This was where Chao’s gift really shined. Most executioners would at least suffer from a nervous trembling in their hands, but Chao felt nothing at all as he approached the nearest of his men. A sergeant who had served him well. A man of intense loyalty, both to Chao and to the Motherland. Young, idealistic, and the father of two young children.
He never saw Chao, who quietly walked up behind him, raised his gun, and pulled the trigger.
Seventeen more.
53
DeeAnn gripped the cages tight with her fingers, trying to keep them steady as the truck threw her from side to side. The road was little more than a worn path through the grass, with mounds and dips large enough even for her to see from the back.
“Hurry!” screamed Alves. He was sitting behind the driver, clutching the back of the seat. In the front passenger seat, Blanco sat gripping the overhead handle, trying to withstand the wild motion of the vehicle.
The driver had the pedal mashed to the floor, hitting every obstacle in the road at almost full speed. He was wrestling the steering wheel at the same time, trying to keep them from sliding down the embankment on Blanco’s side.
DeeAnn tried unsuccessfully to keep the cages from thrashing against the interior sides of the truck. The shaking was too hard. She, along with Dulce and Dexter, were all thrown back and forth together. Dexter’s shrieking had been replaced with a deep, guttural moaning, even as he crashed back and forth against the sides of his cage. Dulce was eerily silent. She was sopping wet and her eyes filled with fear.
DeeAnn couldn’t help but think that if the fire site really was their destination, then Alves may not need any of them at all anymore.
Suddenly the driver slammed on his brakes, causing everyone to tumble forward. The road had disappeared. He peered intently through the dirty windshield, searching.
“There, there!” yelled Blanco, pointing to the right. It was overgrown with wild grass but remained barely visible.
The driver drove forward slowly, cranking the wheel hard to the right. He inched the front tires up and over a group of small boulders before getting the truck back onto the path. From there, he slowed and climbed carefully.
As they passed a clearing, DeeAnn caught a glimpse up the mountain from the side window.
Dear god, she thought. We’re not even close!
On the other side of the same mountain, Chao was descending as rapidly as he could. With an empty truck and much better road, he was well past the halfway mark before DeeAnn’s group even laid eyes on the summit.
He turned through a tight corner then pressed hard on the gas pedal, opening it up before having to brake hard again for the next turn.
Eventually, Chao broke out from beneath the canopy of trees and could see the glimmering ocean far in the distance. He quickly followed the river and glanced the dull gray ship waiting patiently at the dock.
Chao couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face. He’d made it and without any serious problems. A few of his men had turned around in time to see the gun, but it was too late. It was over. Everything had gone his way, and now they were shipping out. And in three short months, he would be wealthy beyond his wildest imagination.
The last hour was the easiest. The road was smoother and the hills at the base of the mountain provided a gentler decline. Chao gripped the wheel and pushed the accelerator down further.
Finally, he was close enough to see the crewmembers from his ship moving on the dock, waiting to cast off the gigantic lines holding the corvette in place.
Chao instinctively looked down and noticed the condition of his light gray jacket. He cursed and slowed the Typhoon. With one hand on the wheel, he snaked an arm out of the jacket, then switched and pulled the other arm free. He grabbed the garment and held it up before throwing it out the window. He returned both hands to the steering wheel and sped up again.
Better to arrive out of dress than in a jacket with blood spatter all over it.
54
A morning fog had settled further down the canyon, far beneath the camp. The extra moisture helped blanket some of the sound, but it also gave the large Brazilian helicopter an ominous image as it rose up, out of the mist.
As they breached the top into a clear blue morning sky, both helicopter pilots looked up through their windshield with wonder. There appeared to be an enormous fire at the top of the mountain, which was very rare given how green the area was.
They cleared the next plateau and spotted the small poachers’ camp. It appeared to be little more than a few shanty structures with old vehicles and no one visible on the ground. The one thing out of place was an enormous, multi-million dollar, white AgustaWestland helicopter resting idly in a nearby clearing. The copilot beckoned Caesare forward to the cockpit and pointed to the craft.
Caesare nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. He made a “down” signal with his fingers and rushed back to the fuselage to prepare the drop line.
The pilots came in low, circling the camp to look for an ideal spot. Behind them, the left side door slid open and Caesare stepped forward, wearing the thick nylon harness with the rope snaked through the rappel ring. Over one shoulder hung his M4 assault rifle.
He clung to the large steel handles on either side of the door as the chopper came around the south side and began to slow.
The aircraft finally stopped circling and fell another ten feet into a hover. The powerful force from the overhead blades flattened a giant circle of tall grass beneath them. Seeing no one below, Caesare dropped his black bag out and gave Lucas and his friend a friendly salute.
But just as he turned back toward the door, it happened. Alves’ two pilots burst from one of the structures carrying rifles. In a flash, they aimed at the chopper and opened fire.
Caesare jumped as bullets ricocheted off the thick armor around the door and the left side landing gear on which he was standing. He immediately fell back inside the protection of the fuselage when the pilots instinctively pitched hard away from the shooters.
“Get down! Get down!” Caesare yelled over the beating rotors. He lunged and grabbed the handle on the nearest seat while the airman next to him hit the floor. Lucas and his friend followed.
The chopper leaned hard and sped toward the edge of the plateau, where it disappeared.
In the cockpit, the pilots were yelling backward over their shoulders in Portuguese. Caesare didn’t know what the words meant, but he understood the general meaning: get the hell out! He quickly pulled himself back up into a sitting position by the door and searched himself for injuries. Nothing. Just a rip in the side of his pants. He was lucky.
The pilots continued downhill, dropping below a nearby tree line before leveling out again. The airman slapped Caesare on the back just before the Navy SEAL gripped the line and pushed out into the open.
The rope unraveled quickly, causing Caesare to drop faster than normal. Too fast. He hit the ground hard with his boots at an angle, pitching out and slamming sideways into the dried dirt.
Caesare groaned and immediately dropped his gun. Wasting no time, he rolled onto his back and began unclasping the harness. Within seconds, he was out. He threw it away from him and waved up at the helicopter. The line instantly rose back into the air as the helicopter pitched once more, heading further downhill and disappearing again into the fog.
He was on his own. Caesare sat up, probed his rib cage, and winced when he pressed on his bottom rib. It was cracked. Lucky again.
He twisted around, looking through the trees and back up the hill. He got down low and waited for a few minutes, but didn’t see anyone coming down. He quietly re-slung the M4. If those two were any good, they would be expecting him to round the base of the hill and come up from behind. And if they were ready for that, then they might be ready for him to come straight up instead. Or better yet, from one of their flanks, where the terrain was easier.