State of Emergency (28 page)

P
ollard moved like a robot, taking one last look at the bomb before he screwed the false wooden panel on the crate. As per Zamora's plan, a half dozen military-grade Kalashnikov rifles would be stacked in front of the false front in case anyone got nosey. Pollard found it mind numbing what he'd do to keep his family safe for a few days longer.

He was smart enough to know that crazy bitch Lourdes would kill them eventually. He'd seen the black hole in her eyes when she'd first walked in his classroom what now seemed like months before. He'd been away from such things for so long that he hadn't recognized it until it was too late. Marie stood no chance against a woman like her. She was too nice, believing that even people who did bad things were by and large good at heart and would all jump at the chance to mend their ways if only given the right set of circumstances. She gave money to beggars at every street corner and wept at the poverty of people who
had
to send out Internet scams from Nigeria to survive. People are mostly moral, she'd often say, if you give them a chance.

He called such naïve notions the Mermaid and Unicorn Fart Theory, explaining to his classes that though they sounded sweet and fantastical, they were every bit as foul smelling as their normal, everyday counterparts.

Sometimes bad people were just that: bad people. They might pet a puppy because society expected them to, but in their hearts they wanted to kick it across the room and listen to it yelp. Marie just wouldn't be able to get her pretty head wrapped around such a person. Matt was sure of it.

Yesenia startled him out of his inner dialogue when she stepped in the door of his hooch, rifle slung across her chest as always.

“Señor Zamora will be here soon.” Her chin quivered ever so slightly as she spoke. “So you are going away.”

“It is better for you that I take this thing away from here,” he said.

“I wish that I could come with you.”

“Me too, Yesenia.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “If I can figure a way out of this, I'll make sure you get to school.”

“I do not know much, Dr. Matt, but I do know Señor Zamora.” She looked down at the toes of her boots. “He will kill you when you've finished—and your wife.”

“I know,” Pollard said.

She looked up at him. “Then why do you do as he asks?”

“Because every moment that I do, my wife and son stay alive for just a little while longer. And as long as they live, no matter how awful the circumstances, I can cling to the hope that I can figure out a way to save them.”

“I like that,” Yesenia said. “It makes me think of my sister.”

“Me too,” Pollard lied. In reality, such futile hope sounded a lot like a unicorn fart.

Yesenia suddenly turned her head to one side so quickly it knocked the parrot feather out of her hair. She lifted the rifle.

“Dr. Matt,” she said, looking at the door. “Do you hear that?”

 

 

“Something is wrong.” Zamora stood in the middle of the wooden boat and watched Borregos's Piper bank in over the jungle from the north. “I don't know what it is, but I can feel it.” He toyed with the holster at his side, unsnapping and snapping it absentmindedly while he tried to work out what was going on.

Monagas let the boat drift against the slow current.

“Shall I continue upriver?”

“No,” Zamora said, still looking. “Our plan depends on the Yemenis taking possession of the bomb.”

Monagas nodded, and aimed the boat for the bank ahead.

A six-foot caiman hung motionless in the shallows, staring at the interlopers to his territory with nothing but the twin bumps of his eyes and the tip of his toothy snout breaking the chocolate surface of the river.

They were roughly four miles up a tributary from the main arm of the Beni, off the beaten path of eco-tourists. Even the local indigenous tribes knew this was a river of no return—a place where piranha, electric eel, and deadly snakes were nowhere near the most dangerous things in the jungle.

Zamora took a deep breath, scanning the shadowed foliage that came right to the water's edge in most places. Angelo stood on the small apron of bank below the boughs of several ceiba trees, hanging heavy with their own weight. Behind him, a barely noticeable trail vanished into the undergrowth, connecting the river to the camp nearly fifty meters away.

Angelo waved with his ball cap, smiling as if he was happy to see his boss.

The roar of the Piper's engines diminished as it touched down on the grassy strip hacked out of the jungle in back of the camp.

Zamora turned back to his companion. “Be watchful.”

“As always,
patrón
.” Monagas nosed the boat sideways against the muddy bank and killed the engine. He threw the landing line to Angelo, who helped Zamora over the side and up a teetering path of wooden planks he'd placed on the squishy mud.

“All is well?” Zamora asked, still sniffing the air for any sign of the Chechens. “You have not seen any other boats or aircraft?”

Angelo snapped to attention, patting the rifle slung across his chest. “No,
patrón
. I have been on guard. It is only us and Dr. Matt. The aircraft just arrived.”

“I see that,” Zamora said, still toying with the snap on his holster. He brushed past the stubby Angelo, pushing his way through the thick undergrowth for the camp. They'd purposely left the trail to the camp tangled and choked with vines to discourage visitors from the river.

As he expected, Pollard met him with the hateful gaze of a man with a plan for vengeance. He was so predictable. What Zamora hadn't expected was the same look from Yesenia. He made a mental note to have Monagas kill her after the bomb was loaded and they were safely away from any would-be interference by the Chechens.

Borregos and his camouflaged men were just making it into camp when Zamora emerged from the river trail into the clearing. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes with the arm of his shirt. They were so close now. He would be glad to get out of this place.

