Race

Amazon

Andy Lucas

First published in January 2010 by NGP

Reprinted in February 2012 by ALB

www.andylucasbooks.com

Copyright   Andrew Lucas

The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

‘Are you determined to get me killed immediately, or is there any chance that your daughter and I could have a couple of weeks off first?’  The question was a genuine one but delivered by a voice edged with poorly disguised humour.  ‘I’ve barely had time to wash the jungle out of my hair.  Why the urgency?’

‘I wouldn’t have asked you here if it wasn’t very important.  Something has come up and I need you to be involved from the start.’

Skeleton Gold

……coming soon

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to Ian, for his meticulous support in preparing the final text of this book.

My gratitude is also extended to all the people in my life; past and present, who have ever offered me their support and encouragement to persevere.

for Joanna, James, Max, Daisy and Smokie.

......and for everyone else who has ever dared to tread an uneven path….keep at it!

Prologue

She stepped from beneath the shadow of the trees at the edge of the compound without a sound, her footfalls barely seeming to make contact with the ground.  Dressed in a dark grey flight suit, devoid of national emblems or insignia of rank, she wore no hat and sported soft-heeled, lace-up boots.

She was tall, around five feet nine, and slender.  Her hair was cut short just below her ears and her eyes were hidden from view by a pair of tinted sunglasses, which would have seemed odd to any observer because it was the middle of the night.

She moved purposefully, yet without haste.  Somewhere in the trees, an owl gave a curious hoot.

The heavy rain helped to deaden most sounds. It poured down all around her but she paid it no heed; she didn’t have time to worry about the weather.  In fact it was quite a relief from the stifling heat and humidity of the day.

She crossed the worn, weed-strewn tarmac and made for a small, one-storey hangar nestled between a stack of rusted oil drums.  Nearby, the twisted and broken fuselage of an old Cessna jabbed her propeller-less nose mournfully up towards darkened heavens where she had once danced.

The hangar looked deserted.  Filthy, partially broken window panes spilled no comforting light out into the darkness of the soaked night and the flaking, peeled paint on the frames told her the place had been abandoned decades earlier.  It didn’t look like there’d be anything to find but looks were meant to be deceptive in this game.  As her ride had long since snaked its way back down the treacherous mountain track, she had little choice but to continue walking.

The doors to the hangar were closed but unlocked.  The special heat-sensitive glasses she wore indicated no sign of life behind them – everything was cast in a cold shade of blue to match the chill rainwater sneaking its way down the collar of her jumpsuit.

She carried no weapon on this job.  There wasn’t much point; it was a simple pick-up that benefited the other side, as much as her own.  Her glasses did, at least, help her see who was about when the cloak of darkness had fallen.  There was nobody to see but her eyes still scanned back and forth with practiced concentration.

She tested one of the doors and was pleasantly surprised to feel it slide smoothly aside on newly greased runners.  She pushed open both doors and peered inside the dark building.

Rain drummed noisily upon the curved, corrugated roof of the hangar and it was in better condition than it looked from outside, the space beyond the doors being quite dry.  Inside, she made out a large shape covered by a swathe of heavy tarpaulin.  Bingo.

A quick look around and the woman moved inside.  She quickly walked around the shape, pleased to be out of the rain.  Satisfied, she started to pull the tarpaulin free.  The cargo was already stashed aboard, shielded behind lead plating within a concealed unit built into the nose.  The woman didn’t bother to check the compartment.  The aircraft was here and financial necessity dictated that the cargo had to be.

Hauling herself nimbly up into the familiar cockpit; the clear canopy was already slid back invitingly, she needed no urging to get going.  Sliding into the pilot’s seat, she closed the canopy and dogged the latches.  The other side was playing it straight with the aircraft.  That should please the boss, she mused wryly.

Keeping all lights off, she ignited the Pegasus engine.  It whined into life without argument.  Disengaging the brake, she taxied the plane out into the rain, where even the sound of its engine was dulled by the deluge of water falling from the sky.  When clear of the hangar by about ten feet, the woman checked she was buckled into the seat and slipped on a flying helmet she found on the floor.

Once the helmet was adjusted to fit comfortably, she vectored the engine thrust downwards through the four exhausts and opened the throttle.  The whine grew to a banshee-like wail as the airframe slipped the bonds of gravity and rose into the darkness, still showing no lights, on a cushion of 18,000 pounds of thrust.

This particular Harrier was twenty years old, give or take a year, but had been well maintained and took to the air with the assured grace of a serving fighter.  The airframe had been coated from nose to tail in specialist black paint.  Operating at night, it made her practically invisible to radar and just as invisible to the naked eye, unless the moon was out and the skies were clear.  You could hear her coming but she was hard to spot.

The woman lifted the aircraft in a vertical, hovering climb until she hit fifty feet.  Adjusting the angle of thrust with the hands of an expert, she lifted the nose and powered away in a conventional forty-degree climb that pressed her into her seat with the reassuring hand of g-force.  The stalwart old aircraft vanished into the filthy night, on a mission to deliver cargo over eight hundred miles away.  What the pilot couldn’t possibly have known was that this flight was to be her last.

As soon as the aircraft disappeared, a figure emerged from its hiding place within thick vegetation just behind the hangar.  Clad in motorcycle leathers, face obscured by a crash helmet, it was pushing a powerful trials motorcycle.  Throwing one leg over the seat, the engine kicked over and the machine surged past the hangar and began a sure-footed descent of the slippery mountain road.  Securely nestled at the bottom of the rider’s backpack sat a heavy, lead-lined metal cylinder.

A little over one hour later, both aircraft and pilot passed from the world in a brief flash of orange, noticed only by a pair of spider monkeys, startled from their slumber by the splintering of wood and the snapping of nearby boughs.

Then, as quickly as the disturbance came, it was gone.  Unsettled by the intrusion, the monkeys moved off to find less exciting treetops and were soon snuggled up together in a high hollow, quickly falling asleep again.

Anxious eyes stared at watch faces as the hours crept by and no word came.  Eventually, realizing that something had gone terribly wrong, somebody picked up the telephone and made the necessary call.

1

The bullet was on target. Unbelievable pain exploded across his chest in time to the gun’s thunderous point-blank discharge and he was flung onto his back.  A scream echoed the gunshot as his mind reeled and he struggled hard for breath.  Each gasp ripped at his insides.

Unlike every good book the man had ever read, a comforting darkness did not wash over him, nor did the pain fade into numb oblivion.  Instead it kept right on stabbing him between his lungs.

There were more screams again, this time further in the distance, or were they close by?    Were they his screams even?

An addled brain offered questions but no answers. His eyes remained open and the damp, curved roof of the subway tunnel looked the same, although seemingly dimmer than before; badly water-stained and dank on the nostrils.

The rest of the experience passed in a montage of fading images and vague sounds. He remembered hearing voices and sirens, and seeing faces swim in and out of focus at regular intervals.  Soon he couldn’t tell the difference, as it all blurred into one seamless, meaningless image.

As he lay there, surprisingly still alive, he began to run through the seconds leading up to the shooting; his shooting.  It hardly seemed real, despite the pain and the hubbub all around, but it was.

The subway tunnel was one of four that ran out from a central courtyard, near to the marketplace, to all four points of the compass. The courtyard itself was bordered with long concrete planters and paved with grey flagstones.  Each planter was overflowing with a myriad of cheerful flowers, which served to brighten the drab surroundings and fill the air with a gorgeous scent of floral perfume.

The courtyard was open to the sky, in reality forming the centre of a large roundabout on the edge of the town’s one-way traffic system.  Each of its tunnels dropped a few steps before running out beneath the road to its respective pedestrian destination.

It was a warm spring day and he was heading out of one of the tunnels; from the multi-storey car park, and moving into one he knew would lead him straight into the market, there to buy two things.

He needed a retirement gift for one of the cleaners at work and a bottle of his favourite Spanish brandy, for himself. The brandy would be easy enough. He always went to see the old man who ran the curtain stall; he also ran a great little line in dubiously cheap alcohol.

As for the retirement gift, he’d never been good at buying the right present, for anyone, and was grateful for the catalogue-store number a friend had scrawled hastily on the crumpled piece of paper he held in his hand.

Somewhere, he couldn’t remember exactly in which pocket, sat a small envelope stuffed with cash from the staff collection.  You’re just the unlucky one who lost a coin toss and landed the crap, he told himself.

He tried to see if the note was still in his hand, but couldn’t.  Though his eyes were open, darkness now edged his vision. He couldn’t feel his hand, let alone sense if it gripped anything in his fingers. The only sensation he had for sure was one of wetness across his crushed chest and around his groin.  He couldn’t see the growing pool of crimson he was laying in, which was probably a good thing.

The man couldn’t move, even a little, to check himself over but strangely enough he didn’t feel fear; not a palpable terror he’d always assumed would accompany his own death.  He just felt anger at the injustice of it all.  He was only thirty-five years old and simply not ready to die.

It was broad daylight, a little after three in the afternoon.  He had been hurrying to catch the curtain man at a quiet time. He’d come straight from work; one of several jobs that had covered the last decade of a life that now seemed to be draining away all around him.

He worked at a local hospital, helping to look after dangerously disturbed patients who were too risky for care homes in the community. He wasn’t a qualified nurse, just an auxiliary, but as a job it was okay.  It gave him a small, regular income and a great deal of job satisfaction.

It did little to challenge his mind but it had allowed him to continue his policy of coasting through life until he finally decided what to do with it.  His true calling, which he knew was still out there somewhere, remained elusive.  Since leaving the Royal Air Force, one week shy of his twenty-sixth birthday, his employment record had taken a nosedive of near kamikaze proportions.

