by TR Kohler
Into the Jungle
A Jumper Novel, Book 1
T R Kohler
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Epilogue
Sneak Peek
Free Book
Author’s Note
Bookshelf
About the Author
The mystery of human existence lies
not in just staying alive, but in
finding something to live for.
—Fyodor Dostoyevsky
A man cannot be comfortable without
his own approval.
—Mark Twain
Prologue
The trench from the AK47 round cuts clear to the bone. A groove carved into Kidman’s skin that goes deep enough to flash white for a moment. A clear look at the humerus that comprises his upper arm before blood rushes in, filling the wound and streaking down his skin.
An injury that registers first with his eyes, followed a moment later by the searing stab of pain it provides. A fiery finger thrust directly into him, one of many he’s endured over the years.
A physiological jolt he hasn’t experienced in quite some time, his teeth gnashing together. Sucking in a sharp intake of air, he raises his face toward the forest canopy above.
Muscles and tendons flex the length of his neck, bulging beneath the skin. His fingers curl up into fists, veins tracing along the backs of his wrists.
Full body tension as he counts off the seconds. Moments of agony while waiting for his accelerated healing to take over and begin closing the wound, shoving the pain away.
Moments Anika has no intention of allowing him, instead reaching out and balancing her palm atop the wound. Bare skin-to-skin contact, oblivious to the dark blood still coursing out.
“I know you aren’t going to like this,” she whispers, “but I’m doing it anyway.”
Before Kidman can say a word, can even transition his mind away from the sharp agony of the bullet wound, her hand begins to glow. A deep amber color that is almost too bright to stare directly at, forcing him to look away.
Just as he had at the hut earlier in the day.
“Anika, you can’t-”
“Shut up,” the girl mutters. Words barely audible as they are shoved out through teeth clamped tight. An impenetrable focus aimed at his wound, completely ignoring the scene playing out around them.
The roar of Jeep engines as Hazik’s soldiers tear through the small village, a violent mix of flung soil and exhaust fumes. The continued report of automatic weapons fire.
The sights of burning huts and the acrid scent of smoke.
The cries of villagers as they run for cover.
Total concentration manifested in the warmth permeating Kidman’s arm. The resonant feeling as the pain of just moments earlier recedes.
The sense of calm it imbues, his own attention turning from the wound to the scene around them.
What his next steps are. How to best proceed against the unprovoked onslaught.
Start to finish, it takes only a moment. Much shorter than what was required with Wembo prior. A combination of Kidman’s own healing and his wound not being nearly as serious.
A brief respite that ends with Anika pulling her hand back to reveal only a few errant smears of blood marring his skin. Same for her fingers, the nails lined with red.
Nothing more.
“There,” she whispers, her gaze tracing up from his arm to his face. A look that betrays some of the weariness she is feeling. The toll of what she just performed. “Now get your ass out there and put an end to this.”
Meeting her stare, Kidman flicks his gaze down to his arm. Raises it to the ongoing melee, again assessing how to best attack what is happening.
One man against a small militia intent on inflicting widespread destruction.
“What about you?”
“Just go, before there’s nothing left to save.”
Chapter One
To look at Nic Kidman’s opponent, the first thing that many would seize on is the hair. Nary a trace of dark color remaining, the silver locks hang straight down. Cascading over his shoulders, they cling to the sweat lining his chest and back.
A look that doesn’t just hint at an advanced age, but rather resembles a hood shrouding his leathered features as he moves in and out of the flickering firelight. A swinging screen, able to create misdirection.
An ethereal halo keeping his true visage hidden from sight.
A look not dissimilar to many Kidman has seen over the years. People like himself, imbued with some sort of special ability. Some power, or enhancement, or whatever the going term is to describe someone that can do things others cannot.
A characteristic that the man before him does not share, his look, his expertise, honed through nothing more than practice and dedication. Decades spent in service of a craft many believe to have died out centuries ago.
A devotion to ensuring the ancient ways of his Native Hawaiian heritage do not fall by the wayside.
