“Well, aside from the fact I can tell… the only people who don’t count money from strangers are ones who are doing it for something other than the cash. And I don’t know what that something is. Do you?”
Another swallow, followed by a deep breath. Woodley looked over his shoulder at the driver, thoughts swimming behind his eyes. He dropped his gaze to the ground, his body stiffening, as if gathering resolve.
“I don’t know why anyone does anything, anymore,” he said. “So I sure as hell don’t know what motivates these guys.”
The drive through the jungle was only about five miles, but the indirect route carved out of the terrain made it seem closer to twenty. The road was more of a trail, the destination a location chosen for its remoteness and lack of accessibility. Branches and fronds draped themselves over the path, rubbery, leafy shapes swatting off the windscreen of the lead vehicle, the wilds of an untamed land trying to reclaim its own.
Far from the chopper, the sound of the vehicles was not enough to drown out the fluty call of birds, the piercing ululations of… what? Monkeys? Hatcher couldn’t be sure. He just knew that at each tight curve, as the engines slowed to idle, the hue of wildlife was like a background track. Whistles and whoops and trills.
The lead vehicle pulled to a stop where the path took a sharp turn. The other vehicle stopped behind it.
“This is as far as I can take everyone but two of you. I will show you the camp. But your men will have to stay back. I do not want to get caught in the middle of a firefight.”
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“Mbuyi.”
“No offense, Mbuyi, but this sounds an awful lot like a trap.”
The man shrugged. “One of me, two of you. I will take you to where I can show you the path to the camp. But no farther. I have one pistol. You have automatic weapons.” He shifted his gaze to Woodley, looking him up and down with what seemed to Hatcher like a palpable disdain. He wondered if it was the blond hair. “I am in no position to control what happens after that. I will do exactly as was agreed.”
“How far is it?” Hatcher asked.
“Half a kilometer, perhaps.”
Woodley looked at Hatcher. “Your call. We can tell the rest of the team to be ready for a rapid response.”
Nothing to like about it, but they needed eyes on the camp to decide the specifics. That was always the weakest part of the plan, which was saying a lot. But they hadn’t given him much of a say in the matter. They hadn’t given him much of a say in anything.
“Do it. But get us back here in thirty.”
Woodley signaled to the others to stand ready in place, threw up three fingers then a circled palm, fingertip touching thumb. This had been part of the brief. If they weren’t back at thirty-one minutes, the team was to treat every non-team member as a hostile.
Mbuyi tossed a wave over his head to his associates and started driving again. The path was narrower now, used infrequently, barely two ruts through the trees, whose branches clawed at the windshield and scraped the metal above their heads.
After maybe three or four hundred yards, Mbuyi braked and put the vehicle into park. He stepped out and gestured to Woodley, pointing into the back. Woodley looked down, then handed him a machete that was on the floor. Mbuyi dipped his head toward the heavy brush past him.
“This way. One hundred meters or thereabouts. There is a clearing.”
The machete hissed and thwacked its way through branches and stems and vines, fans of green, nets of hairy ropes. The route Mbuyi forged had been cut before and the jungle had all but reclaimed it, leaving Hatcher to wonder if that sort of reclaiming had taken weeks, or only days. The going was slow but steady, within a few minutes, the growth became less dense. An area opened; a small spread of field. It was littered with the skeletal remains of animals. At least, Hatcher hoped they were all animals. Ribs and spines and giant drumsticks. Straight ones, curved ones, broken ones; jagged and smooth and bleached and yellowing. Large and small.
A light breeze puffed their faces. The stench it carried was unbearable.
“This place is called the Garden of Bones. You will find such gardens throughout the nearby valley. And the areas that surround it.”
Hatcher glanced at Woodley, tightened his grip on his M4, raising it slightly. Woodley wrinkled his nose and hitched a shoulder, frowning with one side of his mouth.
“Why are we in the ‘Garden of Bones,’ Mbuyi? Where’s the camp?”
“I’m afraid you will find out soon enough.”
Movement along the far treeline. Hatcher dropped to one knee and raised his rifle to a ready-fire position.
“Hostiles. Woodley, cover left.”
“Unfortunately,” Woodley said. “I’m too busy covering you.”
Hatcher turned his head. The barrel of Woodley’s rifle was pointed straight at him. Its bearer was staring down the sight, weapon securely in firing position.
Six men emerged from the brush. Most had AKs. One had an Uzi. All were pointed with varying degrees of apparent know-how in his direction. No uniforms, just jeans and sweats and t-shirts and a few caps. A woman was with them. Her wrists were pulled behind her and a dirty pillow case covered her head. Her bare arms were pale beneath smears of grime.
Hatcher eased the grip on his rifle, letting it sag in his arms. “I don’t even have any live rounds, do I?”
Woodley gave his head a shake. “Dummies. Had to make sure the weight and balance was just right. Knew you’d check.”
The approaching men drew closer, their steps slow and cautious. Hatcher set his rifle down and stood.
“So, what’s the play? Me for the girl?”
“That’s the general idea.”
Hatcher looked at Mbuyi, then back to Woodley. “What could possibly make me so valuable?”
“You’ll have to ask them,” Woodley said. “I’m sorry about this, Hatcher. I really am.”
“I bet.”
“Believe what you want, but it’s true. They had me by the short hairs. Worse than you, a lot worse. I’m just following orders. Nothing personal, man. It’s all part of the plan. Remember how you kept saying, trust in the plan?”
Hatcher never remembered saying any such thing, but saw no use in arguing. One of the men eyed Hatcher as he addressed Mbuyi. Whatever he said was in a tongue Hatcher couldn’t identify, let alone understand.
“He says he thought you would be bigger.”
“I’ve never had any complaints.”
Mbuyi paused, considering the words. Then his mouth spread into a toothy grin. He said something to the other man, who laughed. The man gestured in the direction of the woman, and one of the others grabbed her above the elbow and led her to Woodley. She stumbled along, almost losing her footing as her head darted. Hatcher guessed her mouth had a gag in it and her ears were plugged, since she seemed to have no idea what was going on around her.
Woodley took the woman’s arm, a bit more gently than the guy handing her off, and started to lead her back in the direction they’d come. He stopped after a few steps, guiding her past him, and looked back at Hatcher.
“For what it’s worth, they would have killed her. Doing it this way not only saved her, but prevented any other potential casualties on the team. Like I said, all part of the plan. And it sort of makes you a hero.”
“In that case,” Hatcher said as two of the men neared, weapons raised and shoving toward him while another produced a pair of handcuffs. “What does that make you?”
Woodley raised his brows high, gave a tilt of his head. “Underestimated.”
He winked before taking a step back.
One of the men took Hatcher’s helmet while another patted him down and removed the tactical knife from its sheath. Woodley took the helmet and yanked the microphone off. He pulled out some of the internal wiring near the earpiece and threw it into the nearby brush, then tossed the helmet back near Woodley’s feet. The woman flinched when he took her by the arm again.