FaceOff

by Lee Child

  That ruse wouldn’t last long.

  Trask was strikingly handsome in a roguish way, with unruly auburn hair and sharp planes defining his face. Easy to see how he became a media darling. But those distinct looks should get him flushed out of the crowd and into the assault force’s custody in no time.

  Malone couldn’t let that happen.

  So he bent down and patted his palm into the maître d’s blood. Not the most hygienic thing in the world, but it had to be done. He painted his face with the bloody palm, then slipped the pistol into the waistband of his pants, at the small of his back, and tugged the edge of his shirt over it.

  Why he did stuff like this he’d never know.

  He stumbled into view, limping, holding a bloody hand to his fouled face.

  “Help me,” he called out in a plaintive tone, as he wove a path deeper into the room—only to be accosted by one of the gunmen holding the passengers at bay.

  Orders in Portuguese were barked at him.

  He feigned surprise and confusion though he understood every word—a benefit of the eidetic memory that made languages easy for him. He allowed the man to drive him toward the clutch of passengers. He was shoved into the crowd, bouncing off a matronly woman who was held close by her husband. He shifted deeper into the mass, bobbling his way through until he reached Trask’s side. Once there, he slipped the pistol out and jabbed it into the botanist’s side.

  “Stay nice and still,” he whispered. “I’m here to save your sorry ass.”

  Trask flinched and it looked like he was about to speak.

  “Don’t talk,” he breathed. “I’m your only hope of getting out of here alive. So don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  Trask stood still and asked, his lips not moving, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Where’s the biotoxin?”

  “Get me out of here, and I’ll bloody well make it worth your while.”

  Typical opportunist, quickly adapting.

  “I’m not telling you a thing,” Trask said, “until you have me somewhere safe.”

  Clearly the guy sensed a momentary advantage.

  “I could just identify you to these gentlemen,” Malone made clear.

  “I have the vials on me. If even a single one breaks, it’ll kill anything and everything within a hundred yards. Trust me, there’s no stopping it, short of incineration.” Trask threw him a glorious smile of victory. “So I suggest you hurry.”

  He took stock of the four gunmen. The two searchers had about completed their path through the corpses. To better the odds of success he needed them all grouped together. As he waited for that to happen, he decided to press his own advantage.

  “Where did you find the orchid?”

  The doctor gently shook his head.

  “You’ll tell me that much, or I’ll shoot my way out of here and leave you to them—making sure I’m a hundred yards away fast.”

  Trask clenched his jaw and seemed to get the point.

  They both continued to stare out at the macabre scene.

  “Six months into the jungle I heard a rumor of a plant called Huesos del Diablo,” Trask said, keeping his lips still.

  Malone silently translated.

  The devil’s bones.

  “It took another year to find a tribe that knew about it. I embedded myself in their village, apprenticed myself to the shaman. Eventually he took me to a set of ruins buried in the upper Amazon basin, revealing a vast complex of temple foundations that stretched for miles. The shaman told me that tens of thousands of people had once lived there. A vast unrecorded civilization.”

  Malone had heard of similar ruins, identified via satellite imaging, found deep in the hinterlands of the Amazon, where people thought no one lived. Each discovery defied the conventional wisdom that deemed the rain forest incapable of supporting civilization. Estimates put the number living there at over sixty thousand. The fate of those people remained unknown, though it was theorized starvation and disease were the main culprits of their demise.

  But maybe there was another explanation.

  The searchers across the dining hall checked the last of the bodies. The two armed men closest to them alternated their attention from their colleagues to their captives.

  “Among the ruins I found piles of bones, many of them burned. Other bodies looked like they died where they dropped. The shaman told me the story of a great plague that killed in seconds and wilted flesh from bones. He showed me an unusual dark orchid growing nearby. I didn’t know then if the orchid was the source of the plague, but the shaman claimed the plant was death itself. Even to touch it could kill. The shaman taught me how to gather it safely and how to wring the poison from its petals.”

