by John Bolin
He followed her gaze.
There stood a nightmare. A commando dressed in black stood wreathed in smoke and flame. Black goggles and a mask covered his face. He lifted an assault rifle toward Alex.
Pull it together, Zachary.
The commando hadn’t seen Peter yet, though he was practically at the guy’s shins. Peter drew his SOG knife quietly and snapped his arm forward. The blade flashed in the moonlight as it hit the man’s calf.
The commando reached down instinctively, and then Peter had him. A quick slice and another demon was proven to be regular flesh and blood after all. The figure fell at Peter’s feet, clutching his throat.
Peter noticed a weird tattoo on the inside of his shooting hand. He’d have studied it more closely but figured a guy like that probably wasn’t alone.
While Alex seemed unable to look away from the corpse, Peter crept into the smoke. A river breeze cast aside the smoke for an instant, and Peter saw what he was up against.
Three more black-clad commandos—plus Bogart and the girl. One commando held the Indian girl by her arm with one hand and pointed a handgun right at Peter’s face with the other. To the right, Peter saw Bogart on his knees with his hands behind his head. The second commando had a gun to the back of his head. It was a SIG-Sauer P220 with a silencer. A serious gun. The third man stood to the right side, an assault rifle pointed at Peter.
These were big guys, muscular and loaded with weapons, hidden in deep shadow.
The whole scene was out of place. He was on a burning hospital ship that was listing dangerously toward the river. And on its smoking deck stood commandos from Peter’s dreams, holding his best friend and a teenage girl hostage. Maybe he was still in his room and this was all a bad Peruvian dream.
“What do you want?” Peter asked.
“Just the girl,” said the man holding the Indian girl.
Peter noticed that the man’s accent was American, probably the Northeast. Were these U.S. Special Forces? For some reason, he thought briefly of his father. None of this made sense.
Peter thought about what the commando had said. He could take Alex and Bogart and walk away. He looked at Alex. She was bawling.
“What do you want with the girl?” Peter asked.
“It’s none of your concern.”
“Sure it is,” Peter said. “I’m on this deck and so are you. The whole thing’s going down in flames in about thirty seconds. And you’ve got a gun pointed at my face. That pretty much means that whatever happens next is very much my concern.”
“Don’t be an idiot. This is way bigger than you. Look, you are just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Walk away now, and we’ll forget about you. Make a move, and you’ll regret it the rest of your shortened life. All right?”
Peter wasn’t about to turn around. He inched forward.
The commando on the left released the safety on his SIG-Sauer with a click. He stepped forward, pushing the girl with him. His face crossed from the shadows so that Peter could see him. The gunman’s skin was dark from the sun, and his face was chiseled and hard.
“Everybody take it easy,” Bogart said.
“You guys shouldn’t have tried to be heroes,” the first commando said. He turned to the other gunman. “Kill them.”
“All of them?” the third commando asked.
The main commando turned to glare at the other man, just for a moment. It was enough.
Bogart grabbed his assailant’s arm and twisted. The guy fought back and seemed to find it no problem to lift Bogart off his feet before tossing him to the ground. Peter jumped forward and knocked the SIG-Sauer aside, sending it sliding across the tile floor. The man dove for it, and Peter slid after him. Bullets pinged on the deck from the assault rifle, but Peter managed to avoid being shot.
The man scrabbled for the gun. Peter kicked out, knocking it farther along the deck, toward the edge. The man reached for the gun, but not before Peter kicked him, hard. The man jolted forward and snatched the gun as he slid on the floor. He turned to Peter and fired. It barely missed his face. A solid kick and the man bobbled and then fell awkwardly over the edge of the boat. A splash in the water below satisfied Peter.
One down, two to go.
More bullets ate up the deck, and Peter rolled to avoid them. Luckily, thick black smoke was pouring up from below, obscuring the two remaining gunmen’s view. He managed to dash behind a large protruding vent. The momentary cover gave him a chance to assess the situation.
Alex and the Indian girl were standing together with one of the gunmen. Alex was trying to talk to the man, but Peter couldn’t hear over the sound of the sirens. The man with the gun pointed it at Alex’s head.
Bogart emerged from the smoke and steamed toward the man with the gun, who suddenly turned and fired at Bogart. Four bullets flashed from the barrel and into Bogart’s stomach. Alex screamed.
Bogart managed to grab the gun from the man’s hand and put a hole in the would-be assassin’s head. Even with four bullets in his gut, he was better than most guys.
As Bogart slumped to his knees, he threw the gun toward Peter. It fell from his hand and skidded on the deck.
Peter snatched it up and fired three rounds into the last commando, who’d just emerged from his hiding place in the smoke.
