FaceOff (39 page)

This made Narcisso laugh. “Ah,
that
gold. And I let him mine that vein and turn the other way. For a cut. That’s the idea?”

“It’s what he bragged about. You might be expecting him to contact you.”

“I’ll look forward to the conversation, which I’ll be certain to record. He is not the first one to have this idea. And our judges have found such recordings to be . . . persuasive.”

“I just thought you would want to know.”

Narcisso nodded. “It is always good to have knowledge. It keeps the vermin down.”

I
n his 2006 thriller,
Black Order,
Jim Rollins dispatched his hero, Gray Pierce, to Denmark. While there, Pierce spent two days “visiting the dusty bookshops and antiquary establishments in the narrow backstreets of Copenhagen. He discovered the most help at a shop on Højbro Plads owned by an ex-lawyer from Georgia.” No name. Just enough information that, if you were a fan of Steve Berry’s hero, Cotton
Malone, you’d know instantly who Pierce was talking about. Jim’s purpose was to see if readers were paying attention and could discover the extent of crossover between his and Steve’s work.

He learned things on both counts.

Readers definitely noticed. Jim and Steve together received several thousand e-mails (and still do to this day). When Steve reciprocated and included a reference to Sigma Force (Jim’s clandestine agency where Gray Pierce works) in his next novel, people noticed again. Together, they continued the experiment for several more books. Eventually, fellow thriller writer Raymond Khoury (who’s part of this anthology) joined the mix. It was fun, but it also alerted the writers to the fact that their readers wanted to see the characters together.

That wasn’t possible, until the opportunity provided by this anthology.

There are a lot of similarities between Malone and Pierce. Both are ex-military. Single. With issues. They each work for a covert government agency—Pierce with Sigma, through the Defense Department—Malone, though now retired, freelances with his former employer, the Magellan Billet at Justice. And where Pierce deals more with science and a little history, Malone focuses on history, with a touch of science.

Steve came up with the broad idea of something in South America, on the Amazon. Jim took that thought and wrote a first draft of the entire story. Steve then revamped that draft, which Jim gave a final edit.

The result is about three hours in the lives of Gray Pierce and Cotton Malone.

On a riverboat, in the middle of nowhere.

Everything happens fast.

Nothing atypical for these two.

C
OMMANDER GRAY PIERCE STOOD ON
the balcony of his suite aboard the luxury riverboat and took stock of his surroundings.

Time to get this show on the road.

He was two days upriver from Belém, the Brazilian port city that served as the gateway to the Amazon—one hour from the boat’s last stop at a bustling river village. The ship was headed for Manaus, a township deep in the rain forest, where the target was supposed to meet his buyers.

Which Pierce could not allow to happen.

The long riverboat, the MV
Fawcett,
glided along the black waterway, its surface mirroring the surrounding jungle. From the forest howler monkeys screamed at its passage. Scarlet and gold flashes fluttering through shadowy branches marked the flight of parrots and macaws. Twilight in the jungle was approaching, and fishing bats were already hunting under the overhanging bowers, diving and darting among a tangle of black roots, forcing frogs
from their roosts, the soft
plops
of their bodies into the water announcing a strategic retreat.

He wondered what Seichan was doing. He’d left her in Rio de Janeiro, his last sight of her as she donned a pair of khaki shorts and a black T-shirt, not bothering with a bra. Fine by him. Less the better on her. He’d watched as she tugged on her boots, how the cascade of dark hair brushed against her cheeks and shrouded her emerald eyes. He’d found himself thinking about her more and more of late.

Which was both good and bad.

A ringing echoed throughout the boat.

Dinner bell.

He checked his watch. The meal would begin in ten minutes and usually lasted an hour. He’d have to be in and out of the room before his target finished eating. He checked the knot on the rope he’d tied to the rail and tossed the line over the side. He’d cut just enough length to reach the balcony directly below, which led into the suite belonging to his target.

Edward Trask. An ethnobotanist from Oxford University.

Pierce had been provided a full dossier. The thirty-two-year-old researcher disappeared into the Brazilian jungle three years ago, only to return five months back—sunburnt and gaunt, with a tale of adventures, deprivation, lost tribes, and enlightenment. He became an instant celebrity, his rugged face gracing the pages of
Time
and
Rolling Stone
. His British accent and charming self-deprecation seemed crafted for television and he’d appeared on a slew of national programs, from
Good Morning America
to
The Daily Show
. He quickly sold his story to a New York publisher for seven figures. But one aspect of Trask’s story would never see print, a detail uncovered a week ago.

Trask was a fraud.

And a dangerous one at that.

Pierce gripped the rope and quickly shimmied down. He found the balcony below and climbed on, seizing a position to one side of the glass doors.

He peered through the parted curtain and tested the door.

Unlocked.

He eased the panel open and slipped inside the cabin. The layout was identical to his suite above. Except Trask seemed a slob. Discarded clothes were piled all over the floor. Wet towels lay scattered on an unmade bed. The remains of some meal cluttered the table. The one saving grace? It wouldn’t be hard to hide his search.

First, he’d check the obvious. The room safe. But he had to be quiet, so as not to alert the guard posted outside. That security measure had necessitated his improvised point of entry.

