Despite the expectation of a smooth maneuver, she couldn't help but worry. Her cop instinct kicked in with an underlying restlessness, a familiar sensation before an armed siege. She wanted this day to be over.
But most of all, she prayed no one had to die.
Sitting cross-legged on the ground, hands resting on his elbows, Mario Araujo stared straight ahead. Dressed in a fine colorful tunic, he held his back erect and his head perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the festivities outside the communal hut. The people of his village wore clothes of bright cloth and strings of beads, their cheeks painted with simple shapes. They displayed their finest baskets and pottery, filled to the brim with various food offerings—all in celebration of his return.
They had no idea of his plans to make their feast more memorable, but he had no choice now. The time had come.
He shut his eyes and let the man who knelt before him work.
The village medicine man took great pains in detailing the paint across the skin of Mario's face. With fingertips dipped in black and rich ochre, the man made elaborate geometric shapes, a sign of nobility for his tribe. The face paint smelled of clay and glided on smooth and cool.
It reminded him of his childhood days in the shadow of the great Chapada dos Guimaraes. He could hunt alone for days and not see another human being, then return to camp, a person to be admired for his kills. A simpler time.
When he opened his eyes again, he noticed the rain had stopped. Soon the celebration would begin in earnest. The hog had been butchered and was nearly done. His people waited. In anticipation, their eyes shifted toward him as he sat in the shadows of the communal hut.
The medicine man had done his work. He bowed his head, gathered up his materials, and retreated, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Under his tunic, Mario felt the weight of his gun, a weapon he had used countless times in the city. And he also carried the encrypted phone, his only link to the man who had arranged this whole thing.
Soon, he would not need the incriminating connection.
Mario would pay his final visit to Nicholas Charboneau in the cave behind the waterfall. Accompanied by two of his men, he'd pretend to bring the American water and sustenance, food prepared with an overdose of the Iboga. When Charboneau's mind was no longer his own, he would haul him from the cave to the center of his village for all to bear witness.
When they learned what he wanted to do, his people would be shocked at first, but he would make them understand. To return to the old ways, big medicine would be required. And to clean the slate of injustice, they would have to make difficult choices. But it must start here and now, with him as their new leader.
Nicholas Charboneau would be their first human sacrifice. His death would be merciful and quick, before the Iboga did its worst damage. By that time, perhaps a knife through his beating heart would be considered a mercy.
In his village, he would deal justice as he saw fit, with no one to answer to—a truly liberating feeling after years of denying his heritage. There would be no need to ask the opinion of an outsider, using the special phone to reach his mysterious benefactor. Mario had made up his mind, yet he didn't think of himself as a killer. Instead, he considered himself a man who did not shirk his duties. He had a responsibility to protect his people.
Damn the reward money!
Between what his associate had told him before and what he had verified since, he drew only one conclusion. Someone had ordered the recent changes at Genotech Labs and must have found a way to profit from the pain of his people's addictions. Although Mario couldn't directly tie Charboneau to this, his accomplice had made the link clear enough, not holding back. As a fellow countryman, the man resented the intrusion of the wealthy American too.
Surely his partner would understand what must be done. Some beliefs transcended the significance of money.
Knowing the truth behind Charboneau changed everything. A simple kidnapping would not suffice now. Charboneau represented much more than just a threat to his people's way of life. He embodied the total disregard for them as human beings. This would not be tolerated.
Mario stood and pulled his tunic around him, his head held high. With the jail cell key in hand, he gathered a jug of water and a tin plate of food he had prepared earlier. Outside the hut, he nodded and gestured for two men to help him carry the special last meal for his American "guest."
Soon it would be over for Nicholas Charboneau. Mario sincerely hoped the man's god would have mercy on his soul—for he would find no forgiveness here.
Chief Zharan lay on his belly, propped on his elbows with binoculars focused on the huts in the clearing below. As Raven had expected, he made his assignments and ordered his men in teams to surround the village. They awaited the final go ahead. The chief spoke Portuguese softly into his headset, gathering intel and communicating his orders. She didn't have to speak the language to understand.
