Chase Baker and the Golden Condor: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series No. 2) (13 page)

Morning comes gently with the newly risen sun breaking through
the leafy canopy in sharply angled, if not brilliant radiant rays. It’s like
the filtered sunlight that pours through the stained glass in a cathedral.

As I clear the sleep from my eyes, I can see that Leslie and
I are not alone on the branch. There’s something moving around at my feet. But
then, moving isn’t the right word. Slithering is more like it.

Acting on instinct, my entire body goes stone still. So
still I can hear my own heart beating in rhythm with Leslie’s heart. She’s
still asleep, her head resting peacefully on my chest. The snake that is
corkscrewing itself around the branch is an anaconda. Its skin is brown and
accented with dark-brown, circular and egg-shaped spots. While it’s impossible
for me to get an idea of its length, I can see that its girth must measure a
foot to a foot and a half around.

My mouth goes dry and my pulse begins to pound as the head
of the anaconda pops up not by my feet, but over my chest and Leslie’s back.
Two long, crescent moon–shaped fangs stare me in the face along with two black
eyes that clearly recognize their next meal.

I try and reach for my .45 but Leslie’s right shoulder is
pressed against my chest, dead weight, making it impossible for me to reach for
it without waking her and possibly knocking her off the tree.

“Rodney,” I say, voice even, non-alarming, knowing that at
any moment those fangs could impale themselves into Leslie’s or my neck.
“Rodney, you hear me?”

“I see it,” he says from behind the tree trunk where he’s
nested himself on one of the thick branches. “Stay still, Chief. Don’t move a
muscle.”

The snake is now wrapping its fifteen- or twenty-foot-long
body around both the branch and our legs, while its white-fanged head is slowly
inching its way toward my face.

“Rodney,” I whisper, as loudly and forcefully as I can. “We’re
in serious trouble here.”

“Stay still. Don’t speak.”

Then, two fangs, exposed only inches from my face, the
snake’s mouth opening wide, so wide I can smell a sweet but sickly sour breath
coming from inside its long, dark guts. Until a shot rings out and the anaconda
enters into a kind of suspended animation, neither moving toward me nor moving
away from me. Leslie pops her head up, focuses tired eyes in the direction of
our booted feet. It takes her a second or two to realize what’s got itself
wrapped around our legs, but when she does, she releases a scream that sends
flocks of birds shooting out of their treetop perches.

The anaconda drops its head onto our torsos before its body
uncoils itself from our legs and the branch, and drops down hard onto the
jungle floor.

Leslie shoots up.

“What the hell was that?” she barks. “Wait! Don’t answer.
Don’t fucking answer. I know precisely what that was.”

Her body is shivering, trembling.

Rodney jumps down from his tree branch, stares up at us with
a face full of smiles, like we’re about to embark on a Sunday-Funday outing in
Winnie the Pooh’s Hundred Acre Wood. Gripped in both his hands is his AR-15. A
slim stream of white gun smoke is rising up from the barrel tip.

“You gonna live, Chief?” he asks.

“I hope so. Help me with getting Leslie down.”

He does it. I jump down, land solidly on both feet.

Leslie stares down at the massive dead snake.

“Can I change the channel on my world right now?”

“You’re in for the long haul, Les,” I say. “Told you you
should have stayed in New York. You and the gynie might have made up by now.”

She shakes her head.

“How about some breakfast?” Rodney suggests, pulling his
fighting knife from his belt sheath. “Anaconda is good eatin’ roasted over a
campfire.”

“I suppose it tastes like chicken,” Leslie says. “But no
thanks. I’ve just become a vegetarian.”

I look at my watch. It’s half past six in the morning.

“It’s getting late,” I say. “Let’s grab the packs and get
going. We can eat some power bars along the way.”

“Great,” Rodney says. “Back into the spider nest.”

“Let’s hope they’re all asleep by now,” I say.

“Stop the world,” Leslie says. “I wanna get the hell off.”

The clearing beneath the goliath tarantula nest is entirely
devoid of spiders, the black arachnids having climbed back up into their silk
beds for the duration of the day, just like I predicted they would.

“Let’s get the packs back out to the trail where we’ll shake
them down,” I say. “Make sure no surprises await us on the inside.”

I grab hold of both my and Leslie’s pack, which I carry out
through the bush to the path. When I get there, I open both packs and give them
a violent shake. Nothing crawls out. Reaching inside, I move the clothes and
food packs around. No spiders. Is it foolish for me to be sticking my hand into
a pack knowing a spider bite could very well await me? Maybe. But what most
people don’t realize is the bite from a tarantula, even a goliath dinner
plate–sized tarantula which is common for the Amazon jungle, isn’t any worse than
the sting of a hornet. But that doesn’t mean I’m looking to get bitten. Had all
those spiders converged on both Rodney and Leslie last night, their collective
bites and the resulting shock might have killed them both on the spot.

“Saddle up, everyone,” I say, pulling the Keogh II map from
my pocket, unfolding it.

I glance down at our relative position. If we follow the
trail as it’s depicted on the map in Keogh’s handwriting, I’m guessing we’ll be
spending another full night in the jungle.

But you’re not prepared to spend another night in the
jungle. Your guides are dead. Most of the food is gone. So is most of the ammo.
Not only is the Tupac Amaru after you, but so are hostile natives, and who
knows what else. The best solution is to find a faster route to the mountain
that houses the aircraft, and once you get there, call in precise coordinates
for assistance.

Staring down at the map, I can see that it might be possible
to bushwhack our way through the jungle and reach the base of the mountain a
half day sooner than expected. But we’ll be taking a chance since no one can
possibly predict how thick the vegetation is going to be. It’s exactly how I
put it to Rodney who, with his AR-15 shouldered, his pack on his back, his
Giants baseball cap pulled down over his brow, and his machete in hand, is
calmly awaiting my instructions.

