Catalyst (Breakthrough Book 3)

by Michael C. Grumley

  Once inside, Clay estimated a distance of thirty feet before lowering his bag and fishing out a small compact military style flashlight. He turned it on, instantly washing the narrow walls in bright light.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” Li Na nodded. She stepped forward carefully, using the ambient glow from Clay’s light in front of her. The ground was littered with chunks of rock and large pieces of stone, some of which had fallen from the low ceiling, leaving pocks overhead.

  The walls, less than a foot away on either side, bore deep scrapes in the rock and were largely covered in a dark film.

  “Did the kid mention what kind of mine this was?”

  Li Na paused for a moment. “Uh...coal?”

  Clay fingered some of the material off a nearby wall and smelled it. “Iron ore.”

  “Iron ore. Yes. What is it for?”

  “It’s used in steel.” Clay picked up his bag, holding it out in front of him as he moved forward. Things just kept getting worse.

  60

  Things were getting worse. Caesare studied the distant sky, which was continuing to change. The setting sun had already disappeared behind the dark horizon, cutting their light short and causing the team to turn back early. Their storm had resumed its easterly direction.

  Tiewater stepped up behind Caesare, who was standing on a rocky outcropping. “That doesn’t look good.”

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  “How long?”

  Caesare shook his head. “I’m not sure. Maybe tomorrow morning.”

  Tiewater scratched at the base of his lightly colored hair. He was graying prematurely, giving a distinguished contrast against his darker eyebrows. “We’re going to need to find some cover. That could be a hell of a downpour.”

  “Agreed,” Caesare nodded. This was all they needed.

  They both turned as Anderson came rushing out from a wall of palms below and scaled the small incline. He reached them only slightly out of breath.

  “I may have some good news.”

  “Good, we could use some.”

  “I found some tracks headed northwest. Tire tracks. We have company up here and it’s not Otero.”

  Caesare and Tiewater looked at each other. “Who?”

  “Poachers, most likely.”

  “Poachers?” Tiewater frowned. “Why is that good news?”

  A wry grin appeared on Caesare’s face, matching Anderson’s. “Because the poachers may be looking for the same thing we are.”

  “And not even realize it,” Anderson added.

  Caesare motioned to Tiewater. “You two check it out. Corso and I will stay here and find some shelter. If nothing else, maybe these poachers can save us some time.” He checked his watch. “Find out where they are, fast.”

  “Yes, sir.” Together, both men promptly scrambled back downhill and disappeared.

  Caesare stepped down and followed a small path of matted grass back to the area where the rest were seated.

  Corso approached him and spoke in a low voice. “What’s up?”

  “Anderson may have found us a shortcut. In the meantime, we need to find some shelter. The storm isn’t finished with us.”

  “Yeah, I saw that. I’ll see what I can find.” He raised a small wire microphone and earplug, then wrapped it around his left ear.

  Caesare turned to DeeAnn and Juan, resting on a pair of nearby rocks. They looked exhausted.

  “Where’s Dulce?”

  DeeAnn looked up above Caesare’s head. He followed her eyes up just in time to catch the small gorilla, hanging from the tree and trying to place a small white flower on his head.

  “Someone seems to be enjoying herself.”

  Juan finished replacing the batteries and handed the vest back to DeeAnn. “Where’d the other guys go?”

  “They’re checking some things out. The storm is headed our way again.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I were. Things may be about to get very wet.” He scanned the ground around them. “And very muddy.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Corso’s searching for shelter. If we can find a decent place, we’ll need to relocate.”

  “Where are the other two?”

  “Looking for a shortcut.”

  Juan and DeeAnn both looked at each other. “What does that mean?”

  He grinned at DeeAnn. “It means that even poachers may still have one redeeming quality.”

  61

  “Poacher” was such an ugly word. Hugo preferred almost any other term. And frankly, he never understood why the practice was even illegal.

  The Brazilian took another drag off his cigarette and scratched his stubbled chin absently.

  As far as he was concerned, the black market was the way the world should be, pure opportunity without all the government leeching.

  Poaching, like most lines of work, was simply the filling of a need for those who wanted something. To him, there was little difference between cats and dogs and the more exotic pets that some people wanted. Pets were pets. And in this case, a capuchin was simply harder to find and capture.

  But more than that, it was a matter of survival. For him. The truth was that it was getting damn hard to make a living in Brazil, honest or not. He hadn’t always been a poacher, but when the economy collapsed he had to find a way to feed his family. When it came to them versus an empty table, who gave a crap about a bunch of monkeys? As long as people continued to pay, he would continue to satisfy the demand.

  Hugo finished his cigarette and dropped it into the moist soil, rubbing it out with his boot. He remained still, listening as the first moments of darkness enveloped the area. The evening mist rolling over and down the mountain felt cool against his sweaty neck and arms.

  Not far away he could see the flicker of light from another cigarette. His partner, Vito. There were four of them in all, each fanning out in the darkness, waiting.

  The monkeys were easier to hear at night.