A few things had gone in their favor. The dense foliage and the treeline provided adequate cover for the operation. And the village looked preoccupied with a celebration. The chanting and activity proved quite a distraction. Another good cover for Zharan's maneuverings.
Yet something bothered her.
She didn't want to make an assumption, but these people appeared to be amateurs compared to other South American abductions she had read about.
Hard to believe they had any connection to the city of Cuiabá at all, much less staged a kidnapping there. Could they have pulled it off without help? It made her wonder about the accuracy of Zharan's intel.
She watched the village using Jasmine's binoculars. The huts were made of rudimentary materials indigenous to the area—pliable tree limbs, layers of grasses, sod walls—but some were made from bits of corrugated metal and plywood. She estimated forty adult inhabitants, with twenty or more varying under the age of fifteen years. Younger dark-skinned children with swollen bellies and bare bottoms were harder to count. They ran among the adults, playing games in bare feet around the communal fire blazing in the center of the village. And in a separate pit, the villagers cooked a hog carcass.
Raven counted thirty huts with three other structures of unknown purpose. The openings to the dwellings faced inward, making it easy for the tribe to defend the core of the community, yet the arrangement made them vulnerable to more sophisticated surveillance, as the police were doing now.
So far, everything had gone better than expected, except for one thing. They had not found Nicholas Charboneau. Raven hugged the ground next to Christian and handed him the binoculars.
"Don't think they're expecting company," she whispered.
"Good for us." Christian stared through the field glasses, muttering under his breath. "Any signs of Charboneau?"
"No. None so far." She nudged her chin. "He might be in one of those smaller huts, there and the two over to the left." She pointed to the three small huts that didn't look to be inhabited. "But if he were held in one of those, you'd think there'd be a guard out front."
"Yeah, I agree."
"And I haven't seen a weapon either." She grimaced. "But that doesn't mean they don't have them."
"Yeah." Despite his reply, Christian didn't sound convinced. He looked through the binoculars with renewed interest.
Villagers circled the big fire pit, strolling and dancing in one direction. And they chanted, a rhythmic repetitive sound of mostly male voices building to a crescendo. Painted faces, bright colors, and festive robes; Christian felt an air of anticipation running through the village like an electrical charge.
"Something's going down ... up ahead there." He shifted his focus. "What are they up to?"
The large communal hut was comprised of a woven mat of grasses pitched over the top of a wooden frame. The covering had the texture of dense hemp. One side, facing them, was completely open. They saw hammocks stretched along the back wall inside, hung between heavy wooden stakes pounded into the ground. A man standing in front of the opening waved for a couple of men to follow him. Dressed in an elaborate tunic, with his face almost completely painted, he had the look of a medicine man or native chief.
The three men left the encampment and headed for a well-worn trail—straight toward them. Within minutes the natives would be right on top of their position.
Christian got to his feet and hunched down, turning toward Zharan. "They're bringing food and water to Charboneau. We gotta follow 'em."
"You don't know that for sure."
"It doesn't matter. We can't let them go without someone on 'em," Christian said, pleading his case. "You have your men assigned, you can't afford to send more than one or two men to tail these guys. Let Raven and me do it."
A stern look spread over the chief's face and he narrowed his eyes at the native men on the trail below. Christian knew what he was thinking. The path crossed near enough to their position to matter. And if the natives deviated from it, there would be greater risk. Either way, the men would be upon them soon. Zharan had no time to waste.
"Your woman will stay here," he said in a hushed tone. "Take Fuentes."
Christian caught the move. Raven raised her chin to protest, no doubt upset over getting shot down for the assignment by an overdose of testosterone and chauvinism. To her credit, she kept her silence and only glared at the chief. But the man ignored her and gave an order to Fuentes over the headset without hesitation. They exchanged words in Portuguese. Clearly, Zharan welcomed authority and wielded it with an iron hand, no questions asked.
