The Amazon Job

by Vince Milam

  I eased down the tree trunk, keeping it between him and me. Slow, slow—one arm, one leg at a time. I gained grip, focused on acquiring the next silent hand- or foothold. As an oversized lethargic lizard, one soundless placement at a time. I sweated bullets—the exaggerated slow-motion strain ensured nothing out of place, no noise, no indicators. Made terra firma—my friend and hunting partner. Glock unsheathed, the killing floor accessed.

  A silent stalk toward an ambush position. Away from our earlier sound signature, away from Kim. Toward my enemy. Thirty yards later, I found it. A cluster of thick shoulder-high bushes and spindly trees. But eighteen inches of bare shrub and tree trunks at ground level. Eighteen inches before leaves and limbs obscured visibility. The plan—press flat, wait, and watch along the ground. He’d pass within fifteen yards. And wouldn’t be focusing his hunt on a stretched-out enemy. I’d watch his cautious boot steps pass. Then a silent rise to a standing position. Shoot the SOB in the back. Multiple times. To be sure. He wielded an automatic assault rifle. I held a pistol. All’s fair in love and war, baby.

  I crawled into my lair and waited, belly-hugged earth. Earth lacking the aroma of rich jungle decay that brought forth life. Sterile and struggling earth. Few insects worked the underbrush; a sickly leaf drifted down from above. Hyper-focus reigned. Ten minutes passed; the sweat flow abated. And his misstep sounded.

  A ground twig crunched ahead. Not a crisp snap, but enough. He made his way toward a final resting spot. A glimpse, a full second’s worth, of a booted foot. And another. He was angling away from the dead zone. And angling away from me. Left unmolested, he’d pass close to Kim’s hiding spot.

  Fifteen yards away and gaining distance through slow, cautious footsteps. He passed on my right, now an additional three or four paces away. I’d lose him in the jungle green if we separated much farther. My head reeled with options, possibilities, attack plans. Gotta do something, and do it right now. Right freakin’ now.

  Decision made, the luxury of time no longer on the table. A two-handed grip, arms pressed against the ground. Steady and stable and as good a pistol rest as a person could hope for. But a twenty-yard shot. At a foot. If successful, he’d collapse in shock and pain. And open the door for a headshot. Deep breath, let half out. I squeezed the trigger.

  The Glock’s massive boom acted as a starter pistol. To a messed-up situation and best-laid plans out the window. His foot jerked off the ground as the bullet slammed home. A guttural scream, a one-foot hop. But the bastard didn’t go down. He remained upright and unleashed automatic fire toward my general location. The concussive blasts deafened me as a chain of bullets thwacked leaves and limbs and dirt across my general area. Joined with a chorus of angry bee buzzes as high-caliber lead whipped past. One of my feet jerked. He continued hopping away, his good foot more difficult to sight capture.

  He stopped his one-footed dance, ejected an empty magazine, and slammed a fresh one home. Big mistake. I’m not fond of spraying lead toward the enemy. Damn unprofessional. But with his boot’s position twenty-five yards away I had a better than good grip on his torso’s location. Lots of green between us, but dead-aim options were off the table. Fresh ammo loaded, he slapped the trigger again. A wall of high-octane bullets ripped and snapped foliage inches away.

  I returned the favor. Fifteen bullets were left in my .40 caliber, and I used them all. I assumed my target’s body position, ripped shots through the jungle growth obscuring him. The immediate area filled with sharp, explosive cracks. They rolled and echoed and deafened. Discernible between barrel blasts were the wet thwack of body shots. Hollow-points hitting their target. Now a partial view of a fatigue-clad mass, his collapsed body. I continued firing, slowing the trigger pulls for better aim. I ejected the Glock’s magazine, slammed a new one home, took dead aim and waited. Sixty seconds ticked off. Silence. Spooky silence from the dead zone behind me, the hush of finality from my enemy.

  I stood and changed position. Circled behind him. A weird step pattern from my right foot. Closer inspection revealed part of my boot heel blown away. The quick inspection also highlighted the blood dribbling down my arm. A rapid check—grazed in the upper triceps. Both foot and arm were close calls. Too close.

