The Heart of the Jungle

by Jeremy Pack

  "No wonder you tried to kill yourself. I'd cut my wrists too, if I were as pathetic as you are."

  Chris gasped at the deep and intense shock of those words. The blood drained from his face, and he thought he might be sick. He staggered back a step, and his mouth worked as if to speak. Nothing came out but a tortured moan.

  Jason was instantly contrite. "Oh God, Chris, I'm sorry," he tried, but it was too late. The wall had sprung up between them, looming and impenetrable. Chris was in his shoes and out the door before Jason could utter another word.

  After Chris left, Jason deflated. What had he done?

  He hadn't meant to say those things, but he was hurting badly from the sudden rejection and the unexpected pain it caused him. He'd thought that something had begun, something wonderful.

  He dropped onto the bed and wrapped his arms around himself. He had just ruined any chance of that. Chris would never look at him the same again. The things he'd said were unforgivably cruel.

  Hasn't he had enough pain? Hasn't the world shit on him enough?

  Did he really deserve you adding to it? Maybe he's better off without you, anyway. You're an asshole right to the core, Jason Kingsley. You deserve to be alone.

  He sat there mentally berating himself. All the remembered guilt and frustration he'd felt over Bradley came welling up---all the guilt and frustration over his failure in the FBI.

  For the first time since Don Gerry went free because of his stupid mistake, tears of remorse slid down his cheeks. Now, as then, he let them come. He didn't try to fight them. He brought one away with his fingertip, staring at it, realizing that if anyone was as worthy of this tear as all those children he'd failed, Chris was. It was the best and only apology he was certain he would ever be allowed to make.

  CHRIS was too mortified to cry as he stormed down the hallway and into the elevator. As the car descended, the shock turned to wrath. By the time he was on the ground floor he was positively livid.

  How could he?

  He stormed into the lobby.

  This is ending here and now, goddamn it. I don't need him.

  He marched to the front desk and tried to compose himself. A petite Hispanic woman looked up at him and smiled. "Could you tell me if Curt Marcus is working?" he asked.

  She typed on her keyboard. "Yes. Shall I page him for you, sir?"

  "Please do. It's important that I speak to him right away."

  She picked up the phone and dialed a number. "He should be here soon," she assured him, placing the handset back into its cradle.

  It took less than five minutes for Curt to arrive.

  "Good morning," Curt greeted, looking around for Jason.

  "Jason's not here. I wonder if you could do me a favor."

  "For you, hot stuff, anything."

  Chris tried to force a smile, but he was still seething, so he wasn't sure how successful he was. "Do you know anyone who works at the Bellagio? Someone who could get you a room number of one of their guests? I just found out a very good friend of mine is staying there, and I'd like to pay him a visit."

  Curt thought for a moment. "Yeah, I know a bellman that works there. Had a fling with him last summer. I'll give him a ring."

  "I owe you one."

  "How about you let me buy you dinner?"

  Chris shook his head. "I won't be here very much longer."

  "Oh, are you and Jason...?"

  "No, nothing like that. I'm a client. That's all."

  Curt smiled. "I'll make that call. What's your friend's name?"

  "Michael. Michael Blake. But"---Chris held up a hand to stop Curt, who was already walking away---"he might just be a guest of someone else. I don't know for sure."

  "What does he look like? Maybe a description will help."

  "Five eleven, about one eighty. Dark-brown hair, usually well dressed. He has a scar on his chin from a motorcycle accident. It's very distinctive. It looks like a lightning bolt."

  Curt smiled and winked. "Got it." He walked over to the desk and placed a call. Within minutes, he was back with a slip of paper. "Room 3615. It's a suite. Apparently he's registered with someone going by the name John Smith. We get a lot of those here in Vegas. Jake, the bellman, remembered the guy though, so we got lucky. According to Jake, your Michael is hotness, but a total dick. He stiffed him a tip and treated him like garbage."

  Chris took the slip of paper and pocketed it. "That sounds like Michael." Chris forced another smile. "Thank you again. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your help."

