Missy had claimed to be redeemed, but none of them were. She’d been dirty. Weak. Pathetic. And now she was gone, plucked from society like a dandelion ripped from a lush, green lawn. The grass would fill in, healthier, stronger without her tainted roots.
The news segued to a traffic report. He stopped recording.
How could he make his message clear? Some people were unworthy of life. There were consequences for bad decisions. People should be punished for their sins. What would it take for the world to understand?
He replayed the news clip. When Detective Dane entered the frame, he paused the recording. She was in charge. Therefore, she was the one he needed to convince.
Chapter Four
Monday, June 20, near Tabatinga, Brazil
The booming growl of a howler monkey echoed across the forest. Mac froze. He lowered his binoculars, his survival instincts quivering as the rain forest around him went on alert. Something was wrong.
June was past the official rainy season, but this part of the jungle didn’t really have a dry one. The Amazon River flowed fat and fast past him, sunlight glimmering on its rippled surface. Twenty yards away, a male giant river otter poked its head above the water and stared downstream. Mac followed the weasel’s focus, looking for the snout of the black caiman that had been hanging around the day before.
A pair of scarlet macaws burst from the forest and winged out over the river. Mac shifted his binoculars from the water to the canopy. A hundred feet above, the reddish brown body of a howler monkey poised on a thick branch. The air smelled like rain was coming, but torrential downpours were daily events and wouldn’t bother the monkeys. The big male sounded another throaty warning. Something—or someone—was invading the primate’s territory.
Mac lowered his binoculars. His three-member team had been camped near a small village ten miles from Tabatinga, Brazil, for weeks. The monkeys had become accustomed to their presence. Another group of primates could be encroaching on the home turf of the resident troop. Or it could be something else entirely, maybe a jaguar. The monkeys scattered, the canopy shifting, branches and foliage swaying, as the creatures took flight. If another group of primates were muscling in on their territory, the howlers would have stood their ground, at least for a time. There would have been a vocal protest, posturing, possibly even a physical altercation. The animals’ quick abandonment of their domain meant one thing: predator.
He scanned the river. The young otters had stopped playing and had scurried into the shallows. Three adults swam in circles, agitation evident in their tense posture. Their cute, cuddly appearance and playful antics camouflaged their place at the top of the Amazon food chain. Nearly six feet long, giant river otters had few natural predators except black caimans or jaguars. If the otters were on alert, the threat was likely unnatural.
In the jungle, unnatural equaled human.
Sweat dripped into his eye. He yanked a bandana from the back pocket of his nylon cargo pants and tied it around his head.
“Mac!” Behind him, Cheryl bulldozed through the rain forest. How could a woman that small make that much noise? She moved with the grace of a miniature bison. Sweat soaked the armpits of her long-sleeve safari shirt and a camera bounced around her neck.
“Shh.” Mac raised a hand, tilted his head, and listened.
Cheryl stopped and waited. Her gaze roaming the riverbanks. “I don’t hear anything.”
Mac didn’t hear as much as feel the tension in the jungle. It rippled along his skin like a swarm of ants.
Cheryl tightened the band on her ponytail. “We’ve been here for weeks. The locals are friendly. All we’ve seen are fishing boats and ecotours.”
She’d worked in São Paulo. She didn’t know jack about life in the jungle. Mac didn’t have the details, but her assignment to his team had been punishment for some infraction.
“Maybe.” He had his doubts about some of the fishing boats they’d seen. The occupants hadn’t look all that interested in the water.
Cheryl swatted at a mosquito the size of a kitten. “The biggest danger here is the bugs. Why don’t they ever bite you?”
Ignoring her complaints, Mac glanced back at the water. The otters had disappeared. Bad sign. He held up a hand to quiet his companion. “The animals know something’s up.”
“Great,” Cheryl muttered. “I had to pull the Dances With Otters assignment.”
“I am a wildlife biologist,” Mac whispered. “Now shut up so I can listen.”
The faint sputter of a motor drifted over the water. Most of the local fishing boats were man-powered. Engines were faster, but they were also expensive and required fuel. Most locals didn’t have the resources for such luxury.
