Amazon Burning (A James Acton Thriller, #10) (2 page)

Another
scream.

A man’s
scream.

Bruk!

And it
was fear, not anger. Tuk could honestly say he had never heard Bruk ever
express fear, and it sent a chill down his spine like he had never experienced
before. His instinct was to run the other way, to escape whatever had terrified
this great warrior, but he resisted the urge. His mother was still in the
village.

And
TikTik.

More
screams, then strange cracking sounds and shouts, voices he didn’t recognize,
words that were foreign to him. He readied his spear and rushed back toward the
village, the thoughts of another tribe attacking his small family filling him
with rage. TikTik screamed, her voice so beautifully distinctive he’d recognize
it anywhere, then his mother’s. A beast roared, trees snapped, and still he ran
toward the horror, determined to help his family and friends.

And the
woman who would be Bruk’s mate.

The roar
of the beast was louder now and continuous. He had never heard such a creature
before, its sound so loud and long, he wondered when it would need to pause for
breath. Trees continued to be felled by the beast, it clearly massive if it
were able to take down so many so quickly.

He was
almost at the clearing where his village had sat for as long as he had been
alive. Their numbers were small now, only half a dozen huts enough to contain
all thirty of their clan. Over the years many girls had been born, more than
boys, and then several boys had died in a tragic incident with a wild boar.
With the tradition among the local tribes of the man finding a mate from
another tribe, and bringing her back to live with the male’s tribe, their
numbers had dwindled, the girls taking mates and leaving, and not very many men
reaching mating age to bring a spouse home. They were few, and eventually they
would all be gone, leaving their tribe a mere memory to be lost as the forest
reclaimed what was rightfully Hers.

Perhaps
my new mate and I can delay that for another generation.

He tore
past the ring of trees around the clearing and dropped to his stomach
instantly, scurrying back into the cover of the forest as his jaw dropped and
his already racing heart threatened to burst from his chest. The roaring beast,
quieter now but still growling, sat near the edge of the trees on the other
side of the clearing. Creatures, all black with faces as smooth as a still pond
were pouring into the village, short spears not much longer than a man’s arm
held in their hands. It was as if pure black Panthers had learned to stand on
their hind legs.

Then his
heart leapt into his throat and he slowly slid farther back into the jungle as
he realized what he was seeing. It was an abomination, a legend told to
frighten children and respect the forest.

He had
never actually dreamed they were real.

The Panther
People.

He had
heard of the tribe that had long ago killed the regal creatures and worn their
skins, disrespecting their kills, failing to honor the Mother for Her
sacrifice.

And they
had paid a horrible price.

The
black panthers had entered the village and consumed them all, and as a reward
from the Mother, been given the powers of man.

It was a
story told to children to prepare them for their first hunt, and to warn them
of the dangers of disrespecting the forest, the Mother. All life was sacred,
and all life served its purpose. If it were necessary to kill to feed or
protect oneself, the Mother understood. To kill for pleasure? That was a sin
punishable by banishment or worse—though he thought death would be preferable
to banishment from the tribe.

He loved
his tribe, his family, his friends.

For he
had friends. Even the great Bruk was his friend. None of the tribe faulted him
for his lack of ability as a hunter, none of them teased him. It was simply
accepted as a fact, and he helped in other ways, usually as a tracker for the
hunters, or as a trader with nearby tribes since they found him unintimidating.

And as
he watched the Panther People round up his tribe, tears rolled down his cheeks
as he sat by helpless, cursing himself for not having the soul of a warrior
like Bruk.

It was
then that he saw two of the Panther People pull a body into the center of the
village and dump it on the ground.

Bruk!

TikTik
screamed, rushing toward him but was struck down as one of the creatures
pointed at her. She fell to the ground, shaking horribly, then was still. Dead.

He cried
out in rage, jumping to his feet and hurtling his spear through the air. His
aim was true, hitting the creature in the chest, but his weapon bounced off the
thick black skin harmlessly.

Then the
creature pointed at him.

Tuk
realized the horrible mistake he had made and spun, racing into the trees as
cracking sounds erupted from their attackers and the trees around him began to
erupt, splinters bursting from the mighty trunks as he fled the only home he
had ever known.

As he
swiftly cut a path silently through the trees, his mind unable to comprehend
what had just happened, the sounds began to fade into the distance and he
slowed to catch his breath.

What
am I supposed to do?

He
realized he needed help, he needed the other tribes to help fight the Panther
People, but he also knew they would probably be too scared to fight, instead
more likely to flee their own villages.

Then he
realized what he had to do.

He had
to ask the Woman of Light for help. He knew she had special powers, and he knew
she would help him. She was one of the Spirit People, and had let herself be
taken.

And
after the Cleansing Ritual, he would be ready to present her to the tribe.

As his
mate.

He
closed his eyes as he remembered their first successful communication. Her
voice, so different from those of the women of his tribe, had said his name
with little effort.

“Tuk?”
she had repeated, and he had nodded fervently, so happy she had said it, the
sound of her voice filling him with a rapturous wonder, this creature a woman
like no other. He had urged her to say it again and again until she had laughed
at his excitement, a wondrous sound that echoed through the forest, bringing it
to life as the creatures around them had shared in their joy.

Then she
had taught him her name.

