A Touch of Malice

by Gary Ponzo

  Matt poked his head inside the tent and watched the medicinal proceedings with the same awe and concern as Nick had.

  “The choppers are on the way,” Matt whispered while staring at Trent’s unconscious body. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure,” Nick said.

  “Is he alive?”

  Nick shrugged.

  “You realize that’s all Walt and the boys want to know,” Matt said, holding his cell phone down by his waist. “Can’t we check for a pulse?”

  “I tried. Apparently it’s not appropriate to interfere with the medicine man.”

  Matt gazed down at Trent’s mangled leg with a disgusted expression. “The guy needs some professional help.” Then he glanced down at the medicine man still administering his form of treatment, which seemed to include depressing Trent’s chest with his hand and mumbling some guttural noises similar to a wolf. “I mean, someone who’s been inside a medical school maybe.”

  Nick was nodding, but deep down part of him felt this particular patient might’ve been in the best hands. Something about the way the medicine man was listening and feeling, using all of his senses. Here in the Amazon, dealing with a particular bug which American doctors had never even heard of, this seemed like this could be Trent’s best chance for survival.

  “How long are we going to let this primitive form of healing go on?” Matt asked, now holding up the cell phone, apparently the command center wanting some answers and Nick being responsible for them.

  “Right now, we don’t have a choice,” Nick said. “I’ll make a decision once the choppers get here.”

  “Nick, we need to get him prepped for the transfer. Every minute we waste might cost him his life, if he’s not dead already.”

  Nick realized he was reacting to a simple diagnosis by an Indian chief who touched a nerve inside of him without ever knowing his history with PTSD or his medications. The man had reached down into Nick’s heart and tugged on something that was slithering within his soul and possibly the root cause to most of his symptoms. As a matter of fact, Nick’s condition had been improving ever since the tiny therapy session. His headache was gone and he could think so much more clearly.

  “He’s staying here until the medicine man is finished,” Nick said with a firm tone.

  Matt pulled on Nick’s arm to face him. “What is wrong with you? Are you having a relapse?”

  “I’m fine. Just get the team ready to leave. Find the nearest clearing and guide the choppers in.”

  “Nick—”

  “Go!”

  In all the years they’d been partners, they’d rarely had a disagreement without a logical basis for their decisions. Matt glared at Nick as he left the tent and placed the phone to his ear.

  Nick desperately wanted to feel Trent’s torso rise and fall with the act of taking in oxygen. He slowly and overtly reached his hand to Trent’s chest. The medicine man gave Nick a serious expression commanding him to remove his hand. There was a certain power to the medicine man’s face, the creases now becoming more accented. As if he’d seen all the horror the world could impose and he’d absorbed every last one of them.

  Nick pulled back his hand and stared intently at Trent’s upper body, searching for any indication he was actually breathing.

  Nothing.

  The mosquito netting flashed open and Nick turned to see Matt standing there holding the phone up, letting him know someone wanted to talk with him.

  Nick got up and took the phone from Matt, walking away from the scene where Kalinikov and the SEALs and the Maruto chief were all deep in conversation. He stepped behind the tent and felt his shoes sag into the soft rain-soaked ground.

  “This is Nick.”

  “What’s happening down there?” Walt’s voice came over the speakerphone loud and forceful.

  “We’re in the Camenos’ camp and Trent is here, but I can’t tell you his condition yet. One of the Marutos’ men is working on him right now.”

  “Nick, Delta Force is eight minutes away. Can you have Trent ready to transport the second they arrive?”

  “No,” Nick said, not quite understanding where his strength was coming from. “I’m going to give this man some time to work.”

  “What man? A medicine man from the Amazon? We’re putting the life of President Merrick’s brother in the hands of a medicine man? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Yes,” Nick said, leaving it at that, knowing his reputation and his career were about to take a big hit.

  “What do you propose I tell the president who’s been calling every ten minutes for an update?”

