The Heart of the Jungle

by Jeremy Pack

  Brunner's eyes narrowed. George had drawn him in with promises of freedom and wealth. He'd even made good on the first part of that promise by extricating him from his messy legal affairs. "But you bought the jury and got me out of a fraud indictment," Brunner said coldly.

  "Indeed," George agreed. "I needed you... unencumbered in order to play your part. Unfortunately, it was to be only a temporary reprieve."

  Brunner's anger simmered. As he stared at the smug expression on George's face, the anger flared into fury. He had underestimated George MacQuery. The man was, it seemed, far more conniving than he had ever suspected. "I would never have gone along."

  "The evidence against you would have been irrefutable. Even if you tried to implicate me, my role was carefully obscured. They would never have believed you."

  He glared. If not for the one-eyed Sasquatch hovering just behind Brunner, he would have climbed over that desk and mutilated George. He kept himself carefully in check, though. He would not be made the fool again.

  MacQuery had plans for him. He didn't know what those plans were yet, but presumably he needed him alive, or he'd be dead already.

  That gave him a small window of opportunity, one last chance to stick it back to him.

  Somewhere in this house, he was certain the treacherous man had secreted away the Heart of the Jungle. Somehow, before George's devious endgame was set in motion, Brunner would find a way to turn the tables.

  With crafty, calculating eyes, he stared at MacQuery. He smothered his boiling rage and donned a mask of ersatz fear. Brunner would show George MacQuery what it meant to be sly. This time, he thought, it would be MacQuery who underestimated him.

  George looked meaningfully at Watson. "I hate to do this to you, Brunner, I really do, but it is necessary. You owe me a debt for your betrayal, and I'm going to exact payment. With interest. Besides, it will make what I have planned for you all the more convincing when your body is eventually examined."

  Brunner's blood turned to ice within his veins as Watson's powerful hands closed about his arms.

  "Remember," George said pointedly, "I need him alive when you're through with him... but only just."

  CHRIS had been sleeping peacefully when the faint, muffled screaming awoke him. It was unmistakably Brunner. As long as he lived, he would never forget the sound of that hated man's voice.

  At first, he thought he was having a nightmare, but as he came fully awake and the screaming continued, he realized he was not dreaming at all.

  His heart raced. Brunner is here. In this house. George could be in trouble. Frantically, Chris pulled himself upright. He scanned the room and zeroed in on the door. What was he going to do?

  The sounds of violence were issuing upward through a ventilation grate in the floor. He recalled that when he was younger, he would lie at that very grate and listen to the adults conversing below. The ductwork connected to the lower floor and channeled sound from certain rooms in the house directly into the guest bedroom.

  In order not to disturb Brianna lest she begin to cry and alert Brunner to his location, he slowly, carefully crawled out of the bed and moved on silent feet to the bedroom door. He tried the knob. It was locked.

  "No," he whispered through gritted teeth. He was trapped.

  The faint sounds of shouting and cursing continued unabated as his eyes swept the room, searching for some other means of escape. The casement window, he knew, did not open wide enough to afford an exit.

  Anxiety mounting, he focused on the closet door. The attic.

  The shouting stopped, and he rushed over to the vent. Dropping to the floor, he pressed his ear to the register and listened intently. He thought he could hear George speaking, but he wasn't sure. Carefully, he worked his fingers into the grating and pulled it free. Cupping his hands around his ear, he repositioned himself and strained to hear what was being said.

  "At three fifteen this afternoon," George was saying, "you, my associate Watson, and Christian James will drive onto the eastbound ferry to Mukilteo at the front of the queue. When the ferry is underway, you will start the engine, press your foot into the accelerator, and drive the car into Puget Sound."

  Chris was horrified. His stomach lurched. This had to be some kind of a joke. George would never harm him. Would he?

  "Passengers will report that within the car, a struggle was underway---ostensibly Chris James, fighting for his freedom. Tragically, he too will be killed in the accident. Meanwhile," George continued, "I will place a call to 911, victim of a gunshot wound." His voice became dramatic, delivering the impassioned speech he had rehearsed. "He was a madman. Demanded I hand over the diamond. He shot me. I lost consciousness. Chris! He's taken Chris. You have to stop him." George laughed. "So you see, Brunner, you can still be useful after all."

  Brunner spoke next, his voice cracking with pain. "You think Watson and Chris are going to go along with this?"

  "Watson will be equipped with SCUBA gear," George replied, "so he will be quite unharmed. And Christian," he continued, "will be heavily sedated. I am not a monster. I love the boy. I owe him a humane, peaceful demise. He will be completely unaware throughout."

  Chris choked back bile. He was certain he was going to vomit.

  George... George, who had been a father to him, who had been his dearest friend, his closest ally. George had been the monster under the bed all along. All this time, George had been the one pulling the puppet strings. The betrayal took his breath away. This was an evil he could never have dreamed of.

  Chris could listen no more. He had to get out of this terrible place.

  He had to take his daughter and get the hell away from here. Now, right now, before they came for him.

  Heedless of the sudden heartache and the sheer magnitude of this newest horror, he forced down the trauma and climbed onto the bed.

