Amazon Burning (A James Acton Thriller, #10) (20 page)

“Come!
Faster!” yelled Sandro, waving to them from about thirty feet ahead. Acton
waved and they followed, holding each other’s hand as they rushed toward
safety, either the heavily armed former SAS team, or the village itself.

Barasana Village on the Rio Negro, Northern Amazon, Brazil

Reading pulled the new arrival ashore with help from several of the
natives, Kinti at his side. The man flopped onto the ground, exhausted, and
simply tried to catch his breath as Reading checked him for wounds, finding
nothing beyond scrapes and bruises except for his shoulder which had been
bleeding profusely at some point.

“Is that
a bullet wound?”

The man
nodded.

“Who
shot you? Border patrol?”

The man
shook his head. “Some sort of Special Ops team. We stumbled upon them about a
week ago.”

Reading’s
eyes narrowed, the man’s statement not making any sense, and the fact he was
speaking perfect American accented English raising all kinds of red flags.
Drug
trafficker?
“What makes you think Special Ops?”

“Black
uniforms, faces covered completely, no identifiable markings.”

“Brazilian?”

The man
shook his head as he was lifted onto a stretcher from the boat, wincing as they
did so. “We were in Venezuela when it happened.”

“What
were you doing there?”

They
were quickly on the boat, the stretcher set on top of a large table. The
wounded member of the security team, Michael Trent, was at the ready with the
med kit. He expertly cleaned the wound as the man continued to talk.

“We’re
part of an environmental group, Protect Amazonia Now. PAN, maybe you’ve heard
of us?”

Reading
shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”

“What’s
your name?” asked Trent, a question Reading hadn’t thought to ask for some
reason.

“Steve.
Steve Parker.”

“Okay,
Steve, this is going to hurt.”

Parker
nodded then cried out in pain as Trent dug into his shoulder with tweezers. A
few moments later the tweezers emerged, Trent triumphantly holding up the
bullet. He examined and cleaned the wound some more then gave Parker the thumbs
up.

“Looks
like there was no fragmentation and nothing major hit. I’ll patch you up, give
you a shot of antibiotics and you should be good to go. When we get back to
civilization though you’ll need to get that looked at properly.”

Parker
nodded, relief evident on his face. Trent proceeded with the bandaging as
Reading continued his interrogation.

“You
said you were part of an environmental group. What were you doing in
Venezuela.”

“We
heard reports of some illegal logging going on so we decided to check it out.
By treaty this entire region—Brazil, Venezuela, Colombia and Peru, are supposed
to be protected. There are estimated to be seventy-seven uncontacted tribes in
this area and illegal logging forces them out of their natural habitat and into
the traditional grounds of other tribes, and eventually us. Their entire way of
life can be destroyed, or worse, if they catch something as simple as the
common cold from us, an entire tribe could be wiped out.”

“Did you
find anything?”

Parker
shook his head. “No, we never had a chance. We were only a day into our hike
north when these guys came out of nowhere, guns raised. I managed to run away,
but got shot for my efforts. I don’t know what happened to the others.”

Reading
looked at Milton who had taken a seat nearby, the excitement having woken him.
He gave a “sounds fishy to me” type expression, to which Reading agreed.

Special
Ops protecting a logging operation?

It made
no sense.

Scratch
that. Not Special Ops. Assumed Special Ops.

That
made more sense. “They might have just been paramilitary, Venezuelan police.
These countries quite often hide the identity of their police to protect them
and their families.”

Parker
winced as Trent plunged a needle into his arm then pushed the plunger. “That’s
possible. I only saw them for a few seconds.”

“Did
they say anything?”

Parker
sat up, slowly rotating his shoulder, testing the bandage. “Thanks,” he said to
Trent, “that feels a lot better.”

Trent
pointed at the dressing. “Take it easy with that, it could open up if you’re
not careful and you’ve got an infection that might take a week or so to clear
up.”

Parker
nodded and stood up from the table he had been lying on then took a seat in one
of the chairs on the deck. As the area was cleaned up by the crew, Reading sat,
Kinti in his lap once again, this time her attention focused on the new arrival
rather than her lover, and Trent occupying the final chair.

One of
the crewmen came on deck with water and food for their new arrival, and as
Parker shoveled it into his mouth, he continued answering Reading’s questions
between bites. “It’s funny,” he said, swallowing a large bite. “I couldn’t
understand anything they were saying. That didn’t really surprise me though
since I don’t speak Portuguese or Venezuelan.” He paused. “What do they speak?
Spanish?”

Reading
shrugged. “I think so.”

“Yes,
Spanish,” confirmed Trent, obviously better versed on the region than Reading
was.

“Well, I
couldn’t understand them. I know enough Spanish though to know it wasn’t that,
but it didn’t sound like anything European either.”

Reading’s
eyebrows narrowed as he exchanged a glance with Milton. “What did it sound
like?”

“Well,”
began Parker as he took a swig of water then a big bite of thickly sliced bread
smeared generously in butter. He held up his finger as he chewed the oversized
helping and finally swallowed. “If I didn’t know better, and really I can’t be
certain, but if I didn’t know better it sounded like—” Suddenly he sucked in a
sudden gasp, his eyes bulging and Reading leaned forward concerned.

A belch
erupted, relief expressed on Parker’s face.

“Excuse
me,” he said, “ate a little too quickly. I haven’t eaten in days and the water
I’ve been drinking is probably questionable. Who knows what kind of diseases I
might have picked up.”

Reading
nodded impatiently. “You were saying, what did their language sound like?”

“Oh
yeah, well, if I didn’t know better, I’d say Chinese!”

