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

by TR Kohler

  Smirking softly, Ma replies, “Have everything you need?”

  Shifting the photos into his right hand, Kidman uses his left to heft his pack up off the floor. Hooking a strap over his shoulders, he bounces once, getting it to settle into place.

  “Guess we’ll find out,” he says. “Besides, it’s not like I can’t just hop back for anything I might forget.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Given his preference, Hazik would be seated on the rear bench seat of his Lincoln Town Car. A common vehicle in places like London or New York, getting it to Makoua had taken no small amount of money and effort. Investments made when he first ascended to the mayor’s seat, both proven worth it in exacting the effect he intended.

  A rolling status symbol, making it very clear at a glance that someone of importance is nearby. Somebody that others should not only sit up and take notice of, but go out of their way to align themselves with.

  Fast.

  No matter how much he might prefer the smooth and even ride of the Town Car though, there is simply no way of such a vehicle getting him where he needs to be. With very low ground clearance, it would be impossible to navigate the rutted dirt road extended north out of Makoua.

  Even attempting such a thing would make for a miserable ride, almost assured to destroy the undercarriage of the vehicle. Just as it would make him an easy target, the car of no use in the event that more rebel insurgents were to appear and give chase.

  Fumu’s comment the previous night annoying him or not, it was true.

  The insurgents had grown bolder as of late.

  Swapping out his position in the padded rear bench seat of the Lincoln, today Hazik finds himself riding shotgun in a Jeep. A standard model that has been refitted to meet the needs of Fumu and his soldiers, the only creature comfort remaining from the original vehicle is the soft cushion of Hazik’s seat.

  Beyond that, the radio is missing. The air conditioner is busted. Even the top and sides have been removed completely, leaving only the exposed frame. A strategic choice to allow for the pair of men standing in the backseat behind him. Each holding AK-47’s balanced across the top support, they peer out into the thickening vegetation around them, prepared to fire at the slightest hint of movement.

  All of it coming together to make for a miserable riding experience. The type of thing that is beneath a man of Hazik’s station.

  The sort of situation that only confirms what he is doing.

  Today being just the most recent step in that plan.

  “How much farther?” he asks, not bothering to glance over to Fumu. As leader of Hazik’s forces, it is well known that he is the only one worth speaking to directly.

  The very rare outlier being nights like a couple prior, when Yogo was sent as a direct representative with time-sensitive information.

  “Ten minutes,” Fumu replies. A standard response in an area where distance is virtually irrelevant, travel instead marked by landmarks or increments of time.

  The middle Jeep in a convoy of three, he keeps his focus straight ahead. Pushing the speedometer just fast enough to keep pace with the lead vehicle, he deftly maneuvers around most of the major depressions and potholes.

  A deliberate choice, swapping out a bit of side-to-side movement in favor of deep divots. Potential queasiness over the possibility of a busted axle.

  After hearing from Yogo that there was an American survivor from the encounter the night before, Hazik’s first inclination was to have the man brought directly to him. Driven due south by Fumu and his team, the survivor could be placed into the holding cells deep in the basement of the mayoral residence.

  An ideal location for keeping the man as long as necessary to extract whatever information he carries. Details about why he was there. What interest he – or his country – suddenly has in the region.

  Answers that he already suspects he knows the answers to, needing only to hear them confirmed.

  A plan that lingered until Fumu arrived the next morning, providing details Yogo didn’t have. Items such as where the man had been relocated or the extreme lengths that had already been undertaken in hopes of breaking him.

  Brutal displays that were said to have escalated in the time since, the prisoner resolute in clinging to a story known to be a complete fabrication. The sort of thing concocted in some government agency somewhere.

  A tale they believe the locals will eat up, not knowing any better.

  A stance that only heightens the acrimony Hazik feels. His hands tightening into fists atop his thighs, he glances down to see his knuckles flashing beneath the skin.

  A full-body clench that lasts no more than a few moments before ceasing, dissipating as Hazik’s focus is ripped away. Pulled upward to the thunderous roar of an explosion nearby.

  A fiery pyre that hits the front corner of the lead Jeep. A geyser of dirt and sand that lifts it into the air, the vehicle seeming to hang suspended in the air, levitating above the earth, before crashing down in a heap.

  Chapter Twenty

  One moment, Kidman is standing in the underground bunker at The Ranch. A quiet, contained space with the cool touch of air conditioning on his skin. Across from him are Kari Ma and Ali’i, both eyeing him with looks oscillating between wary and uneasy.

  The latter, from growing uncertainty about whatever Kidman is about to do.

  The former, at the notion of being left behind holding the leash for the dog whose ears rise just past her waist.

  A pairing neither seem the least bit comfortable with as Kidman focuses on the top photo in the stack Ma just handed him. An image with a small clearing sitting just beyond the foreground.

  By far the largest chunk of open space visible in any of the shots. As good a place as many of the others he has jumped into over the years.

  Or so he thinks.

  “Take care of my dog,” he mutters, hoping to evoke a smile that never comes.

