Amazon Burning (A James Acton Thriller, #10)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  Reading pulled the new arrival ashore with help from several of the natives, Kinti at his side. The man flopped onto the ground, exhausted, and simply tried to catch his breath as Reading checked him for wounds, finding nothing beyond scrapes and bruises except for his shoulder which had been bleeding profusely at some point.

  “Is that a bullet wound?”

  The man nodded.

  “Who shot you? Border patrol?”

  The man shook his head. “Some sort of Special Ops team. We stumbled upon them about a week ago.”

  Reading’s eyes narrowed, the man’s statement not making any sense, and the fact he was speaking perfect American accented English raising all kinds of red flags. Drug trafficker? “What makes you think Special Ops?”

  “Black uniforms, faces covered completely, no identifiable markings.”

  “Brazilian?”

  The man shook his head as he was lifted onto a stretcher from the boat, wincing as they did so. “We were in Venezuela when it happened.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  They were quickly on the boat, the stretcher set on top of a large table. The wounded member of the security team, Michael Trent, was at the ready with the med kit. He expertly cleaned the wound as the man continued to talk.

  “We’re part of an environmental group, Protect Amazonia Now. PAN, maybe you’ve heard of us?”

  Reading shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”

  “What’s your name?” asked Trent, a question Reading hadn’t thought to ask for some reason.

  “Steve. Steve Parker.”

  “Okay, Steve, this is going to hurt.”

  Parker nodded then cried out in pain as Trent dug into his shoulder with tweezers. A few moments later the tweezers emerged, Trent triumphantly holding up the bullet. He examined and cleaned the wound some more then gave Parker the thumbs up.

  “Looks like there was no fragmentation and nothing major hit. I’ll patch you up, give you a shot of antibiotics and you should be good to go. When we get back to civilization though you’ll need to get that looked at properly.”

  Parker nodded, relief evident on his face. Trent proceeded with the bandaging as Reading continued his interrogation.

  “You said you were part of an environmental group. What were you doing in Venezuela.”

  “We heard reports of some illegal logging going on so we decided to check it out. By treaty this entire region—Brazil, Venezuela, Colombia and Peru, are supposed to be protected. There are estimated to be seventy-seven uncontacted tribes in this area and illegal logging forces them out of their natural habitat and into the traditional grounds of other tribes, and eventually us. Their entire way of life can be destroyed, or worse, if they catch something as simple as the common cold from us, an entire tribe could be wiped out.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  Parker shook his head. “No, we never had a chance. We were only a day into our hike north when these guys came out of nowhere, guns raised. I managed to run away, but got shot for my efforts. I don’t know what happened to the others.”

  Reading looked at Milton who had taken a seat nearby, the excitement having woken him. He gave a “sounds fishy to me” type expression, to which Reading agreed.

  Special Ops protecting a logging operation?

  It made no sense.

  Scratch that. Not Special Ops. Assumed Special Ops.

  That made more sense. “They might have just been paramilitary, Venezuelan police. These countries quite often hide the identity of their police to protect them and their families.”

  Parker winced as Trent plunged a needle into his arm then pushed the plunger. “That’s possible. I only saw them for a few seconds.”

  “Did they say anything?”

  Parker sat up, slowly rotating his shoulder, testing the bandage. “Thanks,” he said to Trent, “that feels a lot better.”

  Trent pointed at the dressing. “Take it easy with that, it could open up if you’re not careful and you’ve got an infection that might take a week or so to clear up.”

  Parker nodded and stood up from the table he had been lying on then took a seat in one of the chairs on the deck. As the area was cleaned up by the crew, Reading sat, Kinti in his lap once again, this time her attention focused on the new arrival rather than her lover, and Trent occupying the final chair.

  One of the crewmen came on deck with water and food for their new arrival, and as Parker shoveled it into his mouth, he continued answering Reading’s questions between bites. “It’s funny,” he said, swallowing a large bite. “I couldn’t understand anything they were saying. That didn’t really surprise me though since I don’t speak Portuguese or Venezuelan.” He paused. “What do they speak? Spanish?”

