Intimate Danger

by Amy J. Fetzer

  Mike eyed her for a second. She shrugged and grabbed several pieces, stuffing them in her pack. She zipped, tugging the straps higher.

  “No ignitions, no components? Guidance system? Without it, they can’t do anything. It’s just a shell.” Clancy hesitated before she added, “What if the guts of these things are already where they needed to be?”

  “You’re just full of optimism today,” Mike said.

  “Some-assembly-required bombs don’t give me the warm fuzzies.”

  “Gannon,” Sal said, and Mike went to him. He pointed to the river. “About thirty five yards to the right.” Mike strained to see, and his eyesight sharpened and pinpointed the small rocket.

  “They’re set on the perimeter.” Those had guidance systems.

  “They could remote-launch,” Mike said and acknowledged the two men having a smoke instead of patrolling the area. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Mike,” Clancy said softly. “Something’s happening here.”

  He followed the direction of her gaze to the ground. Walking back and forth hard stirred up mud, making the ground soggy. It didn’t hurt the cargo raised off the ground on pallets, but the ground was a wet puddle. The fine particles poured in a gentle spill from dozens of packages—and changed.

  The powder emulsified, and swelled. Mike felt a pulling sensation in the air around him, speeding past his skin as more powder spilled and bubbled.

  Then he felt the tug on his eardrums and winced.

  “Sal, get us out, now!”

  “Almost there.”

  Mike turned and fired at the lock, then forced the door open. He held his hand out for Clancy, latching tight and running. “The river!”

  She jerked back. “No, no!”

  He pulled her anyway. “I’ll keep you alive.”

  “That’s what you said last time!”

  Mike snapped his arm around her waist and dove into the water, swimming one-armed to pull them deeper. Clancy floated up and he held her down. She slapped at his hands, shoved at him, trying to reach the surface. Mike held her underwater, giving her his air.

  He felt it. The pull like the surge in a tideless river. The water above his head curled, drawing back like a wave before it crashes. But the crash never came, the water settling. Mike broke the surface with Clancy.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said and pushed her hair back, making her breathe.

  “Stop scaring me like that,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck and clinging. Nathan and Sal bobbed to the surface.

  Mike looked over her shoulder, and she felt the sudden stillness in him and twisted.

  “Now I’ve seen everything,” she said.

  The building was crushed like a soda can. She could see the shape of the cargo under it, but the metal was pulled around it like kitchen foil, the paint peeled off in spots and gleaming silver gray. From the once-open doors, packages of the powder still tumbled out, but intact.

  She pushed out of his arms and waded to the bank. “Look at the grass, the leaves.”

  Mike’s gaze slid all around them. The forest was dead, the leaves on the trees and bushes almost transparent, squeezed dry of life. Yet the thrust of the eruption put rocks into the skins of trees like decorations. Mike tried flicking one off, but it was buried so deep he had to pry it with his knife.

  Clancy tromped out of the river, water dripping off her and puddling. “How did it ignite?”

  “Water.”

  They looked at Mike.

  “That’s the only thing that touched it. Water.”

  “But they didn’t.” Clancy gestured to the two bodies on the bank. She moved toward them and knelt as Mike came to her. “Like the Peru troops and your pilot.” She met his gaze. “Dried up.” The faces were caught in a scream, their skin papery and drawn nearly bloodless.

  “It sucks air,” Nathan said as he and Sal stripped the dead of weapons and clothing. “But look at this.” He gestured to the kilos. “Half of it is still undamaged.”

  “It has to be saturated to emulsify like it did,” Clancy said.

  Mike jerked a look up the mountain. “Someone heard that.”

  Clancy jumped to her feet. Over a mile away, the trucks had stopped on the hill, but Richora’s car fishtailed around it and barreled back toward them. “I hate company.”

  She looked at him so trustingly, Mike felt honored. The four hurried deeper into the jungle.