An ecotour maybe?
This was a particularly dangerous region in South America, where the borders of Peru, Brazil, and Colombia converged. Drug traffickers, both large cartels and small-scale operations run by families tired of hardscrabble, subsistence living, used the river as a key method of transportation.
Cheryl went still. They both knew their university credentials satisfied villagers and officials but garnered no respect from drug traffickers.
The nose of a boat appeared around the bend in the river. The craft was a long, dilapidated vessel with a rectangular cabin and a pair of rusted outboard motors that looked like they belonged in a salvage yard. A man in the bow, wearing only a pair of frayed denim cutoffs, lifted a hand in greeting. His skin was brown, his hair black, his body slim and hard in a way that suggested a lifetime of manual labor and minimal nourishment. A second man sat in the stern, one hand on the tiller to steer the boat.
“See. Fishermen.” Cheryl gestured toward the boat. She raised the camera. The lens whirred and clicked as she snapped pictures.
He pushed the camera’s nose down. “I know most of the villagers, and these guys don’t look familiar. That boat could be full of coca paste instead of fish.” Not to mention men with machetes and machine guns. Mac’s gaze swept the riverbanks.
“Sorry.” She snapped on the lens cap.
Not her fault, he reminded himself. She hadn’t asked for this assignment. She didn’t have the necessary experience. With his eyes focused on the waterway, he asked, “What brought you out here anyway?”
Cheryl and the third member of their team, a guide named Juan, had just returned to the camp for an afternoon siesta. Napping was the only part of South American life she embraced. “You got a call from the States. Your brother.”
An instant ache tightened behind Mac’s sternum, and guilt washed through him with the force of the river. His brother Grant would not have called unless it was an emergency. “Did he leave a message?”
“Yes.” Cheryl waved her hand at a swarm of insects buzzing around her face. “It’s your dad.” Sympathy softened her voice. “Your brother said, ‘This is it, Mac,’ and that you should hurry if you want to get there before . . .”
“Oh. OK. Thanks.” Mac lowered his binoculars, his emotions going into limbo. Their father had been actively dying for the past fifteen months. A paraplegic war hero, the Colonel had been robbed of his mental faculties by dementia in recent years. Mac had thought he’d come to terms with his father’s imminent death, but the scratching sensation inside his chest said otherwise.
“You should go home, Mac.” Cheryl nodded toward the river. She might be a disaster in the jungle, but she was a decent soul. “This will keep.”
“You’re right.” Mac turned toward their camp, dread slowing his movements. Home. A small word with big meaning. He’d spent most of his childhood watching his father suffer. Just thinking about returning to his hometown made the ground feel unstable under his feet. But after his brother Lee’s murder last year and his sister’s close brush with death last November, Mac had sworn he wouldn’t leave his family high and dry again. He’d be there for them this time, no matter what the cost.
“I’ll drive you into the village,” Cheryl said. The team had only one vehicle, and no one wante
d to be stranded in the jungle without transportation. The mile to the nearest village would feel like twenty in sweltering temperatures and jungle humidity.
“Thanks. From there I should be able to bum a ride into Tabatinga.” The border city’s airport had limited flights. He’d be lucky to get on a plane in the next twenty-four hours. Once he got to Manaus, catching a flight to New York would be easier. If he got lucky, he could be home in two days. But transportation in the South American jungle was highly unreliable.
In all likelihood, whatever was going to happen at home would happen without him.
“You shouldn’t stay out here by yourself,” Mac said.
“Because I’m a woman?” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Because your jungle survival skills suck.” And because she was a woman. As much as he believed in equality, the dangerous men who trafficked drugs on the Amazon didn’t.
“You have a point,” she admitted. “Let’s pack up. I’ll stay in Tabatinga until you come back. How long do you think you’ll be gone?”
“Couple of weeks.” Long enough to bury the Colonel and help his siblings deal with the fallout. Hopefully not long enough for his troubled youth to catch up with him. The gang he’d been in back then was still active. And still dangerous.
