Rogue Angel 47: River of Nightmares (23 page)

“You’re going to die!”

“You’ve tried a few times already,” she said. Annja danced to his right, and then came up behind him. He spun and jabbed at her, but she leaped back and caught the edge of his machete, rode her sword down along it and drove forward. Her sword plunged into his side.

Hammond screamed in pain and pulled the machete back and up above his head, clearly intending to drive it down on her. Annja stepped in close as she pulled her sword out, and then whirled around behind him. Hammond cleaved the air.

“Over here,” Annja said.

He turned, leaning to his right, favoring his wounded side.

“I don’t suppose you’ll just give up. Surrender.”

He charged her.

“I didn’t think so.” She pivoted and swept her blade in, the edge slicing deep into his stomach. He let go of the machete and dropped to his knees, held his hands close as if trying to keep the blood from coming out.

“Where’s Dillon?” Annja asked.

“A long way from here. You’ll never find him.” Hammond pitched forward, dead.

Annja dismissed the sword, tossed the hard hat on the ground and picked up the ends of the litter.

“I will find him,” Annja said.

She repeated the mantra all the way back to the village. It was almost dawn before she made it there to see D’jok and Roux.

“I dreamed you would succeed, Annja Creed. And I dreamed that you will return.”

She held his hand tightly. “I will, my friend.” Annja would return with archaeologists and another film crew, finishing her planned series and participate in a dig. “And maybe...maybe I will dream with you.”

Chapter 39

Annja rented a sailboat, but ended up taking down the sail and paddling most of the way when the wind died. She’d set off from Coron, where she’d flown in late yesterday—the largest town on the island of Busuanga in the Philippines. She intended to fly out of there tomorrow afternoon, catch a connecting flight to Manila, and then off to Belém again; it would be a long flight with a couple more connections. There’d be a lengthy layover, too.

But that’s what it was like when flying to and from the remotest of places. It took her more than two hours to reach the private island of Innaapupan, roughly two hundred and fifty acres, all of it considered virgin...no development, a place untouched.

Her arms ached from the workout, but it was a good feeling, and she relished the sun on her face and the salt-tinged scent of the sea air.

The beach she landed at had powdery white sand that glistened like fresh snow under the noon sun. She pulled the boat up, canted it, and tied the rope to a big piece of heavy driftwood. Annja stared out across the brilliant blue water, seeing other smaller islands nearby, one of them called Lamay, a place with people and amenities, or so said the brochure at the airport. Snorkeling was supposedly good around that island.

The handful of other islands she could see ranged from five to ten acres, like dots of ink on a map that most eyes would overlook. But Dillon hadn’t overlooked them—he’d bought six of them; this was the largest of the lot.

That’s how Annja had tracked him.

A cop she’d met a little more than a year ago in Madison, Wisconsin—she’d been in the city attending an archaeology conference that turned into quite the adventure—told her it was always about the money.

And while she didn’t think it was entirely about the money in Arthur Dillon’s case, taking the cop’s advice worked. She followed the money. Despite her most diligent efforts and calling in favors, she hadn’t been able to track the sale of the massive emerald. Maybe it hadn’t been sold. Brazilian officials—who eventually arrived at Dillon’s camp and the mine beneath it—could not find it either or prove its existence. But they had managed to catch Dillon’s British partner who’d been living in Belém. If the Brit knew about the massive gem, he wasn’t saying.

Still, she followed the money, studying expensive transactions in places beyond the reach of the Brazilian government. One transaction raised a big red flag: the purchase of six islands dotted with tropical rainforest. Dillon had paid forty-two million dollars for them.

She’d followed the money and found Dillon’s goal of finding cures for the world’s most horrid diseases. Annja believed he’d been sincere about his desire to eradicate cancer and other maladies during his lifetime, no matter how twisted his methods.

And now she followed a path that led away from the beach and into the trees. Another boat had been pulled farther up on the beach and turned over. The name on the side, though upside down, was clearly legible.
Nancy’s Emerald Dream.
A nice touch.

She found his tent about a hundred yards from shore. It was one of those luxury models that probably cost a few grand. An outdoor grill next to it, a lounge chair and umbrella to cut the sun, a small table with a pitcher of tea.

He wasn’t inside. The tent was divided down the middle, half a laboratory, with some of the same equipment she’d seen at his site in the Amazon, a small generator under a counter, but it wasn’t turned on. The other half was living space, a comfortable looking bed, an easy chair, lanterns on a bookcase stuffed with a mix of biology books and mysteries.

