The Jungle Warrior (14 page)

“Rokoff's men must've taken him the moment they found me,” said Robbie, massaging his temple. “I managed to get away. Made it up one level before bumping into Rokoff. Karnath can't be far.” He was still in shock from their ambush. The moment Tarzan turned his back on rescuing him, Jane had switched the lights off from where she'd been hiding and hammered Rokoff across the head with a fire extinguisher. Then she pushed him down the steps a second before the gunshot went off. Robbie was pretty sure Rokoff had killed one of his own men in the confusion.

Tarzan raced for the door as Robbie spoke. Before he could reach it, it suddenly clanged shut and the locking wheel spun closed. Tarzan strained to open it. His muscles tensed until Robbie thought they would pop from under his skin, but the door held fast.

Jane looked around, realizing that was their only exit. “They've locked us in!”

“Great,” snarled Robbie. “Did you actually have a plan for this rescue?”

Tarzan ignored them and examined the hold doors several feet above them. The hold's walls were smooth and featureless. Desperate, Tarzan ran for the corner, trying to bounce from one wall to the next to gain height, but it was no use. Time and time again he dropped back to the floor.

There were voices overhead and footsteps running across the deck. Even though the conversations were muffled, panic was unmistakable. Then the boat shuddered with a high-pitched squeal of tearing metal. The entire vessel slammed to a halt with such force they were all thrown across the hold—along with an array of Rokoff's hunting equipment. They hit the wall as the vessel shook furiously once more.

The boat rose and fell as if a giant hand had plucked it free from the water, then hurled it back down with terrible force. Jane found herself sliding up the wall as the room rotated around them—the boat was listing. A jagged rock suddenly punctured through the steel close to her head. She screamed as water poured through.

Tarzan stabilized himself on all fours, then scrambled toward Jane—but had to leap aside as another rock slammed through the hull just inches from his head.

Robbie lost his footing and slipped along a wall, which was now the sloping floor. The boat stopped rolling and remained tilted at an extreme angle. Another rock sliced effortlessly through the metal hull and passed between Robbie's legs, narrowly missing him.

Torrents of murky brown water poured into the boat, rapidly filling the room. Robbie groped for the hatch, but the angle of the room put it beyond his reach.

“Help!” Jane yelled.

Robbie joined in. “Let us out of here!” Water was already up to their waists.

Tarzan studied the situation with the calmness of one who had looked death in the face so many times that he felt no fear.

The sloping room had positioned him slightly closer to the edge of the hold doors. With a powerful jump, Tarzan rebounded from the wall and sailed high into the doors. They buckled from the impact and it looked like he was about to fall onto the jagged rocks and twisted metal below. But he somehow edged his fingers in the gap between the doors. Now hanging, he pulled himself up with his powerful arms and braced his legs against the other door intent on pushing it open.

Robbie and Jane could only watch helplessly while treading water. The hold's chains held firm—but still Tarzan pushed. The corner of the metal door began to creak out of shape. Pushing from the inside with all his strength, Tarzan managed to peel the steel apart just wide enough for him to clamber through.

Robbie could only hope he wouldn't forget about the two of them trapped in the hold.

•••

Having squeezed through the hatchway, Tarzan braced himself on the sharply sloping deck and assessed the situation. The strong current had flung the ship onto jagged rocks near the bank. The sheer weight of water had forced the ship to keel to port, white water frothing around it.

The lights on the deck flashed as the generator room was filled with water. As Tarzan watched, crewmen slid off the boat and into the dark river. The lucky ones struck the rocks below and were killed instantly. The unlucky ones splashed into the deeper water, which became a writhing mass of limbs as dozens of crocodiles, their dull eyes glinting in the ship's lights, closed in for the feast. Those who landed in shallower water faced a different threat. Huge silver bodies glided under the water's surface, homing in on men swimming to shore—carnivorous Goliath tiger fish, their teeth-filled jaws severing entire limbs with a single bite.

