The Tribe: Black Force Shorts Book Three

by Rogers, Matt

  He patted himself down, still dressed in the same cotton tee and khakis he’d worn throughout his entire stay in the mountain prison. He’d shed the expensive jacket long before — it astonished him how rapidly the temperature had changed as they’d transitioned between biomes. He quickly realised he had nothing on him at all.

  ‘What do I do?’ he said, trying to summarise the doubt roiling through him.

  King simply stared at him from the driver’s seat. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Should… should I be armed?’

  Ordinarily a man of discipline and common sense, Rollins found his decision-making abilities strangely muddied. He hadn’t anticipated being thrust back into the madness so soon, and he struggled to come up with a cohesive train of thought.

  ‘I could give you a gun,’ King said, ‘but they’ll search you when you come stumbling back into camp. They won’t trust you. You think a weapon will get them on your side?’

  ‘I mean… just in case. What if I run into Frisson first? Does Black Force know where he is?’

  ‘They’re having difficulties tracking him. The rainforest makes it next to impossible. Right now he could be anywhere.’

  ‘So I just wander back into the tribe, and try to explain my disappearance?’

  King shrugged. ‘It’s up to you, Rollins. Improvise. That’s how we do things.’

  ‘They won’t be welcoming.’

  ‘Is anyone ever welcoming in our field?’

  Before Rollins could respond, King stamped on the buggy’s accelerator and the entire vehicle shot off the mark, churning dirt under its huge wheels as it rocketed off down the trail. Rollins watched it disappear from sight, and then he was alone in the jungle.

  He recalled making the same trek weeks earlier, excited and nervous to undertake his second official operation for Black Force. For the most part the insertion had been effortless, playing the part of a wandering backpacker who merely happened to stumble across the Asháninca tribe in these parts of the rainforest. It was a ten-mile hike to the nearest town, a collection of shacks and buildings that offered the opportunity to load up on supplies. Rollins had spent two nights there upon touching down in Peru, planning his approach to the tribe.

  He could head straight there now.

  But that would be treasonous to the job he’d signed himself up for, and he hadn’t taken the contract lightly. Fleeing from confrontation — no matter how badly the odds were stacked against him — wasn’t part of his genetic makeup. And besides, if he did nothing to try and stop Bradley Frisson, the deaths in Huancayo would rest squarely on his shoulders.

  And they would come.

  He couldn’t imagine Frisson stumbling on the final hurdle without resistance.

  Rollins knew he needed to be that resistance.

  So, lacking food and water and any kind of weapon of self-defence, he plunged straight back onto the jungle trail, heading in the direction of the Asháninca community.

  He wondered how warmly he would be received.

  10

  Accepting the fact that an ambush was imminent proved tough to grapple with.

  It went against all the training Rollins had received up to this point in his career — the knowledge that there were eyes on him, but the discipline to ignore it. He knew there were Asháninca scouts in the jungle all around him. He could sense their presence. But he didn’t bother to try looking for them or sneaking up on them, because exacerbating the confrontation would prove disastrous. He had a role to play — the same role he’d been playing the whole time — and that involved a certain level of innocence.

  So he strode powerfully along the trail, keeping his chest up and his shoulders back. He stared straight ahead, watching the dirt path twist and turn through the undergrowth. This particular encampment of natives was only a couple of miles further, but he knew he wouldn’t make it there unimpeded.

  At some point…

  In truth he didn’t see the attack coming. One moment he was alone in the rainforest, and the next they were on him. Something slammed into the small of his back and sent him stumbling forward. There was no need to act — he’d genuinely been caught off guard. He tried to maintain his footing but someone gave him a double-handed shove and he sprawled into the dirt, dirtying the tee that had already been soaked through with sweat.

  Before he could even wipe the gunk out of his eyes, three or four silhouettes descended on him. A hand clamped down on the back of his skull and squashed it into the humid dirt, filling his mouth and nostrils with the stuff. It took him a moment to realise he was suffocating, and he squirmed and bucked with all his might, just trying to stay alive.

  When the hand released its hold and he reared up onto his knees, he tried to bring his arms out from behind his back. His wrists caught against something, bitingly painful. He writhed on the spot for a couple of seconds before realising his hands had been fastened behind his back with some kind of reed.

  Rollins stared up into the eyes of a pair of native tribesmen.

  They wore kushmas — long cotton robes that draped over their skinny frames — a garment Rollins had become familiar with over the couple of weeks he’d spent living with the tribe. That said, he didn’t immediately recognise these two men. They were in their early twenties, with dark skin and athletic physiques hardened by years of living in the jungle.

  But they certainly recognised him.

  There was rage in their eyes.

  Before he could speak — not that it would have mattered considering there was only one man who knew English amongst this Asháninca tribe — they hauled him to his feet, assisted by a third tribe member taking up the rear of the formation. The party hurried him through the jungle, ignoring his laboured breathing.

  Rollins had been anticipating the ambush, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of being entirely at the mercy of the tribe. He’d seen the hate in their eyes when Frisson had labelled him a traitor, and he’d never imagined being back so soon.

