No One Lives Forever no-3

by Jordan Dane

  "Something's going down ... up ahead there." He shifted his focus. "What are they up to?"

  The large communal hut was comprised of a woven mat of grasses pitched over the top of a wooden frame. The covering had the texture of dense hemp. One side, facing them, was completely open. They saw hammocks stretched along the back wall inside, hung between heavy wooden stakes pounded into the ground. A man standing in front of the opening waved for a couple of men to follow him. Dressed in an elaborate tunic, with his face almost completely painted, he had the look of a medicine man or native chief.

  The three men left the encampment and headed for a well-worn trail—straight toward them. Within minutes the natives would be right on top of their position.

  Christian got to his feet and hunched down, turning toward Zharan. "They're bringing food and water to Charboneau. We gotta follow 'em."

  "You don't know that for sure."

  "It doesn't matter. We can't let them go without someone on 'em," Christian said, pleading his case. "You have your men assigned, you can't afford to send more than one or two men to tail these guys. Let Raven and me do it."

  A stern look spread over the chief's face and he narrowed his eyes at the native men on the trail below. Christian knew what he was thinking. The path crossed near enough to their position to matter. And if the natives deviated from it, there would be greater risk. Either way, the men would be upon them soon. Zharan had no time to waste.

  "Your woman will stay here," he said in a hushed tone. "Take Fuentes."

  Christian caught the move. Raven raised her chin to protest, no doubt upset over getting shot down for the assignment by an overdose of testosterone and chauvinism. To her credit, she kept her silence and only glared at the chief. But the man ignored her and gave an order to Fuentes over the headset without hesitation. They exchanged words in Portuguese. Clearly, Zharan welcomed authority and wielded it with an iron hand, no questions asked.

  Within seconds, Fuentes crept up behind Christian, stone quiet and with a grim face.

  "Fuentes will stay in touch on the com set." Then Zharan glared at Christian and pointed a finger. "And you'll follow my man's orders without question. Do you understand?"

  All business, Christian nodded to the chief. Before he left, he shot a sympathetic gaze at Raven, followed by a subtle wink. She raised an eyebrow and the corner of her mouth twitched, her version of a smile under duress. Time to go.

  If the man wearing the war paint and fancy duds was someone in a position of authority, or even Mario Araujo himself, Christian and Fuentes had a shot at ending this battle before it had even begun. Without a head honcho, the tribe may not resist. And if he and Fuentes found his father alive and unharmed, perhaps this operation might end without bloodshed. They could slip away without the natives knowing they'd been there until it was too late.

  Even with the good thoughts, Christian couldn't shake the anxiety welling in his chest. He had no idea what triggered the feeling. And to complicate matters, it began to rain. Dark clouds cast shadows along the ground and deepened the reach of its steamy fingers into the jungle. From experience, he knew drizzle could turn into a deluge in short order. Dirt would dissolve into a slick stream of mud.

  One last time, he glanced over his shoulder at Raven, and found her staring back. Although he wasn't a mind reader, he'd double down on his bet that she felt the same way.

  Something felt off, but he had no tangible reason to turn back now.

  "Caves can be sacred to these people," Fuentes whispered, binoculars up. Raindrops pelted his helmet and shoulders. "The path to the waterfall is well worn. And now they climb. They've got a cave up there." The loud drone of the tumbling water almost made it impossible to hear him.

  Christian hunkered down behind thick undergrowth next to the Brazilian detective. His drenched clothes clung to his body like a second layer of skin he didn't need. He watched as the three native men traversed a rock ledge near the base of the waterfall. The boulders were slick with rain, and the men tread with slow deliberate moves. A cave made sense. He couldn't think of any other reason for these men to make such a treacherous climb.

  Eventually, the men disappeared behind the thick sheet of water and did not emerge again. If a cave did exist, they had found it.

  "Come on. Let's go," Christian prompted. "That cave. We might lose 'em in there."

