"Red sky at morn, sailors be warned." Even as Christian smiled at the old adage, he smelled humid-
ity thick in the air. Real muggy. "Good thing we're not navigating by boat."
The detective shrugged. "Yes, but we may need one before the day is done."
"I see your point."
Up ahead, over a dozen men were hard at work, prepping for the mission. Dressed in camo BDUs with tactical-level body armor, Zharan's men looked like a team on maneuvers, a formidable army. They were equipped with Kevlar helmets and protective goggles, binoculars, extra mag pouches, radios with two-way headsets and ear pieces for stealth. For weapons, he saw everything from short-barreled shotguns and sniper-scoped M-14 rifles to shoulder-fired grenade launchers and H&K MP5SD submachine guns with suppressors.
Christian had read about Brazil's military police force being armed with military-grade weapons, trained in counterinsurgency tactics, and armed with machine guns and armored cars—a necessity in a war zone filled with drug smugglers and arms dealers who were better equipped.
Between the drug traffickers, gangs, and the well-armed police, he wondered about the civilian population caught in the middle, but shoved the thought from his mind. The men here today would risk their lives to rescue his father and right an injustice. Enforcing the law brought order to chaos. That had to be enough.
Two Bell 412EP helicopters were the focus of the activity up ahead, metal gray with green and white stripes down the fuselage and on the rear rotor, colors of the Brazilian flag. Each looked to hold up to fifteen men.
"Helicopters?" Christian asked. "How far are we going?"
Detective Fuentes pulled up to a group of vehicles and parked. "It's not how far exactly. Our target is accessible by road, for the most part, but we would lose our element of surprise and run the risk of ambush. I will let my chief explain the details. You understand this, no?"
"Yes, of course." Christian opened the door and got out of the car, Raven sliding out on his side of the vehicle. Nervous tension colored her eyes, no matter how much she tried to brush it off. She carried the rucksack, but Christian took it from her and hoisted it on his shoulder before heading toward the man in charge.
"Be sure to get medical supplies in each aircraft. And extra water bottles and batteries," Chief Zharan said, raising his voice, pointing to one of his men loading the far helicopter. When he saw Christian and Raven, accompanied by Detective Fuentes, he joined them halfway, shaking hands with them.
"Good morning. We are just about loaded." The man narrowed his eyes and shifted his focus between them. "I have rain ponchos and tactical body armor for your protection. I take it you have your own weapons as we discussed?"
"Yes. And extra mags." Christian nodded. "We're set."
"Fuentes, please see they get ponchos and body armor." Zharan gave the order and Fuentes took off. "I've got an aerial map. Let me explain what will happen today."
Grim-faced men hustled by them with a sense of urgency. No idle conversations, only work with a focus on the mission.
The chief escorted them to the open cargo door of the first aircraft and unfolded a topographical map with satellite aerial images. Zharan explained where the village was located and its layout. His men would land miles away, using it as a staging area for the operation, to minimize the sound of their approach. They'd trek from the north over a ridge, circle the village, and find the location where Charboneau was being held before they launched the raid.
After their briefing, Fuentes returned and handed Christian two dark green pouches containing rain gear and the body armor. Although he offered the rain gear to Raven, she declined. Christian noticed none of the other men wore it. Going into a potential skirmish, the rain protection would not only be awkward for hand-to-hand combat, but it might also interfere with any maneuvers involving stealth. The enemy would hear them coming.
Yeah, rain gear would keep them dry and deter the leeches. But the way he figured it, if the enemy hears you and shoots you dead, who the hell cares if you're dry and leech free? The ponchos got stuffed into his backpack. But without a second thought, Christian did shrug into his body armor, then helped Raven into hers by tightening the Velcro. The military-grade body armor would be bulky and hot to wear, but where they were going, they'd need it.
As they got organized, Zharan continued.
"This man, Rodrigo Santo? He's actually Mario Araujo, the leader of these people. We do not know how many in his village are involved with the kidnapping of Mr. Charboneau. There are probably women and children at this location, so we must be very careful. You will stay with me and follow my orders. Agreed?"
"Yes, certainly." Christian nodded.
"Agreed, yes," Raven chimed in.
"Then we are ready." Zharan turned and waved an arm, giving the order. "Green light. We have a go. Load up."
Rain began to fall, spotting the asphalt. It made a gentle patter on Christian's vest as he helped Raven into the first helicopter, holding her hand a little longer than necessary. She turned toward him and smiled, putting on a sturdy front. He climbed in and sat near her. A man on the ground shut the cargo bay door and gave a thumbs-up to the pilot as he backed away, heading for a small building near the helipad.
