A flash of red caught Bishop in the gut, followed by a second to the temple. The bystanders cringed with loud "oohs!" but not because of the pain Bishop was being dealt, but because they knew it would be returned on the recruit, and then some.
Sufficiently motivated, Bishop changed his stance. That alone caused the kid to back off. Bishop hadn't changed a thing since the fight began. He merely hopped around the ring, accepting punches. But a new presence in the gym caught Bishop's attention. Brigadier General Michael Keasling, commander of the Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC), a task force commissioned with making sure U.S. special ops weaponry and tactics were the best in the world. The man didn't make social calls and he never made an appearance at the gym. The grim look on his mustached face confirmed Bishop's fear. Something was wrong.
Keasling didn't make a motion. Just met Bishop's eye. Bishop nodded. The fight was over.
But not for everyone. The recruit saw the moment of distraction and took it. He came in low and swung up with a massive uppercut. But Bishop was no longer playing the part of punching bag. As the punch came up, Bishop tilted his head back. The gloved fist caught nothing but air, throwing the large man off balance. Bishop followed up the dodge with a quick blow to the recruit's midsection, doubling him over. He chased it quickly with a crushing right hook that put the kid on one knee. Had the recruit been less cocksure he would have let it end there, but this one would get himself killed in combat if his ego wasn't broken. The third punch spun the kid's head around and put him on the mat.
As the men watching cheered him on, Bishop shed his blue gloves, dropped them to the mat, and slipped between the ropes. He toweled the sweat from his body as he approached Keasling. "Is it King?"
Keasling nodded. "The others are on their way back. You ship out in three hours."
"Where to?"
"Best guess at this point? Peru. But the exact location has yet to be determined."
"What happened?"
"Mercs killed a bunch of civies on King's watch. Kidnapped his friend, too. He's out for blood," Keasling said. He started to leave, then paused. "Leave the dog tags. This one's off the books."
Bishop nodded. The general left without another word.
Bishop entered the showers and stood beneath an ice-cold, high-pressure spray of water. He leaned his hands against the wall, closed his eyes, and controlled his breathing. Vivaldi would have to wait.
THIRTEEN
King sat in the jeep, foot eager to hit the gas. As the engine clicked and cooled he forced his hands to release the steering wheel. A painful tingle filled his hands as blood rushed to fill crushed digits. He and Atahualpa had followed the mercenaries' tracks through the Naz-can desert and into the mountainous region that divided the desert from the jungle. The wet dirt roads created an easy trail to follow at first, but as they neared larger cities the tracks became muddled in with others and disappeared. They'd resorted to questioning locals. Luckily, the large silver SUV driven by the mercenaries stood out to those who had seen it speed past.
Atahualpa dashed out of a small house on the outskirts of town built from corrugated metal and tree limbs. His help had been indispensable so far. King could get by in the modern, Spanish-speaking portions of Peru, but here, where Quechuan was the language of choice, he was lost. Atahualpa spoke English, Spanish, Quechuan, and several other Peruvian dialects, some close to extinction. Hopping into the jeep, he was all smiles.
"Good news?" King asked.
He nodded. "I know where they're going."
King raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"They headed northwest," Atahualpa pointed toward a muddy dirt road leading northwest. "That way. There is only one village. Jauja. My cousin lives there."
King took the steering wheel again and hit the gas, having never taken the vehicle out of drive. "What else is in Jauja?"
"Farming village. Cows. Goats. Not much else." He looked at King. "It is dead end. No roads out."
"Nothing?"
"Just the river. Rio Urubamba." "Where does the river lead?" "Why would they use the river?"
King shot him an annoyed glace and slammed into a water-filled pothole as a result. Water splashed onto the windshield and slid away.
"The river goes nowhere," Atahualpa said. "Just jungle. Rain forest. But we cannot go there. If we get lost no one will find us."
King tapped the GPS unit attached to the jeep's dashboard. "I won't get lost, and you're not coming." King dodged a second pothole and slammed the gas to the floor. Mud shot into the air behind the jeep as it reached eighty miles per hour. He was closing in on them. If they took the river instead of a plane, that meant they were close. He'd find them in the jungle.
An hour later they reached Jauja. Atahualpa jumped from the jeep, clearly thankful to be alive after King's sprint to the village. Speeding in the open, flat desert was scary enough; the mountainous jungle, with its tall cliff drop-offs, twisting turns, and overgrown roadsides had terrified the man. King would get no argument from Atahualpa over leaving him behind. The man had paid his penance by helping get King this far. Now it was time to pay back the money he'd earned selling them out.
"I need a boat," he said to the nervous guide.
Atahualpa nodded and led the way through the small village. Homes of reed and corrugated metal stood on stilts that kept them safe from seasonal flooding. Clothes hung on lines stretched between huts. A brown capuchin monkey tied to a rope sat on an old wooden fence staring at King intently as a group of girls doing one another's hair didn't spare a second glance as they passed. They seemed invisible to the rest of the village, who either didn't care about strangers in their midst or, more likely, had a recent run-in with less friendly strangers. King kept his eyes open for a silver SUV. It had to be there.
Then he saw it, by the wide, lazy river. A burned-out husk. Any evidence of the men who'd been inside had been erased. An old man dressed in what had once been a suit coat, now tattered and dirty, approached from a hut by the river, his toothless mouth spread wide with a smile.
"My uncle," Atahualpa said. The two embraced and began speaking quickly in Quechuan. Atahualpa turned to King after a few minutes of rapid-fire discussion. The old man was nodding. "He says the men we are looking for went upriver. He has a boat and will sell it to you for five hundred."
"Does he have a gun?"
Atahualpa asked. "Yes, but it is old. A rifle."
It wasn't ideal, but there were no alternatives. "Tell him I'll take both for five hundred."
Atahualpa relayed the message, then smiled. "He agrees." "Good," King said. "Now pay the man."
Atahualpa blanched. But he did not question King. They both knew where the wad of money in his pocket came from. He paid his uncle, who then led them to the river. The long wooden boat held an outboard motor that looked ancient but well maintained. While the old man fetched the rifle and a gas can, King retrieved his gear and the GPS unit from the jeep. After loading his bag into the boat, King took stock of the river and jungle. The dark water flowed slowly and would make for easy travel as long as it stayed that way, but trees and overgrowth filled the river side opposite the village. With the sun already lowering on the horizon, he'd probably have to spend the night in the boat. He looked at Atahualpa. "Are there crocodiles?"
"Caimans, yes," the man answered. "But they will not attack you in the boat. The jaguar is what you should watch for."