by Matt Rogers
CHAPTER 13
It wasn’t long before he heard man-made sounds in the distance. They were faint, on the very edge of what was audible, but nevertheless they didn’t align with the natural atmosphere of the rainforest. Muffled voices, far off. Definitely human.
King was onto them.
A brief flash of relief passed over him. It wasn’t much of an achievement. He was probably heading for certain death, toward a compound full of drug gangsters armed to the teeth and ready for a firefight. But it was progress, and finding the facility was preferable to trekking through the rainforest for hours with nothing to show for it.
Before he moved in, he reached into the duffel and withdrew a weatherproof water canister. He’d filled it up from a pool of rainwater that had gathered inside a large frond leaf. He had passed the leaf ten minutes earlier, and dropped a couple of water purification tablets into the bottle as he’d filled it. The tablets were top of the line, not for sale on the general market, mainly because of their exorbitant production cost. They were used exclusively by special forces who found themselves in remote hazardous regions. King wasn’t sure of the technicalities, but he knew they exterminated anything dangerous within five minutes. He just used what was given to him.
He raised the canister to his lips and took a long drink. It tasted fine. Bearable, which was all that mattered. He didn’t care for pleasantries. Nothing out here mattered except the mission.
King made sure the duffel was fastened tight to his back, then dropped to the rainforest floor and began to crawl through the undergrowth. It dirtied his clothes and face within seconds. Once again, nothing but unpleasant. Far more important things to worry about. But he knew he would happen upon the facility any moment, and it would be wise to stay hidden from prying eyes.
Slowly, the muffled voices grew louder. They turned to audible phrases, spoken in Spanish. King knew enough of the language to pick up the gist of conversation. Multiple hostiles, all conversing across a fair distance. Loud enough that King could hear their voices carry from a few dozen feet away.
‘Mabaya said there’s a guy out there in the jungle. He killed Manuel and Alois.’
‘You don’t know that. You’re talking shit. They’ll be back.’
‘Mabaya heard it on the radio.’
‘You don’t know anything.’
‘He’s gonna kill the hostages.’
‘Who, the guy out there?’
‘No. Mabaya.’
‘Good. Fuck them. American pigs.’
Mabaya … that was Swahili for “monster”. King noted that he sounded like the man in charge. They spoke of Mabaya as if he possessed a level of authority greater than theirs. It was subtle, but noticeable.
King shuffled into position and slowly transitioned into a crouch, making sure not to make any sudden movements. Avoiding detection was paramount. He rose a fraction of a hair above the ferns. Narrowed his vision. Took a long look at what he could see.
The drug manufacturing facility lay ahead. It was still far enough in the distance to give the hostiles no chance of spotting him. To them he was an unnoticeable speck amongst the dense foliage. But he could see the layout, which he spent valuable time memorising.
The main building was a long low structure made of corrugated iron sheeting, much like a smaller version of the hangar King had spent the previous night in. It looked shoddy, put together hastily. He realised it probably had been.
There was no way to ensure quality this deep into uncharted territory. Concrete trucks or any other form of construction equipment would be impossible to transport to these parts. All supplies would have been brought in by boat. He guessed a compound in the middle of inhospitable rainforest wouldn’t prioritise security from enemy forces during its construction. Its builders would not have considered a fully-armed special forces soldier locating and approaching it with the intention of infiltration.
The main building lay in the centre of a small man-made clearing, carefully selected to provide cover from prying eyes. It was clear that vegetation had been removed in order to fit the structure, yet it still remained shrouded in shadow from the enormous drooping palm fronds of the surrounding trees. The fronds formed a sort of ceiling, a canopy above the warehouse. Natural light filtered through a dozen different gaps in the canopy. The result was somewhat eerie. The conditions accentuated shadows while still keeping the area reasonably well-lit.
The main building where King assumed the heroin and cocaine and other narcotics were produced had a cluster of adjoining huts near one end. These were randomly interspersed, made of flimsy wood and sporting thatched roofs. Living quarters. He wondered how they remained standing through the downpours of the wet season.
Six men currently patrolled the space in between the complex and the jungle. A small patch of empty ground, covered in moss and leaves. They shuffled back and forth, still talking. Agitated. Dressed in similar kit to the two men he’d killed near the riverbank. All holding similar weapons. From this distance he had trouble recognising the exact make, but all their rifles looked like Kalashnikovs. Reliable and deadly.
A door connected to the main structure burst open. Out strode a man. His complexion was darker than the rest. He was African, and even from a few dozen feet away his build looked solid. Taller than the rest of the men, he wore a sleeveless vest revealing muscular arms bulging with veins and large hands with thick fingers. Good for fighting. His head was shaved bald.
‘Mabaya,’ one of the men said in Spanish. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I should ask the same question,’ Mabaya said, his deep voice resonating. King instantly recognised it. It was the same voice behind the camera in the hostage video. ‘We have a hostile watching us, and you useless fucks are standing around doing nothing.’
King’s pulse quickened.
‘How do you—’
‘He is watching. Trust me. I heard him on the radio kill Alois. Slimy fucker. I know what he’s here for.’