A small bird suddenly flew from a branch above him, fluttering away like the sound of a beating drum.

Zamora froze. That was it. That was what had been out of place. He had flown in to this camp no fewer than twenty times over the past five years, and each time, a huge flock of white egrets had exploded from the marshes off the end of the runway at the noise of the aircraft's approach.

There had been no egrets when Borregos's plane had landed. No egrets because someone had already scared them away.

“Daudov is here,” he hissed to Monagas an instant before the first bullet rustled through the branches and struck Angelo in the chest.

Q
uinn saw the boat tied alongside the muddy bank at the same moment he heard the shots.

He ducked instinctively, but kept both hands on the gunnel of the boat, leaving his pistol holstered.

“What you do wanna do,
l'ami
?” Thibodaux said from the tiller.

A steady barrage of automatic gunfire zipped and rattled inside the jungle to their right.

“They're not shooting at us,” Quinn said, his head on a swivel as he looked up and down the bank. “This would be a good time to go in and get a feel for things when they have their hands full.”

“Agreed,” Aleksandra said, pistol already in her hand.

Thibodaux took the boat past the muddy bank at a fast idle, easing around the bend where the river curved back on itself. He pointed the bow around a protruding root that had caught a raft of floating deadfall. It was a natural breakwater where a boat could be hidden from all but the most curious river traveler.

“You can stay here.” Quinn nodded at Bo. “I need someone to stand guard.”

“Like hell,” Bo said. “You don't get to drag me down the Road of Death to have me sit and watch the horses. If the bomb's up there, you're gonna need all the help you can get.”

Jericho gave a resigned shrug and stepped of the boat onto springy wet ground. “Okay,” he said, drawing his pistol. He gave Severance a tap on the hilt for comfort's sake. “But stay behind me. Mom will kill me if I let anything happen to you.”

Quinn led the approach with Thibodaux three paces to his left, each picking their way through dense underbrush and tangled vines. Bo and Aleksandra flanked on either side a few steps back. The shooting grew more intense as the little group made their way through the dripping rainforest. Sporadic shots interspersed with rattling volleys followed angry shouts and periodic cries of the wounded. The vegetation began to thin forty yards in from the river and a series of rusted tin buildings became visible through the trees.

Thibodaux sidestepped alongside Quinn, clearing away a spiderweb with the barrel of his gun. He leaned forward, intent on the gunfire, a half grin crossing his face. Heights and bad juju might scare him, but he melded into a gunfight like he was coming home.

“Just so you know, beb,” the big Cajun said without looking up from the undergrowth, “you don't need to fret about my mama if anything happens to me. My child bride would, however, cut your cojones off.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

Quinn started to push through the undergrowth, but Thibodaux put a hand on his shoulder.

“So,
l'ami
,” he said. “Who are you thinking of right now, this very moment when your life is on the line?”

“Valentine Zamora,” Quinn lied. Though focused on stopping the bomb, the face he saw before he pressed it out of his mind as he made his way toward the sound of gunfire was Veronica Garcia.

 

 

An unseen hand seemed to grab Aleksandra and pull her forward, toward the sound of gunfire and danger. Some said she had a death wish. A few had accused her of drawing some sort of freakish pleasure at putting herself in harm's way. In truth it was nothing close to either.

She'd had the feeling since she was a small child that her eventual death would be violent. Some boring people died in their sleep or choked on an olive, but by the time Aleks was eleven she'd been certain her own death would be surrounded by a great deal of blood. Where the thought might frighten some or make them live in a sort of plastic bubble of perceived safety, Aleksandra was fascinated by the notion. She reasoned that fate was preordained and, since there was nothing she could do about it anyway, resolved to live moving forward, toward the inevitable, rather than sidestepping through life and hiding from her shadow.

Eyes peeled for the first threat that presented itself, she watched the others in her peripheral vision. The big Cajun plowed his way through the jungle like a bull looking for a lost cow. Bo, the beautiful blond Quinn with the body of a Greek god and the impish smile, moved cavalierly, as if he was eager to impress his older brother, but was a half step out of his natural element.

Jericho, by contrast, seemed more a part of the jungle than someone moving through it. Ducking and turning, stepping and twisting, he made his way around trees and over fallen logs as if there was nothing but the hot humid air between him and his target. She'd known men as cruel as this one, men as intelligent, men as physically capable, and men as driven to do the right thing—but she'd never before known one who possessed all these qualities at once.

Bo had inched his way closer to her as they walked, trying to get out ahead to shield her from danger. It was a sweet gesture and reminded her of Mikhail, but it would not do to allow such a thing. The poor boy would get himself killed. Protecting a fellow combatant was a noble cause, but before one could protect a friend, he had to stay alive.

Frenzied voices shot through the trees with the constant barrage of bullets, directing movement or shouting threats.

Jericho waved his hand in a tight circle above his head, calling the group in close. They lay down on the jungle floor, side by side, shoulders together.

“Count?” Quinn said, looking at Thibodaux.

