've got the description of the kidnappers and some other details that point squarely at JI, which means that Brandon's on a boat - most likely - to Jolo right now. So, we brought this over to Branch. Branch had a little nugget for us, probably something he had ready. He says it's low priority but I have my doubts. Well the nugget was good. JI and Manila are in a ceasefire right now. Post-Flores, JI is looking to expand their bargaining position with Manila and what better way than to grab un Columbiano. Manila's not going to act because that would jeopardize the ceasefire plus why would they want to do that when they can focus all of their resources against us." Sandra stopped for a moment and looked over at the ambassador, who was processing a lot of information.

"You kept saying 'we,' who is 'we'?"

"Ma'am that's the second piece. I grabbed an officer from security, Townsend. You know, I can't carry off premise, but he can. I wanted to make sure I was protected, in case."

"In case the police blocked you, got it."

"I want him as a partner in this. He's got good instincts and I trust him but he's under Madison. I figured I'd give a talk with her about it but if she gives me any block."

"I got your back that's fine but run it up the chain properly. If I get a call, he's yours. So we have the PNP entirely noncommittal, which means we're acting off the reservation."

"Yes ma'am. That's why I need to speak with you directly. I need authorization to conduct this investigation but without cooperation from the locals."

"That's dangerous," the ambassador said, "that's very dangerous. Have you spoken with General Espada?"

"Only on the phone."

"Get a meeting together with him and see what you can get from him, face-to-face. If you're going to bring in anyone for questioning it can't be here and if you get caught, we have to disavow and say you were acting without authority. I'd prefer it not come to that; you understand?"

"I do, loud and clear ma'am."

"What did Branch say?"

"It's a priority now."

"It better be, we don't allow this sort of nonsense to happen to protected individuals with diplomatic papers. Intel will cooperate, especially now that JI is involved. What else?"

"We can't allow anyone to go off premise unescorted. If they got one, they'll want more."

"You're right and if Manila is not going to lift a finger it's not like we can count on them for protection anymore. Make sure you take a team with you to Espada. When you walk through those doors, I want him to know we're not going to accept his noncompliance with the associated diplomatic conventions. We're here on the protection of the Philippine government. I don't want to hear 'We're looking into it' from him."

"Yes ma'am."

"Nothing beyond this though. Report to me the meeting and we'll talk further."

"Yes ma'am."

"All right keep me updated. Good night Sandra. I'll put in a call quick to Columbia City," Sandra got up and left. She'd talk to Madison in the morning. The meeting with the ambassador had been both good and bad. It empowered her to lead the investigation but for now she had to play by the rules, even if the other side wasn't honoring their end of the deal.

• • • • ‡ • • • •

Monday, January 13^th, 2020 | 10:00 hrs [UTC+8]
Quezon City, Metro Manila | Headquarters of the Philippine National Police
14° 36' 32" N, 121° 3' 11" E

Sandra's morning began at 05:00 when she woke up and began to strategize her day. At 06:00, she made her way down to the security offices to find and speak to Madison Hallway about reassigning Townsend underneath her command for a little while. Fully prepared to pull the cards she had, Sandra was caught off guard when Madison offered no resistance. Whether it was that Madison had a patriotic nerve struck or it was too early for her to deal with Sandra was inconsequential. The result was that Townsend was to be temporarily reassigned underneath her authority as long as was necessary. Madison even gave her a four-man security detachment to use whenever she needed, perhaps as a way to usher Sandra out of her office. The ambassador's ban on unauthorized travel off-premise had created a lot of work for the security office.

Then, at 06:45, she placed a called to the PNP headquarters and requested a meeting with General Espada. Sandra expected one of two things to happen. Either he would grant the meeting but claim his schedule was full and string her along by rescheduling until she gave up or he would obfuscate and stonewall her. Her request, placed at 06:45, was answered forty-five minutes later when Espada's personal secretary called to offer a meeting at 10:00, the very same day. Sandra, too shocked to question it, accepted and grabbed both Townsend and the security team for a briefing ahead of the meeting. She also got explicit permission from the ambassador to leave premise for the meeting with Espada. Authorization to leave embassy grounds now had to come directly from Zepeda's office. It added another layer of work for the already overworked secretary to the ambassador but they handled it with stride and the kind of professionalism expected.

The four-man security team was as much a necessary precaution as it was a political statement. When the two vehicles arrived at the PNP headquarters, the security team made a very visible show of exiting their vehicles in full kit, their assault rifles at the ready, and opened the doors for Sandra and Townsend. It had been prearranged in the briefing, at the ambassador's request. The security team, and Townsend's pistols, were left behind while Sandra and Townsend entered the building and passed through security. Townsend would still need to carry a backup for Sandra. Her diplomatic papers listed her as a diplomat, which meant that her carrying a firearm was illegal under Philippine law. To change her status would require a formal request with the Filipino government and it would take weeks, even months, of cajoling just to get it approved. It was far easier for Townsend to carry a backup specifically for Sandra to use if things got ugly.

They were ushered up to the general's office where refreshments were ready for them. Sandra, knowing that the leadership of the Philippines would use even the smallest of transgressions to cite "Columbian arrogance," took the tea that had been prepared and began to sip from it. Townsend followed her lead without so much as a peep. "General, I was surprised to be met so soon," Sandra began, buttering the man up as best as she could, "it was refreshing to know that the PNP is taking this matter as seriously as we would have hoped."

"Miss Orona, this is a kidnapping and the PNP sees kidnappers as amongst the lowest forms of criminals. Kidnappers exploit those who need the protection of law and order and ransom them for their own greed. Kidnappers get no leniency in the Philippines." In that regard, General Espada was right but he left out a few important details, namely the less than spectacular track record of the PNP solving kidnapping cases. By and large all roads led to Jund al-Islam but the PNP was notorious for their inability to solve the cases or find those responsible. The intel report on the PNP - that Sandra had read a dozen times - suggested they were paid monthly bribes by JI just to look the other way and that was independent of whatever deal the Central Committee was working on with JI.

Most people liked to think that authoritarian regimes, like that of the Philippines, had violent crime under lock and key but the Philippines was all but. Violent crime was especially prevalent in the country and the PNP solved crimes and caught criminals when it suited them. They took their direction from the Central Committee and however the winds blew was how they acted. Against dissenters, on the other hand, the PNP was ruthlessly effective. If they'd have poured the same energy into solving murders, rapes, and kidnappings as they did into finding dissidents, the Philippines would have the lowest crime rate in the world.

As Sandra looked across at General Espada, she wondered just how much blood money had found its way into his pockets over the years. "The Empire feels much in the same way. As you may know, the FJA was established initially to combat kidnapping and counterfeiting. Other jurisdictions were added over time but kidnapping was the initial spark that led to the FJA's formal creation. We recognize this as a domestic matter but given our citizen, and a man with diplomatic protection, is involved, we want to assist. The Empire has tremendous resources that, when combined with yours, might yield a tremendous force for these kidnappers. Knowing that there was a cooperative effort would be a major blow to whatever their aims are."

General Espada laughed ever so slightly, "'Their aims,'" he repeated, "I doubt they have any. You must understand, in the Philippines, kidnapping is a business. Their 'aim' is merely profit. We're dealing with two potential suspects. The first would be a new gang looking to make their mark by kidnapping a Columbian or we could be dealing with an established gang who are simply unaware of who they took. It would be more ideal if it were the latter for they would realize their mistake and release him, likely hoping for 'no harm, no foul,' as you say.

"The former might be difficult. You see, these upstart gangs are very impulsive. They're not for rational decisions. Yet they make many mistakes and they are easy to locate. The PNP is scouring the entirely of Manila looking for clues and interviewing persons of interest."

Sandra almost smirked but caught herself. She knew full well that the PNP wasn't lifting a finger. If they had taken this seriously, they would have conducted interviews at the church and taken the surveillance footage. General Espada was spinning a tale because he'd been told by his superiors that the situation was not worth the efforts of the PNP, that it would work itself out, and that under no circumstances, could the Empire be allowed to assist.

"As for your generous offer to provide support, I must respectfully and politely decline. Though Mister Simms is a Columbian citizen, this is a Filipino matter. It is our responsibility to protect people with accredited, diplomatic papers. The entire world of diplomacy counts on us solving this crime with a good ending. It would be a miscarriage of those conventions to not handle this internally moreover, it would be counterproductive. If word got out that PNP officers were asking questions at the behest of Columbians, the people would clam up and go silent.

"Politics aside, approval ratings for the Empire are at their lowest in decades. The people of the Philippines do not want to seem to be cooperating with ones they view as 'the enemy.' If we were able to keep this matter internal, then they would have no reason to stay silent because they would be doing their patriotic duty." Sandra saw another lie. General Espada was a teller of lies, that was for sure. The poles he cited were cooked by the Central Committee solely for propaganda. Five minutes of conversation with any Filipino would find that they did not despise Columbian citizens one bit. Many of them would acknowledge that they were being led that way by the government and they went along with it, not because they believed it but rather because they couldn't risk losing their jobs or their homes. It wasn't good for one's "social credit score" to be seen as pro-Columbian.

"General, this is disappointing. To know that you were so keen on holding this meeting only to decline our investigative efforts is disappointing General. The full resources of the FJA can provide a major boost to the efforts of the PNP. If you have as many men going around as you say, the PNP will be rather taxed, any agency would be rather taxed. Would the people truly not cooperate to recover a Columbian because he was a Columbian? I don't believe the Filipino people are that uncaring General. The Filipino people are goodhearted people and to know that Mister Simms was so taken by Filipino culture might shine through whatever those poles say."

"It's not a risk we can take. Those are my orders Miss Orona. This is a purely domestic matter. We will make available updates as we receive them but under no circumstances will we be cooperating with Columbian authorities who lack authority in this country." General Espada's tone had changed from the salesman he'd been to a stern disciplinarian. He didn't appreciate being pressed, let alone by a Columbian. As for updates, there wouldn't be any and Sandra knew it. In the wake of AL604 and Flores' ouster, the Central Committee had grown even more hostile to Columbia - as if they could get more hostile - and it was plainly evident just how far they would go to harm the Empire.

Little else of value came out of the meeting. When it was over, Sandra was just as eager to leave as Espada was to see her leave. Back in the car, Sandra looked over at Jake and asked very bluntly, "So how much of that bullshit did you absorb?"

"Every bit of it and it stunk."

"They're not doing a thing. It's pretty obvious. Not that I am surprised after what we found at the church and the hospital," Sandra said before paused to deeply exhale. She closed her eyes and rubbed her face, tension filling her facial muscles, "Looks like we need a Plan B." She knew what her Plan B was already, she'd spent the better part of the evening thinking it through. She'd hoped not to have to need it but now that she'd met with General Espada, she wondered why it hadn't been her Plan A.

