Текст книги "Amazonia"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Behind him, Dakii crouched as still as a stone, but the tension emanating from him was fierce. While hidden, he had watched more than a dozen of his tribesmen-men, women, children-mowed down by this group.

Further in the wood, explosions continued to boom. They heard screams and the crash of dwellings from the treetops. The marauders were tearing through the village. The only hope for Kouwe's party was to flee to some sheltered corner of the jungled plateau, hope to be overlooked.

One of the soldiers barked into a radio in Spanish. "Tango Team in position. Killzone fourteen secure:"

Kouwe felt something brush his knee. He glanced over. Dakii motioned for him to remain in place. Kouwe nodded.

Dakii rolled from his side, moving swiftly and silently. Not a single twig was disturbed. Dakii was teshari-rin, one of the tribe's ghost scouts. Even without his paint, the tribesman blended into the deeper shadows. He raced from shelter to shelter, a dark blur. Kouwe knew he was witnessing a demonstration of the Yagga's enhancement of its wards. Dakii circled around the band, then even Kouwe lost track of him.

Anna grabbed his hand and squeezed. Have we just been abandoned? she seemed to silently ask.

Kouwe wondered, too, until he spotted Dakii. The tribesman crouched across the way. He was in direct sight of Kouwe and Anna, but still hidden from the four guards.

Dakii rolled to his back in the loam, aiming the small bow he had found high into the air. Kouwe followed where his arrow pointed. Then back down to the mercenaries.

He understood and motioned for Anna to be ready with her own weapon. She nodded, staring up, then back down, understanding.

Kouwe signaled Dakii.

The tribesman pulled taut his bowstring and let fly an arrow. A tiny twang was heard, as was the louder rip of arrow through leaf. The mercenaries all turned in Dakii's direction, weapons raised.

Kouwe ignored them, his gaze focused above. High in the branches was the ruin of a dwelling, but left intact among the branches was one of the little ingenious inventions of the Ban-ali, one of their makeshift elevators. Dakii's arrow sliced the support rope that held aloft a cradled counterweight, a large chunk of granite.

The boulder came crashing down, straight at the group of mercenaries.

One was smashed under its weight, his face crushed as he glanced up a moment too late.

Kouwe and Anna were already on their feet. From such close range, they emptied their pistols at the remaining trio, striking chests, arms, and bellies. The group fell. Dakii rushed out, an obsidian dagger in his hand. He ran at the mercenaries and slit the throats of any who still moved. It was quick and bloody work.

With a hand, Kouwe steadied Anna, who had paled at the display. "We have to get back to the others:"

9:05 A.M.

From the height of the chasm, Louis had a wide view of the isolated valley. A pair of binoculars hung around his neck, forgotten. Across the jungle, smoke rose from countless fires and signal flares. In just over an hour, his team had encircled the village and were now closing slowly toward the center, toward his goal and prize.

Brail, who had been assigned as his new lieutenant after Jacques disappeared, spoke near his feet. The tracker knelt over a map, marking off small X's as his units reported in. "The net's secure, Herr Doktor. Nothing left now but mopping up:"

Louis could tell the man was anxious to bag his own limit here.

"And the Rangers? The Americans?"

"Herded toward the center, just as you ordered:"

"Excellent:" Louis nodded to his mistress at his side. Tshui was naked, armed only with a little blowgun. Between her breasts rested the shrunken head of Corporal DeMartini, hung around Tshui's neck by the man's own dog tags.

"Then it's time we joined the party." He lifted his twin pair of snubnosed mini-Uzis. They felt powerful in his hands. "It's high time I made the acquaintance of Nathan Rand."

9:12 A.M.

"You watch over your brother and the shaman," Nathan said, sensing time was running out. "I'm going after Zane."