Most people would have been repulsed by the violence in front of them, but not Tarzan. For him it was a simple matter of hunter and prey, the circle of life. The ship lurched again, the deck flattening out. He spotted Rokoff near the prow. A huddle of men surrounded him carrying an unconscious form: Karnath.

With a bellow, Tarzan charged forward, hampered by the inclined deck. Rokoff glanced around in alarm and hurried his men toward the end of the boat. Tarzan would not let them leave with the young ape.

In ten quick bounds, Tarzan crossed the ship. Two huge crewmen, double the size of silverbacks, blocked his path. Tarzan charged into one—slamming him against the steel wall. The man slumped in agony as the second thug grabbed Tarzan around the shoulders, locking his hands behind his neck. But Tarzan just flexed his powerful shoulder muscles and the thug cried out in pain as both his arms were dislocated under the immense pressure.

Tarzan spun around, fury burning in his eyes as he grabbed the man around the throat.

“Please . . . don't kill me!” croaked the brute fearfully, his arms hanging limp at his sides.

“Tarzan not kill,” he said, and the crewman breathed a sigh of relief. “But
Pisah
must eat.”

With that Tarzan hurled the man over the ship's rail into a shoal of circling tiger fish. For a second their green-silver scales flashed in the ship's lights, then the water turned blood red.

Before Tarzan could turn to Rokoff, the boat's lights died as the generator gave a final rattle, plunging the boat into chaotic shadows. Tarzan could sense where his prey was. He could hear his every move . . . but he could also hear Jane and Robbie's yells of panic from inside the hold. He hesitated, for once unsure what to do.

Just then thunder rumbled. It sounded unusual, a constant stream of noise that didn't die out. Before Tarzan could react, a spear of light stabbed down from the sky, blinding him. He sank to his knees, shielding his eyes.

The thunder boomed louder and the wind became a hurricane that pushed him off balance. Tarzan slid across the deck—the railing preventing him from falling amongst the predators feasting below.

The intense light burned his eyes. Squinting, he could just make out a large black shape descending from the sky. Tarzan was not afraid of anything, but this experience confused him. He could just hear Rokoff's voice above the continuous thunder, ordering people toward the monster.

Still shielding his eyes, Tarzan saw Karnath being loaded into the machine, Rokoff following him—shouting at another figure who quickly approached Tarzan.

“Alexis! No!”

Tarzan could see nothing more than Paulvitch's silhouette, but he could smell the man's distinctive vile odor.

“So you're Rokoff's legendary White Ape?” sneered Paulvitch. “Not so mighty now.”

He prodded Tarzan's arm with a Taser stun gun. A violent electrical charge surged through Tarzan and it felt as if every nerve in his body was on fire. With a spasm he collapsed onto the deck.

“Alexis! We are leaving!” Rokoff shouted.

Paulvitch ignored Rokoff. He was a little man, never passing up an opportunity to pick on a weak target. His tone was triumphant. “That's what your little ape friend felt. Enough voltage to stop a charging lion. Hurts, doesn't it?”

Paulvitch lunged again. To his amazement, Tarzan grabbed his hand, crushing the man's fingers around the Taser so hard that both his bone and the plastic casing cracked. He kicked Paulvitch in the stomach and sent the tiny man sailing through the air, slamming into the bulkhead.

Tarzan clambered to his feet, weakened from the electric shock and beaten back by the downdraught from the machine. He saw the whimpering Paulvitch climb next to Rokoff. Tarzan strode forward—but was stopped as gunfire raked the deck, kicking up sparks and forcing him to retreat.

As the machine lifted into the air, the powerful spotlight swung away, no longer blinding Tarzan. Rokoff sat in the doorway aiming a hunting rifle at him. Tarzan was an open target, an easy shot.

But no bullet came.

Rokoff lowered the weapon as the aircraft banked over the jungle beyond Tarzan's reach. The ape-man yelled in frustration, his voice booming over the fading thunder.

The boat suddenly lurched underfoot as it rolled off the rocks toward deeper water.

Jane's voice cut through the darkness. “Tarzan! Help!”