  I approached the still body. No movement, no sign of life. Stopping at seven paces away, I put a round in the back of his head. A coup de grâce and the final shot fired and a signal to gather Kim and get the hell away from this place.

  “Kim!”

  No response.

  “Kim! It’s alright. It’s over.”

  “Here.” Her voice soft, filled with trepidation. “I am here.”

  As I approached, she stood with eyes wide as saucers, mouth open.

  “You are injured! And those other men? Are we safe?”

  “I’m fine. The other men are dead. And we’re not safe until we’re downstream from this place.”

  I led us away from the dead zone and toward the small creek Amsler had used. I followed it to the intersection with the main tributary and hustled toward our boat, Kim trailing. Not a word was spoken. I shoved us off, started the motor, and scooted toward the other boat. Eased alongside, crawled onboard, and checked the contents. Nothing surprising, although three satellite-capable cell phones were left onboard and left on. Which dictated the next course of action.

  I grabbed their boat’s bowline and tied it off on our stern. We’d tow it. They’d tossed my Colt rifle across a seat. I checked its functionality, ensured it was good to go, and kept it by my side. Goosed the engine and tore downriver, the other boat surfing behind us.

  “Why are we pulling their boat?” She straddled the middle cross-seat. “And give me the first aid kit you carry.”

  “You hurt?”

  “No. You are. Hand it to me, please.”

  I did. And explained their phones were GPS-enabled with satellite feedback. The data fed to MOIS headquarters in Tehran would reveal they’d made a brief stop and were now headed back downriver. Once we hit the tributary fork, I’d hang a left and head upstream again for a few miles. A false trail. Ditch the boat at a riverbank, toss their phones into the river.

  “I have no words. It is all so … so bizarre. Your world is a most peculiar place.” She shifted position again. Squeezed alongside me and inspected the wound, adding, “This cannot be argued.”

  Yeah, Kim. No argument from me.

  “I heard two weapons firing,” she continued. “Yet you said there were three men.”

  She raised her eyes from her patching work, an explanation expected. And required.

  “They went into the dead zone.”

  “And the effects of such an action?”

  “Immediate. They were dead within seconds.”

  She focused again on my arm. No more questions regarding our attackers. But Kim delivered one large and terrible question regarding her fellow scientists.

  “Did these men kill my team?” she asked, head still bent administering first aid.

  Hoo-boy. I could hem and haw, dance around it. Claim uncertainty multiple times. Forestall the inevitable. Lie. But I owed her better.

  “I’d be surprised if your teammates remain alive. I’m so sorry, Kim. And I could be wrong.”

  Her shoulders shook as she stopped her ministrations. Kept her head lowered.

  “You are not wrong. You have not been wrong about anything regarding this effort.”

  Her tears fell. I tried lifting her chin to look into her face and express shared sorrow. She wouldn’t allow it at first, determined to maintain her private grief. I cut the engine and stopped worrying about making headway. The lazy current pushed us downriver. Fresh air and fresh life surrounded us, and I’d never been so aware of its vibrancy, its importance. Birds called, wildlife scampered through nearby underbrush. Eons-old cycles of life and death and rebirth. But for the moment, inflicted death, cruel death, required addressing. I possessed no magic potion, no soothing words. Physical comfort was the lone salve, and inadequate at best. But it w
as all I had.

  I pulled Kim Rochat from her locked, bent-over position into a head-on-my-chest hug. She resisted momentarily, then collapsed. Sobs and cries unleashed, she wrapped her arms around me as her small body shook. It shook me as well. I’d pulled a well-meaning Swiss scientist into a shitstorm; I hadn’t prepped her for the realities of a dark and evil corner of life, a corner occupied by people who regarded life as a toss-away item. A corner I was shoved into too many times.

  We drifted, two small boats floating within a vast wilderness. Pushed by a current headed for the Atlantic Ocean a thousand miles away. One distraught bio-prospector. And one emotion-roiled ex-Delta operator.