• • • † • • •

by **Layarteb** » Sat Oct 10, 2020 12:18 pm

• • • † • • •

Wednesday, January 15^th, 2020 | 00:35 hrs [UTC+8]
Jolo, Jolo Island | Abandoned Coffee Factory
6° 2' 48" N, 120° 58' 46" E

Brandon awoke with a start, the change in the rhythmic beating of the diesel engine having roused his subconscious. For three days, ever since his kidnapping, Brandon had been cast into darkness when his kidnappers put a black hood over his head. In that time, he'd come to rely more and more on his hearing. Once he'd been brought to the boat and tossed into an underdeck cabin, devoid of portholes and lights, he had little else to guide him. He listened to the noise of the engine, gauged when they were moving through shallows and when they were on the open water cruising at - what he assumed was - full speed. He could hear the footsteps of his captors as they came to bring him his scheduled allotment of food and water, when he would be dragged off to the dingy bathroom and forced to use it at preset times and preset times only. Anything in between he had to hold or soil his clothing. At first, he held his dignity but that only lasted so long. His captors were numb to his screams to use the toilet and so he was forced to sit in his own urine and feces. It made the smell in the cabin unbearable, especially in the heat.

It was amazing he was even able to sleep but that was more a byproduct of exhaustion and weakness. His captors only brought him a minimal amount of water to stave off dehydration and his food consisted mainly of broth that he sipped through a straw. His hood never came off, his hands loosened only when he was allowed to use the bathroom and only to clean himself up, nothing. His captors warned that if his hood came off, they would blind him, and Brandon didn't doubt them. He could hear the clink of metal whenever they around him, learned to distinguish the sound of a Kalashnikov receiver clinking against a belt buckle and that of a knife banging against a keychain. He learned a lot in those three days. Listening to his captors, he didn't understand their language whenever they spoke amongst themselves but they spoke to him in Filipino, which he understood. He had a feeling where he was going, who'd kidnapped him, and he could even surmise the why. What he didn't know was whether or not anyone knew where he was.

So, when the chugging of the motor changed, it aroused him not because it was the sound of them going through shallows but rather it sounded like they were slowing down even further. He could hear more commotion than normal from above deck, and he heard other sounds that were unfamiliar to him. Then, as the commotion above deck reached a crescendo, all went silent with the motor and he suddenly realized that they were docked somewhere. Wherever it was, he surmised it was still within the Philippines, not because he knew precisely how long he'd been at sea for, in fact he had lost all track of time whatsoever but rather because he could hear some familiar words coming from above deck.

When they finally came to get him, they were speaking in Filipino again. They ordered him to stand up and to leave the cabin and he did on his own. From there, he was led away, up and out of the below deck area of the boat and across a wooden plank to a jetty. His legs wobbled, having been at sea for so many days, and he felt a little nauseous but he was relieved to smell fresh, more importantly clean, air. Being cooped up in the cabin with his own excrement had hardly made for a pleasant atmosphere and his captors didn't seem to care about his well being in that regard. He could hear them laughing and he assumed they were making fun of his predicament, not that he could understand their words.

In reality, Brandon had been brought to the island of Jolo and his boat had docked at the end of a jetty that once served a coffee factory that had been abandoned for the better part of the last forty years. Jund al-Islam had taken it over and the jetty too. It was their main avenue to their maritime smuggling network. Through here, they trafficked everything that brought them money and strength: drugs, people, weapons. Brandon didn't walk for long before he heard the door of a van slide open and he was shoved into it. His captors climbed in with him and he was on the move again. He didn't know where they were going, what time it was, or where he was but he knew that he must be getting near his final destination. He could hear an excitement in the voices of his captors, the same kind of excitement anyone had when they'd been away from home a while and were getting close.

• • • • ‡ • • • •

Wednesday, January 15^th, 2020 | 01:30 hrs [UTC+8]
Parang, Jolo Island | Nonokan
5° 54' 39" N, 120° 55' 3"E

He didn't know what was being said but he could hear the opening of a gate as the van slowed to a crawl. It never stopped but it did slow down enough that whoever was opening the gate could do so in time. Then there was a lurch and the van was pulled through and it skidded to a stop on the muddy road. It had recently just rained and turned most of the dirt roads into mud, only furthering the already poor condition of the roads. Brandon didn't know how far he'd gone or how long he'd been in the van but he knew he hadn't been on the road for very long, if just to compare against when he was first kidnapped. There, he'd spent hours on the road, this felt like maybe less or maybe an hour, tops. It had been an hour or so of bouncing and being flung about the cabin of the van on poorly paved and hard-packed dirt roads that were now partly mud.

The door opened and Brandon was yanked out and led by two voiceless men away from the van, through grass and mud, and indoors. There, Brandon felt both men release him and suddenly, the hood was ripped off his head. Even in the low light of the room, which was dimly lit by nothing more than one, incandescent bulb overhead, his eyes hurt. He squinted and struggled to see through tears when there was a flash in the corner and suddenly he could smell a cigarette burning. "Brandon is it," a man spoke from the corner. He spoke in flawless English and he sounded as if he'd been educated in Columbia. "You're going to be our 'guest' for a little while," he continued and Brandon didn't like the way he said "guest" but couldn't dwell on it as the man continued. Brandon's vision began to materialize but he couldn't make out much, "There are some very basic ground rules. One, you will not try to escape. If you do, I promise you that you will be shot dead. Two, you will not cause trouble for your guards. If you do, you will be shot dead. There's going to be a pattern here, I trust you understand.

"You are our 'guest,' which means you will be fed and we will provide you with new clothes. You're about to be washed off after I am done speaking to you. It will be uncomfortable but I trust that, relatively speaking, it won't be too bad. As our 'guest,'" he continued to say, always emphasizing the word "guest," "you will be under our protection and our care. Don't make it difficult."

"Where am I?"

"You'll learn that soon enough. For now, suffice it to say you are in the Philippines still."

"Why am I here? I am a Columbian with diplomatic…"

"Yes you are a Columbian with diplomatic protection," he cut Brandon off, "we know all about you. That being said, it means little to us. We're not with the government. They are our enemy as they are yours. If you behave, you will see we have a common ground between us. That being said we are holding you, against your will, if you wish to see it that way. It's of little consequence what your premise is, you're in our custody so that is what it is. So that's all. No questions. No need. They won't explain anything you want and I'm not going to tell you what you want to hear. Get cleaned up and you should get some rest. It's rather late." The man appeared briefly as he left, ignoring Brandon's presence. He barely got a thought in before he was ordered to strip and as he did, a hose was turned on and blasted against his body. It wasn't warm water but, comparatively speaking, it was going to be better than his three-day-old filth.

Brandon would learn, soon enough, that it was nearly 02:00 and that he was in Jolo. He was in a prison camp being run by Jund al-Islam and he was one of nine people currently being held captive but, he was also the only Columbian, and thus they kept him in a separate cell. The cells were really just a bunch of rooms inside of a long structure. The walls were thin enough to communicate through them but not thin enough to simply combine the cells. He found that the prisoners were shackled to their beds at night, as he was, and that they would be unshackled in the morning. If they needed to use the bathroom, then it was in their clothes, information he got from a prisoner in the cell next to him who was all too chatty.

• • • † • • •

by **Layarteb** » Sat Oct 17, 2020 7:08 pm

• • • † • • •

Wednesday, January 15^th, 2020 | 06:00 hrs [UTC+8]
Parang, Jolo Island | Nonokan
5° 54' 39" N, 120° 55' 3"E

The ringing bell startled Brandon awake, not that he had been fully asleep. He'd been in a restless, half-sleep induced by exhaustion and fatigue since around 03:00. Before then, in between his "high-pressure bath" and when his body finally succumbed, he'd talked to his immediate neighbor in loud whispers with long pauses in between their individual responses. Shackled down to a bed that could hardly be described as more than a thin, straw-filled mattress atop a wooden table, he could hardly move but a little left or right. Had he not been so fatigued that his body quit on him, Brandon would have never been able to get comfortable enough to fall asleep. Fatigue had, in many ways, done him a favor in giving him at least some rest, albeit a half rest that seemed as if he were both awake and asleep at the same time, an awoke paralysis.

The ringing bell was loud enough to wake the dead and Brandon shook his head trying to wake himself up faster. Having hoped that the visions before his eyes were nothing more than a bad nightmare, he could only feel terrible anxiety at the realization that this was not a nightmare and that he was a captive of some heretofore unnamed group located in an unknown location beyond simply that he remained within the borders of the Philippines. That anxiety spiked as the echo of the door being unlocked filled the silence of his cell. "Wake up, special guest," a man said as he came through the door, in Filipino at least so that Brandon could understand him. Yet that was all Brandon could do. It was dark and the light that came in through the open doorway did little to brighten the room, in fact as it hit his eyes, he found himself squinting from the sudden reflex. He could only see the form and the shape of the man as he approached, could tell that he was carrying something but not what he carried or what the man looked like beyond a shape.

He found out soon enough when the man lifted what he was carrying and, positioning it over him, tipped over a bucket full of cold water, "For if you pissed yourself during the night," he said in a taunting tone. The water, cold, soaked through his clothes, the mattress, the wooden frame, and the floor. Brandon's brain flashed through thoughts of what might be soaked into the mattress, what might be growing inside the mattress, and what might now be growing on him. The guard laughed and put the bucket down and unlocked Brandon's chains saying to him, "You behave and I won't bash your teeth in," his breath as foul as if he'd just eaten roadkill. Brandon was too stiff, too sore, too soaked, too tired to do anything but even if he could, he soon found himself being shackled around his ankles. "So you don't run away," the guard said, "we like our guests to stay with us." He laughed again, a taunting laugh, which grew louder and more uncontrolled as Brandon was forced to waddle out of the door and into the morning light.

Outside, his eyes struggled to adjust but he was able to get a good view of the layout of the camp and, more importantly, the guard who was now escorting him to a mess area. The guard was thin, half his teeth rotting out of his mouth, but wearing a military uniform, albeit a dirty one. He had the distinct features of the Moro people and Brandon surmised two things almost immediately: one that he was in the southern parts of the Philippines in the Sulu Archipelago and that he knew who was keeping him captive, Jund al-Islam. He'd get even more affirmation when morning prayers were held shortly thereafter and half of the guards moved to an area to complete the first of their daily devotions. In the meantime, he'd been taken into the mess area, pushed into a seat at a table by himself, and handed a dirty bowl with broth in it. "Eat, it's all your getting until lunch," the guard said and then moved away. Brandon looked over to his right and saw a half dozen prisoners, all of them Filipino, and all of them mystified that the newest "guest" wasn't Filipino but Caucasian. Brandon went to open his mouth but they quickly nodded to him to be quiet. Brandon heeded the advice without so much as a peep, saving himself a rifle butt to his back.

After breakfast, they put Brandon and the rest of the prisoners in the main, yard area of the camp, where devotions had been held. Guards kept their distance, stationed at specific points, Kalashnikovs around his shoulders, and Brandon was allowed to mix with those around him. He found that the other prisoners didn't immediately approach him until midway through the morning when a middle-aged man looking to be in his forties, approached Brandon, squatting on the ground beside him. "Sit down," the man said but not in Filipino, rather in English. Brandon did so and the man smiled, "I knew it. You won me extra rice at lunch!"

"How's that?" Brandon asked, recognizing the man's voice from the night before.

"You're Columbian."

"Yes."