"You don't have a weapon:" Kelly knelt beside the shaman. With Nathan's help, the two had wrangled the tribesman into a hammock. Kelly had shot him full of morphine, quieting his pained thrashing. A belly wound was one of the most agonizing. With no better solution, she was now slathering the entry and exit wounds with Yagga sap. "What are you going to do if you catch him?"

Nate felt a fire in his own belly, just as agonizing as a bullet wound. "First he betrayed my father, now he betrayed us:" His voice choked with anger. He wanted only one thing from the man. Vengeance.

Frank spoke from his hammock. "What are you going to do?"

Nathan shook his head. "I have to try."

He headed toward the exit. Distantly the explosions had died down, but gunfire spat sporadically. The fewer the shots, the more obvious it became that the village was being wiped out. Nate knew they would fare no better, not unless something was done. But what?

Stalking down the passage, at first cautiously, then faster and faster, around and around, Nate was reminded of the serpentine pattern of the Ban-ali symbol, winding in a spiral. Could this passage be what the symbol represented, or was it what Kelly had conjectured earlier, a crude representation of the twisted protein model, the mutagenic prion? If it represented the Yagga's tunnel, what did the helixes at each end of the spiral mean? Did one depict the healing ward? And if so, what did the other represent? And the blue handprint? Nate recalled the painted handprints decorating the entrance to the passage and shook his head. What did it all mean?

He ran around a corner and stumbled over a dead Indian lying in the tunnel. Nate fell to his hands, skidding on his knees. Once stopped, he rolled around and saw the bullet hole in the man's chest and a second in the back of his head.

Nate looked down and saw another body, just its legs, around the next curve. Another Indian.

Zane.

Nate scrambled to his feet, his blood on fire. The man was picking off the unarmed stragglers here, healers and aides to the shaman, brutally clearing a bloody path to the tunnel's end. The fucking coward.

Nate shoved down the tunnel, counting off the openings on his left. When he reached the last one, he ducked out of the passage and through a small, empty dwelling. He found himself on a branch at least five feet thick. Before continuing, he needed some idea of what was happening below. Smoke billowed and wafted through the open glade.

In the clearing around the tree, a few Indians retreated toward the Yagga.

By now, an ominous quiet had settled over the village.

Nate edged along the branch, but he couldn't get a good look across the glade toward the nightcap oak and his team's temporary homestead. The branch pointed the wrong way. He couldn't even spy the entrance to the Yagga. Damn it.

Pistol fire sounded from below. Zane! A scream erupted from the field on the tree's far side. The coward must be hiding down at the tunnel's end, killing any Indians who neared. Nate knew the bastard had enough ammo to hold them off for a while.

The Indians in direct sight below fled toward the cover of the thicker wood.

Nate stared across the glade. There was no sign of his friends.

As Nate sidled along the thick limb, his toe nudged a rope coiled atop the branch. He looked closer. Not rope, he realized, but one of the vine ladders.

"A fire escape," he mumbled. An idea flashed into his mind-a plan forming.

Before he lost his nerve, he shoved the piled vine over the edge.

The ladder unrolled with a whispery sound until it snapped to its full length, only three feet from the ground. It was a long climb, but if Zane was down there, perhaps Nate could sneak up on him.

With no more plan than that, Nate mounted the ladder and began a hurried climb earthward. He raced down the rungs. If his group and the remaining Indians could fall back here, they might have a more defensible position. But before that could happen, Zane had to be eliminated.

Nate reached the end of the ladder and hopped off.

Tall roots rose all around him, and it took Nate a moment to orient himself. The stream was behind and off to the left. That meant he was about at the four o'clock position from the tunnel entrance. He began to wind counterclockwise around the trunk.

Three o'clock . . . two o'clock . . .

Somewhere off in the forest, a spatter of automatic gunfire erupted. Another grenade exploded. Clearly the fighting had not entirely ceased in some parts of the village.

Using the cover of the noise, Nate crawled and edged his way around the tree's base. At last, he spotted one of the tall buttress roots that flanked the entrance. One o'clock.

