No One Lives Forever no-3

by Jordan Dane

The complications kept mounting. Duarte was not pleased. "Stick with the plan. We've got no choice now." He heaved the bag onto a shoulder and hustled for the door, phone to his ear. "I'll meet you at the rendezvous point in five."

  "Already on my way. What do you want to do with the woman?"

  Manolo had not asked about the American woman with his question. Images of Jasmine Lee flooded Duarte's head. Having her along might prove useful.

  "Tell them to bring her, but don't let anyone see. She's not a woman easily forgotten ... or trusted."

  Duarte ended the call, wondering if Jasmine Lee or Nicholas Charboneau would have any appreciation for poetic justice. He hoped after today he'd be alive to appreciate the irony himself.

  They had outrun the rain—for now—a short reprieve from what would come. The sun stabbed through an accumulation of darker clouds, fighting a losing battle. And as far as Raven's eye could see, the Amazon rain forest spread its dense blanket, covering this corner of the world.

  She had no sense of which way they'd flown out of Cuiabá. Not that it mattered. Raven flew over a world so foreign and primitive, none of it felt familiar. With the added tension, the flight seemed to last an eternity, but now the pilot skirted treetops, heading for a small clearing, but big enough for both helicopters to land. Soon she'd leave the safety of the aircraft in search of a native tribe that had kidnapped an American for money.

  For all she knew, Christian's father was already dead.

  Harsh reality sent a chill over her skin. Raven kept her eyes focused on the ground below, searching the treeline for signs of trouble. She felt the weight of a holstered nine-millimeter Beretta 92FS, a weapon courtesy of Jasmine Lee.

  The craft hovered as the pilot scanned the ground for a sturdy place to set the landing skids. When the aircraft touched down, the prop action kicked up dirt and whipped tall grasses and tree branches into a frenzy. Zharan's men shifted in their seats, ready to disembark. Oddly enough, a couple of them had to be nudged in the ribs. They'd fallen asleep. She'd seen it many times and it never ceased to surprise her. Everyone dealt with stress differently.

  Raven sought peace of mind, but in her own way. She found herself staring into Christian's eyes. Gazing into their lush green with flecks of gold and sea blue, she indulged herself. This close, the color of his eyes always stole her breath.

  Love reflected in their depths and it calmed her heart. With him by her side, she wasn't alone. And more important, neither was he. His fight had become hers.

  "I've got your backside, big guy." She smiled.

  "Good. Can't think of anyone I'd rather assign that duty." He winked, but the humor in his eyes faded. "Stick close, huh? And no heroics."

  "Same goes double for you."

  The cargo bay door opened and a rush of wind swept past her, the rotor kicking it up. Zharan and his men rushed through the door, hunched low and weapons drawn, setting up a perimeter.

  Once on the ground, Zharan spoke with one of his men in rapid-fire Portuguese, consulting a map. The man must have been a native guide. He wore civilian clothes and a floppy jungle hat in camouflage green, and had a machete in a scabbard on his belt. An old guy with bulgy dark eyes, a scraggly graying beard, and brown skin the texture of rough-hewn leather.

  Raven wondered how she had missed him before, but it made sense for Zharan to have an experienced guide as part of the operation.

  The native headed toward the trees at a steady pace. Zharan's men followed single file as if they did it everyday. No one spoke. All eyes were on the surrounding jungle. To remain in the clearing meant exposure. In Portuguese, Zharan ordered two men to stay behind with the pilots to protect the aircraft, their only means of escape. The men nodded and ran for cover in the jungle, to defend their position from a distance with rifles. When it came time for reinforcements and the trip home, the chief would contact them via radio and order them to the village. A solid extraction plan.

  Zharan pocketed the map in his shirt and joined them.

  "You two will stick with me. We have some miles to go yet, so let's get started."

  "We're right behind you." Christian nodded and extended his arm, letting her walk in front of him.

  In no time Raven's skin felt damp and sticky, her hair and clothing wet with sweat after walking the short distance out of the clearing.

