It didn't take long to find him.

It was an hour walk up a goat track, that let to the south face of Mt. Sulu.

The mountain rose to 3000 meters and the poor bastard had been kept here for the past 434 days.

'Where are the guards,' I asked, when we arrived at the camp.

Warren was relaxing in a hammock and drinking a beer.

'Doesn't look like he's doing it that tough,' said Max.

'What would you fucking know,' said Warren, who apparently had spent some time in the military.

'More like boy scouts,' said Max, who gave him a back hander. 'We are here to save you and this is the gratitude we get.'

Given, he looked skinny.

'Cos he's a fucking alkie, drinking most of his ransom money.'

'You don't even know me,' said Warren.

'Well I'm not particularly happy to know about those festering boils on your back. And if you do as we say, we'll have you snugly secured in Malaysia in about four hours time.'

Max had called in the helicopter.

And by the way, I said, in passing, I heard there was an Indonesian guy who was also kidnapped, says he's a billionaire but acts  as a clearner.

'Hola.'

It got louder.

'HOLA.'

Think we got a Spanish speaker on our hands I said to Max as I lifted up a flap made from branches that was concealing Candice's father inside a six foot hole.

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