There it is, she mused, and played dumb. “Well, we’ve been trying to get more supplies from the larger aid groups in the area, but it’s been slow going. Perhaps you could assist with the paperwork on that—you know, speed things up a bit.”
“I can look into that.” Medina reached out and placed his hand on her arm. “And what is it that you need, Nancy?”
“We could also use a solar panel for the shortwave radio. The batteries just keep dying in this heat—we’re lucky to get a few hours out of them.”
Medina placed his other hand on Nancy’s opposite arm. He smelled not unpleasant; a mixture of some kind of cologne and the ever-present sweat that everyone gave off in this heat. “No, Nancy—what do you need?”
Kelleson reached up and gently removed his hands from her body. “Right now I need to do my job and make sure these villagers—and the new volunteers—are taken care of.”
“Hmm.” Medina turned away and studied her hut as if he was suddenly interested in the surroundings. “Yes, you have done much during your short time here. It would be a shame if that were to come to an end.”
“I don’t follow you.”
He whirled back to her, suddenly only inches away from her face. Kelleson didn’t move, although her leg twitched. She stilled it before she did something she wouldn’t be able to take back. “I know much about you, Ms. Nancy Kelleson. I know where you come from and why you’re here.”
“What are you talking about? I came here to help—”
“You came here because you didn’t have much choice. I know about the private school in England and the reason you left—”
Kelleson’s hand blurred to slap him, but Medina was quicker and grabbed her wrist before the blow could land. “Now, now, that’s no way to treat the person who’s going to keep your little secret, is it? There’s no need for the villagers to know about your little indiscretion. It would be too bad if the women here found out the real reason you left your homeland and came here. You know how closed-minded they are—after all, you did it once already, who knows when you might do it again and to whom? No one would trust you, would they? Your time here would quickly be at an end, wouldn’t it?”
“I made a mistake and now I’m trying to start my life over again. You had no right— My past is none of your business…” Kelleson fought to keep tears filling her eyes from spilling down her cheeks.
“Oh, I beg to differ. As I am responsible for the safety of the people here, it is very much my business—”
A knock on the side of the hut made Medina and Kelleson both turn toward the doorway, where the blanket was swept aside to reveal one of the new volunteers standing there.
“Nancy, I was—oh, I’m sorry, am I interrupting?” Kelleson noticed Cooper’s eyes narrow as he took in the scene in front of him, his body tensing and his hands clenching into loose fists. “Is something wrong?”
Kelleson wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “No. Major Medina was…was just leaving.”
“Quite.” The immaculate soldier leaned close to her. “Think carefully about what we spoke of today. Perhaps when I return in a few days to talk again, you’ll be more amenable to…working together more closely.” Snatching his beret from his shoulder, he put it on, adjusting the cloth cap just so, and stalked out of the hut, shouldering the big American out of the way.
The solidly built man easily regained his balance and reappeared in the opening. “Are you all right?”
Using the brief distraction caused by Medina’s exit to recompose herself, Kelleson glanced at him with a brief smile. “Fine, Cooper, thanks. The major takes his job very seriously, and he was just making sure I understood that.”
“Really?” The dark-haired man’s expression indicated that he didn’t believe Kelleson’s excuse for a moment. “It looked more like he was threatening you, or maybe shaking you down for something. Was he asking for a bribe—or something else?”
“No, no, it’s not what you think at all. The people here have a very different way of doing things, and some of them aren’t quite as politically correct as you or I might wish, that’s all. I appreciate your concern, but please, don’t worry about it—I’m fine, really.”
“All right, if you say so. Dinner’s ready, and Etienne asked me to come get you, he mentioned something about participating in a welcoming ceremony.”
“Ah, good, they’re ready. I hope you don’t have two left feet, Cooper. The celebration welcoming all of you features singing and dancing and eating a lot of what you and the others might consider very strange food.”
“Stranger than the bull penis soup I had yesterday?” He smiled. “As long as there’s plenty of it, I should be all right.”
She walked to the doorway and looked him up and down. “There will be, but do me and the rest of the group a favor and have at least one bite of each meal, all right? It would be an insult to the village if you refused their generosity this evening. They don’t cook food like this without feeling the cost to their families.”
He grimaced. “Then perhaps they shouldn’t do it—after all, we came from America, where we invented the concept of the ‘fourth meal,’ despite the fact that hundreds of millions of people around the world are lucky to get one or two. In my opinion, there’s no need to impress us with this.”
Kelleson fixed him with an appraising look. “Did you ever consider that it might not be as much about impressing you as it is the collective pride of the village to be able to do this in the first place?”
Bolan took that in and nodded. “Touché. All right, I’ll nod and smile with the rest of them.”
“Thanks. Now let’s eat.” Slipping her arm through his, Kelleson led him to the bright fire and the drumming, clapping, singing villagers in the square.
7
In the dead of the night, Bolan’s eyes popped open without the aid of an alarm or light. He lay still for a moment, letting his senses come alive to sift the various night sounds, from the breathing noises of his tent mates to the cacophony of the insect nightlife.
Everyone around him was out cold, from the slight snore of the two college boys to the Tatrow woman, who sounded angry even while she slept.
