by S. D. Perry
Jonah felt some anxiety, so he closed his eyes and let himself get still in his mind, breathing slowly. Miguel was a good pilot, and would land them safely—and if he couldn’t, Jonah wasn’t going to spend his last moments of life worrying about shit he couldn’t control. Instead, he thought about his grandmother’s laulau—butterfish and pork and sweet potato wrapped in taro leaves and slow-steamed over wet banana leaves in a pit oven. Simple, fresh ingredients, a little salt… When he got home, he was going to have to build himself an imu; he could put it in the backyard by the rocks. Throw a luau, can do a pig, maybe some tuna poke, a fruit thing…
The small plane banged into the ground and braked violently. He opened his eyes as they shot past the lights and hurtled forward into the dark, pitching and bouncing. He kept his breathing easy. Lara was clutching her armrests, but her face was calm.
They bumped to a stop and Miguel powered down. Jonah broke into a light sweat almost immediately as the hot, wet night settled over them. He could hear a revving engine, and light splashed across the wall of trunks and vines in front of them, weak headlights reflecting from the shadowy jungle. Someone was coming to meet them.
“Stay here until I come get you, personally,” Miguel said, unfastening his belt. His dark hair was stuck to his forehead, and he kept a straight face but Jonah could see he was nervous. He popped his door and climbed out, walking toward the plane’s tail. The engine for the approaching vehicle cut off, and they heard Miguel calling out to his “friends” in a deliberately happy tone.
Miguel spoke for a minute, and then a man shouted angrily, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Jonah tensed, and Lara reached into her kit, putting her hand on the Remington.
The pilot was talking fast, his tone conciliatory, and there were a few grumbling replies, but Jonah couldn’t make out what they were saying. The conversation went on for a few minutes. The fact that the plane wasn’t being pumped full of holes seemed like a positive.
Soon, Miguel was climbing back in, a nervous smile on his face. “Okay, so Davi is here with a couple of his friends, and he says you can use a truck. He’ll take us to their camp to get it. Leave your things. You can pick them up when you drive me back here.”
He lowered his voice. “They will search your bags, if you bring them.”
Lara looked at Jonah, nodding. They needed to sell the idea that they were harmless.
They crawled out of the plane and into the glare of headlights. Miguel’s Cessna was at the end of a long dirt strip surrounded on all sides by heavy foliage, rubber trees and palms. There were three men behind the plane gathered at a battered jeep truck, silhouettes in the harsh light. Two of them were holding assault rifles. One of those moved forward when he saw the newcomers, whistling.
“Hey, hey, look at this.” His voice was a nasty drawl. “What is this?”
Crap. Jonah raised his chin and stared at the dark shapes of the men. He could see Lara’s tension in the set of her jaw, and silently willed her not to react. Before she could, Miguel stepped forward, looking past the two guards at the third man.
The henchman shut up and turned his head as his boss approached. Smart move. If he’d pressed the issue, Lara would have blown their cover as harmless.
Miguel introduced Davi Santo Almeda, a rough-looking man with a pocked, angry face and narrow, suspicious eyes.
“He says you are here to see caves, for a school?” Davi asked, looking at Jonah. “To take pictures?”
Lara stepped in to answer, her words flowing easily. “Yes, sir. We are documenting several small South American sites, seeking instances of certain pigment combinations.”
“Colors?” He sounded skeptical. “You want to see colors?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Lara said, nodding eagerly. “Specifically, reds from the carajura tree, and indigos made from the mollusk family Muricidae. We know these were used to dye textiles in a number of Andean cultures, but we’ve found cave paintings using these very substances, all the way through Ecuador and into the Colombian Andes. It’s an astonishing find, really. We believe it’s all down to an extended family of travelers that came here more than a thousand years ago, moving east along the riverways.”
The man’s expression had gone from wary to bored in the time it took Lara to finish. She played the enthusiastic researcher to perfection, of course, since that was essentially Lara at her core. Jonah gave her a little half-hug, big proud dumb boyfriend brought along to lug equipment and keep his girl safe.
