by Leland Davis
He started toward the house with the shotgun held in front of him. He could see that there were lights on in the other side of the rustic, cabin style home despite the early hour. He walked around to the side and climbed a short staircase onto a wooden deck that overlooked an enormous, dark canyon below. Through a sliding glass door he could see the large, open living room and kitchen area of the home with a couple small lamps casting dim light throughout the room. There didn’t appear to be anyone at home.
Chucho tried the sliding door and was pleased to find that it wasn’t locked. He entered the house and quietly checked every room, finding that the house was, in fact, deserted. He let himself out the door which led from a small mud room to the gravel parking area where the Ford pickup and his Audi were parked. As he walked down the steps, he noticed boot prints of dried, red mud leading from the driveway and up the stairs. He ducked back inside the mudroom and rustled through some shelves piled with hunting equipment until he located a large black Maglight. Flipping the flashlight on, he went back out the door and began following the muddy red boot prints down the gravel drive. Whoever had made them was a very large man. Despite his relative lack of experience in the outdoors, Chucho was easily able to follow the giant tracks down the driveway, across the road, and onto a trail that led into the woods on the far side.
As the minutes stretched out toward dawn, the morning chill set into Chip’s bones. He alternated between tightly tensing and releasing all of his muscles in an effort to stay warm. All of this waiting was definitely an uncomfortable game, and he longed to be moving—doing anything other than lying here completely still. Every time his mind wandered to what he was about to do, his heart started racing and butterflies rose in his stomach. He tried not to think about it and distracted himself instead with thoughts of his upcoming trip to South America. Those thoughts only brought him another dose of melancholy as he remembered that he would be making the trip without Sam. It was amazing to him that he could miss someone who he barely even knew, and with whom he had only spent three bizarre days. The pang of grief took him back around to thoughts of his current mission, a vicious mental recirculation that brought on the palpitations and butterflies again. He was actually relieved when he finally heard plodding footsteps approaching through the dark. He rolled silently onto his stomach and waited with the pistol clutched tightly in his right hand.
It didn’t take long. He heard the footsteps reach the bottom of the tree. Next, he heard the metal-on-metal sound of a rifle’s slide pulling back slightly, but not the rack of it slamming home a round. Chip surmised that Moore was making sure gun didn’t have a round in the chamber before he climbed the tree, just like Chip’s dad had taught him many years before. He waited breathlessly and listened to the older man grunting as he climbed ponderously up the stakes pounded into the trunk of the tree.
Chip saw Moore’s arms first as they crested above the level of the planks. He could hear the man puffing and wheezing from the exertion of the climb. As Moore’s head peeked over the top of the boards, Chip reached out and pressed the fat, cold end of the pistol’s suppressor against the older man’s head. Moore’s eyes widened in surprise, and Chip though for a moment that he might lose his grip and fall to the ground.
After a moment, Moore regained his composure. “You’re in my deer stand, young man,” he rumbled.
It was the first time Chip had heard his deep voice in person, and he was struck by the southern drawl.
“I’m not here to hunt deer,” Chip answered quietly. He slowly climbed to his feet without letting his aim waver and motioned for Moore to finish his climb. Moments later they were both standing on the small platform with Chip’s pistol trained now on Moore’s barrel chest.
Moore seemed resigned to his fate. It didn’t take a huge leap of reasoning for him to figure out what this was all about. He should have known it was coming. He almost welcomed it. This young man would finish the task that Moore couldn’t complete for himself.
“Put the gun down—slowly,” Chip instructed, then watched as the older man unslung the Remington from his shoulder and leaned over to lay it carefully on the bench in front of the trunk of the oak. Then the man straightened up and looked resignedly at his captor.
“You killed her,” Chip said frankly, and then gave his words a moment to sink in.
In the back of his mind, Sheldon had known this was coming too. For a moment, Chip thought the big man was going to break down and cry; but no matter how much Chip searched his soul for some forgiveness, he felt nothing but contempt for the man who had caused him so much turmoil, heartache, and pain over the last ten days.
Sheldon looked sadly into the young stranger’s fiery eyes, seeing nothing but righteous rage and knowing that even this unbridled ferocity was far less than what he deserved. It wasn’t because of the money, and it wasn’t about forsaking his country or pushing the accursed trucking bill. For him, it was about his betrayal of his own flesh and blood, and the thought of it finally brought tears to his eyes. The large man began to tremble and struggled not to collapse into sobs.
Chip watched the other man’s reaction. He searched his soul for pity as he watched the older man’s heart breaking before his eyes. He could see the entire sordid story written in Moore’s anguished expression, but the truth was that Chip didn’t care. This man had killed his friends. He’d even caused the death of his own daughter through his greed. No matter how deep his remorse, it wasn’t anywhere close to enough. It wasn’t enough for Roberts and Mendez, not enough for the crazy, ever-reliable Duval or for sweet, beautiful Sam. He thought back to the first morning he’d awakened with her on the banks of the river in the middle of the Mexican jungle. He could still hear her broken-heartedly crying in her sleep and calling out to her dad in hope of rescue. Chip was consumed not by pity but by hatred for this weak, duplicitous man. The tears now served only to raise Chip’s ire.