  “And once you learned how to gather this toxin?”

  Trask finally glanced at him. “I had to test it, of course. First on the shaman. Then, on his village.”

  Malone’s blood went cold at the matter-of-fact admission of mass murder.

  Trask turned back. “Afterward, to ensure I had the only source, I burned all pockets of the orchids I could find. So you see, my rescuer, I hold the key to it all.”

  He’d heard enough.

  “Stick to my side,” he mouthed.

  He eased toward the edge of the crowd, towing Trask in his wake. Once there, he knew he had to incapacitate the four armed men as quickly as possible. There’d only be a few seconds of indecision. The men were finally gathered in a group. Seven rounds remained in his gun’s magazine. Not much room for error. He eyed an overturned table with a marble top that should offer decent cover. But he needed to be away from the civilians before the shooting started.

  He gripped Trask by the elbow and motioned to the table. “Come with me. On my mark.”

  He did a fast three count, then sprinted toward the table, swinging his gun into view—only to have the floor beneath his feet jolt, throwing him high. He flew past the table, crashing hard, losing his grip on the gun, which skittered across the floor out of reach. He rolled to see the front of the dining hall tear away, glass exploding, the walls splintering open.

  Dark jungle burst inside.

  Then he realized.

  The boat had hit shore and run aground.

  Everybody had been knocked off their feet, even the gunmen. He searched for Trask, but the botanist had been tossed into the assault team. Trask straightened up and even the blood gushing from a broken nose failed to hide his features. Surprised voices erupted from the four gunmen. Rifles were pointed and Trask lifted his arms in surrender.

  Malone searched for the pistol, but it was gone.

  Trask glanced in his direction, the fear and plea plain on his face. The man’s thoughts clear. Help me. Or else. Malone shook his head and brought a finger to his lips, signaling silence, the hope being that the doctor would realize selling him out was not a good idea.

  One of them had to be free to act.

  Trask hesitated, was jerked to his feet, but said nothing.

  A parrot screamed across the ruins of the dining hall, cawing, seemingly voicing Malone’s frustration.

  And he could only stare as Trask and his captors vanished into the dark bower of the jungle.

  PIERCE STARED ACROSS THE RUINS of the dining hall, studying what lay beyond a gash in the walls. “So you lost him.”

  “Not much I could do,” Malone said, on his knees, searching among a tumble of chairs and tossed tables. “Especially after the boat ran aground.”

  Trask’s cabin had come up empty. But Pierce now knew that the doctor had the sample hidden on him. He’d also listened as Malone reported everything else Trask had said.

  Malone reached under a tablecloth and came up with the pistol he’d lost earlier. “Lot of good it does me now. What’s our next move?”

  “You don’t have to stay on this. You’re retired. Go back to your lady in Buenos Aires.”

  “I wish I could. But Stephanie Nelle would have my ass. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. I’ll t
ry, though, not to get in the way.”

  He caught the sarcasm.

  So far, this brief partnership between Justice and Defense had proved fruitless. But with Trask on the run and captured by a guerrilla force, as much as he hated to admit it Pierce could use the help.

  Malone picked his way across the dining hall to the demolished wall of the ship. Pierce watched as the former agent bent down and examined something. All of the other passengers were gone, being offloaded to other boats.

  “Got a blood trail here that leads outside.”

  He hustled over.

  “Has to be Trask,” Malone said. “He broke his nose when the ship crashed. It was bleeding badly.”

  “Then we follow it.”

  “I saw a patrol boat earlier. They could have offloaded him by the river.”

  “I spotted that craft, too, from the cabin. But it took off shortly after we went aground. The attack, the fire, the crash—it’s drawn lots of river traffic.”

  “You think the ground team and the boat are planning a rendezvous farther along the Amazon? Where there are fewer eyes to see them?”

  “It makes sense. And that gives us a window of opportunity.”

