Amazon Burning (A James Acton Thriller, #10) Page 7

  But he found her attractive.

  Maybe it was the way she had laughed last night as they learned each other’s names. Maybe it was just the way she seemed so exotic in the morning sun. He looked up at the patches of sky he could see through the canopy above then at the shadows cast. It was approaching midday and they had a long day’s journey ahead of him before he could begin the Cleansing Ritual.

  Then present her to his tribe as his intended mate.

  Laura had decided escape was pointless and that cooperation would be the order of the day. So far her captor, Tuk, had given no indication that he was aware she was marking their trail, and seemed perfectly content to lead her toward wherever they were going, frequently exchanging smiles with her, animatedly talking about their surroundings from time to time. If she didn’t know better, it was as if he were out for a brisk walk with a friend.

  The more time they spent together the less she thought this was a counting coup situation. He didn’t seem to be full of bravado at what he had done, and her impression of him suggested bravado wasn’t even in his nature. She was convinced he had self-esteem and self-confidence issues, his sometimes shy glances at her when he thought she wasn’t looking and his habit of trying to make himself appear bigger when she was, suggesting he felt diminutive in her eyes.

  She was not a tall woman, but not short either. However at five foot eight, she was definitely a few inches taller than Tuk, and her posture, always considered excellent, had her taking full advantage of all sixty-eight inches—none lost to a slouch. Tack on some heels and she began to approach James’ six foot two.

  James!

  She wondered what had happened to him, wondered if he was okay. With hours of daylight having passed, she had to assume that if there was some sort of rescue operation being undertaken, it had begun already. But then again, the nearest sign of civilization was five days by boat from where they were. They would obviously go faster, but you could only go so fast without risking hitting something in these mostly uncharted and ever changing waters, and nighttime travel at high speed would be foolish.

  It would take at least three days.

  And by then Tuk might have her so far buried in the jungle, she’d never be found.

  She dug her heel in a little harder, determined to try and make it as easy as possible to be found, despite how little faith she now had that she would ever see her beloved James again.

  A tear rolled down her cheek and she turned her head away from Tuk so he wouldn’t see it. The last thing she needed was him thinking she was missing her husband.

  Jealousy could be a cruel master.

  James Acton’s wrists and ankles screamed for mercy, the bindings biting into his skin, tearing it in places, and the elasticity the branch had that made the journey a little more comfortable for those carrying him, made each step an agony of yanking and shredding with each bounce.

  At first he was certain he was dinner, or a late night snack seeing as it was the middle of the night when he had been captured, but when everyone had gone to sleep except his guards, he had made it a point to get some rest himself. In the morning he had been tied to the long branch he now hung from, and his agonizing journey had begun.

  He knew quickly he had to create a mental wall between him and the pain, so he instead focused on the details. His lead captor had a bag over his shoulder made from animal skins that contained everything they had taken off of him when he was captured. He knew he had to keep track of that bag, the phone it contained possibly his only hope of survival. If he could just get a moment with his hands in the bag, he might be able to turn the phone on so it could be tracked.

  But how to get a moment?

  Hanging from the branch, carried like a piece of meat, didn’t seem to give much hope of a moment alone with his phone.

  One thing that hadn’t occurred to him, at least initially, was that these men were all wearing at least some clothing. Amazon tribes were known to wear usually nothing unless they had been “shamed” into wearing pants by contact with the outside world. Some wore loincloths not for modesty sake, but for convenience. Sometimes you just didn’t want certain things hanging out when running through the jungle or sitting on insect ridden ground. Shirts or tops of any type were unheard of.

  Yet one of these men clearly was wearing shorts. Tommy Hilfiger’s by the looks of it. Well worn, threadbare in fact, most likely acquired in a trade not so long ago.

  And if that were the case, then the tribe these men belonged to had been exposed to Western culture, so would most likely not be cannibals—though that was incredibly rare now in South America, and many believed it simply didn’t happen anymore, at least amongst the exposed tribes. The untouched tribes, those that had no contact whatsoever with the outside world, may still practice the eating of human flesh, but for the moment, he was quite confident he was free from that fate.

  Would they cook but not eat?

  He felt like he was on a spit, and he certainly wasn’t being treated like a guest. What their intentions were he had no idea. Perhaps they intended to trade him for something of value with other Westerners, or to another tribe. All he knew was their intentions couldn’t be good, and the deeper they went into the forest, the harder it would be for his friends to find him, let alone Laura.

  But with his constant view of the sun over their heads, caught through occasional breaks in the canopy, it appeared to him like they were moving almost north-west, which would take them toward the river if they kept going. This gave him hope. The closer to the river, the better chance of Western contact, the better chance of rescue or trade.

  And less chance of being dinner or tonight’s entertainment at the Thunderdome.

  Two men enter, one man leaves.

  If that were his fate, he’d do whatever it took to be that one man.

  Because if he died, Laura had almost no hope.

