Amazon Burning (A James Acton Thriller, #10) (10 page)

Then
present her to his tribe as his intended mate.

Laura had decided escape was pointless and that cooperation would be
the order of the day. So far her captor, Tuk, had given no indication that he
was aware she was marking their trail, and seemed perfectly content to lead her
toward wherever they were going, frequently exchanging smiles with her,
animatedly talking about their surroundings from time to time. If she didn’t
know better, it was as if he were out for a brisk walk with a friend.

The more
time they spent together the less she thought this was a counting coup situation.
He didn’t seem to be full of bravado at what he had done, and her impression of
him suggested bravado wasn’t even in his nature. She was convinced he had
self-esteem and self-confidence issues, his sometimes shy glances at her when
he thought she wasn’t looking and his habit of trying to make himself appear
bigger when she was, suggesting he felt diminutive in her eyes.

She was
not a tall woman, but not short either. However at five foot eight, she was
definitely a few inches taller than Tuk, and her posture, always considered
excellent, had her taking full advantage of all sixty-eight inches—none lost to
a slouch. Tack on some heels and she began to approach James’ six foot two.

James!

She
wondered what had happened to him, wondered if he was okay. With hours of
daylight having passed, she had to assume that if there was some sort of rescue
operation being undertaken, it had begun already. But then again, the nearest
sign of civilization was five days by boat from where they were. They would
obviously go faster, but you could only go so fast without risking hitting
something in these mostly uncharted and ever changing waters, and nighttime
travel at high speed would be foolish.

It
would take at least three days.

And by
then Tuk might have her so far buried in the jungle, she’d never be found.

She dug
her heel in a little harder, determined to try and make it as easy as possible
to be found, despite how little faith she now had that she would ever see her
beloved James again.

A tear
rolled down her cheek and she turned her head away from Tuk so he wouldn’t see
it. The last thing she needed was him thinking she was missing her husband.

Jealousy
could be a cruel master.

James Acton’s wrists and ankles screamed for mercy, the bindings
biting into his skin, tearing it in places, and the elasticity the branch had
that made the journey a little more comfortable for those carrying him, made
each step an agony of yanking and shredding with each bounce.

At first
he was certain he was dinner, or a late night snack seeing as it was the middle
of the night when he had been captured, but when everyone had gone to sleep
except his guards, he had made it a point to get some rest himself. In the
morning he had been tied to the long branch he now hung from, and his agonizing
journey had begun.

He knew
quickly he had to create a mental wall between him and the pain, so he instead
focused on the details. His lead captor had a bag over his shoulder made from
animal skins that contained everything they had taken off of him when he was
captured. He knew he had to keep track of that bag, the phone it contained
possibly his only hope of survival. If he could just get a moment with his
hands in the bag, he might be able to turn the phone on so it could be tracked.

But how
to get a moment?

Hanging
from the branch, carried like a piece of meat, didn’t seem to give much hope of
a moment alone with his phone.

One
thing that hadn’t occurred to him, at least initially, was that these men were
all wearing at least some clothing. Amazon tribes were known to wear usually
nothing unless they had been “shamed” into wearing pants by contact with the
outside world. Some wore loincloths not for modesty sake, but for convenience.
Sometimes you just didn’t want certain things hanging out when running through
the jungle or sitting on insect ridden ground. Shirts or tops of any type were
unheard of.

Yet one
of these men clearly was wearing shorts. Tommy Hilfiger’s by the looks of it.
Well worn, threadbare in fact, most likely acquired in a trade not so long ago.

And if
that were the case, then the tribe these men belonged to had been exposed to
Western culture, so would most likely not be cannibals—though that was
incredibly rare now in South America, and many believed it simply didn’t happen
anymore, at least amongst the exposed tribes. The untouched tribes, those that
had no contact whatsoever with the outside world, may still practice the eating
of human flesh, but for the moment, he was quite confident he was free from
that fate.

Would
they cook but not eat?

He felt
like he was on a spit, and he certainly wasn’t being treated like a guest. What
their intentions were he had no idea. Perhaps they intended to trade him for
something of value with other Westerners, or to another tribe. All he knew was
their intentions couldn’t be good, and the deeper they went into the forest,
the harder it would be for his friends to find
him
, let alone Laura.

But with
his constant view of the sun over their heads, caught through occasional breaks
in the canopy, it appeared to him like they were moving almost north-west,
which would take them toward the river if they kept going. This gave him hope.
The closer to the river, the better chance of Western contact, the better
chance of rescue or trade.

And less
chance of being dinner or tonight’s entertainment at the Thunderdome.

Two
men enter, one man leaves.

If that
were his fate, he’d do whatever it took to be that one man.

Because
if he died, Laura had almost no hope.

Something
smacked the back of his head, a rock or incredibly hard tree root. Whatever it
was had his eyes watering, wincing in pain as he felt a warm, trickling
sensation as blood began to flow. His heart started to slam into his chest, his
ears filling with the roar as his head began to throb. He calmed himself, his
thoughts of a concussion or worse beginning to wane when he heard what sounded
like a loud crowd of people then suddenly silence.

He must
have been mistaken, the rush of blood through his ears in his moment of panic
playing tricks on him.