Such a commitment being what drew Kidman to him years before.
A kindred spirit that became a teacher that became a friend.
“The most important thing to remember about Kapu Kuialua,” the man known as Uncle Kamaki whispers. The same even tone he always employs, even now as he circles around, preparing to strike yet again.
The same words he has repeated many times. A mantra imparted to him, which he now hands off to Kidman.
“Is that it is not about just inflicting pain. It is also about absorbing it. Creating a stronger sense of self.”
Words that this morning Kidman lets slide past. Backgro
und noise as he matches the man’s steps. A simple circle right, the two of them locked in the same dance that begins so many of their days.
Training by firelight along the shore on the island of Molokai. Endless preparation, the elements providing a much better platform than any gymnasium could ever hope to.
“Learning to ignore your own pain, and in the process turning your entire body into a weapon.”
The moment the last word is completed, Kidman moves. A sudden burst forward, propelling himself off his right foot. In tandem, he drives up his left knee.
A scything strike aimed at the inside of the man’s hip. A blow designed to knock out his base. Force him to fight off-balance at best, from his back at worst.
A shot that Kamaki parries deftly to the side. A quick defense aided by mashing his palm along the inside of Kidman’s knee, twisting him away.
A flailing movement that sends sand flying, his opponent momentarily disappearing from sight.
Dropping to the soft sand of the shore, Kidman whirls in a quick arc. Pivoting on his knee, he sends his other foot out wide, dragging it across the ground, using the momentum to spin him back the other way.
A move meant to bring Kamaki into view. Prepare Kidman for his next strike.
A decision that proves shortsighted, spinning him right back into the point of the old man’s elbow. A direct shot to the soft tissue of his forehead, bisecting his brows, opening a gash.
A narrow split in the skin that sends a tendril of blood down the bridge of his nose.
Warm liquid that streaks straight forward before sliding off to either side. Running over his lips, the taste carries the familiar combination of salt and copper.
Another thing that has become a common start to his day.
Momentarily dazed from the shot, Kidman shoves back out of the sand. A move to gain a bit of separation as he retreats a step, the narrow gap lasting no more than an instant. A brief window before Kamaki shoots in, a quick movement aimed directly for center mass.
Fists and elbows coming directly for Kidman’s solar plexus, ingrained response causing him to fold inward. Protect his vital organs and hope to set up a counterattack.
A plan that falls woefully short as the old man ceases just before contact. A hard feint that leaves Kidman off balance.
And his entire lower body exposed.
The trio of blows that lands aren’t nearly as vicious as they could be. Direct shots to his hip, knee, and ankle in order. Alternating sides, they take out his entire support.
Shots just hard enough to drop him flat into the sand, his joints aching enough that he won’t soon forget the lesson.
Another of the bedrocks in the ancient martial art more commonly referred to as Lua.
Legs splayed from his body at an angle, Kidman rests flat on his back. Sucking in gulps of air, he stares up at the lightening sky above, waiting for the initial jolts of pain to pass.
A period that lasts no more than a moment or two before starting to recede, allowing him to sit up. Burying his hands in the sand behind him for support, he bends each of his legs, forcing the stiff joints into movement.
“Are you okay?” Kamaki asks, having already receded back to the fire. Their lesson completed for the day, he has a poker in hand, tamping the coals down.
Within an hour, it will be completely burned out, replaced by the sun sitting well above the horizon.
“Yes, Uncle,” Kidman replies.
“Do you understand the point that was made here this morning?”
Raising a hand to his face, Kidman strips away some of the blood resting on his cheek. Checking his fingers, he sees the bright smear tracing along the folds and ridges.
“Yes, Uncle.”
The tip of the poker still buried in the coals, Kamaki turns to look at Kidman full.
“And will I see you back here in a few days for our next lesson?”
Chapter Two
Deep gouges line the outside of the man’s face. Uneven grooves offset by furled skin, their ridges made obvious by the sweat flashing beneath the overhead lights.