  Howard Gantz drove recklessly. It was the only way he knew how. He pushed harder on the gas, the scenery zipping past like a smear of green and the brown of Peru. It was more than his chance to get Renoux out of the picture. If this stuff made it to international waters and was shot down, it could destroy the ecosystem and anyone living. They just didn’t know. They didn’t know.

  Give me a nuke any day, he thought. Then I know what I’m up against. He swerved to avoid an ox and cart, the young man cursing him. Renoux was probably burning files and stashing contraband by now.

  He grabbed his phone and dialed. “Colonel Jansen.”

  “It’s not a—”

  “No, listen. Renoux told Gannon someone wanted space on his aircraft. He didn’t meet him, but whatever he was transporting Renoux didn’t want to move. So they paid Renoux five million for that jet. They bought it.”

  “How’d you find this out?”

  Gantz looked at his bloody knuckles and said, “Persuasion.” Then said, “Sir. The jet’s on the flight deck waiting for clearance.”

  “Gannon?”

  “No idea. But that plane can’t take off.”

  He ran more than two miles. All of it uphill.

  Antone stopped behind a tree to catch his breath, wishing he didn’t have to leave his car far back on the dirt road, but the truck had turned off the divided highway. Catching up without being seen zapped the rest of his strength, and he licked his lips, then swiped his sleeve across his forehead. He could honestly say that Peru was hotter than Lebanon.

  He pushed off, trying to outdistance the truck. At two miles an hour, it rolled up the uneven road, rocking violently, but it was still faster than him. He’d seen the Americans. Military, he decided, by the way they moved, and he wouldn’t step in unless they were in trouble. He’d no idea of their part in this, but gaining trust under gunfire was never easily done. He rushed between the trees when he heard a sound and his ears itched. The truck halted, rolling backward for a moment, then straining to get it over a small rise. The lead truck, a big Chevy with massive wheels, made a hard right and headed back down the hill toward the river. Antone slowed, wiggled his finger in his ears as he stopped to catch his breath, then look back toward the river. He couldn’t see much beyond the car.

  For all he knew, the Americans were executing an assault and capture.

  But Dehnwar was his prey alone.

  Clancy hurried downriver, any cover disintegrated in the blast. Well. Not actually a blast. She wished she could have seen it. Another moment for some therapy, she thought, but a material that implodes on itself? When it reacts to water? For a moment her mind tripped over the possibilities for it. Then she thought, It’s got something to do with these caves. Most of the kilos were stored in there and why else would they meet here at the building and load only half the trucks? They had parts, not the whole. Random items to anyone looking, and she had to assume the genius behind this had packaged that powder in a safer method. Or left it up to the buyer.

  Untraceable. God.

  The sheer magnitude of chaos this would cause was as dangerous as the powder itself. It stole life from all things. Sucked the breath. If it could do this much damage in the jungle, then what if it didn’t have a resource? No air to take?

  Mike touched her shoulder to stop her, and they knelt and turned. The line of the shore wound slightly, the cascades of the river smothering sound.

  Clancy tried not to flinch when a snake slid over her boot. But Mike was there, cutting off its head and tossing it behind him. My hero, she mouthed, and he sm
iled and watched the land. Crouched low, she wished for her ball cap, but it was somewhere in the mountain turning into a relic. Her knee sank into the wet earth, and she put her hand back for balance and hit something hard. Twisting, she pushed aside ferns and water grass, then nudged Mike.

  He didn’t seem surprised to see the black rocket inside a small launcher. It was portable, breaking down into the precision-cut pieces. The launcher itself was no broader than a spare tire. She jolted when Mike yanked it off the launcher pad and laid it down.

  “Can you remember how they fit?” she whispered, glancing upriver.

  “You want to know how it works? Isn’t it bad enough that it does?”

  “Exactly why I want to see inside.” Clancy studied the long slender rocket. The finish was smooth with bits of gold inlaid where the primer markings showed. She laid it on its side and twisted the nose cone. It unlocked and she tipped it. A clear plastic cylinder slid out. In the center of it was a vial of water surrounded with the powder. A lithium battery created the small charge to a simple lever that would break the vial and ignite the powder. The compression forced against natural gravity, but encased, it would try to break free and create thrust. One moment of incredible power yet with no explosives. God, if they put C4 in this, it would be far more deadly.

