The Erotic Expeditions - Complete Collection (42 page)

She needed water.

Where did the trees get water?

• • • • •

Now that he was finally in fourth gear, George stepped down hard on the gas. The muddy road was puddled in spots but he sped forward at high speed. There was no time to worry about how deep the puddles were. He needed to be gone.

Steering the Jeep was another matter. With only the use of his left hand, it took every bit of strength he had to control the wheel as the Jeep took the dips and ruts of the dirt road. It bounced and skid along but it stayed on the road.
 

He let his foot off the gas as he entered a sharp left curve. Mud spewed from the tires on the right side as the Jeep slid sideways. He turned into the skid and the Jeep finally straightened out as he narrowly missed hitting the trees at the side of the rode.
 

“Shit,” he muttered.

This part of the plantation was no denser than the rest but it was planted right up to the edge of the road. He checked the rear view mirror as the curve receded behind him. When he looked forward, though, he hit the brakes.

It was Annan, Clark's main help at the ranch. In the distance, on this stretch of straight road, George could clearly see him behind the wheel. Earlier, George had seen him take the other Jeep when he’d been hiding in the garage. Wherever he’d been, he was heading back–along the only route that led in or out and a narrow one at that.

Could Annan see that it was George driving?

Would Annan try to stop him?

Just then, George had a crazy thought.
 

He stepped on the gas and moved the Jeep over in the road a few feet. He had no idea how fast Annan was going but they were closing quickly. He lined up his Jeep with Annan’s, heading straight for him. His broken wrist throbbed, cradled in his lap, and sweat poured down his temples. His grip on the wheel was slick but he didn’t swerve. Neither did Annan.

He had the gas pedal all the way to the floor.
 

In a moment of cold panic, George realized he couldn’t remember which side of the road they drove on in Thailand.
 

Right?

Left?

The Jeeps were hurtling toward one another. It would only be another few seconds before they’d be too close to react. George gripped the wheel, stared straight ahead, and held his breath.

Finally, Annan turned to George’s right. As George side-swiped him at high speed, he clearly saw Annan’s face: wide-eyed, his mouth open, maybe screaming. Metal briefly screeched against metal and George hung on for dear life. Even his arm with the broken wrist moved to grab the wheel but he couldn’t close his fingers.
 

Then, he was on the road by himself again, the Jeep fishtailing as he took his foot off the gas. He exhaled in a huff and looked in the rear view mirror. Annan’s Jeep had almost completely spun around before it collided with one tree and then another. George realized he’d been traveling much faster than Annan. The momentum of George’s vehicle had easily sent Annan’s off the road.

George concentrated on the road in front of him. Even if Annan’s Jeep still ran, he’d never catch up–not if George kept moving.

• • • • •

The motorcycle roared beneath Clark. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ridden it but the skills had come back quickly. He cranked the throttle in his hand and dodged trees.

With the head start that George had, he’d never catch him, but George didn’t know the plantation like Clark did. By taking a shortcut through the trees instead of the road, he’d be able to get to the gate before him. Even though Annan should have closed it by now, he couldn’t take any chances. The gate was really for keeping honest people out–people who were lost. The ranch entrance was only guarded by metal frames. They swung together to block the road, with just a chain and lock across them. A vehicle traveling at high speed ought to be able to punch through.
 

That’s how I’ll know. If the gate is busted open, I’ve lost him.
 

Clark gripped the handles of the motorcycle, leaned left and right, and threaded his way through the stands of rubber trees. The bike responded nimbly, cresting and dipping through the rows and columns. Clark's body adjusted on the fly as he stood. He squinted into the wind and gave it even more gas. If he didn’t get to George before he got to the gate, it wasn’t just George that would be lost; it was the decades of work that had led up to this, and the lives and fortunes of everyone on the ranch who’d stuck it out with him. It wasn’t just the specimens that would be lost, it was
everything
.