“Jim!”

Heathrow Airport, London, England

Retired Lt. Colonel Cameron Leather, formerly of the British Special
Air Services, the country’s most elite of military soldiers, sat at his gate,
his flight for Brazil boarding in fifteen minutes. He was fortunate to have
been in Norwich visiting his mother when he had received the call from a
panicked Terrence Mitchell about his client’s latest fiasco.

There
never seemed to be a dull moment with Professor Laura Palmer or her new
husband, Professor James Acton. Though he himself had only been involved in one
of their skirmishes in Egypt, it had been bloody and good men were lost. He had
learned a lesson that day.

Never
underestimate the value put on some ancient discovery, especially when religion
is involved.

He had
doubled their detail at the Egyptian site immediately, along with the Peruvian
site that his company was now providing security for as well. After retiring
from the SAS he had quickly found it necessary to keep in the game. Private
security gigs kept coming up, men with his background in high demand. He
quickly realized that the middlemen were making the money off of his and the
other men’s backs, so he created his own firm, employing a bunch of his ex-SAS
buddies, many who had served under his command, and paid them a far bigger cut
than the other outfits were offering.

He was
the “go to” guy for post British Special Forces employment and now had a couple
of hundred men scattered around the world. He had staff he could trust in
London handling the business end—mostly wives of his men—leaving him free to
gallivant and do what he loved.

But
Professor Palmer was a special case.

She paid
a premium for
him
and a handpicked team. She wanted the best, and she
paid for it. A ridiculous sum every month, but it was what she wanted. And one
of those codicils to the standard contract was that whenever possible,
he
would be personally involved in any crisis situation.

And this
was definitely a crisis, though not one he had ever expected to have to deal
with.

A
mega-millionaire being taken hostage? Absolutely. He trained for that. Negotiation
techniques, forced retrievals, all standard stuff in his business.

But
rescue from a primitive native in the middle of the Amazon rainforest?

No, he
hadn’t expected that.

He could
honestly say
this
was something new. They would be entering a possibly hostile
jungle environment, up against possibly one or more tribes that according to
his preliminary research could number anywhere from twenty to twenty-thousand
in number, and who knew the jungle like the back of their hand.

Not to
mention the massive territory.

About
the only good news would be that the only form of “rapid” transit would be by
water. There were no cars, roads or horses to contend with here, the primitive,
limited or noncontacted tribes never having been introduced to the beasts. This
meant, hopefully, a limited search radius.

Leather
and his small team were going in armed and well equipped, a “special” courier
already arranged to deliver their weapons at the rally point in Manaus. His
hope was that they could enlist the help of another tribe which from his
understanding was a possibility. With local support,
true
local support,
not government support that didn’t know the jungle, they might stand a chance
at finding the now
two
missing professors.

He
didn’t blame Professor Acton for going after his wife. He would have done the
same, but it did make his job more difficult. For one thing, they had no idea
if he was dead, injured or captured, and if captured, whether or not it was the
same people who had captured Laura.

His work
had doubled.

“Are we
too late?”

The
voice was familiar.

And
unexpected.

And
unwelcome.

Just
what I
don’t
need.

He stood
up and turned as Terrence Mitchell, his wife Jenny directly behind him, rushed
up, oversized carryon luggage flailing behind them. Leather forced a smile on
his face as the rest of his men sitting nearby hid their delight in his
discomfort, several of them having met the young and ridiculously awkward
Mitchell while rotating through the Egyptian dig.

“What
are you two doing here?” he asked as pleasantly as he could.

“We’re
going with you.” Mitchell was breathless. Leather knew it wasn’t from being out
of shape, the boy did the workouts and training with the rest of the students,
so they must have run through the entire airport.

And
just my bloody luck, arriving just in time.

“Out of
the question.”

Mitchell
and Jenny seemed taken aback by his rather abrupt response. “Why not?” demanded
Mitchell’s new wife, still shiny and happy in the post-wedding glow, years of
bitter reality yet to destroy her hope in the future.

Bitter
much?

His own
wedding had ended in disaster, Annie a big city girl marrying the dashing
soldier, getting posted to small towns in Britain and equally small towns in
foreign countries, not matching the cosmopolitan lifestyle she had planned for
herself. And when he had made the Special Air Services and began to deploy on a
moment’s notice without being able to tell her anything, she had snapped.

Apparently
it was quite the scene on their lawn after he had left.

It was
his umpteenth deployment on a special op to Iraq that had finally done her in.
When he came home she was gone. She had left a note telling him to sod off and
never contact her, then cleaned him out of everything she had some sort of
attachment to. Everything from the furniture to the pictures on the walls.
Christ, she had even taken the wood toilet seats from the toilets, leaving the
original plastic ones behind.

That was
when he realized that there had never been any hope.

What
kind of sick bitch takes the toilet seats!?

He looked
at the two young, energetic and still filled with hope youngsters in front of
him, wondering if his past was their future, and hoped not.

The
wife of a military man isn’t for everyone.

He had
since spoken to his wife, many times in fact, the breakup years ago. She had
remarried—some doctor in London—and was the fashionable woman she had always
wanted to be. How she had ever thought she’d have that lifestyle shacking up
with a soldier he’d never know.