Bogart slumped forward. Peter was there just in time to catch Bogart’s weight and lower him to the ground. The Indian girl, who was shaking and swaying back and forth, was in shock. Bogart lay on the floor next to her, his shirt already soaked in blood. Peter counted at least five bullet holes in his shirt. It looked like he’d been shot before Peter had reached him, maybe before they’d even gotten to the top deck. A hole in Bogart’s stomach gurgled as blood pumped out and ran in a crimson streak on the cement floor.
“It’s okay, buddy,” Peter said. “You’re going to be fine.”
Bogart smiled as he sucked for air. His face quivered, and his lips trembled as he tried to speak. “Hey, Pete.”
“Stay with me, buddy,” Peter said.
Peter looked around. He had to do something. He ripped off his T-shirt and applied pressure to the worst of Bogart’s wounds. He knew it was useless. He’d seen this plenty of times before.
The whole scene was moving in slow motion, like it wasn’t real at all. Peter wanted to shout for help, but no one would come to him up here. He had to get Bogart off the boat quick.
“Come on, buddy, let’s get you—”
Bogart’s eyes suddenly blinked open. His hand gripped Peter’s like a vise. “Pete, you’ve got to stop them. Something’s wrong. They were . . . coming for the girl. More will come. There’s a file—”
“Don’t worry,” Peter said, “we’ll get them.”
Then Bogart got that stupid grin on his face. “Lead the way,” he whispered. And his grip loosened.
Bullets impacted on the tile around them.
More?
“Look out, Peter!” Alex shouted.
Peter looked up. Three more gunmen emerged from the lower decks. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. Two fire trucks rolled up noisily on the pier. The flames and heat were unbearable.
“We’ve got to get off here!” Peter shouted. He looked out at the river.
Alex read his mind. “You’re nuts!”
“It’s the only way. We have to jump.” Peter tucked the Indian girl behind a short wall. More bullets bounced around as the shooters worked to get a better angle on them.
“Tell her we’re going to jump,” Peter said.
Alex said something to the girl. She nodded.
As chips of tile skittered around them, they ran forward and threw themselves off the top deck of The Hope II toward the swirling waters below. All of them surfaced in the waters of the Amazon and floated away from the burning wreckage.
All of them except Bogart.
* * *
“You help me find family?”
Alex sat next to Tima on the bed in Peter’s hotel room. They’d floated nearly a qu
arter mile downstream before they managed to get the attention of a fishing boat creeping in for the night. Once on shore, they’d found a ride and returned to Peter’s hotel. While she and Tima cleaned up, Peter scrounged up a few changes of clothes. Tima now wore a pair of white pants and a woolen poncho—traditional Spanish clothing. Alex had donned khaki pants and a red T-shirt.
“Yes, I’ll help you find your family,” Alex said, stroking the girl’s forehead. “Don’t worry.”
Peter stood near the door. “I thought you said she didn’t speak English.”
Alex looked up at him. “She doesn’t . . . most of the time. Think of it as selective English.”
“I’ll think of it as convenient for you. Could have helped us avoid the whole firefight, not to mention Bogart’s death. Look, you can play the part of a bleeding academic trying to save a lost tribe all you want. But come on, Alex. What’s in it for you? Money? Reputation, is that it? To have your face plastered on National Geographic?”
“Shut up,” Alex said.
Neither spoke.
“You help, too?” Tima said, looking at Peter.
Peter ignored the girl and looked at Alex. “We’re leaving in the morning. We need to get out of town before the police start asking too many questions.”
Peter turned and opened the door. “You two can stay here tonight. I’ll be back in the morning.”
“Fine.”
The door closed and locked behind Peter.
Tima reached to put her hand on Alex’s arm. “He not nice man.”
“Oh, I think he’s just sad tonight, that’s all.”
Tima sat wedged into the corner between the bed and the wall. She had her knees pulled up to her chin. The room was warm, but she had the blanket from the bed wrapped around her legs.
“Tima, can you tell me about the city in the mist?”
Tima’s face immediately knotted into a look of dread, but she nodded. She began to rock backward and forward. Her face was lightly outlined with light blue veins. Other than that, she looked better than she had back on The Hope II. A shower had washed away most of the blood and filth. Her big eyes looked up at Alex. “They come in night. Take us away.”
“Who? Who came?”
“The Rauga,” Tima said. “The white ghosts.”
Alex nodded. “Where did they take you?”
“Through the forest. We walk for many days.”
“Where? Where did you walk?”
“Through trees and mountains and rivers.”
This wasn’t going to be easy. Alex had to remind herself that Tima was just a young girl, scared and without her family.
