Ramsey's Gold

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.”

“Wouldn’t that bring consequences? I mean, if we killed someone?” Allie asked.

A corner of Spencer’s mouth pulled upward in a smirk. “Out here, it’s survival of the fittest. There’s nobody to help and nobody to tell. Forget everything you know about civilization. We’re on our own. What’s that saying? What happens in the Amazon, stays in the Amazon…”

“So we shoot people, nothing happens,” she said.

“Well, hopefully they die. Either that, or you do. Other than that, no, nothing happens.”

Drake had begun to notice that Allie was friendlier to Spencer than to him, which had quickly gotten under his skin. Even in the middle of the jungle, it wasn’t lost on Drake that she had curves in all the right places, as he admired the fit of her cargo pants beneath her backpack. Whatever he’d done to distance her had worked, because she was almost flirtatious with Spencer, who seemed not to notice, whereas whenever she’d addressed Drake it was no-nonsense, with all the warmth of a fast-food drive-through window attendant.

A screeching echoed through the trees, and Spencer slowed, pointing overhead.

“Howler monkeys. They’re usually quiet during the day, but in the early mornings and evenings, they’ll make a lot of noise. They live in large groups. Harmless but annoying.”

“I don’t see anything,” Allie said, shielding her eyes with her hand. “Ooh, no, wait, now I do. Up there. Fast, aren’t they?”

“Yes. They’re a good early alarm system. If we hear them during the day, it could be because they’ve spotted someone moving through the bush. Just as anyone listening now knows we’re here.”

“Double-edged sword, then,” Drake observed.

“Everything is, here.”

They resumed their pace, making decent time along a game trail. Their boots were nearly soundless against the wet ground, which was covered with leaves. At nine they took a break by a tiny stream. Allie ventured off to refresh herself as they sat in the shade of a towering tree, soaked with perspiration, drinking greedily from their canteens.

“How often are you in these parts?” Drake asked quietly, now accustomed to speaking in a murmur.

Spencer closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “Often enough.”

“When was the last time?” Drake persisted.

“About a month ago.”

Spencer wasn’t more forthcoming, so they settled into an uneasy silence, the only sounds around them an occasional bird call or the crackling in the canopy of an unseen animal flitting from branch to branch.

Allie’s scream shattered the calm, and Jack was instantly on his feet, weapon at the ready. Drake leapt up, as did Spencer, and they moved into the underbrush in the direction she’d gone. Drake almost ran into Jack’s back as he came to an abrupt stop, his arm out to the side to keep them from moving forward. Spencer stood next to him and, after assessing the situation, began speaking to Allie in a low voice.

“Calm down. Stop struggling. It’s quicksand. Any movement will only make it worse.” Spencer shrugged off his backpack and retrieved from it a tightly coiled roll of black nylon rope. He turned to Jack and Drake and whispered, “If she can get her legs and arms separated and concentrates on leaning back, she’ll eventually float to the surface, but that could take all day, and she doesn’t look like she’s calm enough to do it. It’s doubtful that she’ll completely submerge, but we need to slide her out before she makes it any worse.”

Allie had sunk in viscous sludge up to her armpits, a look of terror on her face. Her backpack lay near the spot where she’d slipped when she’d hit the edge of the patch.

Jack removed his pack and set his weapon against it, and spoke in even, measured tones. “Honey, he’s right. Take it easy. We’ll get you out. But don’t struggle. Save your strength, and if you want to try to help, shake your legs just a little. That should free them slowly, and you should start to float to the surface.”

Spencer held up the rope. “I’m going to toss this to you, okay? Grab it, and we’ll pull you out. If I don’t get it within reach, don’t panic or try to get to it. I’ll just throw it again, all right?” He didn’t wait for Allie to answer and, after taking a quick look at her position fifteen feet away, tossed the wound-up line toward her, using the bundle’s weight to carry it through the air.

It landed about three feet from her right arm, and she slowly moved her hand toward it, but was a foot short. She tried to stretch to grab it, but it was no good. In the process of trying, she sank another six inches, the ooze now almost covering her shoulders. She let out a low moan as Spencer hurriedly wound the rope back toward him.

Drake removed his backpack and dropped his gun on the ground. “Give me one end of the rope. I’m going in after her. She’s not going to make it,” he said, and before Spencer could protest, he grabbed the free end of the cord and skirted the edge of the quicksand as Spencer played out line.

When he slipped at the edge and slid into the muck, he almost dropped the lifeline, but he reacted quickly and latched onto it. Spencer and Jack pulled on the rope and he managed to get clear. He continued along the rim until he was near where she’d gone in. The sludge was now up to Allie’s neck — an ominous progression.

