Mbuyi started to follow Woodley and the woman, then stopped to look at Hatcher. Woodley paused at the mouth of the trail, an impatient set to his stance.
“It is not betrayal if you free an innocent woman. I was having second thoughts until you told me that.”
Hatcher held the man’s gaze. “In that case, just make sure she actually gets out.”
The words seemed to catch him off guard. The man pinched his lips tight and dipped his head. “The joy of life is to be continually surprised. That is also its burden.”
The muzzle of a rifle poked Hatcher in the rib, hard enough to make him wince. The leader made a gesture, and his captors started moving. One of them shoved him hard enough to make him stumble.
Mbuyi remained where he was, watching. Hatcher looked back over his shoulder as he crossed through the array of bones, the serpentine weave of vertebrates, the curled fingers of ribs. Mbuyi nodded to Hatcher one final time, then turned and walked away. Woodley guided the woman between the trees, Mbuyi a few steps behind. Within seconds, the jungle had swallowed all three of them.
The camp was a collection of huts. Some thatch weaves over cobbled scrap wood, some sheets of corrugated tin nailed to trees. In the middle of the camp was a shot-up armored vehicle without any wheels, collapsed on one side, like it had been driven across an IED and then abandoned where it lay.
They sat Hatcher on a stump at the mangled rear end of the vehicle and ran a dense chain between his arms behind his back, over the links between his wrists, and passed the shackle of a heavy duty padlock through both ends where they sandwiched a large metal loop. The loop was connected to the frame of the vehicle, welded solid.
One of the men tugged on the chain, testing it. Two others stood nearby and nodded their approval.
“Do any of you speak English?”
The three men stared at him, glancing occasionally at each other.
“I speak English.”
The voice came from behind one of the men, who stepped aside and looked back. The man it belonged to was seated in front of one of the huts, fashioning something out of a piece of wood with a small knife.
“Mind telling me what you guys want with me?”
“We do not want anything with you.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Kongamoto.”
The men near Hatcher seemed to grow uneasy at the sound of the word. Their eyes darted, casting nervous glances from one to the other.
“What the hell is a Kongamoto?”
The man in the knit cap who had seemed to be their leader when talking to Mbuyi — Hatcher hadn’t caught his name — barked out a few angry words, slashing a hand through the air for emphasis. The man with the knife sat up straight and kept his eyes down, returning his attention to whittling. The other two hurried away in opposite directions, chastened.
Knit Cap stopped in front of Hatcher, ran his eyes in an arc from one end of his body to the other and back. He was wearing an open military-style green blouse with the sleeves cut off over a faded yellow t-shirt with a worn out soft drink logo on it. His rifle was slung over his shoulder and he was holding a walkie-talkie in one hand. He raised it to his mouth and spoke words Hatcher couldn’t understand. It squawked, a crackly voice responding in ways equally unintelligible. Then he walked away.
Hatcher kept his eyes on the whittling guy. The man seemed to be forcing himself not to look, which was good. Slowly, Hatcher worked his fingers into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. He scissored his index and middle finger around a three-inch rod, fishing it out. It was titanium, with a tooth on one end and the other, sheathed end sharpened to an edge you could shave with. Slow, slow, slow. Careful not to move his upper arm or shoulder, working entirely with his forearm, fingers and wrist. The small tube slid up and over the lip of his belt and dropped, landing in the curl of his fingers.
He squeezed his fingers closed as he heard the sound of a car or truck, something with a big engine, rumbling closer until it stopped somewhere to his rear. The motor cut off, a door opened and shut. Voices. Footfalls.
Knit Cap strode into view, rifle across his chest, stock cradled in the crook of his arm. Another person joined him. A woman.
She was tall, as tall as her escort. Her skin was dark and smooth, a sheen to it that gave it an onyx glow. Her lips were full and pouty. Her kinky hair was teased out and pulled back on each side with a clip, a frizzy puff in the back. She wore an unbuttoned tan shirt over a stretchy white tank top, with khaki safari pants.
Even if she hadn’t been physically attractive to the point of it seeming absurd, Hatcher would have known by the way her presence made him anxious, that tingly, aroused feeling that her scent caused. She was a Carnate. No doubt about it. A physically perfect half-human, half-demon woman with sexual charms that were all but irresistible. They lived for seven generations and never seemed to age. All they lacked were souls.
“Jake Hatcher,” the woman said.
“Small world,” Hatcher said. “That’s my name, too.”
“That famous wit. I am Aleena. You know, some of my sisters in America have talked so much about you, I feel like I’ve known you for years.”
She spoke with a lilt, her voice polished and smooth. There was an accent, but he had no idea what kind.
“In that case, how about you let me go. Just this once. For old time’s sake.”
“Alas, that I cannot do. My most sincere apologies. I went through a lot of trouble to get you here.”
“And why would you go and do a thing like that?”
“I’m afraid that is a bit too complicated to explain at the moment. My friends here have been vexed by an entity you are well acquainted with. Or shall we say, is well acquainted with you. They have been desperately seeking a way to, shall we say, get him off their backs and to stop interfering with their lucrative business interests. They have sought out the aid of every sorcerer within a thousand miles, created a demand for the body parts of people unfortunate enough to have been born albino in a part of the world where such a condition is believed to carry mystical properties.”
“And how do I fit in to all this?”
“Oh, don’t you worry, Mr Hatcher. You will find out soon enough. Tonight, in fact.”
Hatcher shook his head, frowning. “Ooh, tonight… you know, that just doesn’t work for me. Maybe we can reschedule?”
“I have heard the stories, been told how charming others have found you. Your manly directness, your facetious banter in the face of perils sure to break the composure of those with lesser mettle. Mostly, they seem amused by your belief you can talk your way out of things, when we both know that has never happened.”
“There’s always a first time.”
“Yes. This will be one of those. Just not for that.”
She dipped her head to Knit Cap guy, then turned to walk away.
“What happens tonight?” Hatcher called after her. “So I know what to wear, what to bring. Not going to make me buy two bottles of wine, just to be safe, are you?”
Aleena pivoted on the heel of her boot, turning herself just enough to look back at him. Her lips spread to show a set of perfect white teeth.
“Red, Mr Hatcher. The color for tonight is most definitely red.”
Hatcher spent the next few hours evaluating his situation. He could unlock his cuffs — courtesy not only of the escape rod resting in the fold of his curled fingers, but also the failure of his captors in not turning his hands palms out before cuffing him. But what good would that do? It was broad daylight, miles into jungle terrain, which was the worst of all worlds. His absence would draw immediate attention, which told him these guys were smart for putting him in the middle of the camp instead of stuffing him into some hut. And even if he found an opportunity, some distraction or diversion, he’d need a firearm. Accomplishing that would draw its own attention. If they had any lying around, waiting to be grabbed, he hadn’t noticed.