  Curt gave him a hopeful smile. "You're sure about that dinner?"

  "I plan to be on a plane back to Seattle by the end of the day."

  "What about Jason? Is he leaving too?"

  "I don't know. If you see him, I'd appreciate you keeping this between us, though."

  "There is something going on with you two."

  Chris shook his head and patted his pocket. "Not a thing. I promise." He shook Curt's hand and headed for the door.

  He was going to finish this once and for all.

  Even though it was early morning, when Chris exited the hotel, he felt like he was walking into a blast furnace. Steeling himself against the heat, he turned and stormed toward the Bellagio with righteous wrath fueling his steps.

  THE MAN wearing an eye patch flicked his Camel cigarette into the gutter as he watched Chris James depart the Venetian. He pulled out his phone and dialed.

  "Watson here," he said once the call was answered. "Your little game is coming apart, Brunner. The birdie just flew out of the Venetian. Looks like he's pissed off. He's probably on his way to pay you a visit."

  "Damn it," Brunner swore. "How could this have happened?"

  "You were warned."

  Chapter 12

  THE BELLAGIO was every bit as extravagant and overdone as the Venetian, so Chris experienced a sense of déjà vu as he strolled into the lobby. Under other circumstances, he might have liked to linger on the overwhelming detail, but he was positively driven by adrenaline and fierce anger.

  He bypassed the casino and followed the signs to the elevators that would take him to the guest rooms. Noticing the security guard posted on duty outside the hallway, he paused to consider. How was he going to get past him?

  The trick, he thought, would be to act casually and walk right on through as if he knew what he was doing.

  As he approached, the security guard looked in his direction.

  "Room key?"

  Chris flashed the back side of his Venetian keycard and kept on walking. The ploy obviously worked, since the security guard made no move to detain him.

  He pressed the call button and, once the elevator arrived, he stepped inside.

  As the car ascended to the thirty-sixth floor, he felt a momentary sense of unreality. What the hell was he doing?

  He remembered Jason's scornful tone when he'd called him a coward, and his faltering resolve was renewed.

  "I'll show you coward, you conceited son of a bitch," he said aloud.

  The elevator doors parted, and he stepped into the hallway on the thirty-sixth floor. Looking right and left, he located the numbered placards on the wall and determined that he needed to head left.

  He counted off the rooms, and when he found the one he was looking for, he gave no thought to his actions. He raised his fist and pounded on the door.

  He stepped out of view of the peephole, his stomach churning in fear. Don't think. He took a deep breath. Just do. He didn't want Brunner and Michael to know who was crashing their party.

  There was a muffled noise from inside the room, and a groggy voice he recognized all too well issued forth. "Can't you see the 'do not disturb' sign? Go away."

  Hearing Michael's voice intensified his anger. Forgotten was his fear. Resentment and outrage consumed him, detonating in his chest like a thermonuclear blast. He pounded on the door again, this time much harder, and shouted, "Open this fucking door or I'll break it down."

  There was a rattling of a chai
n, and the knob turned. The door opened a crack, and Chris launched himself into it, flinging Michael backward and sending him sprawling onto the floor.

  Blazing hatred took complete control as he laid eyes on Michael Blake for the first time in nearly a year. This was the man who had taken his daughter away. This was the man who had put him through ten months of unrelenting hell. He could see his own murderous intent reflected in the terror on Michael's face. His hands clenched into fists as he stomped toward the prostrate and wasted form of his former partner.

  "You weren't dead before, Michael, but you can bet your ass when I'm through with you, you'll wish you had been."

  Michael scampered backward as Chris came on, teeth bared like a predatory animal. He was blinded by wrath as he advanced.

  "Chris?" Michael's eyes were glazed and wild with fear. Chris could tell he was high. The man's panic fueled his confidence. Michael had always been the one in control. He had always had the upper hand.

  The tables were turned now.

  "Where is she?"

  "Brianna?"

  "Damn you, Michael, why did you do this to me?" He kicked out, landing a solid blow. The wind was torn from Michael's lips in a wheezing gasp.

