He crept closer to the encampment at a snail’s pace, and the instant that their fires were visible, he drew back into the lightless forest and commenced skirting the perimeter until he knew exactly where the guards were posted. Halfway through the circuit, he found the reason for their choice of campsite. A tributary creek, easily twenty yards across, blocked their way. A start had been made of rigging up a bridge, but the work had barely begun. Hurricane took note that the bridge footings were unguarded, and moved on.
Perimeter security was equally poor. The handful of guards scattered around the site were more interested in warming themselves at their respective fires than attending to their duty station.
Of course they’re not on their game, he realized. They aren’t expecting anyone to pay a visit.
He picked the one that seemed furthest from the others and least vigilant to boot, and advanced stealthily on his location. The man was not aware of the danger he was in until one of Hurricane’s beefy hands clamped down over his mouth, and what panic he did evince died when Hurley gave his head a full twist.
Taking out the sentry had not been accomplished without sacrifice, specifically, the loss of his heightened nocturnal abilities. The fire’s acrid fumes and orange brilliance had left him night blind and unable to smell the peculiar scent of human activity in the jungle, but then again, one sometimes had to endure small losses to accomplish greater victories. He continued onward, toward the heart of the camp.
The pirates had erected lean-to huts in a loose ring around the center, but the camp appeared to be completely asleep. Hurley edged close to one of the shelters, grimacing silently as he heard a soft feminine whimper. He couldn’t pierce the veil of darkness, but it was easy enough to deduce that the pirate who occupied this hut had selected one of the captives to keep him company.
I’ll deal with it in a minute, he promised himself. After I find the Padre.
At the center of the semi-circle, bisected by the river, he found a dozen male captives, tied with ropes and tethered to a tree by a single line that encircled each man’s neck. The restraints were probably unnecessary; the men had dropped in their tracks from exhaustion. All were African natives, some in traditional garb, others in tattered trousers; Hobbs was not among their number. Hurley was about to advance on them when he spied the cage.
Situated away from the other captives, in an isolated corner of the camp, the cage was a hasty construct of fresh cut mahogany limbs bound with twine. It depended a few feet above the ground, hanging by a rope thrown over a tree limb. Hurricane could just make out a human shape inside, a form clad in black.
Padre!
He checked for any sign of surveillance then stole forward. When he was only a few yards from the cage, he risked breaking his silence with a sibilant hiss, but there was no movement from the figure inside. Muttering an oath, he continued forward.
Suddenly the ground vanished beneath his feet. He flailed, struggling to arrest his fall, but his hands closed on loose dirt and twigs. Total darkness enveloped him and the odor of decaying vegetation crashed over him in a suffocating wave. An instant later, he found himself lying in a shallow puddle.
A familiar rage began to boil but much of it was focused inward. His fists lashed out at the soft earthen walls of his prison but his almost incoherent curses were self-directed. His epic pursuit through the jungle, following the enemy like a vengeful ghost, had come to the most ignominious of climaxes; he had taken the bait in his mouth and jumped headlong into an amateurish pitfall.
His solitary imprisonment ended quickly as the mouth of the pit, more than ten feet above his head, was filled with torchlight. He drew his pistols in a flash and thrust them skyward, but the first face to come into view was that of a sobbing native female and he immediately checked himself.
“Throw your guns up, or her blood will, quite literally, be on you.”
Hurley’s lips curled in a snarl, but he thumbed the safety catch on his pistols and hurled them up at the opening.
“Very good.” The captive was pulled away from the edge and the silhouette of the man giving the harsh commands came into view; his features remained in shadow. “Hurricane Hurley. You don’t know how long I’ve waited to see you like this.”
“Krieger! This time I’ll make sure to finish the job.”
“How terrible for me,” the pirate chuckled. “Perhaps I should simply leave you here, entombed alive as you left me. I could even put the good priest in with you for company before I fill the grave.”
“Do your worst.”
“Hah. Having caught you so readily, I am reluctant to cede my advantage, but alas, I am driven by motives more pragmatic than revenge.”
Hurricane bit off another retort. Cede his advantage? What did that mean? No answer was forthcoming though, as Krieger continued talking. “There are four more captives here with me — women, if it matters — and I will not hesitate to kill them all if you show the slightest resistance. Do we have an understanding?”
“Yes.” Hurley forced the word through teeth that were grinding together like millstones.
A rope, knotted at two-foot intervals, dropped into the pit and he immediately commenced ascending. As his head reached ground level, he saw that he was surrounded by a group of more than a score of pirates, all completely alert.
It was a setup from the beginning. They knew I would come. But how?
Some of the pirates held torches aloft in their non-dominant hand, while the other gripped their firearm of choice. The remaining villains were armed only with knives, which they held pressed to the throat of the hostage women. In the firelight, he saw that the captive in the cage — the bait that had lured him into the pitfall — was merely an effigy stuffed into priestly vestments. That cage now rested on the ground beside the hole, with one of its sides removed to allow access to the interior.
He didn’t know which of the pirates Krieger was; he had never seen him up close and no photographs of the man had ever emerged during Falcon’s hunt for the Ninety-nine. Had he known, he might have been tempted to risk everything for a chance to decapitate the monster; perhaps in the absence of leadership, the pirate organization would crumble, sparing the imperiled lives. He did however recognize another face — or rather a dragon tattoo on a shaved skull — among the gaggle.
“Marten!”
The treacherous riverboat captain stood among the scoundrels, towering above most, and smiling victoriously. “Bonjour, monsieur. I had not thought to see you again. I am pleased that it is under such favorable circumstances.”
“Get in the cage.”
He whirled, trying to isolate Krieger, but the voice had come from behind him and could have belonged to any of the pirates standing in that quarter. Dismayed, he complied with the command. Two from the enemy number hastened forward to lash the wooden bars in place.
The box was very cramped; from a seated position, his head was bent down by the overhead slats, and rested between his knees, which were mere inches from the top of the cage. Notwithstanding the discomfort, he instantly saw that his prison was a flimsy construct; very little effort would be required to break out. He feigned acceptance of his capture, and sunk his head a little lower.
Litter poles were secured to sides of Hurley’s cage and four male captives were propelled forward and ordered to lift him up. The entire assembly fell in line behind the procession as he was carried toward the river. The rudimentary bridge however was not their destination; instead they skirted the bank for a distance of more than three hundred yards, until they reached a natural harborage where several vessels were moored. Hurricane saw a bi-plane floating amid the armada.