Unrestricted Access: New and Classic Short Fiction

by James Rollins

  He’d heard enough.

  Stick to my side, he mouthed.

  He eased toward the edge of the crowd, towing Trask in his wake. Once there, Malone knew he had to incapacitate the four armed men as quickly as possible. There’d only be a few seconds of indecision. The men were finally gathered in a group. Seven rounds remained in his gun’s magazine. Not much room for error. He eyed an overturned table with a marble top that should offer decent cover. But he needed to be away from the civilians before the shooting started.

  He gripped Trask by the elbow and motioned to the table. “Go with me. On my mark.”

  He did a fast three count, then sprinted toward the table, swinging his gun into view—only to have the floor beneath his feet jolt, throwing him high. He flew past the table, crashing hard, losing his grip on the gun, which skittered across the floor out of reach. He rolled to see the front of the dining hall tear away, glass exploding, the walls splintering open.

  Dark jungle burst inside.

  Then he realized.

  The boat had hit shore and run aground.

  Everybody had been knocked off their feet, even the gunmen. He searched for Trask. The botanist had been tossed amid the assault team. Trask straightened up and even the blood gushing from a broken nose failed to hide his features. Surprised voices erupted from the four gunmen. Rifles were pointed and Trask lifted his arms in surrender.

  Malonee searched for the pistol, but it was gone.

  Trask glanced in his direction, the fear and plea plain in his face. The man’s thoughts clear. Help me. Or else. Malone shook his head and brought a finger to his lips, signaling silence, the hope being that the doctor would realize selling him out was not a good idea.

  One of them had to be free to act.

  Trask hesitated, was jerked to his feet, but said nothing.

  A parrot screamed across the ruins of the dining hall, cawing, seemingly voicing Malone’s frustration.

  And he could only stare as Trask and his captors vanished into the dark bower of the jungle.

  Gray stared across the ruins of the dining hall, studying the dark jungle beyond a gash in the walls. “So you lost him.”

  “Not much I could do,” Malone said, on his knees, searching amid a tumble of chairs and tossed tables. “Especially after the boat ran aground.”

  Trask’s cabin had come up empty. But Gray now knew that the doctor had the sample hidden on him. He’d also listened as Malone reported everything else Trask had said.

  Malone reached under a tablecloth and came up with a pistol he’d lost earlier. “Lot of good it does me now. What’s our next move?”

  “You don’t have to stay on this. You’re retired. Go back to your lady in Buenos Aires.”

  “I wish I could. But Stephanie Nelle would have my ass. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. I’ll try, though, not to get in the way.”

  He caught the sarcasm.

  So far, this brief partnership between Justice and Defense had proved fruitless. But with Trask captured by a guerrilla force, as much as Gray hated to admit it, he could use the help.

  Malone picked his way across the dining hall to the demolished wall of the ship. Gray watched as the former agent bent down and examined something. All the other passengers were gone, being off loaded to other boats.

  “Got a blood trail here.”

  He hustled over.

  “Has to be Trask,” Malone said. “He broke his nose when the ship crashed. It was bleeding badly.”

  “Then we follow it.”

  “I saw a patrol boat earlier. They could have offloaded him by river.”

  “I spotted that craft, too, from the cabin. But it took off shortly after we went aground. The attack, the fire, the crash . . . It’s drawn lots of river traffic.”

  “You think the ground team and the boat are planning a rendezvous farther along the Amazon? Where there are fewer eyes to see them?”

  “It makes sense. And that gives us a window of opportunity.”

  “A small one, which is shrinking fast.” Malone pointed to the drops of blood, scuffed by the boot of one of the guerrillas. “Once in the jungle, it’ll be hard to track in the dark.”

  “But they’re in a hurry,” Gray said. “Not expecting anyone to follow. And they’ll have to stay close to the riverbank, waiting for their ride. With four men and a prisoner in tow, they should leave an easy trail.”

  Which proved true.

