Rogue Angel 47: River of Nightmares (16 page)

She pushed up and shoved Roux behind her and swung at the cat again, nearly connecting. Agile, it leaped away. But it wasn’t leaving, not giving up so easily on a meal, and she hadn’t really hurt it. She didn’t want to hurt it. She recalled reading an article about their numbers dwindling. She’d read the article out of a magazine on the plane to Brazil!

Her memories flooded back as she swept the blade low, striking at its outstretched claw. That only seemed to anger it, and it came at her from another direction and managed to rake her leg, shearing through the denim of her jeans like it was tissue paper. The pain was intense and she felt the blood running down into her boot.

Shifting her grip, she leveled the blade at its shoulder when it came at her again, this time slicing it; she prayed the cut wasn’t deep. She’d not put all her strength behind it. The jaguar’s snarl was high-pitched and long, and from a distance the cry was answered. Jaguars were solitary, and so she didn’t worry that there was a family of them coming her way. She turned the blade and struck the cat on the side of the head and became the aggressor, advancing on it this time. Three more swats, each stronger, and the jaguar wheeled and loped into the darkness.

“You’re hurt,” Roux said.

“I heal quickly.”

“Welcome back, Annja.”

Chapter 26

For once she wished it was raining. But the sky was clear and a multitude of stars shimmered, some so faint they looked like diamond dust. She recognized the Southern Cross; stargazing in the southern hemisphere had always been a delight to Annja. She saw the constellation named Eridanus—appropriately, the river. And the brightest star in the cluster was called Achemar, meaning “end of the river.”

She slunk into the clearing, her leg aching from the encounter with the jaguar. She’d made a makeshift bandage of her shirtsleeve and had argued with Roux that she didn’t need medical treatment—for her leg or her memory problem. There wasn’t any place to get either out here anyway. Her memory lapse? Bit of amnesia? She’d attributed that to the poison darts she’d caught when slamming into Hammond trying to prevent him from shooting the Dslala. The darts had been meant for Hammond. A dart had killed one of the other mercenaries; she was halfway surprised the poison hadn’t killed her.

For once she was grateful for her blue skin. It let her be a shadow among the shadows cast by the tents and the generator. The machine was silent, suggesting everyone slept. No one stirred inside the main tent. Annja ducked in and crouched, keeping as low as the tables. While there was enough starlight in the clearing for her to see by, not enough came in here. Still, she didn’t want to take the chance that someone might see her shadow against the canvas.

She remembered where all the batteries were. Something made her crawl down the aisle until she felt the boxes. There was one open, and she reached inside, pulling out D batteries and sticking them in her pockets. Annja wanted to make sure that if she was lucky enough to find a hard hat with a light on it, she’d have enough batteries to keep it going. Caving could eat up hours and hours...and there was a cave around here somewhere. She was going to find it.

Back outside, she spotted a sentry patrolling the perimeter. She skittered to the generator, noticing cables like thick black snakes fed into the main tent and the next two larger tents. Nothing fed to the pup tents. She decided they served only for sleeping.

She listened against the canvas of the nearest tent, hearing only the sounds of the forest—nightbirds and leaves rustling in the slight breeze, frogs singing. Annja sucked in a breath and gingerly pulled the flap back. Again, it was too dark to see much—shadows that suggested a bench, a few crates, a jumble of things just inside. The air smelled different, and so curiosity tugged at her and pushed her inside. Her fingers played across the jumble of things. A flashlight! Looking outside for the sentry, as she about had his dull and predictable pattern memorized, she waited until he’d passed out of her line of sight and flicked the beam on, holding it close and pointing it low, shielding it with her free hand.

Annja was actually enjoying this bit of skullduggery. She was an adrenaline junkie, the danger of being discovered—and of potentially discovering something—made her heart race. The muted beam revealed kneepads, gloves and helmets, some with lights on the top...hence the need for the batteries. But so many batteries, Dillon certainly planned on being here a while. Nothing on the bench, nothing on the chest. It looked like one of those old sea chests, but it had shiny aluminum corners. She resisted the urge to open it. Instead, she directed her attention to a rent in the earth that cut down the center of the tent. Metal spikes were driven deep into the ground and were affixed to a rope ladder. Next to it was a pulley system.

The rent itself was roughly three feet wide at the greatest point and about five feet long, looking like an open mouth with jagged shards of rocks around it. She stared...it looked like the mouth of the huge caiman from her dreams. Annja strapped on one of the helmets, made sure the light worked, and turned off the flashlight and managed to wedge it in her pocket next to some of the batteries. Picking out the smallest kneepads she could find, and putting on a pair of gloves a few sizes too big, she crawled toward the opening and peered down, seeing a faint light and hearing soft sounds. Someone was down below.