  As she drew near the trees, they towered over her, much more impressive than from a distance. She stayed on Zharan's heels, Christian behind her. Walking single file, only those closest remained in sight. Most of the men ahead disappeared, camouflaged by overhanging branches and vines as massive as anacondas dangling from the treetops to the jungle floor. The thick green and brown canopy felt like an ancient house of worship, a sacred place. Heavy-duty root systems dug deep into the earth, dwarfing her presence with their age-old lineage. From centuries of dropped foliage, the jungle floor felt spongy and pliable underfoot and the ground smelled of decay, wet wood, and damp rich earth.

  Like an entourage accompanying them, woolly monkeys hooted overhead and leapt from branch to branch. And colorful parrots screeched their passage, while smaller birds with bright plumage flitted between the tree limbs, more curious than fearful.

  A cloud of insects swarmed over them, following fresh meat. At first Raven squinted through the hurling bugs, swatting them with a hand. But eventually she gave up and tried her best to ignore them. In no time she'd sweat off the bug repellent she had put on earlier, and she wasn't sure when or if she'd get a chance to put more on.

  Then it started to rain again. Tree branches filtered the downpour, but soon she'd be drenched. The air felt muggy and thick. Everything around her grew dark and slick with rain. And the sound of it pum-meling the earth filled her senses. A steady incessant drone.

  Through it all, the men kept absolutely quiet, with eyes vigilant. Dark-skinned faces, each with a story she would probably never know. Off in the distance, the occasional zing of a machete splitting wood echoed through the jungle as the native guide cleared a path for them up ahead.

  The elevation changed and they began to climb, scrambling up a steep and narrow trail. Below and to the right the ground dropped away. She had to watch her step, with the soil turning to slick mud under her boots. Lactic acid churned in the muscles of her legs, her thighs burning. Still, she pressed on without complaint. Her throat felt parched, even with the rain. She wanted a cool drink in the worst way, but none of the others drank, so she held off and satisfied herself with the raindrops that quenched her lips.

  She refused to give them any reason to regret bringing a woman.

  After a while the rain began to dissipate to a gentle patter. Yet off in the distance, Raven heard a muffled rumble like faraway thunder, only more persistent. Another storm? She had no idea what it was, but her gut knotted all the same. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew what the sound was, but her brain hadn't registered it yet.

  Still, she climbed on, leaning into the steep hill to keep her balance, grateful for any time she had spent on a Stairmaster. But it hadn't been near enough. The trek uphill finally leveled off, providing a welcome break from the torturous climb.

  The rain had stopped, but now the rumble grew louder and masked the chime of the machete up ahead and the chatter of animals. The trees thinned and the sun's rays filtered through the leaves and vines and pierced the thick canopy. On this side of the ridge, blue sky penetrated the shadows.

  As she crested a small mound and the men ahead of her started downhill, Raven knew what she would find. A massive and raging waterfall surged from the jagged cliffs beneath them. Breathtaking. From her vantage point, she didn't have a clear view of the pool of water below. A thick and constant mist churned, making it disappear. And the coolness of the waterfall billowed and touched her, giving an instant chill against the blistering heat of her skin, still damp with rain.

  She turned to find Christian standing at her side. She felt his hand on her neck as he took a moment to enjoy the view. He let a couple o
f Zharan's men pass.

  "Come on. They won't want us to pull up the rear. Time to go. You okay?" he asked.

  "Sure." Raven took a swig of water and nodded, wiping her mouth and face with a sleeve. "Let's go."

  It took them the better part of an hour to clear the waterfall and start their descent into a valley. But as they did, Raven spied a small patch of grassland below, a break in the surrounding trees. A section had been cleared. She saw the rooftops of a small village, a circle of huts with thatched roofs clustered around a larger communal structure. Although small children played, most of the inhabitants looked busy, preparing for some kind of celebration. Too much was going on for an average day of survival.