  Minutes later, slogging across the muddy bank, Gray saw that it wasn’t difficult to spot where the guerrillas had pushed into the forest. He glanced back at the beached riverboat, its bulk angled in the river, the stern still billowing black smoke into the twilight sky. Other watercraft had now come to its rescue. Passengers were being ferried away as the fires aboard spread.

  He turned from the smoking ruins of the MV Fawcett.

  The boat had surely been named after the doomed British explorer, Percy Fawcett, who vanished in the Amazon searching for a mythical lost city. Gray faced the dense jungle, hoping the same fate didn’t await them.

  “Let’s go,” he said, leading the way.

  Less than ten feet into the dense vegetation the forest snuffed what little light remained. Night shrouded them. He limited any illumination to a single penlight, which he shone ahead, picking out boot prints in the muddy mulch and broken stems on the bushes. The trail was easy to track but hard to traverse. Every vine was armed with thorns. Branches hung low. Thickets were as convoluted as woven steel.

  They forged onward, moving as quietly as possible. A growing raucous of the night forest helped mask their advance. All around them were screams, buzzes, howls, and croaking. The shine of the tiny light also caught eyes staring back at them. Monkeys huddled in trees. Parrots nesting atop branches. A pair of larger pupils—like yellow marbles with black dots—glowed.

  Maybe a jaguar or a panther.

  Which wasn’t good.

  After forty minutes of careful advancing, Malone whispered, “To the left. Is that a fire?”

  Gray stopped and shaded his penlight with his palm. In the blackness, he spotted a flickering crimson glow through the trees.

  “They made camp?” Malone whispered.

  “Maybe waiting for full night before making a break for the river and their boat.”

  “If it’s them at all.”

  Only one way to find out.

  He flicked his flashlight off and continued toward the glow, noting that the path they were following led in that direction, too. Twenty minutes of careful prodding were needed to close the distance. They halted in a copse of vine-laden trees, which offered cover and a vantage point to spy upon the camp.

  Gray surveyed the clearing.

  Mud-and-thatch huts indicated a native village. He spotted a clutch of children and a handful of men and women, including a wizened elder who cradled an injured arm. All were held at gunpoint by one of the guerrillas from the boat. The campfire must have attracted their attention, too. He spotted Trask, on his knees, by the flames. One of the guerrillas leaned over him, clearly shouting, but the words could not be heard. Trask shook his head, then was backhanded for his stubbornness, sprawling the doctor to the ground. Another of the assailants came forward, balancing a small metal case on his open palm. His captors must have searched Trask and found the vials. The faint glow of LED lights could be seen on the case.

  “Locked with an electronic code,” Malone said.

  Gray agreed. “Which they’re trying to learn from Trask.”

  “And I can tell you, from our little conversation, he’s going to drive a hard bargain.”

  He counted the same four guerrillas, each heavily armed. The odds weren’t good. Two to one. And any firefight risked harming or killing the villagers.

  A new group appeared at the village’s western edge, filing out of a worn trail that likely led to the river.

  They numbered another six, along with a seventh who stood taller than the others and unwrapped the black cloth from his
face. A deep scar ran down his left cheek, splitting his chin. He barked out orders, which were instantly obey.

  This one was in charge.

  “That’s not good,” Malone said.

  No, it wasn’t. Two to one just became five to one.

  The newcomers were also heavily armed with assault rifles, grenade launchers, and shotguns.

  Gray realized the futility of their situation.

  But Malone seemed unaffected. “We can do this.”

  Malone watched as the assault force leader yanked Trask to his feet and pointed west, toward the river, where the boat was likely waiting.

  “We can’t let them get to the water,” he said. “Once they’ve cleared the village, we can use the jungle to our advantage.”

  “Guerrilla warfare against guerrillas.” Pierce shrugged. “I like it. They teach you that in law school?”

  “The navy.”

  Pierce smiled. “With any luck, maybe in the confusion we can grab Trask and the vials.”