Within seconds, Fuentes crept up behind Christian, stone quiet and with a grim face.
"Fuentes will stay in touch on the com set." Then Zharan glared at Christian and pointed a finger. "And you'll follow my man's orders without question. Do you understand?"
All business, Christian nodded to the chief. Before he left, he shot a sympathetic gaze at Raven, followed by a subtle wink. She raised an eyebrow and the corner of her mouth twitched, her version of a smile under duress. Time to go.
If the man wearing the war paint and fancy duds was someone in a position of authority, or even Mario Araujo himself, Christian and Fuentes had a shot at ending this battle before it had even begun. Without a head honcho, the tribe may not resist. And if he and Fuentes found his father alive and unharmed, perhaps this operation might end without bloodshed. They could slip away without the natives knowing they'd been there until it was too late.
Even with the good thoughts, Christian couldn't shake the anxiety welling in his chest. He had no idea what triggered the feeling. And to complicate matters, it began to rain. Dark clouds cast shadows along the ground and deepened the reach of its steamy fingers into the jungle. From experience, he knew drizzle could turn into a deluge in short order. Dirt would dissolve into a slick stream of mud.
One last time, he glanced over his shoulder at Raven, and found her staring back. Although he wasn't a mind reader, he'd double down on his bet that she felt the same way.
Something felt off, but he had no tangible reason to turn back now.
"Caves can be sacred to these people," Fuentes whispered, binoculars up. Raindrops pelted his helmet and shoulders. "The path to the waterfall is well worn. And now they climb. They've got a cave up there." The loud drone of the tumbling water almost made it impossible to hear him.
Christian hunkered down behind thick undergrowth next to the Brazilian detective. His drenched clothes clung to his body like a second layer of skin he didn't need. He watched as the three native men traversed a rock ledge near the base of the waterfall. The boulders were slick with rain, and the men tread with slow deliberate moves. A cave made sense. He couldn't think of any other reason for these men to make such a treacherous climb.
Eventually, the men disappeared behind the thick sheet of water and did not emerge again. If a cave did exist, they had found it.
"Come on. Let's go," Christian prompted. "That cave. We might lose 'em in there."
"I've got night vision gear. You don't." Fuentes turned to face him, rain beaded on his cheeks and drizzled off his chin. "Perhaps you should stay near the base of the waterfall and wait for me to return."
Fuentes pulled out his tactical night vision headgear and fixed it to his helmet. Once inside the cave, the special goggle would slip over the detective's eyes, giving him the ability to see in the dark. He had to stay far enough behind the men they were tracking to avoid their flashlights, which made his gear ineffective.
Christian shook his head. "No worries. Me and the dark are old friends." He took the lead, slogging through the mud. He didn't wait for Fuentes to catch up. The darkness had once been the catalyst for his greatest fear, only reminding him of the tragic loss of the Delacorte family who'd raised him all those years ago. The abject feeling of being powerless had been at the root of his worst nightmare.
Now, the inky black would be his ally.
Nicholas thought he saw a play of light on boulders to his left. Sitting alone in the dark had wrought havoc on his senses. Made his brain mush and messed with his equilibrium. Perhaps he had only imagined the dim flicker of light, needed to see it for his own sanity. He pushed his back against the rock wall and used his hands and arms to shove off the ground. He'd grown weak, his throat parched.
He stood and waited. Chin high, he mustered the last bit of dignity he had left. If he had a shot at escaping, he'd have to take it soon—no matter the odds. Eventually, he'd be too weak to make a convincing go of it. The light got brighter, more distinct. Someone was definitely coming. He heard their approach echoing in the cavern. His heart kicked up its usual pace.
Desperation was distasteful. He wanted no part of it.
"Ah, he stands on his own two feet. Good. Room service has brought food and water. This may not be Hotel Palma Dourada fare, but let it not be said I am an inhospitable host."
