“Let’s keep going,” Joe said in an undertone.
I nodded silently, blinking back tears of frustration. Then I froze as I heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps somewhere close by. Not the shambling, staggering gait of a zombie, either. These footsteps were even and purposeful, and headed in our direction.
I grabbed Joe by the arm, pointed in the direction of the footsteps, and then pulled him behind a clump of trees where we’d be hidden from view but could see anyone or anything approaching. To his credit, he didn’t argue or question my actions, and by the time we’d taken cover, the footsteps were clearly audible.
Two tough-looking men in jungle camo and combat boots strode into view, both armed with rifles. They stopped midstride and cursed in Spanish when they saw the crocodile convention at the edge of the water.
One of the men pointed to the broken camera up in the tree and cursed again. I recognized the words hijo de puta and nudged Joe in the ribs.
“That’s you,” I mouthed.
The other man pulled what looked like a replacement camera out of a canvas bag slung across his shoulder and tried to hand it to his buddy, who shook his head vehemently. I didn’t blame him — the old camera was mounted in a tree uncomfortably close to the feeding crocs.
They argued for a few minutes until the second man reluctantly set his rifle against a log, took the camera, and cautiously approached the tree, his attention on the reptiles. Meanwhile, his pal trained his own firearm on the crocodiles.
Which meant neither of them was paying attention when Joe quietly snuck out from cover and snagged the discarded rifle.
“¡Hola, amigos!”
Both men whirled around, the first raising his rifle to shoot. Joe beat him to the punch, however, firing two shots in rapid succession that hit the man in the chest and sent him staggering backward straight into the crocodile buffet. He screamed amid the grunts and roars of at least a half dozen crocs fighting to get the best bits while their food was still alive.
Joe trained the rifle at the man with the camera, who stood frozen in place.
“You’re gonna take us back to your boss now,” Joe said in a deceptively casual tone.
The man evidently understood English because he snarled something along the lines of “Go fuck your mother.” I was pleased I’d retained something from my high school Spanish classes.
Joe smiled. It was the kind of smile that made smart people run in the opposite direction. This guy was not smart.
He spit something else that hadn’t been covered in Spanish 101. Joe responded by putting a round about an inch above his head.
“Try again.”
“He’ll have me killed!”
“Maybe,” Joe said calmly. “Maybe not. But I’ll shoot you in the kneecaps and leave you here with your friend.” He pointed at what remained of the man’s partner.
The man blanched, his skin growing pale under his tan.
“So,” Joe said. “You wanna take us to your leader?”
Less than a half hour later we stood outside of a ten-foot wall, hidden in the deepening shadows of twilight as our new buddy unlocked an iron gate. There was a driveway and a motorized gateway big enough for vehicles, but we wanted a less conspicuous entrance.
As soon as the gate was unlocked, Joe gave our friend a sharp rap on the back of the skull with the butt of his rifle and left his unconscious body outside the wall. I raised an eyebrow at that and Joe shrugged.
“He’ll either wake up before a zombie finds him or he won’t. It’s more of a shot than he would have given either of us.”
“Works for me.”
Joe locked the gate after us. We found ourselves on the edge of a large courtyard with a large-roofed carport across the way. At least a dozen guards patrolled the area.
“How do we get past these guys?” I whispered.
Joe grinned. “Allow me to show you what I’ve learned during my time in the field.”
“Nicely done,” I said. I wondered briefly if any of the guards Joe had put down would be getting up again, and then decided I didn’t give a shit.
Joe gave a small nod. “Whoever planned all this may be smart, but he or she didn’t make allowances for his game pieces to break the rules.”
“That sounds oddly profound,” I commented.
“I know.” Joe looked pleased with himself. “Next I’ll be opening up my own line of fortune cookies.” He pointed toward a doorway in the carport. “This way.”
With one last admiring glance at the trail of devastation Joe had left behind us, I dashed after him through the door. Sometimes it’s nice to not be the only badass in the village.
I guess I was expecting all sorts of James Bondian villain traps, like sensor-activated laser-beam death rays and stuff, so the inside of the compound was bit of a letdown. Lots of high-beamed ceilings and tiled floors in a classic Spanish-style square, with a courtyard in the center, the better to keep the structure cool in the oppressive Central American heat.
We found what — and who — we were looking for at the back of the square. Two more armed guards stood on either side of double doors, looking all serious and tough and like something out of Commando, but thankfully without the tacky leather and chain-mail getup the villain had worn.
I hate tacky villains.
I didn’t bother offering assistance, instead hanging back and watching Joe make yet more flunky hash out of the poor suckers standing guard. Once again, he made it look like no big deal, like Bob Ross painting happy little trees in seconds. Except kicking butt instead of painting.
Okay, analogies are not my strongpoint.
Once the two guards were made happy little unconscious guards, Joe and I snagged their M4s. Joe made an after you gesture at the doors. I grinned and went inside in my best I’m a stealthy ninja imitation.
I was expecting a roomful of more armed guards, but the room appeared to be empty except for a bank of security monitors, each showing a different jungle location.
Joe held up a finger in front of his mouth and then pointed across the room.
Seated in a replica of Kirk’s captain’s chair on the Enterprise was a kid in his midteens who looked as if he were going through a particularly awkward adolescence. Shock of dark hair falling over an acne-studded forehead. Slightly overweight in a doughy way, with an unhealthy pastiness that screamed too many video games and too much junk food.
Like the Twinkie he held in one hand.
It could only be Brock.
Oh, that little motherfucker.…
Brock frowned as he stared at one of the screens… which was conspicuously blank. He hit a button and the screen went from blank to a close-up of Joe and the butt end of his knife. It re-rewound farther to show an unpleasantly familiar location — the tree and estuary where Joe and I had nearly been snacks for Crocozombie. The entire fight for our lives played out in high-speed reverse as we watched. Then, with a push of a button, the speed slowed to real time and we watched the whole thing from beginning to end.
“Totally awesome,” the kid said, giggling.
Can you say psychopath?
He frowned as the tape went blank again.
“That should be up again by now. Stupid assholes. Dad was right. Can’t trust these stupid natives to do anything right. Oh well.” Brock shrugged and went back to viewing the screens, stuffing another Twinkie in his mouth.
“Come on, I know you’re out there, Ledger,” he muttered, pushing buttons on the console in front of him, the video feeds changing with each push. “And where’s that tasty ass of yours, Ash?”