by Alan Baxter
Hatcher never remembered saying any such thing, but saw no use in arguing. One of the men eyed Hatcher as he addressed Mbuyi. Whatever he said was in a tongue Hatcher couldn’t identify, let alone understand.
“He says he thought you would be bigger.”
“I’ve never had any complaints.”
Mbuyi paused, considering the words. Then his mouth spread into a toothy grin. He said something to the other man, who laughed. The man gestured in the direction of the woman, and one of the others grabbed her above the elbow and led her to Woodley. She stumbled along, almost losing her footing as her head darted. Hatcher guessed her mouth had a gag in it and her ears were plugged, since she seemed to have no idea what was going on around her.
Woodley took the woman’s arm, a bit more gently than the guy handing her off, and started to lead her back in the direction they’d come. He stopped after a few steps, guiding her past him, and looked back at Hatcher.
“For what it’s worth, they would have killed her. Doing it this way not only saved her, but prevented any other potential casualties on the team. Like I said, all part of the plan. And it sort of makes you a hero.”
“In that case,” Hatcher said as two of the men neared, weapons raised and shoving toward him while another produced a pair of handcuffs. “What does that make you?”
Woodley raised his brows high, gave a tilt of his head. “Underestimated.”
He winked before taking a step back.
One of the men took Hatcher’s helmet while another patted him down and removed the tactical knife from its sheath. Woodley took the helmet and yanked the microphone off. He pulled out some of the internal wiring near the earpiece and threw it into the nearby brush, then tossed the helmet back near Woodley’s feet. The woman flinched when he took her by the arm again.
Mbuyi started to follow Woodley and the woman, then stopped to look at Hatcher. Woodley paused at the mouth of the trail, an impatient set to his stance.
“It is not betrayal if you free an innocent woman. I was having second thoughts until you told me that.”
Hatcher held the man’s gaze. “In that case, just make sure she actually gets out.”
The words seemed to catch him off guard. The man pinched his lips tight and dipped his head. “The joy of life is to be continually surprised. That is also its burden.”
The muzzle of a rifle poked Hatcher in the rib, hard enough to make him wince. The leader made a gesture, and his captors started moving. One of them shoved him hard enough to make him stumble.
Mbuyi remained where he was, watching. Hatcher looked back over his shoulder as he crossed through the array of bones, the serpentine weave of vertebrates, the curled fingers of ribs. Mbuyi nodded to Hatcher one final time, then turned and walked away. Woodley guided the woman between the trees, Mbuyi a few steps behind. Within seconds, the jungle had swallowed all three of them.
* * *
The camp was a collection of huts. Some thatch weaves over cobbled scrap wood, some sheets of corrugated tin nailed to trees. In the middle of the camp was a shot-up armored vehicle without any wheels, collapsed on one side, like it had been driven across an IED and then abandoned where it lay.
They sat Hatcher on a stump at the mangled rear end of the vehicle and ran a dense chain between his arms behind his back, over the links between his wrists, and passed the shackle of a heavy duty padlock through both ends where they sandwiched a large metal loop. The loop was connected to the frame of the vehicle, welded solid.
One of the men tugged on the chain, testing it. Two others stood nearby and nodded their approval.
“Do any of you speak English?”
The three men stared at him, glancing occasionally at each other.
“I speak English.”
The voice came from behind one of the men, who stepped aside and looked back. The man it belonged to was seated in front of one of the huts, fashioning something out of a piece of wood with a small knife.
“Mind telling me what you guys want with me?”
“We do not want anything with you.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Kongamoto.”
The men near Hatcher seemed to grow uneasy at the sound of the word. Their eyes darted, casting nervous glances from one to the other.
“What the hell is a Kongamoto?”
The man in the knit cap who had seemed to be their leader when talking to Mbuyi – Hatcher hadn’t caught his name – barked out a few angry words, slashing a hand through the air for emphasis. The man with the knife sat up straight and kept his eyes down, returning his attention to whittling. The other two hurried away in opposite directions, chastened.
