by Vince Milam
“One could not imagine such a thing. Such a discovery,” she said while scoping Amsler’s custom-built contraption.
“Kim?”
“One could not dream of such a thing.”
“Kim? Sample size?”
She glanced down, irritated at my constant questions.
“Quite small. Once analyzed, the synthesis process can begin. Variants created in the laboratory.”
High odds the Iranians wouldn’t have the expertise for such work. Which opened the door for other possibilities, other players. I reserved head time for later conjecture, but not now.
“You see those little canisters? The small tubelike containers? Are those collection devices?”
“It is most possible.”
“And the articulated arm. Could it collect a sample and place it in one of those canisters? And seal the canister?”
“This is again most possible. What a discovery! Mon Dieu! The implications are enormous.”
In ways you’d never imagine, Kim Rochat. There was no doubt her mind reeled with the scientific and medical possibilities. A bio-prospector perspective. A toxin altered, life-saving compounds created. A valid viewpoint and, in another place at another time, appreciated. But mine was a radically different perspective. One based on an ugly slice of human propensities. Evil intent.
“We gotta go. Amsler circled this area and found an open spot. And aimed the air cannon toward it.”
“Cannon?”
“We gotta go, Kim. Come down, please. Now.”
I checked the treetop foliage. It was calm, still. For the moment. I don’t mind admitting a part of me said screw it and let’s scoot. But the mission—a concept hammered into my psyche—said seek answers. Then screw it and scoot.
“I must take a photo.”
She wrapped her binocular arm around the tree and began digging for her phone with the other hand.
“No. No photos. Or GPS coordinates.”
“Do not be absurd.”
“Photos are an open invitation to put a target on your back.”
She hesitated, hand inside a cargo pocket. “I do not understand.”
“Evil people would kill you for a photo.”
Raised eyebrows from above. But she stopped retrieving the phone.
“Come down, please.”
She did, wearing a confused frown.
“Let’s go find where Dr. Amsler shot those canisters.”
The trail continued circling the dead zone. Amsler had stopped, guided the rover, collected the sample. She had been focused, intent on the objective. My mind’s eye could see it. Once the robot arm dropped the canister down the air cannon tube, she circled. Sought a tree and limb-free trajectory. Then she used the remote control and aimed the device. Pushed the handheld fire button. A blast of compressed air sent it soaring. Rough guess—a lightweight projectile could carry a hundred yards. Maybe a few more. But it was aimed ahead. Toward an intersection with the trail before us. There was no telling what we’d find at the sample landing area. I half expected a stretched-out and decomposing Swiss scientist.
The target area was marked with sunlight. An opening below the sick overhead trees, limbs, vines. I halted. Kim edged against me, seeking. We crept forward. The trail dead-ended, a small operational turnaround spot evident. The spot was marked with a pair of heavy rubber gloves dropped on the jungle floor, turned inside-out.
“Those look familiar?” I asked.
“Yes. For protection. We have many such gloves in camp.”
“So let’s say she fired the air cannon this direction while standing here. Or standing nearby. The canister lands. Its outside surface is toxic, right?”
“Oui. One must assume so.”
“So she dons the gloves, picks it up, and then what?”
A puffed-cheek exhale from Kim.
“Protocol would dictate its placement inside a pressure-sealed container. Again, we have numerous such containers at camp. Prior to shipment, this would be placed inside another container.”
“Okay. How big? The pressure-sealed container?”
She described a lunch-box-sized receptacle.
“What color?”
“Red.”
So Dr. Ana Amsler, PhD in more stuff than you could shake a stick at, walked out of here with a red bundle of potential hell unleashed. She kept her handheld control device and collected the rover’s case she’d dragged. Left rubber gloves behind. And took off on a personal mission I’d yet to understand.
