“I know,” Rory said. “How are you going to explain our charitable contribution on the expense report?”
“Easy. I’ll tell the truth.” Decker opened the hotel’s wide glass door and stepped into the lobby. “Not even Adam Hunt is heartless enough to raise hell over such a good cause. We’ll be fine.”
“I hope you’re right,” Rory said.
“Me too,” Decker replied. Deep down, he knew he was.
11
The Casa Amazonia hotel was one of the more upscale establishments in the city of Manaus. The lobby was large, with marble floors and sumptuous sitting areas scattered among columns with intricate carvings that punctuated the wide double height reception area. A sense of grandeur that hearkened back to the romance of the Art Deco twenties pervaded the space, albeit faded.
Decker approached the registration desk and gave their names. Five minutes later, electronic key cards in hand for the pair of rooms Hunt had reserved for them, he and Rory were riding the elevator to the third floor. They were only staying one night. After breakfast the next morning, they would head to a private airstrip on the west side of town. From there a ninety-minute helicopter ride would bring them to base camp. But for now, Decker was looking forward to a hearty meal and a good night’s sleep.
“It’s eight o’clock local time,” Decker said, glancing at his watch. “Let’s drop our bags in the room and find something to eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
“The sandwiches we ate on the flight didn’t hold you over?” Rory said, chuckling.
“Not so much.”
“I have no clue what the cuisine is like around here. You got anywhere in mind?” Rory swiped his key card and waited for the door lock to disengage.
“I figured we’d stop at the concierge desk on the way out and see what they recommend.” Decker unlocked his own room and pushed the door open. “Let’s take fifteen minutes to freshen up and we’ll head down.”
“You got it.” Rory stepped into his room, then turned back to Decker. “You’re not going to make us take another taxi tonight, are you?”
“Wasn’t planning on it.” Decker grinned at his companion before crossing the threshold into his own room. “See you in fifteen.”
Rory nodded and disappeared from view.
Decker closed the door and surveyed his accommodation. It was as plush as the public area of the hotel. A king-sized bed with crisp cotton sheets and full pillows stood against one wall. A flatscreen TV faced it on the other. A table with two upholstered chairs was placed near the window. The city beyond sparked with a thousand twinkling lights now that night had fallen.
Decker deposited his travel bag on the bed, then crossed the room and pulled the shades. He went back to the bag and took out a fresh shirt, then went into the bathroom with his toiletries bag. Ten minutes later, feeling more like himself and wearing the clean shirt, he left the hotel room and knocked on Rory’s door.
The concierge desk stood next to the hotel bar, on the far side of the lobby opposite check-in. The concierge himself was a thin man in his early forties, with black hair slicked over his scalp. A goatee clung to his chin, making his already long face look even more so. But he was only too happy to help Decker and Rory and suggested several nearby eateries ranging from dubious street carts to a restaurant he claimed was Michelin starred. All were within easy walking distance, he assured them.
After a moment of consultation, Decker and Rory decided to split the difference and chose a reasonably priced restaurant recommended by the concierge for its local flavors. The place was named simply Vivo, which was, apparently, the Portuguese word for alive.
They took down directions and left the hotel. Ten minutes later they arrived at the restaurant. They were given the option of either sitting inside or dining on a large patio area that fronted the building. The patio overlooked Praça da Saudade, the square their taxi driver pointed out to them earlier. It sat across the road and was now lit up with streetlamps that illuminated the square’s pedestrian walkways. They decided to dine on the patio and enjoy the view, not to mention the cool breeze that had sprung up now the sun had set.
Rory picked up a menu and studied it. “I’m not sure what any of this stuff is,” he said with a furrowed brow. “Everything is in Portuguese.”
“You don’t speak the language?” Decker said with a laugh.
“No. Do you?”
“Not a word.” Decker turned the menu over and found the drink options. This much he did understand, recognizing both Heineken and Peroni on the beer list. When the waiter arrived, he ordered a Heineken, and Rory followed suit.
Turning the menu back over, Decker explained to the waiter that neither of them spoke the language and asked for a recommendation.
“You should try the Pirarucu de Casacu,” the man said in accented but impeccable English. “It really is very good. A local delicacy.”
“Yeah, I’ve had delicacies before,” Rory said, wary. “It usually means I end up eating something gross.”
The waiter laughed. “You like fish?”
“Sure. I like fish.” Rory nodded.
“Then you will like Pirarucu.”
“What is it, exactly?” Decker asked.
The waiter pointed to a picture on the menu. “This is what it looks like. Pirarucu is a giant fish local to the Amazon basin. It’s extremely delicious. We take the salted fish and combine it with fried bananas and sautéed shoestring potatoes. If you’re looking for a flavor of the Amazon, this is it.”
Decker to Rory. “What do you think?”
Rory shrugged. “It’s that or we ask this guy to translate everything else on the menu, and I’m hungry.”
Decker looked up at the waiter. “In that case, sold. We’ll both have the fish.”
“Very good.” The waiter grinned and scribbled their order on a notepad. “I’ll bring your drinks,” he said before turning and departing back inside the restaurant.