  Michael moaned and reached up to him, wincing in pain. His eyes were glassy saucers in a gaunt face. He was an empty husk of the man he had been when Chris had last seen him.

  "Chris, please, I wanted out. He wouldn't let me." Michael was whimpering, trembling uncontrollably. Chris kicked him again, this time in the face. A trail of bloody snot ran out of his nose. "Please," he begged.

  "You're going to need a body bag if you don't start talking." Chris swept a desk lamp off the end table and smashed it against the bed frame.

  Wickedly sharp daggers of broken ceramic would make it a fine weapon.

  He brandished it before himself, hungry to drive it right through Michael's neck. He had never been so crazed with bloodlust, so overcome with fury. Michael stared transfixed, his terror cresting like breakers on a tortured sea.

  "I don't know. I'm so confused," he sobbed.

  Chris might have felt sorry for him, but he was too far gone.

  "Answer me. Where is she? Where is my daughter? Answer me." He swung the lamp. Michael raised his arms to protect himself, and the sharp ceramic sliced a red line across the tender skin. Blood pooled and flowed. Michael squealed in pain. The cut was deep. Not deep enough to kill, but enough to prove he meant business.

  "I don't know, I don't know." Tears and bloody mucus streamed down Michael's face as he cradled his profusely bleeding arm. Chris had no pity for him, no remorse for the damage he'd done. The sight of blood made him want more---to hurt as badly as he had been hurt. Now unleashed, Chris could no longer contain the murderous animal straining for vengeance.

  He was so caught up that he didn't hear the door open, didn't hear the snick of the safety being released on a firearm, but the hard steel barrel of the weapon against his scalp brought him up short.

  "Make another move and I'll pull the trigger." The tone was snide, familiar, touched with the faintest hint of an Eastern European accent.

  Johan Brunner.

  Chris froze, afraid to draw a breath. He allowed the broken lamp to drop to his side. Fear drowned out the raging fury, and suddenly, with grim regret, he realized what kind of a predicament he'd placed himself in. This was what Jason had warned him about. He'd prematurely launched the endgame---without any kind of a plan or fallback---and now he was completely on his own.

  Foolishly, he had rushed headlong into danger without any regard for stealth or means of escape. He was not going to walk away from this encounter unscathed.

  "Put the lamp down and sit on the bed," Brunner commanded, thumping him hard on the back of the head with the barrel of the gun.

  Chris moved to comply.

  As Chris sat down, Brunner turned his attention to Michael. "For Christ's sake, shut up. You sicken me."

  "I'm sorry, Jo, I'm sorry," he sobbed.

  As Chris sat cowering on the bed, he stared at Brunner. In stark contrast to Michael's transformation, Johan Brunner looked every bit the man he remembered---and the memories weren't fond ones. He was handsome in his own way, chiseled features, dark, kohl-lined eyes. He was rakish, but the soul that inhabited his well-made body made him hideous to look upon. It was this ugliness of character that Chris recalled most vividly. As he stared at the leveled weapon and the sneer on Brunner's face, time slowed to a crawl. Every detail of the moment burned into his brain.

  Chris shuddered as Brunner's black eyes raked over him. "I must admit, I didn't expect you had this kind of fire in you," Brunner said.

  "It's becoming, if... inconvenient."

  Chris kept his mouth shut.

  "I'm afraid you've created quite a dilemma for me. This was not how it was supposed to be."

  Chris forced down his fear. "How was it supposed to be? I was supposed to kill myself?" Though he tried to control it, he could hear a tremor in his voice.

  Brunner raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Smart fellow."

  "Why? What could that possibly accomplish?"

  "Now, don't play the coy one with me, little man. You know very well what this is all about. I want the Heart of the Jungle, and you're going to give it to me."

  "What the hell are you talking about? What jungle?"

  Brunner chuckled, but there was no mirth in the laughter. "You're quite the little actor. Just full of surprises."

  Brunner wasn't making any sense. "I swear," Chris implored, "I don't know what you're talking about. I only want my daughter. Whatever it is you want or think I have, I swear, you can have it."

