by Vince Milam
“No arranging. Throw everything in. You got that?”
She scowled and returned my stare. Helter-skelter packing wasn’t in her wiring. I lifted the Glock and ripped off two more shots. Cacophonous nighttime explosions, two more special delivery messages.
“When I say go, you grab what’s not tied down. I’ll get the tarp and hammocks and our rucksacks. Make a pile. Right here. Understand?”
“But of course I understand!” She pinballed between battle fear and spitting rage and acquiescence to necessity. “Have you considered the possibility of communication with these people? With something other than your gun?”
“No. Ten more seconds. Then we go.” I got in her face. “Do. You. Understand?”
A quick eye-roll accompanied a terse “Oui.”
“Go!”
I leapt up and scoped the surroundings. No threats visible. Which meant diddly-squat. I slid the Glock into my pocket. I hated these moments: the split seconds when the intent and actions of your enemy remained unknown. I’d caught an arrow in the recent past, and the thought of another ripping through the air toward me had my hair standing on end. But gotta move; gotta shake, rattle, and roll.
Kim, to her credit, bolted up and began collecting camp equipment. Ka-Bar in hand, I sliced through rope supporting the tarp and the hammocks. I grabbed our rucksacks and created a pile. Kim added to it. I dashed toward the boat and tripped those monofilament lines. Tight whines, bright light. A quick one-eighty and back toward the pile. Gotta move. Those cats could be notching arrows right freakin’ now. We donned rucksacks and captured two armfuls of possessions. I produced and flicked on a small, high-intensity flashlight.
“Stay behind me. The river’s edge is not our friend.”
She nodded back. We halted five paces from the boat. Sanctuary within spitting distance while my back provided a perfect target for a decent archer. Heart racing, I shined the light along the left bank. Clear. On the right bank and adjacent to the boat, a set of bright eyeballs at the water’s edge reflected back. A gator lay in wait.
No time, gotta move. If I were leading the tribesmen’s greeting party, I’d circle. Come at us from the river side. Which they could be doing, right now. Screw this noise. I dropped my armful, pulled the Glock, and—holding the flashlight alongside the weapon’s short barrel—took careful aim. I didn’t miss. Violent thrashes, water spraying, then quiet.
“One dead gator. Let’s load.”
“Caiman.”
“Whatever. Get this stuff in the boat. I’ll go fetch the rest.”
She did. As I collected the final articles of equipment, I heard rustling nearby. Movement on the left. Not good. Not good at all. A mad dash with arms full toward the boat.
“Get in!”
Kim didn’t understand life-saving frantic activity and paused, considered her boarding process. I tossed my armload into the boat’s center then lifted and tossed Kim on top of it. In return, she again did her level best to teach me a few Swiss expletives. Everything loaded, I shoved us off the bank and into the river. Leapt in, scrambled past Kim, and fired the engine. Roared away, full bore, into the night and upriver.
A quarter-mile later the boat and my adrenaline surge slowed. They wouldn’t follow us through the night, tracking our river route as they moved through jungle. Well, they probably wouldn’t. And probably got you killed. So I formulated a different overnight sleeping arrangement. An unexpected alteration driven by high-risk realities. Aggressive natives, flying arrows. But I held no animus toward our attackers. It wasn’t only a matter of invading their turf; we’d entered their culture and beliefs and Amazon tribal perspectives. Accepted and dealt with as best we could. The prime strategy—haul ass. Fair enough.
We cruised silent for fifteen minutes. Sufficient moonlight allowed a decent view of our surroundings. Kim sat in the bow and swung around, facing me.
“I have processed our rather rapid exit.”
“And?”
She cracked a smile. “I must say, the entire event was most exhilarating.”
“Here’s hoping a first and last time for you.”
“To be sure, your initial performance was most uncomfortable.”
“Sorry.”
“No. I do not believe an apology is proper. You have experiences, life events, which I do not possess. Your actions reflected those experiences.”
“Okay.”