She only debated for a moment. She didn’t have all the proper gear for caving, but this could be enough for a start. And she had something the men in this camp didn’t—Joan of Arc’s sword. That alone was enough comfort to nudge her onto the rope ladder.

Annja started down, turning the helmet light off and relying on her other senses. She remembered what D’jok had told her when she underwent the dreaming ritual. She smelled stone, decayed plants, a faint trace of chemicals reminiscent of a hospital. She heard a fluttering sound—bats; she’d been in enough caves to recognize that. Not many, at least not many were flying. She’d probably disturbed them when she’d started down.

The gloves were cumbersome, so she took them off and stuffed them into the waistband of her jeans, discovered the rope was damp—but what wasn’t in the Amazon?—and continued down. The rungs were uneven, the rope ladder handmade. Some of the rungs were thicker than others; one dangled free and so she had to stretch her leg down to find the next one. The ladder swayed and she held still until it settled. The bats quieted, too, and now a new sound intruded. Water was dripping somewhere. The noise went on uninterrupted.

The dim light she’d spotted from above came from Coleman battery-powered lanterns on the cavern floor. So that’s how he was using some of the batteries, and planned to keep using them for a long time apparently. Thousands of batteries. Four pickaxes lay near the closest lantern. She was about twenty feet below the rent. The clanking sounded like it was coming from down a corridor; she would investigate that later. First, she’d take stock of this chamber. She flicked on her helmet light and half expected to see cave paintings, like the ones from her dreams. She was disappointed. The chamber was roughly pear-shaped, about thirty feet long and half that wide, with a tunnel leading away...where the clanking came from. Water dripped down one wall, forming a muddy pool. Looking up, she could tell that the very top layer of the cavern was earth, only about a foot thick, beneath that and reaching to the floor was mica schist, a flaky thin rock that clearly had been dug at. The grooves were deep, and shards of mica formed drifts against the walls. There was a band of flint, too.

The bell-shaped section had a dirt floor, and there were three mounds; two were higher and fresher than the third. One had wilted flowers on it. Graves, but nothing to mark who was buried in them. In her caiman dream she’d seen the bodies of three villagers on the bank. Could these graves symbolize the three dead villagers on the bank...or was she only looking to read something into it, based on the dream?

She glanced up at the rent. How had Dillon found this cavern? By accident?

Annja was good at playing detective. Maybe Dillon and his crew had accidentally come upon it while harvesting their plants. He’d had to clear the trees to put up his tents. Maybe while bringing the trees down, they found the crevice. Maybe one of them had fallen into it; that notion seemed likely. Why else come down here unless it was to rescue whoever had fallen? And in the process, someone discovered something in the mica. There was clear evidence this chamber had been mined.

The clanking sound continued. She turned off the helmet light and ever-so-quietly eased into the tunnel. The noise grew louder and echoed. It was a natural tunnel, formed by a river that must have run through here a long time past, the smoothness of the walls attesting to that. But it wasn’t altogether smooth. There were places where the mica had been dug at. She edged closer to the sound and the light, some of her questions answered when the tunnel widened and she spotted two men ahead, striking small pickaxes against the wall at eye level. There was a bucket between them and when they’d work a piece of rock free, they’d put it in the bucket.

She inched closer still. They were gem mining. If it was a mineral like gold or silver, they wouldn’t be so careful, and they’d possibly be using explosives. Closer and she saw the glint of green.

Emeralds.

Another puzzle piece fell into place.

Emeralds could be found across the globe. She’d tried her hand at prospecting once and came away with nothing, but had enjoyed the experience. The highest quality emeralds were said to come from Brazil and Colombia, the latter being the largest producer of the gem in the world. Dillon had found a vein, and he and his crew were poaching. They were probably smuggling the gems out amid their plant samples. Why take only a finder’s fee for discovering a mine when you could plunder it and take everything?

A slick operation, making money from gems and plants, literally and figuratively rolling in the green. She would report him, of course, but she had to get back to the Dslala village and use her satellite phone to contact the authorities. Dillon was probably guilty of more than just smuggling—the three graves came to mind. As much as she wanted to linger and watch the miners, she knew the best course was to leave before she was discovered.

She paused at the graves, and then climbed the ladder, once again disturbing the bats that clung to the ceiling, and then crawling up into the tent. Annja doubted she’d been down there all that long; it would have been handy to consult a watch. But the watch led to her turning blue and having the cryptic dream about a cave. Instead of paintings, she’d discovered men mining for emeralds. In her dream she’d seen bones, and in reality there were graves down there...with bones in them. It seemed that everything was connected.