"Oh they fucked up now," he said, the smile impossible to remove from his face, "your people are going to come for you."

"They don't even know where I am."

"Give them time, it's freedom for all of us. When they come. You have to help me when they do. Help us all but help me. I work in Davao with a communications company. I know many secrets of the government. Make them take me with you."

"Listen I don't even…"

"Quiet," the man said, standing up, smiling still. Brandon was left to squat in the middle of the muddy yard while the man went to the other prisoners and claimed his victory lap.

• • • • ‡ • • • •

Wednesday, January 15^th, 2020 | 09:30 hrs [UTC+8]
Queenstown, Singapura | Port of Singapura
1° 16' 13" N, 103° 45' 59" E

The Port of Singapura was both one of the largest and busiest maritime ports in the world. On any given day, almost two hundred thousand containers moved through the port's facilities, many of them transshipped from one destination to another via this very port. Thousands of containers, neatly arranged and stacked in rows, dominated the port's landscape and dozens of sliding container cranes serviced the dozens of berths along the port's edge. At any given point in time, three or four dozen were at work as ships moved into and out of the port, sometimes staying for only a few hours and sometimes for an entire day. It all depended how many containers had to be offloaded and/or onloaded. Few other factors came into play as the Port of Singapura was a well-oiled machine that operated extremely efficiently. It wasn't easy and hundreds of workers were required to make it so, thousands more when you factored in all of the various job positions at the port and the fact that the port operated on three shifts, seven days a week.

Ships weren't just in the port though. Dozens upon dozens waited in the channels outside of the port, spaced out at intervals so as not to clog said channels. As vessels ahead of them departed their berths, they would get cleared to come in and the dance would continue. It was something of a slow dance of course considering that moving containers wasn't a rapid affair and any accident caused by rushing could lead to millions of dollars' worth of damage that would be the port's responsibility to cover. Accidents happened, of course, but they were exceptions, not common occurrences.

On this given morning, with the heat already rising, the Port of Singapura was working on forty-three ships docked and two dozen waiting for position. Hundreds more were moving throughout the Pacific and Indian Oceans, heading towards Singapura with dock appointments two, three, four, and more days away. Driving through the port's various "streets" - the rows between the containers - was a risky affair and generally done only by port vehicles but on this particular morning, a black, Jaguar XJ was moving slowly through the port's streets, obeying the speed limit, obeying the traffic rules. It was dark gray and clearly out of place in the busy port but its presence - as unusual and out of place - was hardly noted because of who was inside of it, or rather who they represented.

The average port worker was just that, the average port worker. He - or she - went to work, did eight hours, and then went home or wherever. He or she was an honest, hardworking man or woman - in most cases - and a law-abiding citizen. Yet everyone could spot a gangster when he or she saw one and the XJ moving through the port was representative of no less. Inside of the car, though sitting in the back, was Tao Tseng, a ranking captain with the Thrashing Dragons. His driver and bodyguard, both of whom occupied the front seats, were ranking members as well, members of an older crew in an organization that dominated Southeast Asia. The Thrashing Dragons had their hands in a lot of illicit activities but also enough legal activities with which to launder their money and generate a profit so as to add income to the syndicate. Multifaceted, the Thrashing Dragons had their fingers all over the world, including the Western Hemisphere where affiliates or direct groups operated all throughout North, Central, and South America, even in the Empire.

The Jaguar, driving through the port without the aid of a map or GPS, popped out of the rows of containers and to the water's edge where the car moved alongside the port until it came to a vessel named the PANAMA EXPRESS. The car came to a stop and Tseng lowered the window and picked up a pair of binoculars. He eyed the container vessel while his bodyguard pulled open a laptop computer and logged into a commercial shipping website. "The container is loaded," he said a few minutes later after pinging the GPS tracker on the container, "it was loaded two hours ago."

"We are on schedule then," the fifty-seven-year-old man said from the back seat. "How long until the departure?"

"Ninety minutes."

"We'll wait," Tseng answered and the car remained parked for the next ninety minutes until, with the blast of its horns, the PACIFIC EXPRESS pulled away from the berth and began to move out to sea, its crew and captain none the wiser that they were carrying a container of special interest to the largest - and only permissible - triad group in the region. Tseng picked up his phone and dialed a number and allowed it to ring, "The container is on the way." He said nothing more and nothing more needed to be said. Thousands of miles away, someone was logging into a marine tracking website, a commercial service, and began to track the AIS or automatic identification system for the vessel. Via the service, anyone could track any vessel anywhere in the world, so long as its AIS systems were activated, which were nothing more than a VHF transceiver communicating with a GPS satellite. All commercial ships had them and international agreements required vessels grossing over 300 tons or more to be fitted with them, as well as all passenger vessels. Sometimes ships turned them off but that was often because they were engaged in illicit activities.

The PANAMA EXPRESS, on the other hand, was hardly committing any crimes. It was merely moving to the next stop on its route, Jolo. From Jolo it would go onto Davao and then up to Taipei, Shanghai, Incheon, and finally Dalian before it would head back on a southerly route, dispensing containers all over Asia, eventually winding up back at Singapore for the next round of deliveries.

As the ship moved through the channel and out into the South China Sea, more phone calls were made, bouncing conversations from Singapore up to Cambodia and then to Guangzhou and then over to the Philippines and throughout the country. There was a lot of attention being paid to container HBYU4013806 and not just from this point onward but rather since it was first loaded in southeastern China in a warehouse in Dongguan. From there, it went onto a boat in Guangzhou and was picked up by a vessel operating ahead of the PANAMA EXPRESS but going on a westerly route. It made its way into Singapura where it sat, waiting for the PANAMA EXPRESS, the entire time its GPS tracker being carefully monitored along with an alarm system that had been installed that would remotely advise the waters if the container doors had been opened. The container, like thousands of others sitting in the port, was hardly noteworthy and it wasn't as if someone was looking for it other than the people tracking its progress, the very same people who had loaded it, and who had a vested interest in it arriving at its destination untouched, on time, and without suspicion. Of course, many assurances had been made that such would happen.

• • • † • • •

by **Layarteb** » Sat Jan 09, 2021 7:55 pm

• • • † • • •

Thursday, January 16^th, 2020 | 09:30 hrs [UTC+8]
Jolo, Jolo | Jolo Airport
6° 3' 10" N, 121° 0' 21" E

Ramón Morales carefully walked down the rickety stairs that had been rolled up to the main cabin door of the Airbus A320 as it sat on the tarmac at Jolo Airport. His right hand gripped the railing and his left his leather satchel bag that had accompanied him on the plane. His luggage, two expensive valises, would be carted over to the terminal in a few minutes. Having flown business class, his luggage had been loaded on last so that it would be first off and he could go on his way, rather than sit in the terminal and wait. A patient and genteel man, Morales was through with waiting. He'd just spent the last sixty-six-and-a-half hours traveling halfway across the world, starting in Mexico City on the Thirteenth at 01:00 and ending here in Jolo by way of Narita, Manila, and Zamboanga, four planes worth of flying to Jolo.

The first flight had been the most comfortable, a Boeing 787-8 from Mexico City to Narita. He'd flown in first class, as was befitting to a man of his stature in Mexican society. He arrived there at 06:35 local time on the Fourteenth and set in for a seven-hour layover. Rather than leave the terminal, he found the first-class lounge more than amenable to his desires. He'd even been able to take a shower, change his clothes, get a massage, and have a very fulfilling late breakfast. His next flight left there at 13:25 in an Airbus A321-271NX, a comfortable enough flight. Once again, he flew first class and arrived in Manila only four hours later at 17:35. There would be no waiting in the terminal this time. His next flight wasn't until the following afternoon so Morales checked himself into a hotel near the airport, selecting a modest room that would be good enough to sleep in overnight and little else. A bit exhausted from traveling across the Pacific and then across the Philippine Sea, he didn't bother leaving the hotel.

Morales' dinner was catered by room service, he had a second shower, and he was passed out before 22:00 hours. When he awoke the next morning at 06:00, he ordered in room service again for a late breakfast before showering again and returning to the airport. In the interim, he'd had the hotel launder his dirty clothes so that he left the airport with freshly clean clothes, save for those on his back. His flight out of Manila left at 13:00 in the same type of aircraft as he'd arrived but it would be a short flight, landing in Zamboanga at 14:50. Zamboanga was hardly the metropolis that Manila was but it was still not his final destination and so he checked himself into another hotel near the airport, far more modest than was his hotel in Manila. It was another modest room, inexpensive and good enough for just one night. Once again, he ordered room service for dinner and stayed inside. He was asleep by 22:00 hours again but awake much earlier, just six hours later. That brought him to today, the Sixteenth. His flight out of Zamboanga had departed at 08:30 and now, one hour later, after just over twenty-two-and-a-half hours in aircraft, he'd arrived in Jolo. The sheer distance from Mexico City to Manila had precluded any direct flights, which would have made the journey significantly more tolerable. Even flying first class and business class hadn't made the long journey comfortable and his body, wracked between fast time changes, found itself lethargic and sluggish in the hot and humid air of Jolo.

Morales found the terminal's air conditioning system to be adequate, at best, but he wouldn't need to endure it for long. His bags arrived less than five minutes after he walked through the doors of the small building. Jolo's airport saw only one flight in and one flight out per day and those flights routed through Zamboanga only so the terminal at the airport was staffed for only a few hours each day and it was the bare minimum of what one would expect in a terminal. There was a security line, a ticket counter, restrooms, and seats. For beverages or snacks there were vending machines and nothing else. Passengers arrived, walked onto the tarmac, and onto their plane or off of their plane, into the terminal, and out of it, nothing else. For Morales, the airport was a vast difference from the mega airport in Mexico City.

Gathering his belongings, he retired to the restroom to splash some water on his face and use the toilet, knowing that it would be some time before he was able to use a restroom again. When he emerged, he found his way to the taxi stand and was taken a short distance to a café a kilometer-and-a-half away. The otherwise small coffee shop was empty as Morales walked into its doors, putting his luggage down and taking a seat. A young waitress wearing a colorful hijab walked up to him and took his order before retiring behind the counter. Morales wasn't very hungry, having had breakfast at the hotel but he did want a cup of coffee and so she brought it to him quickly enough. He was barely halfway into it when two men entered the café and sat down at the table with him. Morales didn't know them personally but he'd been told to expect them and so hands were shaken and names exchanged. His cup of coffee was finished and the men carried his luggage, save for his satchel bag, into a van, paid his bill, and set off to the south.

It was an otherwise short trip, just fifteen minutes before the van pulled through the gates of what looked to be a religious commune. There, Morales was greeted by a face he recognized, Nadir Handal, the Moro leader of Jund al-Islam for this was their headquarters and Morales had been invited, as a guest. Handal was an otherwise reclusive figure, for obvious reasons. Three years earlier, he'd been injured in a gun battle with the authorities and narrowly escaped. Two surgeries on his leg had been necessary, the first a miracle operation to repair his femoral artery and the second to try to repair some muscle. As a result, he walked with a noticeable limp aided with a cane. The injury had taken a toll on him. He was forty but he looked like he was sixty. His appearance was gaunt and he could only take short steps. Still, regardless of his physical condition and appearance, he was still the leader and commanded the respect of a leader. He'd been in charge now for six years, having ascended to the position following the capture of Junaid Ganem, who'd led the group from 1994 to 2014, transforming it from the Moro Liberation Army to Jund al-Islam following the death of Ata Haddad, the group's founder.

