Jungle of Deceit

by Maureen A. Miller

  Alex looked up startled by the close proximity of the voice.

  “You and your men will be safe here. These walls are impenetrable to fire.”

  She stared at the back of the man’s head. He was looking away, engaged by the men spraying water off the ramparts. “We excavated the perimeter several years ago so that the tree line is recessed,” he turned around and she caught a mouthful of white teeth against a backdrop of bronze skin and black stubble. “No worries.”

  “My team will help.” Her eye itched. “We will work for the safety you have provided.”

  He waved in dismissal and managed a genial snort. “Not necessary.”

  As he analyzed the group of archeologists, Alex was allowed a better glimpse of his profile. The stubble seemed perfect, like a meticulous effort to appear unshaven. His black hair was short and neat, and it shined from hair gel. He stood a few inches shy of six feet and wore a white button-down cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Rounding off the outfit were tan dress slacks and leather shoes. The attire seemed preposterous for this venue. Under all the fancy clothes, Alex could make out the body of a weightlifter. Her glance lifted just in time to collide with his, and below his thick winged eyebrows she sensed shrewdness behind his eyes.

  “These men…” he nodded at her students, “−need water and rest. Follow me and I’ll see you get both.”

  He started to turn away but cracked a grin and held out his hand. “Lo siento. I’m sorry. I am Miguel Eduardo Solis.” The last word was phrased with an evocative roll as So-leeeeeeese. “And you are Señorita—?”

  “Langley.” Alex glanced at the clean hand extended towards her and then down at her own soiled fingers. “Alexandra Langley.”

  There it was again−a sharp glint in eyes that resembled a jaguar’s. The polished veneer of Miguel Eduardo Solis seemed like camouflage and his eyes were portals to the cunning creature that lurked inside. She felt uneasy. The look he gave her indicated that her name had struck a chord.

  Miguel smiled again. “Everyone is safe. All your men are accounted for. There is no need for the frown, Señorita…” he hesitated, “−Langley.”

  All, except for Mitch.

  Her chest tightened, but Wes had her by the shoulder. “Come on, Alex. You need water. There’s crap in your eyes. Let’s go wash them out.”

  Falling in behind her group who were being lead by the suave Pied Piper, Alex examined their environment. Just inside the gate, a barrier fortified by horizontal metal bars could likely impede a charging herd of elephants. As she searched the span of the wall, one corner was visible, but the far bend was at such a great distance it blurred into an obscure merger of dirt and sky. The visible corner was capped with a security turret and two armed guards paced its perimeter like Stormtroopers on the Death Star.

  These people knew they were coming.

  Around her, an open courtyard of compressed red dirt and patchy grass resembled any prison grounds, but twenty yards away the earth yielded to a bed of cement and meticulous landscaping. Potted trees and sculpted bushes hugged the entrance to the first building and beyond that she noticed a fountain spouting water into a holding pool. The prisms captivated her as if inside this magical world fire did not exist−only rainbows. The fountain could have been plucked from the memorial gardens of a cemetery. The huge basin tempted her to run her fingertips through it, but she gave it a wide berth as if arsenic churned in the froth. A few more steps and it felt that the further she delved into the compound the more civilized the complex became.

  “Señorita,” Solis held his hand out as they passed the first edifice, a two-story cinderblock structure painted the same almond color as the surrounding barricade. The building was tall, but not enough to be visible from outside.

  Alex looked past it towards the row of barracks.

  “These are the living quarters,” he explained. “You are welcome to clean and rest here.” He pointed to a single-story edifice with very few windows, a building that looked more like a warehouse than living quarters. But if her men could clean up and get something to drink, it would afford her the time she needed to gather her wits.

  “Thank you, that is very gracious.” She glanced over her shoulder at the fortified gate shocked to see the soldiers rolling the hoses back on their reels.

  “What are they doing?” Alex cried. “Why are they stopping?”

  Solis placed a consoling hand on her forearm, which she shrugged off.

  “There is no recourse but to let the fire burn itself out. The hoses aren’t going to help. They were a precaution from back before we excavated the perimeter. Don’t worry, you’re safe in here.”