Bolan rose from his cot and exited the mosquito netting, heading for the tent flap. Once there, he paused for a moment as one of the volunteers shifted on their bunk, mumbling softly to themselves. Bolan caught a snatch of one of the tribal chants they’d learned earlier that evening.
With a smile, he poked his head out of the tent and looked around. The gibbous moon cast its silver light on the jungle, turning the tall trees and thick ground foliage into a ghostly, silver-shaded landscape. The scent of the wonderful meal, mingled with the lingering aroma of wood smoke, still hung over the area. The villagers had also gone to bed after the welcome celebration, and silence reigned over the huts where there had been chants, shouts and laughter earlier that evening.
For living in the middle of nowhere, these folks sure know how to party, Bolan thought as he slipped out of the tent and into the tree line, skirting the perimeter until he reached the northwestern part of the clearing. The feast and dancing had been an unexpected treat, with the food being plentiful and tasty—the roast pig was some of the best he’d ever tasted, and there were also plenty of other dishes, including roasted tapir and monkey, to go around. Kelleson had made a small speech welcoming the group to both South America and the village, and the chief of the village also spoke, welcoming the cowodi, or outsiders. The after-dinner entertainment had been singing, provided by the villagers.
Bolan had enjoyed the festivities, finding them a pleasant diversion from his real mission. Of course, he was still keeping tabs on everything, from noticing how the thinner college boy was cozying up to Calley Carter—he figured there would be a relationship there soon enough—and the hungry look in Su
sanna Tatrow’s eyes at the various couples around the campfire, which was quickly hidden under her haughty veneer. Bolan also made sure to keep an eye on Elliot Morgan, as well, who ate well and seemed to be the most at ease with the natives—a sign that he’d been in country longer than he claimed. He also stole more than one glance at Kelleson, who joined in the party with what looked like good-humored cheer, but remained distant and pensive throughout the evening. Although Bolan was well aware of the priority of his mission, at the same time he felt for her and the situation she was in, and was going to see if there was anything he could do for her—as long as it didn’t break his cover, of course.
Speaking of cover, it’s time to get to work, he thought. Taking out his smartphone, he turned it on and saw a message. Your package has been delivered by SMF Express.
It was followed by a set of coordinates. Grinning, since it had to be Tokaido who’d sent the message, Bolan activated a program that used satellite coverage to sketch in a small map of the area and revealed a red, blinking dot about three miles away—his goal for the evening. Committing the route to memory, he pocketed the smartphone.
Rolling down the sleeves of his shirt and pants to cover his arms and legs, he wrapped a black silk scarf around his head, glanced around one last time to make sure no one was watching, then loped into the jungle, machete in hand.
Well versed in the dangers of the rainforest, Bolan stuck to a game trail that would take him most of the way to his target, but there would be a 500-yard stretch where he’d leave the trail and head into the forest to retrieve his package. The trip back should be easier, he thought, with the NVGs that turn darkness into daylight. He was armed, but it wasn’t nearly enough to fend off a curious or hungry jungle predator. Instead, he had to move fast and then hope nothing fixed on him as a potential meal before he could get to his air-dropped cache.
A rustle in the brush to his right made him freeze, eyes scanning the silver-black foliage for signs of movement, ears straining for the smallest sound. His left hand stole down to the back of his pants and drew the SIG Sauer 9 mm pistol there, flipping off the safety and placing a finger on the trigger. The brush rustled again and the bushes parted to reveal the face of a jaguar peering out at him.
Bolan stayed perfectly still, as he knew the great cat might chase him down if he ran. He didn’t want to shoot the animal—it was only doing what came naturally, and besides, the shot would definitely be heard in the camp, making his return problematic.
Inch by inch, he slowly raised the pistol while keeping his eyes on the animal through his top peripheral vision. Slowly he crouched and took aim, eyes averted so he didn’t spook the animal. For a moment the two regarded each other, then the jaguar—a magnificent black and spotted creature the size of a full-grown lioness—half turned, as if it heard something coming down the trail. With barely a sound, it vanished into the underbrush, leaving Bolan to breathe a sigh of relief.
But his reprieve quickly turned to alarm as he also heard the sound of something else moving toward him. Whatever it was, it was making too much noise to be another animal, and he caught the low murmur of human voices.
With no better place to go, he safetied the SIG and tucked it at his back as he stepped into the space the jaguar had just vacated. Hunkering down, he rearranged the nearby fronds and plants to conceal himself from whoever was approaching.
Could it be poachers out here at this hour, he wondered, curling into a tight ball and pulling the brush closer to him. He left a small opening to observe the trail just as four dark figures appeared about ten yards away.
Shit.
Any doubts he had about their intentions were dispelled by their appearance—tiger-stripe camouflage, combat boots and boonie hats. Each one carried a long-barreled rifle, but they looked strange to Bolan’s eye—not assault rifles, but heavy-duty dart guns.
The squad halted as the leader held up his fist, then signaled for one to creep ahead to the left and another to the right. Each man moved with silent precision, letting Bolan know he was up against either professional hunters or men with military experience.