"Bienvenido bienvenido," [Welcome, welcome,] said Handal as he shook the Mexican's hand. "Me complace que haya podido venir hasta aquí como enlace para nuestra creciente relación." [I am pleased that you've been able to come all of this way as a liaison to our growing relationship.]

"Muchas gracias. Han sido unos días muy largos, pero ahora que estoy aquí estoy más que satisfecho." [Thank you very much. It's been a long few days but now that I'm here I'm more than pleased.]

"Entra, debes tener hambre, tenemos algo de comida." [Come inside, you must be hungry, we have some food.] Handal and the rest of his senior leadership led the Mexican into one of the buildings where they had a sizeable dining room. The table had been filled with food aplenty and the entirety of the senior leadership had seats around the table with Morales, the guest of honor, seated close to Handal at one end. The other end was left vacant as a symbol and memorial to their "fallen brothers." Some time later, Handal dismissed everyone but his second-in-command and together, they escorted Morales into what served as their operations and planning room. It was a large room, vacant of anything but a large, round table in the center of the room, two blackboards, and one pin board. Often, maps and other handwritten notes adorned the table and it was on this very table that the kidnapping of Brandon Simms had been planned.

When Morales entered, he saw perhaps one of the cleanest rooms he'd seen in his life. The table was barren, freshly polished. The walls were merely that, walls. The doors were closed and the three of them took seats next to one another at the table. "El buque debe llegar el sábado por la mañana. Una vez que llegue, mis hombres descargarán el contenedor específico y lo traerán aquí. Tenemos a muchos de nuestros hermanos en el astillero, por lo que puede estar seguro de que el contenedor y su contenido serán bien considerados." [The vessel is due to arrive on Saturday morning. Once it arrives, my men will offload the specific container and bring it here. We have many of our brothers at the dockyard so you can rest assured that the container and its contents will be well regarded.]

"Bien, el contenido de ese contenedor es extremadamente importante para mi organización. ¿Yo también confío en el tuyo?" [Good, the contents of that container are extremely important to my organization. I trust yours as well?]

"Si lo hace," [Yes it does,] said the group's second-in-command, a man known more by his nom-de-guerre of Abu Mohammad than by/ his actual name. "Su organización no es la única que tiene relación con Thrashing Dragons. De hecho, Thrashing Dragons tiene una red bastante extensa aquí en el este de Asia. Las mismas armas que te suministran también nos las suministran a nosotros. De hecho, también suministran armamento de alta tecnología al gobierno." [Your organization is not the only one with a relationship with the Thrashing Dragons. In fact, the Thrashing Dragons have quite an extensive network here in East Asia. The same weapons they supply to you they also supply to us. In fact, they also supply high tech armaments to the government as well.]

"¿Y qué hay de los Devil-Tigers? ¿También tienen relaciones con el gobierno y con usted?" [And what of the Devil-Tigers? Do they too have relationships with the government and you?]

"No," [No,] said Handal, " esta es una nueva empresa para ellos, de ahí su cautela." [this is a new venture for them, hence their caution.]

What the three men were discussing was a spiderweb of networks that led Morales to the Philippines and the Filipino government to negotiate a ceasefire with Jund al-Islam. At the end of the day, the motivators were money and a mutual hatred for the Empire. The Thrashing Dragons was perhaps the largest Triad organization in Southeast Asia and they had a longstanding relationship with Los Soldados de Puebla, of which Morales was representing. The Thrashing Dragons provided Los Soldados with advanced and reliable small arms with which to fight the Mexican government and Los Soldados provided them with methamphetamine. The Thrashing Dragons also supplied weaponry to the Filipino government as well as weaponry and drugs to Jund al-Islam, all out of Singapura.

The newcomers to this relationship was the Devil-Tigers, a Triad operating out of mainland China. It had been Los Soldados who'd first reached out to the Devil-Tigers because the Devil-Tigers had a product they wanted, fentanyl, a synthetic opioid, that was one hundred times stronger than morphine. On top of that, there were analogues that were even stronger, which meant Los Soldados needed less of it and could cut their drugs further for a fraction of the cost of making and refining average, street-grade heroin. The purity levels would be significantly higher too, meaning a "better product" with which to hook millions of people on a deadly substance. The Devil-Tigers happened to control a significant chunk of the world's supply of fentanyl and while the overwhelming majority went to reputable, pharmaceutical companies throughout the world, enough was siphoned off for the drug trade to make the task of doing so more lucrative than the risk or the punishment.

But for Los Soldados to get their hands on the Devil-Tigers' fentanyl, there were some conditions. First and foremost, the Devil-Tigers weren't going to export it directly and secondly, they wanted a cutout. Los Soldados, with an already established relationship with the Thrashing Dragons, sought them as a willing ally. Devil-Tigers would send the drugs to Singapura and from there onto Los Soldados. Only that wasn't enough, the Devil-Tigers wanted more layers of protection, which was where Jund al-Islam came into play, at the recommendation of the Thrashing Dragons; however, there was a catch.

When the relationship was first proposed, there were active operations against Jund al-Islam by the Filipino government and why wouldn't there be, Jund al-Islam was a designated terrorist organization. They kidnapped people, sold drugs throughout the country, and committed acts of terrorism in the name of Allah. True believers though, they hardly were, largely using the banner of jihad more for shock value. Jund al-Islam was more interested in power and money than they were in a theocratic state. Still, their base was in the Muslim areas of the Philippines and, to garner support from the locals, they adopted what appearances were necessary and played the role.

For Los Soldados, acquiring the fentanyl was of the highest priority so a proposal was put forth, from Los Soldados to Thrashing Dragons and then onto both Jund al-Islam and the Filipino government. They all had a common enemy and through that enemy - and a lot of money - Thrashing Dragons negotiated a secret ceasefire between the government and Jund al-Islam on behalf of Los Soldados. Outwardly, the two groups would still fight one another but behind the scenes, a ceasefire would exist. Only agreed-upon actions between both parties would be conducted to keep up appearances. What Los Soldados got in return was the ability to use Jund al-Islam and Jolo as a waypoint for the fentanyl. It made the Devil-Tigers happy and the relationship was cemented. For all that it cost Los Soldados, and that was a pretty peso, they would get it back fifty times over in the first year with the power of fentanyl.

"¿Qué pasa con el otro aspecto de nuestro plan?" [What about the other aspect of our plan?] Morales asked finally after a brief pause.

"Salió bien. De hecho, se encuentra a pocos kilómetros de aquí," [It went well. He is in fact just a few kilometers from here,] answered Handal. "Debo admitir que al principio no me sentía cómodo con ese aspecto. Seguro que esto traerá la ira del Imperio sobre nosotros, no toman con buenos ojos el secuestro de su personal diplomático." [I must admit, I was not comfortable with that aspect at first. For sure this will bring the wrath of the Empire down upon us, they do not take kindly to the kidnapping of their diplomatic personnel.]

"Mientras no anuncies que lo has hecho, ¿cómo van a saberlo?" [So long as you do not announce having done so how are they to know?]

"Ejercerán una enorme presión sobre el gobierno para que ayude. Nos han asegurado que el gobierno hará todo lo posible para obstaculizar la investigación y tenemos confirmación de que eso está sucediendo, pero los Columbianos son ingeniosos y este gobierno ya se ha doblado una vez ante su presión." [They will exert enormous pressure on the government to assist. We've been assured that the government will do everything it can to impede the investigation and we have confirmation that such is happening but the Columbians are resourceful and this government has already folded once in the face of their pressure,] Abu Mohammad said, adding afterwards, "digamos que no somos tan dignos de confianza como tú. Tenemos nuestras razones." [let's just say we aren't as trustworthy of them as perhaps you are. We have our reasons.]

"Ciertamente lo haces," [Certainly you do,] Morales said with an air of understanding. "Y se transfirió mucho dinero para que eso sucediera. Dinero de mi organización al gobierno. Si desean recibir nuestro dinero en lugar de que sus enemigos lo reciban, ciertamente mantendrán la boca cerrada." [And a lot of money was transferred to make that happen. Money from my organization to the government. Should they wish to receive our money instead of having their enemies receive it, they will certainly keep their mouths shut.]

"¿Cuál es el juego final? ¿Cuál es la razón?" [What is the end game? What is the reason?] Handal asked. "Quizás puedas decírmelo." [Perhaps you can tell me.]

"El Columbian se mantendrá vivo durante algún tiempo. Luego, cuando sea el momento adecuado, será asesinado y su cuerpo será eliminado para que no se pueda encontrar. Los Columbianos verán que sus diplomáticos no están seguros en Manila. Acusarán al gobierno de estancamiento, de incompetencia, de no respetar las convenciones diplomáticas apropiadas. El gobierno tomará esto como un insulto y expulsará a los Columbianos. Al expulsar a los Columbianos, eliminarán una importante operación de inteligencia que es una amenaza para esta misma relación." [The Columbian is to be held for some time, alive. Then, when the time is right, he shall be killed and his body disposed of so that it cannot be found. The Columbians will see that their diplomats are not safe in Manila. They will accuse the government of stalling, of incompetence, of failing to uphold the appropriate diplomatic conventions. The government will take this as an insult and expel the Columbians. By expelling the Columbians, they will remove a major intelligence operation that is a threat to this very relationship.]

"Entonces, ¿por qué lo estamos llevando a cabo ahora, mientras los Columbianos permanecen?" [So then why are we conducting it now, while the Columbians remain?] Abu Mohammad asked.

"Estamos en un horario y esa es precisamente la razón. Los Columbianos todavía no buscarán este envío, ellos también se enfocaron en encontrar a su diplomático, o más bien, demasiado enfocados en tratar de que el gobierno haga lo que no hará." [We're on a time schedule and that is precisely why. The Columbians won't be looking for this shipment yet, they too focused on finding their diplomat, or rather too focused on trying to get the government to do what it will not do.]

"¿Cuándo lo matamos? ¿Por qué no es ahora?" [When do we kill him? Why is not now?] Abu Mohammad continued to ask, Handal leaving the questions to his deputy.

"Eso no lo sé. Solo sé que llegará el momento y se le darán instrucciones para hacerlo. Quizás tenga que ver con cómo el gobierno desea manejar el asunto. Los Columbianos deben estar atados durante un cierto período de tiempo y, por lo tanto, ese tiempo se está agotando ahora." [That I do not know. I just know that the time will come and you will be given instructions to do so. Perhaps it has to do with how the government wishes to handle the matter. The Columbians must be strung along for a certain amount of time and so that time is playing out now.]