I couldn’t shake off an absent element of the situation, a facet of this entire scenario outlined in bright neon, highlighting a missing piece. Amsler could have collected another sample of a decomposing monkey or bird and discovered which microbes were immune to the toxin. A possible antidote. But nope. She collected a world-class airborne-capable toxin and boogied. Headed downriver. She took off and went incognito. And now walked around somewhere on this good earth with the world’s deadliest toxin tucked under an arm. Or under the bed. Maybe she kept it on the kitchen counter. A card-carrying member of wingnut central. She had to be. The question—where was she? Well, question number one, anyway. The follow-up had far greater implications—what did she intend to do with it?
“She is alive,” Kim said, consternation displayed across her face. She’d grasped the implications—big time. She removed her ball cap, scratched her head. “Oui. She is alive, but where?”
“Yeah. Where.” I shifted inside Kim’s personal space, leaned down, and locked eyes with her. She paused mid scratch. “I gotta know something. Tell me the truth. Just how batshit crazy is Amsler?”
Her crestfallen expression and lack of protest and quick sidelong glance told me pretty damn crazy. Silence. Then cap back on, a finger shot delivered.
“We shall discuss this later. First, we should leave this place. On such an action we can both agree.”
Yeah, agreed. With one major hitch. MOIS showed up. And added to the killing floor.
Chapter 16
In my world, reliance on good fortune led to dead-and-maybe-buried. But I’d take a bit of luck when it came. Amsler’s toxic canister pickup spot positioned us near the river. The high-torque whine of a two-stroke outboard engine funneled upriver, loud enough to alert us. The Swiss used two-stroke outboards at their base camp. High odds that this boat lacked Swiss folks. And high odds the occupants of yesterday’s floatplane flyover filled this boat. A boat loaded with trouble. Lethal trouble.
The engine cut off downstream, followed by the soft scrape of aluminum hull against riverbank sand. A half-assed attempt at stealth. Overconfident SOBs. It was strange, given they knew about me through Farid Kirmani, who would have painted a violent portrait. But they arrived brazen, assured, cocky. They’d soon enough lose that attitude.
I sheathed the machete—no more bushwhacking—and signaled Kim to do the same. I gripped her upper arms in a firm but gentle hold. Things would become gnarly, starting now, and any mistakes would have fatal consequences. Communication became vital, no misinterpretations.
“There are a boatload of men downriver. Here to torture and kill us.”
Spoken as a whisper, and she returned the same.
“How do you know this?”
A quick review of my perspective would prompt enquiries from her about teammates at base camp. Which opened too many emotional doors. Right now, this second, required intense focus. No mental distractions. This was going down, and people would die.
“You asked if I’d killed men. Yes. I’m not proud of it. But this is one of those situations.” I let reality marinate for a couple of seconds. “I know what I’m doing. Do you understand?”
Kim stood motionless, with wide eyes and a bitten lower lip. She returned a tight nod.
“Do exactly as I say. No argument, no discussion. Understood?”
She gave another nod. I released her arms and took her hand, a finger to my lips as emphasis, and led her away from our current position and toward the river. She took a smal
l footstep, and a ground twig snapped. I halted, pointed at the ground, and wagged a finger in her direction. No. No noise. The jungle became healthier as we progressed. We stopped alongside a thick collection of waist-high fronds.
“Crawl in there and wait.” Spoken an inch from her ear.
“Wait for what?”
“I’ll be back. Don’t move. If this goes sideways, they’ll walk past here a dozen times and not see you. As long as you don’t move. Got it?”
Kim responded by sliding into the frond patch, using both hands to brush them aside. A final turn toward me, and she sank into the ground. Disappeared. There was something waiflike about her expression. Couldn’t blame her. Helluva position to toss at a bio-prospecting scientist.
At the sound of their arrival, an immediate plan presented itself. Rough, but workable. I’d access our boat, retrieve the Colt assault rifle, and retrieve Kim. Dash along the riverbank toward the small creek we’d followed to Amsler’s takeoff point. Hide Kim across the creek, return, and hunt these bastards down.
I pulled the Glock and leveraged years of silent movement through jungles. Approaching the rain forest edge, I dropped and crawled the last several yards. Eased my head through thick vegetation, kissed dirt. Emerged a dozen paces upriver from our boat. And a hundred yards upriver from theirs.
