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

by TR Kohler

  “You’re certain the combatants weren’t the soldiers Pruitt sent?” Ma asks when he finishes. A reasonable question, likely where he would start if given a similar rundown.

  “Certain?” Kidman replies. “No. I didn’t get close enough during the actual skirmish to take a look. I will say, though, none of the bodies I found were American.”

  Grunting softly, Ma presses, “But the rifles they carried were?”

  “At least two of them,” Kidman answers. “Made even more obvious by the busted AK the third guy was working with.”

  Accepting the information, Ma processes in silence. Several moments spent aligning what was already suspected and discussed with the newest data points.

  “No way in hell anybody he sent just gave up their weapons,” she finally mutters. More thinking out loud than a statement for debate.

  One Kidman responds to anyway, having thought the same thing while overlooking the scene from ground level.

  “Nope.”

  “Can’t imagine anybody that survived leaving the others behind to be picked clean either,” she adds.

  “Nope,” Kidman repeats. “Not unless things were ugly and they really didn’t have a choice, but even then...”

  Letting his voice tail away, he doesn’t bother finishing the thought. There is no need.

  The project they worked for wasn’t technically military, but they’ve both been in battle. They know the rules that apply, both to engagement and to one another.

  No need stating the obvious.

  He will keep an eye and an ear out for any sign of the Americans, but they have likely already gotten the confirmation they were looking for. The reason behind why the unit Pruitt sent hasn’t been heard from in days.

  “What’s your plan for now?” Ma asks.

  “Continue following the road north,” Kidman replies. “I’m just shy of Bukari now. Figured it was a good time to check in before I head down, start asking around.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Kidman’s last hop after hanging up with Ma and stowing the phone away leaves him sitting on the edge of a cliff. A mud bluff rising more than three stories into the air, overlooking the village of Bukari below.

  One of the largest known encampments stretched throughout the northern part of the country, it is the rare outpost to actually make it onto a map. A site giving Kidman a pretty good idea of where he is geographically.

  A landmark that was part of his reason for giving Ma a call, so she could check his progress moving forward.

  Feet planted in the damp red clay, water of the same sanguineous color seeps up out of the ground, settling into the indents around the toes of his shoes. With it comes more of the humidity he’s fast becoming tired of, the levels far higher than anything he ever experiences back home in Hawaii.

  Even with the sun now well past set, the steam is still strong enough to soak through his clothes. Resting atop his skin, it imbues the perpetual feeling of dampness.

  Saturates the tips of his long hair draped across his neck and shoulders.

  Shoulder pressed tight to the base of a tree, he is careful not to make himself a visible silhouette to anybody that might happen to glance up. Hidden in shadow, he suspects he is virtually invisible, choosing to remain out of sight until the opportune moment.

  The time fast approaching when he will be forced to reveal himself.

  But not a moment sooner.

  Not until he has some idea of exactly what he might be walking into.

  Weight supported by the tree beside him, Kidman stands and studies Bukari below. Despite being present on a couple of the maps he and Ma studied before departure, it is barely large enough to even be considered a village. A quick count reveals no more than a few dozen huts arranged into a loose cluster. At the center of it are fifteen or so structures. Larger dwellings formed into a tight circle.

  Clearly, the original settlement, the rest of the place having slowly filled in around them over time.

  A design like many modern cities with a strong central construct slowly working its way out via growth and expansion. Space and resources left to become the new driving factors.

  From his vantage, he can see several large handfuls of people moving among the various structures. Folks of all ages and genders going about daily life, many carrying baskets or pots, their contents things he can only guess at.

  Assuming each structure to house anywhere from three to five people, he speculates the total population below to be between one hundred and one hundred and fifty. People all going about normal life, there seeming to be no strain present.

  Nobody hiding inside their homes. No one fearful of spillover from the battle earlier. An engagement that took place many miles to the south, if the people in Bukari are even aware it happened, there is no outward indication, despite the tire tracks that led him here.

  A state of affairs that tells Kidman there will be no better time for him to descend and make his presence known.

  Lifting his left pant leg, he returns the pahoa to its sheath. Strapping it into place, he drops the canvas material back over it and returns the pack to his back. A mirrored approach to when he first arrived in the Congo, careful not to appear threatening in any way.

  A lone man with empty hands, arriving on foot.

  Scanning the area surrounding Bukari one last time, he considers the landing options before him. A handful of possible sites before focusing on the road leading north into town. The same one he’s been following for the last half hour, such an approach best fitting with the image he is looking to portray.

  And the option to cause the least amount of surprise at his sudden appearance.

  Making the jump from the bluff down to the forest floor is instantaneous. As is the drop in temperature he feels, the worst of the heat having risen for the day.

  A promising sign he hopes will make for a cooler evening.

  Remembering the scene from earlier and the trap that was laid, Kidman lands in the thin line of moss and weeds running between the tire ruts of the path. Careful to step where there is vegetation growing, he remains off the bare earth.