“All she wanted to do was please you,” his words lashed out viciously.
He could see the message slam into Moore harder than any blow, and he was satisfied when the older man dissolved finally into uncontrolled sobs.
“She loved you, and you let her die,” Chip continued, his statement of truth twisting like a knife through the other man’s heart for a second time.
Moore looked into Chip’s hard eyes with an expression that said without doubt that he knew the words were true. His destruction was complete. No bullet or torture could cause him more hurt.
Chip stepped forward with one foot braced and reached out, planted his left hand in the center of Moore’s chest, and gave a contemptuous shove. He was careful not to shift his weight so far forward that his momentum would carry him over the edge, and he quickly jerked his hand back lest the other man grab it and take him along for the deadly ride. The large man teetered for a second as he lost his balance. As he toppled backwards his eyes finally took on a look of calm. He seemed to hang suspended for a long moment, his considerable weight tottering but not yet traveling its grim transit from the edge of the platform to the jagged rocks below. And then suddenly he was gone.
Chip heard a sickening crunch as the huge man impacted on the uneven, boulder-strewn ground eighteen feet below. He peeked over the edge in the first blush of dawn light. He could see the silhouette of the large figure splayed out where he had landed flat on his back.
Chip calmly unscrewed the suppressor and replaced it in his pocket then returned his Sig to the holster in the waistband of his pants. As he turned to descend the ladder of spikes nailed into the tree, he heard the rumble of a shotgun blast. A section of the platform beside him exploded, showering him with shards of wood and startling him so badly that he almost lost his grip and joined the senator on the jagged rock pile below. A burst of adrenaline surged through him, and he vaulted himself back onto the precarious wooden perch to find whatever cover he could from his mysterious assailant, arriving prone on the platform just as the shotgun rumbled a second time, and another shower of wood chunk
s pelted across his face.
Chucho was terrified as he made his way into the dark woods. The trail of boot prints had disappeared, blending into the muddy track from which they had originally emerged. His vision was distorted from seventy-two sleepless hours, and there was a loud buzzing noise ringing continually in his ears. He gripped the Maglight so tightly in his powerful grasp that he threatened to crush the metal. He brandished the sawed-off shotgun before him in the other hand, with his massively muscled arm tensed and raised. He swung nervously back and forth as he heard sounds or saw flickers of movement in the trees, only to find that there was nothing lurking near him in the darkness except for the shadows of his own fear. He was totally removed from his element and a long way from L.A. He wanted to escape this land of horrors as quickly as possible, but he knew he had to finish the job first.
After a short distance through the trees, the trail broke into a large open field. Chucho turned off the flashlight with relief. He reacquired the trail of footprints in the soft mud and followed them along the south side of the field before turning a corner to head north along the eastern fringe. He passed an area scattered with spent shotgun shell hulls, and then saw the tracks veer off toward a jumble of rocks along one edge of the field. He was just about to step onto the stones when he was startled by the sickening crunch of something large falling from far up in a nearby tree. In his altered state, it took him a few moments to locate where the object had fallen from. He strained his eyes in the dim dawn light, peering into the heights of a large oak where he could barely make out a wooden platform high above the ground.
As his hazy view slowly resolved to clarity, Chucho suddenly saw movement on the platform. He was sure it was real this time. He raised the shotgun without hesitation and unleashed a thunderous blast of buckshot at a man who was moving on the perch high above. He was gratified to see a shower of wood chips fly as the double-aught pellets disintegrated a section of the platform. He tensed his sinewy arm, racked the slide, tightened his hand on the shotgun’s grip, and banged off another heavy round.
Chip didn’t have time to wonder who in the hell might be shooting at him. Every blast from the shotgun was removing a significant portion of his perch, and he knew that he had to act fast before he was left with no cover at all. He reached up on the bench and grabbed the high-powered rifle from where Moore had left it. Chip cycled the action to chamber a round and rolled over to point the gun in the direction that the shotgun blasts were coming from. He tried to get a clear image through the scope, but before he could resolve on his target he realized that this was taking far too long. He rolled back over to the far side of the platform as the wood where he had just been exploded into a blizzard of mulch.
The mistake had almost killed him, and Chip knew that he had to do better if he wanted to survive. Before his assailant had time to rack another round into the shotgun’s pipe, Chip rolled over to take aim again. This time he used the open sights on the top of the barrel beneath the fat scope. He found his target easily—a short, musclebound monkey of a man with black hair, a tattooed arm, and crazy eyes. Chip squeezed the trigger and watched as the man staggered backwards from the bullet’s heavy blow. But the man didn’t go down. Chip watched in astonishment as his assailant regained his balance and turned back to face the tree, a bright red wound pumping blood down the upper left portion of his chest.
The man raised the sawed-off shotgun, but Chip squeezed the rifle’s trigger again before his opponent could take aim. His second shot hit the smaller man dead center mass, flinging him backwards ass-over-teakettle like a rag doll to land in the sticky Alabama mud.