A greasy centipede-like creature, fully six inches long, slithered over the ground litter between Aleksandra and Quinn. Even if it happened to be poisonous, a bullet would be more permanent, so she ignored it, focusing on Quinn and the more immediate two-legged dangers in the jungle.

“I'm guessing the Chechens only have four or five,” the gunny said, still scanning. “Zamora has maybe . . . eight.”

Quinn looked at Aleksandra. She nodded, agreeing with Thibodaux's assessment. “That sounds correct,” she said.

Bo peered around a clump of ferns. “I'm pretty sure that's one of the Borregos out there,” he said.

“Zamora's buyer,” Quinn mused.

The gunfire grew more intense, as if someone was preparing to move.

“Whoever they are,” Thibodaux said, pressing his face to the ground, “they're well armed and carrying a shitload of ammo.”

The angry hiss of a rocket-propelled grenade ripped through the air, confirming Jacques's assessment. Aleksandra hugged the ground out of instinct as the primary explosion shook the buildings at the northern edge of the tiny compound. A moment later, a secondary boom sucked the oxygen from the air. Louder and more powerful than the first, it sent wood and rusty tin whirring through the air, one piece flying like a saw blade over Thibodaux's head.

An orange fireball bloomed over the jungle to the north, followed by a mushroom cloud of greasy black smoke.

Jericho sniffed the air. “Smells like fuel. They must have blown up a plane.” He turned and faced her. “What will happen if they hit the bomb?”

“In theory?” She gave a resigned shrug. “Nothing. In practice, it could arm the device. . . .”

The shouting grew louder again after a brief lull following the explosion.

Bo moved closer to Aleksandra, touching her on the shoulder to get her attention. He nodded toward a large woodpile three feet high and a good fifteen feet long.

“Stay with me,” he said in a show of bravado that melted Aleksandra's heart.

A sudden movement to her right caught her eye. Through the dense tangle of vines and undergrowth she saw a flash of curly black hair and the unmistakably flat profile of Julian Monagas. An electric current seemed to jolt her body and she raised half up off her belly as if doing a pushup. Locked on, she shook her head. “No, my dear,” she said a moment before she sprinted into the jungle. “You go with your brother. I have business with someone.”

 

 

“Well, I'll be!” Thibodaux whistled under his breath. “Would you look at that?”

Quinn watched as Aleksandra ran amid a hail of bullets to disappear into the undergrowth. In the middle of the compound, a tall man with a coal-black beard sat beside an overturned table of heavy timber. Dressed like someone out of an REI advertisement, he appeared to be unarmed. Instead of using the table for cover, he sat cross-legged in the open, cradling a wounded girl in his lap, stroking her long black hair. She wore woodland camouflage fatigues and was presumably one of Zamora's.

“Why isn't anyone shooting at him?” Thibodaux grunted.

“Let's go ask him.” Quinn ran the five paces to the long stack of firewood, crouching behind it. So far, he'd not fired a shot. Bo slid in next to him while Thibodaux, chased by a string of automatic gunfire, dove behind the rusted hulk of a diesel generator ten feet away.

Bullets thwacked against the logs and zinged off the generator as both Zamora's men and the Chechens focused on this new threat.

Quinn pulled Bo down beside him and assessed the situation. He'd yet to find the bomb, but judging from the fighting, possession of it was still a matter of contention. Less than six feet to his left, the man with the beard sat weeping over the girl, oblivious to all the lead in the air. To his right, Thibodaux engaged one of Daudov's men, who crept through the jungle trying to flank them.

Quinn tossed a piece of wood at the sobbing man.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The man looked up; his reactions were dull, shell-shocked. “Who are
you
?”

Quinn tried a different tack. The guy was sitting in the cross fire. He obviously was beyond succumbing to threats. “Is she still alive?”

“What do you care?”

Quinn took a deep breath. “Listen,” he said. “I'm not one of these guys. I can help.”

The man blinked his eyes. “She's already dead,” he said.

“No, she's not,” Quinn said. “Look at her chest. It's still moving. As long as she's breathing there's a chance.”

“Not her,” the man said. “I mean my wife. Zamora will kill her no matter what I do.”

“I told you I can help,” Quinn said. “What's your name?”

The man brightened. “Matt Pollard. I'm a professor at Idaho State.”

“And the bomb?”

“They have it,” the man said, nodding toward Borregos and his men. He hung his head. “Zamora threatened to kill my wife and son if I didn't bypass the locking system.”

“Do you know where they're going with it?”

“No idea,” the man said, studying Quinn through bloodshot eyes. “Can you really help my wife?”

“I can,” Quinn said. “Tell me where she is, and I'll call some people to go check on her. But first we have to stop this bomb—”

Thibodaux loosed three rapid-fire shots, hitting Daudov's man as he came in from the side. The Chechen staggered forward, firing blindly. Bo flinched, as one of the bullets clipped his left arm.

He looked up at Jericho with an embarrassed grin. “Sorry, bro—” A fountain of blood gushed from the wound between his elbow and armpit. Pulsing in time with his heart, it arced into the air, painting the wood behind him.