"Bueno, supongo que tenemos que esperar," [Well I suppose we have to wait,] Handal answered, "pero debo enfatizar que cuanto más esperamos, más ponemos en peligro nuestra operación aquí. Este alto el fuego, esta relación, esto puede ser muy lucrativo para nosotros y nuestras respectivas causas. El Imperio es un enemigo para ti y este gobierno y también lo es para nosotros por su propia existencia. No perdamos eso. Lo entiendes?" [but I must emphasize that the longer we wait, the more we jeopardize our operation here. This ceasefire, this relationship, this can be very lucrative for us and our respective causes. The Empire is an enemy to you and this government and they are also an enemy to us by their very existence. Let's not lose that. Do you understand?]

Morales understood. It meant that Jund al-Islam wasn't going to sit around forever. If it came time to making a deal to save their own skin, they would. The government had betrayed them several times and vice versa. Jund al-Islam being one of the largest drug distributors in the Philippines was a violation of a prior agreement between both groups but was the understanding that Handal not be assassinated. He'd survived that attempt of course and thus the betrayal by both sides continued. Los Soldados merely needed a cutout to keep the Devil-Tigers happy and, in a way, it helped provide them with a way to get more ordnance from the Thrashing Dragons as well. Jolo was the perfect place for the transfers but only so long as things remained quiet, only so long as the government wasn't attacking them and the Empire didn't think anything untoward was happening there.

• • • † • • •

by **Layarteb** » Sat Mar 13, 2021 2:11 pm

• • • † • • •

Friday, January 17^th, 2020 | 10:00 hrs [UTC+8]
Parang, Jolo Island | Nonokan
5° 54' 39" N, 120° 55' 3"E

Brandon had only been at the prison camp two-and-a-half days but it was hardly long enough for the other prisoners, with the exception of Tito, to accept him as being in a similar predicament to themselves. He'd tried to sit with them at meals but either been prevented from doing so physically or warded off with silent stares. Tito, who'd spent his time trying to convince his fellow Filipinos that Brandon's capture meant salvation for them all, found a trying bunch. Instead, he sat with the ostracized Brandon during meal and kept him company, hoping against all odds that Brandon's inevitable rescue would mean his own. Brandon wasn't nearly as optimistic, proclaiming very bluntly that no one knew where he was, least of all the Empire. Tito laughed at such negativity and answered, "I work in communications. Do you not think the Empire isn't listening to every bit of signal they can gather to try to find you? That's silly!"

Tito was right. If there was one thing that the Ministry of Intelligence was doing it was scouring communications for any hint of where Brandon might be. Brandon couldn't see it though; he didn't have that level of grasp or hope. He suspected that his captors were attempting to ransom him, since that was what Jund al-Islam was famous for doing and figured that his "release" would come in the middle of the night, left alongside the highway, at best. He had no idea that he was a pawn for the government's wider strategy removing Columbian influence from their archipelago once and for all. He had no grasp for just how important he was to the government's plan. He was the carrot on the end of a stick being dangled in front of the Columbians.

Until today however, Brandon hadn't been entirely sure what day it was. He knew what day he'd been taken but he'd lost track of time during the transit to Jolo. For him, losing track of time was one of the more stressful components of being a prisoner and it was a massive relief to him when he watched his captors head into the camp's mosque for their Friday prayers. Sitting near Tito, Brandon's eyes lit up and he told his only friend, "It's Friday!"

"Yes, it's Friday."

"I didn't know what day it was. Now I know," Brandon was excited. He began to rewind time. Now he knew how long he'd been in the camp truly and how long he'd been "in transit" from Manila to Jolo. He wouldn't be able to put a precise amount of time to how long he was on the road and how long he was on the water but he could make a good guesstimate based on the distances. In his head, a map of the Philippines formed and he began to try to understand what route he'd taken. Tito encouraged it, knowing that it would keep his spirits up but also that it would be useful post-rescue. Tito could not be dissuaded as to Brandon's eventual rescue.

• • • • ‡ • • • •

Friday, January 17^th, 2020 | 14:00 hrs [UTC+8]
Ermita, Manila, Philippines | Embassy of the Empire of Columbia
14° 34' 39" N, 120° 58' 38" E

Sandra was sitting at her desk staring at a map of the Philippines and at a desk behind her was Jake, looking through some files. The leads on Brandon's disappearance had gone cold. They'd interviewed everyone that would speak, spoke to everyone who would listen, and still they'd not been able to overcome the brick wall that was the Filipino government. She'd place a dozen phone calls to General Espada since Monday, relying on a tactic of being such a pest that he would cooperate simply to get her off his case but the man was as thickheaded as any could be. He'd taken to having her leave messages with his secretary who'd insist that the General was "in a meeting" and that he would "return her call immediately afterwards." There were no returned phone calls and it was obvious that the stall tactics being employed by Espada were universal.

Other departments in the Filipino government were equally as uncooperative. Ambassador Zepeda was getting nowhere herself and she'd bumped the matter up to Columbia City but even they were finding a government wholly unwilling to act. Of course, the Filipino government played lip service to their job in protecting diplomatic conventions but while they said so on the phone, they were twiddling their thumbs off of it. In Columbia City, the Emperor was receiving daily updates and he was growing more than a little frustrated by Manila's inaction. A lot of people within the government and the Cabinet began to wonder if Brandon's kidnapping wasn't orchestrated by the government. It simply didn't add up why the government, who'd shown little issue hunting down and striking Jund al-Islam wherever possible were treating them with kid gloves now, insisting they needed more time, more evidence, and more information before acting against JI.

Sandra suspected she knew where he was being held, which was why she was staring at a map of the Philippines, focusing on the Sulu Islands. That was when her desk phone rang and, after answering it, stood up and yanked Jake along with her to the Intelligence section. Inside, she was brought into a conference room where Branch sat down with his laptop. "He's on Jolo," he said, "we've got a phone call made from Omar Sabaya to an active cell in Manila. Listen along to this." He pushed play on the audio player on his desktop and silence gave way to static to Omar's voice.

"You are to be commended for your efforts in apprehending the Columbian. Trust that your brothers will keep him safe and sound and that we will extract a significant bounty on him. He is worth a lot to our organization and thus we are keeping a close watch on him. Stand down for now and follow the terms of our agreement. You have done well and will be handsomely rewarded." The call terminated.

"We traced the origin to Jolo, to Jund al-Islam's headquarters, which means he's nearby at their main prison camp. We've got satellite footage of the camp and it's active that's for sure but we cannot identify him from satellite photos. We might be able to if we were to loft a drone past the camp but that's unlikely. So we know where he is. That's about the best we got but it's something."

"So how'd they get him there?"

"Same way they get anyone there, fishing boat. JI kidnaps people all over the Philippines and brings them to a port, shoves them in a boat, and brings them down to Jolo. The government's never really been in control of the island. They've tried but they never really have, not like it matters much, JI has their own docking facility here," he flipped the laptop around and showed them satellite photos of Jund al-Islam's main barracks, the same place where Brandon was offloaded from the boat.

"So what's the play?"

"Nothing, sit and wait. There's something else going on here. Scuttlebutt that Jund al-Islam and the government are in a secret ceasefire. Also, might be nothing, might be something, but last night we intercepted a phone call from Jolo, actually from the headquarters of JI, to Mexico City. It was so unique it just lit up on our radar. Either way, something very big is happening here."

"Jund al-Islam probably hides money in Mexico, it's an easy thing to do."

"Very easy," Branch answered. "Could be nothing, could be something, either way, this is where we are now. Nothing further really."

"Does the Ambassador know?"

"She was briefed on it this morning as was Columbia City. No word if anything will be done but it's unlikely."

Sandra sighed in frustration and stood up to leave. Jake didn't however, "Tell me something, if we know where he is and we know that there's something definitely up with the government, how come we cannot get him out of there? We're dealing with a hostile government that's clearly not lifting a finger to save an accredited diplomat, which is their legal requirement. The only thing that tells me is that the government is involved, which is even more reason to act unilaterally. It's not like we haven't launched military action on this government before."

"That's the §64,000 question, isn't it?" Branch answered, "Maybe we will? Maybe we won't? We need to understand the situation first."

"How much time does he have?"

"Plenty really, JI doesn't really kill their prisoners. They don't even mistreat them too badly, considering what some of our POWs have experienced after being captured in combat around the world. They kidnap and ransom people for funding to their organization, so a dead prisoner isn't going to help their cash flow much."

"But why kidnap a diplomat?"

"Why indeed," Sandra answered, "maybe they know something we don't."

• • • † • • •

by **Layarteb** » Mon Aug 09, 2021 7:13 pm

• • • † • • •

Saturday, January 18^th, 2020 | 09:00 hrs [UTC+8]
Parang, Jolo Island | Nonokan
5° 54' 39" N, 120° 55' 3"E

Nur Bagheri was sixty-four years old and by all rights he shouldn't have still been working but poverty didn't care about age. Nur had led something of an interesting life. He'd served in the military for fifteen years before being medically retired when a landmine blew off his foot. Prompt attention and a brilliant medic named Pedro - who died nine years ago due to colon cancer - saved his life. The military paid for a prosthetic to be fitted and handed him a pension, but it did little because Nur wasn't an officer. He gave fifteen years of his life to the army and retired as a senior master sergeant, respected by every enlisted man in his unit but looked down upon by the higher officer ranks. It didn't matter his was the second highest rank in the enlisted branch, he wasn't an officer and so his pension, combined with his wife's earnings, were enough to put food on the table and pay the bills but little else.

His disability and inability to use a computer limited the jobs he could take, and Nur spent the better part of his thirties and his forties working odd jobs where he could for "extra money" but that all ran out when his wife developed ovarian cancer and was unable to work. All of the treatments meant nothing, and she died on him when they were both fifty-two years old. Nur's children, old enough to live on their own, did. They gave some money to their father, but it wasn't enough and after two more years of odd jobs, Nur began to work for the rebels, not because he wanted to but because he had no other choice.

When he first approached the rebels, he did so, hat-in-hand, but was rejected, threatened even. His background as a soldier meant immediate distrust. Thinking he would be killed in the night, Nur was surprised two weeks later when they approached him and asked him if he was still interested. Nur, confused, inquired as to whether it was a joke or not. It turned out that for the prior two weeks, they'd had him under observation, curious to see if their rejection would lead him to the authorities. As it didn't, he passed their test. From that point on, he used his rusting, beat-up, pick-up truck to ferry supplies around Jolo for them. He'd even, on three occasions, gone to other parts of the Philippines to negotiate with corrupt military personnel for weapons or intelligence. He remained something of an asset to them but regardless of it, they still viewed him with suspicion, still watching him closely, still checked his truck whenever he made a delivery, still saw the soldier in him.

It was especially heightened - the suspicion that was - whenever he brought food to JI's prison, which was a weekly occurrence every Saturday. This morning was thus like all the others. He idled the pick-up in front of the gate while two guards walked around either side of the vehicle, rifles in hand. A third stood off to the side and aimed his rifle towards Nur. Sometimes his finger was on the trigger, which always made Nur extra nervous, and sometimes it wasn't. It tended to be the more inexperienced and less disciplined in the former category. This morning was one of the latter, which was some relief. Nur could tell that JI didn't care properly for their firearms, but he also suspected that they would fire fine if commanded to do so by the user.