  A central fire pit burned high, natives milling around it, occasionally flailing into a dance. And a large blackened carcass spun on a spit nearby, smoke spiraling into the air. They were still too far away to see what was happening, but Raven knew Christian had spotted the villagers too. She only took a moment to assess the situation, then turned down the trail with him close behind. No doubt he grasped her sense of urgency.

  These people would not be expecting a fight. On the surface, the element of surprise would be in their favor, but she didn't want to take that fact for granted. An offensive could turn deadly in a hurry with men protecting their families. Raven picked up her pace, ignoring her aches, pains, and mounting bug bites.

  With women and children involved, Zharan knew this assault operation would be more difficult. He expected it and said so. This would be his show, and she wouldn't second-guess the man. Her experience in tactical operations was limited, but she had a working knowledge of what would happen. Out of reflex, her mind ran through a checklist of preparations after she'd seen the village.

  First, the crisis scene, targets, and innocents would have to be identified with solid intel from two-man observation teams. Entry routes and rally points with backup strategies would be nailed down. Each assault team would be comprised of four to five men. They'd be assigned specific responsibilities, position locations, and fields of fire. Some men would be designated as perimeter security, and an officer or two would be tapped for sniper duty.

  Given the layout of the village, mission briefings would be conducted on the fly by radio with no practice runs. After the initial round of diversionary tactics, a series of launched flash bang grenades, the teams would sync their assault using the explosives. They'd insert at multiple points to overload Araujo's ability to react. And Chief Zharan would coordinate the command from a central location through radio communications. With heavy firepower, they'd get in and out as quickly as possible.

  Despite the expectation of a smooth maneuver, she couldn't help but worry. Her cop instinct kicked in with an underlying restlessness, a familiar sensation before an armed siege. She wanted this day to be over.

  But most of all, she prayed no one had to die.

  Sitting cross-legged on the ground, hands resting on his elbows, Mario Araujo stared straight ahead. Dressed in a fine colorful tunic, he held his back erect and his head perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the festivities outside the communal hut. The people of his village wore clothes of bright cloth and strings of beads, their cheeks painted with simple shapes. They displayed their finest baskets and pottery, filled to the brim with various food offerings—all in celebration of his return.

  They had no idea of his plans to make their feast more memorable, but he had no choice now. The time had come.

  He shut his eyes and let the man who knelt before him work.

  The village medicine man took great pains in detailing the paint across the skin of Mario's face. With fingertips dipped in black and rich ochre, the man made elaborate geometric shapes, a sign of nobility for his tribe. The face paint smelled of clay and glided on smooth and cool.

  It reminded him of his childhood days in the shadow of the great Chapada dos Guimaraes. He could hunt alone for days and not see another human being, then return to camp, a person to be admired for his kills. A simpler time.

  When he opened his eyes again, he noticed the rain had stopped. Soon the celebration would begin in earnest. The hog had been butchered and was nearly done. His people waited. In anticipation, their eyes shifted toward him as he sat in the shadows of the communal hut.

  The medicine man had done his work. He bowed his head, gathered up his materials, and retreated, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Under his tunic, Mario felt the weight of his gun, a weapon he had used countless times in the city. And he also carried the encrypted phone, his only link to the man who had arranged this whole thing.

  Soon, he would not need the incriminating connection.

  Mario would pay his final visit to Nicholas Charboneau in the cave behind the waterfall. Accompanied by two of his men, he'd pretend to bring the American water and sustenance, food prepared with an overdose of the Iboga. When Charboneau's mind was no longer his own, he would haul him from the cave to the center of his village for all to bear witness.

  When they learned what he wanted to do, his people would be shocked at first, but he would make them understand. To return to the old ways, big medicine would be required. And to clean the slate of injustice, they would have to make difficult choices. But it must start here and now, with him as their new leader.

  Nicholas Charboneau would be their first human sacrifice. His death would be merciful and quick, before the Iboga did its worst damage. By that time, perhaps a knife through his beating heart would be considered a mercy.