  "I've got night vision gear. You don't." Fuentes turned to face him, rain beaded on his cheeks and drizzled off his chin. "Perhaps you should stay near the base of the waterfall and wait for me to return."

  Fuentes pulled out his tactical night vision headgear and fixed it to his helmet. Once inside the cave, the special goggle would slip over the detective's eyes, giving him the ability to see in the dark. He had to stay far enough behind the men they were tracking to avoid their flashlights, which made his gear ineffective.

  Christian shook his head. "No worries. Me and the dark are old friends." He took the lead, slogging through the mud. He didn't wait for Fuentes to catch up. The darkness had once been the catalyst for his greatest fear, only reminding him of the tragic loss of the Delacorte family who'd raised him all those years ago. The abject feeling of being powerless had been at the root of his worst nightmare.

  Now, the inky black would be his ally.

  Nicholas thought he saw a play of light on boulders to his left. Sitting alone in the dark had wrought havoc on his senses. Made his brain mush and messed with his equilibrium. Perhaps he had only imagined the dim flicker of light, needed to see it for his own sanity. He pushed his back against the rock wall and used his hands and arms to shove off the ground. He'd grown weak, his throat parched.

  He stood and waited. Chin high, he mustered the last bit of dignity he had left. If he had a shot at escaping, he'd have to take it soon—no matter the odds. Eventually, he'd be too weak to make a convincing go of it. The light got brighter, more distinct. Someone was definitely coming. He heard their approach echoing in the cavern. His heart kicked up its usual pace.

  Desperation was distasteful. He wanted no part of it.

  "Ah, he stands on his own two feet. Good. Room service has brought food and water. This may not be Hotel Palma Dourada fare, but let it not be said I am an inhospitable host."

  The native man's face was painted and he wore elaborate ceremonial garb. Nicholas almost didn't recognize his abductor.

  "What is this? Trick or treat? Sorry, but I'm fresh out of candy." He couldn't help it. Sarcasm came naturally.

  One of the men laid the water jug down and scooted a tin plate through the metal bars. The image shot a moment of déjà vu through Nicholas. The peculiar sensation had something to do with Jasmine, but he couldn't explain how or why. Although he wanted nothing more than to drink and eat, he resisted the urges of his body and heeded his instincts.

  "No thanks. I'm quite full, actually. Couldn't eat another bite." He rubbed his lean belly and slouched against the back wall.

  His captor walked toward the bars and sat on a nearby boulder, a smug look on his face.

  "You are a stubborn man." He shook his head. "In my country, we learn not to squander such opportunities. You never know when or if your next meal will come at all. It makes no difference to me whether you eat or not. Your destiny is sealed."

  "Then perhaps we should talk instead. Food for the soul." Nicholas remained standing and crossed his arms, trying to look nonchalant and in control. Hardly the way he felt. "You mentioned that you know why I came to your country. And that I have committed crimes against your people. In the United States, the accused has a right to face his accuser. Surely you would grant me that simple right. Tell me what you think you know."

  Even in the dark, Christian took the lead with eyes shut, using his senses more than his eyesight to feel his way. He fought to suppress his trauma-induced fear of the dark, forcing himself to move and remain focused on the hunt. Like a bat with sonar, he maneuvered through pitch-black, second nature from the training he had obsessed over mos
t of his adult life. His hand was never far from his Marine Corps Ka-Bar knife.

  The native men had a lead. Their flashlights weren't visible, but he followed their trail all the same. Their rough-hewn damp clothing, the distinctive smell of their skin, and the face paint left a marker in the air for him to follow. Different from the natural smells of the cave.

  Fuentes thought he had an advantage wearing his night vision gear and tried to slip ahead, taking a turn down a tunnel that veered right. But Christian stopped him from stepping into a hole, placing an arm across the man's chest. He shook his head after he knew he had the cop's attention.

  Christian gestured without speaking, knowing the detective would understand he needed to step around the ditch and stick with him. He didn't have time to explain how he trailed the natives, but he kept Fuentes on track, back to the main cavern. The air in the cave smelled thick with minerals and an earthy dampness. His wet clothes brought a chill to his skin, but he kept moving, Fuentes close at his heels.

