Once inside, Clay estimated a distance of thirty feet before lowering his bag and fishing out a small compact military style flashlight. He turned it on, instantly washing the narrow walls in bright light.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Li Na nodded. She stepped forward carefully, using the ambient glow from Clay’s light in front of her. The ground was littered with chunks of rock and large pieces of stone, some of which had fallen from the low ceiling, leaving pocks overhead.
The walls, less than a foot away on either side, bore deep scrapes in the rock and were largely covered in a dark film.
“Did the kid mention what kind of mine this was?”
Li Na paused for a moment. “Uh…coal?”
Clay fingered some of the material off a nearby wall and smelled it. “Iron ore.”
“Iron ore. Yes. What is it for?”
“It’s used in steel.” Clay picked up his bag, holding it out in front of him as he moved forward. Things just kept getting worse.
60
Things were getting worse. Caesare studied the distant sky, which was continuing to change. The setting sun had already disappeared behind the dark horizon, cutting their light short and causing the team to turn back early. Their storm had resumed its easterly direction.
Tiewater stepped up behind Caesare, who was standing on a rocky outcropping. “That doesn’t look good.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
“How long?”
Caesare shook his head. “I’m not sure. Maybe tomorrow morning.”
Tiewater scratched at the base of his lightly colored hair. He was graying prematurely, giving a distinguished contrast against his darker eyebrows. “We’re going to need to find some cover. That could be a hell of a downpour.”
“Agreed,” Caesare nodded. This was all they needed.
They both turned as Anderson came rushing out from a wall of palms below and scaled the small incline. He reached them only slightly out of breath.
“I may have some good news.”
“Good, we could use some.”
“I found some tracks headed northwest. Tire tracks. We have company up here and it’s not Otero.”
Caesare and Tiewater looked at each other. “Who?”
“Poachers, most likely.”
“Poachers?” Tiewater frowned. “Why is that good news?”
A wry grin appeared on Caesare’s face, matching Anderson’s. “Because the poachers may be looking for the same thing we are.”
“And not even realize it,” Anderson added.
Caesare motioned to Tiewater. “You two check it out. Corso and I will stay here and find some shelter. If nothing else, maybe these poachers can save us some time.” He checked his watch. “Find out where they are, fast.”
“Yes, sir.” Together, both men promptly scrambled back downhill and disappeared.
Caesare stepped down and followed a small path of matted grass back to the area where the rest were seated.
Corso approached him and spoke in a low voice. “What’s up?”
“Anderson may have found us a shortcut. In the meantime, we need to find some shelter. The storm isn’t finished with us.”
“Yeah, I saw that. I’ll see what I can find.” He raised a small wire microphone and earplug, then wrapped it around his left ear.
Caesare turned to DeeAnn and Juan, resting on a pair of nearby rocks. They looked exhausted.
“Where’s Dulce?”
DeeAnn looked up above Caesare’s head. He followed her eyes up just in time to catch the small gorilla, hanging from the tree and trying to place a small white flower on his head.
“Someone seems to be enjoying herself.”
Juan finished replacing the batteries and handed the vest back to DeeAnn. “Where’d the other guys go?”
“They’re checking some things out. The storm is headed our way again.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were. Things may be about to get very wet.” He scanned the ground around them. “And very muddy.”
“What do we do?”
“Corso’s searching for shelter. If we can find a decent place, we’ll need to relocate.”
“Where are the other two?”
“Looking for a shortcut.”
Juan and DeeAnn both looked at each other. “What does that mean?”
He grinned at DeeAnn. “It means that even poachers may still have one redeeming quality.”
61
“Poacher” was such an ugly word. Hugo preferred almost any other term. And frankly, he never understood why the practice was even illegal.
The Brazilian took another drag off his cigarette and scratched his stubbled chin absently.
As far as he was concerned, the black market was the way the world should be, pure opportunity without all the government leeching.
Poaching, like most lines of work, was simply the filling of a need for those who wanted something. To him, there was little difference between cats and dogs and the more exotic pets that some people wanted. Pets were pets. And in this case, a capuchin was simply harder to find and capture.
But more than that, it was a matter of survival. For him. The truth was that it was getting damn hard to make a living in Brazil, honest or not. He hadn’t always been a poacher, but when the economy collapsed he had to find a way to feed his family. When it came to them versus an empty table, who gave a crap about a bunch of monkeys? As long as people continued to pay, he would continue to satisfy the demand.
Hugo finished his cigarette and dropped it into the moist soil, rubbing it out with his boot. He remained still, listening as the first moments of darkness enveloped the area. The evening mist rolling over and down the mountain felt cool against his sweaty neck and arms.
Not far away he could see the flicker of light from another cigarette. His partner, Vito. There were four of them in all, each fanning out in the darkness, waiting.
The monkeys were easier to hear at night.
They waited almost forty-five minutes before hearing the first whistle. It was quickly followed by another, and then another. Hugo’s ears zeroed in on a direction. Roughly eleven o’clock from his position. He could see Vito’s cigarette suddenly disappear.
Hugo withdrew his JM Special dart gun and checked it. The dart was chambered and ready. The tranquilizer was stronger than necessary, but given the capuchin’s habit of running or climbing after being shot, a weaker dose too often made for difficult retrievals. Hugo and his partners had learned that risking the effects of a more powerful drug was an easy trade over trying to track the damn things down.
He stalked briskly into the dense forest, rolling his feet carefully from heel to toe in an effort to remain silent. The soft, damp ground helped reduce the noise as he moved delicately over the leaves.
All four were now moving in on the increasing chatter, and what was beginning to sound like a big score.
With his face painted black, Tiewater edged forward through a group of ground ferns, letting the tip of his rifle float out first before sweeping past the objects in front of him — large tents, an oversized fire pit, and stand-up tables with a propane stove and cooking utensils.
Further away were two trucks, both old and covered in mud, sitting silently. The first truck was a Ford Explorer and the other a long flatbed with dozens of wooden cages stacked on the back. Inside the cages sat several monkeys who had stopped screaming and were now curiously watching Tiewater emerge from the bushes. The abrupt silence of the capuchins made the area feel eerie, leaving only the sound of his footsteps as Tiewater eased himself out fully into the open. He was covered by Anderson, perched above him and following steadily through the sights of his HK416.