They walked into a patch of desert that immediately had the hair on Drake’s neck rising. But it wasn’t until Cartwright raised a clenched fist that the unit halted. The captain reached up to his quad lenses and must have flicked them from night vision to thermal.
In the next few slices of a second, the captain had yelled a single word that turned their world upside down: “Contact!” And then all hell broke loose.
They’d walked right into the center of a terrorist’s nest — spider holes all around them, and only slits showing their positions. With thermal imaging, Drake could make out the thin slice of red-warmth, telling of the bodies hidden inside under those camouflaged trapdoors.
They’d engaged — loud, bloody, and brutal. And they didn’t stop until the air was filled with a red mist, smelling of cordite and the tang of coppery blood.
They’d wiped out every single terrorist that night but lost four good men. Zimmer and Jackson were the first to buy it — the price of letting your guard down.
Yeah, without Cartwright’s sixth sense, he’d be dead. All eight of them would be dead.
Drake continued to circle the blade on the stone. He owed the big guy, and it was time to pay his dues.
In a car concealed under the shade of trees and as close to the Cartwright house as she could get, Camilla Ortega held up the sound gun, with the earphones over her head. She had her eyes closed and she concentrated on the voices. In her other hand was a pen, and she made notes as she picked the valuable details from the group’s plans. Beside her, a dark-eyed man sat leaning back in his seat, looking bored.
“The meeting is breaking up,” Camilla said.
“Good; they been in there all morning, and I’m hungry.” Juan Marquina exhaled loudly and shifted, making the seat complain under his weight. He let the telescopic lens camera rest in his lap so he could wipe sweaty hands on his shirt.
Camilla glared at him. “This might be the biggest story in our newspaper’s history. In fact, I’m betting it’ll make headlines in both North and South America. So I think you can hold off on your donuts for a little while longer, yes?”
He picked up the camera again. “Yeah, because the picture guy always gets the awards.” He snorted derisively.
“Get ready. I want photographs of the mercenaries. I can use them.” She licked her lips as she lowered the sound gun and dragged the earphones off her head.
“I don’t get how we’re ever going to track these guys in the Amazon. They got mercenaries, guns, money, and all you got is a skinny expense account, and a lovable, but ever so slightly overweight, camera guy.” He grinned.
“Slightly?” She chuckled. “And you got me. But we won’t be tracking them.” She turned in her seat. “Because we’ll be invited along.” She pushed open the door.
The doorbell rang, and Emma swung to Cynthia and frowned. The old woman shook her head. Everyone else simply looked back at her. Emma pointed to the weapons, and Drake and Fergus quickly gathered everything up and started to store them away.
She went to the door and pulled it open to see a 30-something, black-haired woman with eyes just as dark staring back at her with the hint of a smile on her lips. She stuck out a small brown hand.
“Ms. Emma Wilson; I’m delighted to meet you in person at last.”
Emma reached forward automatically, still confused, and the woman grabbed her hand and pumped it.
“And you are?” Emma forced the hand to stop pumping.
“Camilla Ortega, journalist for Nacional De Venezuela.”
Emma released her hand, and her gaze became flat. Immediately, she sensed danger.
“Yes?”
“Call me Camilla, please.” The woman’s smile remained fixed in place.
Emma folded her arms, waiting.
“Nice place you have here.” Camilla looked over Emma’s shoulder into the house for a few moments, and then her gaze returned, and she seemed to force a smile. “You know, Ms. Wilson, I feel I’ve known you forever. I was just doing mundane local stories at the newspaper when they brought you, just you, out of the jungle all those years ago.” Her eyes were intense as she scrutinized Emma. “But you fired up my journalistic passion. And now, after all this time, you are finally going back.” Her eyebrows just lifted a hint.
Emma shook her head slowly. “Nope.”
She became coy. “I think, we may finally solve the mystery of the missing Cartwright expedition, yes?”
Emma felt alarms going off in her head. How the hell did this woman know this? she wondered. Her jaw set, and she leaned forward.
“Listen, Ms. Ortega, I don’t know what you want or expect. But you have your facts wrong. I have nothing to offer you, and don’t intend to be talking to the media, local or otherwise.”
Camilla’s red lips remained lifted at the corners. “But you’ve given me so much already, Ms. Wilson.”
Emma’s frown deepened.
Camilla went on. “I know you’ve hired mercenaries, have a few scientists working with you.” She tapped her chin for a moment. “And now I believe you will be preparing for a little trip down to our magnificent jungle once again.”
“Piss off.” Emma went to shut the door, but Camilla’s arm shot out.
“Wait.” The woman’s eyes were gun steady. “I can be your best friend or your worst enemy, Ms. Wilson. One call from me, and you’ll never get a visa to our country, ever again.”
Emma felt her heart sink, and she shut her eyes for a moment. She had spent years trying to plan for everything, every conceivable risk, but had overlooked the most basic one — people. She steeled herself and glared back at the woman, but now Camilla looked more empathetic than triumphant.
“Hear me out. Please.” Camilla’s hand went to Emma’s arm. “I can help you. But this mystery has been part of my life almost as long as it has yours. I only wish to help you solve it. Because it will give you closure, I think.” She shrugged. “And I can help you in Venezuela; I know people.”
Emma felt torn — their plane was to fly to Caracas, but then she and her team would immediately board a private charter seaplane to transport them and their cargo to a destination she would reveal to the pilot only when she was onboard. It was costing her a fortune in under-the-table fees.
The last thing she wanted was to be hauled in by Venezuelan immigration officials and questioned. A horrifying thought of being detained, even for a few days, might mean she’d miss her slim window of opportunity — Primordia would come and go — for another goddamn ten years.
Emma felt the knot in her gut tighten. She couldn’t even afford to gamble on having her shipment confiscated or scrutinized. Her mind whirled as she tried to think.
“I can help; I promise.” Camilla’s hand was still on her arm, and it moved to her hand where she then squeezed her fingers. “I promise.”
Emma looked at the journalist — small, but robust-looking, well-dressed, but not dainty, and with an ornate silver crucifix around her neck. Did she really care if this woman wanted to risk her own life, or worse, lose it?
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“No, I know exactly what I’m asking,” Camilla responded confidently. “You’re going into the Amazon jungle. I’ve been into its interior several times on news stories. I’m fit, and I can climb, hike, swim, and shoot with the best of them. So can my cameraman.”
“Cameraman?” Emma scoffed. “Deal breaker.”
“No, he won’t film anyone that doesn’t want to be filmed. In fact, each day and at the end of the expedition, we can review the footage and edit out anything you don’t like.” She stepped back and crossed her heart, briefly touching the silver crucifix at her throat.