  They certainly weren’t happy to see him.

  The trail constricted ahead, the jungle threatening to swallow them up as the canopy of overhanging branches became lower and thicker. The trees on either side of them condensed, shrinking to a single point a few dozen feet in front of them. Rollins couldn’t see past the physical barrier of undergrowth, but he knew what lay behind it.

  The same encampment that had demonised him only a couple of weeks ago.

  And he’d returned willingly.

  He couldn’t quite believe it.

  Approaching the wall of ferns and fronds, Rollins couldn’t help but consider just how suicidal the mission was. If Frisson was here, the man wouldn’t show him a moment of consideration. Rollins knew how smart Frisson was, and to play with fire twice would be foolish. Frisson would put a bullet in Rollins’ skull and carry on with the plan.

  But, if Frisson wasn’t here…

  Then maybe he’d have the opportunity to plead his case.

  They probably wouldn’t listen.

  They would probably strike him down where he stood.

  But no-one else had the ability to get through to them, and Rollins knew what crafty people the Asháninca were. If King or any of the other Black Force agents had tried to storm the encampment by force, the tribespeople would vanish into the rainforest, as if they’d never been here at all. They knew the jungle inside and out, which was almost definitely the reason Bradley Frisson had decided to manipulate them. They couldn’t be overwhelmed by force. If they’d been successfully turned, then nothing would stop them from carrying out Frisson’s wishes other than convincing them they were the plans of a madman.

  So that’s what I’m here to do.

  Something told him he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

  But that voice was drowned out by one of the scouts shoving him through the barrier of ferns. He split one of the leaves in two and fell face-first into the dirt on the other side, helpless to break his fall with his wrists pinned t
o the small of his back.

  The breath dissipated from his lungs as he smashed into the earth.

  He lifted his head, feebly attempting to right himself, and another hand snatched him by the back of his neck and pulled him upright. He sat back on his knees and stared out at a sea of faces, many of whom he’d spent most of the last few weeks of his life with.

  The Asháninca people.

  They’d been awaiting his arrival.

  And they were furious.

  11

  The tribe stood silent, judging Rollins where he knelt. A wave of guilt washed over him, even though he’d done nothing wrong.

  These people hated him.

  Bradley Frisson had warped their perspectives.

  Frisson.

  The thought shot through him like a bolt of energy and he wheeled his gaze in every direction at once, searching for any sign of the man. Frisson knew Rollins had ulterior motives, and although he wasn’t aware of his role as a government agent, he would know to murder him in a heartbeat if he saw them in these parts. Last Frisson knew, Rollins was locked up forever in a private mountain prison owned by paramilitary thugs. If he’d managed to worm his way out of that, then he was too great a danger to keep alive.

  But Frisson wasn’t here.

  Rollins breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived. There were at least two dozen native Asháninca people staring at him, refusing to hide their scorn. They probably thought he had a death wish by coming back here.

  Maybe he did…

  The jungle village stretched out over a flat portion of hillside, offering views over most of the surrounding region. Rollins knelt at the base of the hill, looking up at a wave of wooden huts and communal buildings sprawled across the slope. He had spent two weeks of his life here, sharing manioc beer with the villagers and sleeping on the soft dirt inside one of the guest huts. Now the encampment felt alien, far separated from the place he’d slowly come to call home.

  A man stepped forward from the group. He wore the same traditional cotton robe, and Rollins recognised him from his height alone. He stood at least six-foot-five, all skin and bone, with gaunt cheekbones and wide eyes that bored into everything he scrutinised. He never blinked, and his pupils were swollen from the effects of years of hallucinogen use.

  He was the only man in the tribe that spoke English.

  ‘Anthony,’ Rollins whispered, locking eyes with the tribesman.

  It was not his real name, but it was what Rollins had been instructed to call him. His proper name was only for use with the villagers themselves, people whom Anthony had spent his entire life with.

  The towering man strode forward and crouched by Rollins’ pathetic form, refusing to take his eyes away from the stare down. He was a raw, uncompromising soul. Rollins had come to learn that. He didn’t shy away from the harsh scrutinisation either. He had nothing to hide.

  ‘You came back,’ Anthony said.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You know what we all think of you.’

  ‘I want to plead my case.’

  ‘We do not forgive easily.’

  ‘If you could just hear me out…’

  ‘You are a fool for coming back,’ Anthony said. ‘We want nothing to do with you. Bradley Frisson has ancient knowledge to share with us, and you wanted to jeopardise that. There is no greater betrayal than that. You wished to strip us of contact with our gods. We should show you no mercy.’

  ‘Please, just let me talk.’

  ‘Maybe. But not here. You must have known that if you came back we would kill you, and you did it anyway. So there’s something to admire in that. I will hear you out. But I’m afraid if I do that in front of all these people, one of them might kill you before you can finish. So I will take you to the meeting hall, and there I will listen.’

  Sweat poured from Rollins as he listened to the spiel, hanging on to every word. Anthony spoke with eloquence, articulating his thoughts in a way that never failed to surprise Rollins. The two had grown close over his time in the village, but now the man was treating him like a mortal enemy.