Tarzan raced back toward the hold to save his friends. His mind was reeling. Why hadn't Rokoff killed him? He couldn't be sure, but he swore he caught the trace of a smile on the Russian's face before he disappeared into the darkness. But the hunt was over. Tarzan knew there was no way he could track an airborne opponent.

Karnath was lost.

C
lark had never visited Sango so frequently. The loggers usually stocked up with supplies just once a month, only making the long trek into town if it was absolutely necessary. That had been his own rule to maintain absolute secrecy over their operation. He didn't want the locals getting used to seeing them in town and he had no intention of getting arrested. He had spent time in jails around the world before, all because he hadn't been careful enough. However, Tarzan was making him break his own rules.

At the same time he could sense Archie becoming ever more anxious since their encounters with Rokoff. Clark admitted that it had been a mistake to take the Russian's claims of being a conservationist at face value. But although Rokoff had turned out to be a liar, Clark felt pleased his plan to prove Tarzan's identity remained on track, with Robbie still traveling with the ape-man, recording evidence on his camcorder.

When the pain in his leg grew unbearable, Mister David agreed to drive Clark to revisit the medical team in Sango. When the doctor took a look at his leg she worryingly declared that the leopard wound was worse than they first thought. The antibiotics were keeping infection at bay and it would heal, but Clark would probably have a limp for the rest of his life.

He knew it could have been worse. He could have lost the leg; he could have been killed. And, for the first time in his life, Clark realized that he was a middle-aged man running around a jungle looking to get rich. He had been doing that all his life, but wondered if his time would soon be up.

Two cold Tusker beers helped him silence his doubts and he gave a fistful of francs to the Internet café owner to help him log into his email. Clark was not computer literate and, without Robbie around, his technical skills were limited. He made sure the café owner couldn't see the messages that were waiting for him in his inbox. Amongst them was one from “William.” The name was unfamiliar but the subject line “Tarzan” immediately got his attention.

Clark read through the message twice to make sure he fully understood it. His hopes were lifted.

Dear Clark,

Allow me to introduce myself: I am William Cecil Clayton, or, as my more formal title now reads, Lord Greystoke. I recently inherited this title when my father sadly passed away two weeks ago. I must say your email intrigued me. My father was forever receiving messages from people claiming that Lord and Lady Greystoke had survived the plane crash with their unborn child, but of course they were nothing more than confidence tricksters and scam artists. This business all started when a French UN officer, called Paul D'Arnot, claimed he had found a boy living in the jungle who was my father's nephew. Needless to say, his story proved false, but it didn't stop others from trying.

My father grew wary and demanded hard evidence that his nephew, my cousin, could possibly still be alive and he took your messages as nothing more than another extortionist trying to squeeze money from us.

I should warn you that I have now taken my seat in the House of Lords and have powerful influence, even in the Congo. However, should your claims prove to have merit, then there is a substantial reward for whoever finds my cousin alive. After all, that would mean he is the current holder of the title and owner of the Greystoke estate.

Should you uncover any compelling evidence of my cousin's existence then contact me directly. Do not contact the media: That will void any reward. And, should you think of trying to fake any claims, then rest assured I will find you.

Yours sincerely,

Lord Greystoke

That was all Clark needed to convince himself that he wasn't wasting his life in the jungle. He logged off the computer and limped out of the café on his crutch. The owner, a young Congolese man in his twenties, was sitting in the open window frame watching him carefully. Clark knew he went by the name of Kwasi.

“You always here with the younger man,
non
?” Kwasi asked in French-accented English.

Clark stopped in the doorway, annoyed that he had been recognized. If he was going to be handing out wads of francs then he was going to start getting noticed and now his crutch made him all the more memorable.

“Why d'you ask?”

Kwasi smiled, flashing his perfect white teeth. He was used to never receiving straight answers. He wagged a finger at Clark. “Yes, you are. You cannot fool me.”

“Well, I tried,” said Clark forcing a smile and turning to leave. He didn't have time to chat with a grinning fool. He stepped onto the porch when Kwasi spoke up again.

“I just thought you would be interested . . . never mind.”

Clark turned and cocked his head. “Interested in what?”