Nur kept his hands on the steering wheel. He was an old man, and he knew just how jumpy some of these younger guerillas could be. The last thing he wanted was a premature death because some kid got trigger-happy thinking he had a firearm. This morning, the two men searching his vehicle weren't as thorough as in times past and with only a cursory inspection, gave a shout to their third comrade, who lowered his gun and opened the gate. Nur pulled in slowly and drove around to the storehouse where he backed up the pick-up truck and turned off the engine. A small crowd of guards began to amble over, and Nur climbed out of the truck, slowly and painfully as his arthritic body protested leaving the comfort of his seat. Nur would be there for a few hours though while his bed was unloaded and then reloaded with garbage and other waste products to cart away to be dumped.

Leaning against the truck, Nur reached inside onto the dashboard and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it as the men lowered the tailgate. A few of them waved him over to help but he nodded and pointed to his leg, muttering under his breath, "That's a young man's job, I'm just a courier." The men laughed and began to unload the sacks of rice and flour along with the crates of assorted foodstuff. It was as they were that the prisoners appeared and came out into the open carrying the trash and other items to be loaded. Brandon was third in line and the sight of him immediately caught Nur by complete and total surprise. He knew immediately upon looking at Brandon that he was Columbian and he knew immediately that JI was suddenly operating on different wavelengths than they had in the past.

Before he could be too surprise though, Nur was called over by the commander of the prison, who so happened to be his direct superior. Taking Nur inside, the man offered his employee a drink and brought him to his office, sitting down. "There won't be as much to bring back today. Are you hungry?"

"I could eat," said Nur, taking a drag of his cigarette, "but I have to let you know," his brain suddenly taking over his body and his words. "I have to visit my son in Manila."

"What for? When?"

"I'm going to leave tomorrow."

"Why may I ask?" The camp commander was a suspicious man by nature. Nur knew this and searched rapidly in his mind for a proper excuse. His mind had spoken for him and now it was scrambling to find a reason that wouldn't elicit much suspicion.

"My son has told me that he is very serious about a woman and he would like to marry her. I would like to meet her, to see if I approve."

"If you approve?" The commander laughed, "I should hope he would choose someone you would approve of. Is he faithful?"

"He is a modern Filipino, a resident of Manila, he has his beliefs but I do not believe they are yours or mine. They're his own."

"Such is the tragedy of the youth," the commander said, "they stray too far from the teachings of our Prophet. Very well then, go and see your son. How long will you be?"

"Two or three days, no more."

"I will have Abdul cover your shifts. May he and his wife-to-be find happiness and give us many children."

"I will toast to that," Nur said though he had no glass to toast.

"Come, let us eat," the commander said, standing up, Nur following. Nur followed him to the crew barracks where a fresh amount of food was being served. Nur knew enough not to ask about the white man, the Columbian, but in his mind he knew that whomever he was, whatever JI was planning, it wasn't good.

• • • • ‡ • • • •

Sunday, January 19^th, 2020 | 12:00 hrs [UTC+8]
Zamboanga, Philippines | Zamboanga International Airport
6° 55' 16" N, 122° 3' 40" E

Ever since leaving the prison the afternoon prior, Nur didn't know what he was going to do. Adrift as he drove around Jolo completing his work, he returned home and skipped dinner, his mind too preoccupied to tell him he was hungry. Instead, Nur packed himself enough clothes to last four days and set about getting a seat on the morning's flight to Zamboanga. He had enough money saved up in a "rainy day fund" that he could afford the flight to Zamboanga but not much further, for that he needed an additional P2,500 and the only way he was going to get it was to ask his son only his son didn't know he was coming. Feeling it not safe to call from his home, Nur chanced it.

Shortly after 11:00, he landed in Zamboanga and by 11:30, he was off the plane. Now he'd finally retrieved his luggage from the carousel and had set about finding a phone in a secluded spot. He didn't want anyone overhearing him, not that he had much to worry about. JI hadn't followed him to Zamboanga, in fact they hadn't even marked his flight out as something to investigate upon his return. Nur didn't know that though, couldn't know that, and so he had to do whatever he could to protect himself.

Finding the phone, he dropped in a P1 coin and dialed his son's cell phone number. It rang a few times before going to voicemail. Nur put in another coin and tried again and this time, the phone was answered. "Hello?"

"Juan, it's your father."

"Hello dad, what is this number?"

"I'm in Zamboanga, at the airport. I need you to lend me some money so that I can fly to see you."

"See me?" His son was taken aback by the surprise. "What is bringing you all the way here?"

"Can I not see my son? Please, there is little I can do. I can't even get home." There was silence. "Juan, it is important. It is very important."

"Okay, okay, how much?"

"I need 2,500 for the flight, no more."

"Fine, fine, I will book your flight. I will call you back at this number."

"Thank you." Nur sat by the phone and after twenty grueling minutes, it rang. He answered right away and it was his son giving him the confirmation number and the airline.

"You land at 17:40, I'll have a car for you."

"Thank you, thank you. See you tonight."

"Sure dad, see you tonight," his son hung up the phone and Nur quickly gathered his suitcase and found his way to the check-in desk for Philippine Airlines. Just as his son had promised, he had a ticket waiting for him. Nur thanked the ticket agent and went back through security, finding a comfortable seat in the lounge. He had only enough on him to grab a small lunch, which he did, and beyond that he had little else. Without his son's charity, he'd have been stuck in Zamboanga with no way to return home. Such was the life of poverty Nur lived and it was what drove him to work for JI, it was what drove a lot of people to work for JI and groups like JI all over the world.

• • • • ‡ • • • •

Sunday, January 19^th, 2020 | 20:00 hrs [UTC+8]
Pasig, Metro Manila, Philippines | 22 Turquoise
14° 34' 58" N, 121° 5' 24" E

Nur was typically a quiet and reserved man but he was even more so as he sat on his son's sofa. Only ten minutes earlier, his daughter-in-law had left to go to work - she was a nurse who worked nights. In those ten minutes since, Juan tucked his children into bed who wondered why "grandpa" had made a surprise visit. Juan said only that he would tell in the morning but that he was tired from his travels, making excuses for why his father had been so cold and distant to the family. Juan knew something was up but also knew that an eight-year-old and a four-year-old needed only a good enough excuse to allay their concerns. Now with them fast asleep, Juan poured himself a beer from the fridge and sat across from his father in the living room.

"What's wrong? You're not yourself."

"I am in trouble," Nur whispered, as if someone were in the next room listening. Juan, confused by this gave him a look, "big trouble. I don't want to talk too loudly."

"There's no one listening here," Juan laughed as he took a drink but saw that this was no laughing matter. "Fine what happened? I know who you work for, what did you do?"

"Nothing yet but I must do something," Nur said, picking at his nails. It was then that he allowed himself a modicum of liberty and spoke at length to his son about "the Columbian" who'd been brought to the camp and who was hostage, the same Columbian all over the newspapers. "So you see, I know where he is." His son was speechless. "I've allowed them to do many things, sat idly by while they paid me scraps to drive a truck but this is my line, my final straw. This will bring more hurt down upon us than any government campaign ever did. You know I never believed in their cause. How could I? They're crooks and criminals who merely use the religion to justify what they do. They're no more pious than my sandal."

"What do you intend to do?"

"I need to get to the embassy."

"What if they are watching it?"

"I bet they are, which is why I need your help. I need you to go inside and deliver a message for me. No one else, I cannot trust anyone else. I'll will write it down for you in the morning. Then I will need to meet with someone from the embassy, someone secretly so that I can give them what they need."

"What about you?"

"I'll have to go back or they will suspect but I will request asylum. Perhaps the Columbians will reward me but I'm not so sure. So long as I am safe."

"What about us? Surely they know about us."

"They do, I am sure of it," Nur answered. "I do not want to endanger you, which is why I must go back and make sure they do not believe I am conspiring against them."

"When did you tell them you would return?"

"Two or three days so you see I do not have much time. I want to speak with them tomorrow as soon as I can. I cannot arouse suspicion. More than that and they would be concerned. Less and it wouldn't be enough time. You see, I am truly in trouble here."

"Yes you are," Juan answered, finishing the rest of his beer. He thought for a moment, then a few more. "Our government is especially antagonistic to the Columbians. Why would…"

Nur cut him off almost at once, "JI and the government have come to a truce. It is secret but they have come to a truce. I know of it through what I hear, through whispers."

"If there's a truce than the government isn't going to lift a finger."

"I suspect."

"Suspect?"

"Suspect that they blessed it, that it suits their needs but that is much more than my feeble brain can comprehend. I need to let the Columbians know where their captive is. You know as well as I do that they will not suffer this much longer and I cannot imagine that they will keep this boy alive forever. The newspapers have said nothing of a ransom."

"No one's admitted to having him. At least not in public. That means he's not for ransom."

"No," Nur said, "he's not. He's not for ransom at all. Tomorrow. You must help me."

"I'll help. Tomorrow morning, I will go there and pass this note you write. Then God have mercy on all of us."

But Nur shook his head, "He's not going to be merciful this time around. I can promise you."

• • • † • • •

by **Layarteb** » Fri Oct 01, 2021 9:25 pm

• • • † • • •

Monday, January 20^th, 2020 | 11:20 hrs [UTC+8]
Ermita, Manila, Philippines | Embassy of the Empire of Columbia
14° 34' 39" N, 120° 58' 38" E

Sandra walked through the door with Jake in tow, the two of them moving at a good clip. "Okay what do you have?" She began to say even before she sat down.

"Here take a read," Branch said, handing her a handwritten note, "we don't know if it's real or not, if it's a trap or not, but it's all we've had beyond what you and Townsend found at the hospital and the church." Sandra nodded and began to read, her eyes darting back and forth from one side of the paper to the other as she read through the note.

"When did it come in?"

"Three hours ago, anonymous walked in and dropped it off, said it was 'urgent to be given to the senior intelligence chief.'"

"So why do you have it?" She laughed.

"Errand boy has to run errands I guess," Branch quipped back, "so end of the day we have a little over two hours to make a decision on whether we follow this lead or not."

"Such a specific request, isn't it?"

"It's probably whatever protocol this fellow has," Branch answered. Sandra had been referring to the instructions of the note, which didn't offer much except to say that the writer knew where the "Columbian diplomat" was being held and that there could be an "exchange of information for safety" and if the Columbians wanted to act on the information, they could call a specific café at precisely 13:35 and ask to speak with "Pedro Mendoza." The writer of the note left little else to be desired but the station's handwriting analyst had already said it was written under "voluntary duress" in that the writer was doing it willingly but extremely stressed. Little else could be deciphered on its authenticity.

"Could be part of an operation to unmask agents," Sandra answered, "we don't know why Brandon was kidnapped in the first place. All we know is who did it and the fact that the chief of police is complicit in the ordeal. Beyond that we've got shit."

"It could be so that's why, if we're going to go through with it, the station chief doesn't want any agents to talk with him."

"Right," Sandra laughed, "took you that long to hang me out to dry?"

"You're already working the case Sandra and the chief of police has seen your face. The government knows why you're here and you're a registered employee so unless they want to start an actual war, no one safer."