  She immediately reached for the mechanism at the bottom. He stopped her. “I know what I’m doing.” She plucked a small green chip out of the base.

  “Geeks,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  “It’s satellite remote.”

  Great. Mike gave up getting a look at it, and signaled Krane and DiFazio. They moved farther out and located five rockets, all strategically placed on this side of their operation. Suddenly, Mike leaped on her, pushing her down before a big all-terrain truck rushed down the hill and slammed to a hard stop. Richora was out of the tall truck, limping slightly as he and two other men walked the shore and called for the dead. When he found them, he cursed and drew his weapon. He searched for tracks, moving into the water, wading slowly. Flat on the ground, Mike saw the top of his head first and aimed.

  He was nearly on Mike’s position when he turned back suddenly. Mike didn’t see the long, luxurious car rocking down the dirt road, till it slid sideways for a few feet before stopping. A man left the car, striding quickly to the passenger side and dragging a dark haired woman out. Clearly she didn’t want to be here, Mike thought, and the man thrust her away from him so hard she stumbled. Richora rushed to help her.

  Mike signaled his men, then leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Stay low, I’ll be right back.”

  She frowned at him, then noticed the three men climb out of Richora’s car, split apart, and cover a wide area with machine pistols. Mike had a few rounds. But she didn’t question and slunk low as he moved deeper into the forest. She didn’t hear them, only the slow slide of water and the breeze whispering at the treetops. After a few moments, a soft crack made her wince, but couldn’t look or she’d be exposed. Yet she knew what the guys were doing.

  Evening the odds.

  Marianna shoved out of Alejo’s arms and glared, revolted. “You are part of this,” she said in a dead voice. “I had hoped not, Alejo.”

  His gaze narrowed. “I am in it for the money, Marianna, and nothing more.”

  “And you think that matters? You’re helping him sell them. To who? Who will die because of your money?” She didn’t want an answer, and looked him over as if he were a rodent. “You disgust me, both of you.”

  Richora’s crushed look gained Salache’s attention, and his gaze bounced between the pair.

  “You love her,” he said, then strode back and forth along the shore. “You’re in love with my wife.”

  “I could never love a man who did this.” She grabbed Nuat’s arm. “Do you hear me?”

  He looked at her as if surprised to see her.

  “I never knew you, did I?”

  He stared at her for a moment. Then his gaze darted to the building, the cars, then stopped on her again. There was no wound in his eyes, she thought, no remorse for all the lies and deception. Yet she could tell by his expression he was searching his mind for a way to correct his mistake. Fear clutched at her lungs. She was the mistake. She back-stepped from him.

  “No one knew me.” Without preamble, he lifted his gun and pulled the trigger.

  “No!” Richora leaped into the path of the bullet, the impact knocking him off his feet. He landed half in the water.

  Marianna screamed and fell, then rushed across the ground and dragged him out of the muddy Amazon. She cradled his head on her lap and covered the gaping hole in his chest. “Alejo,” she said softly. “Why?”

  “Your babies need their mother,” he said, blood curling out his mouth.

  She glared at Nuat. “Bastardo.”

  “Yes, well, that should have been you, dear. I still needed him for a little longer.”

  Marianna’s gaze drifted past her husband to the large man moving out of the jungle and onto the shore. Nuat spun and his moment’s hesitation cost him. The man fired, the bullet hitting his leg and buckling him to his knees.

  Salache covered his wound and fired his own gun, and missed, then corrected his aim as the man advanced. Salache frowned, confused for a moment.

  “Remember me?” the man said.

  Choufani moved parallel to the truck, a few feet out so Dehnwar couldn’t see him coming. Dehnwar dragged on a cigarette, then harshly blew out the smoke, his arm hanging out the window. Antone’s gaze stopped briefly on the back of his hand, scarred with a deep gash in the explosion that killed his sister. He was there, nearby, had watched his bombs kill. He wore that wound with pride, that he’d touched the heat of his own bombs and lived.

