PRECIPICE

by Leland Davis

  His thoughts were tormented. What had gone wrong? What had happened to Harris? It had all happened so fast. Guilt that had been building in the back of his mind over the last few hours rose like bile in his throat, sickening him now that he’d paused in his flight. How could he have left his friend behind? Why hadn’t he pulled the trigger before Cardenas killed Duval? He replayed the attack over and over in his mind to figure out what he could have done differently to change the outcome and to discern whether it had somehow all been his fault. In his heart he knew he should have looked for his last teammate, but he couldn’t think of any other possible course of action that would have allowed him to survive. Should he have risked his own life more? The whirlwind of self-doubt threatened to eat him alive.

  He finally came to the natural conclusion. He hadn’t been properly prepared. He’d done a couple of weeks of training, but that wasn’t even close to what was required for a mission like this. It was the equivalent of dropping into a remote river canyon with only rudimentary paddling skills—a recipe for almost-certain disaster. He’d been so focused on the river and the waterfall that he’d failed to recognize the seriousness of the rest of the undertaking, and his teammates had paid the ultimate price for his shortcomings. He vowed that it would never happen again.

  *

  Héctor dialed the number for his cousin’s pre-paid cell phone for the tenth time. There was still no answer, and he feared that Ortiz had switched phones and not yet called to pass along his new number. This couldn’t wait. As much as he hated to do it, he dialed his cousin’s regular cell phone number into the satellite phone and hit send. This time, Juan Ortiz picked up on the second ring.

  “I thought we agreed that you would never call me on this phone.” Ortiz said in exasperation. “You know I can’t afford to have any connection between us.”

  “Then you should answer your other phone,” Héctor said menacingly. After everything that he had dealt with today, how dare his pampered, politico cousin lecture him. “But we have bigger problems.”

  “Did they attack?” Ortiz asked in alarm.

  “Si. And your information was not so good. They didn’t have four men, they had five.”

  “So?” Ortiz wished his cousin would spit it out. He was sick of his air of superiority, and he didn’t like being toyed with.

  “So the fifth man killed my boss. During the attack, the girl fell off a cliff into the river. So did one of the other four men, after we shot him. Then the fifth man went over the waterfall in a boat. Can you believe that? A Boat! We found the boat, but we have been unable to find the bodies of the last two men or the girl.”

  “What do you want me to do about it?” Ortiz said indignantly, raising his voice. “I got the senator to agree to the deal. I told you to use his daughter to force him to vote. I told you where to find her. I told you about the attack. All you have done is allow them to kill your boss, let the girl who was our only leverage get killed, and fuck up the whole deal! So don’t tell me that my information wasn’t good. What about my million dollars? After all of the effort and risk that I’ve taken, what about me? I did my job, now you do yours.”

  “You will get your million dollars,” Héctor replied slowly with obvious disdain. “But only after the bill passes. That was the agreement. We have to make sure that the senator does not find out about his daughter, and he also cannot know that Cardenas is dead. I am in charge here now. The deal stays the same. Make sure of it.”

  “I will do my part, just as I have done since the beginning. Senator Moore is at his home in Alabama now. The house is in the middle of the woods on the rim of the Little River Canyon. He has no sources of information there. There is no way he will learn about Cardenas, and no way that he can learn about his daughter. He should be back in Washington briefly on Monday for the vote. I don’t expect any problems. I will make sure that my end of the bargain is taken care of, and I expect you to hold up your end of the bargain by sending the money as promised. If not, I’ll make sure that the next team of commandos is for hunting you.”

  Then he disconnected the line.

  Héctor swore in frustration. His cousin was letting things get too far out of control. For Héctor to seize this opportunity to take control of the business, he would need insurance to make sure the vote was placed and that his cousin didn’t do something that he would later regret. He would also need to make sure that there were no loose ends left after the deal was done. He dialed the number for his man Chucho in L.A. The little monkey was an animal, but at least Héctor could count on him to take care of any problems that might arise.

