Amazon Burning (A James Acton Thriller, #10) (17 page)

The man
shook his head. “No, by what looked like soldiers. Special Ops types if you ask
me. I managed to escape. They hunted me for a few hours but I was able to hide.
They destroyed our boat so I was forced to walk along the shoreline for several
days before I found a native canoe. I don’t know if it was abandoned or not,
but the owner wasn’t there, so I took it. It took me almost a week to get
here.” He grabbed at his threadbare shirt. “And the authorities won’t help me.
They said we were there without a permit so they won’t help.”

“You’re
American?” asked Mitchell, noting that the restaurant owner was starting to
take notice of the new arrival.

“Yes.”

“What
about your embassy?”

“I
haven’t been able to call anyone. I have no money, no passport, nothing. It was
all on the boat they sank.”

Jenny
motioned toward the owner. “We better get out of here.”

Mitchell
nodded, standing and waving the man off. “We’re just leaving.” He threw some
bills on the table, grabbed the satphone then motioned to their guest. “Come
with us, we’ll help you out.”

They
quickly made their way back to their hotel, rushing their guest, whose name
they learned was Bob Turnbull, through the lobby and up the stairs to their
room on the third floor, no elevator available here.

“We’re
still waiting for that call, Bob, so why don’t you get out of those clothes,
have a nice long shower and I’ll see about getting you some extra toiletries.”

Turnbull’s
shoulders slumped as the pressure began to lift. “Thank you, you two have been
just—well, awesome!”

“Think
nothing of it,” replied Jenny. “Now go clean up and I’ll find some of
Terrence’s clothes for you to wear.”

Turnbull
nodded then disappeared into the washroom. Mitchell called the front desk and
had a toiletry bag brought up, adding it to their bill, then took the liberty
of ordering dinner for all three of them, they barely having touched their
meals earlier, and it clear Turnbull hadn’t eaten in days.

And lots
of bottled water.

“What do
you make of his story?”

Mitchell
shrugged, looking at his wife from the bed he was lying on. “It sounds pretty
farfetched, but look at him.”

“But
Special Forces in the jungle? Taking researchers into custody?”

“That’s
the part that sounds fishy,” agreed Mitchell.

There
was a knock at the door and Jenny answered. A young boy handed over a toiletry
bag and Jenny slipped him a few coins, eliciting a grin. She tossed it to her
husband. “You put it in there.”

Mitchell
jumped from the bed, knocking on the door.

“Yes?”

“I’ve
got your toiletries here!”

“Great,
just put them on the counter, thanks!”

Mitchell
complied as Jenny handed him some clothes. Mitchell put them beside the
toiletry bag and closed the door. Returning to the bed, he lay back down. “He
said tip of the Rio Negro, didn’t he?”

Jenny
nodded.

“That’s
exactly where the professors were going, at least from a Brazilian standpoint.
Any farther up and you’re in Colombia and Venezuela.”

Jenny’s
eyes widened. “Do you think we should warn them?”

Mitchell
nodded. “When they call we’ll let them know what we know. I doubt it’s anything
but you never know.” The shower turned off and he lowered his voice. “For now
let’s humor him and see what additional info we can get.”

Jenny
nodded, suddenly not looking as comfortable with their decision to help this
stranger.

Two Day’s Travel from Rio Negro, Northern Amazon
Day of the attack

Laura lay curled into a ball, shivering, the nights of the jungle
cold, especially on hard earth ten feet down. And the sounds were terrifying.
What was beautiful from the safety of the boat, or even the camp with James
beside her, took on a sinister quality in which everything was closer,
everything had an agenda.

She
tried to block the sounds out mentally, then physically covered her exposed
ear, but it was of no use. Instead she began doing math in her head, a trick
James had said worked for him, just simple factors of two, easy at first, more
difficult when you got into the five and six figures. And it worked.

Her mind
occupied, she slowly gave in to sleep, awaking to find a cool, steady rain falling.
She shivered in the cold, but immediately jumped to her feet to take advantage
of this fresh source of water. She held her head back, catching as much as she
could in her mouth while cupping her hands to act as a spout to deliver even
more. She continued to drink as much as she could, even beyond what she needed,
not knowing when she’d get another chance, and preferring a belly full of water
than nothing. The rain suddenly stopped and she returned to her now muddy
corner, deciding instead to leave it be and sit against what she was thinking was
the western wall where the sun would hit first, and fortunately had been left
almost untouched by the rain, it coming in slightly from the west.

She
shook almost uncontrollably from the cold, her legs drawn up, her hands clasped
around her shins as she tried to warm up. Still shaking, she closed her eyes
and lowered her chin into her knees and began to count, deciding sleep was
better than this, and within minutes she once again felt herself begin to pass
out, exhaustion taking over from the cold.

Tuk woke at the crack of dawn and left TikTik’s village, having said
his goodbyes the night before. He hadn’t mentioned the Woman of Light to
anyone, though they had grilled him for answers, his demeanor so happy they
knew something was up, he usually so shy and demure. He simply kept repeating
that he was excited for TikTik’s wedding, which was usually enough to change
the conversation, TikTik a very popular girl within the village.

“Bruk is
a lucky man!” they kept repeating, and Tuk would agree.
But so am I!
He
wanted to scream it, but he wouldn’t dare. Couldn’t. If she didn’t survive the
Cleansing Ritual, there would be no mating ceremony, no future, no hope.

