by Toby Neal
Shepherd and the others were working their way closer to the buildings as Lei and Pono bent over the injured man, pulling off his helmet and loosening the bulletproof vest. He drew gasping breaths as they got the covering open. A swollen red area marked the middle of his chest where the Kevlar had stopped the round.
“You’re okay,” she told him. “Got a story for the grandkids now.” The man had the look of a grocery store meat cutter, stocky and muscular with a friendly face that had gone pale with the loss of breath. “Just get your lungs moving again. Take it easy.”
Pono gestured that he was moving in, and Lei rose back up, sighting on movement in one of the windows and firing as her partner crawled toward the house.
The rest of the team had reached the house. Shepherd was at the door, he and his partner hitting it with a small door cannon as the other officers fanned along the sides, ready to breach.
There was an abrupt roar of mechanical sound from the barn. Someone was in there and was firing up a getaway vehicle. Only Lei was in a position to intercept. She was by far the closest to the big, weathered wood structure.
Lei glanced down at the injured man. He was breathing again, color coming back into his cheeks. He’d be okay. “Moving to intercept at the barn,” she said into the comm. She stood up and ran for the sound coming from the outbuilding.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I managed to get into the pirogue with Falconer on one side and one of the native men on the other, but it was a tricky business. I was weak, burning with fever, and my ribs throbbed with every beat of my heart. The boat was long but tippy, and I ended up in the bow, lying on my back.
MacDonald screamed when Falconer approached him. Falconer turned back to the men and explained in halting Spanish, tapping his forehead and making a circle, so they knew MacDonald was off his nut. One of the native men finally had to take the vine rope around MacDonald’s neck and lead him to the boat.
“Talk to him, Stevens. Tell him we’re going to safety,” Falconer said.
It was close to the middle of the day by the way the sun looked overhead, a fireball in a bleached denim sky. I’d been lying there, staring up at it. Probably not a good plan. I struggled to sit up, and the pirogue tipped in the water.
“Get in, Devan. These men are taking us to safety.” MacDonald looked at the canoe blankly, but when the native man tugged on the makeshift rope, he stepped in, stabilizing himself with his hands on the gunwales. He sat by my feet, staring straight ahead.
The two men and Falconer then loaded in the bags of corn. I dozed in and out, but whenever I was aware of what was going on, I was alarmed by how close to the surface of the river the pirogue had sunk.
The native men didn’t seem concerned, though, and in a few minutes, the steersman fired up the outboard and his compatriot picked up the paddle. We moved away from the dock. One of my hands, resting on the rough, hand-carved gunnel, trailed into the water, and the feel of it woke me up again.
We were in the middle of the river where the current was strongest. I could see green-brown eddies and mini-whirlpools, and the pirogue slid downstream faster than it moved forward, an indication of the strength of the water’s flow. Logs and branches floated in the current, spinning lazily. I turned my head to see the far bank—more jungle, an impenetrable swath of green.
“Where do these men live?” I asked Falconer.
“In a village a few clicks downriver. They are Miskito people. Though this river divides Nicaragua and Honduras, the Miskito have always lived in this area, and they farm wherever the land is good and will support a crop.”
I knew I’d have been interested in this on another day, when I wasn’t racked with pain and fever, delirium kept at bay by the feel of the cool water on my hand. I was the only one facing backward, and a log seemed to be caught in our wake. It floated twenty or so feet behind, but no one else noticed.
Falconer touched MacDonald. “Move forward, man. We need to distribute our weight a little better.”
The effect was instantaneous. MacDonald shrieked, a high, thin wail, and shot to his feet.
The canoe rocked wildly. Water sloshed in from both sides as the craft tilted back and forth. Everyone yelled in alarm, and MacDonald lost his balance. Arms windmilling, he pitched backward into the river.
Shouts accompanied the splash that followed his fall. He disappeared, bobbing up in seconds and looking around wildly for the boat.
“Here!” Falconer extended the paddle, but MacDonald saw who was holding it and turned with a guttural cry and struck out, splashing in the opposite direction. He made no headway. The river was a freight train of power, and we were as ineffective as leaves floating on the surface of it.
