Uncle Pete cried out as he misstepped and slid off the edge of the slick trail, flailing for balance before tumbling down the steep slope. He slammed into a boulder at the base and groaned in pain as his shoulder dislocated. He tried to roll over onto his back, but his pack hampered him. His arm jutted from his torso at an impossible angle, and his AK lay useless halfway down the drop. He struggled and this time managed to right himself, but almost blacked out from the agony of the effort.
The air was still, and Uncle Pete blinked away mud and sweat as he evaluated his condition. He needed to get to the rifle. He reached over with his right hand and tried to pull his left arm so it would pop back into the socket, but froze when he heard a rustle from above.
“Drake?” he called softly.
A face appeared at the top of the trail, the features those of a hill tribesman. Uncle Pete’s eyes met his as the man raised his rifle, a malevolent grin on his face. Uncle Pete flinched and closed his eyes, and jerked instinctively when a shot rang out from above.
The gunman’s body rolled several meters down the slope, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead, and Drake’s voice whispered urgently, “Uncle Pete. Can you make it up here?”
“I… no.”
“Hang on.”
Several moments passed, and then a coil of nylon line snaked down to Uncle Pete.
“Tie it around your waist, and I’ll help you climb the slope.”
“Gun…”
“Leave it. Just do as I say.”
Uncle Pete fumbled the cord around his waist and seemed to take forever to cinch it with a crude knot. When he was finished, he nodded to Drake, who was dividing his time between watching the trail and the fallen Thai. Drake took up the slack and began winding the rope around his own waist by turning, since the gun he was holding prevented him from hauling it hand-over-hand.
Uncle Pete scrambled for footing against the pull, and slowly, inch by painful inch, ascended the steep grade. When he reached the top, he looked down at the dead Red Moon gunman and scooped up his AK. Drake grimaced when he saw Uncle Pete’s shoulder, and was about to say something when Joe appeared on the trail, his gun pointed at Drake’s head.
Drake’s eyes widened in shock at the sight. He sputtered as he brought his weapon to bear, but he was too late.
Joe’s weapon barked twice.
Another Red Moon gunman dropped behind Uncle Pete. Drake’s heart skipped when he realized how close he’d come to being killed, and then Joe opened fire again as he yelled at Drake. “Run. There’s more of them coming.”
Drake and Uncle Pete made for Joe, but the rope binding them together slowed them. When they reached a grove of trees, Drake untied the knot and unwound the line from Uncle Pete’s waist as Joe continued shooting behind them. “Can you make it?” Drake demanded as bullets whined around them.
“Maybe. Pull arm.”
Drake nodded and grabbed Uncle Pete’s forearm. The Thai winced, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. Drake set his gun down and, using his right foot against Uncle Pete’s chest, pulled as hard as he could. Uncle Pete screamed as the shoulder joint popped back into place, and then fainted, falling to the ground as Joe arrived.
“Hand me your gun. Mine’s empty,” Joe said, and contemplated the limp form of Uncle Pete. “Pick him up, or he’s dead meat.”
Drake gave Joe his rifle and gathered Uncle Pete in his arms. The Thai was surprisingly light, little more than skin and bones. Joe retrieved Uncle Pete’s dropped AK and handed it to Drake. “Looks like at least a dozen more moving up the trail,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can to give you a running start, but we’re going to have to make a stand eventually.”
“Why not here?”
Joe shook his head. “Our odds will be better the further we get into Shan territory. If we all open up on them at once, they might rethink how badly they want to continue the chase. Look out.” Joe leaned out from behind the tree he was using for cover and fired again, and a man grunted no more than fifty yards away. “Get going.”
Drake pushed through the brush, avoiding the open trail, as Joe continued shooting. A branch struck Uncle Pete in the shoulder and he stirred. His breathing deepened and he moaned, and then patted Drake’s back. “Put down. I run okay.”
“You sure?” Drake asked, continuing without slowing.
“I try.”
“Okay.”
Drake veered right around a banyan tree before stopping and bending over to let the guide down. The shooting was still sounding from behind them, and Drake leaned into Uncle Pete. “Follow me.”
They set off at a good clip, and in a couple of minutes were back on the trail. Drake stopped near a rock outcropping and eyed Uncle Pete. “Did you see Spencer and Allie?”
Uncle Pete shook his head. “No. Think they ahead.”
“Right, but where?”
The guide shrugged. More gunfire rang out from where they’d left Joe, and then it stopped. Drake heard footfalls hurrying toward them and raised his rifle. Joe appeared from around the bend, moving fast. When he reached them, he was breathing hard, his shirt soaked with sweat. “Let’s get moving,” he whispered.
“Where are Spencer and Allie?” Drake asked.
“I thought they’d be waiting for us.”
“So you have no idea?”
The sound of shooting greeted them from their right. Drake caught Joe’s eye. “If that’s Spencer, we need to help them, Joe.”
Joe nodded just as the shooting stopped. “Question is, where are they?” He cocked his head, listening. “And how do we avoid getting killed in the process of coming to the rescue?”
Drake pointed in the direction where the last shots had rung out. “We need to do something.”
Joe tilted his head at Uncle Pete. “He’s not going to be a lot of help, so it’s really just the two of us. And we’ve got, what, one more magazine between us? Not trying to be a downer, but that’s not much firepower.”
“They’re my friends. If you won’t help them, I’ll do it alone.”
Joe sighed. “You’re stubborn. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“We’re wasting time, Joe. You in or out?”
“Crap. Fine. Let’s do this.” Joe set off in the rough direction of the last shots. The going was tough, there being no trail, and they were forced to press through the tangle of vines and branches until they came to a small open area. A dead gunman lay on one side of the clearing. Joe darted over and retrieved the man’s weapon, his eyes on the surroundings, and then froze.
Drake did the same when he followed Joe’s gaze to where a crimson smear of blood colored a thicket of bamboo. Uncle Pete moved slowly to the spot, knelt down, and then rose with something in his hand. Drake looked at it and his heart sank. It was Allie’s green bandana.
Drake moved to where Joe was still scanning the brush, his gun at the ready, and leaned into him. “They’ve got Spencer and Allie.”
Joe’s face was unreadable, his eyes continuing to sweep the tree line. “If they took them prisoner instead of just killing them, it’s because they want to know what we’re doing on their turf.”
“We have to find them.”
Joe nodded. “Right. And how would you suggest we do that? It’s a big jungle, and worse, right now there could be a rifle lining up on your head.”
Drake frowned. “Where do you think they’d be taking them?”
“Probably to their headquarters for interrogation. That’s what I’d do.”
“And where’s that?”
Joe spit by his boots and shook his head. “Beats me.”
“I thought you knew this area like the back of your hand.”
“I do. But there are still some things I don’t know, and that’s one of them. Rumor is they have a meth factory south of here, deep in their territory, but that’s all it is — a rumor.”