by M. G. Harris
With one swift and deadly capoeira move he’s knocked the gun out of my hand. I bend to pick it up; he follows with a sweeping queixada kick to block my path. Tyler moves back to protect Mum and Ixchel from the second laundry guy. They clash in the middle of the corridor, a high kick meeting Tyler’s blocking movement. Then with his left fist, Tyler punches him in the face. The guy reels for a second, dizzy. Tyler follows up with a tranquillizer dart to his chest. His opponent is out cold.
The guard attacking me throws a punch. I duck, grab him around the waist and throw my full weight on to him, pushing him to the floor. We land almost two metres from the others.
Tyler manoeuvres around to get a clear shot at the guy underneath me. He fires the tranquillizer gun.
Nothing. Struggling to hold my opponent down, I glance up to see Tyler pulling the trigger over and over.
“I’m out of darts, man!”
“Get mine!”
Ixchel, Mum and Tyler all scramble for my discarded tranquillizer gun. Tyler reaches it first, aims at the guard’s leg and shoots. Two seconds later the guy stops struggling.
We all breathe a massive sigh of relief, still shocked by the encounter. I check my watch.
“The first guard is going to wake up in four minutes.”
We file out of the basement, up the stairs and through the empty entrance lobby, looking for a way out round the back or side of the house. We stay as close to the walls as possible, treading lightly, but even so we make some noise. Following the corridor through the east wing of the hacienda, we come finally to a door. There’s no light from under the door – it’s empty.
Tyler pushes it open. There’s a large room, sparsely furnished with a round table and some chairs of dark, heavylooking wood. Against the wall is a small bar counter and a shelf full of bottles.
“The windows,” he says, and makes straight for the opposite wall.
I close the door behind us and follow Tyler and the others to the windows. They’re already opening them, pushing back the wooden blinds behind the glass. I stick my head out. It’s a short drop to the grass below. Tyler swings himself through the window with one smooth leap. I help Mum and Ixchel out, listen to them land softly in the garden. Then I follow.
We’re on the east flank of the garden. To the east, the edge of the jungle begins more than seventy metres away, across an almost-clear expanse of lawn. All the larger trees are lit.
Due east is way too risky.
Behind the house, I can see from the encroaching darkness that the perimeter is much closer.
“We need to cross the fence behind the house,” I whisper. “And make our way through the jungle.”
“We’ll lose lots of time,” Tyler says.
I point across the lawn. “We’ll never make it without being seen.”
Mum and Ixchel glance from me to Tyler.
Mum says, “Josh, where’s the rest of the rescue team?”
“Benicio? He’s waiting in the jungle.”
Ixchel says, “Tell him to come get us!”
I hesitate. But the searchlight keeps streaking across the sky.
“He can’t land without being seen.”
Ixchel sounds annoyed. “Then we head for cover. Don’t you boys know anything?”
Before I can stop myself, I say, “I know . . . that’s what I said!”
She starts moving towards the back of the house. “Well, let’s get going!”
Mum and I follow, staying low and away from the light spreading from the house and trees.
Tyler hangs back for a second, and then he too follows.
As we pass a window, there’s an exclamation from inside. We rush past, but inside I hear scrambling for the door and window. When I turn my head to check, I see the shadows of two figures leaping out of the window and sprinting straight towards us.
Behind the house, the fence beckons, less than ten metres away.
Tyler rushes forward, throws himself at the fence. He screams in agony. Thrown backwards, he lands on his back, groaning.
“It’s electrified,” Ixchel says.
“Oh no,” Mum murmurs, her voice quaking.
I take aim in the shadows. The first shot misses; the second dart hits the closest guard just as he’s about to leap at me. When I fire a third time, my gun is empty.
“I’m out,” I say, tossing the gun away.
Tyler is momentarily shaken but starts to struggle to his feet. I reach into my back pocket and take out the pistol. I aim it at the second guard.
“Shoot him!” Tyler yells.
I hesitate and then fire at the ground. As the gun goes off in my hand, everyone seems to leap. It’s so loud that I almost jump too. The second guard doesn’t stop running, though. He pulls out his own gun and shoots. I hear a bullet whistle past me, somewhere close to my left ear.
His voice comes from out of the shadows. “Drop the gun.”
Ixchel draws a rapid breath. “That’s Gaspar,” she whispers. “He’s in charge.”
Behind me I sense Mum and Ixchel shrinking further into the darkness near the fence.
I shout, “Take another step and I’ll fire again.”
Gaspar laughs, still walking towards me. He’s almost completely in shadow and slightly silhouetted too, by the faint glimmer from lights on a tree about thirty metres away. I can’t see clearly if his arm is raised or not. “Not a good idea to take shots at each other in the dark, Josh.”
I let rage flood into my voice. “Stop moving! If you think I’m gonna let you hurt my mum or my friends, you’re wrong.”
I fire again, this time aiming into the air only slightly above his head.
He stops, less than four metres away.
“Relax! I’ve stopped moving. I could kill any of you from here, Josh. And you know it.”