  When he heard voices in the distance, Christian risked opening his eyes. Beyond the bend, a distant glow shone against a rock wall ahead. The light flickered. He couldn't make out the words that garbled in echo, but Fuentes removed his night vision gear and moved ahead with his Taurus .45 caliber ACP in a two-fisted grip, silent as death.

  Christian knew it was out of his hands now. Fuentes would take over.

  His captor insisted, "You came to Brazil to conduct genetic experiments on my people that aren't condoned in the U.S. Something to do with drug addiction. Do not deny it. And that so-called new medical clinic you have added to Genotech Labs is a front for all of it."

  Nicholas grimaced and shrugged. "What are you talking about? What clinic? Genotech is a lab for genetics research, yes. And yes, I've funded some of its efforts, but you're mistaken if you think there's some new medical facility there. I would know of such a thing."

  The man laughed aloud. His voice carried through the cavernous space.

  "Do you think me a fool? I have seen this clinic with my own eyes. I can assure you that I know what I'm talking about, sir." His captor stood, indignant. He paced the front of the cell. "You have the local military police working with you. They take addicted men off the streets and use them to conduct their experiments. And these men are never seen again. This is reprehensible."

  Nicholas shook his head and stepped closer to the metal bars. "I admit to purchasing the services of key personnel within the police force and the local government. Such an investment tends to work in my favor, but I prefer to be more discreet. What is this about taking drug addicts off the streets for experiments? I know nothing of this."

  "Why do you bother to dispute it? I have spoken to a witness. He confided everything."

  "Look, you and I are men who bend the rules when it suits us, but what you're suggesting seems foolhardy and risky. Who is this witness you speak of? Let me confront my accuser. Isn't a man's life worth the extra effort?" He pleaded his case, voice raised.

  "That won't be necessary." Another man's voice came from the shadows. Low and threatening.

  On instinct, Nicholas rushed to the back wall of his prison cell. His captor reached under his tunic, no doubt in search of a weapon.

  The other two native men turned with a start. One raised a flashlight and the other reached for a knife. A shot rang out. Then two more. The one with the knife took a round to the face. His head snapped back and twisted. His body followed the momentum and convulsed when it hit the ground. His brain was dead but the rest of him hadn't gotten the message.

  The second man collapsed backward with shock forged in his eyes. The sound of bullets hitting his chest center mass echoed through the cave long after his heart stopped beating. Two meaty thuds. Once a man hears a sound like that, he never forgets it.

  The pungent smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the air. It infused with the coppery sweetness of blood and the foul stench of human waste, the familiar melange of violent death.

  "Hold it. Drop your weapon. State of Mato Grosso police." A guy in fatigues materialized out of the dark like a ghost. He held his weapon on the tribal leader, his eyes hard-edged and unflinching.

  The man with the painted face and ceremonial robes laid his gun down. His eyes were fixed on the dead men at his feet. His men. In shock, he didn't appear to care what happened next.

  "What are you doing? You didn't have to shoot 'em." Another voice came from the dark, but Nicholas couldn't see the man.

  He barely heard the words of their exchange. His ears still rang. The sudden brutality left him stunned, yet Nicholas knew what it took to execute men this way.

  "Don't worry. No one will hear the gun fire this deep in the cave, especially with the waterfall outside," the guy with the gun and the upper hand insisted. A soul incapable of guilt.

  "That's not the point," the other man argued.

  When he emerged from the shadows, the second man came into focus. Those eyes. That face. Like standing in front of a mirror that shed twenty years from his age.

  It took Nicholas some time to recognize the face of the son he'd never met.

  CHAPTER 22

  Christian stared into the eyes of his father for the first time. Until now, he'd been preoccupied with the rescue and hadn't thought about how this would feel. The reality of the moment hit him hard. He stepped closer to the metal bars, unable to take his eyes off Nicholas Charboneau. He searched for the young man that had stolen his mother Fiona's heart all those many years ago. Most of all, he wanted to find his connection to the man. His father.