“Let out about five feet of line,” Drake instructed, and as they did, he tied the rope to his belt, freeing up his arms. With a final glance at Allie, he backed up and took a running jump. When he hit the surface, Allie’s head went under, and he groped where she’d disappeared. He felt an arm and latched onto it, and then yelled to Jack and Spencer. “I’ve got her.”

The two men immediately pulled, and Drake slowly edged through the goop to the firmer edge of the sinkhole, trying to get Allie to the surface, but failing due to the resistance of the wet muck. As he felt his back move against the harder ground, he took a deep breath and heaved with all his might, the veins in his neck and forehead bulging from the effort. Slowly, Allie rose to the top, and then her arms were around him and she was gasping, covered with sludge, her eyes clamped shut as she spit out clumps of quicksand. Spencer wrapped the end of the rope around his waist twice, faced away from them, and began plodding like a plow horse. Jack also pulled on the line with all his might, and Drake and Allie slid out of the treacherous mire onto firmer soil.

“All right. We’re clear,” he called out, and Jack moved along the perimeter of the swampy section to where they both lay covered in muck. He knelt down and lifted Allie to her feet and, after hugging her, held her away from him as she wiped wet ooze from her eyes.

“That was close. I thought we discussed quicksand back in town,” he said quietly.

She nodded. “I know. I didn’t see it. I…maybe I wasn’t paying close enough attention.”

Drake got to his feet, doing his best to shake off the clinging slag. Allie turned to him and hugged him as well, pressing her full breasts against his chest.

“Thank you,” she said simply, and he nodded, figuring words weren’t necessary.

Back at the stream, Allie and Drake used one of the cooking pots to scoop water and clean themselves as best as they could while Spencer and Jack stood watch, alert for anyone their commotion might have attracted. The rainforest’s customary tranquility had descended again, a deathly stillness in the damp air, not even the monkeys making noise. They hurriedly finished with their field showers and pushed their way farther into the brush five minutes later, keenly aware that they’d made far too much noise and anxious to put as much distance between themselves and the site of the near-disaster as possible.

Another rainstorm hit an hour later, and for once both Drake and Allie welcomed the steady stream of water, which rinsed them as clean as if they’d gone for a swim.

By Drake’s reckoning, they were nearing their target point for the day’s camp when Spencer held a hand up in warning and slowed, head cocked to the side and listening intently. Everyone froze, ears straining for whatever he’d heard. The only thing Drake registered was the incessant patter of raindrops on the surrounding leaves. After a few moments, Spencer backed up as he slipped his machete into its belt sheath and freed his rifle. He leaned toward them, eyes locked on the trail.

“I heard voices up ahead. We need to get off the track. Follow me. Hopefully the water will erase our footprints by the time they get here,” he whispered. He cast his eyes around, selected a sparsely vegetated area to their right, and moved through it into the denser underbrush beyond.

They pushed past tangled vines and stepped over fallen trees until they were fifty yards from the track. Spencer made a curt hand gesture and knelt by a rotting log, his weapon pointed at the trail, which was no longer visible through the thick foliage. They spread out, guns in hand, and lay next to any cover they could find.

Stillness enveloped the jungle, the rain splattering on the surrounding leaves as the seemingly never-ending drizzle continued while they settled in to wait. One minute went by, and then another, and then they all heard the sound of several sets of boots on the trail. Spencer glanced to the side at Jack, who had positioned himself ten feet away, and held a finger to his lips. Drake nodded understanding and turned to where Allie lay next to him, repeating the gesture, but froze when he saw the look on her face — raw, unbridled fear. His eyes traveled down her body lying on a bed of wet leaves, until he saw the reason. A brightly colored snake was making its way for her, slithering along the forest floor, no more than two feet away; one of the deadliest creatures on the planet — the coral snake, whose neon coloring was nature’s warning of its lethal venom.

He shook his head in warning. “Don’t move. Not a muscle.”

Allie’s eyes flickered understanding, but the mask of panic on her face belied her apparent calm. The footsteps from the trail continued past their position as Drake watched the serpent make its way to her, and his stomach did a flip when she closed her eyes, her trembling barely perceptible. It reached her gun and paused, then wound toward her torso, three deadly feet of bright red, yellow, and black bands.

Drake stood in a crouch as the snake hesitated by Allie’s side and, after a couple of lightning flicks of its tongue, began moving down toward her legs. She gasped but remained still when it eased up her right thigh, apparently interested enough to want a closer examination of the life it sensed.

In a second Drake was at her side. Using the barrel of his AK, he flipped the toxic creature off her and through the air, where it landed harmlessly six feet away and slipped into the undergrowth. Allie’s exhalation was audible, and Drake again held his finger to his mouth, urging caution. She struggled to slow her breathing as the fright seeped from her eyes and, after squeezing them closed again for a moment, nodded and resumed her watch of the trees near the path.

