But he'd done what she'd trained him to do. He'd turned his back, put the mission first, and left her in the hands of a stranger. And though he felt ashamed, he
knew that Sarah Connor would be proud.
I don't want this! he thought with a flash of outrage. Then he smiled wryly. I guess that's one of the many things Mom and I have in common.
Suddenly Dieter held up a hand and John froze, looking ahead to where the former commando was staring. Then John saw it, too; a brightening between the trees, as if the olive-green gloom lightened ahead of them. The vegetation thickened in that direction, too, no longer partially shaded out by the upper stories; now it looked more like Hollywood's conception of a rain-forest jungle, so thick that nobody could move far through it.
He moved quietly up beside von Rossbach and listened. In a few moments, as the two men stood still, birds and insects began to make their myriad noises again.
John and Dieter looked at each other. No other humans around then, or the wildlife would have stayed quiet. At least the ones in their immediate vicinity would have. Dieter signaled that they should split up but stay within sight of each other and approach the brighter patch of forest; John had learned military sign language about the time he was toilet-trained. The younger man nodded his understanding and moved off into the undergrowth.
Yup, it's the trail all right, John thought after a few minutes. He glanced at von Rossbach and they wordlessly agreed to wait a few moments before venturing farther. When the jungle had once again returned to full cry, Dieter nodded and stepped out onto the trail.
"It's bigger than it used to be," John said, walking carefully up to the Austrian
over the slickly muddy ground. "Almost a road now."
"I doubt the Indians did it," von Rossbach said, flicking a hand at some tire tracks in the mud. "Unless they drive those little all-terrain buggies."
"Not likely," John said, shaking his head. He remembered the local tribesmen and women as perfectly willing to accept rides, but showing no great desire to learn to drive themselves.
Dieter's head came up and John was already looking down the trail to where a faint noise disturbed the wilderness. Then they faded into the jungle as one, weapons at the ready. The only thing coming down that trail would be trouble, whether miners or Indians.
A group of five men came into view, unshaven and with the skinny muscularity of manual work and bad diet; they were in tattered shorts and shirts, several with bandannas tied around their heads. All of them carried machetes, and two of them had pistols at their waists. With them was an Indian, his hands bound behind his back in a way that must have been agony, blood streaming down his face from a cut on his forehead and what looked like a broken nose. He was an athletic-looking man in early middle age with bowl-cropped raven hair and a few tattoos, naked save for a breechclout.
One of his captors idly thwacked at the thick greenery beside the trail with his machete, casting an occasional angry glance at their captive's battered, impassive face.
"Hey, Teodoro, why can't we just kill him?" he suddenly burst out in Brazilian Portuguese.
The angry man's voice had an undertone of some other accent, and his hair was sandy-colored. John's mind ticked him off as from southern Brazil, one of the areas settled by Germans or Italians or East Europeans during the nineteenth century. The others were typical Brazilians in appearance, ranging from African to Mediterranean and mixtures in between.
A thickset man with his black hair tied in a little knob on top of his head sighed and threw an appealing glance up at the canopy above them; evidently as close to a leader as this bunch had.
"Raoul, for the thirty-third time, he's a chief, he's important, we keep him as a hostage and those fucking Indios stop killing us and stealing and breaking our equipment." He looked over his shoulder, one hand resting on his sidearm. "Did you hear me this time?"
Raoul answered him with a glare and a vicious swipe of his machete through a thick fibrous plant. One of the men gave the chief a hard shove and laughed as the Indian stumbled to his knees and then fell forward onto his face, helpless to break his fall. The others whooped and moved in, kicking and punching the man as he struggled to get back onto his feet. Teodoro sighed and rubbed his forehead.
"You better get up fast, Chief," he said. "They're just gonna keep on kickin'
otherwise."
John looked at Dieter, outrage in his eyes. But the big man shook his head. This wasn't their fight, they were just passing through. Getting involved here wouldn't further their own agenda; in fact, it might stop it cold if John got killed in some misguidedly noble effort to save the captive. And Sarah would never forgive him.
The younger man lifted his mini-Uzi and tipped his head toward the trail. Dieter tightened his lips impatiently and shook his head again. The Austrian signaled that they would hold their positions. It visibly puzzled John and he frowned, gesturing toward the brutal scene on the trail directly in front of them, his face pleading. Dieter signed that they would hold their places and signaled for silence.
John turned his head away and glared at what was happening on the trail. Von Rossbach could almost feel him seething.
Then, without warning, the boy stepped onto the road and fired off a few rounds.
" Mao em cima!" he bellowed in execrable Portuguese.
Instead of freezing, Raoul flung his machete at John's head. John stepped back, leaning to the side to avoid it, and his feet slid out from under him in the mud.
He went down flat on his back, his arms flung wide, and the nearest miner threw himself forward, grabbing John's gun hand in a grip like a mangle. Connor threw a punch at the man's head, bringing up his knee to slam it into his captor's side.
The man grunted and tried to elbow John in the throat.
As the group of miners shouted encouragement to their friend and insults at John, they moved forward, abandoning their previous victim.