Terrence Mitchel woke suddenly, the satellite phone vibrating on the
end table. It had been a late night, a very late night, and everyone, including
their guest Bob Turnbull, who had happily slept on a cot brought by the staff,
were still asleep. After waiting hours for a call that never came, Turnbull had
called his people in the United States, he apparently part of some
environmentalist group called Protect Amazonia Now, an organization he had
never heard of. He had heard only parts of the conversation, Turnbull making
the call on the balcony of their hotel room, almost as if he didn’t want to be
overheard.

And the
scraps he had overheard had him troubled.

The way Turnbull
had originally spoken it sounded like they were scientists cataloguing species,
at least that’s how Mitchell remembered the conversation, but the snippets
overheard in the phone call had him questioning his memory and Turnbull’s
original story. References to ‘mission’ and ‘failure’, words he wouldn’t have
used to describe a scientific expedition being attacked, floated in from the
balcony leaving he and his wife very nervous.

And what
Mitchell had learned over the year he and Jenny had been together was that when
she was nervous, she became confrontational, dealing with whatever was making
her nervous.

“I
thought you were a scientist?” she had asked when Turnbull reentered the room.

He
handed the phone back to Mitchell and sat down, Mitchell’s clothes fitting him
almost perfectly. “I am. Most of us are. I have a PhD in environmental studies
from Berkley. A lot of people don’t like environmentalists, especially down
here, so I thought it better to say we were on a scientific expedition
cataloguing species.”

“What
were you really doing?” Again it was Jenny with the balls.

“Trying
to prove that the Venezuelans were illegally logging. We heard some rumors over
the Net so a team of six of us came down to check it out.”

“Why not
go through the government?”

“Washington?
They’re part of the problem, not the solution, man. Once you get them involved,
you know there’ll be a cover up for sure. We couldn’t risk that. We wanted to
get direct evidence and show the world by exposing these bastards on the
Internet where they couldn’t deny it.”

“But you
were caught.”

“Yeah,
but not by loggers. These guys were paramilitary or something. Special Forces.
Head to toe gear, all black, like something out of Call of Duty, man!”

The rest
of the conversation had seemed truthful and had put them at ease slightly,
enough that they let him stay in their room overnight, he still clearly having
been through an ordeal.

The
phone vibrated again, demanding attention. Mitchell grabbed it as the rest of
the room stirred. “Hello?”

“Terrence,
is that you?”

He
immediately recognized the voice and jumped out of bed, thrilled. “Professor
Palmer! Is that really you?” He couldn’t believe his ears. Jenny jumped up on
her knees in the middle of the bed as Turnbull groggily awoke. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,
I’m fine now. James and some local natives found me, I’ll explain later. We’re
going to rendezvous with Leather’s team shortly, then try to make the boat
before nightfall. I just wanted you to know I’m okay.”

“That’s
fantastic news, mum.” Jenny waved at the phone, tears of relief flowing freely
down her cheeks. “Jenny sends her best.”

“Hugs
and kisses to her. I’m going to let you go now. Let the university and anyone
else you can think of know we’re okay. I’ll contact you when we reach the
boat.”

“Okay, mum.”

“Is that
your missing Doctor?” asked Turnbull, standing up.

Mitchell
nodded.

“The one
with the heavily armed security team coming to get her?”

Mitchell’s
eyes narrowed. “Yes. Why?”

“Ask her
if she saw or heard anything about my friends.”

Mitchell
frowned, thinking the poor woman had enough on her mind, but decided to ask
anyway. “Mum, did you happen to see or hear anything while you were out there,
specifically about a team of environmentalists being captured by a team of
Special Forces types?”

“Are you
joking, Terrence? You know you have to work on that sense of humor a little
more.”

“No,
mum, I’m not. It’s just that we met someone here who claims he and his friends
were attacked while they were trying to find some illegal logging operation. He
managed to get away but his friends didn’t.”

He heard
muffled talking then suddenly Professor Acton’s voice came on the line. “As a
matter of fact, I do know something about that,” began the professor to
Mitchell’s amazement, amazement which was apparently written across his face as
Turnbull jumped up, grabbing the phone from him and putting it on speaker.

“Please,
Professor, tell me everything you know.”

“Who’s
this?”

“This is
Bob Turnbull,” replied Mitchell. “He’s the environmentalist we ran into here.”

“Bob,
I’m Professor Acton. Do you know a Steve Parker?”

Turnbull’s
jaw dropped as his head bobbed. “Yes! He’s one of the team!”

“Well, I
just got a call from our boat. We have him. He’s okay. Have Terrence call the
boat after this call so you can talk to him.”

“That’s
fantastic, professor.” Turnbull paused for a moment. “I understand you have a
security team with you?”

“We will
be rendezvousing with them shortly.”

“Can you
please help us? Your team can rescue the rest of my team. There’s only four left!”

“I’m
sorry, Mr. Turnbull, at the moment our priority is to get ourselves to safety.
Once we’re all safe we can discuss how to help you get your team out.”

Turnbull
said nothing, his face slowly turning red, his eyes filled with tears. Suddenly
a burst of sobs, words almost incoherent, erupted from him. “You need to help
them! You have to help them! They’re going to die!”

He
jumped at Mitchell, grabbing him around the neck, locking his elbow around
Mitchell’s throat. Mitchell could feel himself already struggling to breathe as
he grabbed at Turnbull’s arms, pulling at them to no avail. Jenny screamed,
jumping out of the bed as Professor Acton demanded to know what was going on,
his voice drowned out by the struggle. Mitchell could feel Jenny pulling at
Turnbull as well, but his grip was unbreakable.

“I’ll
kill him if you don’t send your team to find my friends!” he screamed. Mitchell
could feel the blood flow being cut off to his brain as he slowly passed out,
the world becoming a fog.