The sort of thing that is in no way natural. A clear result of combat of some sort. Scratches from a sharpened blade or even a club scraping across the skin at an angle.
Scars that the man seems to wear with pride. A look believed befitting a soldier, as much a part of his uniform as the pale green camouflage togs he wears.
An overall ensemble that Hazik is completely certain he has never encountered before, the jarring visage of the man one he would definitely remember.
Not that he greatly cares what the man looks like, his entire focus instead aimed at the information that has just been shared.
“You are certain?” Hazik asks.
More than once, he has heard similar stories. Inflated claims from various people in his employ stating they have encountered salacious enemies nearby. Overblown stories of encroaching intruders painted as monsters creeping in from the neighboring rainforest to the north.
Never, though, has he heard this.
Or, even, of something like this.
“Absolutely,” the man with the name Yogo scrawled across the chest of his military jacket in marker replies. “American soldiers. All four of them.”
Even hearing it aloud a second time, Hazik’s first inclination is to dismiss the claim. Another instance of mistaken identity, the man falling into a similar trap as many of his fellow countrymen. False assumption that any pale face that dares show up in the Republic of the Congo is American.
A fair assumption, Hazik must admit.
Most other people the world over are smart enough to keep their asses far, far away.
Not the Americans though, with their missionaries and doctors and various other do-gooders. People intent on flying halfway around the world to teach the poor jungle-dwellers how to live, their own problems at home be damned.
Futile efforts that for years Hazik was content to let play out unfettered.
But no longer.
Rising from behind the palatial desk serving as the centerpiece of his mayoral office, Hazik clasps his hands behind his back. Striding to the double doors standing open behind him, he makes it as far as the threshold before stopping.
Peering out into the night, he feels the slightest puff of breeze.
The most reprieve one can hope for from the oppressive heat of residing so close to the equator.
“You are sure they were soldiers?” Hazik asks.
“Yes, Hazik.”
Nothing extra added. No details to impart confidence. No description of what makes the man so certain.
Rotating at the waist, Hazik peers over a shoulder. “Not Bible thumpers? Doctors?”
“No,” Yogo replies. “These men were definitely not carrying books or medicine.”
His gaze fixed on the man, Hazik waits for him to continue. Like most of the people that fill that seat, he expects there to be an upwelling of information.
So much so that the problem is often in getting them to shut up.
An issue Yogo does not seem to share, intently staring back, as if waiting to be told when to speak.
A trait Hazik generally appreciates, if not for the fact that in this particular instance, it is nothing short of irritating.
“So how the hell do you know they are soldiers?” he snaps. “Or Americans?”
Before Yogo can so much as get out a word, Hazik considers the man’s previous stance and adds, “Start at the beginning. Leave out nothing.”
Chapter Three
Despite the United States Capital Building sitting more than twenty miles inland from the Atlantic Ocean, Kari Ma can feel the unmistakable bite of it in the blustery winds blowing in from the east. The harsh stab of cold air so much stronger than can be conjured merely from the nearby Potomac River, it seems to cut directly through the dark pantsuit and wool coat she wears.
Clamping around the twisted assemblage of her left leg, it forces her to set her jaw. The grip of her left hand
tightens on the silver head of the cane she carries.
Minor adjustments barely noticed by the bank of assembled media before her. A throng of onlookers all intently listening to the outgoing President of the United States prattle on.
Words she has very little interest in. An assemblage she has no desire to be a part of.
Even if it is all here on her behalf.
Yet another of the unending events she’s come to loathe in her last twenty years working in the nation’s capital. One more on a tally too great to even attempt to keep track of, this being the first time it is her standing at the center of it, a post she has made a point to avoid for so long.
The only reason she succumbed to today’s invitation is for the finality it provides. The appearance of a clean break, allowing her to transition into the greater task she has waiting for her, far from any cameras or fanfare.
A calculated evil that will give her the freedom she’s been craving for so long.
