So he waited.
At least one question had been answered. This was the real point of the whole production all along, not that garbage they’d BSed him with. Get him to the federal building under the guise of an audit, have him met by Secret Service agents who led him to a sub-basement more secure than a Bond villain’s lair, then acquaint him with the velvet hammer. A guy named Keegan, someone high up in the Administration, but exactly how high, or exactly who he was, was never made clear. What was made clear was the offer. He could either cooperate, or face all manner of trumped-up tax problems, including civil forfeiture of every dime he had. Criminal prosecution was all but promised, and more than a few not-so-subtle hints were dropped that certain matters involving dead cops may be looked into again with a good deal more scrutiny. Or… he could take what’s behind door number two. Help rescue a young doctor doing volunteer work helping to stop the mutilation and occasional slaughter of albinos whose body parts were believed to be powerful objects for magic. A young woman who just happened to warrant all this attention because she was the Vice-President’s secret and illegitimate daughter, that last bit being more implied than stated, neither confirmed nor denied.
The more he thought about it, the stupider he felt. Why hadn’t he just told them to go fuck themselves, like his gut wanted him to? It wasn’t a real question, because he knew the answer, and had from the beginning. Amy. The threats weren’t just to him. They were more than willing to go after her, just to prove a point. And they’d clearly done enough homework for the threat to be credible.
Less than four days later, here he was.
Heat flowed through the camp like a current, like something that could be touched and scooped and bottled. Perspiration soaked through Hatcher’s clothes, drenching him with a salty, stinging slickness.
Men moved about slowly, finding shade, playing cards, cleaning their weapons. Hatcher could sense some tension, the buzz of anticipation, but the heat seemed to keep everyone subdued. He could tell they wanted to move, wanted to pace and burn off nervous energy, but they were forced to fidget instead, trying to keep cool.
People came and went. Everyone seemed to stop and look at him more than once. Some of the men from the Garden of Bones, some who were at the camp when he got there, others who arrived later. Most would stand directly in front of him with appraising eyes, some made comments to others Hatcher couldn’t understand, some tilted their heads one way or the other, quietly assessing him. A handful smiled. Most didn’t.
Around two in the afternoon, there was activity. A vehicle arrived, followed shortly by another. Knit Cap walked up, grunted some words to a few others. Two rushed over to Hatcher and unlocked the chain. One clamped a hand on his elbow and half pushed, half dragged him toward an old extended cab pickup truck. There was some sort of mechanical device in the back, taking up most of the bed. Hatcher couldn’t quite tell what it was for, but it had the familiar shape of a weapon and what looked like a grappling hook on the end, pointed like an arrowhead.
People were climbing into vehicles. One opened a rear door to the truck and Hatcher was shoved toward it, then prodded in with the barrel of an AK. The whittling guy slid in next to him and another jumped in the passenger seat up front. Knit Cap behind the wheel.
Hatcher was in the second vehicle in a four-car caravan. They drove through tapestries of tangled wilderness and stretches of simmering plains. They crossed a narrow river over white water rocks. They passed through a small village of tiny buildings with women in colorful garb and children practically naked. A few minutes later, they were in forest again. Jungle. Vegetation so dense it was like a wild wall, a collective beast that would swallow you whole. Leaving only a Garden of Bones.
“What is that contraption?” Hatcher said, gesturing to the rear with a twitch of his head. He figured asking where they were heading would be pointless.
“That is Chigi’s invention.” The man jutted a chin toward the driver, whose eyes caught Hatcher’s in the rearview mirror. “His father drowned when his truck was swept away crossing a river.”
Hatcher turned to look at it. Calling it an invention was a stretch, but it was definitely homemade. He could now tell it was a catapult. Crossbow design, compound, augmented with what looked like axle springs. He tried to imagine ways it could come in handy. Other than during a flashflood, or while teetering on a cliff, he couldn’t think of any.
“What’s Kongamoto?”
Whittling guy opened his mouth to speak, but then the brush thinned and Hatcher saw the first vehicle start to brake and finally stop. They were near the steep embankment of a sizable hill, visible beyond a layer of forest.
The guy in the passenger seat got out and opened Hatcher’s door. He tugged Hatcher’s arm, pulling him out and shoving him through a narrow gap in the growth toward the hill. Whittling guy followed, pointing his rifle, a contrite smile on his face.
The side of the hill was rocky, almost a cliff. Vines weaved down its face, fingers and hairs spreading out from ropey trunks to cling, finding purchase in cracks and protrusions. Hatcher expected to see a cave or tunnel entrance, something that would signal why he was being led this way, but the jagged wall of earth and stone looked solid.
He stopped a few feet from the hillside and turned to face the men behind him. Five rifles, all pointed at him, varying states of readiness. He scanned their faces. It seemed like a long way to drive just to have a firing squad.
Two of the men stepped aside to let Knit Cap walk through.
The man stopped a few feet away. His face was grim despite a grin that displayed a good amount of teeth. His rifle hung from a frayed sling around his neck and over one shoulder, the opposite arm holding it steady across his body. He raised the other hand and pointed toward the escarpment. When he spoke, Hatcher had no idea what he was saying.
Two impatient snaps of his fingers, and Whittling Guy hustled forward, followed by another in the group. Skinny, face slick with sweat. The other guy slung his AK over his shoulder and hurried to the wall, the two of them working together, pushing aside some of the vines, grabbing others. Whittling Guy yanked and ripped until he was able to separate the ones he wanted from some overgrowth. Hatcher saw that the vines he’d pulled free had been tied together to form a rope ladder, rungs fashioned out of cable and wire, scavenged material, secured by a variety of screws and nails and even twine, here and there.
More words Hatcher didn’t understand. Apparently sensing this, Knit Cap paused. He pointed a finger at Hatcher, then raised it toward the top of the precipice.
“Up.”
They expect me to climb. He looked at the one holding the vines. The guy gestured back and another joined him as he took hold of one of the makeshift rungs above his head, tugging it. Looked to Hatcher like someone about to start pulling himself up. Hatcher took a quiet breath, let it out halfway. There were two ways to play this. One was to keep going along. A climb meant parsing out their numbers, and that meant at the top he’d have an opportunity to improve his odds. The problem was, if they expected him to scale a steep wall, they were going to uncuff him. That meant however they handled it, however many they sent with him, before or after, they’d be more attentive, more cautious. Probably have rifles from the ground trained on him the whole way up. He’d lose most, if not all, of the element of surprise.