After what seemed like forever, he looked at his watch and saw that another hour had passed. He checked his sat phone coordinates, glanced at the sun, and realized he was supposed to be at the end of his journey. But he didn’t see an airstrip.
He stopped, and Taylor came up beside him. “Problem?”
“We’re supposed to be at the airstrip. These sat coordinates can be off by twenty or thirty meters. But I think we’re close.”
Taylor reminded him, “Close only counts with horseshoes and hand grenades.”
“Right.”
Taylor looked around at the walls of vegetation, then looked up at a gnarled thirty-foot tree. “I’ll shimmy up there.”
“Okay. Watch out for snakes.”
Taylor waded into a thicket of growth, reached the tree, and climbed up its knotted trunk until she got about ten feet above the lower growth.
Brodie watched her as she looked around; then she suddenly stopped and pointed.
Brodie gave her a thumbs-up, then looked at Mercer, who was expressionless, staring into his future.
Taylor climbed down, then dropped the last ten feet and moved quickly back to the trail. She got her bearings and pointed. “About fifty meters.”
“Let’s do it.” He said to Mercer, “Follow.”
Brodie and Taylor drew their knives and began cutting through twisted branches and vines, and within ten minutes they could see sunlight ahead where the airstrip slashed through the jungle.
Brodie looked overhead, scanning for an aircraft, but he didn’t see or hear anything. He glanced back at Mercer, who seemed to be lagging behind, as though their goal was his penalty box.
Brodie broke out into a clear area partially overgrown with brush. The airstrip. Trees towered around the short runway, so only a plane that could make a steep drop in and a steep climb out could use this jungle strip. Worst airfield he’d ever seen. Made Kavak look like Dulles.
Taylor, though, seemed to like it, and she gave him a big hug. “We did it.”
He looked at his watch. They were half an hour late, but that was well within the parameters for this rendezvous in the middle of nowhere. Probably the pilot was late too, if he’d gotten a late start or hit headwinds from Aruba. Brodie said, “We should be in Gitmo or Panama in time for cocktails.”
“I’ll settle for a beer.”
“On me.”
Brodie glanced at the sky again, then looked at the airstrip. You’d think drug runners could do better. But here it was—either their magic carpet ride out, or the genie had fucked them.
Mercer, looking more unhappy, if that were possible, walked onto the airstrip and looked around.
They had intersected the airstrip in what was almost the middle of the western side—sort of the fifty-yard line—and Brodie didn’t know what end the pilot would want them on, so he told everyone to sit. There was no wind sock, and in fact there was no wind, but he’d hold up his own sock if he thought it would help the pilot choose which end of the runway to approach.
Mercer started making sounds, and would have pointed to his gag if his hands weren’t tied behind his back.
Brodie looked at Taylor. “I really don’t want to listen to his shit.”
“You promised.” She stood and moved beside Mercer and cut his gag, then pulled the handkerchief out of his mouth.
Mercer took a deep breath and said, “If you trust Brendan Worley, you’re not as smart as you think you are.”
Brodie said to Taylor, “I told you.” He said to Mercer, “Shut the fuck up or I’ll stuff my socks in your mouth.”
Mercer had no reply.
They sat at the side of the airstrip. Brodie turned on his sat phone, which beeped as he listened for the pilot’s call.
He thought about calling Dombroski, but calls took juice, and he also didn’t want to be talking to Dombroski when the Otter pilot called. But Brodie did send a quick text:Arrived airstrip waiting 4 Otter low bat.
