The Romanov Ransom

69

Sam didn’t like the look of the trail, even more so now that he’d had a better view of it. When he saw the trip wire up ahead, his suspicions were confirmed. Drug runner trail, if ever he saw one.

So much for this path, he thought, turning back. He hadn’t gone more than a few feet when he heard voices coming toward him. Men talking loud enough to be heard over the cacophony of insects and birds.

He drew his gun and stepped off the trail, ducking behind a broad-fronded fern. Finger on the trigger, he tried to hear what they were saying, their heavily accented English making it difficult to understand — until one voice stood out. And this one he recognized — Nando, their guide.

The first two men walked into view, followed by Nando, and then a third man, who seemed to relish shoving his gun into the guide’s back.

Sam listened, trying to find out what happened, and where Remi was.

His patience paid off when he heard Nando saying, “Where are you taking me?”

“Shut up,” the man at his back said.

“Just leave me here. I’m alone. One man against six. How can I possibly harm you?”

“By sending someone after us.” He shoved Nando, causing him to stumble forward. “Now, shut up before I change my mind and kill you where you stand.”

“Hold up,” the lead man said. “Wait for the others.”

A minute later, three more men came up from behind, each carrying a fully automatic rifle. Sam knew the moment he saw them, saw the way they covered the trail on either side as well as front and back, that they were highly trained. Had it not been for Nando’s warning — and Sam was sure he’d worked their number into the conversation as a warning — Sam might have tried to take out the first three before he realized there were more men. He might get off two decent shots, but they’d have little difficulty taking him out before he got off a third.

He’d be dead.

Parting the fronds slightly, he watched as they walked past. When they stopped to step over the trip wire, Sam caught sight of a tattoo on the forearm of the man bringing up the rear.

A wolf’s head.

What were the chances?

He waited for them to pass, listening until their footsteps and voices faded in the distance. Confident that no one else was on the trail, he stepped out, then made his way back to where he’d left Remi, grateful that there was no sign of any struggle or that she’d been harmed.

“Remi?” he whispered.

Nothing but the sound of the birds and insects filling the air around him.

“Remi?” he said a little louder.

A rustle to his right. And then the welcome sight of his auburn-haired wife as she emerged through a curtain of vines. “They have Nando,” she said, stepping into his arms.

“I saw.”

“I was right here, across from him, and he told them he was alone. We have to go after him.”

“We will,” he said. “Where’s your pack?”

“Over here,” she said, pushing back through the vines.

He followed her to the banyan tree where she’d left her gear.

“Drug runners?” she asked.

“Maybe. I saw a wolf’s head tattoo on the arm of one of the gunmen.”

“You’re kidding…” She looked over at him. “They can’t possibly be related to the group in Europe? I know Tatiana warned us, but—”

“Why not? Argentina’s known for being a safe haven for Nazis after the war. Why wouldn’t they have a branch of the Wolf Guard here, too?”

“You’re right,” she said, picking up her pack. “But first things first.”

“Get Nando out of there.”

Remi smiled, leaned over, and kissed him. “And that’s why I love you, Sam Fargo.”

The trip wires made Sam and Remi’s progress slower than Sam had anticipated, but he soon realized that they were marked with stones off to one side of the trail, allowing them to pick up speed. After a couple of hours, they heard raindrops hitting the treetops above them. “A good time for a break,” he said, pulling off his hat, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Let’s see if we can’t find somewhere to rest.”

They found a place far enough off the trail to avoid being seen and, they hoped, to stay dry. The rain added to the already thick humidity, and, within a few minutes, rivulets of water started running down the branches.

Remi, watching a tree frog make its way up a nearby tree trunk, wiped her sweat-soaked forehead with the scarf she’d tied in her hair. “What do you think they’ll do to him?”

Trying to stay positive, he didn’t tell her his worst fears. That he’d be tortured to find out what he was doing in an area he shouldn’t have been. “It’s a good sign they didn’t kill him right off.”

“You think they’ll hold him for ransom?”

“Hard to say.” The rain finally stopped. Sam held out his hand to her, pulling her to her feet. “Let’s get moving.”

Unfortunately, the edge of the trail wasn’t clear-cut and finding anything that resembled a footprint after the rain wasn’t going to be easy. The moist forest floor was layered with fallen leaves, creating a spongy surface that seemed to bounce back after each step. If the men veered from the path, he and Remi might miss it if they weren’t careful.

After another hour of walking, the trail ended at a clearing. There was a momentary silence in the jungle as they stepped into it. A monkey screamed at them from a nearby tree and scampered off, and suddenly it was back to normal, the constant chirping, clicking, ticking, and buzzing surrounding them like a white noise machine.

Sam slapped at a mosquito on his neck as he took a look around. “I don’t know about you, but dinner and a glass of wine right now would be nice.”

“How does hot water sound?” Remi asked, opening her canteen and taking a sip, before handing it to him.

“Not something I want to hear unless it’s followed up with the words long shower.”

“Sorry, Fargo. The closest we’re going to get is the tropical kind.”

“Let’s hope it’s done for the day.” He took a drink, eyeing the area around the clearing before returning the canteen. They walked a few feet farther, about to turn around, when he noticed where some animal had dug a shallow hole in the ground, the center still filled with water from that afternoon’s rain. There, in the mud at the very edge, was a partial footprint. He walked over, crouched down, taking a closer look.

“What is it?” Remi asked, coming up behind him.

“Someone’s been here since the rain.” He pointed at the print, before glancing in the direction of travel. “That way,” he said, nodding to their right. This trail was more obscured. Sam led, parting the thick leaves of a canna, holding them until Remi stepped through, blocking them with her arms. The late afternoon sun angled in through the canopy above, turning the steam rising up from the ground into a silver mist. The thick humidity trapped the cloying smell of decay as they trekked along, sweat dripping down their necks and sapping their strength. It was slow going, trying to follow the trail of broken leaves and vines. By the time the sun neared the horizon, plunging the jungle into a mass of noise-filled shadows, they had a hard time seeing any evidence that they were on the right path.

Just as Sam was about to suggest that they’d have to stop for the night, they pushed through the thick foliage, coming across a crumbling, vine-covered wall. Just visible, dead center on the bricks, the paint faded and peeling, a swastika — and above it, the skull and crossbones of the Wolf Guard.