  *

  Blake Harris had never been so grateful to see the sun go down. He’d managed to stop the bleeding from his leg wound with some clotting agent from a small med kit that he carried in a pocket of his BDUs, and then he’d cut his pants away enough to put a crude dressing on the wound. He’d also assessed the injuries to his chest. Two bullets had hit him in the torso. One had probably broken a couple of ribs, and another had hit his shoulder dangerously close to the top edge of his body armor. He was lucky to be alive. However, if his collarbone wasn’t broken, it was at least badly bruised. The added discomfort of straddling a tree sticking out of a cliff face for twelve hours had him feeling the worst he’d ever felt. After awakening a couple of times almost falling from his perch, he’d managed to pull off his belt and run it around the tree and through his climbing harness to hold him in place. Then he’d been in and out of consciousness for the rest of the day.

  There had been men scrambling everywhere in the canyon while he waited. He could hear a work crew in the room above him, and broken glass had showered him when they swept out the room. Others had used ropes to descend to the bottom of the canyon where they had searched back and forth for hours. He’d seen Chip’s dramatic attempt to kayak the waterfall that morning and had hoped the kid had made it. When they had hauled Chip’s kayak up from the bottom of the canyon, Harris was filled with a deep sense of dismay. It was his responsibility. He’d gotten Chip into this, and now it looked like he’d gotten him killed.

  Harris finally unstrapped himself from the tree trunk and wiggled all of his limbs to get the blood flowing. The next part was going to suck. After a few moments he resigned himself to the task. He stood and began climbing the trees and rough rock handholds toward the top of the cliff. He’d waited for dark in hopes that he could escape notice, but he knew there was nothing he could do to defend himself if he was discovered. Unfortunately, it had begun to drizzle, and the waves of small drops slithering from the sky made the climb slick and treacherous. What’s worse, he couldn’t support any weight on his right leg. He angled to his left and eventually crested the canyon rim into the jungle about fifteen feet from the house.

  Now that the climb was over, he was somewhat grateful for the rain. It would mask any sounds he made, and he also knew that rain tended to keep people inside. He hoped it would mean that less of his enemies would be out looking for him. On the other hand, he thought as he crawled through the undergrowth and jungle mud, this was miserable. Send me back to the sandbox over the stinking jungle any day.

  Harris had spent most of his time in the SEALs operating in Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and several other Middle Eastern countries where he wasn’t supposed to have been. He’d take the dry weather, wind, heat, and sand over mud, rain, spiders, and snakes any day. He’d often been grateful that his career had fallen in the Middle East conflict era instead of Vietnam. The old guys who had served in Southeast Asia always told horror stories of dysentery that had never completely gone away, and of battling constant infections, fever, and swarming bugs the whole time they had fought. Screw that. Harris preferred the purity of just him and the enemy instead of also fighting every living thing, seen and unseen, in his environment. He tried to shut out Chip’s tales of venomous vipers as he low-crawled through the mud.

  He made a half circuit around the encampment, staying back in the jungle about twenty yards. By the tim
e he reached the rough dirt road that led to the camp, he’d detected and avoided three tripwires. The reports had been true—the jungle was heavily booby-trapped. Other than that, it was pretty easy moving around without being detected. The drizzling rain and the rumble of a nearby diesel generator completely covered what little noise he made as he crept through the soggy jungle.

  The throbbing of his ribs, collarbone, and leg combined into a symphony of pain that reverberated through his body with every movement. He knew he was probably screwed. They had been over this possibility every night for two weeks during their training at The Woods, and they had never come up with a good backup plan. Even if the jungle wasn’t littered with booby traps, he didn’t like his chances of making it ten kilometers to the nearest road in his current condition. And then what would he do? In retrospect, this might be the stupidest mission he’d ever agreed to. He’d been a little bit blinded by his desire to get back in the game, but who could have foreseen this? He wondered again what had gone wrong. These guys had been waiting for them. There had to be a leak. He was certain that it wasn’t his team, and it wasn’t Sutherland. Who did that leave? There would be more problems to deal with afterward if he got out of the jungle alive. But first things first.

