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.
Twenty minutes later the cloudburst let up, slowing to a steady drizzle, and he forced himself out into the rain to begin his daily routine. Spencer was already breaking down his tent, and Drake did the same, water streaming off his hat brim. They worked in silence, and then Jack and Allie emerged from their tent. Jack began collapsing it as Allie went off for some needed morning privacy.
“So what’s the drill?” Drake asked as he folded the support rods.
“Rain or shine, we need to make twelve miles a day if we’re going to get there within three days,” Jack said. “That means we start hiking early, and try to get most of it done by 1:00. Better to spend the hottest part of the day resting than trying to slog through when it’s blistering out.”
Spencer nodded. “He’s right. By noon, it’ll feel like we’re being boiled alive. So up by daybreak, and go hard till it’s too hot to keep moving.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Drake said as he knelt and carefully rolled up his tent.
Allie returned, looking uncomfortable and wet, but she gave no indication she was anything but game to go. They were loaded up in five minutes, and as the rain continued to fall, they entered the rainforest, Spencer in the lead with a machete in hand, the first rays of light providing just enough illumination to see.
The first hour was miserable, but as the storm blew past and the sun came out in force, the second and third were worse. Steam drifted from the wet canopy, and the area they trudged through became a muggy sauna, every breath like inhaling soup. Spencer led them at a moderate pace, obviously used to the conditions, Allie and Drake following him carrying their rifles, Jack bringing up the rear. Spencer warned that they were now in a no-man’s land where the drug traffickers operated with impunity, a law unto their own, so the Kalashnikovs were their only option if they came into a conflict situation.
Jack echoed the sentiment in a hushed voice. “This ain’t Kansas anymore. If we see anyone, the best option is to go undiscovered, because whoever we come across in here is likely to be hostile. If someone’s in this jungle, they’re probably here for a reason, and it’s not to make new friends. Don’t shoot first, but if Spencer or I do, be ready to follow suit.”