  They waited almost forty-five minutes before hearing the first whistle. It was quickly followed by another, and then another. Hugo’s ears zeroed in on a direction. Roughly eleven o’clock from his position. He could see Vito’s cigarette suddenly disappear.

  Hugo withdrew his JM Special dart gun and checked it. The dart was chambered and ready. The tranquilizer was stronger than necessary, but given the capuchin’s habit of running or climbing after being shot, a weaker dose too often made for difficult retrievals. Hugo and his partners had learned that risking the effects of a more powerful drug was an easy trade over trying to track the damn things down.

  He stalked briskly into the dense forest, rolling his feet carefully from heel to toe in an effort to remain silent. The soft, damp ground helped reduce the noise as he moved delicately over the leaves.

  All four were now moving in on the increasing chatter, and what was beginning to sound like a big score.

  With his face painted black, Tiewater edged forward through a group of ground ferns, letting the tip of his rifle float out first before sweeping past the objects in front of him –– large tents, an oversized fire pit, and stand-up tables with a propane stove and cooking utensils.

  Further away were two trucks, both old and covered in mud, sitting silently. The first truck was a Ford Explorer and the other a long flatbed with dozens of wooden cages stacked on the back. Inside the cages sat several monkeys who had stopped screaming and were now curiously watching Tiewater emerge from the bushes. The abrupt silence of the capuchins made the area feel eerie, leaving only the sound of his footsteps as Tiewater eased himself out fully into the open. He was covered by Anderson, perched above him and following steadily through the sights of his HK416.

  Tiewater approached one of the tents and stopped outside, listening. Hearing nothing, he pushed the tip of his barrel through the nylon flap and moved it aside, peering in.

  Nothing.

  One by one, he checked the others before looking up to Anderson a
nd shaking his head.

  “No one here,” he whispered into his microphone. “But it’s definitely not abandoned.” Tiewater moved to the larger of the trucks, where the monkeys were still watching him. He looked into the front cab.

  “Judging from their supplies, I’d say four or five, tops.” He moved back to the smoldering fire pit and studied it. “They’ve been here a few days.”

  “They sure are tidy.”

  Tiewater nodded. “Makes for a quick departure, and with minimal evidence.”

  “Smart.”

  “Or paranoid.” Tiewater stopped, noticing something on the ground. Kneeling down, he retrieved his flashlight and held it close to the soil, covering it with his hand. The beam was small and focused and revealed several footprints.

  He turned it off and put the light away.

  “Tracks?” Anderson asked.

  “Yep.”

  62

  Hugo eased to his left, shifting more weight onto his elbow as he scanned for a source of the chattering. Dressed in full jungle camouflage and hat, he kept the brim low, covering most of his face.

  Through the night scope, he checked slowly from one tree to the next, until spotting his target on a wide branch. The dark outline of the capuchin was unmistakable, moving only slightly as it chattered back and forth.

  Hugo remained trained on the silhouette for a long time, giving his colleagues time to lock in on any others. Once the first shot was fired, they would all have to follow suit before the rest fled.

  To make matters worse, some monkeys were surprisingly sharp, realizing something was wrong before the poachers had a chance to shoot. They still hadn’t figured out what tipped off the brighter ones, which forced them to be even more cautious.

  Hugo lowered his head and centered his scope on the target. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out, smoothly pulling the trigger halfway through.

  A loud thump exploded from the end of his rifle, followed by two more shots nearby. The silhouette on the branch shrieked and fell from sight, hitting the ground with a thud. High-pitched screams instantly filled the air overhead. Dozens of capuchins scrambled away as Hugo and his men leaped to their feet, running for the trees.

  He reached the base of the tree and grabbed the tiny figure curled on the ground. But when he held it up, the white tip of the dart dangled from its loose skin, not from the body. It wasn’t a direct hit. The monkey wasn’t unconscious.

  Instead, it began flailing in his hands, screaming and clawing wildly. The small creature desperately tried to free itself while Hugo struggled to hang on. One of the monkey’s claws abruptly took a chunk of skin out of his soft cheek, causing a searing pain.

  Hugo yelled and squeezed harder, trying to restrain the creature, but it only fought harder. After another painful gash across his mouth, Hugo’s right hand withdrew his sap and brought it forward, smashing the hard metal against the monkey’s tiny head.

  The animal was instantly silenced. As it fell limp in the man’s hands, he brought it closer, studying it in the moonlight.

  “Shit,” he growled. The damn thing was dead.

  He stood up and removed the dart, angrily dropping the limp body onto the ground. He looked around for the other men and spotted the outline of Vito moving toward him.

  “Yours sounded lively,” the shorter man called out.

  Hugo felt his lip. Even in the darkness, he could feel the blood on his fingertips. “Damn thing attacked me. I had to smash it.”

  The other man laughed and held up his captive’s listless body. “Got mine.”

  Over the tops of their rifles, both Tiewater and Anderson watched the two men converge and continue talking. A few minutes later, two more arrived, both empty-handed.

  Tiewater eased his head up and brought his mike in closer. “Tie here.”