Davi looked them over, and shot a dark look in Miguel’s direction, the meaning as clear as if he’d spoken it: If you’re lying to me, you’re dead.
“Okay,” he said finally, and climbed into the passenger seat of the truck. He motioned at his men. The one who’d harassed Lara hopped into the driver’s seat, the other jumping up into the open truck bed. “Get in.”
Lara let Jonah help her into the truck as if she needed it, a corner of her mouth twitching when he told her to watch her step. Jonah sat next to her on the warm, warped metal, night jungle sounds thick in the air: frogs calling to one another, the steady drone of a billion insects, rustling and random squawks and the flickering whisper of bats. Miguel sat across from them. He gave a discreet thumbs-up, but still looked nervous. The guy with the AR-15 took a wide stance behind the front compartment, one hand on the roof. He ignored them entirely.
The truck turned and rattled back along the potholed strip. This would either be fine, or it wouldn’t. Jonah let his thoughts and worries and expectations go, keeping his eyes and ears open instead.
* * *
They passed the dented fuel tank at the strip’s north end, draped in layers of rotting netting, and then they were approaching the shabby compound of the Santo Almeda brothers. It was pretty much the same as Miguel remembered it—a line of rusting trucks, a collection of piecemeal shacks and cabins, a generator chugging away behind the radio room. The camp smelled like burning citronella and dead earth, with a hint of garbage and human waste; the brothers and their friends weren’t particular about hygiene. At the center of it all was a big open-sided tent littered with sagging lawn chairs and lanterns. The men beneath the tattered tarp, eight or nine of them, stood up to watch them drive in. Miguel knew there was a table in the back covered with rifles and small arms from an extensive collection, but nobody was edging in that direction.
Miguel saw the older brother, Gabriel, among the dirty crew looking both twitchy and drunk, a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He was as thin as a rake, his eyes wild and bloodshot. Miguel recognized a few others: the main radio operator—a retired pilot they called Fish Eye—and a mechanic, Nuno, and a short guy whose name he didn’t know but who had been around three years ago. The rest were strangers, but they all carried the same look: dangerous. It was a pure wonder that Miguel had survived the flaming recklessness of his twenties, blind to the concept of mortality.
Davi hopped out before the driver turned off the truck, speaking loudly.
“Miguel brought us some guests, and he’s buying drinks. Relax. They’re not staying.”
“What does that mean?” Gabriel had a rasping, quick voice. “Who did he bring? Why are they here?”
Davi stepped forward, lowering his voice, explaining; both of the men who’d come out with Davi got out of the truck and joined them. Miguel had kept the story simple, implying to Davi that he was fleecing a couple of Americans for a private trip, that he’d brought them here to throw some money Davi’s way. They’d settled on a ridiculous price— Miguel was still hurting from the number—but Gabriel clearly didn’t like what he was hearing from his brother, his tone tight with paranoid anger. He raised his voice.
“Spicy, what the fuck are you doing? Get over here, and bring your fucking friends!”
Jonah and Lara both looked intent but remarkably calm. Miguel nodded at them, then got up and jumped from the back of the truck, leading them into the stark light of the lanterns beneath the tarp.
Immediat
ely, several men started grinning, one of them making cat noises, another hissing through his teeth.
Davi’s manner was firm. “Shut the fuck up. They’re paying, they’re guests. You don’t like it, get the fuck out of my camp.”
It got quiet, and most of the men went back to their seats, looking sullen. Gabriel and one of his toadies—from the way he sniffed and blinked, he was the older brother’s current coke buddy—stayed. Gabriel glared at Miguel.
“You bringin’ guests now? The fuck you think this is, a party?”
“I offered to keep flying when I called,” Miguel said. It was a weak argument—he hadn’t said anything about having civilian passengers—but it was something.
Davi put his hand up to his brother’s arm, trying to steer him away, but Gabriel was lit up. He stepped forward aggressively, waving his bottle at Miguel.
“I should have let Monkey shoot you, you traitor,” he rasped, his sour breath and body odor staggering, his fury very real. “I knew you were a piece of shit the first time you ever came, all smiling and simpering, looking down your nose at us like your ass doesn’t stink!”
