A Touch of Malice (23 page)

Ten yards.

Nick was light-headed. The blood was coursing through his veins, but none of it was going where he needed it.

The puma lowered his head and stretched out his front paws.

While Nick strangled his knife, ready to confront the predator, the animal moved in a circuitous route around the two agents, watching them through the corner of his eye. Nick stayed perfectly still and waited.

And waited.

The puma lurked around them as if deciding whether the conflict was worth its precious time.

Nick’s breath came and went in short bursts.

Finally the puma gave once quick snort then scurried away into the wilderness. Nick collapsed onto the back of a tree.

Matt had watched the entire scene with his pistol trained on the animal. “You okay?” he whispered.

“I’ll be fine.”

Matt twisted back to his stomach and returned his attention to his rifle and his scope. “Good. Then quit playing with that cat now, because it’s getting busy up here.”

Chapter 28

“You can stop faking now,” Tommy heard Anthony say as the elevator slowly descended toward the garage.

Tommy opened his eyes and got to his feet. He wiped a handful of gooey liquid from the front of his shirt and stared at his red hand. “What is this stuff?”

“Mostly corn syrup and red food coloring,” Anthony said, as he stabbed his knife into the palm of his open hand and showed Tommy the retractable plastic blade. “It’s from a Halloween costume I just bought. The fake blood packet ruptures on impact.”

Tommy’s knees were still shaky from his near death experience. He tried to piece together the scene but came up empty. “Who are you?”

“Anthony Robson. I’m Carl Pavone’s brother-in-law.”

The puzzle started forming a shape. He pointed a finger at Anthony. “You left Carl’s funeral business to work for Moreno.”

“More like, I was recruited,” Anthony said. “Moreno is a paranoid freak, so he picks random people off the street to work for him. He thinks that’ll avoid hiring people with an agenda. I didn’t have much of a choice.”

Tommy cocked his head. “So how—”

“Carl told me to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t get in too deep. When Moreno asked me to do a background check on you, I knew it was time to get you out.”

The elevator stopped.

“Now,” Anthony said. “I’m taking you to Carl’s shop and you’re getting as far away from here as possible.”

Tommy was still catching his breath when the elevator doors opened.

A man stood there with a rifle aimed at them.

* * *

Walt Jackson, Martin Riggs and Louis Dutton were huddled over Stevie Gilpin’s shoulder, staring at the image the Zephyr drone was sending them on Walt’s computer monitor. They could see Air Force One on the tarmac at the Bogota airport and the throng of reporters surrounding the airplane. The Marines appeared to have a built a strong perimeter.

“I can’t see shit,” grumbled Dutton.

“Sir,” Stevie said, “I get any lower the drone will be visible.”

“Who gives a shit?” Dutton asked. “It’s of no use if we can’t examine the landscape and see if there’s a threat anywhere.”

Stevie instinctively looked over at Riggs, who nodded. “Bring her down to two thousand feet,” Riggs said. “That should get us what we need.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Stevie said, maneuvering the mouse.

Walt’s office was beginning to look like a Starbucks with all the muffins and coffee cups strewn around the place. They’d been taking turns trying to rest, but it was getting too close now.

Walt went over to the counter with the boxes of unhealthy food and poured himself another cup of coffee. “General Henning is taking care of the security down there,” he said. “I doubt he’s going to miss anything.”

This seemed to resonate with Riggs who returned to his leather chair and placed his feet on the coffee table. “I feel rather useless.”

Walt glanced up at the large monitor on the wall displaying the satellite picture of the Amazon rainforest where a rescue mission was taking place. There was nothing to see but a cloudy image of treetops.

“Um . . . hey,” Stevie said. “This isn’t good.”

Walt hustled back with Riggs behind him. On the monitor, a motorcade of police cars and Hummers were driving single file down a long, narrow street. In the middle of this procession was the president’s black Cadillac SUV.

“What’s the problem?” Walt said.

Stevie pointed to a spot a mile in the front of the motorcade. “See where they’re headed?”

Walt found nothing alarming. Just a narrow winding path through the heavily wooded countryside. “What is it?”

Stevie pressed his finger up against the screen and moved it side-to-side. “Don’t you see? The road becomes invisible from the sky. It’s too dense.”