  Less than a full second later, he finds himself standing on damp earth. Ground that feels almost spongy beneath his feet, no doubt a result of the heavy veil of humidity in the air.

  Moisture so thick it resembles a blanket resting on his skin.

  Details that register and are dismissed in an instant, paling in comparison to the whine of automatic fire and the acrid scents of smoke and diesel fuel in the air.

  Errant cries of pain or giving instruction.

  Unmistakable identifiers of battle, his body reacting in ways it hasn’t approached in decades. Evoked responses like adrenaline seeping into his bloodstream and goose pimples lining his exposed forearms.

  Reflexive answers not seen since that last foray into Yangon that robbed Ma of her ability to walk unassisted.

  His entire body clenched, Kidman drops himself to a knee. Sliding the backpack from a shoulder, he brings it around in front of him and stuffs the images still clutched in his hand inside.

  A necessary task to ensure he can at least get back to his starting position if need be.

  An exercise in self-preservation, leaving behind as little sign of his passing as possible.

  The moment the images are stowed and the pack returned to position, his next inclination is to reach for the pahoas strapped to either leg. Weapons that, when coupled with his jumping abilities, will more than serve his purposes in whatever skirmish is playing out.

  A notion that is considered and dismissed in a moment, not yet knowing what exactly it is he has just stumbled upon. The combatants present or their goals from battle.

  If either side will view him as an ally, or if he will make an already ugly situation even worse.

  Leaving the knives strapped into place, Kidman rises. Much like the weapons, he pushes aside the inclination to jump himself forward, instead choosing to remain on foot. Opting to keep from drawing any unwanted attention just moments after arriving.

  A path of action that sees him remain bent forward at the waist. Total height lowered almost by half, he pushes ahead. A non-linear path using what thin
cover is available as he works his way north, each step taking him closer to the sounds of battle echoing out.

  In unison, his senses seem to come alive. Picking up details they haven’t experienced in years, they funnel information to him.

  Data points such as the acrid scent of gunpowder is mixed with something more. Something chemical, hinting there was likely an improvised explosive of some sort employed.

  Faint traces of fuel as well, indicating there was likely a vehicle involved.

  In the air, he can pick out the din of a good handful of weapons. Numbers of at least five or six, though likely no more than a dozen.

  Rifles or small machine guns from the sounds of it.

  With each new bit of information that arrives, Kidman’s pace increases. Chemicals seep into his system, combining with muscle memory. Reflexive responses buried for so long, pulled back to the fore in an instant.

  An immediate response to so many of the questions he had while sitting by the fire with Ali’i the night before.

  Uncertainties about what he should do. If he was even up for it anymore.

  Still folded forward at the waist, he moves just south of a sprint. Darting from shrub to tree, his gaze swivels to either side, constantly picking out new target sites. Places he can jump if the need arises.

  A search doubling to look for any retreating combatants. Anything to tell him if the sounds he hears are from the team sent over by Pruitt or from fighting in the area that might have done them in.

  A vigil that ends in a way he never once considered.

  Forward progress halted as he comes upon a man dressed in khakis and loafers, cowering at the base of a tree. Someone appearing completely unarmed as he peers out, looking just as out of place as Kidman himself.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Where the man came from, Hazik doesn’t have the slightest idea. Almost as if materializing from thin air, he appears by Hazik’s side, not seeming the least bit phased as he stands behind the meager cover, peering ahead at the melee playing out nearby.

  A stance that hints he is actually moving toward the fight, rather than away from it.

  A position that immediately spikes Hazik’s distrust, the man’s appearance one of many in the area the last couple of days that doesn’t seem to fit.

  “What’s going on?” the man asks, his accent fitting with the attire he wears.

  Canvas pants. Hiking shoes. A baggy t-shirt pulled tight at the shoulders by developed deltoids and the additional weight of a backpack hanging behind him.

  Long hair left to hang free behind him.

  A face that says the man can be only in his mid-twenties at most.

  The classic look of some do-gooder Westerner showing up in the jungle, hoping to show the locals the errors of the ways that have served them just fine for thousands of years.

  Or a very poor attempt by a soldier to appear undercover, hoping to slip past unnoticed as he searches for his friends.

  The missing men that Hazik himself was on his way to see the last remaining member of just moments before.

  One item at a time lining up in his brain, Hazik increases his breathing. Drawing in short, shallow breaths, he thrusts his chest in and out with each one. Exaggerated movements meant to suggest he is on the verge of hyperventilation.

  With it, he widens his eyes. Shifts his features into an exaggerated stare. A mix of frightened and shocked.

  A helpless rube that was just attacked for no apparent reason by a most malevolent unseen opponent.

  “Rebels!” Hazik spits out. “Tons of them! They set up an ambush, took out the Jeeps that were riding in front of me.

  “I only barely escaped!”

  As far as stories go, it isn’t the best Hazik has ever concocted. Far from it, in fact. But it is the best he can manage under the circumstances, tucked along the base of a towering palm tree.

  Listening to ongoing rifle fire to one side, being surprised by the sudden appearance of yet another American to the other.