  Reading shrugged. “I think so.”

  “Yes, Spanish,” confirmed Trent, obviously better versed on the region than Reading was.

  “Well, I couldn’t understand them. I know enough Spanish though to know it wasn’t that, but it didn’t sound like anything European either.”

  Reading’s eyebrows narrowed as he exchanged a glance with Milton. “What did it sound like?”

  “Well,” began Parker as he took a swig of water then a big bite of thickly sliced bread smeared generously in butter. He held up his finger as he chewed the oversized helping and finally swallowed. “If I didn’t know better, and really I can’t be certain, but if I didn’t know better it sounded like—” Suddenly he sucked in a sudden gasp, his eyes bulging and Reading leaned forward concerned.

  A belch erupted, relief expressed on Parker’s face.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “ate a little too quickly. I haven’t eaten in days and the water I’ve been drinking is probably questionable. Who knows what kind of diseases I might have picked up.”

  Reading nodded impatiently. “You were saying, what did their language sound like?”

  “Oh yeah, well, if I didn’t know better, I’d say Chinese!”

  Terrence Mitchel woke suddenly, the satellite phone vibrating on the end table. It had been a late night, a very late night, and everyone, including their guest Bob Turnbull, who had happily slept on a cot brought by the staff, were still asleep. After waiting hours for a call that never came, Turnbull had called his people in the United States, he apparently part of some environmentalist group called Protect Amazonia Now, an organization he had never heard of. He had heard only parts of the conversation, Turnbull making the call on the balcony of their hotel room, almost as if he didn’t want to be overheard.

  And the scraps he had overheard had him troubled.

  The way Turnbull had originally spoken it sounded like they were scientists cataloguing species, at least that’s how Mitchell remembered the conversation, but the snippets overheard in the phone call had him questioning his memory and Turnbull’s original story. References to ‘mission’ and ‘failure’, words he wouldn’t have used to describe a scientific expedition being attacked, floated in from the balcony leaving he and his wife very nervous.

  And what Mitchell had learned over the year he and Jenny had been together was that when she was nervous, she became confrontational, dealing with whatever was making her nervous.

  “I thought you were a scientist?” she had asked when Turnbull reentered the room.

  He handed the phone back to Mitchell and sat down, Mitchell’s clothes fitting him almost perfectly. “I am. Most of us are. I have a PhD in environmental studies from Berkley. A lot of people don’t like environmentalists, especially down here, so I thought it better to say we were on a scientific expedition cataloguing species.”

  “What were you really doing?” Again it was Jenny with the balls.

  “Trying to prove that the Venezuelans were illegally logging. We heard some rumors over the Net so a team of six of us came down to check it out.”

  “Why not go through the government?”

  “Washington? They’re part of the problem, not the solution, man. Once you get them involved, you kn
ow there’ll be a cover up for sure. We couldn’t risk that. We wanted to get direct evidence and show the world by exposing these bastards on the Internet where they couldn’t deny it.”

  “But you were caught.”

  “Yeah, but not by loggers. These guys were paramilitary or something. Special Forces. Head to toe gear, all black, like something out of Call of Duty, man!”

  The rest of the conversation had seemed truthful and had put them at ease slightly, enough that they let him stay in their room overnight, he still clearly having been through an ordeal.

  The phone vibrated again, demanding attention. Mitchell grabbed it as the rest of the room stirred. “Hello?”

  “Terrence, is that you?”

  He immediately recognized the voice and jumped out of bed, thrilled. “Professor Palmer! Is that really you?” He couldn’t believe his ears. Jenny jumped up on her knees in the middle of the bed as Turnbull groggily awoke. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine now. James and some local natives found me, I’ll explain later. We’re going to rendezvous with Leather’s team shortly, then try to make the boat before nightfall. I just wanted you to know I’m okay.”