• • • • •

Jean frantically dug her hands into the dark soil. If there was no irrigation above, it had to be below. Behind her, the crackling of the fire was growing louder and the light from the flames was dancing off all the opaque sheets of white glass.

She’d run to the back of the greenhouse, partially to get away from the fire, but also in the vain search for another door. But as she’d already known, there was nothing. There was no way out except for the locked metal security door at the front. There was no fire extinguisher. There was no hose. There weren’t even any tools. Just rubber tree plants in their beds.

Therefore the irrigation system had to be in the beds.

“Come on,” she muttered.

She thrust the soil aside, digging in and scooping out handfuls of dirt, going deeper. Finally, her fingers contacted something. She gripped it hard and yanked. Along with dirt, a small, flexible tube came out. She pulled as the line rose above ground level, following it to the next tree, as though she were tugging on a life line. At the next plant, a small brass fitting connected her line to the next. The brass fitting was dripping.

A drip irrigation system.

How was that going to do her any good?

Breathing hard from the effort, she jerked the tubing upward and the fitting popped loose. Out of the end of the tube, a fine trickle of water fell into the soil and was immediately absorbed.
 

Panting, she rested her hands on the edge of the bed and shook her head.
Bred for drought resistance. Of course. They didn’t need much water.
 

Just then, an explosion made her instinctively duck her head.
 

What was
that?

She looked toward the fire, which had suddenly spread across three rows of seed beds.

What had happened?

Another explosion rattled the glass and this time she saw it. It was the trees. White latex sputtered outward and burning drops of resin spread in a small circle. New fires began immediately.

“Oh my god,” she exclaimed.

Up in the peaked top of the greenhouse, a thick pall of smoke had gathered. Almost black, it was beginning to block out the sunlight. As the new trees burned, smoke from them drifted upward as well. The bottom of the smoke layer was getting lower. Suddenly Jean realized she wasn’t going to burn to death. She was going to suffocate.

There was a flash of white through the trees to Clark’s right! He saw it in his peripheral vision but didn’t dare look. The trees were coming fast as he muscled the motorcycle one way and then the other.

The white flash was George. It had to be. Clark had caught up to him. He angled the bike toward the road, picking a new path through the rows and columns of trees. A motorcycle was no match for a car. This was going to rely on surprise. The Jeep was moving fast.

Clark sped forward and glanced at the Jeep as the handlebars brushed against one of the branches. He fought with the handles and quickly brought the bike under control.
Only seconds now.
He was nearly there. In his peripheral vision, he overtook the Jeep just as the road came into view. He gunned the engine and jerked the handles back. As the bike rose onto its rear wheel, Clark slid off the seat and let the handles go. The ground rushed up to meet him as the motorcycle flew forward like a missile.

Clark immediately tucked himself into a roll. With his chin to his chest, the back of his right shoulder took the first impact as the jungle whirled by in his peripheral vision. Still moving too fast at the completion of the first roll, he took a second before landing on his feet at a dead run. He looked up just in time to see the front wheel of the motorcycle plunge through the plastic window next to George’s head. The small Jeep lurched off the road as the body of the bike collided with the door. The sound of crunching metal quickly crescendoed as the Jeep’s front bumper wrapped around a tree, bringing the vehicle to a sudden stop. Steam poured from the hood in a hissing fit as Clark sprinted to the driver’s door. He yanked it open as a knife flashed out of nowhere.

As Clark backed away, he already knew it was too late. A searing feeling and the sound of ripping cloth at his chest confirmed that the blade had landed. He wanted to look down but he dare not take his eyes away from the blade. As George flew out of the door, he took another swipe but Clark could see it was awkward, even flailing. Then he saw the other hand hanging limply.

He grinned and focused on the knife hand.

“Bastard,” he growled, as he grabbed the good wrist with both hands.

Though George tried to push back, he was no match for Clark, who smashed the knife hand into the side of the Jeep. The knife clattered against the metal and then dropped to the ground. Clark immediately followed with a knee to George’s midsection, pinning him against the vehicle and doubling him over. But that wasn’t going to be enough–not nearly. Clark jerked George’s head up by the hair.