Three of them. Two still futzed with equipment. AK-47 assault rifles, ammo belts. MOIS thugs dressed in fatigues, playing soldier. The third, clearly irritated, shot them hard glances and spat quiet demands. Too far to hear his voice, but the guy was bent. Saddled with morons. His stance, movement, and demeanor spelled military experience. Iranian special forces, maybe.
I waited, watched. A couple of insects buzzed past; birds called from across the river. Life. I’d missed it. The two amateur soldiers finished prepping. Showtime. If they headed inland, pushed into the jungle, I’d carry out my plan.
They didn’t. The lead guy, rifle ready, moved with determination and intent toward our boat. The two goons followed. So plan B was formed and soon tossed away. Make a mad dash toward our boat, pull the containerized Colt weapon, and cut loose high-velocity lead. While they did the same. They’d fire before I retrieved my weapon. I could hunker below our boat’s hull, but the thin aluminum wouldn’t stop their bullets. And if they winged me, standing thigh-deep in river water—well, dripping blood brought another element zipping onto the scene: freakin’ piranhas.
So me and a pistol and a small Swiss scientist. Against three men armed with automatic weaponry. One with clear chalked-up experience under his belt. Time to get inventive. I still liked our chances. They might hold off with the automatic gunfire and plan on capturing Kim. She’d presented a vulnerable target when she stood and waved as their floatplane passed overhead. Plus, they had no concept of the dead zone waiting inland from us. None. Too bad for them. Plan C took shape.
I crawled backward, slipped into thick green. A silent hustle back for Kim. I parted fronds, whispered her name. She gathered and stood slowly, concern and fear on her face. She’d unsheathed the machete in her hiding spot. Good for her. A spark of fight.
My weapons case clanged against the inside of our boat. They’d handle my Colt, assess it as a weapon. Man, I hated scumbags groping my personal weaponry. I signaled for Kim to follow, and we retraced our steps, moving fast. As the path started downhill toward the small creek, we turned right. I stopped and whispered the battle plan.
“We’ll circle the dead zone. Get situated on the other side.”
“Have you seen them? The people from the boat?”
“Yeah. MOIS. They were in the plane yesterday and may think you’re Amsler. Hard to say.”
“Do they carry weapons?”
“Big time.” Communication, Lee. Don’t be an idiot. “Yes, they carry weapons.”
Ball cap removed, head scratching commenced.
“Should we not make an effort to communicate with them?”
“No. We’re at the point where this does the talking.” I lifted the Glock.
She returned a hard stare with no evidence of incredulity or doubt or fear. But she required more input. More data. And I required from her a headspace where certainty prevailed.
“I’ve dealt with these types of men many times,” I continued. “So trust me. This, right now, is a time to live or a time to die. There is no middle ground. My job is to make sure we live. I’ll make it happen. Promise.”
Statement absorbed, she situated her cap and clenched her jaw muscles. Shot me an eye lock and a tight nod. No ambiguity. She was all in.
“We have to hustle,” I said. “But no movement noise. That’s really important. You gotta focus on no noise.”
She did. We worked our way toward the other side of the dead zone. Sidestepped obstructions, pushed aside foliage with our hands. I swiped at eyebrow sweat with my shirtsleeve, sought the right spot. The right place for an ambush. The right place for an encounter of the terminal variety.
A double impetus for their demise now loomed. Yeah, reason enough they wanted us captured, tortured, and killed. But these scum buckets would soon enough discover the dead zone. The location. The potential. For these MOIS agents, remaining alive wasn’t an option.
A patch of less sick trees and bushes and vines, thick, fifty paces from the dead zone. It would do. I situated us near a small tree with ample near-ground limbs and leaves.
“Okay. Let’s have a conversation. A loud conversation. Doesn’t matter what it’s about. As long as it’s loud.”
Eyes crinkled, finger shots, and a whispered response.
“You have been most insistent on silence. And now you wish to make noise?”
“Lots of noise.”
“And let them know we are here. At this spot.”
“Yes. It’s a trap.” I rested a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s time, Kim. Live or die.”