  “Walt, I’ve seen Trent’s body. He doesn’t appear to be breathing, okay? We take him from this camp right now and you’d be transporting a corpse. I’m telling you, there’s something going on down here neither of us is familiar with, but these people are. I suggest you tell the president that we’re close, but have yet to reach the camp. Tell Delta Force to circle around but stay airborne. They try to land here and they’ll only draw unwanted attention. I don’t know how far away the Cameno reinforcements are, but they’re certainly on the way.”

  “Nick, the Camenos are moving your way, we can see them. You need to get out of there.”

  Nick didn’t respond.

  There was a prolonged silence as the team digested the news. They must’ve realized they had little leverage to stop him from maintaining his position. Finally Defense Secretary Martin Riggs spoke. “All right, Nick. You’ve got twenty minutes. After that, the timeline will be pronounced and we’ll have more questions than answers.”

  “Done,” Nick said, then hit a button and held Matt’s phone down by his side. He wiped his face from sweat or rain, it didn’t matter much now. He wondered whether he was thinking clearly or simply delaying the inevitable. He didn’t know.

  Nick saw Matt in a clearing, examining the opening in the canopy overhead. His partner found him staring out into the jungle and came up to Nick with a concerned expression.

  “I mean . . .” Matt said, but stopped there.

  “I know,” Nick said, handing him back his phone. “I know.”

  Chapter 30

  Sam Fisk followed the entourage of Colombian officials into the presidential palace known as Casa de Nariño. President Merrick and President Santoro were side-by-side leading the parade while Fisk walked with Vice President Roberto Sanchez.

  The mansion had long, expansive stretches of Colombian art hanging from massive empty rooms. There were an endless number of arches and domed ceilings which reminded Fisk of ancient Roman architecture.

  They walked down an exhaustingly long corridor wide enough to land a small plane. Fisk wanted to create a rapport with the second-in-command should Santoro become unstable. He pointed to one of the oil paintings, a man on his knees, naked, hands tied behind his back. He recognized it as the image depicting the abuses from Abu Ghraib. “That’s an original Botero, isn’t it?”

  “Very astute, Secretary Fisk,” Sanchez remarked. “Are you an art aficionado?”

  “No, I’m a history aficionado.”

  “I see,” Sanchez said.

  “So how is the president doing these days?” Fisk asked the open-ended question like casting a fishing line into a river.

  Sanchez nodded to himself, considering his words carefully. “He is not . . .” the man glanced around and found nothing but Secret Service nearby, “doing well,” he finished.

  “In what way?”

  Again Sanchez darted his eyes. “In every possible way,” he whispered.

  They strode further down the enormous hallway, their hard leather soles echoing off the tile floors. Fisk carefully crafted the conversation to be understood, yet not directly insubordinate. “Just out of curiosity, should the president find a sudden demise, what would your level of concern be?”

  Sanchez couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle. “Let me suggest that the period of mourning would be very short.”

  “Then we have
something in common.”

  They made brief eye contact acknowledging both of their sentiments.

  As they entered President Santoro’s private office, two Secret Service agents flanked the doorway and saluted President Merrick with their thumb curled under their palm signaling that the office had been examined and was safe.

  Merrick returned the salute, and held out his arm to allow President Santoro to enter the office first. Santoro seemed overly grateful for the show of respect, his eyes gleaming with delight.

  As they occupied the large office, Santoro took his place behind his desk and sat down on a chair which engulfed him from its enormity. President Merrick took his seat in front of the desk. The chair was purposely lower to the ground and smaller in stature. An immature and entirely insecure move by the small, twitchy Colombian president.

  Two Secret Service agents flanked the back of the room while a couple of Colombian security guards stood by the closed door. Fisk knew there were a dozen Marines in the waiting area just outside the door and none of the Colombian guards were allowed to have weapons inside the office. An agreement made ahead of time and agreed upon by Santoro.

  “May I offer you a cup of Colombian coffee, Mr. President?” Santoro asked.

