“Nor I myself, apparently.” She frowned. “There’s been a development since we were last in contact.”
“What’s that?”
“Apparently some environmentalists have run into some trouble. They were captured by what two survivors are calling Special Ops types, possibly Chinese?” She looked at Leather. “Does that make any sense?”
“Where?”
“North of here, just across the Venezuelan border.”
“That’s where we figure you were found, just across the border, a couple of miles into Venezuelan territory,” said Leather.
“Did you have permission to cross the border as part of the search?” asked Acton.
Leather shook his head. “Negative. And I wouldn’t bother asking. In this part of the jungle, the chances of getting caught by the authorities crossing the border are slim to none. It’s a protected ecological zone that’s supposed to be left alone so the natives can go about their business. I figured if we needed to cross to get you, we just wouldn’t mention that in the report,” he said, winking at Acton with a smile that lasted only a moment. “What makes these environmentalists think it was Special Ops?”
“The way they were dressed,” answered Acton. “Head to toe black, faces covered, no markings.”
“Could be paramilitaries, Venezuelan police.”
“That’s what I was thinking as well.”
“And Chinese?”
Acton shoved aside some branches, holding them back for Laura. “That’s what the guy said. He said he heard them talking and it wasn’t Spanish or Portuguese, but sounded Chinese.”
“That could mean anything. There’s dozens of languages that sound Chinese. Hell, most people can’t tell the difference between Chinese, Japanese and Korean. Can’t tell the people apart either. But Chinese is probably the correct guess.”
Acton was surprised at Leather’s conclusion. “Why?”
“Venezuela is one step away from being a full-on communist state, China is communist, Venezuela hates America, China loves pretty much anyone the West doesn’t. There’s lots of business ventures between China and Venezuela. If I remember my briefing notes on the region correctly, China is Venezuela’s second largest trading partner, and Venezuela is China’s go-to country for Latin American investment. They are very tight. Makes me wonder why you Yanks would rather buy your oil from them than Canada.”
Acton shrugged as Laura shook her head. “But Chinese Special Ops? What could they possibly be doing in the middle of the Amazon Rainforest?”
“No idea, but they probably weren’t Special Ops, just advisors. China has military all over the world but call them ‘advisors’,” said Leather adding air quotes. “We do the same, so do the Americans. It’s pretty standard practice. They could be providing security for something in the region, picked up the environmentalists on a security sweep.”
Acton didn’t like the sounds of this, the PAN environmentalists’ story sounding more and more plausible. “Would they shoot first, ask questions later?”
Leather nodded. “Absolutely. They don’t operate under the same Rules of Engagement as Western troops typically do. If whatever they’re protecting is important enough, they’d kill without hesitation.”
“So the captured environmentalists?” asked Laura, her voice telling Acton she didn’t want to have the answer she already knew confirmed.
“Are most likely dead.”
It was said with the certainty of experience, and was the same conclusion Acton had come to as well. He just hated to hear his pessimistic side confirmed.
“And an excursion to confirm that?”
Leather looked him directly in the eye. “Strongly discouraged. We are a small team, already down one man, designed to rescue two missing persons, one the hostage of a primitive tribe, not take on possible Chinese Special Forces. I recommend we stick to the plan—get to the village, evac by boat, tell the authorities. Let them investigate.”
Acton was in full agreement, but he could tell Laura wasn’t. “But what if it’s true about this illegal logging operation. It could destroy the entire ecosystem here, or worse, destroy a way of life for the indigenous people.”
“Which is why I think we should leave it to the authorities. They’re trained for this, they have the diplomatic ties.”
Laura frowned, the reply evidently still not sitting well, but she said nothing. Acton instead responded. “Then that’s what we’ll do, leave it to the Brazilians to sort out with the Venezuelans. Let’s just get our asses on that boat and out of here.”
Tuk sprinted through the last of the trees before the clearing containing the Cleansing Pit. The screams and terrifyingly alien sounds of the Panther People and their mighty beasts were long gone. He had bypassed TikTik’s village fearing they might delay him from reaching the one person who might be able to help.
Lau-ra-pal-mer.
The Woman of Light would know what to do. She would know how to fight the Panther People, to stop them in their wanton destruction. His fear was he’d be too late. They had already killed Bruk and TikTik. Would they kill the others, or take them captive, forcing them into slavery to serve their cause.
He had heard of other tribes taking people as slaves to work their fields, but it was rare and he had never met anyone firsthand who had seen it. He could understand the appeal of slavery—if someone else was forced to do the work, it left you free to pursue other useful activities that might benefit the community, or simply be able to rest from time-to-time.
It was the entire idea of forcing someone against their will to do it. That he couldn’t understand. Why anyone would think they had the right to force someone else to do work was beyond him. Which made the entire concept of slavery unpalatable to him, and he was determined that his family and friends would not suffer long in that role should that be the intention of the Panther People.
The past few harvests his village had been forced to get help from TikTik’s village due to their shortage of manpower. In exchange those that helped got a share of what they harvested. That seemed to Tuk to be the right way of doing things. Fair compensation for work well done.