Two crewmen were in the cockpit, going through their checklist. Zharan sat next to Christian and Raven, with ten other men sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. Rapt in their own thoughts, Zharan's men stared straight ahead, not acknowledging their presence.
Rotor blades cranked overhead for both aircraft. The pilot in the other craft signaled with a nod and waited for his turn to take off. The fuselage rumbled and the skids lifted off the tarmac, the ground drifting out from under. They were airborne. As much as Christian wanted to speak to Raven, he kept his silence. The engine was loud and they had no privacy.
As the craft climbed, then pitched forward, the rain doused the outer hull. Beads of water streaked the windows, but through the rain Christian caught glimpses of the terrain below. Spotty areas of civilization and commercial outbuildings soon gave way to dense jungle. Rivers he didn't know the names of converged into larger tributaries, a maze of wetlands carved through lush foliage and trees. Miles and miles in every direction. The vast expanse made him feel small and insignificant.
The helicopter flew parallel to the other craft, the engine and rotor noise drowning out everything, even hampering his private thoughts. When the aircraft veered left, his stomach lurched. The queasy feeling reminded him of the gravity of what they were about to do. He found Raven staring back, as if she knew what he was thinking, but she wouldn't be completely right.
Yes, he thought about Charboneau and the fact this ordeal would soon be over. Soon he would know what had happened to his father. And soon he would know the price he'd pay for that knowledge.
But with that thought, flashes of Jasmine leapt into his memory, images from their time in Brazil. Raven might misinterpret his gut twisted in guilt, yet now he had a small appreciation for what Jasmine felt about failing to protect his father. He had taken over the rescue.
Her rescue.
She should've been allowed to finish and clear her conscience.
Christian crossed his arms and stared out the window. Although he shoved Jasmine Lee out of his mind, he knew she wouldn't stay put.
Outskirts of Cuiabá
Dressed in worn jeans and a faded black T-shirt, Luis Duarte stared out the filthy cracked window of a clapboard shack wedged into a terraced shantytown. It was his home away from home since he'd gone underground, staying beyond Chief Zharan's reach. After the chief issued a bulletin on him, Duarte made a difficult choice to walk away from his life. Resentment churned hot in his belly, but he could not afford to confront the bastard. Not until he was stone cold ready.
Today he would be.
His dwelling for the last two days, no bigger than a matchbox, was crammed into the side of a slope with countless others above and below, between narrow dirt streets only wide enough for foot traffic. It had been abandoned long ago, but drug users and hookers still made use of it, at least until he moved in. It smelled of urine, body odor, and the tang of sex.
Trash and clumps of weeds had been shoved into cracks in the walls and ceiling to block bad weather. The recycling effort had not worked. Today, the steady downpour of rain leaked in and puddles of mud were gaining ground. The foul weather only made things worse, forging doubts in his mind about what lay ahead. A bad omen, if he believed such things. And with the feral cat population running rampant throughout the
favela,
feeding on rats and roaches, he could make a point they belonged here more than he did, but he wasn't so sure anymore.
The irony of his choice to retreat to such a place wasn't wasted on Duarte. Long before he became a police officer, he lived in a similar dwelling growing up as a child. It had defined him, irreparably. At the time, he did not realize the desperate poverty his family had endured. It had been his life, but now he didn't think he could return to it. He had seen too much, experienced too much. No, he couldn't go back to that life. And, insult to injury, the slum overlooked the modern silhouette of downtown Cuiabá. He glared at it now.
His personal reminder of the intolerance of this world . . . and what had been taken from him.
"No more," he muttered under his breath. "Not after today."
Reclaiming his life wouldn't be easy, but he had a plan. A duffel bag of personal belongings lay at his feet. Duarte dropped to a knee and stuffed one of his uniform shirts into it, zipping the bag shut before standing. He glanced at his watch, hating to be apart from the action, pinned up like a caged animal.
When his cell phone rang, he answered it, eager for news.
"Yes?"
"Sorry to disturb you, Luis, but our target is on the move." Duarte held the phone to his ear, recognizing the man's voice and the sound of road noise in the background. "As you said, he used a heliport north of the city to launch two helicopters. We counted over twenty men, heavily armed."
The man he had questioned most of last night had spoken the truth about Zharan's operation. Torture had a way of making life simple. A man either wants to live or he does not. Quite simple. He hoped everything the man said had been the truth. Life and death would depend upon it.
"Good work, Manolo." Duarte smirked. "You have a tracking beacon on both aircraft?"
"Yes, sir, we're on it. Time to go ... but there's something else."
"Oh?" Duarte hated surprises.
"Sir, as you figured, the American went with him. But there is another woman with Delacorte. And we have not yet identified her. Another American."
