“Wave.”
“What if they have rifles?”
“They hunt.”
“Can I make a suggestion?”
“I’m all ears.”
“We should hug the riverbank, and if we see anyone coming toward us, we can beach the boat and get into the jungle.”
“I sort of like it here—out of blowgun range of the shore.”
“Scott, the Pemón have rifles, not blowguns, and Mercer’s people have rifles. We’re sitting ducks here.”
He reminded her, “No, we’re bird-watchers.”
“Forget the cover story. Think armed confrontation.”
“Okay… you make a good point.”
“I’ve made several.”
He steered the boat toward the right bank and got within ten feet of the shore. The water was shallower here, and there were banyan roots threading into the river, so he slowed the boat and kept an eye on the water. He saw some fish that he thought might be piranha. No skinny-dipping here.
It was also buggier here, and the heat was oppressive.
Taylor, who was sweating and swatting insects, reminded him, “We never got vaxed for yellow fever.”
“That’s the least of our problems.” He suggested, “If you want to cool off, you can go over the side and hang on.”
“You go first. I’ll steer.”
He smiled.
She looked at her watch. “Thirty minutes.”
“We’re halfway there.”
“Time for a reality check.”
“I think that time has come and gone.”
She didn’t reply, but took the sat phone and dialed. “I’m calling Collins.”
Brodie could hear the faint ringing of the sat phone. Or was that the mosquitoes?
She let it ring for a long time, then ended the call and shut the phone off. “Why is he not answering?”
Brodie did not reply.
They came to the sharp bend in the river, and as they rounded the curve Brodie saw that the river was starting to narrow, the opposing walls of trees closing in and the blue sky above hemmed in by the thickening jungle.
Brodie was getting thirsty, and he was sure Taylor was too, but she didn’t mention it. Also, his stomach was growling and his memory of that bowl of mush was getting better. Also left behind was Taylor’s tablet, on which was the stupid bird-watcher guide, which along with the binoculars and their bullshit was their cover story in case they ran into Pemón or Mercer’s men. Seemed like a good cover story back in Caracas. They’d sort of gone off half-cocked and run into the reality of the jungle, just as he’d run into the reality of the Iraqi desert. But they did have their Glocks and extra mags in their cargo pockets, and most importantly they had their wits, their nerve, and their experience in worse places than this.
He looked at Taylor, who was now flushed and covered with sweat. As long as she was still sweating, he didn’t have to worry that she was going into heatstroke. He looked at his watch. “Almost forty-five minutes.” He assured her, “We’ll turn around in another fifteen minutes. The return going downriver will be faster.”
She nodded.