  “I’ll settle for the vials.”

  Their targets left the village.

  They kept low, running parallel. Interesting how their quarry was making no effort to move quietly. Orders were barked in loud voices, the crunch of boots and snap of branches clearly announcing a retreat toward the river. The entourage moved as if in total command of their surroundings—which, in a sense, they were. This was home field for them. But that didn’t mean the visiting team couldn’t score a few points every once in awhile.

  They neared the village clearing and Malone noted two of the gunmen had remained behind, assault rifles still trained on villagers.

  A problem.

  It seemed the guerrillas intended to leave no witnesses behind. He caught Pierce’s attention, pantomimed what they should do, and received a nod of acknowledgment. They closed the last of the distance at a run, bursting into the clearing, appearing in an instant behind the two gunmen.

  A shot to the chest and Malone dropped one.

  Pierce killed the other.

  The pistol blasts were loud, echoing into the forest.

  Malone skidded on his knees and caught the assault rifle as his target collapsed. Pointing it toward the sky he strafed a fierce blast at the stars. He hoped the initial pistol shots accompanied by the rifle fire would be taken by the retreating guerrillas as the village’s bloody cleanup.

  Pierce motioned for the locals to stay calm and not spoil the ruse. The elder nodded, seeming to understand, and waved the others down, ensuring that mothers kept frightened children quiet, signaling the men to gather what they could in preparation to flee.

  Pierce holstered his SIG Sauer and gripped one of the guerrilla’s rifle. Malone followed that example. He spotted a grenade launcher resting on the ground near one of the bodies. He considered taking it, too, but it would likely only burden him in the confines of the jungle. The rifle and his pistol would have to do.

  They fled toward the trail taken by the guerrillas.

  Thirty yards in the shadowy form of a guerrilla blocked their path. Someone must have been sent back to make sure the village was secure. Before they could react, the man opened fire, shredding leaves and sending them diving into the vegetation.

  Malone rolled behind the bole of a tree and twisted in time to see the muzzle flash of Pierce’s returned fire.

  Not bad. Fast response.

  The guerrilla was thrown backward, his chest blown out as bullets bit into flesh.

  The body thudded to the ground.

  “Keep going,” Pierce said. “Let’s try to stay on their flanks.”

  Malone bit back a groan of complaint from his sore knees. Jungle warfare was definitely a younger man’s game.

  But he could handle it.

  He plunged ahead.

  Gray kept track of Malone’s progress, matching the pace. What they needed was any boat waiting for the group to be out of commission. Unfortunately, they were a little shorthanded and would have to handle the situation once there.

  He continued through the forest, paralleling the path taken by the guerrilla force. He to one side of the trail, Malone to the other, out of sight. A slight wind coursed through the trees. Its direction appeared away from the river, inland. Shouts from ahead brought him to a stop. First in Portuguese, then English.

  “Show yourself, or I kill your man.”

  Gray edged forward and crouched low.

  A deadfall opened ahead, where one of the canopy trees had recently fallen tearing a hole in the forest. Starlight bathed the open wound, revealing the leader of the guerrillas. He held aloft the small steel case, its LED display still glowing. Another of the guerrillas nestled the muzzle of an assault rifle to the back of Trask’s skull. Gray cared nothing for the doctor’s life. Malone had shared what he’d learned as to how Trask had obtained his prize and at what cost. All that mattered was securing the toxin before it escaped to some foreign enemy’s manufacturing lab, where it could be mass-produced.

  “Come out now, or I kill him,” the leader shouted.

  From the edge of the deadfall, another pair of gunmen appeared.

  Only then did Gray realize his mistake.

  Your man.

  Prodded at gunpoint, a second prisoner was thrust into view, gagged, his face bloody.

  Malone.

  Malone kept his fingers folded atop his head. He’d been ambushed shortly after parting company with Pierce. A shadow had loomed behind him, clamping a hand over his mouth, an arm around his throat. Then a second figure slammed the butt of a rifle into his gut, dropping him to the ground. Dazed, he’d been gagged with one of their face scarves and thrust forward at gunpoint. He now stared out at the dark forest, willing Pierce not to show himself.

