The two stared each other down, twenty feet apart, until the cat decided there was easier prey in the jungle and leapt gracefully onto another branch, then worked its way down to the ground before loping off into the foliage.
Exhaling a sigh of relief, Gordon resumed his push down the path, more than aware that the gunmen were still hot on his tail. He estimated by the sound of the last shots that they were a quarter mile or more away, but he wanted that to be several miles by dawn if he could manage it. As long as the dog didn’t pick up his scent again, it was achievable, provided he didn’t bleed to death or get eaten.
As he eased down the hill, he entered a thick layer of ground fog that hung like a cloak over the valley below. He had a rough idea of where he was, but after having been moved from where he and Doug had been captured, it was only approximate. A handheld GPS would have come in handy.
Cries from up the hill, followed by a bark, told him everything he needed to know. The dog had caught the smell of blood on the wind and was leading the men straight to him again. The baying of the hound seemed to grow louder with each passing minute. Gordon clenched his jaw and pushed on, picking up his pace to a flat-out run.
A trailing vine tripped him, and he tumbled, rolling down the slope, gathering speed as he slid down the slick side of the muddy hill. He reached out with both hands trying to slow his fall, but it was no good. Gravity had the best of him, and the rain made the surface as slippery as an ice rink.
He thudded into the base of a tree, abruptly stopping his descent, and felt something in his chest snap. At least one, possibly two, broken ribs, he guessed. The simple assignment had now become an ordeal that he doubted he would escape with his life. Blood continued to leak from his head, and his hands were shredded into hamburger. The only good news was that his slide had taken him at least another hundred yards down a steep section of the hill, which no sane follower would attempt. If he could find another trail and maintain any kind of speed, he might have a chance.
Gordon felt like he’d gone ten rounds wrestling a bear, but forced himself to his feet, breath wheezing and a band of pain stabbing into his chest with each inhalation, but as far as he could tell, he was still viable.
He shouldered through the brush, careful of where he was stepping, aware that there were other dangers besides the gunmen. Leopards, an occasional tiger, Burmese python…all of which hunted under cover of darkness. He was wounded, bleeding, unarmed, starved and exhausted, which made him vulnerable to anything that wanted to try its luck with him.
And worst of all, for the first time in his career, he’d failed.
He’d lost his partner. Been captured. Had learned nothing that he hadn’t known before the disastrous sortie.
The drizzle stopped, and the trees around him watched like silent sentries as he stumbled aimlessly, searching for any sort of route that would distance him from his pursuers. Insects clicked and buzzed in the surrounding grass; an occasional rustle greeted his trudging as some unseen animal scurried away. The mud sucked at the soles of his boots, and his legs felt leaden with each step, the effects of sleep deprivation and no food taking their toll, sapping his energy even as he demanded more from his battered body.
As Gordon emerged into a small clearing, the clouds parted just enough for the moon to leer through, its ghostly glow enabling him to see a gap in the undergrowth on the other side.
Then fog drifted across the open space, closing in on the seeming mirage. Gordon staggered towards the trees, confident that he hadn’t been imagining the vision. Another bark sounded in the distance from behind him, urging him forward.
There.
Just a few more yards.
For a moment, he thought he’d missed his footing, then the crackle of dry branches accompanied his body falling into the dark.
Blinding pain stabbed through him. Intense, searing agony from his abdomen, chest and legs.
Gordon’s vision blurred as he gazed skyward, the moon mocking the spectacle of his body impaled on sharpened bamboo stakes in the bottom of the pit, his blood seeping black around the lethal spears in the eerie luminescence. His disembodied mind wondered whether the trap was designed for wild boar, deer, or some other delicacy. The pain receded as his consciousness seemed to float above him, observing his pathetic state, his existence brought to an abrupt end in a trench in an unnamed hellhole somewhere in a jungle God had forgotten.
Time seemed to compress as a simultaneous rush of regrets and memories overwhelmed him. Gordon’s last thought was that it wasn’t supposed to end this way, that he still had more to do. Even though he’d personally released many from their mortal coil and watched impassively as they died, his own passage surprised him, and he finally understood the puzzled look in the eyes of his victims when their moment had come.
With a last involuntary shudder, he strained against the stakes, then stiffened, convulsed, and went limp, his ultimate breath escaping with a wet rattle as blood filled his lungs and his heart gave up its pointless struggle to beat.
Chapter 2
Present Day, Omaha, Nebraska
The airport was bustling, all cool chrome and franchise restaurants hawking overpriced snacks and six-dollar coffee. Beef featured prominently in the local lexicon, and placards of cows staring in bovine wonder at the passing passengers adorned any walls that didn’t tout burger specials or extra-large-sized beverages or desserts.
The air was crisp as Jet approached her rental car, toting her suitcase as she walked through the parking lot, dodging pools of water from the melting snow. She’d gotten her first look at the great state of Nebraska on approach, and her initial impression of it, and Omaha, could be summarized in one word: flat. The few hills were all of a couple hundred feet tall, rolling, covered with farmland. Large though it was, the city was set in a familiar mold, but with a decidedly American suburban feel to it. From the air, it looked like one large tract home development.
She found her Chevrolet and tossed her suitcase in the back seat before sliding behind the wheel and starting the engine. The little four cylinder motor revved as it warmed up, then settled into a monotone hum as she pulled to the exit and handed the attendant her paperwork.
The flight from Paris had been long, and the connecting leg in Chicago annoying, but she was here now. The only question was what to do next. She had an address and a name. That was it. No plan. No strategy.
She’d tried to formulate one on the plane, but she didn’t know enough about the situation to be effective. The only information Jet had was the identity of the person who had been given her daughter after she’d been stolen from her at birth. She had no idea what the person or people knew or didn’t know, or what David had told them as a cover story. She highly doubted that he’d told them the truth. That had never been his style. As far as they knew, the baby could have been an orphan, or had been rescued from an abusive situation.
Jet had never even seen her daughter, Hannah. She was sure she’d recognize the two-year-old, but the truth was she might not. Jet knew nothing about anything in the little girl’s life since she had disappeared from the hospital following a difficult delivery — the doctor had lied, telling Jet that her baby had died during childbirth.
She didn’t even know her daughter’s name.
Her new name. The name given to her by the people who were the only parents she’d ever known.
Jet’s eyes welled up, but she fought back the urge to cry. She was just exhausted from the ordeal of the last few days: her lover’s death at the hands of Grigenko, the murderous Russian oligarch who’d sent a hit team to kill her as well. The gun battle at his yacht. A harrowing escape from France. Discovering the daughter she’d believed dead was actually alive.