‘It’s alright.  You’re going to be alright,’ said the paramedic softly.  She was a veteran of eighteen years with the Essex Ambulance Service and had a good nose for whether a patient would survive or not.  Staring down at the man, eyes filled with sadness, her hands automatically worked to prepare an injection.

The man recognised the soothing nature of the tones but the words had little meaning.  Something stabbed into his arm, truth at least that not everything was dead.  He guessed it was probably a drug being given to him in a futile bid to deliver him alive to hospital.  He was grateful but too tired to care.

‘Just hold on.  We’ll have you out of here in a jiffy.’

If the woman hadn’t chosen her moment to scream with terror, he would have breezed right through the courtyard without paying the group any heed. It had seemed just like a knot of youngsters, hanging together in a crowd down the tunnel entrance to his left.  Nothing strange about that.

But she did scream and he recognised real terror in the sound.  Despite the warmth of the day, his blood had frozen.

Stopping in his tracks, he turned and looked more closely.  As a small gap opened in the group he had seen the sinister truth.  Half a dozen boys and three girls were robbing a couple in their early twenties, in broad daylight too. None of the children looked physically impressive but, as his feet ran him closer to the action, unbidden, he understood the male victim’s disinclination to fight, namely a large flick-knife being pressed against his throat; its blade gleaming dully in the half-light of partial subterranea.

The young woman was pinned to the tunnel wall by two boys while being stripped of all visible jewellery by a girl who couldn’t have been any older than twelve. One of the boys holding her; a lanky, acne-infested youth with an overly large nose and bushy eyebrows, took the opportunity to grope at one of her breasts through her blouse.

Livid, and incensed by his own helplessness, the boyfriend’s eyes burned with hatred but he stayed still.

The woman shrugged off the offending hand and received a punch to the temple for her trouble.  As she staggered, only prevented from falling by the wall, the same youth angrily tore at her blouse, ripping it wide open with an explosion of flying buttons that succeeded in spilling one of her breasts free from the supportive cup of her bra.  A look of shock was soon replaced by surprised satisfaction, settling onto the pimply face.

The boy reached in, pawing tentatively at the pink, exposed nipple.  Bleeding from a cut above her eye, his victim was too dazed to prevent the assault.  Knife at his throat be damned, her boyfriend bellowed his fury and tensed himself to fight.  Before he could move, however, a passer-by acted first.

The stranger shouted at them to stop. Then there was a scuffle; brief and cold.   One of the kids went down with an audible crack that told him his punch to his nose had done the trick. The second youngster crumpled as a foot caught him smartly between the legs.

Then, terrifyingly, a gun had appeared.

It didn’t appear in the hands of one of the boys either.  To his amazement, it was plucked from a belt-pouch by one of the girls. He looked at the weapon, unsure of what to think.   The chubby teenager, sporting two sweet pigtails, grinned at him as she pointed it in his direction.  He remembered briefly forming the idea that it was a replica, a copy of a small calibre revolver.

‘We do what we want,’ she had smirked.  Then, with eyes flinty and slightly breathless, she pulled her trigger.

Dragged back to the present by the deepening shadows, just for a second the man felt a pang of the missing fear. His mind, growing sluggish and cold, drew on stored images of the last time it had viewed children carrying guns; the old Bugsy Malone film.  But those guns fired cream balls not real ammunition, it protested.

At least he changed his underwear every day and would retain some dignity in the mortuary.  As everything grew darker around him, he found himself hoping that they would spell his name correctly in the newspapers the following day.

James Pace, deceased victim of baby bandits.

2

To say he found the monumental leap, from certain death to stardom, a difficult adjustment was akin to seeing the first moon landing as merely a good day for space exploration.

Three days in intensive care at the local hospital had been followed by immediate incarceration within a pleasantly decorated private room, well away from the compact wards housing the sick masses.

Fresh flowers came every day, together with cards and gifts by the sack load, all fuelled by the media’s need for a good story. In him they had the selfless hero, cruelly gunned down by children in a sick reminder of how British society was failing its youth.

The police interviewed him on the fourth day, barely an hour after he was transferred to his plush sixth-floor room. Pace didn’t know a great deal at the time, just that he was a lucky man.

He learned he had been rushed straight into theatre on arrival and undergone emergency surgery. His attacker’s bullet had struck the sternum and deflected internally, clipping the top of one lung before lodging itself deep inside his chest cavity.  His breastbone remained intact due to the angle of penetration but several splinters of bone had torn away at his insides, one lodging barely a centimetre from his aorta.

Miraculously no major organs were damaged. Even more miraculous was the presence, on the day, of a renowned thoracic specialist; on a personal visit to colleagues at the hospital.  She had undertaken his surgery herself. Without her expertise in gunshot wounds, gained from several years serving in the Israeli army, Pace might easily have died on the table.

It had taken her an hour longer than even she expected to retrieve the missile, so awkwardly was it placed.  The only bonus was the absence of an exit wound.  After surgery the only visible sign was a neatly stitched vertical incision, about six inches long, running straight down the centre line of his chest.  Pace had to trust their word because his entire chest was encased in a sheath of bandaging.

Political response to the shooting was swift. Gun laws would be tightened further and increased sentences for firearms offences would accompany the public inquiry. European protests over plans to allow children to stand trial as adults in firearms related cases were quashed by a furious Parliament who warned against any further meddling in affairs of British law and sovereignty.

Pandemonium, to be precise, led to the highly significant move on the part of the government to bow to years of pressure and finally issue firearms to all serving police officers. The only thing they didn’t do was catch the culprits.

Then they started a fund for him.

Pace couldn’t believe it.  Either the newspapers were sorely short of other stories or his misfortune had triggered a deep-rooted social fear across the country. Whichever it was, and he suspected a bit of both, he was an overnight celebrity. Illicit photographs of him, taken as he lay in critical condition immediately after the operation, were published. Source of the photographs was unknown but he had to admit he looked ghastly, plumbed as he was with several tubes and lines, and completely surrounded by machinery.  He definitely looked more dead than alive.

All press contact was barred save for the daily progress report by the hospital. On the eighth day Pace gave his first interview and it totally exhausted him despite it lasting barely five minutes. Three photographs were taken before the two reporters and photographer were firmly ushered out by Sally, his highly efficient nurse.

Pace was very grateful and slept, with the help of an intravenous infusion of tranquillizer, like the dead. It was another three days before he felt ready to give his next interview.

This time he wanted to give a full account of himself so he could be left alone and forgotten.  The single journalist had obviously been primed and was careful not to overtax him.  For his patience he went away with all the comments and pictures he needed.

Sally, Pace’s wonderful Mauritian angel, was in her mid-twenties and apparently the youngest sister in the hospital. Normally she wouldn’t have had time to care for patients herself.  That had all fallen by the wayside to be replaced by an increasingly administrative role. Apparently he was a special case and the hospital management had assigned her and a team of junior nurses expressly to his care.  Who was he to argue?

It was seven o’clock on Tuesday morning, twelve days after the shooting, when she came into his room, as usual, to see if everything had been okay overnight.  Pace grumbled it had been as well as could be expected.

‘You have a visitor coming to see you later this morning,’ she told him breezily, opening the floral print curtains and flooding the room with the subdued sunlight of what appeared a gloomy, overcast morning. The window wore a set of plain net curtains beneath the main drapes but he could still see the fine coating of water droplets on the outside of the glass. Either it had rained and stopped, or it was drizzling so softly it made no sound against the windowpane.

‘Which newspaper is it today?’ Pace enquired grimly.  ‘I thought members of the press were going to leave me alone from now on.’  His throat rasped and croaked the words.  He hadn’t had his first drink of the day yet.

‘Not a newspaper this time, although I’m sure the reporters won’t be far behind.’  She crossed over to his bed and proceeded to plump the pillows, supporting his head deftly with one hand as she did so. Pace wasn’t able to sit upright at all; he had to remain flat so it was as much as anyone could do to make him more comfortable.

Psychologically it worked well and the waft of delicate perfume that crept from the neck of her crisply pressed uniform succeeded in brightening his mood.

She was pencil-slim.  The coffee-coloured skin on her face housed intelligent, dark  eyes and a full sensual mouth that was nothing short of torture for an immobilised male, subject to the humiliation of bed baths and bedpans. Sally never undertook those herself thankfully, she left that to her staff.  Maybe she sensed she wouldn’t be able to build the rapport necessary to ease his long stay if she personally attended to such basics.

Pace idly wondered if she saw him as anything other than another patient.  Did she notice that he had thick dark brown hair and clear blue eyes, or that his jaw line had been separately described as strong and jutting?

He willed his stirring groin to stop rising, with only partial success, and pumped her. ‘So who is it?  The Prime Minister, or a naked chorus line?  Hopefully the latter but not the way my luck’s running at the moment.’

Sally smiled in response, saying nothing. Pillows suitably plumped, she moved away to the end of the bed and picked up the chart that inevitably hung there.  She scanned down the medical notations.

‘Those people haven’t made their appointments yet,’ she chided his flippancy with her tone, ‘and you’re not up to chorus girls right now.  Still a very important person he is that’s coming.’  Ah, Pace thought.  At least he knew the gender.  ‘I only hope that whatever he wants will lift your spirits and get you out from under my feet more quickly.’  Her stern tone was underscored by a twinkle of radiance in those beautiful eyes.

‘So who is it?’  Pace asked his question again.  ‘I’ll be a good patient, I promise.’

Totally ignoring his plea, her face clouded. ‘Journalists and photographers will be crawling everywhere again, upsetting my nurses and ruining any attempt I make at keeping things orderly.’  She was obviously talking to herself, having not heard him.