“They bring us through mountain to city.”
Alex scooted forward and held both of Tima’s hands. “What did it look like? The city in the mist . . . how did it look?”
“It shiny.”
“Shiny?” Alex repeated, looking around the room. She jumped off the bed and moved to the door. She pointed at the brass handle.
“Like this?”
“Yes!” Tima said enthusiastically. She moved to her knees and pointed at the window near the bed. “And like that.”
“Glass?” Alex said.
“Glass,” Tima responded, more just saying the word than saying yes to it.
“A city in the mist made of glass and metal,” Alex repeated to herself.
Tima repeated the words, smiling. It was a game for her.
“What happened there?” Alex said. “What did they do to you?”
Tima’s smile turned to a frown, and she drew her knees back up to her chin. “They hurt me.”
Alex swallowed. “How? How did they hurt you?”
“The Rauga cover us up,” Tima said, gesturing with the blanket, pulling it around her. “Like this.”
Alex was confused. “What happened then?”
“Then came . . .” She tried to answer but nothing came out.
“What, Tima? What came?”
Tima dove into the pillows and pulled the comforter over her head. But through the sobs and moans, Alex heard one word clearly.
Monster.
Chapter 10
It was three a.m. and the city was asleep.
But Peter wasn’t. He sat on the dock near the edge of the river, staring down at the black water as it moved by. Across the river, the jungle was a mix of dark shadows. The air was thick, and still nothing except the river seemed to move at all.
Peter didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want anyone’s pity. He didn’t want anyone walking around talking in hushed voices about what had happened.
He didn’t want to talk about it, but he knew he had to. He knew his guys would be bent out of shape over it, so he’d told them first. They’d taken it as he’d expected. Linc had gone quiet. Gator had been furious. Had a right to be, for sure.
Peter worked to refocus, shoving his emotions away. Later, maybe when he was back at home, he’d have time to think about it. Right now, he had work to do. If he had any hope at all of redemption for Bogart, his next steps were important.
An hour earlier, after they’d drifted nearly a quarter mile and then dragged themselves out of the water, they had slogged back to the smoldering flotsam of the boat. Everyone had been surprised and relieved to see them. Two people Alex knew—a priest named Father Javier and some Smithsonian woman named Rachel—had met them at the boat, relieved that they were alive.
No one had seen any men in black.
The boat had eventually sunk, and no trace of them was found. Neither was Bogart’s body. The river had consumed everything that the fire hadn’t. Peter sat for a full ten minutes, staring into the water at the exact spot where the boat had been moored.
Peter had spent the rest of the night answering questions from the hospital staff and police. He asked plenty of his own, too. To the doctors, the nurses, and the security guys. No one knew anything. About Bogart, the girl, or whatever file Bogart had been talking about. It was obvious that those commandos had come for the girl. But why? And to take her where? To the same place Alex wanted to go?
Bogart, you idiot. What were you thinking, trying to be a hero?
The police weren’t going to be any help. They’d snapped a few pictures and tried to find the bullet casings but hadn’t had any luck. It was clear they weren’t interested in helping the Americans any more than they needed to.
Peter had answered a few more questions for the Peruvian cops. They were calling it a botched burglary. They said they’d send in someone from the embassy in the morning to help sort it out. The embassy guys wouldn’t be any better. A lot of red tape and nothing accomplished. By tomorrow morning, the place would be crawling with them.
By two a.m. everyone had gone back to their homes, safe in their beds. Everyone, that is, except Bogart.
Whatever.
Peter stood up. He didn’t know what was going on, but he did know one thing. He was going to find these commandos and their bosses, wherever they were hiding, and he was going to make them pay.
* * *
Raul eased back into the shadows of the third-level balcony hotel room. He watched the man standing on the dock across the street below him.
His phone vibrated silently. He recognized the number.
“Hello, Michael.”
Raul moved further back into the darkness of the rented flat. The small room smelled of sweat and mildew. A stockpile of weapons and supplies was littered about. Raul had to step over a few things as he paced.
“Raul, what is the report?”
“The girl is gone.”
“What do you mean ‘gone’?” Michael Khang asked.
“She is either dead or drowned. My men attempted to extract her but—”
“But what?”
“They met resistance.”
“From who?”
“A man.”
“Who?”
Raul looked at the piece of paper in front of him. It had the official logo of the Iquitos police department. A summary st
atement of the events of last night.
“Former U.S. Army Major Peter Zachary.”
“What is his status?”
“We eliminated one of his men and ditched Zachary into the river. He is no longer a threat. We will watch for the girl. If by some miracle she is alive, we will ensure that she does not fall into the wrong hands.”