  Gently, he shook Brianna awake. As her eyes fluttered open, he pressed a finger to her lips to keep her calm. "Baby," he whispered urgently, "the bad man is back." Fear arose in her eyes. "Shh, shh. Be still, little one. We have to be very quiet. Quiet as a mouse," he instructed. When he was certain she understood, he removed his finger from her lips and gathered her into his arms. Quickly, quietly, he tiptoed to the closet and pulled open the door. Inside, up in the ceiling, there was an entrance to the attic.

  He squeezed Brianna gently. "Remember," he whispered to her, "quiet as a mouse."

  She nodded, her eyes wide and serious. Carefully, he placed her on the floor and pulled the closet door closed. Making as little noise as possible, he stood on tiptoe and opened the hatch to the attic. Once the ladder was extended, he scooped Brianna up and levered himself into the darkened space overhead.

  Motes of dust swirled lazily through streamers of sunlight spilling in through ventilation openings. He carefully pulled the ladder back up, searched around, and located a nail protruding through one of the rafters.

  Pulling the frayed rope taut, he looped it around the nail and tied it off. It wouldn't be proof against a dedicated assault, but it would provide a brief reprieve---perhaps enough.

  Quickly, he maneuvered from rafter to rafter, making his way toward a slatted grate in a gable at the far end of the attic. When he had been younger, this grate had been loose enough to allow exit. It was a short drop to a flat section of roof just outside. From there, he could make his way around the house and climb down a gnarled black walnut tree that grew close to the eaves. He'd done it many times before, though never with a child borne in his arms. He forced down his self-doubt.

  There was no other way.

  If he could somehow make it to the boathouse, he might get away.

  George kept the keys to the boat inside a jar---or he used to, anyway.

  Taking a series of deep breaths, he fought against his uncertainty.

  At any point, his hastily constructed escape plan could fall apart. He was acting on instinct. Every impulse was tuned to survival. He wasn't equipped for this kind of action, but he didn't have a choi
ce. He and Brianna were in terrible danger, and if he didn't act, didn't try, they would die. He looked at his daughter. She gazed back at him with wide, trusting eyes, and his will solidified.

  Resolved, he kicked out the grate.

  Chapter 19

  BRUNNER slumped in the chair, sobbing and wheezing. His face was damaged almost beyond recognition. Both eyes were swollen nearly closed. Blood drooled out of his ruined mouth and ran in a thick red river down his chin to drip into his lap. The fingers of his left hand were all broken, the digits splayed in haphazard, unnatural positions.

  George stared at him in satisfaction. Brunner was barely hanging on. "That's good," he praised Watson. He'd very much enjoyed watching the treacherous weasel being beaten to a bloody pulp. George was vaguely disappointed that Brunner hadn't even tried to fight back. It was as though he had realized the futility of struggle and had already resigned himself to his fate.

  George covered his hand with a handkerchief and withdrew a handgun from the drawer of his desk. This he handed over to Watson, careful not to touch it in any way as he did so. "You know what to do," he said. If he could have avoided this bit of business, he certainly would have, but wounded, he would prove a much more convincing victim.

  George gritted his teeth, braced himself against the desk, and nodded at Watson. Watson reached down. He lifted Brunner's limp hand---the one that was not mangled beyond repair---out of his lap and positioned the gun within his grip.

  Lifting Brunner's flaccid arm, he leveled the gun at George.

  Brunner screamed.

  In a sudden onslaught of fists and violence, he exploded from the chair. Watson was pitched backward, and George gaped in surprise.

  Clever. George watched in hypnotized horror as the barrel of the weapon tracked toward him. Not broken after all. Very clever.

  He dove out of the way as the gun discharged, the bullet tearing plaster and wood out of the wall inches from where he'd been standing.

  Watson, only momentarily unbalanced, launched himself into Brunner's back, and they went down in a snarling, writhing tangle of limbs.

  The gun flew out of Brunner's hand and spun lazy, skittering circles across the polished hardwood.

  George scampered under the desk as the combatants wrestled on the floor, making a terrific racket. Though he had confidence in Watson, for the first time, he was afraid.

  JASON was on his feet the instant he heard the unmistakable report of gunfire. Frank tried to stop him, but Jason threw him off. He took off on a dead run toward the house. Frank shouted at him, ordering him to stop, but he kept on running.

  The support team was still en route, the Langley police were somewhere close by, but time was up. To hell with the rules. The gunshot changed everything.

  Though his heart was racing and his stomach clenched in fear, Jason forced himself to remain calm and detached. He could hear Frank in pursuit, but the older man couldn't begin to keep pace. As he closed the distance to the house, he donned his training like a well-worn glove, his every movement practiced and made with confidence.

  Anxiety filled him, yet his mind crystallized, focused on the path ahead. Every detail sprang into sharp relief. It was as if he had been imbued with preternatural vision and superhuman grace.

  Adrenaline. He reached the porch and took the steps by twos.

  The door was locked, barring the way forward. Frank was still on the lawn, but he would be on him in seconds.

  Jason braced himself and kicked down the door.

