sack, she heard the voice of her guide, the little weasel, and tried to decipher the Spanish mixed with another Quechua.
But she grabbed one word from it. Rescate.
Ransom.
Oh, who were they kidding? No one knew she was here, and there sure as hell wasn’t anyone who could pay a ransom. She was about to say so, then caught herself. If she was worthless to them, she’d be killed. Heavy hands forced her to a spot under a tree, the relief from the sun instant and welcome. She swore there were bugs flying around inside the sack on her head, yet their voices seemed closer and she realized there were buildings nearby. Then the distinct odor of rotting vegetation, sweat, and booze floated on the air. I take it back, I don’t want to live here.
In the back of her mind, she chanted, Don’t panic, an opportunity for escape will present itself. She just hoped her escape didn’t include white lights and crossing over to another plane of existence.
An engine rumbled, racing nearer, and she flinched at the skid of pebbles and dirt. A door slammed and a new voice broke past the noise, the command in his tone clear and thundering. Her high school Spanish stank, but he wanted to know who hired him. Him being her guide.
“No one, I swear.”
Then she heard a scream and something hit the ground near her. She felt the scatter of dirt and air on her legs. For a moment, she thought Fuad was dead. Then he begged for his life. She tipped her head in an effort to pinpoint voices. The mental picture she had wasn’t pretty, and through a thin spot in the hood, she glimpsed Fuad.
About two seconds before his brains exploded out his temple.
Clancy dropped to the ground as people shouted. Gunfire barked through the air and she didn’t have time to think of the ugly sound that bullet made leaving his skull, or the dampness on her arm. She rolled to her back and arched, working her bound hands under her butt, behind her knees, then her feet. Men fired toward the mountains as she worked her bound hands over her boots. She yanked the hood off and her gaze filled with Fuad’s face, his blank eyes staring back at her. Biting back a scream, she looked away and, using her teeth, loosened the thin nylon rope. Her palm cramped from bending her hand to reach the ties at her wrist, but it slipped slowly. Then she was on her feet and running.
She plowed into the forest, leaving everything she had behind and only thinking of escape. Sticking around would get her dead and she really loved living. She swatted at vines, pushing faster. She was accustomed to the pace, not the heat and thin air. Her breathing strained, her head swam. I feel tanked.
Then a figure stepped out in front of her and she stumbled back, falling on her rear. She looked up. With bushy dark hair and nearly jet-black eyes, he aimed at her head.
“Just why are you in my jungle, senorita?” He pulled back the hammer.
“I’m a tourist, for heaven’s sake.”
He drew a leather billfold from his shirt pocket and flipped it open. “And I am the police.”
Clancy thought, Saved.
An hour later, she was wishing she’d stayed on the cruise ship.
Two days later
Near Guaranguillo, Ecuador
0500 hours Zulu
The freezing temperatures of a High Altitude Low Opening jump fell rapidly as he neared the ground. The land came screaming toward him at 120 mph before Mike deployed the chute, abruptly slowing his silent descent into the jungle.
Right into drug dealer heaven.
If anyone saw him, he’d be shot out of the sky.
As he dropped into the deep valley, the wind tore at his black jumpsuit, the fit tight to avoid sound, his body rapidly warming as hot air slowed him further. Through his night-vision visor, he saw lights from Guaranguillo near the mountain slopes. Below him was nothing but a black canvas and coming fast toward his face. It was a personal high. He didn’t get excited about many things, but jumping out of a speeding aircraft topped the list.
He aimed for the sweet spot, a small clearing that would be tough to hit without getting snagged in the dense trees. When his boots brushed the treetops, he pulled the suspension lines of the parachute close, bringing him straight down, rapidly.
His feet hit with a jolt that rattled his fillings, and he tucked and rolled, pulling the black chute with him. He spat out the oxygen mouthpiece, then unhooked his helmet, on one knee, weapon aimed.
He didn’t expect company. Switching the visor to thermal, he surveyed his surroundings, sweating inside the suit and layers of clothes. It showed him nothing but dense forest and a couple of monkeys.
Easy in, he thought. Entering the country under radar kept him invisible for now. That wouldn’t last long. His passport was stamped, just not in a customs office, but real enough that no one would question it. This was drug and gun-smuggling territory. People didn’t ask too many questions.
In the dark, he stripped off the jumpsuit, wrapping his jump gear in the chute, then dug a deep hole. Equipment buried, he positioned rocks and foliage over the pile, dusted his hands, then pulled out his GPS and marked the location. Three miles from the UAV’s last location. On a remote part of the border, he didn’t expect military checkpoints or patrols.
He shifted items in the pockets of his worn black cargo pants, then pulled a khaki shirt over his black T-shirt. His gear and ammo in an old Army surplus rucksack, he looked more like a digger than a Marine. Letting his hair grow made it itch around his ears, but he wasn’t Latin and stood out as it was. Mike didn’t want attention.
Though the monkeys were already screaming warnings to each other, he wanted to get in, do the job, find his men, and bring them home.
That they could be dead and buried didn’t enter his mind. Defeatist thinking didn’t win anything. He’d memorized the topographical terrain before leaving the U.S., but he knew it, two years’ worth of looking for a drug dealer and murderer was enough for anyone. Yet in the dark, he had to rely on the glowing GPS. Drawing his machete, he started walking. At over six thousand feet above sea level the air wasn’t any thinner than with a HALO jump. Even as dawn broke, the rain forest was wet, hot, and dark.
Mike hacked through undergrowth, listening for anyone else and hearing only the squawk of macaws and seeing white-faced monkeys hovering overhead as he worked his way toward the target.
The sun rose slowly. Giant kapok and rubber trees shadowed the Andean valley, the ground spread with a gray-white mist that wrapped the giant palms and curled toward the sky, where it hovered, hiding in the jungle canopy. The roots smothered the ground so much that his boots rarely touched the soil.
Mike ignored the sounds around him, the movement of creatures, the drop of nuts from trees. A small green iguana skittered, counting coup on him, then vanishing into the thicket. He remembered they tasted good roasted over an open fire. He checked his compass on his watch, advancing to the spot where the UAV was last recorded. As he neared the target, his gaze moved over the land, searching for broken branches, the path of descent.
There wasn’t any.
Even as he drew his pistol, Mike got a feeling in his gut, the one that never failed him, and warned that what he thought was out there—was wrong.
He