  Places where another landmine might be buried. Traps put down to ward off any potential intruding militia attacks that might arrive.

  Making a point to drag his heels, he slowly moves for the village. A painstaking pace with his hands in plain sight. An effort that still takes until he is within fifty yards of the settlement before he is noticed.

  The first person to spot him is a middle-aged woman. A basket of fruit in her hands, a pair of young children bound along beside her. A flurry of activity with the woman at the center, all three chattering endlessly as they make their way to a corner hut.

  A caravan headed for home, making it almost there before the woman just happens to look over. A quick glance that causes the basket of fruit to slide from her grasp. Falling to the forest floor, items of various size and color spill out across the ground, given no mind by the woman as her shoulders rise.

  Her entire body tenses.

  And she lets out an ear-splitting scream that seems to reverberate from the trees around them.

  A noise so loud, Kidman can’t help but raise his hands to his own head, his eyes tightening in a wince.

  A warning cry that serves its intended purpose, immediately drawing the attention of all throughout Bukari. A sudden surge of interest that manifests with a host of people and faces appearing, all openly staring his way.

  A crowd mixed of frightened and curious, a lone young man having the courage to venture his way. Someone that looks to be Kidman’s outward age, if not younger, his bare chest gleaming with sweat.

  A person that Kidman makes the error of focusing on, opening his mouth to speak just as the blow lands from behind.

  A solid shot to the base of his skull, sending his world to black.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The first thing that penetrates the darkness is the dull throb of pain. Concentrated at the back of Kidma
n’s skull, it seems to pulse with every beat of his heart. A persistent ache that stimulates him into waking before it slowly starts to recede.

  His subconscious harnessing the strength of the pain before giving it over to his body’s accelerated healing.

  A waking process he is careful to control, barely cracking open his eyes even as his full faculties arrive in a rush. A response he displays only so much as flicking his gaze to either side, taking in his new surroundings.

  A darkened interior, no doubt inside one of the huts he was just observing not long before. A woven mat of some sort underfoot. Basic furnishings lining the outside of the space. Filmy orange light provided from a single lamp.

  Perched atop a small folding chair in the center of the spread, his hands are clasped behind his back. Held together by a binding of some sort that bites into the flesh of his wrists.

  In the air are a host of scents, most of which are overpowered by the sharp bite of tobacco smoke.

  The kind produced from the plant being dried and rolled by hand, rather than the acrid lilt of that commonly found in modern cigarettes.

  Information that serves to confirm what he previously knew without providing much new.

  A realization that causes him to raise his gaze to face his captors full.

  Sitting directly in front of Kidman is a man he would imagine to be somewhere in his late forties. An assessment based on the thin beard underscoring the man’s jawline and the lines framing his mouth and eyes. Crevices made more pronounced by the flicker of lamplight bouncing across the man’s features, reflecting from the veneer of sweat painting his cheeks.

  An elongated pipe in hand, he glances at Kidman through hound dog eyes before returning to his smoking. Every movement slow and purposeful, his demeanor is offset by the pair of men standing nearby.

  Both younger by a couple of decades, they stand with eyes wide, nostrils flaring. One is the man that first approached Kidman on his initial arrival to the village. The other is likely the person that put him down.

  Snuck up behind him and buried the butt of his rifle or the broadside of a branch against the back of his skull.

  A small victory he likely trumpeted to anybody close enough to hear, claiming Kidman’s demise for his personal glory. A scene that makes Kidman’s teeth come together as he forces himself not to meet the man’s defiant stare. An image that he can’t help but feel a spike of animosity for, the young man reveling in the attack.

  One that likely only ended with the young man being called off by the person sitting directly before him.

  The one who glances up from his pipe just long enough to meet Kidman’s gaze before returning to what he is doing.

  “Who are you?” he asks, speaking with a heavy accent.

  Considering the question for a moment, he eventually answers simply with, “My name is Kidman.”

  The thought of asking who the man is in return occurs to Kidman, though he opts against it for the time being. A choice to concede to the man before him for now, hoping to establish a bit of rapport.

  And to acknowledge he is the reason whatever beating Kidman received while unconscious wasn’t much worse.

  Even if it likely wouldn’t much matter by this point.

  “Did Hazik send you?”

  Brows coming together in confusion, Kidman flicks a glance to the two men standing nearby. Seeing nothing but the same defiant stares, he moves to the opposite direction. A quick pass over to a cot arranged against the wall, everything he’d been carrying in his pack now lined across it.

  The photos he used to jump here. The satellite phone.

  Even the knives that were lashed to his legs.

  “I don’t know any Hazik,” Kidman answers.

  Pausing just long enough to raise his gaze back to Kidman, the man sits and waits. Several moments, seemingly trying to determine if Kidman is telling the truth. A pointed stare, as if hoping the captive will wilt under his gaze.

  An approach that is completely futile, Kidman having been in many situations infinitely worse than this before.

  Places with enemies far more intimidating and an exit strategy not nearly as simple as finding the closest door and jumping to safety.

