Ramsey's Gold (Drake Ramsey Book 1) (25 page)

“Yes?”

“We just got word. They’re in Atalaya.” The voice on the telephone spoke heavily accented English, all no-nonsense, the words seasoned by years of hard living.

“I told you. They used that as jumping off point before. It made sense they would use it again.”

“My contact is watching them. Not hard to do considering the size of the place.”

“Very good. We will be on our way tomorrow. Do nothing overt. I do not want them warned that they are under surveillance. Is that clear?”

“Of course. We’ll know when they decide to leave. They suspect nothing.”

“See that it stays that way. Have you sourced the equipment I requested?”

“Yes. We’re ready.”

Vadim checked the time. It was later than he thought. “We will be there by the middle of the day.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Vadim hung up and eyed the young woman, who was seated at the coffee table, helping herself to a line of the local cocaine. Vadim approached her, weaving slightly, the vodka having gone to his head, and clumsily grabbed her, which she pretended to enjoy as she giggled and squirmed. A bruise on her face had taught her not to question the customer’s strange demands, and the drugs at least blunted some of the pain she knew would follow.

Vadim pulled her to her feet and led her back to the bedroom, shuffling like an old bear. She teetered after him on precarious heels that snicked on the tile floor as she went to earn her keep, a professional smile frozen on her face, dreading what was to come.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Allie seemed grumpy when they met in the lobby at five. She had every reason to be. Her trip was starting a day earlier than she’d expected, and Jack had apparently told her why.

The fishermen were already working at the river in the predawn gloom, preparing for another in an endless string of long, hard days. Within a few minutes Allie had persuaded one of the men to skip fishing in exchange for making ten times what his catch would bring to take them to Puerto Mapuyo – the small hamlet where they would wait for Jack and Spencer to join them.

Money changed hands and they climbed aboard a battered wooden skiff, their backpacks bulging, each with a SIG Sauer in a waterproof pocket and their AK-47s hanging from shoulder straps. Drake had his father’s knife dangling from his belt, and both of them wore knee-high rubber boots for the rainforest’s perennially wet soil. The fisherman traded some of his pay for two jerry cans of gasoline before he started his outboard with a sputter and guided them into the river. They were the only boat on the water as the sun struggled over the jungle horizon, and Drake was confident they weren’t being followed.

The trip took all day, and by the time they arrived at their destination it was nearly dark. Puerto Mapuyo turned out to be a small collection of shacks with a few families living by the sloping bank, sustaining themselves with fishing. They regarded the Caucasian newcomers with curiosity before heading back inside their dwellings as twilight faded, with no electricity to light their way.

Drake withdrew a flashlight and they walked to a clearing near the river. He hurriedly pitched their tent, which thankfully had mosquito netting incorporated to protect them from the swarms that clouded the air, thick as smoke.

“Your father wasn’t kidding about the bugs, was he?” Drake said.

“He warned us. Too bad we didn’t take the CIA’s deal. Could have spared us a lot of grief.”

“Allie…”

She shrugged. “Hey, nobody asks me what I think, so no problem. Let the men make all the decisions, right? I’ll just smile and clean up after you. Maybe sing to entertain you if you’re bored.”

“We didn’t come all this way just to sell the journal. We’re going to find Paititi. You’ll be famous. And rich. Don’t worry.”

Allie looked at him doubtfully. “I’m glad you’re so confident. Because last time I checked, we came all this way because we’ve got some killers that want to cut us into pieces to get their hands on the same journal you just declined an easy fifty mil for.”

“Which should tell you it’s worth a lot more.”

She gazed into the distance. “Maybe you’re right. It’s just an awful lot of money”

“I know, Allie. It was the hardest decision I’ve ever made.”

Allie pounded in the final tent stake with a stone.

“You know, it’s not just the money. It’s…why do you get to make all the decisions, alone? Don’t my father and I get any say, after all we’ve been through? Because of you? Do our opinions count for nothing?”

“Allie, I’m sorry I turned down the money.”

She shook her head, obviously conflicted. “These mosquitoes are driving me crazy. I’m going into the tent. Dinner will be an energy bar. Hope you don’t mind if we hit it early.”