Nate leaned against the trunk. Zane was beyond the obstruction . . . but how to proceed from here was the tricky part. Another pistol shot rang out from Zane's bunker. Nate frowned down at his empty hands.

What plan now, hero boy?

9:34 A.M.

Zane knelt on one knee, aiming out with his pistol. Tiring, he supported his weapon arm with his other. But he refused to let down his guard, not when victory was so close. He only had to hold out a little longer, then his role in this mission would be over.

One eye twitched to the nut full of the miraculous sap. It was a fortune worth billions. Though St. Savin Pharmaceuticals had made a sizable deposit in Zane's Swiss account to buy his cooperation, it was the promised bonus of a quarter percentage point of gross sales that had finally sold him on the betrayal. With the potential in the Yagga's sap, there was no limit to the wealth that could flow his way.

Zane licked his lips. His role here was almost at an end. Days ago, he had successfully slipped the computer virus into the team's communication equipment. Now all that remained was the final endgame.

Late last night, Favre had instructed Zane to obtain a sample of the sap and protect it with his life. "If those damn natives pull some jackass stunt," Louis had warned, "like setting fire to their precious tree to protect their secret, then you're our fail-safe:"

Zane had, of course, agreed, but unknown to his murderous partner, Zane had his own backup plan in mind, too. Once secure here, Zane had poured a small sample of the sap from the nut, sealed it in a latex condom, tied it off, and swallowed it. An extra bit of insurance on his own part. Any betrayal and a competing pharmaceutical company, like Tellux, would find itself in possession of the miraculous substance instead of St. Savin.

Distant rifle shots sounded from the woods. He spotted flashes of muzzle fire. Favre's men were cinching the noose. It would not be long.

As if confirming this, a grenade exploded at the glade's fringe. A dwelling in one of the huge trees blew apart, casting leaf and branch high into the air. Zane smiled-then he heard a voice within the echo of the blast. It sounded close.

"Watch out! Grenade!"

Something hit the trunk of the tree just over his head and bounced into the flanking root. Grenade! his mind echoed.

With a cry of alarm, he dove away from the entrance and rolled deeper into the shaft, arms shielding his head. He waited several tense seconds, then several more. He panted, ragged from the near escape. The expected explosion never came. Cautiously uncovering his head, he clenched his teeth. Still no blast.

He sat up, crawled slowly back toward the entrance, and peeked around the corner, where he spotted the small coconut-shaped object resting in the dirt. It was just one of the immature nut pods from the damn tree! It must have fallen from an overhead branch.

"Goddamn it!" He felt foolish at his panic.

He straightened, raising his weapon, and stepped back to his guard position. Getting too damn jumpy . . .

A blur of motion.

Something solid struck his wrist. The pistol flew from his fingers as his wrist exploded with pain. He started to fall backward-then his arm was grabbed by someone stepping from the blind side of the entrance. He was yanked out of the entrance and thrown bodily forward.

His shoulder hit the dirt. He rolled and stared back around. What he saw was impossible. "Rand? How?"

Nathan Rand towered over him at the entrance to the tunnel, a long, thick section of branch in his hand, which he raised menacingly.

Zane crab-crawled backward.

"How?" Nate asked. "A little lesson from our Indian friends. The power of suggestion:" Rand kicked the immature seed pod toward him. "Believe something strongly enough, and others will believe, too:"

Zane scrambled to his feet.

Nate swung the branch like a bat, striking him on the shoulder and knocking him back down. "That was for the shaman you shot like a dog!" Nate lifted the branch again. "And this is for-"

Zane glanced over Nate's shoulder. "Kelly! Thank God!"

Nate turned half around.

Using the moment of distraction, Zane shot to his feet and darted away. He cleared the side root in three steps.

He heard the blistering protest behind him and smiled.

What a...

. . . fool! Tricked by his own damn ruse! No one stood at the tunnel entrance. Kelly was not there.