MacDonald spotted the log that had been caught in our wake and stroked toward it. “No!” I yelled, realizing that the small, gleaming bumps near the front of the log weren’t knots in the wood, but eyes.
MacDonald recognized that, too. He didn’t have enough breath to scream, but he turned in the water, splashing toward me, just as the crocodile submerged. It yanked him powerfully from beneath the water, and he disappeared.
He surfaced again, flailing.
“Help me!” he screamed. His mouth was still open, his hand reaching toward the paddle he’d rejected, when he was jerked beneath the water again. The surface roiled with activity for an endless moment, and then the river smoothed out, leaving not a ripple or a bubble.
The native men burst into exclamations. Falconer handed the paddle over at the second one’s imperative command. The outboard clicked into gear, revving as much as it could, and now we were moving as fast as our heavily laden craft would go.
The men spoke a blend of native language and Spanish, and I was able to pick up that once a croc had a kill, it attracted others. Our low-slung boat was far from secure.
I had sat up in the midst of MacDonald’s struggle, unaware of it, and now fire in my side brought me low, groaning. My heart flopped like a fish in a barrel, and I was slick with sweat and horror.
“He’s just—gone.” Falconer was still scanning the water for any sign of MacDonald. “I knew that crocs pulled prey under to drown, but that…” He shook his head. “God, I wish I hadn’t touched him.”
“It’s not your fault he decided you were the devil.” I forced the words past dry lips. Facing backward, I couldn’t see where we were going, but the canoe slowed as the steersman throttled back, and I felt a gentle thud as the canoe pulled up at a dock. The second man got out and secured the boat with a rope. Falconer and the steersman handed up the bags of corn they’d harvested, and it was finally time to move me.
I had no desire to end up in the swirling brown water that ebbed and flowed around the pilings of the dock, so I tried to help, turning toward the dock, getting my feet under me, and allowing Falconer to put his shoulder under one arm and lift me up, though the movement ripped through me with such agony that I retched. Falconer managed to hand me off to the men on the dock, who’d been joined by more villagers. They were short and stocky and wore Western clothing. Waves of their Spanish/Miskito dialect swirled around me, incomprehensible and thick as the river’s water.
Spots spun in my vision, narrowed to a black point, and winked out.
A burst of gunfire from the direction of the house indicated ongoing action there, but Lei couldn’t pay attention to that. She had to intercept whoever was trying to escape from the barn. She circled the corner of the large weathered structure, out of the sight line of the house. The barn’s main door faced the house, but Lei doubted whoever was in the vehicle inside was going to try to escape past the seven heavily armed cops surrounding the dwelling.
“There must be another exit,” she muttered, and as if in answer, she heard the squeal of long-unused hinges on the side of the barn farthest from her.
Lei sidled along the splintery, rough wood, her jeans whisking, her feet tangling in the overgrown grass. She reached the corner as she heard the vehicle rev, engine rough and growling
. It was either a motorbike or a quad, and neither option was good.
Another loud burst of sound, and a four-wheeled all-terrain vehicle shot out the door.
Lei pumped the shotgun, took aim, and fired at the quad. The vehicle hit an obstacle, a boulder hidden by the long grass, just as Lei’s round blew out one of the tires.
The quad flipped spectacularly, landing upside down.
Lei ran forward, shotgun ready, tripping over hidden rocks and tussocks of thick, bunchy grass. She approached the ATV. Its engine ran unevenly, a gargling like a broken garbage disposal as the large nubbly tires rotated. As she reached it, the engine cut out abruptly. She heard a moan coming from beneath the machine.
Lei turned toward the house and yelled, “Need help over here!”
She dropped the shotgun and threw her shoulder against one of the lazily spinning tires, trying to push it back over, but it wasn’t until Pono had joined her that their combined weight was enough to tip the heavy ATV over onto its side, freeing the man beneath.