I point the gun straight at him. “Better make sure it’s me, then. Or it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”
Gaspar chuckles. “Tough talk from a boy. Ollie told us you were brave. And Madison will never admit it, but I think he’s a little afraid of you, Josh. You got him into a lot of trouble.”
“He’s flattering you, Josh,” Mum warns. “Be careful, he’s good at that.”
He mentioned Ollie and Madison. These Brazilian guys really are part of the Sect of Huracan.
I tighten the grip on the pistol, trying to psych myself up to shoot.
“How do we get over that fence?”
“You don’t. Face it, you’re stuck. Put the gun down and we’ll talk. We only need you, Josh. I’m still happy to trade.”
“There are concrete supports,” Tyler yells from behind me. “We’d have to use Lorena’s climbing grease . . . but I think we can get over.”
In the darkness, I nod. “Do it.” There’s a rustle as the three of them head for the fence.
In a low voice Gaspar growls, “Drop the gun, Josh. Or I’ll shoot them.”
“No,” I say. “You and me, we’re gonna stand right where we are. Until they’re over. Maybe a bit longer too, until I’m sure they’re safe.”
There’s a long pause. I can’t make out anything but the silhouette of Gaspar’s shape: tall, well-built; but standing perfectly still, I aim my gun at his chest.
“You won’t shoot me,” Gaspar says. But he doesn’t sound too sure. “You’re just a boy. What do you know about killing?”
I’m silent, not moving.
Gaspar tries again. “You’ll never make it out of here.”
I say nothing.
Somewhere behind me, Mum and Ixchel gasp with effort as they climb over the fence. I hear one, then another, land heavily in the thick jungle beyond.
“We’re over,” calls Ixchel.
“They’re bluffing,” Gaspar says. “I heard only two. . .”
“That’s cos I’m here, muppet,” yells Tyler. He emerges from the darkness from where he’s doubled back and crept up behind Gaspar. Gaspar swivels and shoots. He shouts as Tyler tries to disarm him with an upward kick.
I falter. I’m scared to shoot now in case I hit Tyler. In the gloom, there’s no way to be sure which of the two grappling shadows is Tyler and which is Gaspar.
They’re wrestling, a close hold. I hear Tyler shout, then gasp for breath, wincing in agony. Gaspar must have jabbed Tyler in his gunshot wound. I leap in closer, swing for Gaspar’s head with the pistol.
I connect with the back of his head. He gasps for a second or two, then grabs my gun arm and yanks my hand all the way to the ground. He’s freakishly strong, holding both Tyler and me at bay. Gaspar twists my wrist until I’m forced to drop the gun. My right leg is close enough to get near the gun; I slam the back of my heel into the pistol and kick it far away.
Meanwhile Tyler and Gaspar are still struggling over the weapon in Gaspar’s right hand. I try to reach it – it’s impossible. With his free arm, Gaspar has my right arm in such a painful hold – one twist and my wrist will snap.
All three of us breathe painfully. I can hear more guards approaching from the east side of the house.
This is not going well.
Into my headset I mutter, “Benicio . . . you gotta help us. There are too many guards. . .”
Abruptly, I relax so that Gaspar falls against me, carried by his own momentum. Just as he’s about to crush me, I move away, a classic defensive roll. In the confusion, Gaspar drops his gun. In the dark it’s impossible to see where it’s fallen. Before Gaspar can reach for it, Tyler kicks him hard in the abdomen.
Gaspar releases us both, rolls away and leaps to his feet. His shadowed figure takes up a ginga stance. I hear the smile in his voice. “Come on now, boys. Show me your moves.”
We’re thrust into the capoeira fight of our lives.
Gaspar flies at us, head low to the ground, legs swooping through the air. His raw power and speed are devastating. I duck and dodge but not before his foot catches me hard in the back of the thigh. A second kick rips away my radio headset. Tyler manages to sidestep; he follows up with a series of rapid queixada kicks, whirling round and round like a dervish between each one. But Gaspar’s moving so fast, he’s no more than a shadowy blur. I throw myself into the melee, aiming ponteira kicks, dodging low, rolling. Nothing but the most basic moves. Zero elegance.
This is capoeira, street-fighting style. It’s more my style, too. Elegance easily escapes me, but survival, I can do. Whatever was missing at the tournament, I’ve found it now.
The other guards are close now, less than ten metres away. In the sky, there’s a loud humming from the east. Instinctively, I glance up to see two sizzling red beams streak across the sky towards us. The ground between the guards and Gaspar, Tyler and me explodes – clods of soil, lumps of grass fly in every direction.
Benicio’s here – giving us laser-fire cover from the air.
We don’t stop fighting – we’re all arms and legs and energy. Every so often someone lands a kick and there’s a yell or a groan. But with adrenaline roaring through me, I don’t feel any pain beyond the first blow. For the first time ever, I know what bloodlust is.
I want to get Gaspar. I want to land a kick that lays him out cold, or even breaks a bone.