The complications kept mounting. Duarte was not pleased. "Stick with the plan. We've got no choice now." He heaved the bag onto a shoulder and hustled for the door, phone to his ear. "I'll meet you at the rendezvous point in five."
"Already on my way. What do you want to do with the woman?"
Manolo had not asked about the American woman with his question. Images of Jasmine Lee flooded Duarte's head. Having her along might prove useful.
"Tell them to bring her, but don't let anyone see. She's not a woman easily forgotten ... or trusted."
Duarte ended the call, wondering if Jasmine Lee or Nicholas Charboneau would have any appreciation for poetic justice. He hoped after today he'd be alive to appreciate the irony himself.
They had outrun the rain—for now—a short reprieve from what would come. The sun stabbed through an accumulation of darker clouds, fighting a losing battle. And as far as Raven's eye could see, the Amazon rain forest spread its dense blanket, covering this corner of the world.
She had no sense of which way they'd flown out of Cuiabá. Not that it mattered. Raven flew over a world so foreign and primitive, none of it felt familiar. With the added tension, the flight seemed to last an eternity, but now the pilot skirted treetops, heading for a small clearing, but big enough for both helicopters to land. Soon she'd leave the safety of the aircraft in search of a native tribe that had kidnapped an American for money.
For all she knew, Christian's father was already dead.
Harsh reality sent a chill over her skin. Raven kept her eyes focused on the ground below, searching the treeline for signs of trouble. She felt the weight of a holstered nine-millimeter Beretta 92FS, a weapon courtesy of Jasmine Lee.
The craft hovered as the pilot scanned the ground for a sturdy place to set the landing skids. When the aircraft touched down, the prop action kicked up dirt and whipped tall grasses and tree branches into a frenzy. Zharan's men shifted in their seats, ready to disembark. Oddly enough, a couple of them had to be nudged in the ribs. They'd fallen asleep. She'd seen it many times and it never ceased to surprise her. Everyone dealt with stress differently.
Raven sought peace of mind, but in her own way. She found herself staring into Christian's eyes. Gazing into their lush green with flecks of gold and sea blue, she indulged herself. This close, the color of his eyes always stole her breath.
Love reflected in their depths and it calmed her heart. With him by her side, she wasn't alone. And more important, neither was he. His fight had become hers.
"I've got your backside, big guy." She smiled.
"Good. Can't think of anyone I'd rather assign that duty." He winked, but the humor in his eyes faded. "Stick close, huh? And no heroics."
"Same goes double for you."
The cargo bay door opened and a rush of wind swept past her, the rotor kicking it up. Zharan and his men rushed through the door, hunched low and weapons drawn, setting up a perimeter.
Once on the ground, Zharan spoke with one of his men in rapid-fire Portuguese, consulting a map. The man must have been a native guide. He wore civilian clothes and a floppy jungle hat in camouflage green, and had a machete in a scabbard on his belt. An old guy with bulgy dark eyes, a scraggly graying beard, and brown skin the texture of rough-hewn leather.
Raven wondered how she had missed him before, but it made sense for Zharan to have an experienced guide as part of the operation.
The native headed toward the trees at a steady pace. Zharan's men followed single file as if they did it everyday. No one spoke. All eyes were on the surrounding jungle. To remain in the clearing meant exposure. In Portuguese, Zharan ordered two men to stay behind with the pilots to protect the aircraft, their only means of escape. The men nodded and ran for cover in the jungle, to defend their position from a distance with rifles. When it came time for reinforcements and the trip home, the chief would contact them via radio and order them to the village. A solid extraction plan.
Zharan pocketed the map in his shirt and joined them.
"You two will stick with me. We have some miles to go yet, so let's get started."
"We're right behind you." Christian nodded and extended his arm, letting her walk in front of him.
In no time Raven's skin felt damp and sticky, her hair and clothing wet with sweat after walking the short distance out of the clearing.
As she drew near the trees, they towered over her, much more impressive than from a distance. She stayed on Zharan's heels, Christian behind her. Walking single file, only those closest remained in sight. Most of the men ahead disappeared, camouflaged by overhanging branches and vines as massive as anacondas dangling from the treetops to the jungle floor. The thick green and brown canopy felt like an ancient house of worship, a sacred place. Heavy-duty root systems dug deep into the earth, dwarfing her presence with their age-old lineage. From centuries of dropped foliage, the jungle floor felt spongy and pliable underfoot and the ground smelled of decay, wet wood, and damp rich earth.
Like an entourage accompanying them, woolly monkeys hooted overhead and leapt from branch to branch. And colorful parrots screeched their passage, while smaller birds with bright plumage flitted between the tree limbs, more curious than fearful.