Decker sat back and watched cars pass by on the road in front of the restaurant while he waited for his beer to arrive. A young couple walked arm in arm in the square, their heads bent close to each other.
“This isn’t so bad,” said Rory. “Even the hotel is nice. Much better than the places Hunt normally books for me.”
“I’d reserve judgment until we see base camp tomorrow, if I were you.” Decker’s gaze wandered toward the restaurant. The waiter had reappeared carrying a silver tray, upon which were two glasses and a pair of green beer bottles. He made his way toward them, weaving through the tables occupied by other diners.
A squeal of tires distracted Decker. He glanced toward the road and saw a black SUV stop at the curb. When he looked back, the waiter was almost upon them. He reached the table and lifted one of the glasses. As he did so, there was a popping sound and the tray jumped from his hand, sending the remaining glass and two beer bottles crashing to earth where they smashed, spewing frothy amber liquid in all directions.
Then Decker noticed the waiter, and the crimson stain swiftly spreading across his previously white shirt.
The man stayed upright for a moment, a look of startled disbelief on his face, and then his knees gave way and he crumpled to the ground.
12
A gunshot. Decker recognized the popping sound instantly. He also saw the two black-clad men wearing balaclavas who jumped from the SUV holding a pair of long-barreled handguns.
The patio dining area erupted into a cacophony of screams and panicked shouts. People dove to the floor. Others fled in terror, diners, and restaurant staff scattering in all directions in uncoordinated panic.
The gunmen were still advancing, oblivious to the surrounding chaos.
Decker’s instincts took over.
Grabbing Rory by the back of his collar, he yanked the startled archaeologist out of his chair and to the ground while at the same time pulling the metal patio table over to create a barrier between themselves and the shooters. He reached to his left side out of
habit, hand looking for the service weapon that would have been strapped in its shoulder holster if he were still a cop. Then Decker remembered he wasn’t armed.
He wondered if the table would stop a bullet, doubted that it would. Especially at this range. In answer, he heard a sharp smack, and a hole burst open in the metal tabletop inches from his head. He felt the searing heat as a bullet whizzed past his ear.
Another sharp pop.
From somewhere close by, there was a pained grunt. A woman in a yellow floral dress dropped in her tracks, spinning sideways and almost crashing into their table shelter as she fell.
“We have to get out of here,” Decker said to Rory, aware that if they didn’t move soon everyone else on the patio would have either dispersed in terror or be dead. “When I say go, turn and run as fast as you can toward the restaurant. Whatever you do, don’t go inside. There’s an alley to the building’s left. Aim for that and keep going. Don’t follow a straight line. Weave as you run and whatever you do, stay low. It will make you a harder target.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be right behind. Just do as I say.”
Another bullet slammed into the table, splitting the air between the two men. Cats might have nine lives, but Decker knew that he and Rory didn’t. The next bullet would probably kill one of them.
“You ready?” Decker asked.
Rory nodded but said nothing. His face was ashen.
Decker took a deep breath, prepared himself, and said, “Go.”
Rory didn’t need to be told twice. He pushed off, keeping himself bent low and dodging left and right through those diners that hadn’t yet gotten clear of the patio.
After Rory left, Decker gripped the edges of the table and stood up, heaving it as high as he could with protesting muscles.
The two gunmen were only about ten feet away, their weapons extended and trained on Decker’s location. Another second and more bullets would come his way. He hoisted the table aloft and brought his arms forward, letting go at the apex of his throw. The heavy piece of furniture didn’t have as much momentum as he hoped and clattered to the ground well short of the armed men. But it made them react. The pair jumped back and sideways, trying to avoid the briefly airborne table.
That was all Decker needed.
He turned and sprinted after Rory, jumping over the prone waiter, who was obviously dead and laying in a growing pool of his own blood. He ran a zigzagging course toward the alley, careful to avoid any pattern of predictable movements even as more bullets flew.
He reached the alley and powered forward, ducking out of sight just as another bullet smacked into the concrete corner of the building, sending shards of masonry flying in all directions. As he entered the alley, Decker risked a glance backwards.
One gunman had turned and was sprinting back to the SUV. The vehicle had pulled up onto the sidewalk, with the engine revving in anticipation of the man’s arrival.
The second shooter was continuing toward the alley.
Decker sensed what they were trying to do. Knowing the lay of the land better than he and Rory, they would attempt to trap their targets, with the still advancing gunman covering one end of the alley and the SUV racing around to block the other. They wouldn’t stand a chance of escaping the alley and disappearing before the SUV showed up. Then he saw the metal door set into the wall ahead on the right. It gave him an idea.
Rory was several feet in front, but he wasn’t as quick as Decker, who caught up easily and placed a hand on his companion’s shoulder.
“That door. It’s our only chance,” Decker said, breathless, as they drew close. “Hurry.”
“This is crazy,” Rory said over his shoulder, but he picked up his pace anyway, somehow finding an extra spurt of speed.
They reached the door, and Decker gripped the handle.
It didn’t open.
“It’s locked,” Rory said, glancing back down the alley toward the front of the restaurant. “We should keep going.”