He finished with his side and nodded. “I didn’t get any sleep, so no problem.”

She hesitated. “Drake, just so you know, I like you. But I’m not stupid. I’d like to be consulted every now and then, especially on life-and-death matters. And last night? On the river? That was nice, too. But we’re going to keep it strictly business while we’re on this trip, okay? That means you stay on your side of the tent.”

Drake controlled his expression, showing nothing. “Allie, of course. I’m not going to maul you or anything.”

“Damn right you’re not. I just wanted to get clear on that so there are no misunderstandings, all right?”

“I’m completely clear on it. Crystal.”

“Good.” She lifted her backpack with one hand and unzipped the entry netting, and then ducked into the tent with her gear before zipping it back up, leaving Drake standing outside wondering how everything had gone so wrong in the blink of an eye. He decided that he didn’t know anything about women, and chalked it up to experience – he’d thought there had been some real heat between them, a powerful connection, but apparently not strong enough. She’d just made clear she wanted nothing to do with him romantically, and it hadn’t seemed ambiguous.

Drake hoisted his backpack and resigned himself to a difficult evening, and decided to give her time to prepare her part of the tent to her liking. It was still unbearably hot, so there wouldn’t be any sleeping bags, and his only hope was that the small netted window flaps would allow sufficient ventilation so they wouldn’t roast inside. After the constant warnings about snakes and poisonous insects, sleeping outside the tent wasn’t an option, but he was under no illusion that inside would be pleasant.

Ten minutes later he ducked inside and secured the flap. Allie had already rolled onto her side, either asleep or pretending to be. He set his bag down, removed the SIG Sauer and chambered a round, and used the backpack as a pillow. He lay down only a few short feet from Allie – the woman who wanted nothing to do with him. The realization that he was now fully committed to a potentially disastrous course hit him with the force of a pile driver as he wiped sweat from his face, trying to get comfortable in the swelter.

The last sounds he heard as he drifted off to sleep a half hour later were her soft breaths and the symphony of night creatures chittering and chirping in the trees around them.

~ ~ ~

Spencer arrived in Atalaya in the afternoon and checked into the hotel, noting that he and Jack were the sad little establishment’s entire guest roster. They met in his room and he distributed his finds – two crossbows, a collapsible camp stove, and a host of odds and ends that would come in handy in the bush. By the time he finished, it was obvious that they’d be as loaded as they could manage and still make their way through the jungle.

Jack was turning to leave with his gear when Spencer handed him a wad of dollars. Jack took the money.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“I ran into Asad. He saw the error of his ways. He’d already burned a few hundred, but he wanted me to give you back the rest of the money.”

Jack blinked. “Did he, now?”

“People can surprise you.”

“Every day. Thanks for that. What are the odds?”

“Serendipity, isn’t that what they call it?”

“That’s one of the things.”

Dinner was more fish, spicy as ever, and they turned in early, having agreed to meet at six a.m. to take a boat up the Urubamba, and then farther east on a tributary until they arrived at Puerto Mapuyo and rendezvoused with Drake and Allie.

Dawn was breaking as they met in front of the hotel and walked down to the river, where Spencer had hired a boat. Clouds blanketed a granite sky as they arrived at the waterfront, the air thick with the smell of runoff and marsh. A slim wooden skiff, easily thirty-five feet long and no more than five wide, waited by the bank, captained by a middle-aged man with a coffee complexion and half his teeth. Spencer and the captain exchanged pleasantries as he handed him their bags. They climbed aboard and settled in for the seventy miles of winding water that Spencer had said would take them all day to navigate. The plan was to camp out near the river for the night and then begin hiking to the spot where Ford Ramsey’s body had been found.

Neither man spoke much on the trip, preferring to stay silent as the boat puttered along. They only saw two other people the entire day, both natives on the banks, throwing nets into the water, their canoes beached under bowed trees. The fishermen waved as they passed and the captain returned the simple gesture; the rainforest was an environment where anyone might be a valuable ally if they ran into mechanical trouble in the middle of nowhere.

The overcast burned off by late morning and Jack drowsed as the sun beat down. The slight breeze from their passage offered slim relief from the heat, but he managed a few hours of rest in spite of the discomfort. Spencer appeared unfazed by the experience, and was asleep within minutes of getting underway.