A cloud of insects swarmed over them, following fresh meat. At first Raven squinted through the hurling bugs, swatting them with a hand. But eventually she gave up and tried her best to ignore them. In no time she'd sweat off the bug repellent she had put on earlier, and she wasn't sure when or if she'd get a chance to put more on.
Then it started to rain again. Tree branches filtered the downpour, but soon she'd be drenched. The air felt muggy and thick. Everything around her grew dark and slick with rain. And the sound of it pum-meling the earth filled her senses. A steady incessant drone.
Through it all, the men kept absolutely quiet, with eyes vigilant. Dark-skinned faces, each with a story she would probably never know. Off in the distance, the occasional zing of a machete splitting wood echoed through the jungle as the native guide cleared a path for them up ahead.
The elevation changed and they began to climb, scrambling up a steep and narrow trail. Below and to the right the ground dropped away. She had to watch her step, with the soil turning to slick mud under her boots. Lactic acid churned in the muscles of her legs, her thighs burning. Still, she pressed on without complaint. Her throat felt parched, even with the rain. She wanted a cool drink in the worst way, but none of the others drank, so she held off and satisfied herself with the raindrops that quenched her lips.
She refused to give them any reason to regret bringing a woman.
After a while the rain began to dissipate to a gentle patter. Yet off in the distance, Raven heard a muffled rumble like faraway thunder, only more persistent. Another storm? She had no idea what it was, but her gut knotted all the same. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew what the sound was, but her brain hadn't registered it yet.
Still, she climbed on, leaning into the steep hill to keep her balance, grateful for any time she had spent on a Stairmaster. But it hadn't been near enough. The trek uphill finally leveled off, providing a welcome break from the torturous climb.
The rain had stopped, but now the rumble grew louder and masked the chime of the machete up ahead and the chatter of animals. The trees thinned and the sun's rays filtered through the leaves and vines and pierced the thick canopy. On this side of the ridge, blue sky penetrated the shadows.
As she crested a small mound and the men ahead of her started downhill, Raven knew what she would find. A massive and raging waterfall surged from the jagged cliffs beneath them. Breathtaking. From her vantage point, she didn't have a clear view of the pool of water below. A thick and constant mist churned, making it disappear. And the coolness of the waterfall billowed and touched her, giving an instant chill against the blistering heat of her skin, still damp with rain.
She turned to find Christian standing at her side. She felt his hand on her neck as he took a moment to enjoy the view. He let a couple of Zharan's men pass.
"Come on. They won't want us to pull up the rear. Time to go. You okay?" he asked.
"Sure." Raven took a swig of water and nodded, wiping her mouth and face with a sleeve. "Let's go."
It took them the better part of an hour to clear the waterfall and start their descent into a valley. But as they did, Raven spied a small patch of grassland below, a break in the surrounding trees. A section had been cleared. She saw the rooftops of a small village, a circle of huts with thatched roofs clustered around a larger communal structure. Although small children played, most of the inhabitants looked busy, preparing for some kind of celebration. Too much was going on for an average day of survival.
A central fire pit burned high, natives milling around it, occasionally flailing into a dance. And a large blackened carcass spun on a spit nearby, smoke spiraling into the air. They were still too far away to see what was happening, but Raven knew Christian had spotted the villagers too. She only took a moment to assess the situation, then turned down the trail with him close behind. No doubt he grasped her sense of urgency.
These people would not be expecting a fight. On the surface, the element of surprise would be in their favor, but she didn't want to take that fact for granted. An offensive could turn deadly in a hurry with men protecting their families. Raven picked up her pace, ignoring her aches, pains, and mounting bug bites.
With women and children involved, Zharan knew this assault operation would be more difficult. He expected it and said so. This would be his show, and she wouldn't second-guess the man. Her experience in tactical operations was limited, but she had a working knowledge of what would happen. Out of reflex, her mind ran through a checklist of preparations after she'd seen the village.
First, the crisis scene, targets, and innocents would have to be identified with solid intel from two-man observation teams. Entry routes and rally points with backup strategies would be nailed down. Each assault team would be comprised of four to five men. They'd be assigned specific responsibilities, position locations, and fields of fire. Some men would be designated as perimeter security, and an officer or two would be tapped for sniper duty.
Given the layout of the village, mission briefings would be conducted on the fly by radio with no practice runs. After the initial round of diversionary tactics, a series of launched flash bang grenades, the teams would sync their assault using the explosives. They'd insert at multiple points to overload Araujo's ability to react. And Chief Zharan would coordinate the command from a central location through radio communications. With heavy firepower, they'd get in and out as quickly as possible.