Chapter 2
The skiff plied sluggishly through the water, its electric motor humming steadily. Reznikov lifted his right elbow onto the top edge of the aluminum hull and let his hand slide into the lukewarm water. The seemingly insignificant movement caused the overloaded boat to wobble, prompting him to pull his hand out of the river.
“Keep your damn hands in the boat,” Zuyev hissed.
Reznikov turned his head to respond, shifting his body at the same time, once again unbalancing the skiff. He froze in place, firmly gripping both sides. He’d never learned how to swim, and they’d left the project site too quickly to locate the lifejackets. Somehow, it had never occurred to any of his hosts to keep the jackets onboard the boat, the most logical location. That would have made too much sense for these idiots.
“Quit moving, or you’ll dump us all over the side,” Zuyev whispered forcefully.
Reznikov considered a retort, but let it go, instead bringing his hands into the boat to retrieve one of the flasks of vodka tucked into his safari vest. He took a secretive pull from the metal container, feeling his nerves steady as the blessed liquid warmed his stomach and worked its magic.
“Take one more drink and put that away,” said Zuyev. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of an escape.”
He’d noticed, all right. It was a little hard to ignore being pummeled out of a hangover-induced coma and dragged through the pitch-black jungle by two overmuscled goons. He still wasn’t sure what was going on. They’d dumped him into a boat and taken off into the darkness without an explanation. Twenty minutes later, nobody had spoken a word until now. Reznikov drained half of the flask with the next swig, holding it above his shoulder for Zuyev. Surprisingly, the mafiya boss took him up on the offer. Not a good sign at all.
“Things must be pretty bad,” whispered Reznikov.
“Things could be better,” Zuyev replied, handing the flask back empty.
Reznikov briefly considered the second flask, letting the thought go. There was no telling how long he might have to stretch his limited vodka supply out here. Plus, Zuyev would likely knock it out of his hand into the river. The skiff continued its slow, steady voyage along the riverbank, staying under the thick tree canopy that hung over the water. Bits and pieces of the clear night sky peeked through the foliage, occasionally exposing the brief flicker of a star or two.
A few minutes later, he felt the skiff ease into a turn. The pleasant breeze created by the boat’s forward motion died quickly. His face started to bead with perspiration within seconds. He hoped a vehicle with functional air-conditioning awaited them. The prospect of sitting crammed between these sweaty beasts in the backseat of a sweltering car terrified him. Of course, he was assuming they were headed to a vehicle. For all he knew, they planned on hiking to safety. He really hoped that wasn’t the case. It was bad enough sitting still in the sweltering heat. Trudging through a rainforest was another matter altogether. Zuyev whispered something Reznikov couldn’t decipher into his headset.
“Are we there?” said Reznikov.
“Shhhh.” A hand gently gripped his shoulder. “Listen.”
Reznikov kept still. A deep rumble rose above the chirps and squeaks, drowning out the jungle’s ambient noise. He didn’t recognize the sound at first until the steady rumble morphed into the distinct, rhythmic thump of helicopter blades. The skiff’s aluminum hull scraped against the soft bottom of the river, gently stopping the boat.
Helicopters thundered overhead, their powerful rotor wash shaking the tree canopy with a gale-force wind that dislodged the skiff from the riverbed. The violent disturbance ended as quickly as it started, leaving them adrift and showered with falling leaves. The high-pitched whine of the helicopters’ engines rapidly faded, replaced by the outbound thump of the rotor blades. He never saw the machines, but knew intuitively that they were headed upriver toward the laboratory. And when they didn’t find what they were looking for, they’d be back.
“Why aren’t we moving?” said Reznikov.
“Keep quiet,” whispered Zuyev. “We’re making sure they don’t have anyone on the river.”
“Who exactly are we talking about?”
“Someone with military-grade helicopters at their disposal,” said Zuyev.
“And you somehow knew about this?” Reznikov asked.
“Someone knew about it. My orders were to get you out of there.”
“Where do we go from here?”
“We have two vehicles hidden further downriver. GPS indicates we’re about ten minutes away.”
A distant buzz penetrated the forest, echoing from the opposite side of the river. The buzz repeated, followed by the staccato sound of small-arms fire.
“Let’s go,” said Zuyev.
The skiff lurched forward, turning in a lazy circle to point in a direction Reznikov assumed was downriver. He honestly couldn’t tell for sure. It was a moonless night, and the dense jungle swallowed everything around them. Without night vision, which they had conveniently neglected to provide him, he was effectively blind and completely dependent on his hosts, no doubt by design.
A fierce battle raged a few miles behind them as they continued downriver. The trees on the opposite side of the river lit up once from a sizable explosion. The gunfire had started to slacken by the time he felt the boat slow again. He hoped they had finally arrived at the vehicles. The soldiers in the helicopters had to be moments away from discovering that he had recently escaped. Reznikov had zero doubt that he was the primary objective of the raid, and once they discovered he was missing, they would start scouring the area.
“We need to get off the river,” he said. “They probably spotted us with their thermal gear on the way in. They probably thought we were fishermen. I guarantee they won’t make that mistake again.”
“Take another drink and calm down,” replied Zuyev. “We’re almost there.”
He didn’t need another drink. He needed to get the fuck off this river before the helicopters returned. Ignoring Zuyev’s comment, he lowered his head, resting it against his knees for the rest of the short transit.
“We’re here,” stated Zuyev.
Reznikov raised his head as they glided silently under a low-hanging branch that scraped the top of his head. When the skiff stopped, the man seated on the raised bench in front of him swung his legs over the side and splashed down in the water, holding the skiff steady.
“Over the side, Anatoly,” said Zuyev, yanking him up by the back collar of his vest. “We don’t have any time to waste.”
Reznikov inched his way onto the empty bench behind him, careful not to fall overboard. Logically, he knew the water wasn’t deep, but his lack of swimming ability kept him from making any sudden moves. Without warning, Zuyev pulled him over the side, dropping him in the shallow water. A moment of panic struck when he hit the water, quickly dissolving when his rear side came to rest on the bottom of the river.
“Quit splashing around like a fucking baby. You’re in a foot of water,” Zuyev snapped, eliciting muffled laughter from the other two men.
Reznikov struggled to his feet, now soaked from top to bottom thanks to that ass, Zuyev. When all of this business was finished, he would kill Zuyev. The man had treated him like shit since the Bratva rescued him from the hands of his American captors. Two long years moving from one third world shithole to another, “staying off the radar,” as Zuyev was fond of saying.