‘The hostages?’
Mabaya nodded. ‘Let’s make this tricky for him.’
He stepped back inside. King watched as the men outside shuffled restlessly. They were nervous. This was a foreign situation to them.
Within a minute Mabaya returned.
This time dragging a man by the collar.
The guy’s face sported dried blood and several bruises. He was also bald, dressed in a dirty security guard’s uniform. King knew who it was. With a sinking suspicion in his gut of what was about to unfold, he witnessed Mabaya drag the ex-soldier Roman Woodford into the middle of the clearing. Visible from all directions to anyone watching from the jungle.
‘American!’ Mabaya roared, switching to English. It reverberated off the trees. ‘See this man? Five seconds before I kill him! Five seconds! You show yourself!’
King didn’t move. If he gave himself up, they would all be executed. The most likely result of this operation anyway, but one he would strive to avoid. He wasn’t sure if Mabaya was bluffing. Many times, he’d watched volatile enemies make bold claims. They rarely followed through. Executing hostages removed the valuable advantage of possessing a safeguard to attack.
‘Four seconds!’
Mabaya didn’t stutter. He stayed supremely confident. Unwavering in his tone.
‘Three!’
Still no sign of hesitation. A shadow of doubt crept into King’s mind. Woodford was on his knees, motionless, staring at the ground. His expression was steely, but beaten. There was no fight he could put up without being shot to pieces. His face sported the saddening look of reserved acceptance.
‘Two!’
King could do nothing. Revealing his location would result in certain death for him and all three of the hostages. He pictured the young kid Norton’s face right before the Phantoms executed him. It sent a shiver down his spine.
‘One!’
No turning back. What happened next would reveal the situation at stake.
The situation proved to be catastrophic.
&nbs
p; King watched in silent horror as Mabaya slid a large machete from a holster at his waist and swung it fast and hard through the air. A downward scything motion. It entered Woodford’s neck in just the right place.
Thunk.
Blood arced from the wound in three or four separate locations, spurting to the clearing floor. Woodford’s eyes glazed over instantly. Mabaya was a powerful man. The blow had almost taken Woodford’s head clean off. King clenched his fists and screamed internally as he witnessed the man collapse, all tension gone from his limbs.
Unquestionably dead.
Just like that.
‘You see!’ Mabaya roared, even louder than before. King could see the adrenalin in his expression, twisted and leering and full of energy. Murdering a man in cold blood would do that. ‘I do not fuck around! American, you have until sunset to show up here. Or I’ll kill the boy and the woman. Much more slowly. Much more painfully. Your choice!’
King could not shake the feeling that the operation was already irreversibly fucked.
CHAPTER 14
Of the seven Phantoms outside the building, three walked inside with Mabaya. The other four held their positions, peering in different directions. Looking for any sign of movement in the trees. Woodford’s corpse remained on the clearing floor, blood pooling around his upper body.
King quickly reconsidered his next move. With Woodford’s death, his last hope of finding an ally with combat experience had also vanished. Jodi Burns and Ben Norton were somewhere inside the complex, no doubt guarded by several men at a time. There would be no easy way to them, save an all-out assault.
And that was a scenario he was entirely unprepared for.
He had no intel on the facility. It remained unclear how many people were in the compound. So far he had seen seven, but it was a large structure. He saw living quarters for at least twenty individuals. On top of this, everyone was ready for action. His element of surprise had disappeared following the confrontation on the riverbank.
It was time to retreat. At least for an hour or two. A difficult decision given the circumstances, but really the only viable option given the recent turn of events. He would have to give the Phantoms’ enough time to drop their guard. Surveillance was a tough slog of an activity. Even on his missions, King had trouble keeping watch for hours at a time. Staying at a high enough level of alertness to detect all unnatural activity took practice and immense patience. He predicted these men didn’t have the skills necessary. After a while, they would grow tired. Their eyes would get sore. And then King would return and attack ruthlessly, when they least expected it.
He sprawled down to the rainforest floor once again and began to head away from the facility. Right now, the guards would be on their highest level of alertness, still jacked up on nervous energy after witnessing a murder. There was nothing to be done now. King had to let that energy dissipate.
When he was far enough away from the compound to break the line of sight, he got to his feet. His khakis were covered in mud and leaves. They clung to his skin, held there by sweat. Less than ideal conditions.
The rainforest looked the same for the next two hundred feet. He walked in a straight line away from the compound so that it would be easy to find his way back. Before long, the river materialised up ahead. He heard it before he saw it; the soft sound of running water. In these parts, it provided a brief moment of tranquility. King saw slivers of the riverbank ahead through gaps in the trees. It was further upstream than where he had come face-to-face with the two mercenaries. He could tell that much. That meant he was much closer to the compound. He would have to be cautious not to make excess noise.
He scouted the area for a minute, trying to find a suitable location to store his gear. It was important for the spot to be sheltered from prying eyes. He wasn’t sure if the Phantoms made regular patrols of the area. That’s what the two thugs he had run into before could have been doing. King recalled the four small boats they’d been standing next to, nothing but wooden hulls with motors attached. Maybe that was how the Phantoms transported their supply to Iquitos.