He
sighed as he took one last look at the village of several hundred, a much more
thriving and exciting place than his own. It was amazing how much damage could
be done in a single day to a village. The boys who had died from the boar incident
would have fathered at least a dozen children by now, and the more of those
that were boys the more their village might grow. But they were gone, and one
of the few left of mating age was him.

A great
disappointment to the elders he was sure.

They
never said anything to him, but he knew there was talk. His mother would be
gloomy sometimes, cussing under her breath about one or more of the elders, and
when he’d ask her why, she’d simply say they were going crazy and it was past
their time to join the Spirit World.

But he
knew. He knew she had been forced to defend him once again.

Too
often he cried himself to sleep on those days, the long communal lodges they
slept in difficult to hide emotions in. Sometimes when he would be crying in
his sleep he would wake to find Pol shaking him by the shoulder and they would
leave the village, out of earshot so they could talk. Usually so
he
could talk and Pol listen. Pol was great that way, offering advice when needed,
and an ear when not.

I
miss you!

His
journey home was a mix of melancholy and joy. He would think of his lost friend
and his difficult life, then of Lau-ra-pal-mer, the Woman of Light from the
Spirit World who the Mother had given him, a gift of beauty and wonder that
would change his life forever, and make him if not the envy of the other males,
at least an equal to them when it came to having a suitable mate.

I
wonder how many children we’ll have?

He hoped
they would all be boys. And one daughter. He always loved little girls, but he
couldn’t imagine the heartbreak their parents would endure when they took a
mate and left.

Six boys
and one girl. That’s what he wanted. Six boys was a good number. And if half
survived until mating age, they just might be able to help the village recover
and survive another generation.

Entering
the village he saw his mother just waking. She waved, a look of relief on her
face as she held out her arms and rushed up to him, hugging him tight.

“Where
were you?” she cried, holding him at arm’s length. “You left without saying
anything!”

“I just
needed some time,” he mumbled, feeling guilty now for having left so abruptly.

She took
his hands, squeezing them knowingly. “Pol?”

He
nodded.

“I still
can’t believe he’s gone.” She sighed then motioned toward the other side of the
village. “TikTik was asking of you.” She gave him a look that he knew meant she
knew exactly how he felt about her.

Why
are you torturing me?

“I’m
sorry for not telling you I was leaving.”

She hit
him lightly on the arm. “Don’t you dare do that again.” She led him to the
village center where several of the women were preparing breakfast. TikTik was
brushing the hair of her future mate’s grandmother. He stared at her, her
beauty overwhelming, her smile intoxicating, her laughter like music from the
most beautiful bird the Mother had created.

She was
perfection.

He
pictured the Woman of Light, and how different she was. Beautiful in her own
way, impossibly unique, but not TikTik. He knew who he truly wanted, and the
Woman of Light would be settling, but at least she was a close second.

They
would be happy together.

And he
knew his mother would be delighted he had found a mate. She was desperate for
grandchildren, and her chances were few, he her only son, the other children
all dead before their first cycle. And then his father had been killed, ending
her hopes of further children.

He
stared at TikTik, her beauty once again overpowering him. He knew if he was
strong like Bruk there was a good chance she would be with him instead. But
that wasn’t to be.

TikTik
caught him staring and smiled. He quickly moved his head, pretending to stare
at a nonexistent bird, and wondered how he’d survive the next six days, waiting
for the Cleansing Ritual to end.

Bruk
grabbed TikTik from behind, Grandmother scolding them.

He
couldn’t take it any longer.

I’ve
got to get out of here.

Retired Lt. Colonel Cameron Leather looked at the GPS and motioned in
the direction they were to follow. Two villagers were accompanying them, one of
whom spoke broken Portuguese, two of his men fluent, handpicked for that very
reason. The two villagers could prove useful as guides and trackers, but more
importantly they could smooth out any ruffled feathers should other natives be
encountered.

He
didn’t want to be trussed up like Professor Acton had evidently been.

They had
left Reading and Milton back on the boat along with his injured man who would
survive, but his bruised thigh and mild concussion would simply slow them down
on their journey, of which speed was the essence. They had Acton’s coordinates
from where he had apparently found a trail, and without having to actually look
for the trail, they were making extremely good time, able to jog for most of
the way. They anticipated reaching the Professor before nightfall, giving them
a large search party with plenty of firepower should things turn ugly in trying
to retrieve his client, Professor Palmer.

He hoped
it didn’t end with a firefight.

She had
been kidnapped, of that there was no doubt. It was a hostile act, of that there
could be some doubt. Who knew what these natives were thinking. He was one to
never underestimate his enemy, and he made few assumptions about them either,
except that they were probably smarter than most gave them credit for.

But
smarts wasn’t the issue this time.

Motivation
was.

What was
the motivation of her kidnapper? The fact that she was still leaving a trail
behind said she was walking on her own two feet, which meant alive and
conscious. The fact she seemed to be going voluntarily also seemed to suggest
she didn’t feel any immediate fear. He would have assumed she would have made
much more of a struggle than she had if she thought death was the end game.

Then
again she could just be playing for time, hoping she would be found before that
moment.

And he
was trained to assume the worst.

He had
to assume that whenever she reached their destination, she was going to be
killed.

He just
prayed they could reach her before that.

“What the hell is that?”

Acton
pointed to a large tree at the base of which was the largest dead snake he had
ever seen. It was massive, at least ten yards long and the thickness of a man.
His immediate instinct was to run, and he almost had before he noticed it was
gutted. The natives quickly surrounded it, poking it with their spears, then Sandro
and the Portuguese speaking guide Skip rapid fired a series of questions and
answers back and forth.