"I'm not going unarmed."

"Same rules apply, he gets the firearm, not you."

"Then he's carrying extra."

"That's his prerogative," Branch answered while Jake said nothing, knowing full well that he would be carrying a second sidearm and that it was Sandra's preferred pistol of choice. "Either way, your call, yea or nay?"

"Surveillance?"

"We have to know where to meet first. Then again fifty-fifty that whoever it is on the line requests a meetup at his location of choosing."

"What if it's a she?"

"Handwriting analyst says it's a male, elderly."

"Okay fine, it's a he, so all right then what?"

"If we select the place, we can put up surveillance ASAP. If he selects a place, well it all depends. You might be on your own."

"So then let's 'us' set up the place? What do you have in mind?"

"Two options, the Market! Market! Shopping mall in Taguig or Arboretum Forest. Doesn't matter which one, we can put surveillance teams there within ten minutes of you hanging up the phone and either one is at least six kilometers from the café, which by the way, right near Camp Aquinaldo."

"Ballsy," Sandra answered, "what's your call Jake?"

"Mall."

"That quick? Not even a second thought?"

"Mall."

"Mall it is," Sandra said, "we go with the mall, do we have a floor plan of it?"

"Of course we do, you'll have to study it, it's pretty extensive. Nice place though, I'd recommend the Dunkin' Donuts as a meet point. Kind of funny, this government detests us and they have Dunkin' Donuts."

"Can't beat a good cup of coffee," Sandra quipped back, "who's making the phone call?"

"You but not from here, need you to do it from somewhere else."

"Got a spot?"

"Nope but get there quick. Call me afterwards and let me know the plan."

"Ten-four," she stood up and looked at her watch, "13:35 precisely?"

"Precisely."

"Here's to 13:35," she said as she and Jake left the room. They didn't have a lot of time to prepare so they needed to get moving.

• • • • ‡ • • • •

Monday, January 20^th, 2020 | 13:35 hrs [UTC+8]
San Juan, Manila, Philippines | Ortigas Café
14° 36' 3" N, 121° 3' 2" E

Nur had walked into Ortigas Café at 13:00 and took a seat in the corner, near enough to the counter that he could hear them summon him when the phone rang but not abruptly next to it. He hadn't slept a wink since he'd arrived in Manila, in fact he hadn't slept much since he'd left Jolo. He was on his second coffee already and if he waited much longer, he'd rapidly run into the need for a third. Truth be told, the coffee did little to keep him awake, that was all the effect of adrenaline coursing through his veins, anxiety keeping the tap open at full blast. The whole plan had been his idea and outside of his son providing him with the internet - mainly to find this café and where he'd meet with whomever answered his message, if they even answered his message - and dropping off the note, this was all him. He'd concocted everything but in truth, he was flying from the hip.

Ortigas Café had been randomly picked looking at maps online. Where he hoped to draw the Columbians for the meetup was another random selection. He hadn't known how to get to either, in fact he barely remembered even seeing the places online. He wrote down the address for the café and gave it to the cabbie and he'd done the same with the meetup location, hoping against all odds that the cabbie would know how to get there. Now he sat, waiting and using every fiber of his self-control not to look at his watch every three seconds. The time was approaching and his instructions, specific and clear as day, could not have gotten into the right hands. He trusted his son to drop off the note, that much he was sure, but beyond that he couldn't know if the Columbians had crumbled the note into a ball and tossed into a waste basket or if they were even going to read it. He could only hope, against all odds, that the note wound up in the hands of the right person and that said person was willing to "take a chance" on a random stranger's note.

As he sat, sipping at his coffee, trying to make it last, Nur felt the seconds tick away like minutes and the minutes tick away like hours. One after the other, 13:35 never seemed to be further away than when it was one and two minutes away. Will they even call?[/U he thought to himself, unsure, full of doubt. It was 13:33 and then 13:34 and time slowed down even further. He sipped at his drink. Fifty seconds became forty became thirty became twenty became nineteen, became eighteen, seemed to go even slower. The world stood still and 13:35 came and went and the seconds continued. It was exactly twenty-seven seconds past 13:35 when the phone rang, a grueling wait that suddenly ended as if a cannon had exploded. It rang three times before the barista managed to get to it. Nur's heart stopped, he held his breath, and he stared blankly at the countertop. "Ortigas Café," the barista answered. An eternity elapsed, "Yes one moment," the barista turned to the café but there were only three patrons and Nur was the only man there, "Pedro Mendoza?"

For a moment Nur contemplated shaking his head. [U]Who's Pedro Mendoza? Not me, no no, I'm Nur, I don't know who that is. Milliseconds passed but to Nur they were minutes. Finally the barista asked again and, snapping out of it, Nur nodded, "Yes that's me." The barista held out the phone. Nur stood and walked over, talking it, "Yes hello, this is Pedro."

"Did you give us the note?

"Yes I did."

"Market! Market! Shopping mall in Taguig, Dunkin' Donuts, fourth floor, one hour," the line went dead and it took Nur a few moments to realize it before he finally handed back the phone to the barista who, thinking little of it, put it back onto the receiver and went about his work tasks.

"How much for the coffees?" The barista answered and Nur put the money on the counter. He walked over, took a long sip, and left the café. It was as he stepped outside that Columbian surveillance picked him up and watched him walk a few blocks away, hailing a cab at a nearby shopping mall. Surveillance followed him thereafter, keeping their distance, switching cars, not that Nur was looking. Another team stayed behind to watch the café, just to make sure that Nur was alone. When they confirmed he had been, that team peeled off and headed to the mall.

It would take Nur's cab thirty minutes to make the ten-kilometer trip to the mall, such was midday traffic in Manila. By the time he arrived, two other surveillance teams picked him up and those who followed him peeled off, their pursuit and their task done. Nur entered the mall and quickly looked for a directory. As he wandered through the mall over the next twenty-something minutes, weaving his way around and through groups of shoppers, working his way towards the fourth floor Dunkin' Donuts, the surveillance teams leapfrogged over one another, hung back, dipped in and out of stores, and yet always kept Nur in sight.

When finally, the appointed time neared, Nur was at the Dunkin' Donuts and so were Sandra and Jake. The two of them had been there for ten minutes already, listening to Nur's progress around the mall as the teams updated everyone. They were sitting at a table, having coffee themselves, waiting it out, watching as Nur approached, looking like a lost child who'd done something wrong, petrified but holding onto the secret of what he'd done. Sandra fixed her eyes on Nur and looked at Jake, who stood up and walked away, maintaining a close enough distance. By then, the surveillance teams were more than confident that Nur was alone and not at all an experienced operative. If it was a setup it reeked of inexperience and amateurism.

Sandra stood up, pulled out her phone, pretended to answer it, and walked over to Nur, "Are you getting in line?"

"No, no I'm not," he quickly answered. She mouthed a few words into the phone and then returned her attention back to Nur.

"I think you should Pedro." The color washed out of Nur's face, "Get in line," Sandra said. Nur sheepishly complied and she stood right behind him. "Listen to me very carefully, there is a bookstore on the second floor, called 'Book Sale,' you're going to go there after you order a coffee. My colleague will meet you there. You're going to tell him everything and we'll go from there. If you understand check your watch." Nur checked his watch. "Don't dawdle." Sandra returned to her phone, "You know, the line's just too long and I have to go. I'll call you later." She put the phone away and disappeared. Before Nur could look, she was absorbed into a crowd of shoppers. He did as he was told and found his way to the bookstore soon enough.

Jake picked him up coming in the door, "Hi sir, how can I help you?" Jake asked quietly, pretending to be an employee.

Nur was confused, "I'm looking for a book…"

"Yes well this is a bookstore. I think I know, is it a gift?"

"Yes, a gift."

"Perfect, come this way, Pedro…" Jake led him to the back of the store and then to the bathroom. He opened the door and he and Nur stepped in while a team entered behind them and took up shop in the back of the store as well. "Okay what do you know?"

"I know where your man is."

"How?"

"I have seen him."

"Why are you coming to us then? Who are you? What do you want?" Jake was aggressive because he had limited time. He needed to put Nur on the defensive but just enough that he demurred and answered each question.

"Listen, I work for JI. I always have. I'm no terrorist but that's who I work for and it's a shitty job but it's a job," Nur said, defending himself, "I will tell you exactly where your man is but I want safety. I need to get out of this country. The information I have is too valuable."

"Well then what do you have?"

"I want to see an agreement first; I want to see a visa."

"I'm not going to bring you a visa without any concrete information. If you want me to give you a visa I need information and this, 'I see your guy' isn't much."

"JI and the government made a truce. That's why your diplomat was kidnapped. I couldn't tell you why, I'm just a delivery man but there is a truce. The government stopped hunting JI and JI took the opportunity to kidnap your diplomat. Only they don't want a ransom do they?"

"What do you mean?"

"That's your information. Give me a visa and I'll give you everything."

"Fine," Jake said, "take this phone. When it rings, answer it. It doesn't make calls out so make sure you answer it because if you don't, the deal's done." Jake handed him a phone, "Wait ten minutes before you leave. If anyone asks, say you had an upset stomach." With that Jake vanished through the door. By the time Nur left so had all but one member of the surveillance team who's job it was to follow Nur out of the mall and see where he went. As luck would have it, Nur led them right to his son's place. An amateur indeed, not a spy, not a setup, whatever information Nur had was valuable and he knew it. When Jake debriefed Sandra and they listened to the tape, everyone was in agreement, Nur was the real deal. They resolved to call him that very night.

• • • † • • •

by **Layarteb** » Sun Sep 11, 2022 7:14 pm

• • • † • • •

Monday, January 20^th, 2020 | 17:50 hrs [UTC+8]
Ermita, Manila, Philippines | Embassy of the Empire of Columbia
14° 34' 39" N, 120° 58' 38" E

Nur's information was like a lightning bolt to the investigation. While he was returning to his son's home, leading Columbian intelligence agents right to where he was staying, Sandra and Jake returned to the embassy and convened a meeting with Branch in one of two SCIF rooms within the embassy's walls. There, the three were joined by two other intelligence officers, one who specialized in communications and another who specialized in Jund al-Islam. Neither introduced themselves when they entered nor gave into any pleasantries when they sat down and opened up their laptops. "All right here's the skinny on what we have," Branch said, repeating essentially what he'd just been told by Sandra and Jake. "We've made contact with a potential defector from JI who's informed us of Simms' location, which is where we believed him to be. This provides direct confirmation as to the whereabouts of Simms. Insofar as we can tell, this appears to be truthful and accurate.

"Secondly, said defector has confirmed a truce between the government and JI. The defector has not explained why there is a truce but only that one exists. We have no idea when it happened. However, the kidnapping of Simms appears to be a direct result of that truce. The defector did not know why Simms was kidnapped; however, the defector has stated that JI does not want a ransom for Simms. That is all we have at the present time. We're following the defector to try to ascertain where they are staying. I want us to focus on two areas right now. Signals I want focused on not just JI but Jolo as a whole. I want to see if they're making any calls on that island to anyone in the government or abroad. We captured a message between JI HQ and Mexico City already but it was too coded to decipher. There will be more, it wasn't someone calling his cousin to catch up on the weather.