Uncle Noah stared up at them. His eyes bulged with petechial hemorrhaging and his mouth opened and closed as he tried to get air into his crushed chest. Lei could see a depression marking his clothing where the handlebars had compressed his rib cage, breaking bones and crushing his lungs. His chest was caved in where it should have been elevated.
The man’s gaze was frantic and terrified as he tried vainly to breathe. A trickle of blood ran from his gulping mouth. Pono dropped to his knees beside the pot grower, opening his shirt to assess the damage. “Take it easy. Help’s on the way.”
Lei heard the wail of distant ambulance sirens coming their way. She picked up her shotgun and walked back toward the fallen police officer. He was someone who deserved her support. She didn’t want to share Uncle Noah’s last moments.
The firefight was over at the house. Shepherd and his partner guided two handcuffed prisoners down the rotted wooden steps.
“Get your man?” Shepherd threw a thumb toward the barn.
“Uncle Noah is down.” Lei lifted the fallen officer to a sitting position. “Pono is being the Good Samaritan.”
The ambulance bounced up the rugged, overgrown road, and shortly two EMTs ran to assist. Pono came around the barn. Lei looked up at him, alert. He met her gaze with a steady one of his own.
“No need to hurry,” he told the EMTs. “The one behind the barn is dead.”
Lei let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The next time I woke I was in a different place. A ceiling was above me, and I could see by red and orange flickering that there was a fire nearby. I was lying on a cot of some sort. I couldn’t move, and when I slowly lifted my head, I was naked except for clean underwear. I’d been washed—I smelled like unfamiliar chemicals. My gaze panned around. There was an IV running into my hand, and my arms and legs were tied down to the cot with strips of material.
Lifting my head had taken all the strength I had. I lowered it again, heavy as a bowling ball. It seemed strange that I was naked and tied. Perhaps there was some medical reason. Shutting my eyes was a tremendous relief. Bloodred patterns flickered behind my eyelids—the fire. I felt its warmth, and relaxed.
I was safe. And clean. Maybe even getting medical attention, though the pain in my side hadn’t abated.
“You awake, Stevens?” Falconer’s voice. I didn’t bother to open my eyes.
“Maybe,” I muttered. I felt limp as week-old lettuce, and shivers still racked me periodically. A cool cloth wiped my face, neck, shoulders.
“They have you on an antibiotic IV. You’ve still got a fever, though,” Falconer said. “I think we got here just in time.”
“Thanks, man. You saved my life.”
An odd sort of pause. Falconer didn’t answer. I used all my strength to pry my gummy eyelids open and lift my head.
Falconer, dressed in clean fatigues, was at the door of the room. He jumped back from the closed door where he’d been listening.
“Hostiles coming.” He grabbed a metal chair and propped it under the door handle. “Shit. I was really hoping once we got to the Nicaragua side, the kidnappers wouldn’t pursue us. I left my weapons in the room the villagers put me in. Shit.”
“Untie me,” I croaked.
Falconer was too busy looking for a way to arm himself. He ransacked the meager room with its multiple cots, unable to find anything but a pair of scissors. He unhooked the bag of liquid hanging beside me from the metal pole, laying the bag on my chest. “This will do.”
“Untie me.” I said it louder. “I can move. I think.”
The handle of the door rattled and rattled. The boom of someone kicking the door echoed through the room. I heaved myself sideways in the cot, trying to flip it over. That did nothing but send a lance of fire through me, and a sharp yelp of pain burst from my lips.
Falconer, standing by the door, the pole raised, seemed to realize that he’d left me tied and helpless. He turned toward me just as they fired on the door from the other side.
The shotgun blast sounded like a cannon in the enclosed space. Like some horrible cartoon come to life, the round tore a hole in the wood and pierced Falconer from behind. The shell blew through his midsection, spattering me with his blood, and embedded itself in the wall above my head.
Falconer dropped the metal pole. His hands clutched his abdomen. His very dark eyes, wide and ringed with white, met mine. He gave a little head shake, an ironic acknowledgment at having come this far only to die now.