Pushing aside the poke of guilt, Mac turned toward the rough path that led to their campsite just as rain began to fall. Grant wouldn’t have called unless there was a chance that Mac could get there in time to say good-bye. He quickened his steps.
On the bright side, in Scarlet Falls there was the possibility he’d run into Stella Dane, the only police officer he’d ever wanted to see in his life. Since he’d met her last November, dreams of her all buttoned up in her uniform had made some hot South American nights swelter. The chances of anything happening between them were slim. She’d helped find his sister and stop a killer. She was totally out of his league, and since his past wasn’t exactly a secret, he was pretty sure she didn’t trust him. But a man could fantasize.
“Wait.” Cheryl was looking out over the water. Rain speckled its surface. “Where’s the boat?”
Mac pivoted. The river was empty and silent. Even if the boat had rounded the bend, the motor should still be audible. Despite the intense and steamy heat of the jungle, his insides went cold. He shoved at her. “Move. Back to camp.”
She nodded. The rain increased to its usual afternoon torrent. A gunshot rang out, and Cheryl’s body jerked.
He dove for cover, one arm catching Cheryl around the middle and taking her to the ground.
Cheryl. Mac rolled her to her back. She blinked at the canopy, raindrops beating on her face as blood spread across the chest of her soaked safari shirt.
Another bullet zinged past. Mac draped his body across her torso, shielding her as best he could.
“Hold tight.” Mac lurched to his feet.
He grabbed her under the armpits and dragged her into a patch of underbrush. Then Mac pulled a clean bandana from his back pocket, folded it, and pressed it to the wound high on her chest. He took her hand, put it over the square, and whispered, “Pressure.”
Eyes wide and shivering, Cheryl pleaded in a whisper, “Don’t leave me.”
Another shot rang out. Mac got to his feet and hesitated. He needed to do something about the men with the guns. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”
“No.” She shook her head. Rain slicked her hair and face as blood darkened the entire front of her shirt. She reached out for him.
Backing out of the foliage, Mac put a finger over his lips. She needed to be quiet. If they found her, she was dead.
A voice yelled, “Get them!” in Portuguese.
He sprinted down the trail toward camp. He needed the satellite phone, and the SUV was their best hope for escape. If these men had come from the boat, they wouldn’t have land transportation. He also had to warn Juan, although their guide certainly would have heard the gunshots.
Vegetation sliced at Mac’s arms and face as he raced down the rough path. Behind him, over the echo of his thundering heartbeat, men shouted and foliage snapped as bodies crashed through the jungle. He broke into the clearing. No Juan. Odds were he had run. Money could buy interpretive and guide services, but not loyalty. Had Juan sold them out? Mac ran behind the supply tent and skidded to a stop.
The spot where the four-wheeler should have been parked was empty. The SUV was gone.
A figure burst into the clearing. It was the man from the bow of the boat. Brown skin glistened with sweat as he slashed a machete toward Mac’s head. He ducked. The blade kissed his hair.
Mac lunged forward and grabbed his assailant’s right wrist with both hands. A solid front kick drove the ball of his foot into the man’s solar plexus. The machete fell to the ground. Mac kicked out again, this time striking him in the side of the knee. The man’s leg buckled, and he swung out with his left hand. Light glimmered on a short blade. Mac yanked hard on his right arm, throwing him further off balance.
A twig snapped. In his peripheral vision, Mac saw the second man enter the clearing, an AK-47 in his hands.
The bastard who’d shot Cheryl.
Anger surged hot through Mac’s veins. The muzzle of the AK arced toward him. He whirled around, swinging Machete Man between him and the gunman as a shield. Shots burst from the rifle muzzle with orange flashes. The man in Mac’s grip flailed as the bullets cut across his middle. Something hot stung Mac in the side.
The trigger clicked on an empty cartridge. The gunman snapped the magazine off the bottom of the rifle and reached for his pocket. Mac tossed Machete Man’s dead body aside and lunged toward the machete on the ground. He snatched it off the dirt as the gunman shoved a new magazine into the AK.