  "Enough." Brunner waved the firearm menacingly. "If you had just killed yourself like you were supposed to, I'd be a very wealthy man right now, but you've had to make this whole thing most vexing. I've been forced to live in hotel rooms for the past nine months with this." He gestured at Michael, his lips curling in disgust. "I should be in Rio or on the Riviera soaking up the sun and living the high life right now, not fetching amphetamines for this... this waste of skin."

  Chris glanced at Michael, who continued to sob on the floor.

  "Please," Chris begged, frustration and fear touching his voice with a note of panic, "please just tell me what this is about. I swear---"

  "Shut the fuck up," Brunner snapped. His eyes narrowed. There was a fierce, predatory gleam in them. "I said I'm done with games. Now keep your mouth shut while I try to figure out what to do."

  For several moments, as Michael sobbed distractingly on the floor, Brunner was silent. Chris could tell he was rapidly calculating, making some kind of plan, and whatever it was, he was sure he wasn't going to like it.

  Finally, with another hate-filled glare at Michael, he gestured to Chris. "You. On your feet. You're coming with me."

  "Where are we going?" Chris asked.

  "Away from here," he said, with an angry glance in Michael's direction. "Somewhere I can think this through without all of the incessant sniveling."

  Michael whimpered. "What about my stuff?"

  Brunner turned toward him and spat again. "I'm done being your errand boy. You can shrivel up and die for all I care. I don't need you anymore."

  He turned back to Chris. "You're going to walk calmly out of here with me. You make one wrong move, you attempt to alert anyone to your situation, and I will make a telephone call to the people who have your daughter." He stepped toward Chris and stared directly into his eyes.

  "And then, she will die. Understood?"

  The blood in Chris's veins turned to ice. He swallowed hard and nodded. What else could he do but go along?

  "I thought that would ensure your cooperation." Brunner waved the gun toward the doorway. "Stay one step ahead of me. Do exactly what I say, and everything will be just fine." As Chris rose from the bed to comply, he watched Brunner conceal the weapon in his jacket. Though hidden from casual view, he knew it was still aimed at him. The fabric that covered it made
it no less deadly.

  Chris stood and preceded Brunner into the hallway. His mind was spinning, formulating and discarding plans for escape as he marched toward the elevator. With every step, he was supremely conscious of the gun pointed at his back.

  They stepped into the elevator. "So far, you're doing well,"

  Brunner said.

  Chris grunted in response. He was still trying to figure out a way out of this mess and coming up empty. He had no experience with hostage situations and could think of no recourse but to blindly follow commands. If Brunner was to be believed, it wasn't only his life on the line. Brianna's was also in jeopardy.

  If only there were some way to let Jason know what he had done, what had happened.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why had he let his temper get the better of him? Why had he rushed blindly into this mess? Not only had Jason warned him that he needed to keep a low profile, but he'd specifically said that recklessness could put Brianna's life in danger. Now, because of his carelessness, he'd jeopardized everything. He shook his head.

  Great time to grow a pair, Chris.

  The elevator arrived at the ground floor, and Brunner placed an arm around his shoulder, affecting casual acquaintance. The position was meant to emphasize the hard lump of the weapon against his side, a constant reminder that he was a prisoner. If he didn't cooperate, there would be serious consequences. With firm but surreptitious pressure, Brunner steered him toward an exit.

  They walked into the parking garage and soon located Brunner's vehicle, a nondescript black Mercedes sedan. There were thousands like it in Las Vegas, so even if Chris could somehow alert Jason, it wasn't likely he'd be able to mount an effective rescue.

  Brunner shoved him into the back of the car and climbed into the driver's seat. They pulled out and headed west toward I-15. Once on the freeway, Brunner drove north out of the city. Chris sweltered in the back seat as Las Vegas dwindled behind them. It was so hot outside, even on its highest setting the air conditioning couldn't keep up. They ascended into the foothills. He wasn't sure where Brunner was taking him, but his prospects for surviving the trip were becoming grimmer with each passing mile.