Knit Cap stopped in front of Hatcher, ran his eyes in an arc from one end of his body to the other and back. He was wearing an open military-style green blouse with the sleeves cut off over a faded yellow t-shirt with a worn out soft drink logo on it. His rifle was slung over his shoulder and he was holding a walkie-talkie in one hand. He raised it to his mouth and spoke words Hatcher couldn’t understand. It squawked, a crackly voice responding in ways equally unintelligible. Then he walked away.
Hatcher kept his eyes on the whittling guy. The man seemed to be forcing himself not to look, which was good. Slowly, Hatcher worked his fingers into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. He scissored his index and middle finger around a three-inch rod, fishing it out. It was titanium, with a tooth on one end and the other, sheathed end sharpened to an edge you could shave with. Slow, slow, slow. Careful not to move his upper arm or shoulder, working entirely with his forearm, fingers and wrist. The small tube slid up and over the lip of his belt and dropped, landing in the curl of his fingers.
He squeezed his fingers closed as he heard the sound of a car or truck, something with a big engine, rumbling closer until it stopped somewhere to his rear. The motor cut off, a door opened and shut. Voices. Footfalls.
Knit Cap strode into view, rifle across his chest, stock cradled in the crook of his arm. Another person joined him. A woman.
She was tall, as tall as her escort. Her skin was dark and smooth, a sheen to it that gave it an onyx glow. Her lips were full and pouty. Her kinky hair was teased out and pulled back on each side with a clip, a frizzy puff in the back. She wore an unbuttoned tan shirt over a stretchy white tank top, with khaki safari pants.
Even if she hadn’t been physically attractive to the point of it seeming absurd, Hatcher would have known by the way her presence made him anxious, that tingly, aroused feeling that her scent caused. She was a Carnate. No doubt about it. A physically perfect half-human, half-demon woman with sexual charms that were all but irresistible. They lived for seven generations and never seemed to age. All they lacked were souls.
“Jake Hatcher,” the woman said.
“Small world,” Hatcher said. “That’s my name, too.”
“That famous wit. I am Aleena. You know, some of my sisters in America have talked so much about you, I feel like I’ve known you for years.”
She spoke with a lilt, her voice polished and smooth. There was an accent, but he had no idea what kind.
“In that case, how about you let me go. Just this once. For old time’s sake.”
“Alas, that I cannot do. My most sincere apologies. I went through a lot of trouble to get you here.”
“And why would you go and do a thing like that?”
“I’m afraid that is a bit too complicated to explain at the moment. My friends here have been vexed by an entity you are well acquainted with. Or shall we say, is well acquainted with you. They have been desperately seeking a way to, shall we say, get him off their backs and to stop interfering with their lucrative business interests. They have sought out the aid of every sorcerer within a thousand miles, created a demand for the body parts of people unfortunate enough to have been born albino in a part of the wo
rld where such a condition is believed to carry mystical properties.”
“And how do I fit in to all this?”
“Oh, don’t you worry, Mr Hatcher. You will find out soon enough. Tonight, in fact.”
Hatcher shook his head, frowning. “Ooh, tonight… you know, that just doesn’t work for me. Maybe we can reschedule?”
“I have heard the stories, been told how charming others have found you. Your manly directness, your facetious banter in the face of perils sure to break the composure of those with lesser mettle. Mostly, they seem amused by your belief you can talk your way out of things, when we both know that has never happened.”
“There’s always a first time.”
“Yes. This will be one of those. Just not for that.”
She dipped her head to Knit Cap guy, then turned to walk away.
“What happens tonight?” Hatcher called after her. “So I know what to wear, what to bring. Not going to make me buy two bottles of wine, just to be safe, are you?”
Aleena pivoted on the heel of her boot, turning herself just enough to look back at him. Her lips spread to show a set of perfect white teeth.