  “A small one, which is shrinking fast.” Malone pointed to the drops of blood, scuffed by the boot of one of the guerrillas. “Once in the jungle, it’ll be hard to track in the dark.”

  “But they’re in a hurry,” Pierce said. “Not expecting anyone to follow. And they’ll have to stay close to the riverbank, waiting for their ride. With four men and a prisoner in tow, they should leave an easy trail.”

  · · ·

  Which proved true.

  Minutes later, slogging across the muddy bank, Pierce saw that it wasn’t difficult to spot where the guerrillas had pushed into the forest. He glanced back at the beached riverboat, its bulk angled in the river, the stern still billowing black smoke into the twilight sky. Other watercraft had now come to its rescue. Passengers were being ferried away as the fires aboard spread.

  He turned from the smoking ruins of the MV Fawcett.

  The boat had surely been named after the doomed British explorer Percy Fawcett, who vanished in the Amazon searching for a mythical lost city. Pierce faced the jungle, hoping the same fate didn’t await them.

  “Let’s go,” he said, leading the way.

  Less than ten feet into the dense vegetation the forest snuffed what little light remained. Night shrouded them. He limited any illumination to a single penlight, which he shone ahead, picking out boot prints in the muddy mulch and broken stems on the bushes. The trail was easy to track but hard to traverse. Every vine was armed with thorns. Branches hung low. Thickets were as convoluted as woven steel.

  They forged onward, moving as quietly as possible. A growing ruckus from the night helped mask their advance. All around them were screams, buzzes, howls, and croaking. The shine of his tiny light also caught eyes staring back at them. Monkeys huddled in trees. Parrots nesting atop branches. A pair of larger pupils—like yellow marbles with black dots—glowed.

  Maybe a jaguar or a panther.

  After forty minutes of careful advancing, Malone whispered, “To the left. Is that a fire?”

  Pierce stopped and shaded his penlight with his palm. In the blackness, he spotted a flickering crimson glow through the trees.

  “They made camp?” Malone whispered.

  “Maybe waiting for full night before making a break for the river and their boat.”

  “If it’s them at all.”

  Only one way to find out.

  He flicked his flashlight off and continued toward the glow, noting that the path they were following led in that direction, too. Twenty minutes of careful plodding were needed to close the distance. They halted in a copse of vine-laden trees that offered cover and a vantage point to spy upon the camp.

  Pierce surveyed the clearing.

  Mud-and-thatch huts indicated a native village. He spotted a clutch of children and a handful of men and women, including a wizened elder who cradled an injured arm. All were held at gunpoint by one of the guerrillas from the boat. The campfire must have attracted their attention, too.

  He spotted Trask, on his knees, by the flames. One of the guerrillas leaned over him, clearly shouting, but the words could not be heard. Trask shook his head, then was backhanded for his stubbornness, sending the doctor sprawling across the ground. Another of the assailants came forward, balancing a small metal case on his open palm. His captors must have searched Trask and found the vials. The faint glow of LED lights could be seen on the case.

  “Locked with an electronic code,” Malone said.

  He agreed. “Which they’re trying to learn from Trask.”

  “And I can tell you, from our little bit of conversation, he’s going to drive a hard bargain.”

  Pierce counted four guerrillas, each heavily armed. The odds weren’t good. Two to one. And any firefight risked harming or killing the villagers.

  A new group of guerrillas appeared at the village’s western edge, filing out of a worn trail that likely led to the river. They numbered another six, along with a seventh who stood taller than the others and unwrapped the black cloth from his face. A deep scar ran down his left cheek, splitting his chin. He barked out orders that were instantly obeyed.

  This one was in charge.

  Two-to-one odds just became five to one.

  The newcomers were also heavily armed with assault rifles, grenade launchers, and shotguns.

  Pierce realized the futility of their situation.

  But Malone seemed unaffected. “We can do this.”