  “Sure,” Merrick said, seemingly satisfied to start soft.

  One of the guards poured coffee into a mug and brought it to Merrick with a ceramic cup of cream and several packets of sugar. Merrick mixed his coffee and took a sip. “Very nice, thank you.”

  Santoro’s eyes opened as he saw Fisk standing next to Vice President Sanchez. “I am so sorry, Secretary Fisk. Would you like a cup?”

  Fisk waived his hand. “No, thank you so much.”

  Santoro’s demeanor changed and he attempted his best presidential expression. “Mr. President, what can I do to assist you in this troubling time?”

  Fisk grinded his teeth so tight, he was about to get TMJ from the comment.

  Merrick wisely said, “You’ve been a great help accepting my visit to your wonderful country, Mr. President. I wonder if you’ve heard any news from your people in the Amazon?”

  The acting which was going on inside Santoro’s office rivaled any Academy Award winning performances Fisk had seen. Merrick was almost too accommodating.

  Meanwhile, Fisk kept his hand in his pocket wrapped around his cell phone, waiting for it to vibrate. His last text message from the command center in Walt Jackson’s office had said the rescue team was close to the Camenos’ camp and Fisk prayed they got there soon.

  “I have heard nothing new,” Santoro said with a manufactured frown.

  The two leaders avoided the awkward conversation about the photo taken by Merrick’s brother which started this entire episode. Santoro probably understood that the digital age prevented him from receiving a single copy of the negative. He had to know multiple copies were saved within the computer systems of the United States government.

  There was a ringing sound and Santoro reached into his pocket. He examined the number on his phone and said, “Please excuse me.”

  Merrick sipped his coffee and stared at the Colombian president with extraordinary attention.

  “Yes,” Santoro said into his phone. “Yes, of course, he is right here.” Santoro stood up and extended his hand with the phone. “It is for you, Mr. President.”

  Fisk stiffened. He saw Merrick take the phone and answer without hesitation, as if it were scripted somehow. Merrick said hello and nothing more. He nodded while listening to a one-sided conversation and Fisk approached him to eavesdrop, but Merrick held up his palm to stop the intrusion.

  “Yes, thank you very much,” Merrick said. “I appreciate it.”

  Merrick handed the phone back to Santoro. He sat down and said, “It was the leader of the Camenos, Pablo Moreno,” Merrick said in a low-key voice, glancing back at Fisk. “He wanted to offer his sympathy for my situation.”

  Santoro looked over his large desk and smiled. “See, there are many people who are recognizing your concern, Mr. President. I can feel the entire country swelling up to support you.”

  All Fisk could feel was the swelling of hypocrisy stinking up the room.

  “Where will we be having lunch, President Santoro?” Merrick asked.

  “In the Gallery Room,” Santoro said, checking his wristwatch. “Our meals will be served in forty-five minutes. Is that satisfactory?”

  “Yes,” Merrick said. He leaned to the edge of his seat. “Do you mind if I use the restroom?”

  “Of course,” Santoro gestured to an open door just to the right of his desk. “Be my guest. You can use my private quarters.”

  Fisk glared at the Secret Service agent next to him and he gave Fisk a gentle nod. The room had been secured.

  When Merrick closed the door, Fisk sensed the conversation dry up.

  “Exactly how many soldiers do you have combing the Amazon for the president’s brother?” Fisk asked the innocuous question to fill the silence.

  Santoro went on about the quantity and quality of the fighting force he had delegated to oversee the operation. Fisk nodded and added a few monosyllabic responses to pass the time, all the while clutching his phone to see good news show up on his screen.

  After a few minutes, Fisk focused on the closed bathroom door. It was the only place he couldn’t keep watch on Merrick’s whereabouts. Fisk wondered whether this was another part of the script or if he was just paranoid.

  The silence from Santoro’s private bathroom was excruciatingly painful to endure. As each second passed, the Secret Service agents became more antsy. Their eyes glued to the door.