As he was speaking, the first vehicle in the caravan reached the tree line and disappeared under the overhanging trees. Stevie zoomed out the image and pointed to several main roads which would’ve been wider and easier to view from the drone’s perspective.

“See,” Stevie said. “They’re going out of their way to reduce our visual surveillance.”

Walt could see his point. Yet there were other explanations. “I get what you’re saying, but they’re probably avoiding the main arteries to reduce the security risk.”

“I agree,” Riggs said. “This was planned out before they drove away from the airport. Henning knows what he’s doing.”

“I don’t know,” Stevie said, sounding unconvinced. “Just look at these tributaries which branch off from this back road. It’s so dense, the vehicle could go miles without our ability to see it.”

Walt took a sip of his coffee and patted the young tech on the shoulder. “I think you’re going to have to switch to decaffeinated, pal. They’re not going to break away from the rest of the motorcade without dozens of Marines taking issue with it.”

“But . . . but . . .” Stevie examined the terrain closely, his finger following several intersecting dirt paths which barely made a dent in the overhead canopy. When the conversation didn’t progress any further, Stevie added, “Just for the record, I’m not on board with this route.”

Walt exchanged glances with Riggs who winked back to him. It was the first time the kid had the pressure of the president’s security on his plate and he was feeling the strain of responsibility weighing him down.

“We’ll document your concern,” Walt said. “Let’s keep an eye on him as best we can.”

* * *

Tommy stood in the elevator and stared at the man with the rifle, waiting to be shot.

“What are you doing?” Anthony said.

“I am supposed to help you with . . .” the man looked at Tommy with his bloody shirt and red-stained hands, “him?”

That word coming out as a question was all the doubt Tommy needed to hear. There would be no killing with that tone of voice. He grinned affably as he took a step out of the elevator and turned into the man, swinging his elbow into the guy’s sternum while pulling the rifle from his arms. He jabbed the butt of the rifle into the man’s nose, instantly creating a blotch of blood and more importantly, tearing up the guy’s eyes. For the next few seconds he would be incapacitated. Tommy took another swing with the rifle and hit the guy on the side of the head, putting him down to the ground, his head bouncing off the cement floor with a sickening thud, the sound of a watermelon hitting the street from a second-floor window.

Tommy stood there looking down at the guy. “Now what?”

Anthony bent down and grabbed the guy from under his armpits and began dragging him.

“Come on,” Anthony said, animated now. “We need to get rid of him.”

Tommy dropped the rifle and helped with the guy’s legs.

“No,” Anthony said. “Bring the rifle. We need to clean this up. Then get you out of here.”

Tommy did as he said, pulling the guy along the ground with the rifle under his arm.

“Where are we going?” Tommy asked.

Anthony tugged the dead weight along the floor. “First we’re going to bury him in the woods, then we’re going to leave here as quickly as possible. Neither one of us can ever be seen in South America ever again. And even that might not be enough to save our lives.”

“You lead the way, chief,” Tommy said. “I wasn’t all that impressed with the hospitality here to begin with.”

Chapter 29

The jungle was eerily quiet. There was nothing but the steady sound of raindrops pricking the treetops and a few chatty birds. Nick was scouring the landscape from above a fallen tree. Matt was next to him, on his stomach, peering under the same tree trunk from the nest he’d built. He was permanently attached to his rifle. The three SEALs were to their left, playing point, crawling up the hill. Kalinikov was to their right, low and ready.

Olson whispered in their headsets, “We have movement on the ridge.”

“How many?” Nick asked.

There was a pause. “Thirty . . . maybe forty.”

“Good,” Matt responded. “That’s better than fifty.”

“Stay tight,” Olson said. “Wait until we take the first shot. We’ll draw their attention, then you can flank their left.”

“Yes,” replied Kalinikov. “Agreed.”

“No,” Nick said. “You can’t take on forty soldiers by yourself for any length of time. It’s suicide.”

There was nothing but a quiet hum over the headsets. Finally, Olson said, “I thought that’s what this was—a suicide mission?”

“Not yet, it isn’t,” Nick said.

“All right, then,” Kalinikov responded. “Let Matt take the first shots. He can remove the most targets, the quickest.”

“We’d better hurry,” Olson said. “They’re beginning to surround us.”