“Fuck that!” the cokehead friend chimed in.
One of the men in the chairs stood up quickly, scowling. A second joined him, wiping at his nose.
“And now you bring guests? Where did you get the idea that I wouldn’t stomp your sorry ass into the ground for this kind of bullshit? And put your guests into a hole?”
“Gabriel!” Davi barked, but more men were nodding.
In the sudden tension, Jonah spoke up, calmly.
“This is on me,” he said, shaking his head. “I asked our pilot to take us as close as possible to our destination. He told us you might not be comfortable with strangers coming in, but I insisted. I figured you’d be okay with the money, I mean, it’s a lot of money, but I can see that we’re not entirely welcome here.”
Lara, standing a step behind him, cleared her throat. “On behalf of the institute, you have our sincerest apologies.”
Gabriel blinked rapidly, his mouth slightly open. The men stared.
Jonah looked at Davi. “We can afford to pay a little more. We don’t have much, but it’s all yours. This is important historical research, and the basis for my friend’s doctorate. But if you’d rather that we take our business elsewhere, we’ll leave immediately. There should still be time to drive back up from Los Indios before we have to pick up our tickets. Lara?”
Lara stepped forward with a folded envelope in her hand. She looked inside, riffling through a number of large American bills, for everyone to see. “You sure? There’s still a lot in here…”
Jonah answered her but kept his gaze on Davi. “I’m sure. It’s our last stop before home.”
Lara walked up and held out the envelope to Davi, shaking her head slightly as if in mild disbelief at Jonah’s generosity.
Miguel had a split second to marvel at what Jonah had done, in under a minute: calmed Gabriel and the other men, sweetened the deal, established that they were expected somewhere and that they’d just used up all of their funds.
Davi quickly took the envelope, and then nodded at Jonah. “You’ll excuse our manners, please. At night, we sometimes drink too much.”
“It’s our fault, for showing up like this,” Jonah said. “We should have made earlier arrangements. Can you direct us which truck to use?”
Davi nodded at the mechanic. “Nuno, does the red one have gas?”
“Yes.”
“You know where you’re going?” Davi asked.
“We have a map,” Jonah said.
“Give him the keys,” Davi said to Nuno. “Then get the Cessna gassed up.”
Gabriel finally found his voice, glaring at his brother. “What about what I have to say? Don’t I get a say in how we operate our—”
Davi cut him off, his jaw clenched. “Stop. Talking. Now.”
“Thanks, man, this means a lot,” Jonah said. “Miguel, we’ll give you a lift back to the plane. The cameras are still on board.” He chuckled, nodding at Lara. “Can’t take pictures without the cameras, can we?”
Lara smiled, looking at Davi. “This whole trip has been such a whirlwind, I’m amazed that I still have my head attached. We’ve been to five sites in four days!”
Davi actually smiled back at her, a creaky, foreign twitch. “I can’t imagine, miss. I wish you luck looking for your colors.”
Lara offered her hand, and Davi Santo Almeda, who’d personally killed at least five men that Miguel knew about, shook it limply.
“We should have the truck back in a few hours, and then we’ll be out of your hair,” Jonah said. “Lara, Miguel?”
Jonah turned and walked toward the trucks, Lara at his side. Miguel fell in behind them, trying not to look dumbfounded. It was like they’d practiced. Miguel still didn’t know what Lara and Jonah were trying to do, exactly, but he suddenly thought it very likely that they would succeed.
* * *
Harper dozed off as soon as they hit altitude and slept for nearly three hours, deaf to the low roar of the transport plane. He didn’t wake up refreshed—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually lain down in a bed—but he’d slept enough to carry him through. ETA was less than an hour, they’d be dropping soon.