  “The wildlife…” she hesitated. “−you’re just leaving it to be slaughtered?”

  Alex recognized that Solis was right. They could not battle a jungle fire with a few hoses−a water gun would have just as much an effect. But the devastation and the loss of flora and fauna made her scramble for options.

  For the first time, Solis’s congenial smile faltered−and for a second she saw the eyes of the jaguar again. It lurked beneath black eyebrows, circling her, stalking her.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Yes?

  A portion of the Petén jungle was aflame, giving the air an acrid scent nourished by the spring heat, but Alex felt a chill that no amount of warmth could combat. In single file, her group was ushered into the building, swallowed by the shadowed doorway. When the last man paused and waited for her to join, Alex moved forward with the fervor of one heading to the gallows.

  “Look, Alex, we’re safe,” Wes rationalized.

  “The photographer isn’t here,” Chuck pointed out, his fist tapping against the wall as if testing its resilience. “Always wandering off, that guy was. With his luck he wandered far enough this time.” He shook his head.

  “Mitch was right there with us.” Alex sat on a metal bench, fascinated by the blackened toe of her boot. “He was right next to me.” Her voice caught.

  Wes placed a hand on her shoulder. “It was chaos. Tim and Zach−and then the explosion−we were focused on that, and then−then it was just survival.”

  It was the last time she recalled seeing Mitch. He had his arm around her waist. No one touched her in such an intimate manner. No one dared. He held her for a moment, sensing her need for that reinforcement−or perhaps it was that his words rang true from earlier. Maybe I’m starting to feel a little something for you, Alex.

  He was an anchor in that melee−and then the anchor was gone. Damn him. Dammit.

  “So what’s your take on this?” Alex leaned forward to confer with her two veterans.

  “It’s shady as hell,” Chuck snorted. “Christ did you see the AK-47’s? Not exactly hunting gear.”

  “We have nowhere to go. We have no options.” Wes reasoned. Perspiration poured in rivulets down the sides of his temples until he reached up to swipe their path.

  Alex searched the dark quarters. Young men sat on cots in the shadows, their hushed exchanges interrupted by intakes from canteens of water they had been supplied with before the door closed behind them. Staring at one of the thermoses she was aware of her own dry mouth and the pungent taste of fire on her tongue.

  On either side of the door were two small outcroppings, like stick-figure eyes, both only six inches in width−enough to offer a sliver of daylight, as well a brief glimpse of the compound.

  Seeing that the sky had grown dark she said, “There is nothing we can do for tonight. Let them eat and sleep. By the morning the fire will have exhausted itself and we will leave.”

  Chapter Six

  Mitch nudged the inert body with the tip of his boot. His fist ached, but it was just another pain to add to the repertoire. If there was any consolation, the mercenary at his feet would sport a busted jaw to equal his own.

  Patience had paid off. Well, not really patience…more futility. Mitch had paced the perimeter of the compound, trying to calculate the circumference on foot. During his care
er he had seen similar facilities and estimated this one as 50,000 square feet of suspicious real estate plopped in the middle of the Petén jungle.

  In the race to reach the front gate, Mitch had not trusted the salvation this compound represented. He had diverted from the archeologists and from a secure distance watched as they filed inside. As the deadlocks slid shut he was seized with dread. Left alone with the fire that sounded like chorus of a thousand snakes, he began to pace the perimeter, conscious of the turrets above, praying that the vapors would obscure him from the guard’s view.

  By the time Mitch reached the furthest extent of the wall and rounded the corner, the blaze was in its death throes. At this point, he felt his only course of action was to wait for nightfall before attempting any grand plans. Surprised to find the forest unharmed on this end, Mitch discovered the accrediting factor…a small tributary, sizeable enough to deflect the fire’s path, small enough to be neglected by the local maps. Granted, these were the same maps that left this compound uncharted. What bitter irony that the archeologists had an escape route so close at hand.