She went back outside, sat on the lounge chair and waited.

Dillon arrived about a half hour later, carrying a canvas bag probably filled with plants he’d harvested. His tanned face appeared to pale when he saw her.

Annja got up.

“You’re—”

“—trespassing, I know. This is private property. You own this island, you own other islands. I looked on one of those first.”

“I could kill you.” Dillon dropped the bag and reached into his pocket. Even here, he carried a gun.

“You could try,” she said. The sword hovered, waiting. She kept her hands in her pockets. “Hasn’t there been enough deaths? The Dslala. Edgar. Moons. Your people.” She paused and studied him, inhaled and picked up the scent of his sunscreen. He’d had a bout with melanoma, he’d told her. Of course he’d wear sunscreen. He still had that spot on his hand, no larger, but it looked worrisome. Maybe he’d get it taken care of in prison. “I killed Hammond.”

The gun wavered for a moment, and Dillon squared his shoulders.

“In hindsight, I didn’t have to.” Annja continued confessing, spilling out the thoughts that had been tumbling through her head since that night at his abandoned pharma campsite. “I could’ve taken him without killing him. Looking back now, I should have. But I was tired and full of righteous anger and out for vengeance. But vengeance was really not mine to take.” She quoted a piece of scripture to him; she knew he would appreciate. “I don’t always follow the directions.”

“Get off my island.” Dillon gestured with the gun. “Get off!”

“I will,” Annja said. “But you’re coming with me. Brazilian law doesn’t apply here. That helped me find you, by the way, looking where their justice couldn’t reach. I’m going to take you where their justice reaches just fine.”

Dillon fired.

Annja had noticed his finger twitch, and in that heartbeat she reacted. She dropped in a crouch, pulled her hands from her pockets and summoned her sword.

Dillon gasped, the instant of surprise giving Annja an advantage. She pushed off and raised her leg, twisted and kicked his gun hand. He kept hold of it, but she followed through, bringing the pommel of the sword down hard. She heard fingers crack. The gun dropped.

“I can save us!” Dillon screeched. He swung at her and connected square in her stomach.

The blow was harder than Annja had anticipated, Dillon was clearly fit. He got in another blow before she leveled the sword and turned the blade so the flat of it caught him in the ribcage. She swung again with more power and felt his body give. She’d broken a few ribs.

“Maybe you could,” she said. “Maybe you could find a cure for something.”

Dillon feinted and she almost fell for it. His uppercut grazed her cheek. He recovered and came at her again, but she pivoted as he closed, stepped back and hit him with the flat of the blade again.

“Maybe you’re right, Dillon, that the answers are in the plants. And as much as I’d like those answers to be found, pray that someone can do it...that someone can’t be you.” She switched the sword to her left hand and rose on the ball of her foot, spinning and kicking and catching him in the chest. The impact sent him against his grill. He grabbed at it to stay on his feet, and she kicked again, this time against his knee. He cried out.

“You’ve too much blood on your hands, Dillon. You have to answer for it.”

He was in pain, tears thick in his eyes and his lips twisted in an ugly grimace. His knuckles were white; he was holding on to the grill that tight.

“I can pay you, Miss Creed. I can make you rich. There’s still plenty of money left from the emeralds. You’d never have to worry—”

“There’s not enough money in the world to make me look the other way.” Annja pictured the bodies of the dead Dslala and Moons, pictured Edgar drowning. She stepped in and brought the pommel of her sword against the side of his head. He collapsed, woozy and half conscious.

She reached into the “V” of his shirt. Dangling from a cord around his neck was a woman’s gold ring with a large emerald anchored into a simple setting. She tugged it free.

“Something to remind me of you,” Annja said.

Then she dragged him to her sailboat.

She’d easily make her flight tomorrow.

And she’d be in what amounted to Coron’s downtown by dinnertime. There was a little restaurant near the airport she’d spotted, a sign advertising Philippine specialties. It had been a long while since she’d had a big plate of adobo, slow-cooked pork and chicken, crisped and oh-so-amazingly spiced. Her stomach growled in anticipation.

* * * * *

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ISBN-13: 9781460327807

First edition March 2014

RIVER OF NIGHTMARES

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jean Rabe for her contribution to this work.

Copyright © 2014 by Worldwide Library

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