To Chip’s astonishment, the monkey-man struggled to his feet again and wildly fired the shotgun in his direction. The heavy pellets missed wide and rattled through the bare branches a few feet to Chip’s left. The freakish man was raging now. He spewed obscenities in Spanish that sprayed from his mouth in gurgles of sticky blood, spreading across the front of the sleeveless t-shirt that was stretched tautly over his musclebound chest.
Chip didn’t hesitate again. He took careful aim and fired another round, gratified to see his attacker fall back for a third time. The man’s arms and legs were still twitching and kicking as he lay on the ground, and another blast rumbled aimlessly from the shotgun as he lay there.
Chip calmed his breathing and sighted carefully through the scope this time. He settled the crosshairs on the center of the prone man’s head, exhaled half of his breath, and steadily squeezed the trigger. It was an easy shot from this range, and the heavy round had the desired result. The man’s head exploded. His limbs twitched for a few seconds more, and then he finally lay still.
Chip gently laid the now-empty rifle back across the bench on the tattered deer stand. He cautiously descended the precarious ladder of spikes, his gloves protecting him from the cold metal’s sting. By now light was spreading slowly over the landscape, so he retraced his path from the evening before, remaining concealed in the woods on his trip back to his kayak lest he be seen by anyone happening by.
When he reached his boat he ate a second breakfast of energy bars before changing into his river gear. All of his camping equipment, his pistol, and the camouflaged clothes were stuffed back into drybags and secured behind the seat of his kayak. It was still before 8 in the morning when he slid his boat into the rushing river and began stroking steadily downstream.
The rhythm of his paddle strokes became a meditation as he entered the easier whitewater in the lower portion of the gorge. This was the deepest and most spectacular section of the canyon, with sandstone cliffs towering five hundred feet over the river on each side. For the first time since that fateful morning in Mexico, he finally felt at peace. He wasn’t out of the woods yet—so to speak—but his cover was solid. He didn’t know who the crazy man that had attacked him was, but his presence provided Chip with a perfect alibi. Hopefully it would be assumed that Moore had shot the man and then fallen to his death. Even if an investigation determined that a third person had been present, Chip would be long gone before anyone began to look for him.
He realized then in a shot of clarity that he had been perfectly suited for this mission. Although he hadn’t been able to save Duval or Sam, he had survived and completed the task when others had failed. The reason was suddenly clear: He hadn’t rushed in. Instead of countless impulsive actions that would have cost his life, he had waited patiently through extreme circumstances for the proper times to act—or not acted at all when the odds were stacked too high against him—just like in those horrible moments when he’d sat on the shore the day that Daniel died. The truth was that if he had impulsively tried to save Duval or Sam, the cartel probably wouldn’t have been dismantled and countless more innocents would have died. Moore would never have been caught. And Chip would not still be here. He finally began to forgive himself for his inaction as he stepped back and looked at the bigger picture. He had done the right things, and he was through second guessing now.
He stroked though Bottleneck Rapid, the biggest challenge he would face from his kayak today. He smiled to himself as he finished the required move and paddled across the pool below it. What had seemed like a colossal obstacle when he first kayaked here at the age of thirteen was little more than a pleasant diversion to him now. He wondered briefly if this mission would bring him the same kind of nostalgia some time down the line. It was funny how his perspective had changed as his experience grew and his horizons expanded. Yesterday’s death-defying stunts had a funny way of turning into tomorrow’s pleasant rides. He had experienced ups and downs in both kayaking and this new adventure, losing friends to each along the way. It was all part of the game. Unlike most people, the reality was easy for Chip to accept. He had made a difference. He had survived the fight, righted some wrongs, and even served and defended his country along the way. Although he had been unable to save Sam, how many more like her would his actions save? He would miss her—just like he missed Daniel, and like he would miss Duval, Robert
s, and Mendez. But after a lifetime of laying his life on the line for little more than just a thrill or the clichéd “because it’s there,” he finally felt a sense of greater purpose. It gave him a new satisfaction, and he felt the weight of his guilt melt away. It was worth the risk.
He reached the Canyon Mouth Picnic Area at 9:30. He’d made excellent time. There was nobody in the parking lot as Chip made his way across the blacktop and past the gate. He walked a short distance down the rural road to his truck. Fifteen minutes later his kayak was tied securely on the roof racks, and he was back in his street clothes sitting behind the wheel. The putter of the exhaust leak made him smile as the old Tacoma sprang to life. He headed down the road, bound for the Atlanta airport. He had plenty of time to catch his all-night flight to South America. The rivers should be running strong in Chile right about now.
Monday, March 5th
EPILOGUE
A LOW ceiling of surly dark clouds shrouded the towering snowcapped peaks of the Andes Mountains, heralding the inexorable approach of the rainy season and time for Chip to leave. Unlike the whitewater rivers of North America where the trick was to catch them after a rain so that they would have enough water for paddling, it was imperative that the rivers of Ecuador only be attempted at their lowest flows of the year. January and February were the best months before the March rains set in. Chip had spent an amazing February in Ecuador after a January filled with expeditions in Peru and a December of waterfalling in Chile. It had been the trip of a lifetime—although there was no reason that he wouldn’t be able to do it all again next year. He wished Daniel could have been here for it.