Nate watched Zane race around the thick buttress. "No, you don't, you bastard!" With club in hand, he gave chase.

Still ringing with anger, Nate flew around the tree and spotted Zane fleeing along the base of the trunk, toward a tangle of roots. The traitor could easily get lost among them and escape. Nate thought of going back for the abandoned pistol, but he didn't have the time. He dared not lose sight of the bastard.

Ahead, Zane ducked under an arched root and wriggled through agilely. He was one wiry son of a bitch. In this race, Zane's smaller frame and lighter build were advantageous.

Realizing they were matched now fist to fist, Nathan tossed aside his club and pursued Zane. They fought through the snarl, crawling, climbing, leaping, squirming their way through the tangled maze. Zane was making headway on him.

Then the roots opened. They both stumbled onto some path amid the mess. Zane ran, pounding down the trail. Nate swore and went after him.

Ahead, water glistened. As they raced along the snaking trail, Nate saw the path ended at a wide pool, blocking the way. A dead end.

Nate smiled. End of the line, Zane!

As they neared the pool, his quarry also realized he had run himself into a blind alley and slowed-but instead of a groan of defeat, Nate heard a snarl of glee.

Zane leaped to the side, diving for the ground.

Nate closed the distance.

Zane swung to face him, a gun in hand. A 9mm Beretta.

It took Nate a startled moment to fathom this miracle. Then he saw his own shotgun, hanging by its shoulder strap from a rootlet a few steps to his right. The pistol was Kelly's! One of the weapons Zane had made them toss out of the treetop.

Nate groaned. The gods were not smiling on him. He took a step toward his shotgun, but Zane clucked his tongue.

"Move another inch, and you get a third eye!"

9:46 A.M.

Kouwe herded Anna ahead of him. The crack of rifle fire was closing all around them. Dakii led the way, expressionless, in scout mode. He wound with calm assurance through his village forest, guiding them back toward the nightcap oak. They needed to rendezvous with the Rangers. Put together some semblance of a plan.

Kouwe had been able to contact Sergeant Kostos over the radio and inform him of their status. He had also learned that Olin, left up in the dwelling, had been able to report in, too. The Russian was keeping himself well hidden in the tree. But so far no word had come from Nate's party. He prayed they were okay.

At last, Kouwe spotted sunlight ahead. The central glade! His team had been circling around from the south, keeping within the jungle cover. According to the sergeant, the Rangers were angling down from the north side.

Dakii slowed and pointed from a half crouch.

Anna and Kouwe moved up with him. Through a break in the foliage, Kouwe spotted the small log cabin in the clearing. He was able to orient himself. He followed the tribesman's arm. The nightcap oak, their destination, lay only fifty yards ahead. But that was not what Dakii was pointing out. Beyond the giant oak, Kouwe spotted Tor-tor. The jaguar raced along the clearing's edge. Drawn by the motion, Kouwe was able to see figures moving through the deeper shadows.

The Ranger team and Manny! They had made it back!

Dakii led them onward, speeding deftly through the glade's fringe.

In a few minutes, the two parties reunited at the base of the tree. Sergeant Kostos clapped Kouwe on the shoulder. Anna and Manny hugged.

"Any word from Nate?" Kouwe asked.

The sergeant shook his head, then waved to the dwelling. "I've ordered Olin to pack up his GPS and join us:"

"Why? I thought the plan was to rendezvous at the tree."

"This is close enough. As near as I can tell, we're boxed in. The tree is no protection:"

Kouwe frowned but understood. The marauders were systematically destroying every dwelling. They'd be trapped up there. "What then?"

"We bug out of here. Find a way through their line as silently as possible. Once past them, we'll seek shelter, somewhere where they can't find us:"

Manny edged closer to them, glancing at his watch. "The sergeant set one of his napalm bombs back in the woods, timed to explode in another fifteen minutes:"

"A distraction," Sergeant Kostos said. He hiked his pack on his shoulder. "And we have more if we need them:"

"It's why we can't wait for Nate," Manny said, reading his friend's eyes.