He looked around at the Dozen, harnessed beside him and along the opposite wall of the dimly lit echoing plane— sleeping, tapping at devices, reading through hard copies of tunnel maps and Trinity’s reports on the Santo Almeda brothers and the layout of their “airfield.” When the Blue Labyrinth dig had gone active, Trinity had assessed the operation—they were the closest strip to the site—and come away unimpressed, at least according to recon. Couple of druggies with a stretch of dirt and a private gun collection: minimal threat. Trinity had set up its own airfield a bit farther south. But the Dozen were going to be dropping in on the brothers; if Harper had managed to get ahead of Croft, he could be there to meet her.
Harper put on his helmet and tapped the mic. “Wake up, people. Get your gear on.”
He unstrapped himself, stopped at the head, then walked up to the cockpit along a narrow aisle of web-roped cargo, boxes and barrels, grabbing hand straps along the way to keep on his feet. The pilot, Winters, wasn’t enthused about their destination, and Harper was in the mood to hand out a pep talk. He felt good. He liked the idea of being there to witness the expression on Croft’s face when she realized she’d been beaten. Of course, there was a chance she would land somewhere else, but Harper thought the odds were low. Hux had reasoned that she would be using a network of airfields used by smugglers—the pilot who had flown her out of Mexico had a history, and his plane miraculously hadn’t set down for fuel anywhere since taking off. The Santo Almeda field was fifteen minutes from the dig, it was where she was going… and if she was already there, all the more reason not to dick around with travel time.
He rapped on the door to the cockpit, then pushed it open. Winters, a nondescript white thirty-something with bad teeth, nodded at the headset on the open seat next to him.
As soon as Harper put it to his ear, the pilot started in. “I don’t believe I have fully expressed how strongly I feel we should land at the Trinity strip, Commander. It’s less than thirty miles south of the site, it’s far better maintained and nearly twice the length.”
“You said you could do it,” Harper said.
“I said it was possible, but—”
“You can do it,” Harper said. “You will do it. I have faith in you.” As if he knew anything at all about Winters, besides the fact that he didn’t floss. He was a contract hire, he hadn’t taken the Oath, but he was fully theirs the first day he’d signed his name. Another silly scenario to play—encourage and empathize with the people you needed, at least for as long as you needed them. Worked better than threats.
“Look, we have to go in steep, really steep,” Winters explained, “and if we don’t keep the speed up, we’re going to stall. This isn’t a glider—we’ll
drop like a ton of bricks. The chances of stopping in a timely fashion are therefore really low, and slamming into the jungle at any speed will kill at least your pilot. Even if I pull it off, getting back off the ground may not be possible. And these brothers could have traps rigged, they could have gotten hold of some anti-artillery firepower or—”
“Let me stop you there,” Harper said. “We’re looking at a handful of addicts with small arms, and they’re not going to open fire after you declare an emergency landing and make assurances that you will pay handsomely for the inconvenience. As far as they know, you’re a cargo plane with a bad engine… But you are carrying a team of armed and highly trained special-tactics personnel, you understand? Security is handled.”
“Our field is literally minutes away, though, and there’d be no risk of an emergency situation or, or violence—”
Blah, blah, blah. Harper was done. He stood up, clapped the stammering pilot on the shoulder. To his credit, Winters only flinched slightly, even when he applied some pressure. Not enough to cause pain, but firmly, grounding the pilot to his physical self. Nothing made a man see reason like a reminder that he was only flesh and bone.
“You will do it,” he repeated, without the encouraging emphasis. “Comprende?”
Winters nodded, swallowing. “Okay. Sure.”
“Good man.” Harper dropped the headset and started back to his team. They were restless, amped up. He found himself almost hoping that the Santo Almeda brothers would react badly to a surprise landing. His best players were a special breed; violence inspired them, kept them operating on top form. Blowing away some low-level criminals would have them revved up to handle Croft when they finally met with her.
Harper wasn’t sure exactly when his plans had changed from following Croft and managing an accident to engaging her with intent to harm, but that seemed to be how things had worked out. After Marin’s death, perhaps. It galled him to think of her scurrying around with her clues, plotting, looking for ways to undermine the cause, to interfere with a great man’s life’s work. Pedro Dominguez would have statues dedicated to him, and Croft was just a scurrying little rat. Harper was going to exterminate her.