‘Remember me?’ Pace asked sarcastically.  He would have waved his arms at her if he could. Even after nearly a fortnight he was unable to move either of them particularly well. Any attempt to lift them up past the base of his throat rewarded him with a sensation akin to a herd of African elephants dancing the tango on his chest.

Eyes flicking back up the bed towards him, her feigned frown broke into a half smile.  The corners of her mouth lifted and a glimpse of pearl appeared briefly between parted lips.

‘That is the price we pay for looking after a hero, I suppose.’  Still not answering the question, she smoothed down her uniform. ‘I have to go now.’  She nodded her satisfaction at whatever she’d read on his chart and replaced it.  ‘I’ll send one of the nurses in to attend to you before breakfast.’

Then she was gone, replaced almost seamlessly by Margaret, a portly white nurse in her late fifties.  Somehow this made his embarrassment more tolerable. A breakfast of limp toast and lifeless porridge came and went, closely followed by a bedpan and sponge bath. Pace couldn’t even shave himself; Margaret had to do that as well. She was highly proficient too, not even a nick or a slice in the whole procedure, but it still served to emasculate him just that little bit further.

His secret visitor came, without the feared hordes of journalists and cameras, at dead on eleven o’clock. If anyone was with him they must have been stopped from coming within thirty feet of his room because Pace heard nothing at all from beyond the door as it quietly opened and Sally ushered the man into his room. He noted a brief smile of encouragement from her, perhaps even of anticipation, before she closed the door softly and left them to it.

The shock of his instant recognition must have registered plainly because the man lowered himself onto the orange plastic chair at his bedside, smiled wanly and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Pace was very pleased to have been dressed in a fresh set of hospital-issue blue pyjamas. He knew he looked vaguely presentable.

The face that smiled at him and the hand that patted him spent more than their fair share of time being plastered around the world, in magazines, on billboards and in business reviews.

His was one of Britain’s greatest entrepreneurial success stories of the last two decades. He was not one for personally undertaking personal challenges; he often admitted to being far too scared to risk himself like that, instead he spent a great deal of his free time organising publicity events to highlight his own private concerns for the planet’s health.

He made a great deal of money through his business ventures and was quoted as saying that ecological crusading was his way of relaxing.

Doyle McEntire, soon to be Sir McEntire if the media’s constant speculation of late was based at all on fact, was a man pushing sixty.  The hair on his head was full and healthy, grey turning white at the temples.  His heavily lined face suggested a man who’d spent far too many years working way too many hours.   McEntire was also burdened with a paunch that suggested he enjoyed living the good life.

Standing only a shade over five feet six inches, his stilted height made his stomach seem more pronounced yet he had a public reputation for possessing a razor-sharp intellect and of being a very astute operator.  He was dressed in a smart, dark green suit, white shirt and silk paisley tie.  His shoes literally gleamed and despite the absence of jewellery or gold watch, he exuded an aura of relaxed wealth.

The real puzzle was that he was inside Pace’s hospital room without any reason he could fathom. He said as much.

McEntire’s smile broadened into a grin and he settled back further on to the chair, regarding him over the top of expensive gold-rimmed spectacles like a father about to lecture a wayward offspring. The grin faded and he grew serious. When he spoke there was absolutely no trace of the Scottish accent he’d allegedly been born with. His English was crisp and smartly delivered.

‘Mr Pace, or may I call you James?  James,’ he didn’t wait for permission, ‘look, let me explain myself straight away.’

‘That would be good,’ Pace agreed, his curiosity rising.

‘You know who I am of course.’ There was no trace of pretension in his voice.  It was just a statement of fact and Pace found himself warming to the man.

‘That’s the problem.’

McEntire gave an acknowledging nod.  ‘You,’ he swept an arm out over his bed in a very theatrical motion, ‘have become the focus of a great deal of attention from the media of late.  All of it has been good, I might add.’

Pace hadn’t had any brainwaves at that point and saw no reason to interrupt the man’s flow.

McEntire breezed on. ‘I don’t know if you are aware of my new project, James, but I am here to try to enlist you as a member of the team. That’s the reason for my visit.’ He was not a man to beat about the bush.

‘Your new project?’ Pace wondered if he sounded as stupid as he imagined. ‘The only thing I’ve read about you lately is that you’re setting up some kind of eco-race in South America.’ He hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to the article itself and the details that came back to him were sketchy.

‘That’s the one.’ McEntire was surprised the man knew anything about his race at all.  He needed to snare this one and so lit up his tone with enthusiasm as he leaned forward excitedly. ‘A challenge race designed to test human endurance, and protect the world’s many endangered habitats.  The theme, young man, is one of mankind striving to protect, instead of destroy.’

McEntire paused to study Pace’s reaction. The patient strove hard to keep his expression neutral.

‘The idea is that I organise the race,’ McEntire went on.  ‘I stump up the cost of kitting the teams out and providing the considerable logistical support needed. In return, the international business community gets to collectively put up the equivalent of five hundred million American dollars to establish and preserve certain habitats around the globe.’

‘Go on,’ said Pace cautiously.

‘Of course they get to plaster their logos and products on everything we print, photograph or film about the race and lap up immeasurable positive press, but I am hopeful the real message won’t be lost on the world.  A new century and new millennium must equal a new attitude towards conservation.’

His excitement visibly eased and he sat back again.  ‘So yes, you are right in what you say.  It is a race.  Actually it’s a race to be run in the Amazon jungle.  That’s in Brazil, but I’m sure you know that.’

‘The idea is brilliant,’ Pace said, honestly meaning it, ‘but what does it have to do with me?’

He still couldn’t remember many more details but he had a niggling feeling the teams were all going to be comprised of expert competitors; they always were in races like this.  Unless they needed an experienced helicopter pilot, or worried that some of their people might go crazy and need nursing out there, he didn’t fit the bill.

‘Surely all the teams will be made up of top people? I don’t qualify on that score,’ he said, ‘but then you know that already.’

‘Agreed James, very much agreed.’ McEntire was a good enough judge of character to realise he needed to be brutally blunt if he was to be believed. ‘Under normal circumstances you wouldn’t fit the selection criteria.’

‘But I am a possibility now?’ Pace guessed cautiously.  ‘Now I’m flavour of the month with the media, so to speak.  Something has changed?  What and how?’

‘One reason the public has really warmed to you is the bravery aspect,’ McEntire had to stop a smile curling the edges of his mouth.  ‘They appreciate the courage you showed in nearly being killed just to help people you didn’t even know. The newspapers dug up everything they could about you to boost their articles, including your military background and experience with a video camera.  That’s why you are a possibility.  You have a flying background and a knack with a video camera.’

They had made a meal out of it, it was true. Hardly Hollywood, just a few wedding videos for friends that led to a small commission from the local council to make a couple of training films for their staff. Pace had been given a nice camera to use though, and the luxury of a sound and lighting technician.

As for his military background, he’d served with the Royal Air Force for eight years, the last six of them flying helicopters of differing types, though mainly the Westland WG13 Lynx back in those days; a decade ago.  He still flew enough hours every year just to keep up his license but his salary didn’t stretch to pleasure flying and his higher flying skills were as rusty as the hull of a century-old tramp steamer.

‘I made a couple of short films,’ Pace said. ‘It was very basic stuff.’

‘But you did make them, and you can work a camcorder with some degree of flair.’ Seeing his questioning look, he added, ‘I had a brief look at those council videos you shot. It’s true to say the content is hardly riveting but both of them had a solid feel. You made something out of nothing with them. For an amateur you show real potential.’

‘So what’s your point, exactly?’ Although flattered by having such an esteemed visitor praising his work, Pace was tiring of the conversation and the first twinges began to overcome his drug-induced pain relief, to prick at his chest beneath the bandages.

‘My point?’  If he was annoyed at the bluntness, McEntire didn’t show it. ‘My point is simply this. I need a camera operator to accompany each of the teams in order to film the racing perspective. There will be three teams and I only have two camera operators signed up. I would like you to consider being my third.’

Without wanting to, Pace laughed.  He instantly regretted it as the needle pricks of pain suddenly transformed into jackhammers. His laughter triggered three coughs in a row and by the end of the third choke McEntire and his offer didn’t matter. All that mattered was being able to breathe again.

Gasping for air, he went very cold, oblivious to a trickle of blood streaking from the corner of his mouth, running down his chin and dropping onto the newly changed sheets, spotting the crisp white with patches of vivid red.

McEntire was stung into action and moved for help with speed that belied his paunch, having Sally there in moments with others in tow. A new infusion was pumped into Pace’s arm, followed almost immediately by a delightful warmth that chased away the chills and darkened the daylight.

When Pace awoke, several hours later, everything was as it had been except for a new set of bedding and an oxygen mask firmly plastered over his face. He sensed movement next to the bed and Sally’s face appeared, etched with a mixture of concern and disapproval.

She checked his breathing, pulse and temperature, jotting them officially on his chart and pausing long enough to say how glad she was to see him still alive and adding that visitors of any kind were now banned for at least a fortnight.  The doctors feared a repeat performance would risk permanent collapse of his injured lung, she explained. They had miscalculated his level of recovery and placed him at risk. It was a mistake they would not repeat.

During the following two weeks Pace had no further contact with McEntire, other than a brief note of apology and an expensive floral arrangement by way of recompense. Time dragged by sluggishly and it was as close as he’d ever come to a heavenly experience when the day finally arrived for his supportive bandaging to be removed.

The doctors, in all their wisdom, pronounced him to be in good general health and definitely out of danger. X-rays exposed directly onto a computer, as opposed to the more traditional film, revealed his lung to be healing well along with his abused breastbone. X-rays exposed this way allegedly only used one third of the radiation of their regular cousins but Pace still had so many taken he began to worry if he’d glow in the dark.