Kouwe gazed at the Yagga. The sound of gunfire was trickling away . . . as was their time. If they were going to have any chance, they would have to take it now. Kouwe reluctantly nodded, conceding.

Overhead, the vine ladder shuddered. He glanced up. Olin was climbing down, his radio pack in place.

Kostos waved his M-16. "Let's get ready to-"

The blast rocked them all to their knees. Kouwe swung around and watched the roof of the cabin sail high into the air. Bits of debris blew outward with tremendous force. A section of log shot by overhead, a flying battering ram, slicing into the jungle and crashing into its depths. Smoke billowed outward.

That was no grenade blast.

Through the smoke, a cadre of soldiers appeared, weapons raised and ready.

Kouwe noticed two things simultaneously. First, walking in the lead was a naked woman, hand in hand with a tall gentleman dressed all in white.

But the second thing Kouwe noted was of more immediate menace, something carried by one of the soldiers. The man dropped to a knee and lifted a long black tube on his shoulder.

Kouwe had seen enough Hollywood movies to recognize the weapon. "Rocket launcher!" Camera screamed behind him. "Everyone down!"

10:03 A.M.

The first blast had frozen both Nate and Zane in place. Nate kept focused on his adversary's weapon. From only a few yards away, the pistol was pointing square at his chest. He dared not move. He held his breath.

What was going on out there?

As the second blast sounded, Zane's eyes twitched in the direction of the explosion. Nate knew he wouldn't have another chance. He was dead unless he did something . . . even something stupid.

Nate lunged through the air, not toward Zane, but toward the dangling shotgun. His movement did not go unnoticed. Nate heard the sharp report of Zane's pistol and felt something sting his upper thigh, but he didn't stop.

His body struck the root, his arms scrambling for the shotgun. He didn't have time to unhook the strap. From where it hung, he just blindly swung the barrel in Zane's general direction and yanked the trigger. Recoil tore the weapon from his hand.

Nate ducked and swung around.

He saw Zane flying backward, his belly bloody, arms flung out. Zane landed in the small pond at the end of the blocked trail. He sputtered to the surface-the water was surprisingly deep, even near shore-and cried in alarm and pain.

Zane was now learning the lesson he had taught the unarmed Ban-ali shaman: a belly shot was one of the most agonizing.

Nate pushed up and unhooked his shotgun. He pointed it at the floundering man. He had not seen where the pistol had gone and was taking no chances this time.

Zane, his face a mask of torment, struggled toward the shore. Then his body suddenly jerked, his eyes widened in shock. His moaning turned to fresh screams. "Nate! Help me!"

Responding instinctively, Nate took a step forward.

Zane reached toward him, face pleading, terrified-then all around his body, the waters erupted in a fierce churning.

Nate caught several flashes of silver bodies. Piranhas. He backed away, realizing where he was: the birthing pool, the hatchery that Manny had described finding.

Zane thrashed, jerking and twitching, screeching. He began to sink into the froth. His eyes rolled with panic as he fought to keep his mouth above water. He failed. His head sank away. Only one arm remained above the pool-then even this disappeared under the roiling waters.

Nate turned from the pool and crossed down the path, feeling no pity for the man. He briefly checked the stinging burn in his thigh. He found a bullet hole in his pants and a trickle of blood. Just a graze, nothing more. He had been damned lucky.

He clenched the shotgun in his grip and marched down the trail, praying his luck would hold.

10:12A.M.

Manny shifted under a pile of debris, shoving with his shoulders. Smoke choked him. The explosion of the rocket in the treetop still rang in his head. It hurt to move his jaw. He crawled free amid shouts and yells. All commands.

"Throw down your weapons!"

"Show us your hands!"

"Move now, or I'll shoot you dead where you lie!"