  “That’s fantastic news, mum.” Jenny waved at the phone, tears of relief flowing freely down her cheeks. “Jenny sends her best.”

  “Hugs and kisses to her. I’m going to let you go now. Let the university and anyone else you can think of know we’re okay. I’ll contact you when we reach the boat.”

  “Okay, mum.”

  “Is that your missing Doctor?” asked Turnbull, standing up.

  Mitchell nodded.

  “The one with the heavily armed security team coming to get her?”

  Mitchell’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Why?”

  “Ask her if she saw or heard anything about my friends.”

  Mitchell frowned, thinking the poor woman had enough on her mind, but decided to ask anyway. “Mum, did you happen to see or hear anything while you were out there, specifically about a team of environmentalists being captured by a team of Special Forces types?”

  “Are you joking, Terrence? You know you have to work on that sense of humor a little more.”

  “No, mum, I’m not. It’s just that we met someone here who claims he and his friends were attacked while they were trying to find some illegal logging operation. He managed to get away but his friends didn’t.”

  He heard muffled talking then suddenly Professor Acton’s voice came on the line. “As a matter of fact, I do know something about that,” began the professor to Mitchell’s amazement, amazement which was apparently written across his face as Turnbull jumped up, grabbing the phone from him and putting it on speaker.

  “Please, Professor, tell me everything you know.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “This is Bob Turnbull,” replied Mitchell. “He’s the environmentalist we ran into here.”

  “Bob, I’m Professor Acton. Do you know a Steve Parker?”

  Turnbull’s jaw dropped as his head bobbed. “Yes! He’s one of the team!”

  “Well, I just got a call from our boat. We have him. He’s okay. Have Terrence call the boat after this call so you can talk to him.”

  “That’s fantastic, professor.” Turnbull paused for a moment. “I understand you have a security team with you?”

  “We will be rendezvousing with them shortly.”

  “Can you please help us? Your team can rescue the rest of my team. There’s only four left!”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Turnbull, at the moment our priority is to get ourselves to safety. Once we’re all safe we can discuss how to help you get your team out.”

  Turnbull said nothing, his face slowly turning red, his eyes filled with tears. Suddenly a burst of sobs, words almost incoherent, erupted from him. “You need to help them! You have to help them! They’re going to die!”

  He jumped at Mitchell, grabbing him around the neck, locking his elbow around Mitchell’s throat. Mitchell could feel himself already struggling to breathe as he grabbed at Turnbull’s arms, pulling at them to no avail. Jenny screamed, jumping out of the bed as Professor Acton demanded to know what was going on, his voice drowned out by the struggle. Mitchell could feel Jenny pulling at Turnbull as well, but his grip was unbreakable.

  “I’ll kill him if you don’t send your team to find my friends!” he screamed. Mitchell could feel the blood flow being cut off to his brain as he slowly passed out, the world becoming a fog.

  “Everyone calm down,” came the professor’s voice. “I want to know exactly what’s happening.”

  “He’s choking Terrence!” cried Jenny, still beating at Turnbull, the thuds vibrating through his attacker’s body and into Mitchell’s.

  “If you don’t let him go, there’s no way we will help you.” The professor’s voice was calm but firm. “Do you understand me?”

  “I understand that I have your man and I’ll kill him if you don’t give me what I want!”

  “Your name is Bob Turnbull,” replied Acton. “We have your man Steve Parker. If any harm comes to my people, I won’t rest until you go to prison for the rest of your life. With one phone call I can have your name and photograph at every single airport in the country. There will be no escape. And if you’re rotting in jail, how are you going to help your friends then?”

  Mitchell felt Turnbull’s grip loosen slightly as he sobbed, and just as he was about to try and wrench himself free he heard an incredible bang with a slight ringing sound directly behind him, then suddenly he was free, Turnbull collapsing to the ground. Mitchell turned to see Jenny holding the large, old rotary phone from the nightstand.