  When Fisk caught the concerned look on Vice President Sanchez’s face, he knew they were in trouble.

  Chapter 31

  While the medicine man administered his brand of healing inside the tent, Nick scouted their perimeter, searching for evidence of the eroding Maruto homeland. He found it through his binoculars. Below them, maybe a mile or two away, he saw the cocaine fields spreading out over a large flat grid. This was why Trent had come, to document the diminishing habitat of an endangered species.

  Nick put down the binoculars and turned back over his shoulder at the prisoner’s tent. He began to have serious doubts whether he was doing the right thing. Not only was he delaying the rescue mission, but there were two helicopters out there waiting to take the team to safety and every minute they waited gave the Camenos an extra minute to get there.

  As he stashed his binoculars away, he watched one of the Maruto Indians tending to his bamboo blowgun. The Indian had rubbed the tip of a thin, sharp branch with some green frog skin he kept in the pouch around his waist. Then he began rolling up a small leaf around the branch, covering the entire poisoned dart. The same dart protruding from every Cameno soldier’s neck. It was only a couple of inches long and didn’t seem as if it could be as deadly as it apparently was. But what surprised Nick the most was what happened next. The Indian opened his mouth and stashed the thin dart into the side of his cheek. The Indian saw Nick watching and he opened his mouth wide to expose the collection of darts already stored there, his cheek swollen with poisonous bullets.

  Apparently something about the leaves protected the Indian from the poison, yet once the dart was expelled from the blowgun, the victim didn’t acquire the same protection. The Indian then placed the two-foot blowgun to his lips and aimed it at a tree trunk thirty feet away. At first it seemed to hit the trunk square, but then Nick noticed movement on the trunk and saw that the Indian had actually hit a small snake slithering up the tree. The dart went straight through the snake’s skin and immediately the creature was struggling to climb.

  The Indian maneuvered his mouth to load another dart into the blowgun, then handed it to Nick. The blowgun was lighter than Nick expected. He looked at the Indian who pointed to the snake which was already dangling helplessly from the tree.

  Nick put the blowgun to his mouth and gave a quick blow. The dart flew from the bamboo stick with incredible
speed hitting the tree just inches from the snake. The Indian seemed pleased with the result. He loaded another dart from his mouth, then handed it back to Nick. This time he pointed to his nose. Apparently Nick needed to use his nose to aim his dart. He gave it another try and found his target. The snake dropped to the ground.

  Incredible, Nick thought.

  The Indian took the blowgun back and nodded his pleasure with Nick’s progress.

  “Come,” Kalinikov called to Nick from the front of Trent’s tent.

  Nick ran into the tent to find Matt and the medicine man hovering over Trent’s body. Even in the darkness, Nick could tell there was movement. Trent’s chest was rising and falling with each breath. The medicine man was smiling. He nodded to Nick with a sense of pride.

  Nick grabbed Matt’s arm. “Get those choppers down now,” he ordered. “I’ll take care of him.”

  Matt scrambled out of the tent with the phone already to his ear.

  Trent’s injured leg was packed with leaves and wrapped with small vines. Nick was certain there would be something herbal and locally organic which was keeping Trent alive. The chief lumbered into the tent, his stature forcing Nick and the medicine man to move aside as he lowered himself over the wounded man and placed his index finger on Trent’s forehead. Almost instantly Trent’s eyes opened. A disoriented expression turned to joy as he saw the powerful Indian smile down at him.

  Trent appeared to derive strength from the chief’s presence. He reached out his hand and placed his index finger on the chief’s forehead. The two of them closed their eyes as if communicating with each other was more effective that way.

  Nick could see a tear trickle out of the corner of the chief’s eye. These were emotional creatures and weren’t afraid to display their passion for one another.

  The sound of helicopters approaching quickened the pace of their unique embrace.

  As they broke apart, Trent looked at Nick.

  “How did you find me?” he asked in a weak, raspy voice.