In total he ended up being in hospital for six weeks. The final week was spent undergoing a battery of tests but finally he was pronounced a free man, which was good because he’d just about had enough.

All that remained was for him to give a press briefing in the hospital foyer prior to returning to a normal life. Despite being able to have visitors after those initial weeks of recovery, Pace had convinced the powers that be to extend the boycott for the entire period of his stay. In return he promised them an impressive discharge interview, filled with praise for their medical care.

Pace gave the briefing on his last afternoon.  He was clad in jeans, which felt awkwardly constricting after so long living in pyjama bottoms, and a tee-shirt.

Earlier that morning he’d said his goodbyes to the nursing staff and left a thank you note for Sally. She wasn’t there to see him off, having gone home to Mauritius for a holiday three days earlier. On her last shift, however, she volunteered to work a night with him and had tested his levels of fitness in her own way. It was a carnal experience that he would always remember.

Sporting a neat haircut, given to him by a specially drafted local stylist, Pace was ready for the media. Flanked on a long table by senior managers from the hospital, he gave his carefully prepared speech.  He praised his carers and thanked the public for all their letters of support and get well cards. After his speech came the questions.

Was he aware the fund started for him had now topped one hundred thousand pounds? He wasn’t but, speaking of a fund initially set up when it was unclear if he would need constant care if he survived, Pace was now in a position to state that all the money was being donated to the hospital, to contribute towards the building of a dedicated emergency department for children.

And so it went on for about fifteen minutes, back and forth, smiles and camera flashes until he had nothing new to say and the television crews each had enough material to construct short clips for their respective news bulletins. He took one final look around, shook a couple of hands, and made his way out to a waiting taxi.

Settling into the rear seat he watched the world go by as the driver chauffeured him the twelve miles home.

3

His flat looked just the same as when he left it, to go to work on that fateful morning almost two months before.  It boasted one bedroom, was newish, and sat on the first floor of a two-floor complex. When he’d bought it three years earlier the estate agent called it compact.  Pace called it small but it was all that his salary ran to.  Anyway he lived alone so it was fine.

The first thing that hit him as he stepped into the communal lobby, climbed the green carpeted stairs and opened his front door, was the stench of rotting food.  He didn’t keep any pets and had brushed away the hospital’s offer to arrange somebody to visit weekly and check the place over.

Instantly he regretted his decision not to let anyone in. Pace had genuinely forgotten about the few perishables in the refrigerator.  Time had not done them any good at all.  Swallowing back the stink, he stepped inside and closed the door firmly behind him.

He hated rubber gloves, in their unflattering shades of bright yellow and orange, but kept a pair beneath the sink in case of emergencies. They served him very well for the next hour as he cleared several mould-encased, furry objects from his refrigerator.

The tomatoes resembled deflated footballs, sheathed in thick white hair and each spotted with marks of blue and purple, and were quite fetching really. Together with similarly coated carrots and salad vegetables, they all vanished into a bin liner one after the other.

At the end of the hour his rubbish sack was firmly tied and dumped in the communal skip, situated outside by the car park. With all the windows flung wide open the smell slowly subsided. While the increasingly chill wind blew the last offending odour away, Pace busied himself checking the place over for other mess.

He scooped up some crumpled, sour washing and threw it straight into the washing machine. He put fresh sheets and a new quilt cover on his bed and then shot off to get a few essential groceries. He couldn’t go far because the police had not seen fit to return his car from their compound, having collected it from the town centre car park where he’d parked it on that fateful morning.

There was a petrol station-cum-convenience store a few hundred yards down the road. The round trip only took him fifteen minutes and the walk did him good. By the time he opened his front door for the second time that day, not a trace of unpleasantness remained.

He put the milk, eggs and bottled water down on the breakfast bar next to the huge pile of mail he’d collected from behind his front door.  He filled and boiled a kettle of fresh water to make himself a strong mug of tea, adding a splash of milk for colour before settling into an armchair. As he sipped at the familiar liquid, he noted with indifference the rain now slanting down outside, clearly visible through the open windows.

Taking a moment to close all but one of them, he started on the pile of letters. It was a mammoth task.  Next to him, perched on the elderly pine coffee table, his tea steamed away unattended while the low hum of the washing machine filled the flat with its repetitive drone.

There was no fan mail for him but that didn’t matter. Pace still had to arrange the collection of dozens of sacks being stored at the hospital.  He’d barely scratched the surface of the mass of letters and cards sent to him by well-wishers but determined to read all of them, even if it took months.

The media had thankfully agreed to keep his home address out of their stories. They knew he’d need some space once the hospital finally released him and, after all, the hospital and its grounds gave a more dramatic backdrop for their bulletins.  Pace suspected they also wanted to keep him sweet until they were sure they didn’t need him to sell their publications any longer.  To this end the pile contained no letters of support from the public, just the mail he could normally expect.

The first three letters came from respective credit companies, all demanding money for defaulted payments on his car, furniture and plastic. There was also a letter from work.  Occupational Health needed to assess if he could still carry out his duties on the ward.  The rest were assorted junk letters, advertising unbeatable deals on holidays and life insurance.  All the useless trimmings of modern society and all really saying ‘give me your cash’.

All in all, Pace was in a reasonably irritable mood by the time he read the last one and turned to find his tea stone cold. He swore aloud and the door buzzer chose that moment to sound from its box by the front door.  It was a strangely disquieting feeling.  His first visitor.

Crossing to the intercom panel, he opened the line with a flick of the switch.

‘Hello, who is it?’  Nothing.  He tried again.  ‘Hello?’

‘Mr Pace? Mr James Pace?’ The voice was soft and feminine, instantly arousing his interest. It was as good a start as any.

‘That depends on who you are and what you’re selling,’ Pace replied evenly.

‘Of course,’ the voice agreed sweetly. ‘My name is Sarah McEntire, Mr Pace. I am Doyle McEntire’s daughter as well as his personal assistant.  We need to speak about the offer my father made to you while you were in hospital.’  She wholeheartedly failed to mention the visit had nearly killed him. ‘If this isn’t a good time I could call back tomorrow.’

McEntire wasn’t giving up then, Pace mused, or was this just the official retraction, using a female family member to soften the blow. He was intrigued and opened the outer door lock with a flick of a different switch before crossing to the front door. Opening it, he readied himself to greet the body behind the voice.

The body attached to that voice climbed the stairs effortlessly and soon stood before him, dressed immaculately in a flatteringly-tailored cream trouser suit, with a plain white blouse beneath. Her raven hair, with the faintest suggestion of deepest red, was shoulder-length he guessed. Pace couldn’t tell properly because it was tied up with a hair band; straight not curly. She sported strappy, open-toed black shoes that encased small, pretty feet, wore no outer coat and carried a wet, freshly dripping umbrella clutched firmly in one hand. The other held a slim black briefcase.

There were no frills, scarves or refinements because she wasn’t in that age bracket yet, instead relying on her natural beauty to suffice. It was another guess but Pace figured her to be in her early thirties.

Not knowing what was coming and therefore how standoffish, or not, to be Pace smiled and offered her his hand. She shook it firmly and he stepped to one side, motioning her in. She swept past him into his small hallway and moved on into the lounge. She stopped there and waited for him to close the door and join her.

‘Please.’ Pace gestured with one hand to the sofa.  ‘Take a seat. Would you like some tea?  I’m making fresh.’

She smiled easily.  As she sat down he noticed how fluidly and gracefully she moved. ‘Tea would be lovely,’ she accepted. ‘White, no sugar please.’

Pace slid into the kitchen and busied himself preparing two mugs of tea. He never used a teapot, instead preferring to make it in the mug with a bag. It only took a couple of minutes but when he returned he felt calmer.  Looking at her again as she took the offered mug, he had to admit she was very attractive, almost in a magazine or advertising sense.

She didn’t appear to be wearing much make-up, though such things were deceptively hard to spot nowadays.  Her skin looked as if it hadn’t seen much sunshine lately, despite her father’s huge wealth, being pale and clear.  Her figure was curved in all the right places and she stood about five feet seven inches tall.

Slightly taller than her old man, he thought.  Her nose was small but her lips were full, suggesting sensuality.  Her most striking feature, for him, lay in a pair of sparkling hazel eyes, tinged with the merest hint of sapphire.  They glinted at him with thoughtful intellect.

Like her father she wasn’t one to bother with tact and diplomacy when nothing could tangibly be gained from it. She didn’t want to be there but she’d promised her father she would come and sort things out, just like she always did.  She looked at Pace and wondered what on earth her father was thinking trying to get this man onside.  True, he looked big and strong, perhaps handsome in a rough sense, but he was a rank amateur and she hated dealing with amateurs more than anything else.  Still a promise was a promise so she had to swallow her distaste.

She took another sip of tea and put it down on the table, next to his own earlier drink, finding an empty envelope to sit it on so as not to damage the tabletop.  Pace hadn’t bothered.  He settled onto the armchair and they eyed each other for a second over the ten-foot gap established, each oblivious to the other’s inner thoughts.

‘Miss McEntire.’ Pace beat her to the opening. ‘What can I do for you, that has seen you drag yourself out here on an awful day like today?  A phone call would have done the trick.’ He took a swallow of his tea and felt a shiver run up and down his spine for no reason at all.

‘For me, Mr Pace, you can do nothing.’ Unlike her father she made no attempt to be more familiar with her address.  ‘Matters like this require personal attention.  Telephones don’t make a good enough substitute.’  Her rebuff was totally without malice.  ‘As I said, I’m here on my father’s behalf to see if you’ve given his offer any more thought while you’ve been convalescing?’