  He peered into the parking area using his night vision goggles. There were three cars parked in the small gravel opening in the woods—a battered Toyota pickup, a gold Ford Expedition, and a late-model Chevy Avalanche. One of them would have to be his ticket out of here if he could manage to drive with his bum leg. There were two men sitting near the parking area under a second palapa, but Harris knew they would be no problem. He still had his silenced pistol. He thought about taking out the men and checking the cars right now to see if the keys were in them, but he had one more thing to do before he could go.

  After another twenty excruciating minutes of crawling, Harris climbed up to perch on the spire of rock on the upstream side of the compound. Through his night vision goggles he could make out the palapa, the house, and the patio with the now-broken table in the middle. Four bodies were laid out on the patio covered in wet bed sheets. He could see dark patches where blood had soaked through the cloth. Chip’s kayak and paddle were laid on the stones next to the bodies. They must have gotten him too. Harris was struck by another pang of guilt that he had survived while his whole team had been killed. They were his responsibility, and he had let them down. There was only one thing he could do. He had to finish it. He wouldn’t let their deaths be in vain. Harris settled in for a long night of watching.

  18

  Tuesday, November 22nd

  SHELDON MOORE TRUDGED across the field near his house, the clumping of his boots echoing into the pre-dawn stillness. Their soles cracked the crusty dirt surface and sunk about two inches into the dry soil. It was easier than walking in mud. He passed the littering of spent shotgun shell hulls from his dove hunt earlier in the fall and turned left along the edge of the field. After another seventy-five yards he turned into the edge of the forest and walked to the base of a large oak, stepping carefully over uneven piles of rocks that had been pushed to the field’s edge when it was cleared. He unslung his scoped Remington model 750 rifle from his shoulder and pulled the action open an inch or so, peeking in to double check that there wasn’t a round in the chamber.

  Satisfied that it was safe, Moore slung the gun back over his shoulder and grabbed onto one of the large metal spikes that protruded from the tree trunk to form a crude ladder. He hauled himself up and awkwardly lifted his large boot onto another spike then began climbing. About eighteen feet in the air he struggled over the lip of a wooden platform mounted in the tree. The surface was about seven feet square, made from old rough-cut boards. It had a crude wooden bench nailed to it that allowed him to sit and lean back against the trunk of the oak. Sheldon had hired a local handyman to build the stand for him about ten years ago, and the man had come back during dove season earlier in the fall to check its sturdiness and make a few repairs.

  As he rose to stand on the platform, Moore’s breathing came in ragged gasps. He wondered how much longer he’d be able to do this. Deer stands were a young man’s game, and Sheldon ruefully admitted to himself that he was no spring chicken any more. The new fangled self-climbing tree stands were already too much for him, which is why he’d commissioned this hand-made hunter’s treehouse. It had been horrible getting him down from here when he’d had the heart attack five years earlier. Thank God he’d had cell service. Next time, hopefully he would die in the stand and avoid the indignity. He had a fleeting moment of hope that it might happen today.

  As he turned to sit down on the bench, the corner of his blaze orange vest hung on a nail sticking from the tree. He cussed when the vest tore as he impatiently tugged it loose. He settled in and cycled the action of the rifle to chamber a centerfire round, then laid the gun across his knees and ran a hand fondly over the smooth walnut stock. He looked across the field in front of him and enjoyed the first blush of dawn’s light creeping through the thin morning mist. It was his first moment of peace in days.

  When he’d come home from the airport without Samantha, his wife had been justifiably concerned. At first Sheldon had tried to convince her that Sam had probably just missed the plane. It sounded like a stretch even to him, especially in light of the fact that his daughter couldn’t be reached on her phone. Sheldon was terrified to tell Liza the truth. His wife had frantically called in a missing persons report to the Palo Alto Police Department as well as the Stanford Department of Public Safety.