I raised my voice to a near-yell. “I don’t think you’re right. Not at all.”
“Be most assured I am correct!”
She spoke with insufficient volume. I indicated as much with a hand signal.
“Flat wrong. And don’t give me any BS about being a scientist.”
“But of course I am correct!”
Better. I signaled for more.
“I am correct about this thing, and I am correct about the other things, and I do not understand why you insist I am wrong!”
Well done, Kim. We kept it up for thirty seconds. Hand-signaled for her to stop. Whispered instructions—hide again, another thirty paces farther away. Toward healthy forest. Hunker down, wait. And no movement or noise until I came for her.
A resigned sigh from an out-of-her-element scientist. I wished there were appropriate words to calm her fear, the can’t-be-happening coursing through her. I had nothing. She did.
One small hand against my right cheek, a kiss on the other, and “Bonne chance” whispered in my ear. Easing through greenery she paused once and turned, those amazing eyes locked with mine. No gestures, no words, but a brief moment of connection. A goodbye. She disappeared.
I shook my head at her departure, at her stoic courage. But game on, Lee, so get your mind right. A visitor called death floated through the door. A grim, final, and absolute visitor. A mantle of resolve blanketed me—Kim and I would walk away from this place. I became all fight.
I holstered the Glock and shot up the tree, pressed against the trunk, no noise. I intended to assess my enemies’ positions, leverage the environment, use the tools at hand. Watch if they’d take the bait of our loud and emphatic argument. The two untrained thugs did. They crashed through brush, running, headed toward our voices. And dashed into the dead zone. I shifted a thin limb aside for a better view.
They broke through the ring of sick jungle and entered the dead zone a half-dozen paces. Slowed at the sight before them. And slowed as the horror of certain death filled their souls. I’d observed more than my fair share of bizarre deaths, horrid endings. But nothing like this. Two assault rifle
s dropped, clattered to the ground. They knew. Knew it was too late. Final expiration’s iron grip clutched them, and release was a pipe dream.
One dropped to his knees, eyes bugging. His mouth opened and shut several times as one leg lifted, a last effort at standing. With a bright purple face and eyes rolled back into his head, he performed a folding collapse. And settled onto toxic ground, dead. The other completed a stumbling sidestep with mouth open as he fell. His arms flailed at an unseen harvester. He bounced once on the ground and gave a desperate yet futile attempt to push up. He rolled onto his back as one arm, one hand lifted toward the heavens and a boot heel kicked. Then, as a backstroke swimmer reaching, the now-purple arm lowered to the ground. Silent stillness followed. Oh, man.
The third MOIS hitter lurked. I couldn’t see him, or his movement, on the dead zone’s other side. I had high-ground visual advantage. And one large disadvantage. The remaining hitter showed signs of a military background. If he’d had Iranian Special Forces training, he’d wait, scope the area of our fake argument, and if he spotted me up the tree he’d take his time with the assault rifle, aim true, and adios Case.
Observed movement meant death. For us both. Movement would identify his position. While I couldn’t chance a pistol shot across the long distance, his movement would reveal a route, an attack angle. And if I could pinpoint his route, I’d bushwhack the son of a bitch. Up close and personal.
Chapter 17
We waited. Still, silent, searching for the slightest movement: a frond or low limb or the tremble of a vine moved aside. I wondered if he’d watched his partners’ deaths. Wondered if he cared. I’d never know. Five minutes passed, then fifteen. The battle area—hushed and centered on a terminal game of hide-and-seek. I prayed Kim remained hunkered, was quietly confident she would. No shots fired, so she’d comprehend the hunt remained active.
He moved first; a small tree limb jiggled, chest high. He’d either brushed it with his back ducking under, or lifted it with a hand. Either way, he might as well have shot a flare. I still couldn’t see him, but no worries. The next foliage movement would ID his direction. Several more would nail his route. And his coffin. They came soon enough. He followed our initial path, toward the small creek. A right turn inevitable, a route toward our last known and heard position. He circled the dead zone, hunting us.