"Next, we need to focus on this truce. The fact that JI and Manila have signed a truce has to mean something. JI has been in Manila's crosshairs for a very long time. Given JI's history of attacks and crimes, and Manila's law and order stance, it is unlikely that any truce would exist. However, we have rumors and confirmation that one exists. Why is there a truce? When did it go into effect? Who negotiated it? What's the end goal? How does it relate to Simms' kidnapping? These and every other question I want asked and asked again until we have answers. Got it?" The two intelligence officers nodded. "This is Sandra Orona, legal attaché and Jake Townsend from protection. They're running point on the investigation so whatever we get goes to them and me, got it?" Another round of nods, "Good, let's get to work. This is priority."

Sandra, who'd been studying her notes the entire time, looked up and at Branch. "That call to Mexico City, when was it again?"

Comms, as Sandra would call her, looked through her laptop and brough it up onto the main screen, "Thursday evening at 19:46. Would have been 06:46 in Mexico City."

"Early morning, how long did they talk?"

"Eight minutes and forty-one seconds."

"Okay do we have it? Bring it up, translated?"

"Yes we have it, give me a moment," Comms soon had the audio playing on the room's speakers while a translation ran across the screen. The conversation was about a poker game, though not really. "Heavily coded, really give us very little." They listened to it four times before anyone spoke.

"The term 'straight flush' comes up enough that we're using it as a key. If we can identify 'straight flush,' we might be able to get more."

"It's an operation," Sandra said, "they're running an operation in Jolo. Obviously, they're running an operation in Jolo. This is after Simms was kidnapped. What do we have on the other side?"

"Phone number belongs to an Ernesto Ramirez, nothing significant about him."

"Obviously there is, he's the messenger relay."

"We're trying to find anything on him but so far nothing yet," Branch answered. "He's connected to someone, that's for sure but who remains to be seen."

"What on Earth could the link be between Mexico, JI, and Manila? It just doesn't make sense. This message was from the HQ of JI. There's clearly a link between JI and Mexico City and I don't think it's just to hide their money."

"Nor do we anymore," answered the other intelligence officer, who Sandra would eventually refer to as John for John Doe. "We originally thought that JI might be using Mexico's corruption to hide its money but that's no the case. In fact, JI uses the UER to hide its money, specifically the triad organizations. We don't have anything conclusive on what links JI has with Mexico. Our working theory is that JI is linked with at least one if not some cartels in Mexico. Criminal organizations, such as these, tend to be linked. JI might masquerade as an Islamist group but they're more than just jihadists. They've made a lot of profit through counterfeiting, drug and human trafficking, and money laundering. Money laundering would be especially useful for the cartels in Mexico. Insofar as trafficking is concerned, it is possible that JI and the cartels cooperate on human trafficking. Any drug trafficking links would be weak, JI largely isn't in the drug business for lack of supply. Most of their trafficking is internally within the Philippines. They get drugs from Southeast Asia, primarily heroin, and move it into the Philippines for the triads. That's about the extent of it and it isn't a big part of their profit scheme."

"All of that sounds plausible," said Sandra, "though I don't think this is a call to talk about money laundering. This is specific to Simms' kidnapping. I've listened to coded messages like this before and eventually it starts to sound all the same. I think 'straight flush' was the overall operation they're running. Somehow, somewhere, the Mexicans got involved with JI's kidnapping of Simms, which means they're linked to Manila and whatever truce exists. I want to know who brokered that truce."

"We do too Orona," Branch answered, "we especially want to know."

• • • † • • •

by **Layarteb** » Mon Mar 27, 2023 9:15 pm

• • • † • • •

Monday, January 20^th, 2020 | 23:20 hrs [UTC+8]
Ermita, Manila, Philippines | Embassy of the Empire of Columbia
14° 34' 39" N, 120° 58' 38" E

Sandra put down the phone and rubbed her eyes. It was late and she was tired. After more than five hours in the SCIF, she'd excused herself and retreated to Branch's office and, with him present, placed the call to Nur. They set up another meet for tomorrow and kept the call short, telling him only that his information was valuable and he could be an asset. Beyond that, Sandra said only that she would provide more information when they met face-to-face. "Sounds like it went well," Branch answered, having eavesdropped on the call, "what I would expect to hear."

"Are you going to run the recording through the software, see if there's anything in the background?"

"Of course," Branch answered, "but I'm willing to bet he's exactly where he's been since leaving our meet earlier. In fact, I know he is, my agent checked in twenty minutes ago to say that nothing has changed. We'll track the phone anyway, just to be sure."

"I'm going to need somewhere that we can talk at length. We know Nur isn't an agent so he doesn't know how to lose a tail. Still, why should he have one?"

"He shouldn't, agents that tailed him today reported nothing. He went right home. It stands to reason he'll go directly to wherever we tell him."

"We might want to send him to a few places then, have him check in at each spot and then onto another. Do you have a safehouse I can use? I might need a few hours with him."

"We'll get one," answered Branch through a yawn. It sparked a reaction in Sandra who yawned as well, the very act and even its thought contagious, perhaps more so than any disease. "Before we head back in there," he said, meaning the SCIF, "what's your take on the brainiacs?"

"Smart but they're not going to find shit."

"Yeah my thoughts exactly. We're going to need more resources. We need to bring in Zepeda, no choice about it. We can brief her in the morning on what we've found and what we have. The intel's going to get back to Columbia City anyway so we might as well get to her and get what we need first."

"What do we need? Other than a way inside the government to tell us who brokered the ceasefire and then someone in Mexico City to tell us why Mexico is linked with this whole affair."

"Headquarters to step in and help us out without taking over, tall order. We need them to assist us, not lead the operation. That means they're going to put time limits on what we do, especially now that we're getting into a realm much wider than a simple kidnapping."

"You know," Sandra said to herself as much as to Branch, "something Nur said has been gnawing at me. 'He's not for ransom at all,' you caught that?"

"I caught that."

"JI is infamous for kidnapping and ransoming someone off to fund their activities. It's one of their biggest moneymakers. Now truce, ceasefire, whatever or not, they still need money. They're not suddenly rolling around in money so much so that they can let go of their ransoming business. So why kidnap Simms if not to ransom him? He's the most valuable kidnap victim they've had in years. They could ask for millions and probably get it, so much money they could buy whatever they wanted. So why no ransom?"

"Maybe they're saving him for barter."

"Barter what though? It doesn't make sense. Simms' kidnapping was planning and authorized, authorized without a doubt by Manila. So why would the government want to make a truce with JI, have JI kidnap a Columbian, and then stall and thwart our efforts to find him? What's Mexico got to do with it?"

"How do we know Mexico has something to do with it?"

"It's no coincidence, got a cigarette?"

"You know there's no smoking in here," Branch answered but Sandra just leveled her eyes at him. "Top left drawer and you can give me one too." She fished out the cigarettes, popped two out of the back, and lit hers before handing him the lighter. "I'm supposed to be quitting."

"I quit once. I can do it again," she let the smoke fill the air above her head. "JI and Manila make a truce. That's probably the first in the series of events here. Manila authorizes the kidnapping of Simms, maybe even helps plan it. A few days later, we get an overseas call from Mexico City right into JI HQ. Constantly the phrase 'straight flush' comes up, which has something to do with this operation." Smoke continued to billow around her as she thought, taking slow drags on the cigarette. "Maybe there's more to this spiderweb."

"How so?"

"Triads. The Triads are involved entirely with JI and we know that the UER is Manila's biggest benefactor. Now the Triads don't operate entirely independent of the UER, that much we know. Of course, the Triads are their own sort of 'force' within the UER but by and large, they exist because the government lets them. The UER could crush the Triads if they wanted so if they haven't, that means they do business with them or use them as a cut-out, like say if they wanted to do business in the Philippines either under Manila's nose or by using intermediaries."

"Well there is something we could perhaps link. Fentanyl imports. Fentanyl all comes out of the UER and without a doubt that's controlled by the Triads. Triads are exporting it to Mexico and then on into Columbia. Philippines is probably a go-between. It may be that they use the shipyards in Jolo to shift the stuff around."

"May be and we don't ignore that but maybe there's more to it. If they used Jolo it's small and not a vast port. That means they have to use other ports around the Pacific Ocean to get it into Mexico. Jolo's just one of many. What about guns?"

"Triads do a lot of arms sales too. What are you thinking?"

"Mexican cartels get their guns from somewhere and Los Soldados seem to have the latest in firepower. Seems to all be coming from somewhere and it isn't off the streets of Columbia. Some of the cartels might do illegal buys or rob gun stores and bring the stuff down but that's only going to arm a gang at most, not an entire cartel."

"Los Soldados dealing with the Triads for guns and fentanyl?"

"Guns and fentanyl go one way, money goes the other way. It's got to flow through somewhere. Jolo might be a 'somewhere' and probably one of a few. So you have a link now. JI links the Triads and Los Soldados. Manila stops going after JI. Who would want that and have enough power to affect a truce and ceasefire? It isn't Los Soldados, certainly not anyone within JI, maybe the Triads could have that kind of power but we'd probably notice it."

"UER."

"Only possible solution," Sandra said, taking a long drag on the cigarette. "UER brokers a ceasefire with JI and Manila in exchange for who knows what, maybe more military hardware, maybe money, maybe extra support against us that they hadn't gotten before, whatever it is, it's significant enough to make them broker a ceasefire with JI and allow the Triads and Los Soldados to use Jolo as a shipping center."

"All right we'll get the brainiacs to look up cargo manifests going into Jolo from the UER and out of Jolo into Mexico."

"It's a start. It still doesn't explain why Simms was kidnapped."

"Yeah I'm not getting anywhere there," Branch answered, "there's something we're missing about Simms' kidnapping. In fact, if anything, it harms the truce and ceasefire between JI and the government because now the government is under pressure to protect someone with diplomatic credentials. If they fail to do so, they violate a major, international, diplomatic protocol. Everyone's going to have something to say about that, even the UER - even if it's just lip service. It's going to be a major embarrassment. Unless they intend to swoop in, play the hero, and try to gain some good graces from us after the airliner incident last year."

"Could be," Sandra answered, "it's farfetched."

"All of this is farfetched Sandra," Branch retorted, "everything here is speculative and farfetched but it's something to pursue."

"Fine we'll pursue it. In the morning, we talk to Zepeda and then we talk to Nur. Let me see what I can get out of Nur before we go to HQ. Got it?"

"Got it," Branch answered. Sandra snuffed out her cigarette on the bottom of her shoe and dropped the butt into a mostly empty cup of cold coffee. It sizzled ever so slightly. Offering the cup to Branch to do the same, she stood up and cracked her neck.

"It's going to be a long night," she said on her way out, knowing that she wasn't going to be sleeping, not while she was trying to make sense of their conversation, not while she was coming up with a list of questions to ask Nur, questions she needed him to answer.

• • • † • • •

[Earth II] The Filipino-Columbian War: And Hell Followed..

[Earth II] The Filipino-Columbian War: And Hell Followed..

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