Drake and Jack had agreed not to discuss his run-in with the CIA with Spencer, and Jack spent most of the day trying to figure out how to make good on his promise to disable Spencer’s satellite phone. He finally opted for the direct approach and asked Spencer to let him use it to call his Brazilian contact.

“Why can’t you use the one I gave you?” Spencer asked, clearly annoyed.

“Drake has it.”

Spencer dug the phone out of his backpack and handed it to Jack, who pretended to fumble it as he lost his balance. The phone splashed into the mocha water and disappeared out of sight.

“Damn,” Jack exclaimed, almost falling overboard himself, which he could tell from Spencer’s glower would have been fine with him.

Spencer frowned and shook his head. “You owe me a grand.”

“I’m sorry. I…damn. There’s nothing to say. At least we have another one. I’ll give you the money when we’re stationary.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

They spent the rest of the trip without speaking, Spencer obviously angry, which was okay with Jack. He’d done what he set out to do. Spencer didn’t seem suspicious, but rather disgusted in his new companion’s idiocy, which was the way Jack wanted it. He preferred to be underestimated and believed to be a fool by Spencer, especially if he was a turncoat.

When they arrived at dusk, Jack saw Allie and Drake sitting on the bank, waiting for them to arrive. Drake was fishing with a hand line while Allie watched him. When Drake saw the boat, he waved and pulled a stringer of fish from the water and held them aloft. The skiff ran up onto the sandy slope, and once beached, Spencer and Jack got out and unloaded their gear. Once they were finished, the captain wished them luck and reversed the motor, off to make as much progress on the return as he could before spending the night in the boat, tied to a tree.

“You made it,” Allie said as they approached. “The great white hunter caught dinner. He’s a wizard with fish.”

Drake shrugged. “Not really. The water’s teeming with them. I could practically throw a rock and hit a dozen.”

“We need to get our tents set up before it gets late. We’ve got about a half hour of light left. How many do you have?” Spencer asked.

“Five. Pretty decent size.”

“That’s good. I’ll cook them once I’m done with my tent. Unless you feel like playing chef tonight.”

“I’m easy. You’re probably a better cook than I am, considering I’m hard-pressed to boil an egg.”

Spencer looked to Allie. “Would you see if you can find some relatively dry wood for a fire? I’ll make it once I’m finished.”

“Aren’t you going to use the stove?” Jack asked.

“Negative. I don’t want to waste limited fuel and get a pan dirty. It’s easier to roast them, skewered on sticks like the natives do. I’ve done it a million times. Not half bad if you’re hungry enough.”

“At least it’s stopped raining. It’s been going most of the day,” Allie said.

“Do what you can on the firewood. If we have to, I have a jar of petroleum jelly and some cotton, but if you find some dead branches that aren’t soaked through, that would be best.”

Spencer had his tent pitched in ten minutes and a fire going in another fifteen, coaxing a reluctant flame from the soggy wood Allie brought. It was dark by the time the fish were done, but Drake had to admit that a meal had never tasted so good.

Jack moved into the large tent with Allie, while Drake took the small one Jack had brought for him. An hour after sundown the camp was still, the fire out as the patter of raindrops splattered against the fabric enclosures, a drumbeat that was to be a constant in the days ahead. The only positive was that the intermittent storms cooled the air, and Drake found himself drifting off more easily than the prior night, which if they were lucky would be the norm as they progressed on their journey into the rainforest.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Drake awoke to a deluge pouring from the lead-colored clouds that brooded over the river valley. A machine-gun torrent of wind-driven rain hammered at the flimsy tent with the aggression of an attack dog as thunder roared overhead. He rolled over and looked at the glowing dial of his watch. Five o’clock; dawn still an hour off. He lay listening as the downpour thrashed against his shelter and tried to fall back to sleep, but to no avail.

Resigned, he sat up and drank the rest of his bottle of water as his thoughts turned to the day ahead. Hopefully the rain would abate, but even if it didn’t, they couldn’t stay on the riverbank – they needed to find the site of his father’s final camp so the real search could begin, ideally well ahead of any pursuit from the CIA or the Russians.