Everyone won.
But for the Panther People to come and raid villages to steal people to work as slaves? Completely unacceptable.
But he prayed that was exactly what was happening.
For if it weren’t, the alternative meant death.
He burst into the clearing and fell to his knees as he reached the edge. Looking over his heart sank as he felt his ears pound and the world begin to lose focus.
The pit was empty.
The Woman of Light was gone.
And his village was doomed.
He double-checked, not believing his eyes, then realized how obvious the answer was.
How stupid can you be?
She was a Spirit Person, and though she had led him to believe she had lost her powers, she obviously hadn’t. When he had left her she must have simply left the pit, perhaps floating out like a feather caught on the wind. Which also meant she had either not understood the Cleansing Ritual she was partaking in, or worse, had decided not to partake.
Either way, she wasn’t here and all hope was lost for his village.
He sat back on the cool grass of the clearing and began to sob as he thought of his mother, condemned her remaining life to serve the Panther People as their slave, left to wonder what had become of her son.
Her cowardly, weak son.
I’m not a coward!
He slammed his fists into the ground then pushed himself to his feet, wiping his tears of self-pity off his face.
I am not a coward!
He looked about the clearing then at the ground. He smiled. There were tracks everywhere, not just Lau-ra’s but several others as well, including two with curious markings from the strange leathers they wore over their feet like Lau-ra did.
Which meant the Spirit People had rescued her.
They are indeed powerful!
; He examined the relatively fresh tracks and noticed they led out of the clearing and back toward the river. He set out after her, determined to retrieve what was willfully given to him.
And to convince her to help his village.
For without her, he feared all were doomed.
Amazonas Detachment, Delegacias de Polícia Federal
40 Av. Domingos Jorge Velho, Manaus, Brazil
The phrase ‘arrest everyone and sort it out at the station’ may not have seemed like a bad idea to Terrence Mitchell yesterday when he was safely within the borders of the British Empire, but today he was not, and the practice was not sitting well with him. In fact he was terrified, his cramped cell filled to the brim with drunks and general malcontents, including Bob Turnbull, the man who had attacked him.
And worst of all he had no clue where Jenny was.
When the police had burst into their hotel room part of him had felt relieved. Turnbull would be arrested and the decision on whether or not to trust him taken away. But that’s not what had happened. Instead, after a large amount of screaming and yelling, they were all handcuffed and taken away, not a word of English spoken by the police.
Jenny had been separated from them, kicking and screaming, when they arrived, and he had already vomited once, much to the annoyance of his cellmates, thinking of what might be happening to her. Having grown up on a steady feed of the bullshit 24-hour news cycle, he had heard horror stories of gang rapes by police officers in the third world, Mexico specifically coming to mind.
How different would it be down here in the middle of the jungle?
He clung to the bars of the cell, determined to not be dragged out of sight of the cop sitting at a desk just down the hall. He had lost track of Turnbull and at this point, frankly, didn’t give a damn what happened to him. His only thoughts were of self-preservation so he could find Jenny. He had begged the guards for a phone call, for someone to call the British Embassy. All it had earned him was a rap on the knuckles and several games of grab ass from some of the inmates interested in sampling “Carne Britânica”—what that meant he was terrified to know—until some shouts from the guard settled them down.
He now sat on the floor, his right arm hooked through the bars, his left hand loosely locking it in place, his head resting against the cool steel, his feet curled up under him in a pile of his own vomit. He couldn’t believe how quickly he had degenerated to vermin. His clothes had been torn apart during the arrest, his valuables including watch, wallet, phone and wedding band stripped from him when he arrived, then his shoes and belt, along with his pants, were stolen within seconds of being shoved into the cell.
The welcome beating hadn’t helped, and he was sure the ribs bruised by the police batons were now at least cracked, it hurting with every breath taken. His sobs had at least subsided, he realizing it only brought more misery in the form of taunts or the occasional kick.
Now he was silent, broken and ashamed.
He prayed for rescue, but deep down he just wanted to die, the prospect of anyone he knew seeing him like this too humiliating.
“Bob Turnbull?”
The voice was American, questioning, and directly in front of him. He looked up, the man looking down at him. “Help me.”
“That’s why I’m here,” replied the man, smiling as he knelt down. “My name is Rick Henderson; I was sent by PAN from Rio. Sorry it took so long but arranging a flight out here isn’t the easiest of things. First we have to get you out of here though. I’ve posted bail and they assure me it will only be a few minutes.”
“Did you say ‘Bob Turnbull’?”
Mitchell didn’t bother looking over his shoulder to see who had asked the question, he recognized the voice.
“Yes. And you are?” Henderson rose.
“Bob Turnbull.”
Henderson looked down at Mitchell. “I thought you were Bob Mitchell.”
“No, I am.”
Mitchell looked up. “Please, help me. My wife. At least help my wife.”
A guard shouted something and everyone moved back, Henderson stepping aside. Keys were produced and the cell unlocked, the gate swinging aside. Turnbull walked out and the gate was slammed shut and locked. He and Henderson followed the guard.