  An extremely worried night had evolved into complete horror when the Palo Alto police department called back on Sunday to report that they had found Samantha’s boyfriend’s body in a patch of woods not far from campus. His wrists were cuffed, and he’d died of a single gunshot wound to the head. Liza went ballistic. Where many women might have broken down with emotion, she had demanded swift action. She insisted that Sheldon call the FBI. He’d made lame excuses about why they shouldn’t call. It had only served to infuriate her more, but calling the feds was the last thing he could afford to do if he wanted to keep his daughter safe.

  By Monday morning Liza had flown into a rage and finally headed for the phone to call the FBI herself. Sheldon’s hand had been forced, and he’d broken down and told her that Sam’s kidnappers had been in touch with him, and that their daughter would be killed if they contacted the FBI. He told her that the kidnappers were trying to force him to vote a certain way in the Senate, and that all they could do now was wait it out until he placed the vote. Her frustration and fear had exploded in his direction, and in her grief she had told him to get the hell out of her sight. So Sheldon had caught a flight to Atlanta and driven to his house on Lookout Mountain. He would deer hunt and try to distract himself while he waited the interminable week for senate business to resume.

  As the morning brightened he noticed a tan spot on the far edge of the field. He slowly raised the rifle to his shoulder and peered through the scope, pleased to see a doe gingerly stepping from the woods about two hundred yards away. He lowered the rifle and settled in to wait, hoping she would venture close enough for him to have a good shot. His eyes weren’t good enough for anything farther than about a hundred yards any more. This kind of waiting didn’t bother him a bit, especially if it took his mind off of the other kind.

  *

  As the sun was beginning to rise, Harris scooted out from the burrow he had created in the jungle growth. He found a puddle of water and took a long drink. His canteen had run dry yesterday, and although he knew drinking from the muddy divot would almost certainly lead to intestinal distress, he had to have water to survive.

  He’d gotten somewhat used to the pain of his injuries, although the constant struggle of forcing it to the back of his mind was mentally exhausting. The throbbing from his leg had grown worse. It was sure to be infected soon from crawling in the jungle mud. He munched down the last of his energy bars and felt a small rush of steadiness as his b
ody churned up the much-needed calories.

  He had watched from his rocky perch well into the night, but there’d been no movement. When the generator had shut off and all of the lights went out, Harris had reluctantly holed up for an uncomfortable night of sleep in the soggy jungle.

  He crawled back to his vantage point on the rocks and watched as the compound came to life in the dawn light, thankful that it had finally stopped raining. There was a lot more bustle today. The first person to appear was a pretty-boy with a long ponytail, cowboy boots, and a big silver .45 hanging under his arm. He seemed to be in charge and directed a group of workers who carried large panes of glass to replace the windows that Harris had fallen through barely twenty-four hours before. These guys didn’t waste any time. Another pair showed up shortly and began carrying the bodies away one by one. There was no sign of Cardenas, and Harris began to wonder if the drug lord had left the compound altogether. Although the desire to complete the mission still burned deep within him, Harris had to consider the realities of the situation. If things wrapped up here and everybody left, he’d be stranded and would certainly die from his wounds. He finally relented and began creeping back toward the parking area to see if he could figure out a ride.

  The going was much quicker than the night before because he knew the locations of the trip wires. In less than ten minutes he peeked into the parking area from the concealment of the jungle foliage.

  There were now four vehicles. A flatbed work truck with crudely built wooden sides had joined the Toyota pickup, the Expedition, and the Avalanche. In the bed of the flatbed were several large panes of glass and a variety of paint stained buckets and battered tools. The Expedition and the Avalanche’s motors were running, and he could see that two bodies were piled in the open back compartment of the Ford. He couldn’t see their faces, but from the fatigues adorning an arm and leg that peeked out from under the sheets, he could tell they were his teammates. A wave of rage rose up in him, and for a berserk moment he wanted to rush into the camp and kill everyone he saw. He concentrated on calming himself. It might avenge his friends, but he would be throwing his own life away in the process. The best course of action was to wait for the right time to avenge them properly by returning to complete the mission and take out Cardenas.