The muzzle lifted. Jumping forward, Mac swung the blade. The razor-thin tip sliced the gunman’s forearm to the bone. Mac jumped closer, too close for the man’s AK to be of any use. Turning the long blade, he brought the tool up and across the gunman’s body, slicing him open from thigh to shoulder. The AK dropped to the ground. The gunman fell on top of it.
Mac wiped the blood from the machete on the ground.
He’d always wished he hadn’t grown up with a borderline psychotic and highly trained military father obsessed with turning his four offspring into a tiny paramilitary force. But the Colonel—and all the batshit-crazy survival weekends, weapons training, and combat drills he’d forced on his children—had just saved his youngest son’s life.
Mac rolled the gunman to his back to make sure he was dead. No worries. Mac’s conditioning had ensured his strike would be deadly.
The surge of relief was cut short as a sudden wave of agony sliced through his side. He put a hand just below his ribs. Hot blood seeped red through his T-shirt.
Not good. He was Cheryl’s only hope of getting help.
He ducked into the supply tent. The sat phone was gone, and the first aid kit was in the missing SUV. Son-of-a-bitch Juan. He hadn’t taken everything, just the essentials.
The village was a mile-long hike through the jungle, the day was getting shorter, and Mac was leaking. He found a bottle of Juan’s tequila, opened his shirt, and assessed the wound. The bullet had grazed the fleshy part of his side. Hoping it hadn’t hit any vital organs on its journey, he dumped alcohol on the wound. Pain burst through him as bright as a flashbang, blinding him and buckling his legs. Panting, he dropped to his knees and waited for the dizziness to pass.
When his vision cleared, he made a makeshift bandage from a bandana, filled his canteen with water, and fashioned a litter from a camp cot. The daily downpour continued. In the driving rain, it took him a few minutes to find Cheryl.
But only a second to realize she was dead.
No!
He dropped to his knees beside her body. He didn’t give a damn if the caiman ate those two drug traffickers, but he couldn’t leave Cheryl here.
Don’t leave me!
But he had, and she’d died alone.
Whit
e hot pain sliced him in two as he secured her to the cot. Dragging the litter behind him, he stumbled down the rutted trail. Each step sent sharp agony through his body. Good. Mac held on to the pain like a lifeline. Maybe it would keep him conscious long enough to make it to the village before he bled out. He pressed a hand to his side. At the moment, his survival seemed like a big maybe.
As he staggered through the jungle, he sent his family a mental apology. It didn’t seem likely that he’d make it home after all. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He’d been prepared to go home to see his father pass. Now it looked like Mac might be the first one to die.
Chapter Five
Wednesday, June 22, 2:00 p.m., Scarlet Falls, NY
Stella walked into the firing range. The muffled crack of gunshots bled through her earplugs.
And sweat pooled between her breasts.
This shouldn’t be hard. She was a good shot. Before November, her weekly practice session had been no more exciting than a trip to the gym, just one more thing she did to stay in shape as a cop. But now, every time she stared down the sights on her pistol, she thought of the shot she’d missed and the two cops who’d died as a result.
She set her bag on the wooden platform at the front of her assigned stall and removed her safety glasses and a box of bullets. Her heartbeat thudded over the steady pop pop of gunfire as she readied her stance. Discomfort flooded her body as she lined up her sights with the paper target. Her position felt all wrong, as if she’d never shot a gun before. She rolled a shoulder, cracked her neck, and stretched her arm, but there was no convincing her body that she’d done this a million times.
Her phone buzzed on her hip. She welcomed the distraction, until she read Frank’s name on her phone screen. She read his text: Done. Get over here.
She holstered her weapon, returned her gear to her bag, and drove to the medical examiner’s office. Stella took a deep breath of fresh air in the parking lot, as if it were her last, and pushed inside. In the antechamber, she donned a gown, cap, and plastic face shield. Bracing herself, she tugged on a pair of gloves and went into the autopsy suite. Frank was leaning over a sink, his back to Stella.
Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls) Page 3