  With the sun slanting across the treetops, he estimated there were only a few hours left before nightfall. The lure of fresh water was a temptation greater than the finest whisky. Mitch knelt on the bank and scooped his hands into the cool stream, throwing fistfuls over his face. Cinder residue tarnished his clothes and plagued his sinuses until he removed his shirt and thrust it beneath the current. Next he did the same with his pants, until finally he immersed his body in the water and tried to wash the terror of the jungle away.

  Once again dressed, Mitch sat on a limestone rock on the edge of the forest, staring down the rampart that rose before him. He envisioned himself as a medieval marauder about to storm the castle gate.

  To kill time and distract his worries about Alex, he picked the camera bag up and extracted his Canon 1D Mark III and started flipping through the digital images. This was his backup camera. His primary camera was fish bait in the Hudson River. Photos of Mayan artifacts scrolled by as he paused on one of the rock slab with its graphic carvings. No wonder the museum had posted a disclaimer as to the nature of the exhibit. Moving through images, Mitch saw familiar faces from the camp flash by. He stopped on an image of Alex. She stood alone by her Jeep, a map stretched across the hood. One hand was holding her back as she bent over the unfurled paper. Her profile was a clash of conviction and doubt. With a narrow chin set in determination, her eyes were closed in contemplation or fatigue.

  Mitch smiled at the representation, but his mirth faded when he stared up at the blockade. Alex was inside there and he had no idea if she was safe. When last he saw her, she was struggling to save the world. For one moment she was in his arms. It was a mutual show of support, but it had staggered him that it had felt so good. In his embrace she had looked up at him and revealed her vulnerability. It was a disclosure that pained him.

  A woman with vulnerable eyes had changed his career. A woman with vulnerable eyes haunted his dreams.

  ***

  Night fell. The air was unusually arid, tinged with ash. A chorus started up−a buzzing orchestration of frogs, birds and insects consuming the whisper of the ceibas above.

  Night sounds.

  Another noise invaded the eerie realm−the hum of a motor. Headlights pierced the dark with a strobe-like effect well before the vehicle came into view. It was a patrol from the compound. A figure stood aloft, one hand gripping the Jeep frame, the other clutching an AK-47. The driver inched the vehicle forward as the guard flashed a searchlight into the forest. Mitch withdrew behind a tree, scanning the ground in the limited light. He dragged his hand across the dirt, praying his fingers didn’t connect with anything reptilian, and was grateful when they closed around a broken tree limb. It wasn’t as heavy as he would have preferred, but it would have to do.

  Mitch waited for the scope of the searchlight to swing by and then pitched the stick in the air twenty yards away. The Jeep came to a halt and a hushed exchange could be heard now that the crickets had temporarily stopped their bickering. The man with the AK-47 climbed down from his perch, his boots landing on the ground with a thump. He stood at the rim of the jungle and gestured to his partner to shine the light into the trees. The beam swung in Mitch’s direction, but he was well secluded. He hefted another branch deeper into the jungle. It was a gamble. The commando could disregard the disruption as simply a night crawler and return to his Jeep, or he would be tempted to walk further into the forest. Mitch was hoping for the latter.

  After a moment’s hesitation, the guard craned his neck, following the beam as it wove through the brush. He took his first step into the dark veil.

  Come on, Mitch urged. A few more feet.

  On cue, the man continued forward with his weapon extended. Mitch moved fast, swinging his camera by its strap in successive arcs over his head. The impetus from the snap of his wrist hurled a 3-pound projectile of battery and plastic at the militant’s head. The man dropped to the ground half a second later, and as soon as he fell, Mitch scooped up the AK-47.

  Three days ago the Hudson had claimed $6000 worth of Mitch’s photography equipment. With this stunt the tally was up over ten grand.

  There was little time to dwell on the loss, though. As anticipated, the disturbance caught the driver’s attention, and Mitch crouched and waited for the cohort to emerge from the Jeep.

  “Viator?” the man whispered. “Viator!”