“Where are they?” Clark hissed.
 

He backhanded George, tipping him to the right, almost knocking him out. Clark grabbed him by the front of the shirt and righted him.

“Where are the buds?” he said, as he slapped him hard.

George tipped left and slipped toward the ground.

Clark jerked him back up.

“Where are they?” he yelled.

He landed a savage punch in George’s stomach.
 

George pitched forward to the muddy road with a choking cough.

Clark quickly looked into the Jeep. There was nothing obvious, so he went back to George who was trying to crawl away. Clark jammed his foot down on his back. Then, he saw the bulge at the back pocket.

“What’s this?” he growled. He ripped the pocket fabric getting to whatever was there. He grabbed what looked like a cigar case. He’d never seen George smoke.

There was a small clasp on the edge. He undid it, the case popped open, and there were the buds–three of them.

Just then the sound of an engine brought his attention back to the road. It was Annan.

Clark snapped the case shut and gave George a kick in the ribs as Annan pulled up next to them.
 

“Boss, are you okay?” he said, staring at Clark's chest.

Clark looked down.

A straight red line of blood ran diagonally across him. It started nearly at his right shoulder, ran across the right pec and ended on his breastbone. He lifted the shirt away. It was a deep gash near the shoulder but he’d apparently backed away quickly enough that the rest of it wasn’t as deep. Even so, blood dripped from its entire length.
 

“I’ll be fine,” he said, looking down at the sample case in his hand.
 

Then he looked down at George who had apparently passed out.
 

“Get some rope out of the back of the Jeep,” Clark said, looking back to Annan, when something in the distance caught his attention.
 

Smoke!

“No,” he muttered. He put the case in his front pocket and bent to George. “Quick Annan. Help me get him in your Jeep.”

• • • • •

As Clark neared the main house, he could see where the smoke had to be coming from. So could Annan.

“Boss, it’s the greenhouse!” Annan said.

They’d driven at breakneck speed, neither of them taking their eyes off the column of black smoke.

“The seedlings!” Annan said as the Jeep screeched to a halt in front of the greenhouse.

“Jean!” Clark yelled.

He jumped out of the car.
 

“Annan,” he yelled. “Lock him in the tool shed.” He jabbed his finger at George’s prone form in the back of the Jeep. “Make sure he’s tied up tight.”

“No problem, Boss.”

Clark rushed to the door of the greenhouse. He and Annan and everyone who’d ever worked a planation already knew that no help was going to come for the fire. A fire among trees, especially rubber trees, was going to be left to burn itself out. There wasn’t a fire brigade in the entire country that would be big enough to stop a blaze in the jungle. They were on their own.

“Jean,” Clark screamed as he punched the first few numbers of the security code. The keypad wasn’t on. It was dead. He grabbed the door handle and immediately let it go.

Hot!

He stood back from the steel door. The fire must be right on the other side.

“Jean!” he screamed.

It had to be hundreds of degrees in there. He quickly looked left and right, along the front facade of the grand old building. The bottom third of it was clad in an ornate criss-crossing of steel girders that held the thick white sheets of glass. There was only one way to get in. He raced back to the Jeep, got in, and started the engine. One side of the building was as good as any other structurally but he already knew the fire was at the front. He sped down the narrow grass area between the greenhouse and the garage, past the end of the building to the edge of the jungle. He spun the Jeep in a U-turn and pulled the parking brake on. Then he gunned the engine until it sounded like it might fly apart and released the brake.
 

The Jeep shot forward like a projectile and crashed through the back wall. Clark stomped down hard on the brake. Steel screeched all around him and glass rained down like a hail storm, but finally he could see. Almost every tree was on fire. He jumped out of the vehicle and nearly slipped on the debris but quickly righted himself.

“Jean!” he screamed.