  Try that with a cellphone.

  Acton’s voice erupted from the phone on the bed. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m okay, Professor,” replied Mitchell, coughing and collapsing to his knees as he tried to regain his breath. Jenny dropped the phone and threw her arms around him, crying into his chest. “Jenny knocked him out with the phone.”

  “Okay, tie him up and call the police. Then call the American Embassy for him, he’s going to need some help.”

  “He was just starting to let me go, Professor. I think you got through to him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Not a hundred percent, but pretty sure. He definitely loosened his grip and I heard him sort of start to cry.” Mitchell couldn’t believe he was defending his attacker, but he felt sorry for the man, and knew what desperation felt like, he having gone through it in the Egyptian desert just last year. “I think he was just desperate. If we tell him we’ll help, I’m sure he’ll cooperate.”

  “But we can’t send Leather’s team in,” replied Acton. “That’s Venezuela. We have no permission to be there.” Mitchell heard a sigh through the phone. “Listen, you’re there, on site. It’s up to you on whether or not you want to trust him. Tell him we will do everything we can to help, but if he touches either of you again, all bets are off.”

  “Okay, Professor. I’ll let you know what happens.”

  He ended the call and looked at Jenny. “What do you think?”

  “I think we call the bloody police and have him locked up for trying to kill you, that’s what I think!”

  Mitchell laughed slightly, his feelings mixed. He was terrified. The man had attacked him and could have killed him if Jenny hadn’t of coldcocked him with the phone. But would he have done any different if the roles were reversed? He couldn’t say for sure. And it had him torn.

  Turnbull groaned.

  And Mitchell’s decision was made.

  “Help me get him into the chair,” he said, standing.

  Jenny stared at him, mouth agape. “Are you daft?”

  Suddenly the door burst open, flying off the hinges. Jenny screamed and Mitchell jumped in front of her, nearly shitting his pants as half a dozen police officers stormed into the room, guns drawn, screaming in Portuguese.

  It appeared Mitchel’s decision to give Turnbull a second chance had bee
n countermanded.

  To say Acton was concerned was putting it mildly, and his concern was clearly shared by Laura. Their conversation with Mitchell and his wife Jenny had taken place nearly on the run, there no time to waste if they were to arrive at the river before nightfall. He was more and more convinced that they had to reach the safety of the boat in case this Tuk kidnapper came back with friends. He had faith that Leather’s team could hold their own in a firefight, but poison arrows in the dark of the jungle were almost impossible to defend against.

  “Hold your position!” ordered a voice, the accent unmistakably British, from what part of the Empire Acton had no idea, still trying to figure out the diverse country’s many different facets.

  Everyone froze, Sandro quickly translating for Skip who ordered their guides to hold.

  Bushes rustled and almost immediately retired Lt. Colonel Cameron Leather appeared from the foliage, a smile on his face. “Good afternoon, Professors. We could hear you coming from a klick away.”

  “Thank God you’re here!” cried Laura, giving the man a hug and smiling at the rest of his team as they emerged from their cover. She introduced Sandro and Skip and it was quickly conveyed to their guides that these men were friendly.

  Skip said something, pointing in the direction they had been heading.

  “He say we must go. No time to chit-chat.” Sandro was already following their guides, leaving the rest to catch up.

  “Are you okay, Professor?” asked Leather, keeping beside Laura, their guides setting the pace at a near jog.

  “Other than being tired, sore and embarrassed, I’m fine.”

  “You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about, honey.” Acton looked from his wife to Leather. “She took on an anaconda!” It was said with pride and awe, Acton having only believed the story because he had seen the carcass himself.

  Leather’s eyes widened. “An anaconda?”

  “Dove out of a tree with a knife, sunk the blade into its head, then sliced the damned thing right open. I saw the carcass myself.”

  “Holy Christ!”

  “Then she ate the effin’ thing!”

  Leather shook his head, laughing as he deked around a tree. “You never cease to amaze me, ma’am.”