  When there was no response he flipped on a flashlight, pointing it into the forest. It was as effective as spraying an aircraft carrier with a lawn hose. The beam managed a short track of light and then withered into obscurity. The man used that minimal aid to make his way into the black belly of the jungle. As the ray dusted across the toe of his boot, Mitch held his breath. His finger caressed the trigger of the procured weapon, but he doubted he could figure out how to fire it in time.

  “Viator?” The call came again with more urgency.

  Mitch’s exposed toe was disregarded and he thought that the guard’s limited attention boded well.

  One more step.

  Launching, Mitch cracked the weapon’s wood stock into rigid skull bone. The impact jerked his shoulder, but more importantly, rendered the militant unconscious. Moving fast, he secured the two men to a tree with their belts, but left their radio within reach for when consciousness returned. By that time he expected to be deep inside the compound.

  Grabbing the military cap from one guard and hauling off a green camouflage jacket, Mitch tried both items on, relieved to find they didn’t stink. He slung the AK-47 over his shoulder and started towards the Jeep when he tripped on a piece of metal. The jungle floor was so dark he could barely see his boots. Chancing another swing of the flashlight he located an aluminum grid, and what appeared to be the exit of an air shaft. He leaned over and peered into impenetrable darkness, where he heard a churning combination of air and water deep below. Driving the Jeep through the front door seemed so much easier than chancing a trek through a wet, dark channel that hosted denizens the likes of which he would never want to meet. And ultimately, it could prove to be a dead end.

  ***

  A lone cricket staged his post just beneath the outcropping of concrete that Alex leaned against. Normally the jungle would sing a summons to this rogue insect, but tonight there was no such opus. On this night the only sound was the clap of boot against dirt as guards paced outside her dwelling. Another sound−the strike of a match was followed by the brief fizzle of ignition as the smell of cigarette smoke filled the gap she peered through. Around her the men slept deeply from mental and physical exhaustion.

  Sleep was not in the cards for her, though. The desire to protect her group from the unknown kept her awake−and this compound truly qualified as the unknown.

  Alex came alert as the outside gate opened.

  She knew that every hour a Jeep ventured out of the compound and returned fifteen minutes later, presumably making the rounds of the pr
operty. She wanted to shout through the hole in the cement and ask about the status of the fire, but given the malicious expressions on the faces of these men, she felt it best to lay low until she could glean more information. A deep whiff of air satisfied her that the raw fire had ebbed and now all that remained was the barren smell of ash being consumed by the humid night.

  She could hear activity at the gate as the deadbolts were drawn back and the entrance was hauled open. Alex held her breath in anticipation…but anticipation of what? What was she expecting−for Mitch Hasslet to stride in here, his face darkened with ash, his blue eyes sweeping the compound in search of her?

  It was not Mitch Hasslet. It was just the Jeep returning from its survey, the lone driver’s face obscured beneath the brim of his military cap.

  Alex rested her head against the cinderblock and felt emotion wrap around her throat with determined fingers. She remembered Mitch’s touch. She remembered his grin. And silently she wept.

  ***

  “Hey!”

  “Hey! I’m talking to you.” Alex pressed her face tight against the window as she shouted into the courtyard blushed from sunrise.

  “Alex, what the hell are you doing?” Wes vaulted off his cot.

  “Dammit,” she yelled again. “You hear me. Let me out. Let me see Solis or whatever the hell his name is.”

  “Are you insane?” Wes hissed.

  Alex turned from the window to glare at him. “We have been in here for nearly twelve hours. Why? Tell me, Wes, why is the door locked if this is all so damn hospitable?”

  “It was the only accommodations they had in the compound.” As if realizing how pathetic a comeback that was, Wes looked away.

  The raw scrape of wood against concrete sounded. Alex flinched at the invasion of sunlight. That luminous doorway was quickly eclipsed by a daunting black silhouette.

  “Is there a problem, Señorita?”

  Miguel Eduardo Solis looked composed, muscular and handsome−and all of those factors created a boiling formula of distaste inside Alex. Solis crossed his arms and his shoulders bulked up under his khaki shirt. His arrogant cock of an eyebrow finished off the caricature she was drawing in her mind.