Matt never needed much encouragement to fire his weapon. The gunfire began with a series of automatic weapons spreading across the theater; leaves and vines were splintering off and splattering up like confetti.

Nick fired his rifle at the designated targets, working left to right. He received several close calls, tree bark flicked into his face as he tried to ignore the obvious danger. The firefight threw the jungle into a frenzy of blasts and ricochets. Nick would empty his magazine, then duck behind the tree and wait for incoming fire to spot the muzzle flash. A method Matt had taught him. Follow the muzzle flash to find your target. The second time he tried this, he realized something. The enemy had built a barrier of protection. They were low inside bunkers dug out of logs and man-made cement walls. They’d been prepared for this type of an attack for a while. Only they thought it would be the FARC coming to attack their Amazon facility, not a small group of hostage rescue agents.

Matt rolled to his right behind another tree and reloaded. Nick was curled up behind his tree when he heard the whistle heading their way. He didn’t need to see the RPG to know he had less than a second to get cover. The grenade exploded at the exact spot where Matt had built his nest and left just seconds earlier. It didn’t stop the attack from being unfruitful, however. When Nick moved his arm from his face and looked up, he froze from terror.

Matt was down on the jungle floor, his rifle dead weight in his arms. He lay there completely exposed and incapacitated. Gunfire riddled the ground around Matt’s limp body. Nick scrambled to his partner and pulled him behind a tree while the gunshots rang in his ears. He felt one clip his foot and saw the tip of his shoe gone. The pain not overcoming the shock his body was enduring.

Nick cradled Matt in his arms, not knowing whether he was dead or alive. Nick’s heart thumped against his chest wall as gunshots whipped past his head, shards of tree bark sprayed around them like snow flurries. Nick held his partner tight, wishing he could’ve tried another strategy before succumbing to this result.

The gunfire began to slow. Nick heard nothing over his headset and couldn’t tell if he was deaf from the explosions or whether he was now alone.

The gunfire slowed even further.

“Why aren’t they firing back?” came Olson’s voice over the headset.

Nick felt the Camenos were now gaining position and at any time would appear behind them, shooting at point-blank targets.

A few more shots were fired, but then the shooting ceased completely. The silence lingered; the hum of grenades and machine guns still rattled in Nick’s brain. He pressed his index finger against Matt’s neck and felt a pulse. Matt had been concussed by the RPG, so he was alive for the moment. And that’s probably what they had. Moments. Nick spent those last few seconds considering their options. They were outnumbered and lacking weaponry, so it was inevitable this would turn out the way it did, but he pulled the pistol from his holster and prepared to take as many Camenos as he could with him.

There was movement to his left. He expected to see a Cameno soldier approaching, but instead saw Anton Kalinikov rising from his nest, unarmed and walking directly into the center of the theatre. Nick wanted to scream for him to take cover, but something stopped him. Something about the expression on Kalinikov’s face caused him to remain silent and simply watch.

The Russian stepped through the center of the battlefield and slowly raised his arms over his head, palms up to the sky. Nick twisted his neck to see the ex-KGB soldier remain frozen in a permanent position of submission. It made no sense and Nick wondered if the PTSD medication was causing hallucinations. There was complete stillness in the rainforest. The sound of birds chirping became more prominent, as if they were surrounding the battlefield.

Nick felt Matt move. He looked down and saw his partner beginning to regain consciousness. He slapped Matt’s face with the back of his hand and when he tried a second time, Matt grabbed it, then quickly swiveled around onto his knees, his hands up and ready to attack. When he saw Nick smiling at him, he sat back on his haunches and took a breath. “What the fu—”

Nick put a finger to his mouth and pointed to the other side of the tree. In his headset, he heard Olson say, “You seeing this?”

Nick whispered, “Yeah.”

Kalinikov had settled down to his knees now and still there were no shots fired. Nick didn’t quite understand what was happening until the bird chirps became prominently closer and then he saw the trees begin to shake. Native Indians were climbing down from the trees with such dexterity, it appeared as if the tree limbs were simply dropping their leaves. They’d blended in so well with the environment, Nick couldn’t tell where the trees ended and the Indians began. They were naked but for the animal hide which covered their genitals and nothing more. They had black and dark green streaks of paint across their torso and macaw feather earrings.