So the offer was still on the table then.  Pace was surprised.

‘Your father made me a very interesting offer Miss McEntire. It is one, frankly, he could put to others far more experienced than myself. I can’t understand why he hasn’t found somebody else by now.’

‘That’s just his way.’ Sarah McEntire spoke without a hint of family warmth. ‘He wants you on the project and I need to take him back an answer, today hopefully.’ As if to add a more human element, she added, ‘Please understand, Mr Pace.  I have a massive amount of organising and planning still to do, so an answer would be helpful, sooner rather than later.’

‘Of course I understand,’ Pace agreed, ‘but I’m going to need some more information before I commit myself to an answer, whatever that might be.’ Pace added the last part just to let her know his agreement wasn’t a foregone conclusion just because her father had decided to pick him.

It was a Pace family tradition; a stubborn refusal to do anything when pressure was deliberately applied to do so.  It was a genetic trait that nearly proved fatal for his grandfather in the Great War.

His company had been stuck, without food, in the trenches of France and ordered to sit tight and wait for supplies to arrive.  It was a stupid order in his grandfather’s book because the supply lines had been severed a week previously and their rations had been used up.  Consequently, he and his fellows took it in turns to leave their positions and shoot pigeons to eat.  Caught, tried and convicted of disobeying a direct order he, as the so-called ringleader of the group, was sentenced to be shot.

Luckily the battle of the Somme was to erupt a week later and all available men were moved up to fight.  It was only a temporary reprieve his accusers were sure but they were wrong. He somehow survived the evil slaughter and lived to fight in the Second World War, finally dying peacefully in his small seaside cottage at the age of eighty-three.

Pace’s father had been just the same, moving from one job to another as arguments and disagreements dictated.  He’d finally ensconced himself within the Trade Union movement and put all his fire and debating skills to good use in support of the workers. Sadly he had died of a heart attack at only forty-eight so, for him, the family stubbornness turned out to be a curse.

His mother, on the other hand, was the most placid person Pace had yet known.  His memories were filled with pictures of her helping her children, or offering to help others.  She only survived his father by two years, falling victim to a ravaging strain of breast cancer.  But that was a long time ago; they’d both been gone for many years.

As for the rest of his family?  His elder brother David didn’t have the fire at all, instead being calm and passive like his mother, but his younger sister, Amanda, could be tyrannical if provoked. She was a primary school teacher and Pace was sure she taught the best-behaved classes in her school.  Both lived in different countries.  David had moved to Australia, looking for a fresh start, just before their father’s death.  He had always loved to cook and saw his future in a country where the climate allowed for year round tourism.  He had done very well too, meeting a girl and marrying, then starting a small business that was booming by all accounts.  They only exchanged cards at Christmas but it was enough.

Amanda grew quickly fed up with the state of British schools and got herself a job in Chicago, two years after David left and barely a week after their mother’s funeral.  Pace hadn’t spoken to her at all since then.  He didn’t have a reason but they’d never got on as kids and it was a situation of non-communication based on the ‘why should I phone her first, she should phone me’ syndrome.  So nobody phoned anybody and Pace was pretty much alone.

‘I have all the details right here, Mr Pace,’ Sarah said, jerking him from his reverie.  Pace hoped he hadn’t looked too distant.

Sarah popped two small latches on her briefcase.  Opening it up, she removed a sheaf of A4 papers that were neatly comb-bound together and laid the document on top of the pile of his opened mail.  Closing the briefcase she stood up. As an after-thought she stooped down and picked up her mug of tea.  She took a final swallow before turning and disappearing with it into the kitchen.

Pace heard a tap run briefly, as she cleaned her mug, and the rustle of her hands being dried on a towel before she re-appeared.  Pace was thankful she hadn’t chosen to call an hour or so before.

She was obviously going so Pace stood and walked her to the door, opening it and stepping out onto the landing. She followed, shook his hand again and began to descend the stairs.  Not pausing, she called back. ‘The contact numbers are all there on the front sheet, Mr Pace.  I really do need to hear from you by tomorrow morning at the latest.  Tonight would be better.’

‘As soon as I know, Miss McEntire, you will know,’ Pace sent the words down after her but she had already turned on to the next flight and was lost from view.

Sarah McEntire just wanted to get in her car and head back into the city.  She had a mountain of paperwork to get through and she resented wasting time on what she considered to be a lost cause.  Hopefully dad will come to his senses and bring in one of the countless other professional athletes on my waiting list, she mused.  Time was running out.  Thoughts of a hot bubble bath also crept into her mind and she wasted no time gunning her car out of the little car park.

Pace didn’t see the sense in waiting out on an empty landing and returned to the comfortingly austere bosom of his home to study the proposals.

It took him about half an hour to digest all the details held within the pages, and about the same amount of time again to grasp the prospect of being personally involved in the race. He would have been daunted by the environmental problems, which appeared to make it a major endurance test, aside from the extra difficulties of working against other teams and the clock. The entire project appeared dreamed up by a madman but Pace had to admit the planning seemed perfect and the safety back-ups looked impressive.  The socio-political background to the country itself was also well researched.

Brazil. Of course Pace had heard of it, as had anyone who’d ever taken a passing interest in world-class football, or beach beauties. South America, somewhere in the middle, was the full extent of his knowledge so he actually found the background reading enthralling.

According to the cover sheet, Brazil was the fifth largest country in the world, covering a shade over eight and a half million square kilometres and comprising a complete range of environments and habitats within its vast borders. Discovered in 1500 by Pedro Alvarez Cabral, it was originally explored and settled by the Portuguese.  These Europeans either enslaved the native Indians to work on newly developed plantations or drove them deep into the dark interior.  They then shipped in more easily controlled slaves stolen from Africa.

Rich in minerals, Brazil exported industrial diamonds, oil, coal, iron and chrome while her flourishing industries produced high grade steel, paper, textiles, plastics and pharmaceuticals at an ever-increasing rate.  On paper it seemed a success story all around, unless you were an indigenous Indian or a wild animal.  The intense pressure of human development was having a dangerous effect on Mother Nature. The rainforests in particular were being destroyed at an alarming rate and with it the habitats of thousands of rare and endangered species.

The Brazilian authorities, to their credit, had become aware of the importance of the rainforests to the entire world and the felling of trees had slowed. The truth was that they couldn’t afford to do it alone. After all, hard woods from the forests still fetched a high price on the world market and their industries, although booming, were in dire need of continual modernisation if growth was to continue.

Hence the race.

The Global Wildlife Trust was a massive charitable body, totally committed to highlighting the plight of the natural world and raising enough money to try and repair whatever damage it could.  It had been formed for over a decade and was well respected as a global voice.

Like any charity the reality was that everything came down to money in the end and the need to always raise more.

Doyle McEntire was its largest single donor but it still wasn’t enough.  There needed to be increased exposure of the problems to the media and regular international investment geared to providing people living in the danger areas with jobs that wouldn’t necessitate them destroying the forests or poaching endangered species to survive.

By staging such a well-publicised race in Brazil, with the sheer wealth of world media attention that it attracted, Doyle McEntire was more than doing his bit for world conservation.  Even Pace knew somewhere like the Amazon needed to be protected, the difference being he wouldn’t know where to start.  Fortunately other people did.

The race itself was to be staged in the remote heart of the rain forest, in an area known as the Amazon basin.  There would be sections on foot, mountain bikes, and also on water.  At certain points there would be challenges for the teams to overcome, above and beyond coping with the elements and terrain. Three teams, as McEntire had told him, would start.  They would set off several hours apart and the team that got through the entire course in the quickest time would win.

Each team was to be comprised of five people, including the camera operator. Out of those five at least one had to be a doctor, one a linguist fluent in at least a couple of local languages, and another an experienced adventurer. Those were statutory conditions and Pace felt a buzz of excitement course through him as he thought about the things a person might see and do on such a trip.

If he caught some moments of triumph, despair, frustration and anger on film, it might lead to something really big for him.  It could even give him a foot in the door with one of the large television networks.

Pace telephoned for a pizza delivery at about eight o’clock. By ten-thirty it was gone, together with his confidence. From every angle something jumped out at him in the resoundingly negative, mainly linked to his own dubious fitness level. Add that to a general fear of doing something so wildly different just because he’d been unlucky enough to get himself shot by a child and he picked up the telephone knowing what his answer had to be.

The voice on the other end of the line did not belong to Sarah, or to her father. The lawyer on the other end introduced himself as Max Hammond and began by telling Pace how pleased he was that staying late in the office, waiting for his call, had proved worthwhile.

He also asked whether the information supplied was enough.

‘The information was very thorough,’ Pace agreed, ‘but I think it would be fairer for everybody if Mr McEntire looks for somebody better qualified, or at least somebody healthier.’

‘We’ve had your medical files checked by several top doctors, if that’s what’s worrying you.  The consensus of medical opinion is that you’d be capable of tackling the course, subject to passing a rigorous medical before the start.’

Pace could hardly believe his own ears. McEntire had already spotted a weakness and so flouted every rule in the book, not to mention the law of the land, in illegally obtaining his medical notes. When he spoke again his voice was forced and level.

‘That’s very good of them to offer such words of wisdom, Mr Hammond but it’s not their life is it? If I could I would, believe me. As it is I’m still happy to offer myself as a publicity tool for the race if Mr McEntire can see any value in it.’

‘I’m sure we could find an angle,’ Hammond said slowly, doodling strange stick creatures on an expensive legal pad as he sat alone in his cavernous, dimly lit London office. ‘I will admit to being a little surprised you can afford to turn down such a lucrative offer but then that’s your business, not mine.’  And he was surprised, it was true.

