She nodded, and they pulled the boat away from Mercer, then capsized it. Taylor cut the bow line and they pushed the boat into the river, walking it out until it got caught in the current.
Brodie watched it floating hull-up, downstream toward Mercer’s camp, then Kavak. There’s nothing like a capsized boat to signal that the passengers went overboard and are probably in the food chain. Also, for him and Taylor, getting rid of the boat was the equivalent of burning their bridges behind them.
But first, a cooling bath in the warm, muddy river. Brodie held his sat phone up and went under a few times while Taylor stood motionless in neck-deep water which they shared with the crocs, snakes, and piranha. There had to be a better way to make a living.
They waded back to shore, and Brodie now noticed the croc tail tracks in the mud.
Taylor retrieved Mercer’s shorts, which had fallen in the mud, and wrapped them around his neck; then Brodie dragged him into the shallows to get him cooled down. Mercer lay in the water and stared up at Brodie, who stared back.
Taylor came over to them and they dragged Mercer back to shore. Brodie crouched beside Mercer and said, “Okay, Kyle, here’s the deal. Listen closely. Maggie and I are going to hike up this trail for about two hours. Somewhere in that jungle is an airstrip. An Otter is coming in to take us to someplace nicer than this. You are welcome to come along—but only if you keep up with us. We are not missing that flight. If you don’t want to come along, we leave you here, hog-tied, for the next croc that comes along. I shit you not. Very serious about that. And if you decide to come with us and you drag your ass, we’re leaving you behind with your hands tied so howler monkeys can bite your balls. And you have no underwear. Right? As for the cougars and panthers, keep in mind that they are an endangered species, but not as endangered as you. And finally, the constrictor snakes. You ever see one of those wildlife shows where a constrictor slowly wraps itself around—”
“Scott. He gets it. We all get it.” She crouched beside Mercer. “Will you come with us, or stay here? Nod or shake.”
Mercer kept staring at them.
Brodie said, “I’m not trying to oversell this, Kyle, but your last—and only—chance to get back at Worley is to come with us. You have, literally, five seconds to decide. I’m running late.” Brodie counted, “One… two… three… four… four and a half…”
Mercer nodded.
“Good choice, Captain.”
Taylor drew her knife and cut the rope around Mercer’s ankles, leaving him with his hands tied behind his back.
Brodie and Taylor lifted him to his feet, and Brodie said to Mercer, “I’m leaving the gag in, but if you step lively, I’ll take it off when we find the airstrip. Understand?”
Mercer nodded.
“I’ll let you keep your good jungle boots, and I’ll hike in my socks. But that could change real quick if you drag your ass and we decide to leave you here. Understand?”
Again, Mercer nodded.
“Good. So we understand—no malingering, only compliance. Malingering, which is punishable by up to six months’ imprisonment under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, is punishable here by death. Got it?”
Mercer nodded, but Brodie didn’t see defeat in his eyes—he saw fire. Hate. Defiance. Brodie hoped Captain Mercer got at least life in prison, because if Kyle Mercer was ever freed, Scott Brodie and Maggie Taylor would join Brendan Worley on Mercer’s must-kill list.
“Okay. I’ll take point, Kyle middle, and Maggie brings up the rear.” He turned toward the narrow trail, drew Mercer’s Desert Eagle, and walked into the jungle. Next stop, a drug runner airstrip where an uncertain rendezvous with fate awaited them. Did it get any better than this? Yes, it did. But not today.
CHAPTER 47
The ground sloped uphill from the river, and the trail was so narrow it almost didn’t exist. But it was better than cutting through the brush and vines, which could take hours. Brodie checked his watch. If this trail came close to the airstrip, they might be only a half hour late for their rendezvous.
He turned on the sat phone and got a beep, which was the battery’s way of telling him it was dying. If people had a dying beep, he would be beeping. He looked at his present grid position and tried to correlate that with the grid of the airstrip, but he’d need another reading to establish his direction of march. He shut off the sat phone. He hoped it had enough juice left to give him grid coordinates along the way, and also enough life so he could leave it on to get the call from the Otter pilot. If there was an Otter.
The jungle was quieter than he’d thought it would be, but now and then he heard howler monkeys and the screech of birds. The humidity was over a hundred percent, if that was possible, and the air smelled of rotting vegetation and dank earth. He brushed his hand through webs with spiders the size of walnuts. Vietnam was probably like this. Iraq was no treat either, and he was sure Afghanistan sucked. The U.S. should declare war on Bermuda.
He glanced back at Mercer and Taylor. Mercer seemed to be living up to his end of a bad bargain, but Taylor was falling behind. Brodie was starting to feel the difference between walking with boots and walking in his socks. He wondered how the Pemón trekked barefoot over this rough terrain. Brodie knew, as every infantryman did, that it’s not how strong your legs are, it’s how strong your mind is.Push on. Think about cool pools and hot babes, they’d told him in infantry training. Ironically, it was Mercer who looked okay because he’d swallowed a lot of water. Brodie hoped Mercer didn’t get the shits on the flight out.
It was still uphill, and Brodie put one foot in front of the other, whichwas the only way to move forward. He glanced back at Mercer and Taylor again, then slowed up so Taylor could close the gap. He was glad he’d kept Mercer gagged, because Brodie didn’t want to hear the Delta Force officer telling them to get the lead out of their asses and step lively. Actually, Mercer, with his hands behind his back and his body hunched forward, chewing on his gag, looked almost professorial, like an absentminded dean at an English school, mumbling to himself as he walked across the quad. Brodie wondered what Kyle Mercer would look like in a courtroom, dressed in greens and a tie. He could beat the desertion rap, and even beat his Flagstaff involvement. And as for the murders of the two CIA officers on opposite sides of the earth, that wouldn’t be easy to prove. If the trial officer and JAG threw enough at him, something might stick. But even if it did, Kyle Mercer, former hero and Taliban prisoner, might walk in a few years. Things that look crystal clear to the cops don’t look so clear in a courtroom. Especially when the accused is wearing his crisp uniform with a few rows of service ribbons, which often influenced the court-martial board.
Brodie had a mental image of Kyle Mercer knocking on his door someday. Or Taylor’s door—assuming they had different doors.
Brodie never thought twice about the men he’d put behind bars. They were mostly losers, malcontents, and stupid, and posed no post-confinement threat. Kyle Mercer, however, was another species, a smart killing machine with a big grudge.
So… maybe Worley was right, but for the wrong reasons. Maybe Captain Mercer needed to die—not just to shut him up, but also to make him pay for the crimes that could confuse the court—but not confuse anyone else involved in this case.
Brodie looked at the gun in his hand—Mercer’s gun. If Brodie had been alone, or with some other guy who saw it as he saw it, Mercer would have been dead a second after he dropped his gun and raised his hands.
He glanced back at Maggie Taylor. She had a moral compass, even if the needle wandered a bit. He was a little pissed off at her now, but he was certain that in the days and years to come he’d thank her for keeping him from acting on his worst primitive instincts. Without women, there would be perpetual war and chaos. With them, there was only chaos.