“What kind of human being are you?” cried Mitchell. “I’m in here because of you! My wife is in here because of you!” He pulled himself to his feet, his hands still gripping the bars as he shoved his face through as far as he could, not making it quite to the ears. Looking sideway down the hall, he continued shouting. “You attacked me! You tried to kill me! Tell him that! You have to help us! You can’t leave us here!”
Henderson looked back, pausing, saying something to Turnbull, a quick conversation in whispers occurring before they resumed.
Mitchell’s chest tightened and he felt his world begin to close in around him as a panic attack began, the only glimmer of hope he had seen since arriving about to disappear through the door now held open for the two Americans. “We’re the only ones who can help you!” he cried as he collapsed to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, not caring what happened to him anymore as the taunting already began.
“You should have helped me last night when I begged you!”
Mitchell yanked himself to his knees, pushing his head through again. “So this is revenge? Revenge because we said we’d help you, but couldn’t send our rescue team across the goddamned border? You call yourself an environmentalist but you’re not. You hate humanity. You’re probably one of those nutters who belongs to the Voluntary Human Extinction Movement. What were you really doing in the forest? Were you spying on illegal loggers like you claim or were you actually there to sabotage their equipment and spike the trees so people would get hurt or killed? Are you one of those barmy bastards that think the life of a tree is worth more than the life of a human? If you leave us here, especially Jenny, then you’re no better than the scum you say captured your team and tried to kill you!”
It took a few minutes for Mitchell to realize he was screaming at an empty hall, Turnbull and Henderson having left. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off, but it grabbed him again, this time hard, and yanked him away from the bars. Suddenly he found himself in the midst of a crowd of men, pawing at him, grabbing at him, and as he tried to protect himself, lowering his head and covering it with his hands, they continued to tug at him.
He was shoved to his knees and a man positioned himself in front of him, dropping his pants.
And Mitchell made a decision.
He would die with dignity.
His hand darted forward and grabbed the man’s testicles. Squeezing as hard as he could, he yanked back quickly as the man screamed. He didn’t have time to look at the end result as he tossed whatever was in his hand aside, turning his attention to the next nearest attacker. He drove his fist up hard into the man’s groin, then grabbed the first wrist he could see, bending it forward rapidly while applying intense pressure to the top of the hand, causing the man to drop to his knees in agony. Mitchell’s left thumb plunged into the man’s eye, shoving hard until he felt the eyeball collapse.
Today everyone dies.
The horror he had caused had most of the men backing off. Mitchell jumped to his feet, grabbing the nearest one by the arm and yanking him toward him, spinning him so the man’s back was facing him. He wrapped his elbow around the man’s neck and locked it in place with his other arm, then squeezed, pushing his would-be rapist’s knees out from under him. With one push on the back of the man’s neck, it snapped. He tossed the body aside, his breathing heavy, his chest heaving as he gasped for air, his eyes surveying the circle of men around him, none within reach at the moment.
He lunged toward one man and the entire crowd scurried back several feet, nobody daring approach the crazed Brit. One was dead, another partially blinded, and still another writhing on the floor, gripping himself where his scrotum used to be.
He was now the alpha male.
He st
ood up straight, taller than most in the room, and pointed a finger, it slowly singling each out.
“Touch me again, say a word to me again, and I’ll kill you. Is that understood?”
The entire room that a moment ago didn’t speak English, nodded in terror. He pointed at the men in front of the bars and motioned for them to get out of the way. They scurried to the sides like cockroaches revealed by a light, and he returned to the bars, draping his hands through the metal and resting.
Someone came up from behind him.
He spun around in a defensive stance drilled into him by Leather and his men to find an old man carrying a stool.
“For you, senhor.”
Mitchell nodded and allowed the man to place the stool near the bars for him, then sat down, relaxing for the first time since he had arrived. As his thoughts began to clear, he glanced over at his handiwork and couldn’t believe what he had done. Leather’s training had paid off, and the words of one of his men echoed through his head.
When it’s life or death, there are no rules. You do whatever it takes to survive.
“Terrence!”
He spun, jumping to his feet and knocking the stool over as he saw Jenny running down the hall, the American lawyer Henderson behind her with a smiling Turnbull. As soon as she came within sight of the inmates a few whistles erupted. Mitchell spun around, glaring at the men who quickly dropped their heads, all suddenly quiet and looking for their missing contact lenses.
“Terrence, love, are you okay?”
He lunged through the bars, grabbing her, not sure if she was real, not sure if any of this were real. As his heart pounded in his chest, the rush of blood roaring through his ears, he barely heard the sound of the gate being unlocked and the bars swinging open. He collapsed into Jenny’s arms, sobbing as a group of policemen advanced into the cell, batons at the ready as they removed the dead and injured.
“Is it over?” he finally asked, looking Jenny in the face, her cheeks smeared with dirt and grime, her own ordeal apparently not easy. “Did they hurt you?”
Amazon Burning (A James Acton Thriller, #10) Page 15