  This entire job was drowning in a false narrative. The Manaus violence held no mystery: two blood-enemies. Israelis versus Iranians. An arena ancient and blood-drenched. Got it. But this level of violence from MOIS had other earmarks. Maybe they had picked up on an errant conversation in a Swiss coffee shop. A rumor filtered through channels, keen interest kicked off. MOIS’s physical actions weren’t unexpected—they’d always brought a rough sadism to the table. A pack of mad animals, unleashed. But another element lurked at the periphery. They had been guided, prompted.

  Ana Amsler had opened other portals, other communications. She’d fed the beast. How and with which beast remained unknown, but her words or some release of information had triggered frenetic actions. And maybe signed her own death warrant. A gray and murky and ugly situation, fraught with death realized and death yet to come. And my scarred butt sat smack-dab in the middle of it.

  Chapter 18

  Kim wiped her eyes against my shirt front and pulled out the handkerchief she’d used to wet her head. She sat up, blew her nose, and allowed me access to those ice-blue eyes. Tears welled, and she struggled to maintain decorum. Enough emotion expressed, I supposed.

  “What is next? After you drop this other boat?”

  “Your base camp. I’ll ask Bernie for a pickup. Fly us to Coari.”

  “Where I depart. Run away. I do not believe this is appropriate.”

  A touch of feistiness or Swiss hardheadedness or both. Either way, I admired it.

  “Not running away. Travel toward safety. At the base camp, contact your company. Let them know what has happened.”

  She returned a desultory nod.

  “Tell them you require evacuation.”

  “Run away.”

  “Look, Kim. At a minimum, MOIS might mistake you for Amsler. A probable death sentence. You can’t hang around Amazonia, or Brazil for that matter. It’s time for you to go home.”

  She shivered in response, signifying grief or anger or an effect of toxic exposure. Or all of the above. I wasn’t feeling on top of the world either.

  “And what will you do?” she asked.

  Helluva good question. My mission remained. Find Amsler. Deliver her to Switzerland. But the job was crafted in terms of Amsler being located somewhere in the area. The Amazon wilderness or Manaus or Coari. As things stood, she could be anywhere. And I didn’t have the wherewithal for global search missions.

  Another pressing point remained. Knowledge of the location and potency and attributes of what could constitute the world’s deadliest toxin resided with three people on this good earth. Amsler. Kim. Me. Amsler as the wild card. Kim much less so.

  “I don’t know what I’ll do. Working on it,” I said. “What will happen with you? Once you’re back in Switzerland.”

  “There is a chance they will hide me for a period of time.”

  The they part included both her pharmaceutical company and the Swiss government.

  “In the future, I would hope another endeavor awaits. Perhaps a remote coral reef on the other side of the world. The animal life around coral reefs has great potential.”

  “Good. I hope it happens.”

  “Or they may restrict me to nontravel status. I would not be allowed to leave Switzerland.”

  “I hope not. I really do. You’re built for bio-prospecting work. I admire your efforts.”

  It wasn’t BS. I did admire her tenacity and focus and educational background. A lot to like there.

  “Kim, three people know the whereabouts and potential impact of Amsler’s discovery,” I continued. “I sure don’t have any plans on revealing what I know.”

  She understood what I meant.

  “I considered this. It was strange, but such consideration came when I climbed the tree and observed.”

  Not so strange—a mouth-opening experience, and a view into the pit of hell.

  “My initial reaction was the potential for good,” she continued. “A new and unique chemical compound. I must say, this view has changed.”

  “How so?” I tried not to press, but this was an important marker. Humans are a strange bunch, and I required perspective on how strange Kim Rochat could be.

  “It is too dangerous. Oui. Too powerful. A receptacle of great death, and it should remain hidden.”

  “Yeah. Agreed.”

  “This attack on us is a reflection of its effects. Such a discovery deals in death. I fear more. And feel certain that more lies ahead for you.” She paused and removed her hat to scratch her head. “You wish to know if I will reveal this secret. No. I will not. It shall remain with me until I die.”