Five minutes passed like an hour. Hearing nothing more, Spencer stood and signaled for them to follow him back to the trail. They took careful steps, now hyperalert to the hidden threats lurking beneath the carpet of brown leaves on the wet forest floor, Allie’s near miss fresh in all their minds. Once at the muddy track, Spencer leaned over and studied the fading imprints that were already disappearing as the rain washed them away.

“Looks like a half dozen, maybe more. Stay quiet and let’s move. I want to be far away from them as quickly as possible,” he murmured, and then hurried away in the direction they’d been headed, still with his rifle in hand instead of the machete. The group matched his pace, which he kept up for a half hour before slowing. The heat was now oppressive as the clouds drifted east and the rainfall eased and then stopped.

When he arrived at a brook engorged by the recent runoff, he paused. After scanning the area, he whispered to Jack, “How far have we come?”

Jack searched in his backpack for his handheld GPS and powered it on, squinting to read the small screen’s information. “This says thirteen miles. But we drifted south some. So really only about twelve in the direction we’re headed.”

“Close enough, I’d say. Let’s follow the stream until we’re well away from the trail and, at the first hospitable looking area, set up camp. I don’t like that we had company, so I want to get clear of it. Follow me.”

The brook was only five feet across and no more than three or four feet deep most of the way, but around the second bend it deepened to where they couldn’t see the bottom anymore. Spencer stopped and pointed at a flat area twenty yards away, under the dense growth suspended from the tops of the tall trees. “That looks good as any.”

They pitched their tents, exhausted from the first day’s exertions, and lay in the shade. The heat drained from them any desire to move. In spite of the swelter, Allie decided to spend the remainder of the afternoon in the tent — a reaction to coming within a hair of being killed by the coral snake; everyone understood.

Eventually the sun dropped behind the distant mountain peaks, and Drake took his fishing line and a few small shiny spoons to see if the brook held anything promising for dinner. Allie emerged from the tent several minutes later and wiped the sweat from her face before moving in the opposite direction along the stream, rifle in hand, eyes roving over the ground in front of her, now fully alert to the myriad menaces the jungle held.

Drake returned with three fish — each at least a couple of pounds. Spencer looked them over and grunted. “That’ll do. I’ll cook them on the stove. I don’t want to risk a wood fire drawing anyone to our position. Let’s wait until dark. Nobody’s going to be roving around the jungle at night well away from any trail — there are way too many threats. Jaguars and snakes being the least of them.”

After nightfall they feasted on Drake’s catch, silent except for the sound of their chewing, the day’s events having reinforced the need for stealth and the suddenness with which danger could savage them. Jack argued for a three-hour guard shift during the night, and nobody had any objections. He would take the first watch, Drake the second, Allie the third, and Spencer the final that would lead into dawn, each waking the next when their stint was over.

When they retired for the night, the rainforest pitch black around their position, it was with a new appreciation for the hardships they’d taken on in their quest for the Inca city. As Drake shifted in his tent, trying to get comfortable, he was sure that the others were equally restive, and resigned himself to a long night with little sleep as the jungle around them rustled and creaked with unimaginable dangers.

The afternoon was drawing to a close when the wooden skiff beached itself on the riverbank and the captain killed the engine. He rubbed his face and yawned, glad to be home after the long day on the water following an uncomfortable night sleeping in the boat with one eye open. He was disconnecting the scarred red metal fuel tank when he raised his head and saw three Caucasian men moving cautiously down the path that led to the river’s edge. The area was deserted, the other fishermen gone, and for a moment a tingle of apprehension ran up his spine.

Gus sized up the old boat with a seasoned eye and nodded to his two younger associates. One of them stepped forward and fixed the local with a hard stare.

“You took some passengers up the river?” he asked in Spanish colored with a slight American accent.

“Yes…” the captain answered truthfully, his expression puzzled.

“We need you to help us. We’re supposed to join up with them, but we were delayed.”

“I can take you where I dropped them off. For a price…”

“How soon can you be ready to leave?” the American asked.

“Tomorrow at first light.”

The younger man relayed the information to Gus, who frowned. “We’re going to be too far behind them. Find out where he left them, and we can see about getting a helicopter. Worst case you can take him up on it tomorrow, but I’d rather get a bird in the air this evening.” Gus stared at the darkening sky with a sinking feeling, knowing that the odds of being able to arrange for transportation for a team into the Amazon at night were less than slim.

The man took out a wad of bills and peeled several high-denomination notes from it, and then handed them to the captain. “Where exactly did you drop them off?”