  Unfortunately his silent plea was not answered.

  Twenty yards away Pierce appeared, rifle high over his head, surrendering.

  One of his captors shoved Malone forward.

  Pierce caught his gaze as he staggered near and mouthed, Be ready to run.

  Gray stepped past Malone and shouted, “I surrender,” which gained the guerrilla leader’s full attention.

  He tossed the assault rifle away, twisting slightly. As expected, all eyes followed the weapon’s trajectory across the deadfall. He quickly dropped an arm to his waist, yanked out his SIG Sauer, and shot from the hip, taking out the two closest gunmen.

  Now for the real prize.

  He aimed at the leader and fired.

  Instead of a clean kill, the round pierced the man’s outstretched hand, smacking into the steel case, then penetrated the chest. A yellowish mist burst instantly outward, swamping those nearby. He remembered Malone’s relating the botanist’s warning. If even a single vial breaks, it’ll kill anything within a hundred yards.

  The cloud spread.

  Screaming began.

  He backpedaled as the breeze caught the cloud and blew it toward him. Malone, still gagged, didn’t have to be told twice and bolted for the trailhead. Gray turned to follow—only to see a figure emerge from the toxic cloud.

  Trask.

  His face appeared parboiled, eyes weeping and blind. Another few steps and a convulsion jackknifed through every muscle, throwing the body off balance and to the ground.

  Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.

  Gray turned and sprinted after Malone. The windblown danger rolled after him. He glanced back at the spreading devastation. Monkeys fell from tree limbs. Birds took flight only to cartwheel to the ground. Anything that crawled, slithered, or flew seemed to instantly succumb. He caught up with Malone and together they fled down the last of the trail and burst into the village clearing.

  Which unfortunately wasn’t empty.

  The locals were still there, having not yet evacuated. Children darted behind mothers’ legs, frightened by their sudden reappearance, thinking perhaps the guerrillas had returned. Matters weren’t helped by the fact that Malone was bloody and gagged. Gray drew to a halt and swung around to face the trail. Above the can
opy, a flurry of bats spun and darted, beginning their nightly forage for insects. Then they began to drop from the sky—at first, farther out, then closer.

  Death swept toward them, carried by the wind.

  He turned to the villagers and saw frightened faces. None of them, himself included, would ever be able to run fast enough to escape the cloud.

  His errant shot had doomed them all.

  Malone searched for their only hope, again skidding to his knees and snatching up the RPG launcher.

  A quick check confirmed the weapon was loaded.

  Thank god.

  “What are you doing?” Pierce yelled.

  No time to explain.

  He hoisted the tube to his shoulder, aimed for the trailhead, and fired. The weapon jolted against his face, spitting out smoke behind him. A grenade whistled in a tight arc then blasted down the throat of the trail.

  A fiery explosion lit the night.

  Trees erupted in a smoldering rain of limbs and leaves.

  Heat washed over him. Was it enough? Trask’s words echoed in his head. When it comes to this toxin, there is no cure, no decontamination. Except incineration.

  Malone tugged the gag free.

  Fire spread outward from the blast site. Flames danced high into the night. Smoke billowed upward, masking the stars, consuming all the air around it, which hopefully included the toxin. He held his breath, not that it would save him if the cloud reached here. Then, from the edge of the forest, a dark shape burst into view, a shred of a living shadow. A panther. Yellowed claws dug deep into the dirt. Dark eyes reflected the campfire’s glow. The big cat hissed, showing fangs—then burst to the side, diving back into the dark bower.

  Alive.

  A good omen.

  He waited another minute. Then another.

  Death never came.

  Pierce joined him, patting his shoulder. “Nice tag team on that one. And damn quick thinking, old man.”

  Malone lowered the weapon.

  “Who you callin’ old?”