The laser fire stalls the guards for a second, but then some of them turn and start firing at the Muwan. Benicio’s zipping all over the place, it’s dark. . . I can only hope it’s enough to keep the Muwan from serious damage.
The Muwan fires two more bolts. A guard falls screaming to the ground.
Hearing that, Gaspar’s energy seems to double. It dawns on me that Tyler and I can’t take him.
I need an advantage. On my next dodge I roll to the ground. From my back pocket I pull one of Lorena’s drugdelivery pens. Meanwhile Gaspar flies at Tyler with a cartwheel attack. Tyler manages to duck, so Gaspar sails right over him and crashes to the ground right in front of me.
I roll the pen in my fist, preparing to surprise him with a stab.
As I’m getting up and he’s landing, I swing back, then hurl myself at Gaspar: a high kick followed up by a tremendous punch as I throw my whole body round, leading with the pen.
It lands against the hard muscle of his shoulder. Gaspar gasps in shock as the spring-loaded needle punctures his skin. His momentum carries him forward, but by now he’s out of control. He reels, falls against me, drags me to the ground. Holding my pen arm hard against the ground, he tries to punch me in the face. But his aim is off, his reactions are slow, and I easily dodge the punches. Then Tyler comes up from behind Gaspar, lands an immense kick to the guy’s ribs.
Groaning slightly, Gaspar slides to one side, a hand clutched to his shoulder. He slumps on to all fours, more disoriented by the second.
The Muwan’s lasers are still walloping into the ground between us and the guards. Benicio isn’t trying to kill them – he’s just holding them off. I hear Tyler mutter into his headset, “We’re going for the fence. Hold them off a bit longer, then meet us at the rendezvous.”
Tyler grabs my arm and pulls me towards the fence. We stop in front of a smooth concrete support post. It’s about three metres high and no more than fifteen centimetres wide.
“Give me your hands,” Tyler urges. When I open my palms in front of him, he squeezes two dollops of Lorena’s grease from the small tube he’s been carrying. Then he applies some to his own hands. “You have to slowly peel your hand away from the surface,” Tyler mutters, trying it out. “Like this. Don’t just yank it away.” I watch, breathless with urgency and seriously relieved that Tyler actually paid attention to Lorena’s instructions, unlike me. I slide my palms along each other in upward strokes. I place both palms as high as I can reach on the concrete post, taking care not to touch the electrified wire.
It works. I can hold my whole weight on my palms. The skin on my hands stings and stretches with the effort, but it holds me. I peel one, then another, palm off the post and slap it on a few centimetres higher. It’s incredible. When my hands are actually in contact with the post, I can’t imagine that anything will unstick them. But after a second or two I can feel the glue weakening – after just enough time to move along.
Moving up the post like that, I’m over in a just over a minute, and so is Tyler. We land on the rough ground beyond, under a thick canopy of leaves. From the shadows, deeper inside the jungle, I hear Ixchel calling out to me.
I throw a last quick glance to the guards on the other side of the fence. They can’t climb over. But they’re not going to stop. Someone else is barking out orders: “Shut down the electric current.”
Any minute now they’ll be chasing us. I reach inside my pocket for one of the slim, powerful torches Lorena gave us. I shine the light into the trees until I pick out Ixchel and my mum. They’re dazzled by the beam. Tyler and I join them and then we’re all running – due east.
Around five minutes later, we hear the buzz of the Muwan flying overhead.
Five minutes is a good lead. But the jungle is so dense in places that it’s slow going. We’re about as quiet as a herd of elephants. Between that and the flashes from our two torches, I can’t imagine we’re hard to locate.
The only thing for it is to reach the rendezvous first. Then Benicio can throw down the rope ladder, we can all hang on and he’ll fly us to safety.
Amazing. Me, Tyler and Benicio will have done what Montoyo couldn’t: rescued everyone.
I’m flushed with confidence as we make our way through the jungle. Ixchel doesn’t need any help at all. Just as she was the very first time we met, when she guided me through the rainforest to the ruins of Becan, she’s nimble and agile. I’m relieved that this time I’m less of a liability – back then I was soaked through, terrified and nursing a snake bite in my ankle.
I can already feel a few nasty bruises from Gaspar’s heavy capoeira kicks . . . but other than that, for once – incredibly – I’m in good shape!
What worries me, as we keep crashing through low branches and thick undergrowth, is Tyler. I can hear it in his breathing – he’s in agony. Gaspar caught him m
ore than once in the stitched wound. I can guess how painful that is, remembering my own bullet wound.
I slow down to wait for Tyler. He’s bringing up the rear, lighting the way for Mum. He pauses for a second, leaning against a tree. Ixchel stops too. She turns around.
Agitated, she cries, “Don’t lean against the trees!”
Tyler pulls away in alarm.
“There can be snakes hanging from trees,” she continues anxiously.
From behind us there’s a scream. It’s just a shocked yell at first, the kind you might make when you trip and fall. But it’s followed by the most blood-curdling scream of terror I’ve heard for a long time. . .