With nowhere to go, all he could do was pretend to be a motionless rock and hope they didn’t investigate the brush too closely. The man on the left was coming closer with each step, his attention fixed on the ground in front of him. Bolan took out a small canister from one of his pockets, making sure it was ready to spray. The man was only about four yards away—three—two yards—
Bolan brought his right arm up and prepared to blast the guy full in the face.
A crackle in the brush behind him made everyone freeze, heads swiveling toward the noise. The man almost on top of him turned to face it, then stepped into the deeper brush, flanked by the leader, with their rear guard becoming the rightmost hunter. The man who had gone off to the left brought up the rear, about ten yards behind the other three. Unfortunately, he took the straightest route across the trail—which would lead him directly into Bolan.
As he cleared the fronds away with his rifle barrel, Bolan saw the man’s eyes widen in surprise as he came across what looked like a small hillock, but which quickly uncoiled and pointed a small aerosol can at him. Even as Bolan squeezed the trigger, the man brought his rifle around while ducking out of the way of the stream, which caught him on the side of the face. The volatile oleoresin capsicum mixture caused his eyes to immediately swell and water and his throat to close. However, the man still had enough presence of mind to try to shout for help, gasping for enough breath to do so as Bolan leaped at him, trying to tackle him and cover his mouth.
Even partially incapacitated by the spray, the hunter stepped back and brought the butt of his rifle around. The clumsy swing smacked Bolan on his arm, sending a jolt of pain up into his shoulder. Then he was on the man, crushing him to the ground and driving the breath from his lungs. However, the rifle was caught between them and the man used it to try to lever Bolan off, writhing and shoving while trying to suck in a breath. He partially succeeded, pushing his opponent to one side.
Bolan drove his elbow into the man’s nose, feeling cartilage and bone crunch under the blow. The man grunted as his head snapped back, bouncing off the ground. Bolan followed up with a palm strike to the man’s temple, which stopped his struggling immediately, his limp limbs flopping to the ground.
Snatching up the rifle, Bolan whirled and aimed it where the other men had disappeared into the jungle, expecting one of them to burst out of the underbrush at any moment. Although the fight had taken less than five seconds, it had felt like an hour, and he thought they’d made enough noise to attract anyone within five miles. When no one came to investigate, he broke the rifle’s action, extracted the dart and threw it into the brush, and crept away, heading down the trail in the direction the men had come from.
He kept going for three minutes, then tossed the rifle into the brush and whipped out his phone to get his bearings. Once he knew where he was, he stepped carefully off the trail, making sure not to leave any obvious trace of his passage, and headed north, planning to angle over as he got closer to the waiting package. His arm still throbbed from where he’d been struck, but Bolan knew it would be all right; the blow hadn’t hit bone, just muscle.
Along the way, even though he remained alert, a part of his mind turned over what he’d just seen. Most poachers preferred to work in daylight, operating out of SUVs on the savannah, where they could evade the thinly spread soldiers or park rangers in the area. But these guys were on foot, hunting at night, with dart guns—wanting to capture their prey alive. It would seem, Bolan thought, that they weren’t after skins or trophies. They want the animals themselves—reselling to private zoos or European billionaires?
Try as he might, he couldn’t come up with an answer. Although he didn’t think he was being followed, Bolan executed an intricate trail through the jungle, doubling back on his trail, zigzagging bac
k and forth through the foliage and looping around more than once. After an hour’s hard travel, he reached the drop zone coordinates and was pleased to find a package dangling from a tree by the ropes of a small parachute.
He observed the site for another ten minutes, making sure no one was watching, then found a long stick and poked the tightly bound package, testing for booby traps. It wouldn’t be above the rebels or even the soldiers here to leave a “gift” for the intended recipient if they’d found this first. Of course, if they had tried to open it, they would have gotten a nasty surprise themselves, he thought as he aimed his smartphone at the bundle and texted a four-digit code. A soft beep confirmed that the built-in deterrent—two ounces of Semtex wrapped in a thin layer around his supplies—was currently unarmed. Only then did he cut the package down and unwrap it. He separated the radio detonator, wadded up the plastic explosive and wrapped it in the plastic, stowing it in a side pocket of his cargo pants.
The weapons were the first item he reviewed. Holding up a matte-black M-4 5.56 mm carbine, Bolan quickly checked the action and inserted one of the four included magazines before slinging it across his back. There were more magazines for his SIG and a silencer for the pistol. Even though Stony Man Farm probably could have gotten the rifle and equipment to him by more conventional means, the chances of it being spotted during his trip out with the other volunteers was too high to risk. It was an expensive air drop, but the gear was worth it.
The next item he unpacked made Bolan smile. State-of-the-art night-vision goggles would give him the edge over just about anyone out here. He checked the small battery pack and the solar-recharging unit and was relieved to find them both undamaged.
Slipping the goggles on his head, he turned them on, the forest turning from black to light green as the fourth-generation night-vision technology activated. This version had a few more features added to it, including the ability to detect across multiple spectrums such as heat and motion, and a heads-up display that relayed current latitude and longitude, and a wireless connection to his sat phone that displayed current geographic information, including the best route back to the village.
Jungle Hunt Page 6
