The Armada Legacy

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Rumi screamed and writhed on the bare patch of earth among the trees. Half blinded by the agony and the bright lights shining in his face he clutched his shattered, bloody kneecap with both hands.

The man who’d fired the shot stood over the young Indian, lining the pistol up to blow away the other kneecap on his boss’s command.

‘That may refresh his memory,’ Serrato said. ‘Now ask him again.’

Raoul Bujanda was one of several of the hired guns who could speak Quechua. He kicked Rumi savagely in the stomach. ‘Where’s your village?’ he yelled. ‘Tell us, you filthy fucking savage.’

Rumi’s wide, desperate eyes locked on those of his daughter Chaska, in the strong grip of one of the men with a pistol to her head and his hand over her mouth. Her face was streaming with tears. Powerless to help her, he stared around him at the rest of the men standing on the river bank. There were so many of them. More were sitting in the strange boats bobbing on the water a few metres away. There was no possible chance of escape. Nobody was coming to save them.

Serrato opened his clenched fist. The gems of the necklace and bracelet that they’d taken from this Indian sparkled in the torchlight. ‘Tell him we only want the white woman who is being harboured by his tribe. If he helps us, he and his little girl can go free, and he has my word that none of his people will be harmed. But if he refuses, he’ll watch her die before he does.’

Rumi listened in stark horror as the grinning Bujanda translated. Chaska struggled and tried to scream, but the man holding her wouldn’t let her budge an inch.

‘Don’t hurt her,’ Rumi sobbed. ‘Please!’ There was only one thing he could do. ‘I’ll tell you how to get there. It’s not very far.’

‘You believe a lying Indian, boss?’ Vertíz asked Serrato.

‘I believe any father who wishes to protect his child,’ Serrato replied. ‘Get him to point out the exact location of the village on the map,’ he ordered Bujanda. ‘Then kill them both.’

A few minutes later, two shots rang out over the river. Rumi’s last scream was cut short. Serrato watched as the bodies were dumped in the bushes, then ordered his men back to their boats.

The long search was finally over. ‘Check your weapons,’ he commanded. ‘Full magazines. Whatever we find there, we kill.’

‘The woman too?’ Vertíz asked.

‘Her most especially,’ Serrato said. ‘But nobody touches her except me. Is that understood?’

The outboard motors revved. White foam churned from the propellers. The speedboats pulled away from the bank and took off in formation up the river.