The native man's face was painted and he wore elaborate ceremonial garb. Nicholas almost didn't recognize his abductor.
"What is this? Trick or treat? Sorry, but I'm fresh out of candy." He couldn't help it. Sarcasm came naturally.
One of the men laid the water jug down and scooted a tin plate through the metal bars. The image shot a moment of déjà vu through Nicholas. The peculiar sensation had something to do with Jasmine, but he couldn't explain how or why. Although he wanted nothing more than to drink and eat, he resisted the urges of his body and heeded his instincts.
"No thanks. I'm quite full, actually. Couldn't eat another bite." He rubbed his lean belly and slouched against the back wall.
His captor walked toward the bars and sat on a nearby boulder, a smug look on his face.
"You are a stubborn man." He shook his head. "In my country, we learn not to squander such opportunities. You never know when or if your next meal will come at all. It makes no difference to me whether you eat or not. Your destiny is sealed."
"Then perhaps we should talk instead. Food for the soul." Nicholas remained standing and crossed his arms, trying to look nonchalant and in control. Hardly the way he felt. "You mentioned that you know why I came to your country. And that I have committed crimes against your people. In the United States, the accused has a right to face his accuser. Surely you would grant me that simple right. Tell me what you think you know."
Even in the dark, Christian took the lead with eyes shut, using his senses more than his eyesight to feel his way. He fought to suppress his trauma-induced fear of the dark, forcing himself to move and remain focused on the hunt. Like a bat with sonar, he maneuvered through pitch-black, second nature from the training he had obsessed over most of his adult life. His hand was never far from his Marine Corps Ka-Bar knife.
The native men had a lead. Their flashlights weren't visible, but he followed their trail all the same. Their rough-hewn damp clothing, the distinctive smell of their skin, and the face paint left a marker in the air for him to follow. Different from the natural smells of the cave.
Fuentes thought he had an advantage wearing his night vision gear and tried to slip ahead, taking a turn down a tunnel that veered right. But Christian stopped him from stepping into a hole, placing an arm across the man's chest. He shook his head after he knew he had the cop's attention.
Christian gestured without speaking, knowing the detective would understand he needed to step around the ditch and stick with him. He didn't have time to explain how he trailed the natives, but he kept Fuentes on track, back to the main cavern. The air in the cave smelled thick with minerals and an earthy dampness. His wet clothes brought a chill to his skin, but he kept moving, Fuentes close at his heels.
When he heard voices in the distance, Christian risked opening his eyes. Beyond the bend, a distant glow shone against a rock wall ahead. The light flickered. He couldn't make out the words that garbled in echo, but Fuentes removed his night vision gear and moved ahead with his Taurus .45 caliber ACP in a two-fisted grip, silent as death.
Christian knew it was out of his hands now. Fuentes would take over.
His captor insisted, "You came to Brazil to conduct genetic experiments on my people that aren't condoned in the U.S. Something to do with drug addiction. Do not deny it. And that so-called new medical clinic you have added to Genotech Labs is a front for all of it."
Nicholas grimaced and shrugged. "What are you talking about? What clinic? Genotech is a lab for genetics research, yes. And yes, I've funded some of its efforts, but you're mistaken if you think there's some new medical facility there. I would know of such a thing."
The man laughed aloud. His voice carried through the cavernous space.
"Do you think me a fool? I have seen this clinic with my own eyes. I can assure you that I know what I'm talking about, sir." His captor stood, indignant. He paced the front of the cell. "You have the local military police working with you. They take addicted men off the streets and use them to conduct their experiments. And these men are never seen again. This is reprehensible."
Nicholas shook his head and stepped closer to the metal bars. "I admit to purchasing the services of key personnel within the police force and the local government. Such an investment tends to work in my favor, but I prefer to be more discreet. What is this about taking drug addicts off the streets for experiments? I know nothing of this."
"Why do you bother to dispute it? I have spoken to a witness. He confided everything."