  Good enough for me. Had to be. No other option. I fired the engine. Not far until the river split, where I’d head upstream along the right fork and stash the empty boat we towed behind. Kim shifted to the center seat. The sun blazed overhead, and I relished it. Away from death’s hellhole, away from vicious MOIS killers, and away from this phase of the mission. Whether or not a next phase existed—a large TBD.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  She lifted her head, a “How the hell do you think I feel?” expression on her face.

  “I mean physically.” I paused. “It’s hitting me like the onset of the flu or something.”

  “Residual effects of the toxin. I also experience such symptoms.”

  “So what do we do?”

  She turned her head, sighed, and gazed into the Big Lost. Man, I felt for her. But this was critical stuff.

  “Look. You’ve been through an awful lot. No doubt. And you carry the strong possibility your team has been executed. I understand how you must feel. But we have to address immediate concerns. I’m sorry.”

  She sighed and held in another shiver or sob.

  “We spent the morning around what might take top honors in toxic hotspots,” I continued. “And not just around it. Breathed it. Down in the dirt and, in my case, bled while doing the voodoo bullet shuffle. So I’m thinking we’re in danger from the exposure. What we do about it, and do about it right now, sits at the top of my priority list. And I’m looking to you for answers.”

  “Take us to an exposed riverbank,” she said and lowered her head again.

  I did. Kim explained that our best bet was to remove and discard all the clothing we’d worn at the dead zone. Footwear included.

  “Do you have an extra pair of boots?” she asked. “And additional clothing?”

  I did. As did she. A clothing pile formed, and an odd couple stood naked at the riverside. We dipped water with a plastic pitcher and poured cool Amazon River water over our heads. We lathered with soap, rinsed, repeated. I produced a bottle of rubbing alcohol—a godsend and standard treatment in fetid jungles around the world. A thorough alcohol rubdown was followed with clean attire. She insisted on repatching my wound.

  “Okay. We washed away the exterior,” I said. “Now what about the stuff we breathed?”

  She shrugged, intent on taping gauze over the furrow on my upper arm.

  “Could use a little more than a shrug, thank you. We breathed a small amount of the toxin. No doubt. Now what?”

  “This is unknown. We should drink a great amount of water. Continue sweating. Perhaps this will flush it from our systems. I am not a medical doctor.”

  “Yeah, but a big chunk of your career dealt with nature�
�s toxins. What if water and sweat don’t do the trick?”

  “We shall die, I suppose. Quickly or over several days. Again, this is an unknown.”

  Great. Freakin’ great. She finished the first aid ministrations while I contemplated, for the umpteenth time, a career change. I’d accepted a simple search-and-rescue gig. Right up my alley. And walked into a Manaus spook shooting gallery. Plus a midnight ramble with restless natives. And another spook firefight while cozied up to one of the most toxic spots on earth. Case Lee Inc.’s business strategy, at this point, sucked.

  I used an entire five-gallon tank of gasoline. Soaked the clothes and the immediate area. Kim assured me such a conflagration, such heat, would kill any residual toxins. I fired it off, heat blazed, and we moved on. Two hours later, having taken the right fork, I shoved the other boat far onto a riverbank. Tossed the three phones. We were miles and miles from the dead zone, up a different tributary and separated by dense rain forest. About all I could do. So I pointed us downriver and floor-boarded the throttle. It would be late in the day when we arrived at the Swiss base camp.

  Boat-driven wind flapped our loose clothing. Rainbow-colored flocks of birds burst overhead, and violent swirls flashed near the bank as we flew past. I began feeling better. I think. Plenty of sweat and plenty of water. Kim turned and faced me.

  “I am prepared,” she stated. “My expectations remain quite low regarding my team. This would include the Brazilian laborers, who I am quite fond of. But I am prepared for what might greet us.”

  She shifted again and faced forward. Removed her ball cap. The wind blew and lifted and mussed her short hair. A brief pause and she faced me again with a fiery stare, her jaw set.

  “I wish to arm myself with one of your weapons. If any evil men remain at our camp, I shall participate in this voodoo shuffle you spoke of. Be most assured.”