“And I shall heed your directives if we encounter such a situation again. Be most assured.”
Good to know. I had no plans for further high-torque encounters during our time together, but her acknowledgment of certain skill sets showed both self-awareness and character. I appreciated it.
“So it is I who should apologize,” she continued. Arms lifted, extended either side as an airplane, she experienced the cool night air passing as we worked upriver. She threw her head back and spoke toward the stars. “And again it must be said, such a level of excitement has affected me. A strange sense of enjoyment. A most peculiar reaction.”
“It’s called an adrenaline rush.” I smiled back. “You may want to experience it next time under more controlled environments.”
“No, I would disagree.” She lowered her head, eyes crinkled, one side of her mouth lifted. “I might suggest the lack of control was a prime variable. Do you perform such activities on a consistent basis?”
“Try not to. There were times and places when such things happened often enough. I avoid them now.”
She shifted and rummaged around for the bowline. Found the tied-off section and repositioned herself on the cross-seat between us. Stood, leaned back, and used the taut nylon rope for support and balance, the boat-driven wind at her face. And, yeah, she looked pretty fine standing there, silhouetted in the moonlight.
Several minutes later she twisted her torso and asked, “Have you killed many men?”
Used to think it came from out of the blue. But the same question posed often enough through the years convinced me that macabre interest was hardwired in people. And, as usual, the question was triggered by a recent violent event. Plus, Kim the scientist collected informational markers. Delivering an honest answer would enter her Case Lee data bank. And perspectives formulated based on body count. But unless you’d been there, done that, the picture she’d paint would bear little likeness to the real me.
“I won’t answer that.”
“Three or four? Three hundred or four hundred? A range is sufficient.”
“Nope.”
She faced forward again. I had to smile given the high odds she was formulating a different approach to the same question. Seconds later she performed a panicked duck while her free hand waved frantically. A dark-winged creature flicked away.
“What was this?” she yelped.
“A bat.”
She dropped the bowline and sat, facing me. Head cocked, another of her clinical assessments underway.
“Bad people.” It would be a while before I tired of her Swiss French accent. “The very bad people you referenced. I feel it appropriate you elaborate on these people. We have been through an ordeal. It is time you tell me.”
I did. Not the gory details, but I ID’d their source and, more important, their operational approach.
“It is quite unbelievable the Iranian secret service would become engaged with our situation,” she said, sitting up straight. “Quite unbelievable.”
“The world’s largest state sponsor of terrorism. They’d love to get their hands on nukes. Amsler’s discovery, if it’s real, might offer a near-term alternative. A massive death-dealing terrorism opportunity.”
“It is a fantastique possibility. Beyond belief.”
“I met them in Manaus. They’re real.”
“And did this meeting lead to bullets and explosions? On the streets of Manaus?”
“It led to awareness. They are violent men. Killers. And they seek Amsler’s discovery. Sabe?”
“You ask if I understand?”
“I do
.”
“I understand you are Américain. Which, of course, presents a good versus bad worldview. This I understand. Oui.”
I considered a snarky response. Yeah, I had a good versus bad worldview. No apologies. But I wasn’t here to leap cultural chasms.
“You’ve gotta trust me on this one. I have no reason to lie.”
She gave a Gallic shrug and raised her chin. “I shall take your assertions under advisement.”
“You do that.”
On our left, an opening. A wide and still lagoon. Perfect. I cut the engine back and idled into the open space. A thick bed of lily pads covered the lion’s share of the lagoon’s surface, and I edged against them. Killed the engine, crawled past Kim, and dropped the small anchor.
“We’ll spend the rest of the night here. I don’t think they intended chasing us through the jungle. And if they did, they won’t cross the river at night.”
“You suggest we sleep in the boat?”
“More than a suggestion. I’ll move the fuel containers to the stern. You move the hard-surface equipment into the bow area. The middle, between the two bench seats, is home for the night.”