That was incentive enough. Manny groaned and spat out blood. He glanced up into chaos. He saw Anna Fong on her knees, hands on her head. She looked all but unscathed. Professor Kouwe knelt at her side, bearing a scalp gash that dripped blood down his cheek. Dakii was also there, wearing an expression of stunned disbelief.

Turning, Manny saw Tor-tor's spotted face peering out from under a bush. He motioned the jaguar to stay put. Near the same bush, he watched Private Camera furtively shove her Bailey under a section of the roof thatch from one of the abodes above.

"You!" someone barked. "On your feet!"

Manny didn't know who the man was talking to until he felt the hot barrel of a gun on his temple. He froze.

"On your feet!" the man repeated. His words were heavily accented, German perhaps.

Manny clambered to his knees, then to his feet. He wobbled, but this seemed to satisfy the mercenary.

"Your weapon!" he barked.

Manny glanced around him as if searching for a missing shoe or sock. He saw his pistol lying there and nudged it with a toe. "There:"

A second soldier appeared out of nowhere and confiscated it.

"Join the anderen!" the man said with a shove toward the others.

As he stumbled toward his kneeling friends, Manny saw Camera and Kostos escorted by other guards. Their holsters were empty, packs gone. They were all forced to their knees, hands on their heads. The sergeant's left eye was swollen, his nose crooked and bloodied, broken. Kostos had clearly put up more fight than Manny.

Suddenly a distant section of deeper forest blew up into a ball of fire. The soft explosion echoed out to them, along with the smell of napalm.

So much for Kostos's planned "distraction:" Too little, too late.

"Herr Brail, this one's not moving!" one of the mercenaries shouted behind them in a mix of German and Spanish.

Manny glanced back to the base of the nightcap oak. It was Olin. He lay in a crumpled heap. A spear of wood had pierced through his shoulder and blood flowed brightly across his light khaki shirt. Manny saw he was still breathing.

The one named Brail tore his gaze from the burning forest and wandered over to check on the Russian. "Hundefleisch," the German said. Dog meat. He lifted his pistol and shot Olin in the back of the head.

Anna jumped at the noise, a sob escaping her.

From near the ruins of the log cabin, the two leaders of the attack force casually wandered toward them. The small Indian woman, though naked, moved casually, as if through a garden party, all curves and smooth legs. She wore a talisman resting between her breasts. Manny had first thought it was a leather satchel, but as she neared, he recognized it as a shrunken head. The hair atop the disgusting trinket was shaved.

The slender man at her side, dressed in white khakis and a rakish Panama hat, noticed his attention. He lifted the necklace for the others' view.

Manny spotted the dog tags.

"May I reintroduce you to Corporal DeMartini:" He laughed lightly, as if he had made a joke, a party amusement, and dropped the defiled head of their former teammate back to the woman's chest.

Sergeant Kostos grumbled a threat, but the AK-47 pointed at the nape of his neck kept him on his knees.

Louis smiled at the line of kneeling prisoners. "It's good to see you all together again."

Manny recognized a distinctly French accent. Who was this man?

Professor Kouwe answered his silent question. "Louis Favre," the pro fessor mumbled under his breath, his expression sickened.

The Frenchman's gaze swung to Kouwe. "That's Doctor Favre, Professor Kouwe. Please let's keep this courteous, and we can be done with this unpleasant matter as quickly as possible:"

Kouwe simply glowered.

Manny knew the man's name. He was a biologist banned from Brazil for black-market profiteering and for crimes against the indigenous people. The professor, along with Nate's father, had shared an infamous past with this man.

"Now, we've counted heads here and seem to have come up a few short," Favre said. "Where are the last members of your little troupe?"

No one spoke.

"Come now. Let's keep this friendly, shall we? It's such a pleasant day." Favre marched up and down the row of prisoners. "You don't want this to turn ugly now, do you? It's a simple question."

Still no one moved. Everyone stared blankly forward.

