Amazonia (Page 120)

As the heat welled up and away from them, Kostos yelled down. “Keep moving, but watch for falling debris.”

Nate crouched up. Everyone began to climb to their feet, dazed.

They had made it!

As the others started down, he reached for his father. “C’mon, Dad. Let’s get out of here.”

With his father’s hand held in his own, Nate felt the ground vibrate, a tremoring rumble. He instinctively knew this was bad. Oh, shit…

He dove atop his father, a scream on his lips. “Down! Everyone back down!”

The second explosion deafened them. Nate screamed from the pain. It blew with such force that he was sure the cliff would fall atop them.

From the mouth of the tunnel above, a jet of fire belched out, blasting into the fall of water. Scalding steam rolled down over them.

Nate craned upward and watched a second belch of fire blow from the tunnel, then a third. Smaller flames shot out of tinier crevices in the cliff face all around, like a hundred flickering fiery tongues. All of them an eerie blue.

All the while, the ground continued to shake and rumble.

Nate kept his father pinned under him.

Rocks and dirt shattered outward. Entire uprooted trees shot like flaming missiles through the sky to crash down into the lower valley.

Then this too died down.

No one moved as smaller rocks tumbled past. Again the waterfall protected them, deflecting most of the debris, or reducing their speed to bruising rather than deadly velocities.

After several minutes, Nate raised his head enough to view the damage.

He spotted Kouwe a step above his father. The professor looked dazed and sickened. He stared back at Nate, face pale with shock. “Anna…when you yelled…I was too slow…the explosion…I couldn’t catch her in time.” His eyes flicked to the long tumble below. “She fell.”

Nate closed his eyes. “Oh, God.”

He heard mournful cries flow up around them. Anna had not been alone in falling to her death. Nate pushed to his knees. His father coughed and rolled onto his side, looking ashen.

After a time, the group crawled down the stairs, beaten, bloody, and in shock.

They gathered at the foot of the falls, bathed in cool spray. Three Ban-ali tribesmen had also met their deaths on the stair.

“What was that second explosion?” Sergeant Kostos asked.

Nate remembered the strange blue flame. He asked for one of the canteens with the Yagga sap. He poured out a grape-sized drop and used Carrera’s lighter to ignite it. A tall blue flame flared up from the dollop of sap. “Like copal,” Nate said. “Combustible. The entire tree went up like a roman candle. Roots and all, I imagine, from the way the ground shook.”

A deep mournful silence spread over the smaller camp.

Finally Carrera spoke. “What now?”

Nate answered, his voice fierce. “We make that bastard pay. For Manny, for Olin, for Anna, for all the Ban-ali tribespeople.”

“They have guns,” Sergeant Kostos said. “We have one Bailey. They outnumber us more than two to one.”

“To hell with that.” Nate kept his voice cold. “We have a card that trumps all that.”

“What’s that?” Kostos asked.

“They think we’re dead.”

Nineteen

Midnight Raid

11:48 P.M.

AMAZON JUNGLE

Kelly’s eyes still stung with tears. With her hands bound behind her back, she couldn’t even wipe them away. She was secured to a stake under a lean-to of woven palm leaves that deflected the gentle rain that now fell. The clouds had rolled in as full night had set, which had suited her kidnappers just fine. “The darker the better,” Favre had exulted. They made good time and were now enveloped in thick jungle cover well south of the swamp.

But despite the darkness and the distance, the northern skies glowed a fiery red, as if the sun were trying to rise from that direction. The explosions that had lit up the night had been spectacular, shooting a fireball high into the sky, followed by a scattering of flaming debris.

The sight had burned all hope from her. The others were dead.

Favre had set a hard pace after that, sure that the government’s helicopters would be winging to the fires posthaste. But so far the skies had remained clear. There was no whump-whumping of military air vehicles. Favre kept a constant watch on the skies. Nothing.

Maybe Olin’s signal had never made it out. Or maybe the helicopters were still en route.

Either way, Favre was taking no chances. No lights, just night-vision glasses. Kelly, of course, was not given a pair. Her shins were bruised and thorn-scraped from falls and missteps in the dark. Her stumblings had amused the guards. Without her hands to break her fall, each trip bloodied her knees. Her legs ached. Mosquitoes and gnats were attracted to the wounds, crawling and buzzing around her. She couldn’t even swat them away.

The rain was a relief. As was the short break—a full hour. Kelly stared over at the glowing northern skies, praying her friends hadn’t suffered.

Closer at hand, the mercenary band celebrated its victory. Flasks of alcohol passed from hand to hand. Toasts were made, and boasts declared amid jovial whispers of how their money would be spent—much of it involving whores. Favre circulated through the group, allowing his men this celebration but making sure it didn’t get out of hand. They were still miles from the rendezvous point where the motorboats were waiting.

So for the moment, Kelly had a bit of relative privacy. Frank was under another makeshift lean-to in the middle of the camp. Her only company here was the single guard: Favre’s disfigured lieutenant, the man named Mask. He stood talking with another mercenary, sharing a flask.

A figure approached through the drizzle. It was Favre’s Indian woman, Tshui. She seemed oblivious of the rain, still naked, but at least she no longer wore the head of Corporal DeMartini around her neck.

Probably didn’t want to get the foul thing wet, Kelly thought sourly.

Mask’s companion slid away at the approach of the woman. She had that effect on most of the mercenaries. They were clearly frightened of her. Even Mask took a few steps from the lean-to and sheltered under a neighboring palm.

The Indian woman bent out of the rain and knelt beside Kelly. She carried a rucksack in one hand. She settled it to the dirt and began to rummage silently through it, finally pulling out a tiny clay pot and freeing the lid.

Filling the container was a thick waxy unguent. The witch-woman scooped a dab on a finger, then reached to Kelly.

She flinched away.

The Indian woman grabbed her ankle. Her grip was iron. She slathered the material on Kelly’s abraded knees. Instantly the sting and burn faded. Kelly stopped fighting and allowed the woman to treat her.