  In his village, he would deal justice as he saw fit, with no one to answer to—a truly liberating feeling after years of denying his heritage. There would be no need to ask the opinion of an outsider, using the special phone to reach his mysterious benefactor. Mario had made up his mind, yet he didn't think of himself as a killer. Instead, he considered himself a man who did not shirk his duties. He had a responsibility to protect his people. Damn the reward money!

  Between what his associate had told him before and what he had verified since, he drew only one conclusion. Someone had ordered the recent changes at Genotech Labs and must have found a way to profit from the pain of his people's addictions. Although Mario couldn't directly tie Charboneau to this, his accomplice had made the link clear enough, not holding back. As a fellow countryman, the man resented the intrusion of the wealthy American too.

  Surely his partner would understand what must be done. Some beliefs transcended the significance of money.

  Knowing the truth behind Charboneau changed everything. A simple kidnapping would not suffice now. Charboneau represented much more than just a threat to his people's way of life. He embodied the total disregard for them as human beings. This would not be tolerated.

  Mario stood and pulled his tunic around him, his head held high. With the jail cell key in hand, he gathered a jug of water and a tin plate of food he had prepared earlier. Outside the hut, he nodded and gestured for two men to help him carry the special last meal for his American "guest."

  Soon it would be over for Nicholas Charboneau. Mario sincerely hoped the man's god would have mercy on his soul—for he would find no forgiveness here.

  CHAPTER 21

  Chief Zharan lay on his belly, propped on his elbows with binoculars focused on the huts in the clearing below. As Raven had expected, he made his assignments and ordered his men in teams to surround the village. They awaited the final go ahead. The chief spoke Portuguese softly into his headset, gathering intel and communicating his orders. She didn't have to speak the language to understand.

  A few things had gone in their favor. The dense foliage and the treeline provided adequate cover for the operation. And the village looked preoccupied with a celebration. The chanting and activity proved quite a distraction. Another good cover for Zharan's maneuverings.

  Yet something bothered her.

  She didn't want to make an assumption, but these people appeared to be amateurs compared to other South American abductions she had read about.

  Ha
rd to believe they had any connection to the city of Cuiabá at all, much less staged a kidnapping there. Could they have pulled it off without help? It made her wonder about the accuracy of Zharan's intel.

  She watched the village using Jasmine's binoculars. The huts were made of rudimentary materials indigenous to the area—pliable tree limbs, layers of grasses, sod walls—but some were made from bits of corrugated metal and plywood. She estimated forty adult inhabitants, with twenty or more varying under the age of fifteen years. Younger dark-skinned children with swollen bellies and bare bottoms were harder to count. They ran among the adults, playing games in bare feet around the communal fire blazing in the center of the village. And in a separate pit, the villagers cooked a hog carcass.

  Raven counted thirty huts with three other structures of unknown purpose. The openings to the dwellings faced inward, making it easy for the tribe to defend the core of the community, yet the arrangement made them vulnerable to more sophisticated surveillance, as the police were doing now.

  So far, everything had gone better than expected, except for one thing. They had not found Nicholas Charboneau. Raven hugged the ground next to Christian and handed him the binoculars.

  "Don't think they're expecting company," she whispered.

  "Good for us." Christian stared through the field glasses, muttering under his breath. "Any signs of Charboneau?"

  "No. None so far." She nudged her chin. "He might be in one of those smaller huts, there and the two over to the left." She pointed to the three small huts that didn't look to be inhabited. "But if he were held in one of those, you'd think there'd be a guard out front."

  "Yeah, I agree."

  "And I haven't seen a weapon either." She grimaced. "But that doesn't mean they don't have them."

  "Yeah." Despite his reply, Christian didn't sound convinced. He looked through the binoculars with renewed interest.

  Villagers circled the big fire pit, strolling and dancing in one direction. And they chanted, a rhythmic repetitive sound of mostly male voices building to a crescendo. Painted faces, bright colors, and festive robes; Christian felt an air of anticipation running through the village like an electrical charge.