Favre shook his head sadly. "Then ugly it is:" He turned to the woman. "Tshui, ma cherie, take your pick:" He brushed his hands primly as if done with the matter.

The naked woman stalked before them, and hesitated before Private Camera, cocking her head, then suddenly sprang two places over to kneel before Anna. Her nose was only an inch from the anthropologist's.

Anna recoiled, but the gun behind her held her in place.

"My darling has an eye for beauty."

Moving as quickly as a striking snake, the Indian woman drew a long;

slender bone knife from a sheath hidden in her long tresses. Manny had seen knife sheaths like this braided into the hair of warriors in only one Amerindian tribe: the Shuar, the headhunters of Equador.

The bleached-white knife pointed into the tender flesh under Anna's chin. The Asian woman trembled. Red blood dribbled down the white blade. Anna gasped.

Enough, Manny thought, reacting reflexively. His right hand dropped to his waist, settling atop the handle of the short bullwhip. He could also move quickly when he wanted, reflexes developed from years of taming a wild cat. With skilled fingers, he snapped out with the whip.

The tip of the leather struck the bone knife, sending it flying, and nicked a cut under the Shuar woman's eye.

Like a cat, she hissed and rolled away, wounded. A second knife appeared in her hand as if by magic. It seemed this cat had many claws.

"Leave Anna be!" Manny yelled. "I'll tell you where the others are!" Before he could say anything else, Manny was clubbed from behind, knocked to his face in the dirt and leaves. A foot kicked his whip away, then stomped on the offending hand, snapping a finger.

"Drag him up!" Favre barked, all traces of his genteel mannerisms falling away.

Manny was hauled up by his hair. He cradled his injured hand to his chest.

Favre stood by the Indian woman and wiped the blood from her cheek. Favre turned to Manny and licked the blood from his fingertip.

"Now was that necessary?" he asked, and reached a hand behind him. One of the gunmen placed a snub-nosed rifle in his palm. Some type of miniature Uzi, from the looks of it.

The fist in Manny's hair twisted hard.

"Release him, Brail," Favre said.

The hand let go of him. Unsupported, Manny almost sagged to his face again.

"Where are they?" Louis asked.

Manny bit past the pain. "In the tree . . . the last time we saw them . . they've not responded to our radios:"

Favre nodded. "So I heard:" He reached his free hand and pulled out

matching radio. "Corporal DeMartini was gracious enough to lend me his Saber and supply me with the proper radio frequencies:"

Manny frowned. "If you knew . . . why . . . ?" He glanced over to Anna.

A long sigh followed, exasperated and bored. "Just making sure no one was attempting some deceptive tactic. It seems I've lost contact with my own agent in your party. And that always arouses my suspicious nature:"

"Agent?" Manny asked.

"Spy," Kouwe said from the end of the row of prisoners. "Richard Zane."

"Indeed:" Favre turned toward the tree and raised the radio to this mouth. "Nate, if you can hear me, stay put. We'll be coming over to join you.

There was no answer.

Manny hoped somehow Nate had fled with Kelly. But in his heart, he knew Kelly would never leave her brother's side. All of them must still be hiding in the ancient tree.

As the Frenchman stared at the white-barked giant, his eyes narrowed. After a moment, he swung back and focused on Manny again. "That leaves me only to address the insult upon my lady here:"

The stubby Uzi again was raised in his direction.

"Not very gentlemanly of you, Monsieur Azevedo:"

Favre pulled the trigger. Shots rattled and sprayed out.

Manny winced, but not a bullet struck him.

A grunt sounded behind him. The guard at his back collapsed intb view, his upper body riddled. He lay on the ground, gasping like a beached fish. Blood poured out from his mouth and nose.

Favre lowered his weapon. Manny stared up at the Frenchman. Favre cocked one eyebrow. "It's not you I blame. Brail should have minded you better. He should never have left that damn whip at your side. Sloppy, sloppy work:" Louis shook his head. "Two lieutenants gone in the same number of days:"