It had
been hard to say, but she had been patient, and after an annoying length of
time he had finally mastered it.

And he
said it now, filling himself with warmth and love as he set off to ask for help
from his future mate.

“Lau-ra-pal-mer.”

Rio Negro, Northern Amazon, Brazil
Present Day

Professor James Acton lay in a hammock, it swaying gently as the
quiet put-put of the engine guided them to the farthest reaches of the Amazon
River. A bottle of water balanced on his stomach, rising and falling with each
breath, his face one of contentment as he simply listened to the jungle around
him, a never ending cacophony of sound that at first was overwhelming, but
after two weeks was now oddly soothing. He knew he’d miss it when they went
back home.

Sitting
in a lounge chair on the other side of the deck was his wife, Professor Laura
Palmer. They had married not even two months before, finally managing to find
time to gather their closest friends and family, and not have some terrorist
group or ancient cult interfere with their plans.

It had
been wonderful.

Laura
had been stunning in her dress, a simple yet elegant affair that he had no
doubt cost a fortune, but not audaciously so. His wife was rich, unbelievably
rich. Though both archeology professors on opposite sides of “the pond”—both
making modest salaries as such—her late brother had been an Internet pioneer,
divesting himself of his company before the bubble burst, leaving him with
hundreds of millions of dollars, and leaving it to her when he had been killed
on a dig in Syria.

He had
no idea she was rich when he first met her several years ago, and when he had
found out she was “well off”, he had no clue just how much so for some time.
Their first meeting was anything but romantic, but when he had caught his first
real sight of her, standing in front of her classroom, lecturing her students
at University College London, he had felt a flutter.

It had
been love at first sight, though it took a few more looks to realize it, what
with half the city trying to kill or capture him.

They had
fallen in love, she secretly confessing to having a bit of a crush on him for
years, following his work from afar after reading a spread done on him in
National Geographic. He had been flattered, and somewhat embarrassed to have to
admit he had never heard of her before he had found that damned crystal skull
and discovering she was considered the expert in them.

It was
during that first day together that they met Detective Chief Inspector Hugh
Reading, who occupied a second hammock at the far end of the rear deck.
Mosquito netting covered the entire deck, the bugs far too thick at times to
make their journey enjoyable if left exposed. They were designed to be raised
and lowered, but had been lowered most of the time, Acton now firm in his belief
that Reading simply wasn’t an outdoorsy type.

Happy
Hugh, Happy Cruise.

Laura
had coined the phrase, much to Reading’s annoyance. The aging ex-cop, now an
INTERPOL Special Agent, had become a loyal friend, helping them out over the
years on many occasions, and though they rarely saw each other, they often
talked on the phone, Acton now considering Reading one of his best friends.
Laura adored the man as well, and Acton was certain Reading thought of her like
a daughter, though he’d never admit it—it would mean he’d have to admit he was
old enough to be her father.

After
honeymooning in South Africa—a ten day safari the highlight—Laura had surprised
him with four all access passes to the World Cup in Brazil. He had to admit he
wasn’t a soccer—football!—fan, though he had slowly begun to develop an
appreciation for the sport since Laura and Reading would talk about it non-stop
when they were together, and he had been forced to watch umpteen matches on the
“telly” as they called it, and on a few occasions had actually seen the games
live, Laura getting the three of them tickets to see her favorite, Manchester
United.

At times
the game was so slow it reminded him of a particular Simpsons episode, leaving
him wishing a soccer riot would break out, but usually the games were actually
exciting, though low scoring. After seeing a few games he could see why the
crowd would go nuts when a goal was finally scored.

Boredom
relieved?

The
World Cup had been fantastic, and not the fiasco he had feared might happen. He
had been disappointed for his British friends on how their team had done, but
was happy to have watched several of the US team’s better performances. He
turned his head to look at the possessor of the fourth ticket—his best friend
and confidante, Gregory Milton. Milton had been his best friend since college,
and had been his boss for over five years—and it hadn’t affected their
friendship in the least. During the crystal skull business Milton had taken a
bullet in an assassination attempt but luckily survived, relegated to a
wheelchair he had been told he’d never leave.

They
were wrong.

Determination,
hard work, and a loving support network had him now walking, though for short
distances. The poor bastard had toughed it out through the entire wedding,
keeping his promise to himself that there wouldn’t be a single picture of him
in his wheelchair. It still brought tears to Acton’s eyes when he thought of
the text message his friend had sent when he thought he was dying.

And it
had been days before he had discovered his friend was actually alive, saved by
an off-duty ER surgeon who had stopped for gas at the same station.

Milton
sat in his chair, his head lolled back as he gently snored, his Kindle sitting
in his lap, his once skinny legs now healthy and propped up on a stool.

This
is the life.

Four
friends, together, cruising up one of the source tributaries of the world’s
mightiest river in its biggest rain forest, in silence. No need to talk, just
enjoying each other’s company, a mix of classical guitar playing through an
iPod docking station nearby, the volume low so the sounds of Mother Nature
surrounding them could still be heard.

Reading
swatted at a bug on his arm and muttered a curse about one of the bastards
getting through. Acton took a swig from his water bottle as his friend swung
his legs to the floor then stretched with a groan that could wake the dead, the
forest protesting at the disturbance. Transferring to a chair, Reading looked
over at Acton.