"Right."
The uncle returned and placed a ten-gallon gas tank at the rear of the boat. He handed King a World War Two Ml Garand rifle loaded with eight .30 caliber rounds. It was old but reliable. The eight rounds combined with the eight in his handgun gave him sixteen shots. Not a lot when going up against a team of high-tech mercs, but all he needed was to take down one of them, then he'd pay the pain and misery forward with their Metal Storm weapons.
"Make sure the bodies are found and buried," King said. Atahualpa nodded. "Including McCabe."
Fear filled his eyes as he recalled the horrifying events of the previous day, but he nodded again and said, "I will. All of them."
King still had trouble believing McCabe could have killed all those people so viciously, but he had no other explanation, and no other recourse but to rescue Pierce. McCabe was missing, probably dead. And only Atahualpa had survived the attack. His goal was singular and he was locked on target like a stinger missile — King gave the engine's starter cord a yank and opened up the throttle, puttering into the middle of the river — a very slow moving missile.
FOURTEEN
The Rio Urubamba slid silently through the dense jungle like a boa constrictor hunting for prey. It meandered side to side in vast curves, sometimes nearly looping around on itself. If not for King keeping the old boat at full speed he wouldn't have made it much more than a mile from Jauja. As it was, he doubted he'd traveled more than a few linear miles from the village. But this was the way his adversaries had come and he had yet to see a gap in the jungle where a boat could land.
With the sun lingering just below the horizon, night would soon descend. He knew he should stop for the night, tie off to a tree and sleep, but he couldn't shake his guilt over losing Pierce, not to mention the lives of McCabe and the dig crew. But all of their deaths combined didn't outweigh the pain of allowing Pierce to be kidnapped. As strange as it was, his old friend was all he had left of his sister. With her death, he and Pierce had drifted apart some, like parents of a killed child— each reminded the other of Julie. They kept in touch over the years, but could never close the distance. When King received the invitation to Nazca he saw it as a chance to heal old wounds and regain a friend. Instead, he'd lost him, perhaps for good.
With the stars beginning to emerge in the slit of sky visible through the overhanging jungle canopy, King could no longer ignore the growing darkness. Capsizing in the Amazon at night would be a quick and most likely painful way to die. He tried not to picture the creatures lurking beneath the brown water — caiman crocs, piranha, anaconda— but every now and then something beneath the surface would nudge the boat enough to rock it from side to side. In the dark, with his balance off, even a small nudge might be enough to send him overboard.
As King began searching for a tree to tie the boat to, a small sandy beach opened up in the jungle. He made a beeline toward the shore and landed the boat. After shutting off the motor, he climbed over his bag and made his way toward the front of the long boat. If this had been the point where the others had landed, it would be written on the beach. He inspected the sand and found a series of clear tracks — all animal. The small beach led back into the jungle, no doubt merging with a game trail. Pierce was further downstream, perhaps already off the water, perhaps dead.
King forced the thoughts of Pierce's fate from his mind and began setting up camp. He broke out his small tent, built a quick fire, and began boiling river water to hydrate one of the MRE meals he'd brought. A sports bar probably would have been more nutritious and tasty, but the MREs were easy to get and King was used to them. Besides, a hot meal couldn't be beat. King read the label. Tonight was buffalo chicken and corn bread. Not bad. He shook the contents out and saw a small pack of Charms candy. The brightly colored sweets found in only the occasional MRE were considered bad luck by most in uniform, more so if actually eaten. King picked up the packet, tore it open, unwrapped the first lime-flavored sugar square and popped it into his mouth. He never relied on luck.
And the candy was good.
As the dark blue sky turned black, King's line of sight was reduced to what the fire lit — the beach, a 330-degree enclosure of jungle, and a small stretch of the lazy river. Above the river, between the trees, he could make out a slice of night sky that contained more stars than he could see from Fort Bragg. With no major city for hundreds of miles, this was one of the few places left on earth where the unadulterated night sky could be seen in all its glory. Just the small sliver of sky above was impressive.
After downing his buffalo chicken and butter-slathered corn bread, he doused himself in bug repellent and laid back on the sand, staring at the slice of night sky. His mind craved to plot and plan his actions for the morning, but beyond waking with the dawn and following the river there was nothing to plan. He had to be fluid and roll with the punches as they came. The type to plan out details in advance, King wasn't thrilled about the prospect of winging it, but he still had no doubt what the final outcome would be — lots of dead bad guys. He just hoped Pierce wouldn't be among the dead.
King raised his arm over his face and pushed a button on his watch. It glowed green in his face. Nine o'clock. Seven back home. Time to check in. King removed the satellite phone he'd taken from the Nazca dig site and breathed a little easier. At least he could coordinate this part of the mission. He dialed the number and waited for the call to go through. After the familiar digital recording played King spoke his call sign into the phone and was connected.
"Any leads?" Deep Blue asked without a greeting.
King felt confident that the man had been moving fast to make things happen on his end, and so Deep Blue's curt voice didn't faze him. King had never met the man. No one on the team had. But he was able to pull strings in Washington and the military like no one else, and King, for one, didn't need to know the man's identity. In this business, anonymity meant freedom to act, and Deep Blue seemed to have that in spades. "If a lazy day on the river counts, plenty," King said. "Otherwise, nothing."
"The team is in the air and on their way south. Go ahead and activate your GPS unit now."
King placed the phone down and removed the GPS unit pilfered from Atahualpa's jeep and switched it on. "It's on," he said into the phone.
"Give me the serial number."
King read the number and waited as he listened to Deep Blue's fingers fly over a keyboard half a world away.
"Got you," Deep Blue said. "Keep the unit on you at all times. We'll drop the others right on top of you ASAP."
"If I'm still on the river when they get here they'll need transportation."
"Copy that. I'll figure out the details. You just stay alive." "That's the plan."
"Don't worry about your buddy, King. We'll get him back."
King felt bolstered by Deep Blue's confidence. He hadn't realized how deep his doubts about retrieving Pierce had become. "I'll call back when I've got Pierce."
"You do that."
King hung up and switched off the phone, conserving the battery. The night settled around him again with the sound of birds chirping, monkeys calling, and an assortment of foragers scrambling through the underbrush. He was surrounded by life, but all he could see was the dancing fire, which began to die down. King gathered several branches from a fallen tree and tossed them on the fire. The damp branches sizzled but caught, popping as the gases inside heated, then burst. Sparks flew. The music and dance of the fire distracted him as the dry heat sucked away the dense jungle moisture and relaxed his body. Laying back on the sand, King's thoughts drifted.