She stood, hands on hips, and performed another assessment, this time of the overnight proposal. I waited. After a few hmms and a brief sigh or three, she began shifting our material. We placed rucksacks as pillows and layered the hammocks and light blankets as a bed. Situated ourselves and pulled the tarp over us. Under the current conditions, snug as bugs.
“Case?”
“Yes.”
“Should we have concern over the bats?”
“Nope.”
“Other creatures? Caimans?”
“Nope. We’re good, Kim.”
A small hand rubbed my chest. I didn’t see that coming.
“You should understand these battle scars you carry do not bother me. They are most appropriate. And provide a strange comfort. Comprenez vous? Do you understand?”
Maybe. The scars indicated I’d lived through scrapes and had experience handling dangerous environments. I supposed she might find comfort there. Or the chest rub signaled something else. And while I had more than a passing interest in exploring that path, if my interpretation proved wrong—well, it would get mighty awkward in our little floating bungalow. I chose the safe route, with yearning hesitation.
“Yeah. Understood. Let’s get some sleep.”
She did, curled against me. Sleep danced at my perimeter and refused engagement. For starters, I could smell her. Don’t know what or how it happens or why it’s true, but women smell good. They just do. Might have been the Delta Force years, shoulder-to-shoulder with other men under less than hygienic conditions. Helluva contrast. Or life alone aboard the Ace of Spades where the aroma of old damp wood and diesel exhaust mingled with, well, me. Never could figure it out, how women pulled it off, but it’s true.
I slid back the edge of the tarp and stared at the swath of overhead stars—poured across the sky by the bushelful. Thoughts of another woman came easy. Rae. Rae Ellen Bonham, my murdered wife. A bounty hunter killed her. A killer who sought collection of the bounty on my head. Rae, dead and not gone. Images and remembrances and small vignettes washed in. I’d learned to accept them and relish them and refuse them the chance to drown me with sorrow and remorse. It wasn’t easy.
I didn’t mind a quick wallow among the pleasant and loving times past. As long as it didn’t dictate my attitude every waking hour. But pinballing around with those special thoughts were images of Ana Amsler. And a discordant hunch. Yeah, we’d continue upriver for a while. The right thing to do. But Amsler was a weird duck. A contrary duck. And a small grating voice said she’d taken the left fork into the river arm now far behind us. She would head toward an area not part of the team’s game plan. A rock-solid part of a do-her-own-thing Ana Amsler plan. My quarry. I was getting into her head. And it wasn’t a good place.
Chapter 13
Howler monkeys woke us at earliest dawn. Perched among the trees lining the lagoon, their loud ruckus greeted the day as they laid claim to treetop territory. No rain during the night, the morning cool. Our surroundings bathed in the low-light clarity movie directors called the magic hour. Each detail of the lily pads, rain forest, and morning sky stood in subtle definition prior to reflective squinting under a blazing sun. Kim and I sat up, yawned, and scratched our heads—actions reminiscent of the tree-dwellers watching us.
“Quite the morning alarm clock, is it not?” She produced the ball cap and resituated it.
“Wouldn’t want to make a habit of it. Those things won’t win any awards for tonal harmony.”
When the raucous critters took a break—dead quiet. Until soft blowhole exhales no more than five feet away. Kim latched on to my forearm. The strange sound startled me as well. It was two botos. Rare Amazon River dolphins. Pinkish-white, curious, and content to check on their lagoon’s new addition. They hung out with calm, minimal movement no more than six feet away. Time was irrelevant as we shared both space and a primal connection. Then they slipped away, a departure filled to the brim with yearning and loss. We sat in a dreamlike state, amazed. A true magic moment, one etched forever.
“I do not know what to say,” Kim whispered. “Such beauty.”
“Gotta say that’s about as good as it gets.” The howlers kicked off another round as shards of bright sun struck the treetops. “But the band has gotten back together, so let’s move toward a friendly shore and take care of morning business.”
We did. Morning ministrations, energy bar breakfast, coffee made over a tiny propane burner. As we waited for the water to boil, Kim took over the rearrangement of our boat.