  Something smacked the back of his head, a rock or incredibly hard tree root. Whatever it was had his eyes watering, wincing in pain as he felt a warm, trickling sensation as blood began to flow. His heart started to slam into his chest, his ears filling with the roar as his head began to throb. He calmed himself, his thoughts of a concussion or worse beginning to wane when he heard what sounded like a loud crowd of people then suddenly silence.

  He must have been mistaken, the rush of blood through his ears in his moment of panic playing tricks on him.

  “Jim!”

  Heathrow Airport, London, England

  Retired Lt. Colonel Cameron Leather, formerly of the British Special Air Services, the country’s most elite of military soldiers, sat at his gate, his flight for Brazil boarding in fifteen minutes. He was fortunate to have been in Norwich visiting his mother when he had received the call from a panicked Terrence Mitchell about his client’s latest fiasco.

  There never seemed to be a dull moment with Professor Laura Palmer or her new husband, Professor James Acton. Though he himself had only been involved in one of their skirmishes in Egypt, it had been bloody and good men were lost. He had learned a lesson that day.

  Never underestimate the value put on some ancient discovery, especially when religion is involved.

  He had doubled their detail at the Egyptian site immediately, along with the Peruvian site that his company was now providing security for as well. After retiring from the SAS he had quickly found it necessary to keep in the game. Private security gigs kept coming up, men with his background in high demand. He quickly realized that the middlemen were making the money off of his and the other men’s backs, so he created his own firm, employing a bunch of his ex-SAS buddies, many who had served under his command, and paid them a far bigger cut than the other outfits were offering.

  He was the “go to” guy for post British Special Forces employment and now had a couple of hundred men scattered around the world. He had staff he could trust in London handling the business end—mostly wives of his men—leaving him free to gallivant and do what he loved.

 
But Professor Palmer was a special case.

  She paid a premium for him and a handpicked team. She wanted the best, and she paid for it. A ridiculous sum every month, but it was what she wanted. And one of those codicils to the standard contract was that whenever possible, he would be personally involved in any crisis situation.

  And this was definitely a crisis, though not one he had ever expected to have to deal with.

  A mega-millionaire being taken hostage? Absolutely. He trained for that. Negotiation techniques, forced retrievals, all standard stuff in his business.

  But rescue from a primitive native in the middle of the Amazon rainforest?

  No, he hadn’t expected that.

  He could honestly say this was something new. They would be entering a possibly hostile jungle environment, up against possibly one or more tribes that according to his preliminary research could number anywhere from twenty to twenty-thousand in number, and who knew the jungle like the back of their hand.

  Not to mention the massive territory.

  About the only good news would be that the only form of “rapid” transit would be by water. There were no cars, roads or horses to contend with here, the primitive, limited or noncontacted tribes never having been introduced to the beasts. This meant, hopefully, a limited search radius.

  Leather and his small team were going in armed and well equipped, a “special” courier already arranged to deliver their weapons at the rally point in Manaus. His hope was that they could enlist the help of another tribe which from his understanding was a possibility. With local support, true local support, not government support that didn’t know the jungle, they might stand a chance at finding the now two missing professors.

  He didn’t blame Professor Acton for going after his wife. He would have done the same, but it did make his job more difficult. For one thing, they had no idea if he was dead, injured or captured, and if captured, whether or not it was the same people who had captured Laura.

  His work had doubled.

  “Are we too late?”

  The voice was familiar.

  And unexpected.

  And unwelcome.

  Just what I don’t need.

  He stood up and turned as Terrence Mitchell, his wife Jenny directly behind him, rushed up, oversized carryon luggage flailing behind them. Leather forced a smile on his face as the rest of his men sitting nearby hid their delight in his discomfort, several of them having met the young and ridiculously awkward Mitchell while rotating through the Egyptian dig.

  “What are you two doing here?” he asked as pleasantly as he could.

  “We’re going with you.” Mitchell was breathless. Leather knew it wasn’t from being out of shape, the boy did the workouts and training with the rest of the students, so they must have run through the entire airport.

  And just my bloody luck, arriving just in time.

  “Out of the question.”

  Mitchell and Jenny seemed taken aback by his rather abrupt response. “Why not?” demanded Mitchell’s new wife, still shiny and happy in the post-wedding glow, years of bitter reality yet to destroy her hope in the future.

  Bitter much?

  His own wedding had ended in disaster, Annie a big city girl marrying the dashing soldier, getting posted to small towns in Britain and equally small towns in foreign countries, not matching the cosmopolitan lifestyle she had planned for herself. And when he had made the Special Air Services and began to deploy on a moment’s notice without being able to tell her anything, she had snapped.

  Apparently it was quite the scene on their lawn after he had left.

  It was his umpteenth deployment on a special op to Iraq that had finally done her in. When he came home she was gone. She had left a note telling him to sod off and never contact her, then cleaned him out of everything she had some sort of attachment to. Everything from the furniture to the pictures on the walls. Christ, she had even taken the wood toilet seats from the toilets, leaving the original plastic ones behind.