Listening before peeling back the flap, she didn’t see the sentry. She waited. Frogs were trilling, sounding like birds, so loud that was all she heard. Several minutes must have passed before she saw the man walking the perimeter again. He was different, stouter, and wearing a ball cap. There must have been a shift change, and so this fellow was probably more alert. When he was at the edge of her vision, she started out, at the same time hearing voices behind her; at least one of the men who’d been mining was coming up the ladder.

Now! She ran in a half-crouch from the tent, past the generator, in front of the main tent, in which a low light now burned. Someone else was up. Faster and she was at the log wall and over it, ducking down on the other side and holding still. If they’d seen her an alarm would have sounded. She counted to twenty and felt her heart slow, and then she scampered into the forest.

In her haste she’d forgotten that she still had on the kneepads and the helmet. Did they take inventory? Didn’t matter, she wasn’t going to return them and risk being caught. She skirted the camp, trying to find the spot where she’d come in so she could better retrace her steps and find Roux. She didn’t want to leave the old man out in the rainforest alone. What if another jaguar came his way? Would he spend eternity digesting in the belly of a great cat?

Annja saw a light come on in one of the small tents. It was one more signal for her to leave. She forged deeper into the forest directly away from the camp. She pulled out the flashlight she’d also forgotten to return and flicked it on. The vegetation was thick enough here that no one in the camp could see the beam. Traveling in the rainforest at night wasn’t a good idea, but Annja mentally pictured where she’d left Roux. It took her more than an hour to find it.

“New accoutrements?” Roux pointed to her hard hat and kneepads. “They go well with your outfit.”

“I’ll tell you all about them on our way back to the village.” Annja filled him in as they worked through the tangle of plants and eventually found the path to the Dslalas.

“I’ve a boat waiting,” he said. “At least I hope it’s still there. I’ve been gone a few days.”

“And I’ve a satellite phone in D’jok’s hut, which I will use before I crash. I am utterly exhausted.”

“Call the authorities about the gem poachers, and then let us get out of here, Annja. You can sleep on the boat.”

It sounded like a good plan.

Until D’jok informed her that Moons and Edgar left the village shortly after Roux had, intent on visiting Dillon in the pharmaceuticals camp. They’d not yet come back. Neither had a tribesman who’d also gone to investigate.

“I worry for them, Annja Creed,” D’jok said. “Days gone.”

She’d not slept in more than twenty-four hours. “The phone’s in my duffel, Roux.”

“You’re going back to the camp?” he asked.

Annja didn’t answer; she was already jogging back down the trail.

Chapter 27

No skullduggery this time. Despite the hazards of tree roots and snake holes she kept a fast pace, knees high. Annja thought as many times as she’d been up and down this path she probably had every obstacle memorized. Parrots swooped low, a small severe macaw flying alongside her for at least a mile before it found something more interesting. The sounds were a pleasant, sonorous buzz. The air felt muggy, almost heavy, and then a mile later it was drizzling.

When this business in the Amazon was done, maybe she’d come up with a
Chasing History’s Monsters
idea for some arid desert. Heat would be good right now, instead of the humid dampness of this place.

The run helped shake some of her fatigue, and the pain in her leg, merely a dull ache now—almost healed—helped keep her focused. What would have happened, she wondered, if Roux hadn’t appeared and jogged her memory? Would it have come back on its own? Maybe, she’d like to think that would have happened. Or would Orellana have started a new life for herself in some nameless village along the river? The latter possibility wouldn’t have been so horrible. A simple life surrounded by nature had its appeal. D’jok’s tribe might have welcomed her as a resident.

The pharma camp came into view and she stopped, her thoughts redirected to Moons and Edgar. Had they pushed Dillon too far? Had he done something to them? She had a feeling in her gut that there was a good chance the pair had been killed. The rain was coming steady now. There were two sentries both outside the barrier, one definitely familiar—Hammond. He sneered when she brazenly approached him.

“You should be dead,” he said. “I’d left you for dead.”

A snappy reply hung on the end of her tongue. She ignored it and said, “I want to see Arthur Dillon.”

“I suppose you do.”

Her skin crawled the way he studied her. It felt like insects scampering over every inch of her. “It’s about Becca Mooney and—”

“The troublemakers? They’re with Mr. Dillon.”

So they were alive.

“Hammond, I said I want to see Arthur—”

Hammond had his finger on the trigger; the gun was still tucked in his waistband. Annja saw his eyes change, the pupils shrinking as the gun came up. She didn’t know if he was going to shoot her or simply threaten her. The sword was instantly in her hand and she brought it around at waist level.

