Into The Jungle: An Action Thriller (A Jumper Novel Book 1)

by TR Kohler

  Years of experience that nearly match her own, the two having been in the trenches together on the original form of the program, back when it was still imbedded at The Farm.

  Both reasons why he was her first call after taking that initial meeting over a year earlier.

  “Nobody here is ready for anything like that,” he eventually says.

  “No.”

  “Which means you’re now going on a recruiting trip,” he adds.

  A statement more than a question, Kari doesn’t bother responding.

  It isn’t like he doesn’t already know the answer.

  Again, silence falls. Whatever energy that may have existed when the line was picked up bleeds away.

  In its place is a sense of resignation. A feeling punctuated by a deep sigh.

  “Is he ready for that?” Doc eventually mutters. “Hell, are we?”

  Chapter Seven

  The man sitting across the desk from Hazik wears the same basic uniform as Yogo the night before. Standard military dress, he dons matching trousers and jacket, their exterior adorned in misshapen splotches of various shades of green. On his feet are polished black boots. At his hip, an automatic pistol, strapped to the extra-wide canvas belt that is cinched tight, seeming to hold everything to his slight frame.

  Any similarities that might exist stop there though, the man as different from Hazik’s previous visitor as can be imagined.

  Not that Hazik really cares what this man looks like either, his greater interest lying with the canvas sack balanced across the man’s outstretched palm.

  Roughly the size of a peanut, it bears a similar exterior appearance. One demarcated by bumps and bulges, barely hinting at the value of what is stowed away inside.

  Potential riches that are both funding and driving much of Hazik’s exploits throughout the region.

  A total haul that will be dependent on a number of things, ranging from the size to the clarity of the diamonds stowed away inside.

  Virtually the only natural resource the region has to offer beyond an abundance of men like the one before Hazik. People that are able to fight and willing to do so on the cheap.

  Certainly, for far less than what is represented by the small sack held between them.

  An item that normally would hold his full attention, though today he finds himself much more interested in the event that precipitated Yogo’s arrival the night before.

  “That’s just from Bukari?” Hazik asks, his brows rising slightly.

  Lowering his eyelids, Fumu tilts his head forward. A gesture that goes far enough that the wiry bristles of his beard almost touch his uniform jacket before he rises back to his original position.

  “Mhm.”

  “And they just handed it over?” Hazik presses.

  Again, the exaggerated nod.

  “Yes,” Fumu replies.

  “And this was before or after the encounter with the Americans?”

  “Before,” Fumu answers. “We stopped in on our way south, part of our routine patrols. Spoke to the village elder for a moment, who handed this over without incident.”

  Grunting softly, Hazik considers the information.

  All night, he lay awake. Staring at the ceiling, he wallowed in his sweaty bedsheets, trying to make sense of the information Yogo had stopped by to impart.

  A scenario that he could only manage to square in his mind one way.

  A stilted arrangement that already has been demolished by what Fumu is sharing.

  “Did the elder act odd or skittish? Give any indication he knew about the Americans?”

  This time, Fumu twists his head to either side. “Nothing.”

  “Do you think there is a chance he could have warned them after you left?”

  One side of Fumu’s face scrunches slightly. Lines form, vaguely resembling Yogo’s scars the night before. “Very doubtful. That deep in the rainforest, there is no reception.

  “And I doubt the man has any way of calling out to begin with.”

  Information that makes complete sense, even if it is not what Hazik wants to hear.

  “Walk me through the incident again,” Hazik says. Onto his desk goes the small sack of diamonds. Items that can wait until later, once Fumu has departed.

  For now, he needs the unfettered telling of the man in charge of his private militia. The overseer of a force set to grow with time, ready to spearhead Hazik’s political aspirations in the region.

  Plans that will eventually carry him all the way to the nation’s capital in Brazzaville, delivered through the only two commodities the country has to offer.

  “Four men working their way north toward the rainforest,” Fumu replies. “Soldiers, dressed in tactical gear, carrying automatic weapons.

  “We just happened to come upon them by complete surprise as we emerged on the main road heading south. Neither side expecting the other, we just kind of froze for a second before all hell broke loose.”

  A slight variation on the story shared the night before, Hazik nods. Not often has he ventured north of Makoua into the rainforest, though he knows the route well enough to picture it in his head.

  Imagine it playing out, just as he has for the last twelve hours.

  “They got eight of ours,” Fumu continues, cutting away a lot of the extraneous detail that was shared before. “We put down three of theirs. Managed to capture the fourth.”

  “Do you think they were moving north to meet up with the rebels?” Hazik asks, this being the part where Yogo’s story cut off. The moment at which Fumu sent him south to report back.

  “Don’t know,” Fumu answers. “There was no sign of anybody nearby, but we can’t be certain.”

  “Where is he now?” Hazik asks.

  “There’s a concrete bunker a couple of miles east of there,” the man says. “Part of the old research facility that was here in the eighties before they realized it was a waste of time and moved on.”