  “Go ahead,” replied Caesare.

  “I think this is the place our gorilla is looking for. And you probably want to hurry.”

  Caesare’s eyes stopped when he heard Tiewater’s message. They were moving the last of their gear under a small rock shelter, not far from where they’d been. It wasn’t perfect, but it would provide at least some protection from the rain without compromising their position.

  Caesare turned his head to Corso and had just began to speak when they all heard the sound they had been dreading. The distant roar from dozens of engines as the first sets of headlights crested the top of the mountain.

  All four stood and watched over the trees as truck after truck appeared, steaming up the last of the incline, and approached over the dirt road.

  63

  Leading the procession, Salazar’s vehicle continued for another half mile before stopping in the middle of the road. He promptly climbed out of his Humvee and moved off the road, watching with a smile the line of headlights as they appeared one by one. Eventually the vehicles began braking to a stop behind him.

  His lieutenant climbed out of the third vehicle, a large truck carrying over a dozen men, and approached Salazar. Together, they watched the silhouettes against the long line of headlights as their men began pouring out and surrounding the trucks.

  Salazar retrieved a cigarette from his shirt pocket and watched as Otero, emerged from his Range Rover with Russo close behind him.

  He ignored both men and spoke directly to his lieutenant, Sosa. “Get a base set up and find some fresh water. I want a dozen men out searching for whoever or whatever was dropped off here. And tell them they’re authorized to shoot first.”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard me. Shoot anything they see unless it’s a goddamn monkey.”

  Sosa displayed a look of concern. “Sir, if there’s someone else up here, we don’t know who they are.”

  “I don’t care who they are.”

  The lieutenant’s eyes flickered briefly to Otero and Russo before returning to his commanding officer. “Sir, what if they are Brazilians?”

  Salazar looked at Sosa hard. “Then they have no business being up here.”

  Sosa simply stared at Salazar. The tense moment was interrupted by footsteps from the grass. They all turned to see Becca’s smaller frame emerge from the darkness.

  “Dr. Becca,” Salazar said. “Your men will be ready within the hour. I recommend you be as well.”

  “An hour?” she said, surprised. “I thought we were starting in the morning.”

  “The plan has changed. Someone else is already here. And they’re likely searching for the same thing we are.”

  Otero was watching, his features barely visible in the darkness. “When was the drop?”

  “This morning.” Salazar turned back to his lieutenant. “Get your men moving.” Then he turned to Becca. “Doctor. One hour.”

  With that, Salazar turned and walked back toward his vehicle. Both his lieutenant and the doctor quickly disappeared into the darkness, leaving Otero and Russo alone.

  “How did he find out about the drop?” Otero muttered.

  “He’s communicating with someone,” Russo mused. “Someone with access to Aeronautics Command. We don’t have any radar stations up here, which means the drop could only have been picked up by aircraft. Probably one of the Orions.”

  Otero didn’t answer. Instead, he stood there thinking, still watching the lieutenant’s silhouette as he marched back to the trucks and began yelling orders.

  For the first time, Otero felt a streak of nervousness run through him. He had secured support at the highest level. From the office of the President. And he was told Salazar was nothing but a pawn, whose sole purpose would be to help him reach the Acarai Mountains.

  But something wasn’t right. Such as why Salazar was notified of the air drop instead of him. It made Otero wonder. The economic collapse in Brazil had left the country teetering on the brink of civil war, with the current government in tatters. A grim realization began to wash over him. Perhaps those Otero had aligned himself with…were no longer in control.

  Which would mean neither was
he.

  64

  Where we go?

  Dulce was struggling to keep up through the dense foliage, even as DeeAnn pulled her along.

  “We have to hurry.” DeeAnn’s breathing was labored, but she still managed to reply in a hushed tone. She gripped Dulce’s furry hand tighter and tried to stay behind the figure of Steve Caesare, hacking his way through the heavy growth.

  When her vest translated her words, she cringed at the speaker volume, which blared loudly.

  “Jesus,” growled Corso behind them. “Turn that thing down! Everyone’s going to hear us.”

  Caesare halted in front of them and spun around. “He’s right.”

  “Uh…” DeeAnn looked down at the blue light on her vest, searching.

  “She can’t,” Juan answered, from behind her.

  “What?”

  “There’s no way to turn down the volume.”

  “There’s no volume?”

  Juan turned from Corso and looked at Caesare’s silhouette. “No. When we designed the vest, we didn’t think we needed one. Besides, changes in amplitude complicate things with the translation.”

  Corso looked over the top of Juan’s head to Caesare. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Yeah, well, communication doesn’t work very well if one person can’t hear the other.”

  Caesare stared at them, then finally nodded. He wasn’t happy about it, but he understood.

  From the ground, Dulce looked back and forth between them. We stop.

  DeeAnn placed a finger over her lips. “Dulce, quiet.”

  Dulce quiet.

  DeeAnn cringed again as the translation seemed even louder now that they were standing still.

  Caesare watched Dulce, but spoke to DeeAnn. “Turn it off.”

  “What?”