‘Sorry?’

‘As I said, not my concern but I thought you’d have jumped at the chance to earn so much money.’

Money? There’d been mention of flights and accommodation being paid for, and a guaranteed hold on your job for the duration of the race but that was all. By all accounts people were paying large sums of their own cash just to be accepted as one of the competitors.  Pace said this to Hammond, who laughed aloud but stopped doodling abruptly at the turn of events.

‘They didn’t tell you about the offer?’ He was incredulous but quickly regained his composure. ‘Mr McEntire,’ he stated officiously, ‘has offered to pay you the sum of five hundred thousand pounds sterling.  You just have to agree to run in the race and promote the ecological message behind it, of course.’

‘Half a million pounds?’ Pace heard his voice waver with uncertainty. ‘That’s ridiculous. Why would anybody want to pay me so much when nobody else is getting anything but expenses?’

‘Simple.  You aren’t like everybody else.’

‘How?’

‘The other competitors are all superbly fit, intelligent people but they don’t have the media value you do. In terms of sponsorship and extra media coverage in Britain alone that your involvement would bring, you more than justify the cost. And,’ he added softly, ‘because you’ve already donated all the money from your hospital fund to the hospital itself, the public won’t begrudge you a single penny of any race fee.’

Pace wasn’t worth that much money to anybody. He needed a little more convincing that this wasn’t an elaborate hoax, though for the life of him he couldn’t see why anybody of McEntire’s standing would go to all the trouble. ‘Why so much?’ He wanted something concrete and was about to get a lesson in raw economics.

‘There really is no secret to it.’ Hammond’s tone was tinged with mild annoyance. He wasn’t used to explaining himself to strangers but he, like Sarah before him, was doing what he was told.  ‘Your situation has made you a household name thanks to the frenzy against a failing society the press has seen fit to whip up.  The story’s been picked up by numerous countries and used to either praise or beat the government, depending on their view. At the moment your name is a very valuable commodity in the constant battle to secure press and media coverage without having to pay through the nose for it.’

Pace said nothing, just listened.

‘You’ve been marked as a hero and the donation of cash to the hospital has shored up that image. Getting you involved in a race such as this, especially so soon after leaving hospital, would guarantee us enough extra publicity to convince some of the more sceptical corporations to dip into their pockets. Having their name linked with conservation, and with you, will be good for their business.’

‘So they invest more, or for the first time, I get it.  Who gets the money?’ Pace was actually beginning to believe he might be worth something.

‘That’s the beauty of it.’ Hammond could hear the man’s reservations fading and he moved in for the kill. ‘It still goes into the pot and the split is the same. Twenty-five percent goes to the Brazilian government, to help them retain control over their environment. The remaining seventy-five percent goes directly to the Fund, to finance its many conservation projects around the globe.  More publicity means more investment.’

‘I understand,’ Pace countered lightly.  ‘But it’s a very large sum of money to throw at someone like me.  It’s a bit of a shock.’

‘To a man like McEntire it’s peanuts,’ Hammond said dismissively, ‘and he won’t be paying for it anyway. The increased investment in having you involved with the project has already been projected at well over six million pounds. Take off your fee and the kitty still overflows with an extra five and a half million.’

Working for a huge corporation, Hammond was well used to speaking in large figures. Frankly, Pace was not.

‘Look,’ soothed Hammond down the line, ‘Mr McEntire has a passion for staging events like this one and there’ll be more of them in the future.  He can be ruthless in getting what he wants in business but he is a fair man.  You should trust him. There aren’t any catches and nobody is trying to trick you.  All we want is for you to throw in with us.’  The voice paused dramatically and drew a breath.  ‘Everybody wins.’

‘It seems if I go I make for myself and do something for the greater good. Okay.  You’ve got me, Mr Hammond.  Let’s hope that everybody does win.’

‘That’s great news.  Mr McEntire will be delighted.’

‘I hope so.’  Maybe this is just the sort of life altering break you’ve been waiting for, Pace told himself.

‘I’ll have all necessary paperwork regarding your medical checks, insurance, travel arrangements, background on other team members  and such couriered over to your home by noon tomorrow.  Is that acceptable?’

‘That’s fine,’ said Pace. After all, he hardly had any plans to go out.  ‘I look forward to meeting you some day, Mr Hammond.’ It was just something to say.  Pace didn’t care if they ever met or not.  Hammond’s reply was yet another surprise.

‘Oh, you’ll be meeting me all right,’ he answered brightly. ‘I may be a lawyer by profession but I also hold masters in tropical botany. I’m actually assigned to your team for the race, so we’ll be slugging this thing out together.’

Pace hung up his phone and poured himself the dregs of brandy from a bottle in the kitchen cupboard.  Then he crossed over to the window. It was still raining softly outside and the evening was dark and starless.

Looking down absently, he stared at the many puddles of water held captive by the uneven surface of the car park.  Each pool reflected the golden light of overhead sodium streetlamps to varying degrees and each was agitated by falling raindrops.  He swallowed a mouthful of the burning liquid and thought about the enormity of the decision he’d just made.

‘James Pace, adventurer and ecological crusader.’ The words tasted as stupid as they sounded. Still, it would definitely be a challenge. Farewell Essex, hello the Amazon.

A second swallow of brandy did little to quell the churning mix of excitement and trepidation but it did at least chase away the shivers.

Hammond’s office lay in near darkness once he’d left, save for the small pool of warm light cast by a desktop lamp.  It shone down onto the desk, illuminating the legal pad still open at the page holding the lawyer’s aimless drawings.

A stick-man, dangling lifelessly beneath a gallows, sprawled ominously across the paper.

4

Hammond’s office occupied a corner on the eighth floor of the fourteen-storey McEntire International building; nestled in a prime spot barely five minutes walk from London’s Liverpool Street Station.

The site had previously been occupied by a venerable set of shops. Real estate being as it was in any capital city, the owners finally gave in to a ludicrously extortionate figure and sold to McEntire. The building was already planned and approved before the demolition even began.

Twelve months later McEntire had his own building. Tinted glass panels on the outside blended seamlessly with the sandstone masonry of the structure that rose twelve floors straight up before being capped with a pure glass, two-floor pyramid.

Pace stepped into the elaborately refined lobby through silently obedient sliding doors.  It was filled with an almost reverential hush compared to the bustling streets outside.

He was immediately escorted by a burly security guard across the buffed stone floor to a marble reception desk. The young lady sitting behind the desk checked his credentials on the countersunk computer screen in front of her, nodded to the guard and waved across the floor in the direction of the lifts.

The guard had already resumed his post behind the glass entrance doors as Pace thanked her and crossed to the lifts.

The lifts too were constructed of glass and both rode on the outside of the building. Pace called both and they arrived together. The ride up was faster than expected and the glass panels all around him lent a sense of frailty to the car he hoped wasn’t there. It rose as silently as it did quickly, depositing him on the eighth floor with a muted ring and an electronic voice relating the floor number.

He stepped out into an open-plan floor crammed with bodies dutifully working away at their assigned desks and jealously guarding their space with an elaborate network of beige, cloth-trimmed partitions that sought to create corridors and offices where none existed.

Hammond obviously headed up the floor because Pace felt a hundred pairs of eyes curiously boring into his back as he walked around the perimeter until he came to the only corner possessed of a permanently built-in office.

It was a simple square office, built directly into the corner, windowed twice on each of the two internal walls with large, tinted panes that allowed a clear view both in and out. A single wooden door, highly burnished and with a brass plaque that he was sure bore Hammond’s name, stood wide open in the manner of a modern manager. A vacant desk guarded the entrance so Pace walked straight up and rapped his knuckles once upon the exposed inside of the door.

A man seated behind the huge desk at the back of the office looked up from one of three computer screens.  He rose to greet his visitor, beckoning him inside with one hand. As Pace stepped onto exactly the same carpet as everywhere else on the floor, he caught a glimpse of the plaque. It read Max P. Hammond in finely engraved letters.  Underneath were the words Corporate Legal Services Manager.  He was suitably impressed.

‘Mr Pace.’ The voice was friendly.  ‘I’m glad you could make it today.’

For half a million pounds he would had have made it any day he was asked. He’d been out of hospital for three days and was already bordering on a mental state akin to suicidal boredom.

‘Please, grab a seat.’ The man motioned to a pair of large leather armchairs in front of his desk.  He noted that Hammond was quite a diminutive figure, no more than five-feet six.

Pace leaned over the desk to shake hands before sitting down.  The chair instantly grabbed him and did its best to swallow him with comfort. Hammond’s chair; Pace assumed the man was Hammond, in contrast was a standard office chair, albeit leather and high backed. By the way he rolled back from the desk to eye him speculatively, it was also on castors.

As the office was set into the corner of the building, the two external walls were also the outer windows; glass from ceiling to carpet. When added to the windows set into the two internal walls, Pace had a feeling strangely like being resident inside a goldfish bowl. The only other furniture in the room was a long wooden table. Resting on its centre sat a freshly percolating coffee pot and a silver tray of cups, saucers, cream jug and a plate of sweet biscuits.

‘I was glad to come,’ Pace admitted.  ‘I want to sort everything out, starting with the fine detail of the race; the real nitty gritty.’

‘Exactly what needs to be done to iron out any remaining reservations you might have,’ agreed the lawyer, smiling.  ‘It also needs to be done so I can release your details to the other members of your team. As an unknown,’ he added, ‘they’re going to have a great deal more concern about you than you should have about them.’

‘In your opinion,’ Pace smiled.  He wasn’t going to let anyone dictate anything to him.