He found the safe in the bedroom closet and slipped a keycard, wired to an electronic decoder, into the release mechanism. He’d already calibrated the unit on the safe in his cabin. The combination was found and the lock opened. But the safe contained only Trask’s wallet, some cash, and a passport.

None of which he was after.

He closed the safe and began a systematic examination of the room’s hidden corners and cubbies, keeping his movements slow and silent. He’d already reconnoitered his own suite in search of any place that might hide something small.

And there were many possibilities.

In the bathroom he checked the hollows beneath the sink, the underside of drawers, the service hatch beneath the whirlpool tub.

Nothing.

He lingered a moment and surveyed the tight space, making sure he didn’t miss anything. The bathroom’s marble vanity top
seemed a collage of dried toothpaste, balled-up wet tissues, and assorted creams and gels. From his observations over the past three days he knew Trask only allowed the maid and butler into the room once a day and, even then, they were accompanied by the guard, a burly fellow with a shaved scalp and a perpetual scowl.

He left the bathroom.

The bedroom was next.

A loud
oomph
reverberated from the cabin door, which startled him.

He froze.

Was Trask back? So soon?

What sounded like something heavy slid down the door and thumped to the floor outside.

The dead bolt released and the doorknob turned.

Crap.

He had company.

COTTON MALONE CROUCHED OVER THE
slumped guard. He held a finger to the man’s thick neck and ensured the presence of a pulse. Faint, but there. He’d managed to surprise the sentry in a choke hold that took far longer than he had expected. Now that the big man was down he needed to get him out of the hallway. He’d just arrived on the boat an hour ago at its last stop, so everything was being improvised. Which was fine. He was good at making things up.

He opened the door to Trask’s cabin and hauled the limp body by the armpits. He noted a shoulder holster under the guard’s jacket and quickly relieved the man of his weapon. He’d not had time to secure a sidearm due to the foreshortened nature of this mission. Yesterday, he’d been attending an antiquities auction
in Buenos Aires, on the hunt for some rare first editions for his Danish bookshop. Cassiopeia Vitt was with him. It was supposed to be a fun trip. Some time together in Argentina. Sun and beaches. But a call from Stephanie Nelle, his old employer at the Magellan Billet, had changed those plans.

Five months ago, Dr. Edward Trask had returned from the Brazilian rain forest, after three years missing, toting an armful of rare botanical specimens—roots, flowers, leaves, and bark—all for the pharmaceutical company that had funded his journey. He claimed his discoveries held great potential, hope for the next cancer drug, cardiac medicine, or impotency pill. He’d also returned with anecdotal stories for each of his samples, tales supposedly told to him by remote shamans and local tribespeople. Over the intervening months, though, word had seeped from the company that the samples were worthless. Most were nothing new. A researcher for the pharmaceutical firm had privately described the much publicized bounty best.
It was like the bastard just grabbed whatever he could find.
To both save face and protect the price of its stock, the company clamped a gag order on its employees and hoped the matter would just go away.

But it hadn’t.

In fact, darker tales reached the U.S. government, as it seemed Trask had not come out of the forest entirely empty-handed. Folded amid his specimens—like a single wheat kernel amid much chaff—lay the real botanical jackpot. A rare flower, still unclassified, of the orchid family, that held an organic neurotoxin a hundredfold deadlier than sarin.

Talk about a jackpot.

Trask had been smart enough to both recognize and appreciate the value of his discovery. He’d analyzed and purified the toxin at a private lab, paid for out of his own pocket, his book deal and television
appearances lucrative enough to fund the project. Part P. T. Barnum, part monster, last week Trask had secretly offered his discovery for auction, posting its chemical analysis, its potential, and a demonstration video of a roomful of caged chimpanzees, all bleeding from eyes and noses, gasping, then falling dead, the air clogged with a yellow vapor. The infomercial had gained the full attention of terrorist organizations around the world, along with U.S. intelligence services. Malone’s old haunt, the Magellan Billet, had been tasked by the White House to stop the sale and retrieve the sample. His mistake had come when he’d mentioned to Stephanie Nelle last week, during a casual conversation between old friends, that he and Cassiopeia were headed to Argentina.

“The sale will happen in Manaus,”
Stephanie told him yesterday on the phone.

He knew the place.

“Trask is there with a video crew from the Discovery Channel, aboard a luxury riverboat. They’re touring the neighboring rain forest and preparing for a television special about his lost years in the jungle. His real purpose for being there, though, is to sell his purified sample. We have to get it from him, and you’re the closest asset there.”

“I’m retired.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“How will I know if I found it?”
he asked.

“It’s stored in a small metal case, in vials, about the size of a deck of cards.”

“I assume you want me to do this alone?”

“Preferably. This is highly classified. Tell Cassiopeia you’ll only be gone a few days.”

Cassiopeia did not like it, but she’d understood Stephanie’s condition.
Call, if you need me,
had been her last words as he left for the airport.

He hauled the guard over the cabin threshold, closed the door, and secured the dead bolt.

Time to find those vials.

Movement disturbed the silence.

He whirled and saw a form in the dim light, raising a weapon. Trask was gone. In the dining room. He’d made sure of that before his assault on the sentry.

So who was this?

He still held the gun just retrieved from the guard, which he aimed at the threat.

“I wouldn’t do that,” a gruff voice flavored with a slight Texas twang said.

He knew that voice.

“Gray friggin’ Pierce.”