Maybe this river spiralled its way towards the city.
King stepped out of the rainforest briefly and peered downstream. Sure enough, he spotted the watercraft far in the distance, nothing but specks from here, bobbing on the flowing river’s surface. They would provide a useful getaway instrument if he happened to successfully extract Burns and Norton.
Within five minutes he’d found a suitable shelter inside the rainforest. It was at the base of a small rocky outcrop jutting out from the side of a hill, situated close to the river. The natural formation created a dent in the hill, covered by plants and ferns and winding branches. A cove, hidden away from anyone in the area.
He nodded in approval and threw the duffel bag into the space created by the indentation. Now his gear was safe. The duffel had been a burden ever since he’d crashed into the trees earlier that morning. King looked up through the gaps in the canopy of trees, searching for the sun’s location. It had reached its peak in the sky and was now in the long process of descending. He guessed it was around two in the afternoon. Plenty of time left to plan his attack.
He ducked into the shelter and unzipped the bag. Inside lay everything he needed for the rest of the operation. First, it was time to eat. He pulled out one of the ration packs and tore it open. The small package contained a power bar, a small tube of electrolytes and a tin of pre-cooked penne pasta. He wolfed the bar down, gulped the electrolytes then took his time with the pasta.
For the first time in the last twenty-four hours, he took a short break. He spent the period reflecting on where he was as he ate. He still had no backup, but he had a little more confidence now after laying eyes on the compound. It was larger than he thought it would be, and he had no doubt there was a means of communication somewhere within the main building. He would find it. He was sure of it. As for the hostages, that was a much more tentative situation.
Mabaya and the other Phantoms were fully prepared for a firefight. They were expecting him, and he was certain they would not hesitate to kill the two Americans without a second thought. King knew how hostage situations worked. Even if he managed to gain the upper hand in the battle, the thugs would still be able to kill the hostages with ease. And they would, if they were losing. A last resort to ensure King remained unsuccessful in his mission.
With a sick feeling in his stomach he tucked the remnants of his ration pack into the duffel and withdrew the MP5SD. For a submachine gun, the weapon was extremely precise. Exactly why King favoured it over other firearms. He’d used it for the past three years, and knew it inside and out. 30 round magazine. Just over seven pounds in weight. It could fire roughly 800 rounds a minute, which meant he could empty a clip in three seconds if he held down the trigger.
Useful for overwhelming violence.
His favourite kind of violence.
King slotted a spare magazine into his belt, brushed the ferns aside and rose out of the indent. It would do no good sitting on his rear and waiting for an opportune time to strike. He figured he would take some time to scout the surrounding area. Get used to the jungle. It would be disastrous if he got lost in the heat of combat.
He barely made it a step.
A stick snapping caught his attention, off to the side of his vision. He glanced over and saw three figures. Interspersed throughout the rainforest. All Phantoms. All armed.
They saw him.
CHAPTER 15
Two waves crashed through King at once.
The first was panic. His heart skipped a beat as he saw the three men make eye contact with him and begin to raise their weapons. They all appeared to be just as shocked to see him. Perhaps they hadn’t been expecting someone to really be out in the rainforest. Perhaps they were rusty, having avoided combat for so long by setting up their facility in such a remote location.
The second thought that flooded his system was an urge to act. If he was to live, he had to rely on i
nstincts and simply follow what felt natural. In this case, he raised the suppressed barrel of the MP5SD until it was level and pulled the trigger. The move was fast and fluid. Faster than the Phantoms. The kind of practiced reaction that came from spending half one’s life in the heat of combat.
In just over two seconds he unloaded the magazine.
He swept the field of gunfire from left to right, drawing a horizontal line across the space in front of him.
When the gun clicked dry, thirty 9mm bullets were embedded in the torsos of the three men in front of him.
There had been no time for any of them to get a single shot off. King’s reaction speed was unparalleled and he had used it here to devastating effect. Two of the men were thrown back by the force of the bullets, their chests scattered with holes. The third wasn’t hit by as many. He remained standing. King got ready to dive for cover, but there was no need.
The man’s gun — another Kalashnikov — fell from his hands. He looked down at his stomach, punctured by at least three rounds, then up at King. The blood had already drained from his face. He was pale.
On death’s door.
He clutched feebly at his wounds, then fell back into a mass of branches. Already slipping from consciousness. He would be dead in seconds.
King was alive. His quick thinking had saved him from certain death. Now, though, there was a serious problem on his hands.
The MP5SD was equipped with a 5.7 inch barrel that decreased the noise of each bullet’s report. It did this by reducing the pressure from each burst of gas that came from the ejection of a round. This was effective in situations where a slight reduction of noise would be beneficial. But the suppressor did not fully silence the submachine gun. No device could.
In the quiet of the rainforest, emptying a thirty-round magazine still sounded like a cacophony of unloaded ammunition.
Which — if King was back by the boats — would be inaudible to the compound.