  “You are an American?”

  “I am.”

  “Arrived with the others?”

  The first thing the man has said that Kidman didn’t fully expect, his eyes widen slightly. “No. I was sent after.”

  Returning his attention to the pipe in hand, the man fills the small wooden bowl on one end with tobacco. Brown leaves that have been dried and pulverized, an endeavor that must have taken quite a bit of effort in the damp rainforest climate.

  Filling it so a small mound rises from the top, the man taps against the side. Tamping it into place, he allows it to settle, filling in any gaps around the edges.

  Practiced movements, performed hundreds of times before.

  A process done with no sense of urgency, the man waiting until he is finished before lowering the pipe to his lap.

  “What is your interest with the girl?”

  Having already seen the contents of his pack laid bare, Kidman doesn’t bother glancing over. Matching the man’s gaze, he replies, “The men that were sent here were told to find her. When they disappeared, I was sent to find them.

  “I was told she’d be the best place to start looking.”

  The man ponders the information for a moment before saying, “What do they want with her?”

  “Do you know where I can find her?”

  It is a question meant to capitalize on the flow of the conversation. Hopefully, get the man to reveal something. Share some bit of information without fully realizing it.

  A plan interrupted by the man that first clubbed Kidman bursting across the room. A combination slide step and leap that covers the gap between them in one long bound.

  A single stride allowing him to draw his arm back across his torso before whipping his hand across Kidman’s jaw. A solid contact with the back of his knuckles snapping Kidman’s head to the side, a few droplets of spittle flying out.

  A sharp sting followed in order by the tang of blood finding his tongue.

  “Wembo!” the man seated across from Kidman snaps. “No.”

  Body still just inches from Kidman, the young man known as Wembo whirls back. A quick spin, his entire form seeming to quiver with hostility.

  “This man is lying!” he seethes. “Playing us for fools!”

  An outburst that causes the older man to snap to his feet, sending his pipe tumbling to the ground. Raising his arm to shoulder height, he extends a finger toward the door. “Outside. Now.”

  A directive that is met with momentary hesitance.

  Just long enough to warrant the man repeating, “Now.”

  Turning back to glare at Kidman once more, Wembo pushes out a loud sigh. An angry breath meant to relay his displeasure with what just occurred, before stomping for the door.

  “You too, Beya,” the old man says.

  Drawing himself upright in his chair, Kidman flicks his gaze over to see the other young man’s eyes widen. Shifting his focus to Kidman and back, he appears ready to lob some sort of argument before thinking better of it.

  Keeping his stare aimed straight ahead, he takes a step back. And then another.

  A slow retreat that ends moments later as he passes through the narrow opening along the far wall comprising the door to the hut.

  “Forgive them,” the man says once the room is cleared. “The last couple of months, things around here have gotten very tense. Fighting with Hazik and his militia. The recent arrival of the Americans.”

  Bending at the waist, he grabs the upturned pipe from the ground between them. Checking the contents of the bowl, he shakes his head in disgust before lowering himself back into his seat.

  “Now you.”

  Working his tongue around the inside of his mouth, Kidman clears it of whatever blood remains. A small tendril, the source of it likely
already closed.

  Turning to the side, he ejects it in a wad of bloody phlegm.

  “I mean you no harm,” he says. “I saw some of what this Hazik’s militia is doing on my way here.”

  “You were there?”

  “After the fact,” Kidman replies. “You?”

  “Wembo, Beya, and I were responsible for planting the explosives.”

  Saying no more, it isn’t difficult for Kidman to imagine how the situation was designed. The three from Bukari arriving to set the trap before retreating. A band from somewhere else coming in to work cleanup on the scene.

  Serve as rabbits thereafter, leading whatever militia forces survived deep into the rainforest, away from encampments.

  “And you are?” Kidman asks.

  The man’s gaze traces Kidman’s features, studying him once more, before replying, “My name is Sanga. I lead one of the bands of fighters in the area. Men tasked with standing up to Hazik and his sudden interest in the region.”

  In response, handfuls of questions spring to mind. Things building on what Kidman saw earlier. The completely fabricated tales that Yogo was sharing during their march.

  The situation with the men sent by Pruitt a few days before.

  “How did it go?” Sanga asks, interrupting Kidman’s train of thought.

  An abrupt shift that causes him to pause for a moment to consider what is being referenced.

  “Three dead soldiers by my count,” Kidman replies. “One destroyed Jeep.”

  Grunting softly, Sanga accepts the information, adding it to whatever mental tally he has. Data that has the same effect it did on Kidman a moment earlier, appearing to spawn more questions.

  Inquiries that don’t get the chance to pass his lips, instead interrupted by a sound that makes both men pull up, their attention snapping directly toward the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The sum total of the number of animals Kari Ma has taken care of in her life is one. A beta fish that her parents gave her when she was still in elementary school in hopes that caring for a life would somehow imbue her with a sense of responsibility.