“Red, Mr Hatcher. The color for tonight is most definitely red.”
* * *
Hatcher spent the next few hours evaluating his situation. He could unlock his cuffs – courtesy not only of the escape rod resting in the fold of his curled fingers, but also the failure of his captors in not turning his hands palms out before cuffing him. But what good would that do? It was broad daylight, miles into jungle terrain, which was the worst of all worlds. His absence would draw immediate attention, which told him these guys were smart for putting him in the middle of the camp instead of stuffing him into some hut. And even if he found an opportunity, some distraction or diversion, he’d need a firearm. Accomplishing that would draw its own attention. If they had any lying around, waiting to be grabbed, he hadn’t noticed.
So he waited.
At least one question had been answered. This was the real point of the whole production all along, not that garbage they’d BSed him with. Get him to the federal building under the guise of an audit, have him met by Secret Service agents who led him to a sub-basement more secure than a Bond villain’s lair, then acquaint him with the velvet hammer. A guy named Keegan, someone high up in the Administration, but exactly how high, or exactly who he was, was never made clear. What was made clear was the offer. He could either cooperate, or face all manner of trumped-up tax problems, including civil forfeiture of every dime he had. Criminal prosecution was all but promised, and more than a few not-so-subtle hints were dropped that certain matters involving dead cops may be looked into again with a good deal more scrutiny. Or… he could take what’s behind door number two. Help rescue a young doctor doing volunteer work helping to stop the mutilation and occasional slaughter of albinos whose body parts were believed to be powerful objects for magic. A young woman who just happened to warrant all this attention because she was the Vice-President’s secret and illegitimate daughter, that last bit being more implied than stated, neither confirmed nor denied.
The more he thought about it, the stupider he felt. Why hadn’t he just told them to go fuck themselves, like his gut wanted him to? It wasn’t a real question, because he knew the answer, and had from the beginning. Amy. The threats weren’t just to him. They were more than willing to go after her, just to prove a point. And they’d clearly done enough homework for the threat to be credible.
Less than four days later, here he was.
Heat flowed through the camp like a current, like something that could be touched and scooped and bottled. Perspiration soaked through Hatcher’s clothes, drenching him with a salty, stinging slickness.
Men moved about slowly, finding shade, playing cards, cleaning their weapons. Hatcher could sense some tension, the buzz of anticipation, but the heat seemed to keep everyone subdued. He could tell they wanted to move, wanted to pace and burn off nervous energy, but they were forced to fidget instead, trying to keep cool.
People came and went. Everyone seemed to stop and look at him more than once. Some of the men from the Garden of Bones, some who were at the camp when he got there, others who arrived later. Most would stand directly in front of him with appraising eyes, some made comments to others Hatcher couldn’t understand, some tilted their heads one way or the other, quietly assessing him. A handful smiled. Most didn’t.
Around two in the afternoon, there was activity. A vehicle arrived, followed shortly by another. Knit Cap walked up, grunted some words to a few others. Two rushed over to Hatcher and unlocked the chain. One clamped a hand on his elbow and half pushed, half dragged him toward an old extended cab pickup truck. There was some sort of mechanical device in the back, taking up most of the bed. Hatcher couldn’t quite tell what it was for, but it had the familiar shape of a weapon and what looked like a grappling hook on the end, pointed like an arrowhead.
People were climbing into vehicles. One opened a rear door to the truck and Hatcher was shoved toward it, then prodded in with the barrel of an AK. The whittling guy slid in next to him and another jumped in the passenger seat up front. Knit Cap behind the wheel.
Hatcher was in the second vehicle in a four-car caravan. They drove through tapestries of tangled wilderness and stretches of simmering plains. They crossed a narrow river over white water rocks. They passed through a small village of tiny buildings with women in colorful garb and children practically naked. A few minutes later, they were in forest again. Jungle. Vegetation so dense it was like a wild wall, a collective beast that would swallow you whole. Leaving only a Garden of Bones.