‘Fair enough’, Hammond said, without a trace of sarcasm or mockery in his tone. He seemed to be telling it straight.  In itself that hardly fitted the popular image of a city lawyer. but then Hammond looked far from a suited, faceless bureaucrat.

There was no suit for starters. He wore a smart white shirt, faintly striped with red, and a pair of dark cotton trousers.  The shirt was worn open at the neck, without a tie.

The most striking feature of the man was the total absence of visible body hair. There was none on his head; he had no eyebrows and there wasn’t even a hint of a beard, the skin on his jaw being smooth and light.  In truth he was utterly bald but his features were those of a young man.  He was certainly no older than Pace and possibly a year or two his junior.

Although he’d heard of it before, this was the first time he had come across somebody with alopecia.  He made a conscious effort not to stare.

‘Would you like some coffee before we get on, James? It is okay if I call you that?’

‘James will do fine,’ Pace said.  ‘As for coffee, great.  Self-service?’

Hammond nodded.  ‘Jenny’s got the day off today and she becomes unbearable if I get somebody to sit in for her. Says they mess up her systems and routine. Tried it twice, got fed up with the grief and now look after myself whenever she isn’t here.’

Pace stood up with reluctance from the comfortable chair and poured himself a cup; black, no sugar. Hammond seemed pleased when offered one.  He took his white with three.

Once settled again they discussed the early summer weather; today it was pushing into the eighties beneath a flawless blue sky.  Tomorrow it would probably be falling with rain and sixty degrees if they were lucky. Pace made a few polite comments about the building and his easy train journey into town. It was just general chit chat while they drank their coffee. After five minutes of banter Pace drained his cup and they got down to the matter at hand.

Hammond pushed his own empty cup aside and slid a closed folder across the desk towards the new recruit. Inside was a single sheet agreement. It stated that he agreed to take part in the race and act as camera operator for one of the teams. It also stated he agreed to undertake promotional work before the race and for four weeks thereafter, in any area unless it conflicted with pre-declared moral or religious belief.

The sum mentioned, all payable in advance upon receipt of his signature, was exactly five hundred thousand pounds sterling.  The only punitive clause was that, once signed and agreed, if he pulled out for any reason other than at the direction of a doctor, he’d keep the fee paid to him but would become personally liable for any lost investment his withdrawal brought.

Pace swallowed hard. That meant being half a million up one moment, five and a half million down the next. It was a very stiff penalty should he suddenly get cold feet.  He knew his decision had to be irreversible before he put ink to paper. One slight disappointment was being robbed of the chance to see a real, tangible cheque with his name on it. Payment would be made directly into his bank account via computer transfer as soon as he signed. In short, sign the contract and kiss goodbye to financial worries forever a few minutes later.

‘The get-out clause seems a little harsh, if you don’t mind me saying,  Any reason in particular for it being like that?’ He paused for effect before continuing slowly.  ‘There wouldn’t happen to be something you’re not telling me about?  Perhaps something I get to discover only after I’ve signed up but by then it’s too late unless I want to owe you millions?’

Hammond took the insinuation of trickery with good grace, not batting an eyelid at the implications.  He knew the offer was genuine although certain worrying political facts had been omitted at McEntire’s request, not to mention some key truths.  Hammond kept his expression fixed and thanked his lucky stars the man in front of him didn’t know all the things the McEntire Corporation did to earn its billion-pound annual turnover.

‘Suspicion can be a good thing,’ he told Pace, ‘but honestly, no. You just take a moment to look at the deal from our side of the fence.  We need to be sure that once you sign, you’re in. An awful lot of publicity will hinge on your signature.  If we go ahead and alert the world’s media to your participation and then you quit we’ll all look like fools and lose a fortune in sponsorship.’

Put that way it sounded obvious. Pace laid the folder back down on the desk and changed the subject.

‘Okay. So I know when. I really need to hear more about what, who and how.’

Hammond and Pace spent the next thirty minutes or so discussing the general plans for each of the race stages. Pace gave him a short list of the technical equipment he needed.  There had to be at least two cameras; one broadcast quality and one hand-held digital, a number of batteries, tapes and memory chips. Everything had to be battery powered because this wasn’t an expedition, it was a race, and they couldn’t afford to lug even the tiniest generator along.  Pace’s biggest worry would be conserving battery power to get enough quality footage when he needed it.

He made up his mind, for the second time, to sign the contract and they got that little formality out of the way quickly. As he poured them both a fresh cup of coffee, Hammond rang McEntire’s private office. He wasn’t there but his secretary had been primed and agreed to pass the money transfer authority straight away. Halfway through their coffee the telephone rang and Hammond answered, killing the call within ten seconds and giving Pace the good news.  The money was safely in his account and ready to spend.

He left almost immediately afterwards, with Hammond having to arrange the necessary press releases regarding his involvement with the project.  They agreed to meet up for a drink at Heathrow before their flight out.  He also left with single-sheet dossiers on his prospective companions.  Although he didn’t realise it until he looked through the papers later that evening, Hammond had omitted to give him one on himself.

The train journey home was as uneventful as before.  As the taxi turned the corner into his car park, Pace was rewarded with the sight of his own car, sitting snugly within its two little white lines, cleaned and polished. Up in his flat, the police officer who’d finally decided to return it had posted the keys through his letterbox.

There were now less than four weeks to put his affairs in order so the next morning he resolved to get things started. He trusted Hammond had been correct in saying there would be no strings attached to the money but there was no harm in taking a few simple precautions.

For safety’s sake he decided to move it, with the added bonus that it would infuriate his inflexible bank manager no end.

It was petty, but Pace knew he’d have to see her personally to withdraw that kind of money.  He drove into town, parked up and found that she would be delighted to squeeze him in.  No appointment, no problem – now there was a first.

She expected to welcome a suddenly valuable customer and beamed with friendly smiles as he went into her office.  Twenty minutes later he left the bank with its manager feeling more than a little deflated.

He left a token five thousand in the account and directed another ninety thousand into clearing his mortgage.  He would return the next morning at ten to collect two bank cheques, each for the sum of two hundred thousand pounds. The five thousand pound difference was slipped into his jacket pocket in the form of a fat wad of fifties.

Two separate deposit accounts, in two separate banks, were opened with the cheques and he could finally relax. The money was now untouchable by anybody but him.

The remainder of the afternoon passed in blissful stress relief. The money he’d left in his current account already more than covered any debt he owed the bank and it just left him to visit a couple of high street stores to settle outstanding credit debts on furniture and his television set.

One final call to the local garage to settle the remaining debt owed on his car and he was finally clear, free forever more from the fear of receiving demanding letters and having to struggle hard to pay them.

The feeling of relaxation didn’t last long because the race preparations soon began in earnest. Early the following morning, which dawned warm and bright, he was being poked, prodded and generally pulled about by a very eminent Harley Street doctor. There weren’t any further X-rays needed but the twenty or so he’d already suffered were examined thoroughly once again.

He spent several hours daily, that first week, with the same doctor. Not only were there constant tests; blood, urine and saliva, but also exercise regimes conducted on a range of machinery, slowly designed to grow more demanding.  He was pushed harder every day and would probably have felt better by the end of the week if he hadn’t been subjected to a series of tropical inoculations as well.

Apart from deadly wildlife, the Amazon basin apparently had more than its fair share of dangerous diseases though Pace knew from his background reading that the diseases the invading Europeans took into the jungle with them had been immeasurably more devastating on the indigenous Indian population than anything they’d contracted themselves from the jungle.  An estimated population of nine million was reduced to a little over two hundred thousand in barely one near-apocalyptic century.

So, just in case the environment sought vengeance, he was jabbed.  He worked so hard to get fit that the weeks literally flew away from him.  As his strength grew, so did his confidence.

The final five days before Pace was due to take the flight with Hammond were largely logistical in nature. The press reports on his involvement spread like wildfire. It had been almost embarrassing to watch the evening news and to see his face splashed across the screen in time to praising words from the newscasters, over and over.

He managed to give nineteen interviews during those initial weeks; eight for live television, the rest for the tabloids. The media, to his surprise, didn’t find a cruel word to say about him and the publicity boom McEntire predicted fell neatly into place.

Of the McEntire clan he saw nothing until the night before he was due to leave. He learned from Hammond that Doyle McEntire was in Australia, brokering some deal or other but he’d not heard a word from Sarah either.

She just turned up at his flat, in a re-run of their first meeting, at a shade after eight o’clock. Pace was half expecting someone from the firm to contact him and was delighted to hear her familiar tones crackle over his intercom. His packing (new clothes all, and most still in their plastic jackets) was done and dusted and two expensive new suitcases sat by the front door.  There was nothing left for him to do so a visit from anybody was a nice distraction.

Sarah looked even more beautiful than he remembered.  She was wearing a pair of black jeans with a sleeveless, lacy white top. Her hair was worn down this time and was longer than he’d imagined; falling thickly several inches past her shoulders. Her appearance was simple, sexy and unfairly gorgeous.  She was not blind to his reaction and the knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth as he invited her in made him feel a little foolish.

From the moment she sat down the atmosphere was completely different from before. She carried no briefcase and immediately wore a relaxed smile.  Pace was happy to agree to her suggestion that they go out for a drink to celebrate his last night in England, although his own jeans and sweatshirt precluded visiting anywhere sophisticated, not that there were many places in his local area that rose to such standards.

It also meant he could keep his new walking boots on, which had been stuck to his feet for days in an effort to break them in. So far he’d only suffered one blister.

