Emerald Buddha

Chapter 26

Drake stirred as dawn broke over the clearing. He eyed the sky and noted sourly that it was gray with clouds, so he could expect to add rain to the list of indignities he was subjected to. He looked around for Uncle Pete, but didn’t see him, and debated calling out before rejecting the idea. Last thing he needed was to draw enemies to their location — the little Thai was probably performing his morning ablutions.

He scratched the mosquito bites he’d acquired overnight and tried not to think about the illnesses that were endemic to the area. Malaria, yellow fever, dengue fever, and a host of other nightmare plagues lurked in the rivers and the parasites that swarmed the jungle, and with the way his luck was running, he’d come down with all of them concurrently.

Drake sat up and rubbed a tired hand over the stubble on his chin. He’d only gotten a few hours of sleep after his last watch; his imagination amplified every sound from the brush to be a portent of imminent doom. Eventually he’d drifted into a restive doze, replaying the seconds of the helicopter’s drop over and over, the grizzly image of Daeng’s head lolling at an obscene angle frozen in his mind’s eye.

Movement drew his gaze to a nearby clump of bushes, and he gasped when he spied an undulating length of a snake, easily five feet long. He leapt to his feet and moved away, and the Malayan pit viper’s menacing triangular head rose as its cold black eyes regarded him. The viper’s tongue darted out, and it began to coil. Drake stepped back, giving it as much of the ground as it wanted.

Drake was about to yell for Uncle Pete when the Thai’s head poked from around a tall fern.

“There’s a really big snake—” Drake began, but he stopped mid-sentence when he saw the expression on Uncle Pete’s face.

Uncle Pete took another step forward and Drake noticed his raised hands just as the barrel of a Kalashnikov appeared behind him. Drake stood rooted to the spot as Uncle Pete neared. “We got trouble,” the Thai said, and three more gunmen stepped into the clearing.

Drake slowly raised his hands before dropping his eyes to the snake, which appeared to have lost interest in him and slunk back into the underbrush.

The gunman in charge of the group snarled an order, and Uncle Pete responded in the same tongue. The man said something else and Uncle Pete nodded.

“He say we go with them.”

“Where?” Drake demanded.

“Where they want.”

“Are these the guys in the boat?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“We alive.”

“Ask them what they’re after. Why are they taking us?”

Uncle Pete shook his head. “No. Don’t want get shot.”

Drake had no rebuttal for that, so he resigned himself to a forced march. “I need to use the bathroom.”

Uncle Pete said something and the entire group exploded with laughter before the leader spat a few words. Uncle Pete translated. “He say make fast.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That farangs make dirty pants easy.”

“In this case, you may be closer than you think.”

After relieving himself under the watchful gaze of one of the gunmen, Drake and Uncle Pete formed a ragged column with the rest, the leader walking swiftly ahead and his henchmen following with guns at the ready. Thunder roared overhead and it began raining. The water was a lifesaver for Drake, who caught what he could with his mouth, his head held at an angle with his tongue out. The pace up the long slope was brutal. After two hours Drake was struggling to make it, and his legs were rubbery from heat and hunger. He staggered several times, and the leader finally called a halt. After a twenty-minute pause they continued their journey, the men unruffled by the distance or the conditions even as Drake pushed himself to the limits of his endurance.

Uncle Pete bore any discomfort he felt with typical stoic calm, outwardly unfazed by the grueling trek. Drake’s pallid complexion and shaky movement gave his effort away, and by the time they hit a particularly steep area, his stomach was churning with more than hunger. He thought of Allie lost in the wilds, and remorse slammed into him with hurricane force at convincing her to accompany him on what had become a suicide mission. His only hope was that Spencer’s survival instincts would enable them to elude any pursuers and make it out of the rain forest.

Of course, Uncle Pete’s ninja skills had proved less than effective, and now they were being herded like sheep to the slaughter. Drake tried speaking, but the gunmen shushed him. The leader’s dark glare when he looked over his shoulder gave Drake all the warning required.

It was almost noon when the jungle fell away and they emerged into a wide clearing, a scattering of indigenous huts forming a semicircle around a primitive well. Hill tribesmen with assault rifles watched from the shade as the war party filed toward the little village. The poverty was palpable, and even the children who’d stopped their play were as serious as executioners at the sight of Drake.

The lead gunman barked instructions to his men and then abruptly stopped and turned to Uncle Pete. He said something low and fast, which Uncle Pete answered.

“What? What did he say?” Drake whispered, his heart trip-hammering in his throat.

Uncle Pete coughed wetly and spit to the side. When he looked at Drake, his stare held all the warmth of ice.

“He say we meet chief. Say he powerful and—”

Uncle Pete’s translation was cut off by the gunman, who made a curt motion with his hand and patted his weapon. Uncle Pete shrugged and turned away, the tribesman’s message clear.

Drake’s apprehension grew with every step as they resumed marching along the central path, his worst fears now manifest in the cold gaze of a gunman who looked like he’d murder them without a second thought.