  Behind Anthony the tribe silently stewed, some of them displaying expressions of rage. Whatever Frisson had convinced them of, they must be holding it close to their hearts.

  A similar kind of rage began to build inside Rollins, but not directed toward the tribe.

  Directed toward Frisson.

  This man, wherever he was, had exploited their belief system. Whatever he’d told them had captured their undivided attention, which probably meant they would do anything for him.

  Like slaughter Sam Rollins.

  Two of the scouts hauled him to his feet and directed him up the hillside. Anthony followed in their wake, barking commands in the native Arawakan language at surrounding members of the village. They shrank back in response, but a few hurled insults at Rollins nonetheless. He stared straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with any of them.

  He hoped he could learn what Frisson was doing before the tribespeople killed him. If Frisson truly had convinced them he was a shaman, there was almost no limit to his capabilities.

  He could get them to do anything…

  Like sacrifice themselves for the supposed cause.

  That thought speared through Rollins as they carted him up the hillside, finally depositing him at the foot of a vast wooden structure at the apex of the slope. Rollins looked back and saw a sea of green canopy rolling into the horizon. From here they had a view over the entire surrounding rainforest — Rollins had seen the sight many times before, but now it had a certain tinge to it, ruining the picturesque scenery.

  Now, it only served to remind him how far from civilisation he truly was.

  This was their world.

  Then Anthony sat him down on the open wooden floor plan, offering him an unparalleled view over the Peruvian rainforest.

  ‘Think closely about what you say next,’ he said, and extracted a glass vial from underneath his long cotton robe.

  12

  Rollins went pale.

  He knew what the vial signified. Over the course of his time in the village he’d partaken in a couple of ayahuasca ceremonies, ingesting the powerful hallucinogen along with the villagers. It came in corked glass vials and had sent Rollins into a tailspin of horrifying intensity, warping his mind and giving him visions of an alternate dimension. He’d forced the memories down, given their intensity, but now everything came racing back in all its horror.

  They were going to force feed him ayahuasca, one of the most powerful hallucinogens known to man.

  Then Rollins scrutinised the vial itself, and realised this was something even more terrifying.

  Ayahuasca was a hue of red, but this liquid was brown. Anthony bent down and waved it in front of Rollins’ face.

  ‘Recognise this?’ he said.

  The two scouts — Rollins didn’t know where the third had wandered off to — took up position by the entrance to the communal hall, preventing any of the villagers from entering in a mad haze to seek vengeance on Rollins. The meeting hall was nothing but a broad wooden rectangle with one wall missing, forming an open-air viewing port of sorts. Anthony dragged Rollins to the edge of the viewing platform, and sat down alongside him.

  Now separated from Anthony by less than a foot of space, Rollins squirmed in place. He sat cross-legged, arms pinned behind his back, staring out over the rainforest. There was a strange calmness in the air — it certainly didn’t feel like Rollins was about to plead for his life.

  He regretted ever coming back.

  What were you expecting would happen?

  ‘You know what this is?’ Anthony said, gesturing to the vial and rewording his initial enquiry.

  ‘Ayahuasca?’ Rollins said, even though he knew it wasn’t.

  ‘Not quite. There’s some of that in there, to be sure. But this is some darker concoction. Tastes like rotten juice, I’m told. It’ll kill you, but before it does it’ll send you down a path you don’t want to eve
n think about. Do you know what I’m talking about?’

  Rollins nodded, suddenly cold and sweating. He’d participated in the initial ayahuasca ceremony as an initiation ritual of sorts, and for brief intervals during the trip he’d sunk into a negative thought spiral. All the demons from his past had come to the surface and battered him relentlessly, something he never wanted to dwell on for the rest of his life.

  He imagined that horrifying hallucination amplified tenfold, and then pictured the crippling agony as he succumbed to the concoction.

  It was nothing but an ordinary glass vial full of dark liquid, but it proved the biggest threat to Rollins’ mental strength since his career had begun.

  He could handle having a gun pressed to his head.

  He couldn’t handle the threat of his mind being ripped apart.

  There were too many monsters inside his head that he had no intention of grappling with.

  ‘I know what you’re talking about,’ he said.

  ‘Keep that in mind when you talk to me,’ Anthony said. ‘Because unless it’s what I want to hear, I’ll be pouring this down your throat.’

  ‘Got it.’

  Rollins didn’t say anything more than he needed to, suddenly horrified that he might slip up. He realised that everything in his life had been preparing him for this moment — the threat of primal hallucinations before a grisly death was something a lesser man wouldn’t have been able to handle.

  ‘So talk,’ Anthony said.

  Rollins quickly realised he couldn’t try to convince them of Bradley Frisson’s guilt. Whatever lies the man had spun were embedded deep in the tribe’s beliefs, and trying to turn them against Frisson in such a short space of time would prove too difficult.

  Rollins needed to simplify things.

  Take it one step at a time.

  Concentrate on the most important component first, then handle the rest.

  One step at a time, he reminded himself, then launched into his defence.

  ‘I’m not who Frisson tells you I am,’ he said.