  Antone remained hidden, and inside, his job warred with his heart. His duty to his country and its people, or to Islam to eradicate these extremists who ruined more lives than the ones they took. He would never stop, never, he thought. Even with the satisfaction of a kill.

  He pushed past the tree line, and Dehnwar turned his head, frowning and raising a pistol. Choufani kept walking around the front of the vehicle, and tapped the door.

  “Fatima Choufani,” he said loudly as he passed and kept walking. He would die as his sister had. Horribly.

  From his pocket, he pulled a small cell phone and turned, walking backward. He waited until Dehnwar opened the truck door, stood on the running board, unaware of the explosives stuck to the truck door.

  Antone smiled. “Peace be upon her.” He hit the button.

  Rashid ibn al-Dehnwar didn’t find his virgins.

  Nuat’s eyes narrowed, then flared hotly. He struggled to stand, blood pooling on the ground and inside his expensive shoe.

  “I’d recognize that monkey walk anywhere, Alvarez. They let you into the Shining Path because of that pretty new face?”

  Salache said nothing, glancing for a way out. “Shoot him.” Nothing happened. “Shoot him!” he screamed, looking around.

  Mike smirked and shrugged, then tossed the dismantled rocket on the ground between them. “Guess you’re out of options.”

  Salache fumed, his plan vanishing like the jungle mist.

  The ground shook with the explosion, then one more. Mike could smell the burning fuel already, yet he never took his gaze off Alvarez. “Krane.” Mike didn’t have to tell him to check that.

  “I’m on it.”

  As Krane trotted off, Mike adjusted his aim. Alvarez chambered a bullet and pointed the gun at his wife’s temple.

  “Lay the gun down or I shoot her,” Alvarez said.

  Mike ignored him. “A third-generation American trying to connect with his roots? Is that it, Neil?”

  “Neil is dead.”

  The creepy little bastard might have a new disguise with his skin stretched Mach 1 tight, but it was still Alvarez. “I never thought so. Let her go and drop the gun.”

  “Nuat? What is he talking about?” his wife said. “Tell me.”

  He j
erked her head back. “You don’t need to know, my love.”

  Mike remained where he was, near the car, and Alvarez came toward him, dragging the woman.

  “Move back! I’ll shoot her.”

  “And I’ll cut your head off with this,” Mike said and took one step toward the crushed building and almost groaned when he saw movement behind Alvarez. What the hell is that woman doing now? Then he saw the launcher on her back as she slipped into the cave.

  Clancy breathed hard as she struggled in the tunnel. The rocket might be light, but the launcher sure as hell wasn’t. She put the rocket down, then pushed at her purse straps holding the launcher on her back. It slid off and clunked to the ground. By the strap, she dragged it to the middle of the chamber, then went back for the rocket and anchored it.

  Surrounded by kilos of the powder made her nervous and she looked around for something to carry water, moving back toward the dead Indians and doing a creeped-out dance around them. She cupped her hands at the stream in the wall, drank, then looked for something to hold water or crack it and flood the chamber. She tried digging at the wall, but only dirt would budge. Really wishing for nano help here, she thought, then rushed to the rocket and positioned it to hit the crack.

  Then she walked through the kilos and slashed her knife down the stacks. Salt-like powder poured and mounded. Then she dug in her pocket for Mike’s shattered satellite phone. She reconnected the wires and pulled a chip, then inserted the one from the first rocket they’d found.

  Now they were on the same circuit, and since it was a remote, this should work. The phone’s lithium battery was still undamaged. The powder couldn’t get out of here. In the hands of anyone, even her own country, they’d screw it up. Highly toxic, it killed anything it touched and was fine enough to be inhaled and collapse lungs, or destroy the rain forest with a single thunderstorm.

  Bury it. Let those Indians live alone and keep this stuff.