  Having heard the place mentioned a few times, never has Hazik been. Another manifestation of people thinking they can airdrop in from the outside and somehow fix whatever problems they perceive from afar.

  “Has he said why they’re here?” Hazik asks. “What they’re after?”

  “He hasn’t said anything,” Fumu replies. Lifting his right hand, he rotates it slowly, letting the overhead light catch the scabs and dried blood lining his knuckles. “And believe me, we’ve tried.”

  Taking in the mottled skin of the man’s hand for a moment, Hazik slides his gaze back down to the tiny bundle resting in the center of his desk. Potential value greater than anything the people of the area have ever seen.

  Something largely disregarded for ages, left buried beneath their feet.

  A potential windfall that took too much time or effort to bother harvesting.

  “Has to be because of the diamonds, right?” he eventually whispers. A rhetorical question as he focuses on the small object wrapped in canvas. The only possible reason anybody from the outside could be justified in coming.

  Damned sure in sending soldiers.

  “How are we doing on numbers right now?” he asks, moving his gaze up to Fumu.

  “Enough to cover the city and our patrols,” Fumu answers, “but this could change things.”

  Grunting softly, Hazik nods in agreement.

  The arrival of Americans could certainly do just that, shifting the balance he’s worked for the last few months to tip in his favor.

  “Pull some out of town if you need to, bring in new if you must,” Hazik says. Shifting his gaze back up, he adds, “And stay on that damn prisoner until he cracks.”

  Chapter Eight

  The front edge of the paddleboard is still more than five feet from the shore when Ali’i decides she has gone far enough and hops down. A haphazard plunge into the Pacific that is all knees and elbows, her nose and tail both sticking above the surface to mark her position as she flounders about.

  An unceremonious display that ends with her emerging
onto the shore and promptly shaking out her coat. A mist of saltwater and wet sand flung about, the full scene reminding Kidman of a baby colt taking its first steps.

  A mental image that can’t help but bring a smile to his face.

  “Four miles on the water, and you just couldn’t wait the last five feet?”

  Handle of his paddle gripped in either palm, he lets it rest across his hips as he stands straddling the midline of the board. Quads and shoulders both burning with lactic acid, he is content to let momentum carry him the last couple of feet.

  A short distance with his board ripping through the first flecks of bright light dancing across the surface of the water. With it comes the initial rise in temperature, promising at midday highs reaching back into the eighties.

  Another of the reasons Kidman sought out the shores of Molokai.

  Especially after his last landing spot in the Canadian Rockies, this one as different in every way as imaginable.

  A place he will miss dearly when the time arrives, his interaction with Auntie Napua just yesterday hinting it might be coming faster than he would prefer.

  Sliding his hands into position along the smooth fiberglass, Kidman gives one last nudge. A final push that sees the front tip of his board peek out past the edge of the waterline before he hops down.

  An exit he can only hope is more graceful than Ali’i’s a moment earlier as he takes a few quick strides to slow his momentum. Pulling to a stop alongside his board, he grasps the handle imbedded into the middle of the plank.

  Lifting it from the ocean, he turns it perpendicular to the ground, allowing it to nestle against his hip.

  A practiced movement that is performed without thought to the weight or the cascade of water streaking down his board shorts.

  Same a moment later when he stows it in the homemade rack nearby. A pair of Koa planks driven into the sand at slight angles, enough to form a V for the board to sit in. Across the bottom is lashed a third piece of wood. A small piece for the front edge to rest on, keeping the full length of the board from being exposed to the sand.

  A basic design allowing for only one point of contact with the ground. A system as old as the sport itself, designed to maximize the life of the board.

  A process Ali’i watches intently from the side, waiting until the board is nestled between the planks and settled back into position before bounding forward. A burst of playful energy that sends sand flinging as she leaps for Kidman.

  A game that is played out many times a day, the animal almost catching him before he is able to jump himself away from her. One of the rare occasions when he can use the other ability that was imbued to him upon his birth.

  The skill to leap through space, dissipating from one spot and appearing in another. A conscious flinging of his entire form from one place to another.

  An instantaneous shift regardless of distance, needing only to be in sight to be in range.

  A skill that this morning leaves Ali’i to land sprawled across the sand. A spider with legs splayed out wide, landing flat on her torso before spinning and attempting to track him down again.

  “Oh, too slow,” Kidman says, his smile growing wider as he drops into a crouch. Slapping at his thighs, he evokes a second rush from his canine companion, Ali’i tearing across the white powder before launching herself forward again.

  An attempt just as fruitless as the first, Kidman popping up right behind her. Close enough to drop both hands to her haunches, squeezing softly and giving her a gentle tug in either direction.

  A gesture that pulls a single bark out of the animal. A deep braying that echoes across the barren beach.

  “Oh, now, don’t be like that,” Kidman scolds, jumping yet again, this time making it just shy of the rear door to his home.

  A spot that it takes Ali’i a moment to figure out before recognition sets in and she comes bounding up the sand.