“Let me lend a hand.”
“No. Thank you, but no. Allow me.”
Her scientist mind had a specific layout for our stuff, so instead I assumed master and commander position over the coffee preparation.
“What is the plan for today?”
A light grunt as she spoke, moving fuel containers.
“We’ll search for access points at low speed another hour-and-a-half upstream. At that point we’ll have reached the limits of Amsler’s exploration.”
“And you know this how?”
She stopped her work and focused on me squatting alongside the small pot, burner, and French press prepped with ground coffee.
“If she left at the crack of dawn and raced full-speed upriver, there’s a point where an overnight stay becomes mandatory. And you said she returned every evening. Except for this last time.”
“And if we do not find her access point upriver? What are our next steps?”
“We go back to the split in the river. Take the left fork.”
“Dr. Amsler would not have…” Her voice tapered off, followed by a shrug and a nod and a return to boat rearrangement.
We cruised, eyes peeled on both sides. Nothing. Nada. Ninety minutes later I idled the engine. The slow current began pushing us downstream. Full sun exposure, the morning coolness long gone. And without our movement-generated breeze, broiling.
“I would ask another thirty minutes. We must be certain.”
She’d turned and lowered the Ray-Bans for the request, no trace of demand or superiority. She wanted surety. Go the extra mile. Fair enough. Thirty minutes later she turned again, shifted position, and faced me.
“Enough.”
Short, sweet, to the point. I turned the boat and goosed it. With the current we made good time. Slowed and scoped the section we’d flown past last night after the hasty exit from Flying Arrow Resort. As we approached the less-than-hospitable camp spot, I asked her to hunker in the bottom of the boat. I did the same. Didn’t relish a view of outsider-seeking arrows whipping our way. We passed unmolested, the tribesmen having slid back into their world, unseen and unknown.
At the fork I edged onto the riverbank and we both stretched our legs. Made sandwiches and ate more glorious fruit from the base camp kitchen.
“I must say, this is most discour
aging,” she said between sandwich bites.
“Nature of the beast. Searches take time. We’re doing it right. So don’t get discouraged.”
Back after it, headed up the left fork. I cut back to low speed again and worked upriver. No discouragement from my perspective. We were on her trail. I felt it, sensed it. Amsler was a hardheaded solo player. She’d come this way. But as the afternoon progressed, nothing. No signs.
A tinge of doubt, despair. Just a bit. After the right-hand fork proved fruitless, I considered another possible facet of Amsler’s discovery. She hadn’t been searching for her toxic find. Nope. She’d come rip-roaring upriver toward a specific spot. Toward a satellite image anomaly. A high-ground inconsistency. Something overlooked by others. While the rest of the team played cards or watched movies at night, she’d pored over the topographic satellite images. Yeah, she’d made a beeline for a certain place. No exploration. She sought with specificity. A gut feeling, but of a type I’d long relied upon. It seldom failed me.
It was during a late afternoon shore break when I heard it. A plane. Another search effort, maybe. It was possible my client had hired another searcher. Or Kim’s company had hired their own team. But it didn’t sit easy. I’d turned on my satellite phone every couple of hours, checked messages. Bernie knew my phone number. He would have called and left a message if he’d planned a flight in my direction. Call it paranoia. Fine. But it didn’t sit right.
A slow upriver traverse left us exposed. And sure enough, the plane passed well overhead, turned, and made a lower pass. It wasn’t Bernie’s aircraft. One more pass and it turned northeast, toward the Swiss base camp.
“Turn your phone on and call your team, please,” I said.
Kim stood in the middle of a backward-leaning stretch. She’d waved at the plane.
“Why would I do this? We talked this morning. Who do you believe occupied the airplane?”
New searchers, new contractors hired to join the effort. Or vicious killers. Sufficient time had passed for the arrival in Manaus of Kirmani’s reinforcements. A bit of a stretch, sure, but this gig had a dark side and there was no point avoiding acknowledgement of that.