  CHRIS yelped when the gunshot rang out directly below where he had been making his way carefully around the eaves. Startled by the deafening crack, Brianna screwed up her face to cry. Chris covered her mouth and whispered soothing words into her ear. Her fear subsided. His increased.

  Quickly, he scampered across the roof to the overhanging branches of the ancient black walnut, placed his foot firmly upon a stout limb, and inched forward, testing its strength. Satisfied it would hold them, keeping Brianna cradled protectively close, he balanced precariously and moved further out onto the limb. He wobbled uncertainly, nearly losing his balance. Crouching down and holding onto the limb with his free hand to stabilize himself, he pressed on, headed slowly toward the massive trunk.

  Once he reached it, he swung around and scrambled down through the tangle of limbs. He was cautious with his footing despite the urgent need for haste, supremely aware of the fragile, precious burden he bore.

  He could hear the sounds of a violent struggle within the house and pounding on the back entrance. He couldn't guess what was happening, but he couldn't think beyond reaching the next branch and the next. He had to get to that boat, to get the hell away from this horrible place. He knew with absolute certainty that if he didn't, he and Brianna would die.

  OVER the racket of Brunner and Watson's struggle, George could just make out sounds of forced entry at the back of his home. That could only mean one thing. The game was up. Somehow, Kingsley had discovered he was behind everything and had rallied the cavalry. Damn. He thought he had detected a faint note of mistrust when he had spoken to him on the phone. He'd thought he'd been convincing enough, but he should have known better.

  Heedless of the bloody struggle going on around him, he quickly opened the safe beneath his desk and withdrew the diamond. Pocketing it, he dove out of his hiding place and raced out of the room, leaving Brunner and Watson to fend for themselves. One or the other would prevail, but in the meantime, he needed to get to the boathouse and make a hasty retreat.

  If he could make it to his office, he could retrieve documents that would allow him to flee the country. Once he'd found a safe haven---

  Europe, perhaps---he could attend to the diamond. He'd fetch a smaller price on the black market, but maybe he could strike a more lucrative deal with some rich Middle Eastern dictator or another.

  After he slipped out the front door, he hit the front lawn and made directly for the waiting boathouse, for freedom.

  CHRIS threw wide the heavy garage doors that led to the open water.

  Once the way ahead was clear, he upturned a jar of fasteners and dug through the pile of screws, nuts, and bolts, searching for the key to the boat. It took only a moment to find it, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  George hadn't moved it, after all.

  He rushed over and transferred Brianna to the deck of the boat, untied the moorings, and leapt in himself. Ever cognizant of safety, he slipped a lifejacket over her head and fastened it securely about her. It was many sizes too large, but, cinching the strap as tightly as he could, he thought it might hold.

  He dropped to his knees and held onto her arms. Looking directly into her eyes, he said, "Get in the bottom of the boat, baby. Get down on the floor and stay put, okay?"

  She nodded and scampered underneath the seat, wrapping little arms around the post to which it was mounted.

  "That's my girl," he praised. He gave her a wink, then made his way toward the bow and dropped into the pilot's seat.

  Just as he inserted the key into the ignition, he heard pounding on the doors he had barred after allowing himself into the boathouse.

  He pumped the throttle and turned the key. The engine cranked but sputtered and did not catch.

  "Christian," George screamed at him from outside. "Christian, I know you're in there."

  Panic seized him at the sound of George's voice, and he pumped the throttle again rapidly. "Come on," he pleaded as the engine turned and turned but refused to start. It had been sitting too long unused.

  The doors barring George's entry gave just then, and he stormed inside in a raging fury. Fixing Chris with a deadly glare, he stomped along the planking and leapt onto the boat. Chris rose from the pilot's seat and backed toward the glass partition and the open bow.

  There was nowhere left to run.

  JASON pressed his back to the wall near the study and peered cautiously around the corner. He saw Brunner lying in a broken, bloody heap on the floor. Though it appeared he was s
till alive, he was unconscious and not a threat. Otherwise, the room was clear. He moved into the room cautiously, supremely conscious that he did not have a weapon.

  Frank came up behind him and grabbed onto his arm in an attempt to pull him back. There was a hard, angry look in his eyes. "Damn it, Kingsley," he whispered through gritted teeth.

  "The party's over," Jason said, indicating the broken pile of limbs that used to be Johan Brunner.

  "The fuck do you think you were---"

  There was a sudden loud "pop," and a look of stunned surprise came over Frank's face. He reached up to his chest as a crimson stain spread across his shirt on the right side of his body. His face drained of color, and his eyes rolled upward.

  "No!" Jason cried as Frank collapsed onto the floor. Jason went down on his knees beside him and fumbled for Frank's firearm.

  Before Jason could bring the weapon to bear, Watson rose to his full height from behind the desk. The gun he had just used to shoot Frank Marcus was aimed steadily at him. His remaining evil eye fixed on Jason's face and seemed to bore directly into him.

  "We meet again," Watson said cruelly, the corners of his ugly mouth turning up in a smile.

  Jason froze. He remained perfectly, utterly still. From his position on the floor at Frank's side, he looked up and directly into the eyes of death.