  "You okay?"

  With disheveled clothes and hair and a gaunt face, Charboneau looked like hell. And in the dim light, Christian thought he saw a glimmer of tears welling in the man's eyes. Or maybe it was only his imagination, stirred by his own feelings.

  "I am now." He nodded. "How did you . . . ? Can't believe you came."

  "How could I not?" Christian smiled, but the quiet moment between them faded.

  "My name is Detective Arturo Fuentes. I'm with the military police for the state of Mato Grosso. Can you walk, Mr. Charboneau?" Fuentes asked, still holding his gun on the native man.

  "Yes. Please . . . get me out of here," Nicholas answered, but hadn't taken his gaze off Christian. Those penetrating eyes took in every detail, as if he wanted to capture the moment. But then again, maybe he was reading into it.

  "With all that face paint, I barely recognized you. You must be Mario Araujo," the detective said with amusement in his voice. "Keep your hands up and kick that gun to me. No fast moves."

  Araujo did as he was told. The gun skittered across stone to the feet of the detective, but he didn't pick it up. He stayed focused on the tribal leader.

  "I know you have the keys. Open the cell." When the man hesitated, Fuentes added, "I can search your body for them. It makes no difference to me."

  Araujo slowly moved his hands toward his tunic.

  "Be careful, old man," Fuentes threatened, shifting his aim to the man's head. "Real slow."

  The native man pulled out the key and opened the lock. Nicholas stepped through the cell door, but stopped in front of Araujo.

  "I meant what I said about that clinic. And I don't know anything about people taken off the streets for experiments."

  The native man looked up in surprise with eyes narrowed, but didn't say anything.

  "Mr. Delacorte. Please assist me by handcuffing this man." The detective held out a set of cuffs, but kept his gun on Araujo. "I will take care of the rest."

  After Christian secured the man's hands behind his back, Fuentes picked up the loose gun and searched his prisoner to make sure he didn't have any other surprises. When he found a cell phone, the detective pulled it out and looked at it with interest.

  "Nice phone. Who would you need to call from out here?"

  Araujo kept his face unreadable. "I use it for emergencies only. For my people."

  Fuentes glared at him with skepticism. "We'll see about that
."

  Once he was satisfied with his search, the cop stuffed the cell phone in one of his vest pockets and tried his com set, but got no reception. The cave caused interference.

  "I'll try again when we get out of here. If you would see to Mr. Charboneau, I will take care of Araujo." Fuentes picked up a flashlight from the ground. He stepped over the dead man who had once held it, without giving him a second look. "Grab the other light. You may not need it, but Mr. Charboneau might appreciate it."

  Fuentes smirked and holstered his weapon. He yanked Araujo by the arm and hauled him back the way they'd come, taking half the light with him. The cavern grew dark. Shadows stretched across stone. For the sake of his father, Christian reached down and picked up the other flashlight with reluctance. Flecks of blood and tissue covered the still burning light. He couldn't help but look into the accusing eyes of the second dead man. The smell of death hung heavy in the air. Fuentes could have avoided taking the shot. He didn't have to kill. The cop never even gave a warning.

  "What did he mean by that? About not needing the light?" his father asked.

  "Nothing. Let's get out of here." Christian wiped his hands on his pants and walked beside Charboneau, careful to shine the light on the path in front of him.

  "Please tell me something." His father reached for his arm and pulled him to a stop, letting the detective and Araujo stretch their lead. "If you're here, that must mean Jasmine told you what happened, right?"

  "Jasmine did ask me to help, yes. And Fiona was willing to put up the ransom."

  "So Jasmine must be okay. He let me believe she'd been killed, but somehow I knew. Where is she? Why isn't she here?"

  Christian saw the urgency in his eyes. He felt it in his grip. The man had more concern for Jasmine than for his own safety. And that told him a lot.