He cocks his head.

“I see your point in bushwhacking, Chief,” he says, his eyes
also locked on the map, tracing his way along the jagged line with his index
finger. “We can cut the distance between us and our end goal in half if we head
on through the bush in this direction.” He pulls his eyes off the map, focusing
on me. “But two things bother me about this approach.”

“Speak freely, Rod.”

“Well, first off, that trail was carved out of this jungle
floor where it was carved out of this jungle floor for a reason. Meaning that
to begin carving another one in another place might lead us head on into a
situation we would rather not find ourselves in.”

“Duly noted. And second?”

“And second, the jungle is liable to be so thick and
unnavigable that it could take us twice as long to get to the mountain than it
would if we used the trail.”

“Again, duly noted. How about this idea? We bushwhack for a
while. Maybe an hour or so. If it proves impossible to get through all that
vegetation, then we double back, jump back onto the trail. That way we’re only
an hour and a half or so behind the original schedule.”

Rodney looks at me, nods.

“Good,” I say. “Try Keogh Three again, give him a report on
the guides, and then tell him about our change of travel plans.”

Rodney pulls out his phone, starts dialing. After a time, he
shakes his head.

“No answer.” He shoves the phone back in his pocket, pulls
out his radio, and makes a call for Keogh III. But all he gets is dead air.
“Nothing again.”

I don’t like the sound of that dead air. Keogh III should be
available to us at all times. But for some reason, he’s nowhere to be found. A
vision of the sickly man, sitting in that leather chair hooked up to those
intravenous lines, shoots through my overstressed brain, and it dawns on me
that he might be dead. But I decide to say nothing about my vision to my
partners. After all, if Keogh III has indeed died, someone on his support staff
would have the decency to contact us about it.

“Send him an email and a text,” I command.

“What will I say?” Rodney inquires.

“Make it short and sweet. Something like ‘Guides dead,
taking new route to destination. Make contact ASAP.’”

“That’ll do it,” Rodney says, thumbing away at the little digital
keyboard on his phone.

“Leslie, you okay?” I say, turning to her as she combs back
her long dark hair with the open fingers on her hand and repositioning her hat
on her head.

I reach out with the palm of my hand to touch her pink
cheek.

“You good to go?” I say, touching warm skin.

“I’m ready,” she states with confidence. Smiling, she wipes
the perspiration from her face with the back of her hand.

“You okay with cutting our jungle visit short?” I pose.

“I’m okay with the new plan,” she says, her voice sounding
weaker and softer than usual. “Just so long as it means we don’t have to spend
another night in this place. I’ve had enough spiders and snakes to last a
lifetime.”

I re-pocket the map.

“It’s settled then,” I say. “Rodney, you okay with taking
first machete duty?”

“Your wish is my command, trailblazer,” the big man says
with a laugh.

“Lead the way,” I say.

Together, we enter into uncharted territory.

You know what they say, Chase. Never get out of the boat. But
in this case, you never go off the trail. There’s a reason for rules of the
jungle, both written and passed down via tribal legend. You value your skin at
all, you don’t veer from the established path.

But then, you don’t have a choice other than to give
bushwhacking a try. Your team has been decimated by hostiles. You’re down to
bare bones supplies. And you can’t reach your employer via cell phone or radio.

Plus there’s another reason for shortening the time in
the jungle.

If the Tupac Amaru is on to you and your quest, they will
make it a priority to kill you once you’ve succeeded in locating the Condor.
But if you can get to it first without them knowing, you stand at least a
chance of escaping the jungle with both the prize and your lives.

That means bushwhacking…

Providence must be looking down upon us.

Because thus far, Rodney hasn’t had to use his machete for
cutting much of anything. The layout of this uncharted forest isn’t all that
different from a pine forest back in upstate New York or central Italy. The
trees are so old, thick, and tall that their thick leafy branches are located
far above the jungle floor, making walking fairly easy.

We proceed uphill, but not a drastic uphill, the angle of
ascent manageable without becoming too exhausting. Out the corner of my eye I
keep a constant vigil on both Leslie and Rodney not only to make certain
they’re both keeping up with the pace, but also to make sure no one is
suffering from exhaustion or illness. Out here in the jungle it might be warm
and humid, but hypothermia can kick in when you least expect it. So can jungle
fevers like malaria and dysentery. The chances of our acquiring both just
doubled with our hiking off-trail.

After an hour, I shout out for Rodney to stop.

“Water break,” I say. “That includes you, Les.”

She pulls the bottle off her belt, unscrews the cap and
drinks.

Rodney does the same.

“Going’s easy,” he says.

Digging into my pack, I pull out a small bottle containing
big green capsules. Popping the top, I drop three into the palm of my hand, two
of which I offer up to Leslie and Rodney.

“What’s this?” my agent asks.

“Malarone,” Rodney answers in my stead.

“For malaria,” I say. “It’s a preventive medicine, so take
it.”

Leslie swallows the capsule along with a gulp of water, and
Rodney does the same.

I check my watch. “It’s been an hour. What are your
thoughts, Rod?”

“Ain’t my call,” he says. “You the trailblazer.”

I pull out the map, unfold it, press the tip of my finger
against what I assume is our location. Pulling out my GPS device, I match up
the coordinates on the device to our exact position on the map. The
bushwhacking is proving more expeditious than I thought. We keep proceeding
like this, we’ll make the mountain in less than two more hours rather than
having spent all day taking the safe but circuitous route.

I pocket the GPS and put away the map.

“Let’s keep going,” I say.

We don’t get ten more feet before we stumble upon the
severed heads.