  That was when he realized that there had never been any hope.

  What kind of sick bitch takes the toilet seats!?

  He looked at the two young, energetic and still filled with hope youngsters in front of him, wondering if his past was their future, and hoped not.

  The wife of a military man isn’t for everyone.

  He had since spoken to his wife, many times in fact, the breakup years ago. She had remarried—some doctor in London—and was the fashionable woman she had always wanted to be. How she had ever thought she’d have that lifestyle shacking up with a soldier he’d never know.

  Must have been love.

  And he saw that same love in the two faces now staring at him, waiting for an answer.

  “Why not?” repeated Jenny.

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I’m—we’re willing to take the risk.” It was Mitchell who offered up their lives, Jenny’s head snapping in agreement.

  “We will be jumping out of an aircraft at several thousand feet, precision diving into the Amazon River, then grabbing a line to take us to shore, that if missed, means we will end up either dead or so far down the river as to need rescue ourselves. Then we will be entering a rainforest filled with poisonous and deadly animals and insects, along with natives known to practice cannibalism, in the remote hopes to find Professors Palmer and Acton, who may not even be alive.” He stared at Mitchell with no trace of a smile, knowing he was the weaker willed of the two. “Are you sure you’re capable of that?”

  Mitchell’s bottom lip trembled slightly at the realization of what he had got himself into began to set in. Leather could tell however that the boy was looking for a way to save face with his wife so gave him an out.

  “I would suggest that rather than come with us all the way as you had intended, you come with us to the staging area downriver. You can help us coordinate the evac once we’ve found them, and coordinate with the authorities. I had planned to leave one of my men behind to do it”—a lie, the job was a make-work project—“but with you two here, it gives me the opportunity to take an extra experienced man along.” He looked from Mitchell to Jenny then back. “What do you think?”

  Mitchell exchanged a quick glance with Jenny who also seemed slightly relieved for a way out, both their heads quickly bobbing in agreement. “I-I-I mean we, think that’s probably a better use of resources.”

  “Agreed,” said Jenny, gripping Mitchell by the arm.

  “Good.” Leather pointed at two seats at the far end of the row. “Now sit down and I’ll brief you later.”

  The two nodded then dragged their unchecked bags to the two empty seats outside of earshot. One of his men, Michael Trent, leaned over.

  “Dodged a bullet on that one, huh, boss?”

  Grant hadn’t met Mitchell, or seen his two left feet in action.

  “You have no bloody idea.”

  Barasana Village on the Rio Negro, Northern Amazon, Brazil

  “Bloody hell!”

  Reading rushed forward, shoving his way through the crowd, not giving a damn about baring his teeth, and in fact he did several times as his anger grew, the sight of his friend trussed up like an animal being brought back from the hunt for dinner enraging him.

  Fabricio cried out from behind him, urging him to stop, but Reading ignored him, continuing to barge through the natives barely half his size then came to a skidding halt when half a dozen spears blocked his progress, their owners’ teeth bared, animalistic growls erupting from their throats. Reading’s eyes flared, his teeth on full display as he returned their growl, adrenaline fueling him with rage and idiocy, there no way he could win here.

  He reached behind his back for the gun tucked in his belt when someone grabbed his hand.

  “No, senhor! You will get us all killed!” hissed Fabricio from behind him.

  “Tell them to let him go!” shouted Reading, pointing at Acton who seemed in a confused daze.

  Fabricio looked at the newly arriv
ed hunters then, as if realizing for the first time who their captive was, he slapped his hands against his face, gasping, “Senhor Professor!” A rapid exchange in Portuguese ensued, the elder exchanging few words with Fabricio, mostly listening. Then there was an exchange between the hunters and the elder, then the elder held his spear up in the air, shaking it and shouting something.

  Cheers erupted from all around, the spears threatening Reading were lowered, the mouths closed, the normal smiles returning, and Acton was gently lowered to the ground, his bindings quickly cut. Reading began to move toward his friend when he stopped. The men blocking him bowed slightly and parted, allowing him to pass unimpeded and he was soon on his knees, at his friend’s side. He helped him up to a sitting position against a large tree, quickly checking for wounds, finding one on the back of his head that was bleeding but didn’t look too severe.

  “Water!” he yelled, Fabricio repeating the order and soon small clay bowls filled with water were brought, Reading holding the first one to his friend’s lips, Acton drinking it slowly. A group of women sat down around them and Reading was about to object when they took Acton’s arms, smiling at him reassuringly. The women quickly began to clean the wounds around the wrists and ankles, one tending to the head wound.

  He gave his friend some more water and he slowly began to come around, his eyes finally focusing on Reading.

  Acton smiled. “Thank God!” he murmured. “I thought I was dinner.”

  “You’re lucky you weren’t,” replied Reading with a smile. He turned to Fabricio. “Get the med kit.”

  Fabricio nodded and shouted to someone on the boat. Moments later the med kit was at his side, opened, leaving Reading to stare at the mess of supplies.