“What is that contraption?” Hatcher said, gesturing to the rear with a twitch of his head. He figured asking where they were heading would be pointless.
“That is Chigi’s invention.” The man jutted a chin toward the driver, whose eyes caught Hatcher’s in the rearview mirror. “His father drowned when his truck was swept away crossing a river.”
Hatcher turned to look at it. Calling it an invention was a stretch, but it was definitely homemade. He could now tell it was a catapult. Crossbow design, compound, augmented with what looked like axle springs. He tried to imagine ways it could come in handy. Other than during a flashflood, or while teetering on a cliff, he couldn’t think of any.
“What’s Kongamoto?”
Whittling guy opened his mouth to speak, but then the brush thinned and Hatcher saw the first vehicle start to brake and finally stop. They were near the steep embankment of a sizable hill, visible beyond a layer of forest.
The guy in the passenger seat got out and opened Hatcher’s door. He tugged Hatcher’s arm, pulling him out and shoving him through a narrow gap in the growth toward the hill. Whittling guy followed, pointing his rifle, a contrite smile on his face.
The side of the hill was rocky, almost a cliff. Vines weaved down its face, fingers and hairs spreading out from ropey trunks to cling, finding purchase in cracks and protrusions. Hatcher expected to see a cave or tunnel entrance, something that would signal why he was being led this way, but the jagged wall of earth and stone looked solid.
He stopped a few feet from the hillside and turned to face the men behind him. Five rifles, all pointed at him, varying states of readiness. He scanned their faces. It seemed like a long way to drive just to have a firing squad.
Two of the men stepped aside to let Knit Cap walk through.
The man stopped a few feet away. His face was grim despite a grin that displayed a good amount of teeth. His rifle hung from a frayed sling around his neck and over one shoulder, the opposite arm holding it steady across his body. He raised the other hand and pointed toward the escarpment. When he spoke, Hatcher had no idea what he was saying.
Two impatient snaps of his fingers, and Whittling Guy hustled forward, followed by another in the group. Skinny, face slick with sweat. The other guy sl
ung his AK over his shoulder and hurried to the wall, the two of them working together, pushing aside some of the vines, grabbing others. Whittling Guy yanked and ripped until he was able to separate the ones he wanted from some overgrowth. Hatcher saw that the vines he’d pulled free had been tied together to form a rope ladder, rungs fashioned out of cable and wire, scavenged material, secured by a variety of screws and nails and even twine, here and there.
More words Hatcher didn’t understand. Apparently sensing this, Knit Cap paused. He pointed a finger at Hatcher, then raised it toward the top of the precipice.
“Up.”
They expect me to climb. He looked at the one holding the vines. The guy gestured back and another joined him as he took hold of one of the makeshift rungs above his head, tugging it. Looked to Hatcher like someone about to start pulling himself up. Hatcher took a quiet breath, let it out halfway. There were two ways to play this. One was to keep going along. A climb meant parsing out their numbers, and that meant at the top he’d have an opportunity to improve his odds. The problem was, if they expected him to scale a steep wall, they were going to uncuff him. That meant however they handled it, however many they sent with him, before or after, they’d be more attentive, more cautious. Probably have rifles from the ground trained on him the whole way up. He’d lose most, if not all, of the element of surprise.
That left the other way.
Hatcher nodded, lowered his head. He had already positioned the escape key in his fingertips. He slipped it into the left cuff and gave it twist. The teeth disengaged and he felt the strand practically drop open, careful to keep his hand pressed against his back so the metal didn’t make any noise.
Knit Cap reached into a lower front pocket of his Army-surplus blouse and retrieved a key. He held it up and Hatcher worried for a moment he was going to keep his distance and toss it toward him, make Hatcher kneel down and fumble to pick it up off the ground to open the cuffs himself, which would have been the smart thing to do, but instead he took a step forward. That was all it took.