“No!” I screamed. The door flew inward. Camouflage-dressed soldiers ran in as Falconer dropped to his knees, blood pouring between his fingers. He looked down at his hands and slowly tipped over onto his side.
The captain from the camp we’d escaped from so long ago entered the room, striding with a swagger. His soldiers stood over my bed, guns pointed down at me, as the captain walked over to Falconer. He gazed at the giant wound in the man’s belly. Falconer looked up at him.
“Gut shot. You will die slow and terrible,” he said in Spanish. “I will give you mercy.”
Falconer shut his eyes and nodded, once. The captain pulled his pistol and shot Falconer in the head. Falconer jerked, and relaxed. The smell of blood filled the room, powerful as ammonia in my nostrils.
“No!” I thrashed, but I couldn’t get free of the bindings. My weakness, helplessness, and agony overwhelmed me, along with disgust and horror. My vision faded to gray, then booted back up into focus again.
The captain’s face loomed close as he looked me over. He was unshaven and greasy with sweat, and in his eyes I saw a debate: Was it better to keep me alive or kill me? There wasn’t a thing I could do about any of it. I welcomed the familiar darkness that closed over my head.
It was much later when Lei, Pono beside her, Shepherd bringing up the rear, sat down at a battered Formica table in the jail’s adolescent visiting room. The smell of Cheetos and grape soda filled the room, emanating from a trash can near the door. The table was gouged with initials and cusswords. She briefly wondered where the table had come from—no sharp objects were allowed in the room.
Tony entered with a juvenile officer. He wore cuffs, a zip-front orange overall, and fragile bravado. “What you cops want? I nevah goin’ talk.”
Lei reminded him of his rights, which the juvenile officer duly noted. “Uncle Noah is dead,” Lei said. “He can neither protect you nor hurt you any longer.”
Tony’s color ebbed until it was the shade of badly tanned leather. His eyes held the hopelessness of someone who hasn’t a friend or loved one in the world. Though this kid might be too far gone for redemption, he was no more than sixteen—too young to have no one who cared.
“Do you have a family, Tony?” Lei felt sorry for him in spite of herself.
“Not anymore. Uncle was my family.” Tony dropped into the molded plastic chair like a sandbag.
“We’re trying to find people you’re related to. You went to
Uncle from foster care. You and your brother.” Elizabeth had tracked Tony’s foster placement and disappearance to eight years ago, when he and his brother, Luke, had gone to Selina Tahua’s—and supposedly run away, never to be seen again. “Where’s your brother, Luke, Tony?”
Tony looked down at his hands in the cuffs. He had a little meat on his bones, compared to the three boys at Philomena Bugata’s, and that reminder pricked Lei’s anger. “You want proof Uncle Noah is dead?” She took out her phone, scrolled to a picture.
Lei held the phone up so that the boy could see it. Uncle Noah’s eyes were open, bloodshot and bulging, but fixed in death. Blood filled his open mouth. His chest was dented in rather than curved. Tony gasped and covered his face.
Lei flicked the phone off. “He died trying to escape when his quad flipped. He left you to die in the jungle, Tony. We just want to know what happened to your brother.” She unslung her backpack, set it on the table. She’d stopped by the morgue on her way here, and now she took out a Ziploc bag containing the small skull, stained red from iron-rich soil. “Is this your brother, Luke, Tony?”
Tony gave a cry. “No one was supposed to dig him up! He was peaceful there!” He lunged across the table and snatched the skull, hugging it to his chest. “Luke. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” He cried, harsh dry sobs.
Pono glanced sidewise at Lei. She could feel disapproval rolling off him in waves. He thought she was being too harsh.
“Who killed Luke, Tony?” she asked.
“Nobody. Luke—he got sick.” Tony gestured to his abdominal area. “Super sick. Bad pain in his stomach. He was puking and crying in pain. He got really hot. Uncle, he wouldn’t take him to the hospital. Said Luke was weak, that he would talk and tell about the farm. And then Luke died.” Tony hung his head, cradling the skull in his arms. “I’m so sorry, Luke.”