“Where the hell did that—”

She struck the gun the moment it went off, his shot going wild and then the gun flying. She’d sliced his hand in the process, showing him less concern than she had the jaguar.

“Mitch!” Hammond shouted. “Mitch!”

The other sentry was already running toward her, firing as he came, striking her in the hip. Annja slipped behind Hammond, putting him between her and the gunman.

Hammond hollered and jumped aside. “Mitch! Watch where you’re aiming!”

Despite the threat of Annja’s sword Hammond came at her with a roundhouse kick, the steel toe of his boot connecting with her wrist and loosening her grip. The sword came out of her hand.

“Hands up! High!” This came from the other sentry. “Now or I’ll blow your brains out!”

Annja held her hands up.

Hammond backed up a few steps, clearly wary of her. He looked at the ground. “Where’s the sword?”

“What sword?” Annja’s hip was coated with blood, the bullet evidently hitting a big vein. She felt blood flowing down her leg. Maybe it was a worse hit than she’d first thought. “I don’t see a—”

Her knees buckled and Hammond retrieved his gun before scooping her up. “Mitch, she had a sword. You find it, and you get a hold of Mr. Dillon. Then you meet me inside.”

Annja could have fought him—she told herself she could have, but her muscles protested too much. This was her fault, coming here already spent, not taking the best tactical approach and blatantly strolling up to the camp so sure of herself. Arrogant, she’d been foolishly arrogant. If she hadn’t been so tired, she would have been sharper, and she wouldn’t be carried into a tent and laid on a cot.

“Mitch!” Hammond bellowed.

She took stock of her surroundings. She was in the second of the medium-sized tents, the one she hadn’t looked in the other night. There were two cots, an assortment of crates, two-way radio, boxes of cartridges and a case of chocolate bars. She couldn’t see beyond that; Hammond’s broad frame blocked her view. She struggled to sit up, but his beefy hands held her shoulders down.

“Mitch!” he bellowed again. A shadow loomed in the doorway.

“No machete. Couldn’t find it.”

“It wasn’t a machete. It was a big ass sword,” Hammond reminded him.

“Fine. No sword. I think you were imagining things. Too much whiskey last night? Dillon’s on the radio. He’s staying down in the mine. Says to patch her up if you can. He wants to talk to her. And if you can’t patch her up—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Drop her down the hole or feed her to the caimans.”

The image of the monstrous caiman from Annja’s dream swam through her memory.

“Listen, Mitch. Get that first aid kit, the big one, and find me...uh, the scope goggles. There’s some tweezers and razor blades. Bring me those, too.” Hammond looked at her. “I’d rather you just die and I dump you in the river. Some satisfaction in feeding caiman, but the boss says otherwise, for now.”

Mitch returned.

“You hold her.” Hammond patted her front pockets and looked inside. “Batteries? A crap load of batteries. What do you need those for?” He dumped them and pulled down her jeans. “Oh, that don’t look good. You’re watching me, right, Mitch? I’ll give this a go, but I’m thinking she’s caiman bait. Looks like you nicked her superficial femoral. She dies, I’m telling the boss on you.”

So he had some medical training to throw out a term like superficial femoral. Annja ground her teeth together as she felt him slice into her with a razor blade. Then he poked around with tweezers. It hurt worse than getting shot. He’d not done anything to first clean the wound.

“Tough cookie,” Mitch muttered under his breath. “She hasn’t hollered yet.”

Hammond fumbled for something in the first aid kit, all the while keeping pressure on her wound. Agony. Annja settled on that word. She was in agony. Then she felt a needle. He was suturing her vein, applying more pressure.

“It’s holding.” Hammond waited and then eased up on the pressure. “Had to do this outside of Kabul a couple of times.” Next he was stitching her up. “This could work. Might hold, might not.”

He poured something on her that stung. A few seconds later, he patted it dry and put a bandage on her, tugged her jeans back up. “I always cleaned the wounds there first, though. She might have some infection in there.” He stood. “Done. She probably ought to lie there awhile before we take her to Dillon. Don’t need to rip my stitches.”

“Should you give her something? You know, for pain?”

Annja saw Hammond’s smile. “Nah. I had a sergeant once who told me pain lets you know you’re still kicking. You sit with her. I’m going back on patrol. And I’m going to find me that damn sword. I’ll find it, and I’m going to keep it.”

Annja intended to wait for an opening, overpower her guard and confront Dillon. Instead, she woke up some hours later when Mitch tugged her to her feet.

“Boss is taking a break. Says he wants to see you now.”

In a way, Annja was getting what she wanted—an audience with Arthur Dillon. She had hoped it would have been under different circumstances.