  MALONE WATCHED AS THE ASSAULT force leader yanked trask to his feet and pointed west, toward the river, where the boat was likely waiting.

  “We can’t let them get to the water,” he said. “Once they’ve cleared the village, we can use the jungle to our advantage.”

  “Guerrilla warfare against guerrillas.” Pierce shrugged. “I like it. They teach you that in law school?”

  “The navy.”

  Pierce smiled. “With any luck, maybe in the confusion we can grab Trask and the vials.”

  “I’ll settle for the vials.”

  Their targets left the village.

  They kept low, running parallel. Interesting how their quarry was making no effort to move quietly. Orders were barked in loud voices, the crunch of boots and snap of branches announcing a retreat toward the river. The entourage moved as if in total command of their surroundings—which, in a sense, they were. This was home field for them. But that didn’t mean the visiting team couldn’t score a few points every once in awhile.

  They neared the village clearing and Malone noted two of the gunmen had remained behind, assault rifles still trained on villagers.

  A problem.

  It seemed they intended to leave no witnesses. He caught Pierce’s attention, pantomimed what they should do, and received a nod of acknowledgment. They closed the last of the distance at a run, bursting into the clearing, appearing in an instant behind the two gunmen.

  A shot to the chest and he dropped one.

  Pierce killed the other.

  The pistol blasts were loud, echoing into the forest.

  Malone skidded on his knees and caught the assault rifle as his target collapsed. Pointing it toward the sky he strafed a fierce blast at the stars. He hoped the initial pistol shots accompanied by the rifle fire would be taken by the retreating guerrillas as the village’s bloody cleanup.

  Pierce motioned for the locals to stay calm and not spoil the ruse. The elder nodded, seeming to understand, and waved the others down, ensuring that mothers kept frightened children quiet, signaling the men to gather what they could in preparation to flee.

  Pierce holstered his Sig Sauer and gripped one of the guerrilla’s rifles. Malone followed his example. He spotted a grenade launcher resting on the ground near one of the bodies. He considered taking it, too, but it would likely only burden him in the confines of the jungle. The
rifle and his pistol would have to do.

  They fled toward the trail taken by the guerrillas.

  Thirty yards in, the shadowy form of a guerrilla blocked their path. Someone must have been sent back to make sure the village was secure. Before they could react, the man opened fire, shredding leaves and sending them diving into the vegetation.

  Malone rolled behind the bole of a tree and twisted in time to see the muzzle flash of Pierce’s return fire.

  Not bad. Fast response.

  The guerrilla was thrown backward, his chest blown out as bullets tore into flesh.

  The body thudded to the ground.

  “Keep going,” Pierce said. “Let’s try to stay on their flanks.”

  Malone bit back a groan of complaint from his sore knees. Jungle warfare was definitely a younger man’s game.

  But he could handle it.

  They plunged ahead.

  PIERCE KEPT TRACK OF MALONE’S progress, matching the pace. What they needed was for any boat waiting for the group to be out of commission. Unfortunately, they were a little shorthanded and would have to handle the situation once there.

  He continued through the forest, paralleling the path taken by the guerrilla force. He on one side of the trail, Malone on the other, out of sight. A slight wind coursed through the trees. Its direction appeared away from the river, inland. Shouts from ahead brought him to a stop. First in Portuguese, then English.

  “Show yourself, or I kill your man.”

  He edged forward and crouched low.

  A deadfall opened ahead, where one of the canopy trees had recently fallen tearing a hole in the forest. Starlight bathed the open wound, revealing the guerrilla leader. He held aloft the small steel case, its LED display still glowing. Another of the guerrillas nestled the muzzle of an assault rifle to the back of Trask’s skull. Pierce cared nothing for the doctor’s life. Malone had shared what he’d learned as to how Trask had obtained his prize and at what cost. All that mattered was securing the toxin before it escaped to some foreign enemy’s manufacturing lab, where it could be mass-produced.