“No. If we do, we are dead.” Decker banged a fist on the door. Three heavy thuds.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the shooter enter the alley and level the gun at them. He tensed, realizing they were out of options. Waiting for the bullet to smack into him.
But before their pursuer could get off a shot, the door swung inward to reveal a confused man dressed in a chef’s white uniform. Behind him was the restaurant’s kitchen, still running despite the chaos outside. Apparently, they hadn’t yet gotten the message.
Decker pushed the confused restaurant worker backwards past the door, dragging Rory with him. “Run. As fast as you can.”
“What are you going to do?” Rory asked.
“There’s no time to explain. Just go.” Decker gave Rory a shove, then stepped sideways behind the open door.
The chef watched Rory flee, obviously confused, then decided he didn’t want to wait around to find out what was going on. He turned and ran, shouting at his coworkers to vacate as he went.
Decker stood silent and concealed behind the door. He counted off the seconds, judging how long it would take the gunman to reach the kitchen. He kept an eye on the crack between the door and the frame, that glowed yellow thanks to a lamp mounted on the outside wall above the door.
When a dark shadow fell across the gap, blocking the light from the overhead lamp, Decker put a shoulder against the door and drove it closed with all the force he could muster.
The gunman was caught off guard, half into the kitchen with his weapon extended ahead of him. He squealed with pain as the door slammed into his arms, crushing them between the door and the frame. He let go of the gun and it clattered to the floor.
Decker pressed his advantage, opening the door, and slamming it a second time, and then a third in quick succession before the now unarmed man had a chance to withdraw.
Pulling the door open a fourth time, Decker stepped out from behind it and gripped the injured man, pulling him quickly inside the kitchen and driving him toward a nearby cooktop, upon which sat a large pot full of bubbling liquid.
Decker propelled the gunman forward, slamming him into the pot, which toppled sideways and spilled its contents.
The man screamed as burning liquid scolded his face and arms. Decker dragged him back and slammed him down a second time. His head bounced off the cooktop with a resounding crack and his body went limp.
Decker let the unconscious man slip to the ground and turned back toward the door. The gun still lay there, its barrel lengthened thanks to a chunky black tube attached to the front. A suppressor, inaccurately known as a silencer even though it only muted the gun’s discharge.
Decker scooped up the weapon, then frisked the man, finding two full magazines in his jacket pocket. Sixteen more bullets. These he kept. He didn’t, however, find any identification on the shooter’s person. Not that he expected to.
Then, fearing more assailants might be close at hand, Decker took off after Rory and the terrified kitchen staff. He wasn’t sure what just happened, but he knew one thing. This assignment had just gotten a whole lot more dangerous.
13
Decker caught up with Rory in the restaurant’s main dining room. It was strangely empty, with half-eaten meals sitting on abandoned tables and unfinished drinks lining the bar. Music was playing, a little too loud now there was no conversation or clink of cutlery.
“You made it,” Rory said with obvious relief. “I thought they might have gotten you.”
“Come on, we have to keep moving.” Decker took Rory by the arm and led him toward the front of the restaurant, past the abandoned host station.
The restaurant’s doors stood open. Beyond the patio area was a scene of devastation. Upturned tables and toppled chairs were strewn around as if a miniature whirlwind had come through. Items of clothing, coats and jackets abandoned by diners, lay crumpled on the ground. But it was the people who hadn’t made it out that filled the scene with horror. Decker counted at least six bodies,
including their waiter, who lay sprawled on his back with sightless eyes staring up into the humid Brazilian night.
Decker felt a pang of remorse. He was sure the killers had come for himself and Rory. Even if he didn’t know why. These innocent people ended up caught in the crossfire, straying in the path of bullets even as they tried to escape. He took in the scene quickly, evaluating the danger, then decided there were no gunmen remaining at the front of the building. The black SUV had sped away to cut off their escape route. It wouldn’t be long before its occupants realized what had happened to their companion. But they wouldn’t be back here, he knew. Because now Decker could hear the wail of sirens as the local authorities responded to the scene. Within minutes, this entire area would be swarming with cops.
If he and Rory were still here when the police arrived, they would be taken into custody for sure, especially since he was carrying a weapon used in the attack. And even if they could convince the authorities that they were not responsible for the massacre, red tape would keep them locked up long after they should have met the helicopter and flown to base camp where the rest of their team waited. Including a contingent of gun toting ex-soldiers. Now, Decker was glad for Hunt’s prudence. He had a feeling the armed escort would prove necessary.
“Looks like the coast is clear,” Decker said to Rory. “Let’s move before local law enforcement arrives.”
“Where are we going?” Rory asked. “Back to the hotel?”
“Not yet.” Decker was sure that whoever just tried to have them killed was also watching the hotel. This was not some spur-of-the-moment act of violence. The men were well-trained and knew how to handle themselves. They were also, he suspected, not acting alone. There was organization behind their assault. “We need to find a set of wheels and get out of the immediate area.”
Cryptid Quest: A Supernatural Thriller (The John Decker Supernatural Thriller Series Book 8) Page 6