  One final attempt that Kidman allows her to win, catching her in his arms as she leaps up at him. Forty pounds of writhing animal that he brings in tight against his body, running a hand the length of her torso before dropping her to the ground.

  A game she doesn’t seem quite ready to be over. Landing on all fours, she hops twice in place, trying to coax him into continuing.

  Exuberant energy he manages to tamp down by slapping at the side of his damp shorts. Calling her over, he runs a hand down the length of her spine, feeling the knotted tufts of fur that give the breed its name under his palm.

  “Calm down, girl. That’s all,” he says. His gaze rising, he stares into the seemingly empty living room of his home. “We’ve got company.”

  Chapter Nine

  The last time Kari Ma laid eyes on Nic Kidman was seven years prior. An unannounced drop-in that was quite different from this one, both in form and function.

  There to share the unfortunate news of the disappearance of their former colleague Coop, the two had sat on the deck of his cabin nestled deep in the mountains of Canada. A pair of old friends in down jackets, sipping hot cocoa and staring out at the snowy peaks around them.

  Two people with vivid images of the departed dancing across their minds. Cases they’d worked and adventures they’d been on.

  Stories cast into the gaping maw of years of things left unspoken.

  Tales both of them went to great lengths to avoid mentioning.

  In the years since, it appears that no time has passed at all. At least not for the young man standing before her, framed within the rear door leading into his home. A benefit of his particular ability, a root cause being a cell regeneration that runs much, much higher than the average person.

  An underlying source that also sees him age at less than a third the rate of an average person, allowing him to have barely aged a decade since she first met him.

  A timeframe now right on the cusp of thirty years and counting. A window that has seen him progress from the teenager affectionately dubbed The Kid to a twenty-something.

  A transition she only wishes had been as kind to her.

  Standing a couple of inches over six feet in height, he is a full foot taller than her. A length that appears to be enhanced by the dark hair hanging in wet tendrils to his shoulders and the board shorts resting low on his hips.

  Additions to the form that seems to have lengthened since their last encounter as well. No longer swollen from bench presses and bicep curls, he looks to have been on a steady regimen of swimming and stand-up paddling.

  Activities much more befitting the location they currently find themselves.

  As does the healthy dose of sun splashed liberally across his skin.

  “Nic,” Kari says, her lips curling up slightly on either end.

  “Ma,” he replies, bending at the waist to run a hand down the spine of the dog currently attempting to hide behind his legs. A long and ropy animal with burnt sienna hair, its tail and head both lowered as it peers out at Kari.

  “Who’s your new friend?” Kari asks.

  “This is Ali’i,” Kidman replies. “Hawaiian for-”

  “Royalty,” Kari finishes, having heard the term once years before.

  “Exactly,” Kidman replies. “Found her one day when I first moved here. No owner around, no home nearby, nothing. Just sitting along the road, paws out in front of her, head up high.”

  He gives the length of her spine one more stroke, finishing with a light slap at her rear haunches.

  “Very regal, like a brown sphinx, just sitting there waiting for me.”

  One corner of his mouth upturned, it seems there is more to the story. Some fond memories attached, ready to be shared.

  A move that Kari recognizes just an instant too late, Kidman jumping straight across the room before she has a chance to react. Hopping from the dog’s side to her own, he wraps his arms around her, pulling her to his chest in an embrace.

  One of the few people in the world that knows how much she despises hugging.

  And the only one with the ability to ma
ke her engage in it just the same.

  “Good to see you,” he says, his chest quivering with a quiet chuckle before releasing her.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Kari mutters. Pushing back a step, she runs a hand over her hair, smoothing it into place. “Damned teleportation.”

  “That’s what you get for standing here invisible like some kind of boogeyman.”

  “I wasn’t sure if I had the right place,” Kari replies. Turning over a shoulder, she gestures to the cases lining the walls of his home. The spot where most people would have a television, his entertainment instead being leather bound books and a collection of ancient Hawaiian warcraft.

  Knives and daggers of various sorts, carved from polished wood and lined with razored shark’s teeth.

  A collection r that would make most museums quite proud.

  “Was afraid I might have walked into some local’s house by mistake.”

  Leaving her standing in the center of the living room, Kidman passes through an open archway into the adjoining dining area. Taking up a t-shirt, he pulls it on over his head before arching an eyebrow her way.

  “You? Afraid?”

  A response that causes a corner of Kari’s mouth to flicker. A small concession to the crack that was just made and the understanding belying it.

  A comment much like the one lobbed by Doc earlier, the two of them representing the last remaining members of the team Kari had originally been a part of.

  The same one she’s now spent the last twenty years hoping to recreate.

  “Well,” she concedes, “I didn’t say who I was afraid for.”

  Accepting the small victory for what it is, Kidman doesn’t push any further. Lifting his hands to either side, he gestures to the neighboring kitchen and says, “Normally after our morning paddle we have breakfast. You hungry? Want anything?”

  “No, thanks,” Kari replies. “I’m fine.”

  “You sure?” Kidman presses. “Tea? Water? You have to at least be thirsty after that flight.”