  Accepting the information with little more than a grunt, the man flicks his gaze from Hazik to the ongoing fighting nearby. The sounds of gunfire that seem to have intensified. The errant cries of men on both sides as they work their way into advantageous positions.

  How exactly it is all playing out, Hazik has not a clue. The last thing he saw with any clarity was the explosion of the Jeep in front of them. A glancing shot that disintegrated the front driver’s side tire, lifting the vehicle into the air.

  Hanging sideways for what felt like seconds on end, it remained suspended as a yell erupted from Hazik’s diaphragm, both hands reaching out and clutching the front dash.

  A move that proved prescient as Fumu jerked the wheel to the side and slammed on the brakes. A combination that sent the vehicle fishtailing across the slick soil, the man just barely able to bring them to a halt inches from the rear tailgate of the lead Jeep.

  A sudden stop that tossed around the men standing in the back of the Jeep, nearly sending them flying out.

  That threw Hazik forward until his face was just inches from the dash, his arms the only thing saving him from a vicious impact.

  From there, what Hazik can recall seems to come in fits and stops. Bits of a clip spooling by, interspersed by brief flashes of darkness.

  Fumu checking to make sure he is okay. Reaching across and shoving open the small latch serving as a passenger side door.

  Ordering him to run as the sounds of gunfire began to pepper the air.

  Hazik doing as instructed as the two soldiers spilled down out of the back. An uneven sprint in the direction they’d just come from. An up and down effort over the rutted ground, his toes twice clipping errant rocks or tufts of grass. Stumbling blocks that sent him tumbling headfirst to the ground.

  Clumsy falls that were embarrassing only in the moment, now serving to provide credence to his story. Patches of mud and dust covering his clothing, clinging to his sweaty skin.

  A look of someone who was merely a visitor from Makoua, caught in the wrong place and time.

  Not the mayor of the region. The person overseeing the fighters on one side and the reason for scorn and unrest on the other.

  Somebody that if any of the approaching rebels were to discover, they would show no small amount of pleasure in dispatching.

  Likely, in a manner meant to send a message. Serve as a cautionary tale for anybody else that might think in the future to consider doing what he is.

  As if there is anybody else in the area with enough foresight to implement such a thing.

  “Who are the rebels fighting?” the man asks. Rising to nearly full height, he peers out around the tree they are grouped behind. Open curiosity is on his features, matching the question just posed.

  Things that only confirm Hazik’s initial supposition.

  Reasons to get him far removed from the situation.

  “The local militia,” Hazik replies. “The unrest has been terrible lately, so they’ve been patrolling the entire region. I asked if I could follow them up on my weekly delivery.”

  Adding a hint of hysteria to his voice, he matches the man’s movements. A quick peek, as if trying to see what is still ongoing nearby.

  A tussle he wants nothing more than to get far away from.

  Pulling away from the tree as far as he dares, the man stands extended for several moments before eventually retreating. Returning to Hazik’s side, he runs an appraising glance the length of him before asking, “Are you hurt?”

  “No,” Hazik replies, “but we have to get away from here. If they find us, there’s no telling what they might do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The easiest thing would be for Kidman to grab hold of this man. Latch onto his arm or shoulder and squeeze tight, teleporting them both away. Picking some indeterminate spot in the distance, he would get the man well beyond the range – or even sound - of gunfire, setting him on a course back to the town of Makoua he knows to be nearby.

  An op
tion that right now is completely off the table for a variety of reasons.

  Not the least of which is the fact that there is no way he will reveal his abilities to someone that is clearly lying to him.

  Claiming to be a merchant from the nearby town of Makoua, the man – identifying himself as Yogo – said he was bringing up a load of produce. A weekly run made to some of the villages throughout the region, venturing a short distance into the rainforest.

  A supply dump that is then dispersed throughout the various outposts.

  A trip that has grown increasingly hostile in recent months. To the point that some weeks ago, he asked to start tagging along behind the area militia’s patrols.

  A decision that only barely saved his life.

  One of a thousand details the man has provided that Kidman has not asked for or wanted. Data dumps that are handed off seemingly as fast as they arrive.

  Continued reasons for Kidman to want nothing more than to rid himself of the man, no matter how much he insisted accompaniment back into Makoua.

  Forced to guess, the only things about the man’s story Kidman imagines to be true are the two sides currently squaring off nearby and the manner in which it happened. An IED explosion set by the weaker of the two, hoping to gain a decisive advantage over an opponent having more firepower.

  A move that he cannot imagine the team Wilson Pruitt sent over engaging in, such guerilla-style tactics much more in line with local rebels. Fighters culled from the villages dotting the rainforest that covers most of the northern third of the Congo.

  Places just like the one where Anika Purna is currently believed to be.

  Spots that he is marching directly into, armed only with a stack of photos and a pair of knives.

  Facts he does not bother to voice as the two men pick their way south.

  “What brings you to these parts?” the man asks. The first words either has spoken in more than ten minutes, since before the last of the gunshots died away earlier.