Dieter exploded from the jungle like a beast out of legend, kicking the first man he reached hard enough to fling him across the muddy trail, where he landed in a heap and didn't move again. Reaching out, von Rossbach grabbed another by the hair and with a quick flex of the massive arms and shoulders flung him at a tree beside the trail.
John heard the thok! even in the heat of his own fight and threw another punch into his opponent's bloodied face with a feeling of satisfaction. Knew he'd come around to my point of view, he thought. The miner's grip on his gun hand slackened and Connor threw a final punch, twisting to get out from under the man's unconscious body as it fell.
He shook the mud from his gun and grimaced. I'm not gonna be using this till I clean it.
Another man who'd been advancing on John stared at Dieter in amazement for just a moment too long, and the Austrian reached out, took two handfuls of greasy hair, and smashed the man's face down onto his uprising knee. The man Dieter had kicked had struggled to his feet and turned to run; von Rossbach took two long strides toward him.
John saw Teodoro yank his gun from its holster and he moved. As Dieter's victim dropped unconscious to the ground the Austrian spun to find John taking care of the fifth man.
The younger man's fingers were clamped down on the miner's carotid arteries as Teodoro pawed feebly at John's hands. The miner's eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped to the trail in an ungainly heap.
John smiled smugly at Dieter. There were other ways than brute strength to handle things.
"My mom taught me that," he said.
"Your relationship with your mother is a beautiful thing, John," Dieter said, slapping him on the shoulder. Then he grabbed a handful of John's shirt and lifted him onto his toes, drawing him close. "If you ever disobey an order like that again," he snarled, eyes blazing, "I'll make what I did to these guys look like a kindergarten romp. Are you getting me, John?"
Connor had expected a reprimand, but the genuine ferocity of it startled him. He nodded, surprised, The big guy really cares, he thought, embarrassed and obs
curely pleased. Who'da thunk it? Certainly he wouldn't have. His mother's previous friends sure hadn't, and he was used to discounting any interest the men around her showed in him.
"Say it!" Dieter demanded, giving him a shake.
"I'm getting you," John said, some of his wonder leaking into his voice.
They stared at each other for a long moment, then von Rossbach let him go and turned toward the Indian. He reached down to help the chief sit up.
"Are you all right?" the Austrian asked in Portuguese.
Instead of answering, the native looked at him for a long moment before switching his glance to John, then climbed to his feet on his own. John racked his brain for anything useful he could say in Yamomani and came up blank. He'd only known a few words and that was six years ago.
Dieter looked the chief over as he cut his bonds. "I don't think he's badly hurt.
The nose is the worst of it."
"Dieter," John said in a strained voice.
The Austrian looked up, his face going blank. From out of the jungle, up and down the trail, small brown men glided, seeming to appear from thin air and jungle shadows. Every one of them was armed, some with the traditional bow, some with blowguns, some with cheap shotguns bought from traders. Like their chief's, their faces were impassive, but their eyes were angry.
The chief snapped at them and they reluctantly lowered their weapons, keeping their eyes on the white men. With a glance at the unconscious miners he spoke
"What are you going to do with them?" John asked.
The chief slowly smiled, not a pleasant smile.
"They walk home," he said, moving his hand like a crippled spider. "Go slow."
John and Dieter looked at each other, puzzled. Barefoot on this trail wouldn't be a treat for the miners, but it didn't seem to make up for the abuse the man had received at their hands. The chiefs smile turned truly evil.
" Marabunda," he whispered.
"In the Rio Negro," von Rossbach muttered.
"Hunh?" John said.
"Old-movie reference," Dieter explained. " Marabunda are army ants. They can be very destructive when they're on the move, sort of like land-going piranha."
" Marabunda cross trail," the chief said, gesturing up the trail where the miners had been pushing him. " Marabunda move very slow. White mens move very slow." He moved his hand in the spider gesture again, then he speeded it up. "Or maybe they dance very fast."
He laughed, then nodded at his people, who whacked the miners on their legs with the flats of their machetes and got them stumbling down the trail. They hooted their derision as their prisoners stumbled and fell, one man's pale legs kicking in midair as the ones underneath cursed and shouted at him to get off them. The Indians slapped them with their machetes or threw small stones to get them up and moving.
John frowned. "They're not going to get eaten, are they?" he asked.
The chief laughed outright at that. "They stand still, si. But they no stand still, they run." He wiped the blood from his face and turned to follow his men. "You come see?" he invited.
"We must go." John pointed down the trail in the opposite direction.
The chief nodded. "You are friends." He called out and a man came running.
"This Ifykoro," the chief said. "He guide. You go safe from our lands."
"Thank you," Dieter said simply, and John nodded.
The chief smiled and turned away. Lifting his bow, their guide took off down the
trail at a jog. With a weary glance at one another von Rossbach and John followed him. Just before a loop in the trail that would take them out of sight, John looked over his shoulder.
The Indians were enjoying themselves, harrying the miners and chanting abuse.
John smiled; for all their anger they weren't really hurting their victims. I wonder how Skynet will handle these people.
Here in the depths of the rain forest they might not suffer too much from the initial nuclear attack, and they might hang on for years before any of the machines came along to harvest them.
John winced at the thought. He liked these people. He remembered them from when he was ten; as long as you didn't get into a blood feud, they were honest.
They were among the few human beings on earth who could make that claim.
Except it would never occur to them to make it.
They deserve to live in peace, he thought, and to die in their own time. And he would work, for the rest of his life, to see that they could.
PORTO VELHO, CAPITAL OF
RONDONIA, BRAZIL
John nibbled carefully at the hot skewer of grilled pirarucu—a huge Amazonian fish—that he'd bought at a stall. He looked around and let out a contented sigh.
The chaos of a South American marketplace felt like a homecoming to him. He'd grown up in places like this, eating food like this.
In fact, he'd haunted this very market when he was ten and they'd spent three
months here after coming out of the jungle while his mom got it together. Which was how he found out a number of things that were very helpful to his mother.
He wandered down an alley, taking a bigger bite of the fish on his skewer. God, this was good! He'd missed the taste of pirarucu.
He could also have helped Dieter, had Dieter thought to ask him. But the big guy had told him to stay put, like he was some little kid, and had gone out. Naturally John followed him. He watched von Rossbach approach a modest palacete not far from this very alley. Watched as two bullet-headed thugs had held a gun on him and searched him. Really searched him, not an easy once-over like you see in the movies; these guys had all but brought out the rubber gloves.
That's what you get for going to visit Lazaro Garmendia without an appointment, Dieter, John thought.
Garmendia was the area's foremost mob boss; his specialty was smuggling, though he tended to avoid drugs. There were vague rumors about a nasty run-in with some Colombians—no one knew any details. But he'd do pretty well anything else for money, though he preferred it to be illegal, immoral, or sadistic.
A very scary guy and terribly sensitive about his perks. You showed him respect or he showed you what for. John didn't think von Rossbach had even thought to bring Garmendia a gift. Bad sess, Dieter.
He stopped in front of a slight recess in a blank wall and gobbled the last of his fish, then he broke the stick and put it in his pocket. Let's see if I remember how this goes, he thought. John bent down and studied the left edge of the recess.
Yep, there it was. A pebble projected from the rough stucco that made up the
coating on the wall. John pressed on it. There was a click and a very slight line of darkness appeared where there had been a solid joint. He turned to the right and found a similar pebble up high, almost beyond his reach; he pushed that one, too, and with a gust of cool, musty air a door fell open a crack. John pushed it open farther and entered the moist darkness within. Mom would want him to save the former Sector agent from himself.
***
"Look, Lazaro, I'm offering you first-rate security in exchange for a ride home.
We'll help with the driving and even provide our own food."
Dieter sat at ease in Lazaro Garmendia's office, ignoring the many weapons hidden on the persons of Garmendia and his discreetly hovering associates; trying less successfully to ignore his increasing irritation.
The Brazilian mobster looked von Rossbach over skeptically, rolling a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. An overhead fan made ineffectual efforts to stir the air; it was just as humid as it had been in the rain forest, but with less greenery between them and the sun it was much hotter. The thick hazy air was crackling with diesel fumes as well, and a shantytown stink intruded even into this enclave of wealth. The Austrian tried to ignore the decor
, which ran to expensive knickknacks and electronic gadgets, plus several pictures of the sort you'd find in a very expensive Rio cathouse.
Dieter and John, having successfully marched through the rain forest to Porto Velho, now needed transport back to Paraguay; preferably transport that couldn't be traced and didn't involve showing papers. All that slogging through the bugs and muck shouldn't be wasted by announcing their presence in this unlikely spot
by drawing enough cash from their bank accounts to buy or rent a vehicle. But Dieter had no intention of walking home.
More than at any time since his retirement Dieter missed the Sector's endless resources; cash or a new identity on demand, or both. Still, his work with the Sector had left him with a head full of useful contacts. When he'd first thought of taking advantage of Garmendia's underground trucking network, it had seemed like the ideal solution.
"I am to believe that when you left the Sector, senhor, you left it so completely as to join the other side?" Garmendia tipped his head, one gray eyebrow raised.
"I think maybe you should take the bus. No?"
"No," Dieter said, looking into the depths of his drink. "First, I'd like to get there in my own lifetime. Second"—he raised a brow—"your people are more… sub rosa, so to speak."
The smuggler shrugged. " Si, much more so than a bus." He narrowed his eyes.
"So, what are you prepared to pay?"
"I'm disappointed that you think so little of my skills as a guard that you would ask for additional compensation." One's de of the Austrian's mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. "Perhaps I am insulted."
"Perhaps this is a sting," Garmendia responded. He spread well-manicured hands and shrugged. "If I risk losing an entire cargo, I would be a fool not to try to recoup my losses beforehand. No?"
"This is not a sting, Lazaro," Dieter said, as he took another sip of his drink. "1
could arrange a sting, or even several if you like," he went on. "Then you could see the difference between men trying to put you in jail and an old friend asking a favor."
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