The local pub seemed the obvious choice and it was packed with people.  The first thing to strike him may have been the crowd but the second was more off-putting; an atmosphere choked with a stifling heat.    A quick glance at Sarah told him she found it as hot as he did so they opted to take their drinks out into the empty beer garden.  Some of the wooden tables still had brightly-striped umbrellas propped through holes in their centre.

They sat down at one, the red and white material musty but lending them a sense of privacy as well as warding off the very light rain that had began to fall.

‘The publicity worked better than expected,’ she began, sipping her glass of sweet cider. Pace hadn’t worked out what to say by then and gratefully seized upon her opening.

‘I’m glad,’ he said.  ‘I hope it covers what your father paid me.’

‘Don’t worry, nobody’s going to want any of your money back,’ Sarah smiled and sipped at her drink again.

‘Good job, I’ve got plans for every penny.’

‘We’ve managed to get a couple of multinationals interested that weren’t even on the list to start with. Your interviews have been well received and the whole thing is being promoted strongly.  They’ve been queuing up to have their company logos on the promotional material.’  Her face was alight with enthusiasm.

‘More pledged money?’ asked Pace.

‘The project is almost three million pounds up on our highest expectations already.  Most of that money has come in because of your involvement.  You must be a celebrity of some kind,’ she laughed.

‘Getting yourself shot does have some advantages.’

‘It would seem so in your case.’

‘I’m glad something good is going to come out of all this. I’m the first to admit I’ve drifted since leaving the air force.  I was beginning to wonder where, if anywhere, I was going.  I’m not getting any younger sadly.’

Pace didn’t really know the woman but he felt completely comfortable with her. Momentarily at a loss for the next sentence he took refuge in a few swallows of his beer.  The icy liquid chilled its way down to his stomach.

‘Are you worried?  About the race?’ Her question took him by surprise. ‘It isn’t going to be easy, even for the experienced team members.  How are your nerves holding up?’

‘Okay,’ he replied. This late in the day, with an outbound flight to South America waiting for him the next morning, being worried didn’t feature. His only feeling was a bloody-minded determination to succeed.

‘That’s good.’  Sarah said softly.

‘I’ve been given a second chance. Your father has given me the opportunity to do something really useful again with my life and I’m going to do it.  It doesn’t matter what his reasons are.’

Sarah leaned across the table and pulled his hands into her own, her touch gentle on his skin.  The sudden intimacy surprised him, as did the look in her eyes of honest admiration.

He had no idea she’d spent the previous evening reading through his personal file, including several sheets of family background and subtle psychological observations undertaken by the Harley Street doctor; none of which Pace would ever see.

His was the story of a man who’d thrown away a promising career with the Royal Air Force and walked away after nearly a decade of service.

His military records had been included in the secret dossier and indicated a hugely talented pilot with a disciplinary record that left a lot to be desired.  Pace had walked a fine line with the chain of command and seemed to have had little respect for it.  Overlooked for promotion several times because he had a habit of speaking his mind, regardless of who was listening, he’d finally called it a day.  Civilian life had been one long amble to nowhere ever since.

‘You know what I think?’

‘I don’t have a clue.’

‘I think you’ve got guts.  You know this is going to be a struggle but you’re going anyway.’  She kept a loose hold on his hands and Pace made no move to pull away.

‘I don’t know about that,’ he smiled, a little embarrassed.  ‘Between you and me I think I’ve probably just lost my mind.’

‘Sometimes you need to feel like that to make a change.  A bit of madness does the world good.’

‘And I won’t be alone out there either.  If the team’s half as good as it looks there should be some great memories made.’

‘Have you ever been to Brazil?’ As a member of the McEntire camp Pace was pretty sure she already knew the answer to that, which she did.  Maybe she was just looking for ways to build up the conversation.

‘I saw a lot of the world when I was flying for Her Majesty’s Government.  The Middle East, Far East, Europe, Falklands, but I never got to Brazil.  Interesting times back then.’

‘I’ll bet.’

‘I even did a three-month stint on loan to the Navy, working off carriers in the Med.  As for actually going to places for fun, that’s a different story.  I’ve been to Spain, Italy and Dublin.  Oh,’ Pace added, ‘and I’ve done a couple of day trips across the Channel. In fact I haven’t left these shores for the last four years.’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Sarah.

‘It’s hardly the track record of a respectable adventurer.’

‘You’ll do fine,’ she said with conviction, then proceeded to give his hands a squeeze.  A wave of real heat flooded his body.

A distant roll of thunder interrupted them, almost immediately accompanied by the beginnings of some heavier rain. Darkness thickened and the pub’s floodlights snapped on, sprinkling the garden with a host of intermittent shadows.

The rain and thunder grew heavier as they watched but they stayed dry beneath the canopy.  The breeze remained light and had no affect on the larger raindrops; they continued to fall straight down. Not surprisingly they remained the only people outside.

Lightning forked into the ground a few miles away, followed quickly by a succession of explosive crashes as the electricity discharged angrily into the earth. Thankfully the umbrella stayed up.  It was so sodden that excess water simply ran down to the edge of the material and dripped off the multitude of fraying tassels that trimmed its lip.

Sarah and Pace sat in their own little world, seemingly cut off from reality.  They stared from each other, out into the dark night, and back again.  The conversation switched easily from subject to subject as both grew more relaxed.

Slowly the storm abated but the rain continued to fall.  After another hour under the umbrella, they headed back to the car for the short drive back to his little flat.

The sight that greeted them on arrival quickly darkened the mood.

5

Turning into the little car park, Pace found little room to manoeuvre given the presence of two fire engines, three ambulances and several police cars.  A dozen or more blue lights flashed their defiance, both at the falling rain and the chaotic scene all around.  Pace’s jaw dropped in stunned disbelief.  Although he didn’t notice, Sarah’s hand flew to her mouth in horror; his block of flats was nicely ablaze.

A ferocious fire raged, sending flames roaring high into the night sky, spitting yellow and orange against the blackness.  Smoke was poorly obscured by the worsening rain and it billowed skyward in a thick column, intermittently highlighted by lightning that cracked across the darkness behind it.

There was enough breeze to force some of the acrid fumes back down towards the ground and poisoned air stung the eyes and throats of several drenched onlookers before police officers hastily moved them back another twenty feet or so.

Pace didn't remember getting out of his car but suddenly he was standing next to a police car.  The blue light flashed annoyingly into the corner of his right eye but he ignored it.  Instead he stared up at the source of the fire.

He felt Sarah next to him.  She slipped her arm around his waist and they watched his home burn together. Fire danced inside his front room and licked hungrily around the front window frame.  The glass had already blown out and what remained of his curtains were just burning threads of cloth, taunting him as they were toyed with by the wind.

By eleven o’clock the fire was out and investigators started to sift through the ruins, looking for clues. They would be at it all night one of the police officers reliably informed him, after taking down his details and a brief statement of his whereabouts that night.

The rain eventually eased before stopping altogether.  Spectators drifted back to their homes after official assurances that all was well.  Luckily, there had been no one in any of the affected properties. Three homes were totally destroyed and three others had been badly damaged.

‘I should try to get into a hotel for tonight, I suppose,’ Pace decided.

Drawn and pale, hair plastered damply to her soaked and now vaguely see-through top, Sarah frowned. ‘You can’t stay at a hotel.  There’s going to be a hell of a lot to do in the morning if we’re to get you on that plane. You’ll need a new passport and a duplicate visa, some clothes and new luggage.’ She shot him an encouraging, bolstering look.

‘That’s a tall order,’ he muttered, not really caring.

‘Don’t take this the wrong way, James, but I think you’d better come home and spend the night at my place.’ She paused.  ‘At least I’ll know where you are and how to get hold of you.’

It made sense to him, so he allowed himself to be led by the hand across the slowly emptying car park to a large blue Daimler sports.  He would need all those things she’d just said and the thought of being thousands of miles away had never seemed more appealing than at that moment. The added bonus of spending more time in her company was simply that, a bonus. Any lustful or romantic notions had gone up in smoke with his possessions.

As they turned out of the car park, neither of them noticed a small van parked on the other side of the main road.  If they had been paying attention, they might have noticed the driver watching them intently.

He’d done what he was told to do, and he’d been paid five times the amount he would normally get for an arson job.  He had no idea who’d set up the job; orders for this kind of thing always seemed to have passed through many different pairs of hands before filtering down to him.  He felt a little sorry for the couple as he watched them speed away.

‘Don’t know what you did to deserve this, you poor bastard,’ he muttered to himself.  Satisfied that he’d stayed long enough, he made a quick call on his mobile phone to pass on the good news before starting the van and heading for home.

Fate had other plans, however.  While travelling around a sharp bend in the road, only ten miles from the flat, the van suffered a blow out on one of the front tyres.  Losing control, it flipped over and landed upside down in a deep, flooded ditch.   Knocked unconscious by the impact, he quickly drowned while still strapped into his seat.

Sarah steered the car in the direction of London, turning onto the M25 at Brentwood beneath a sky that was clearing miraculously fast, to reveal teasing glimpses of a star-strewn night through windows opening in the clouds.

Pace wasn’t paying much attention. The silence that tangibly filled the car grew heavier by the moment, with neither willing to break it. Ensconced deeply in the soft leather trim, his eyes blankly registered the motorway signposts as they flashed by with dull regularity.

Sarah headed west, out over the Queen Elizabeth II bridge at Dartford, pausing only briefly to feed the ever-hungry toll machine, before resuming a journey which, Pace noted at several points, failed to fall below a speed of ninety miles an hour. The motorway was quiet and they pulled off at the A1M junction barely twenty minutes later. A quick two mile trip back in towards London and she pulled off into Borehamwood, passing the Elstree Studio complex and slipping slowly through the well-policed small town centre, accelerating again as she hit the country roads on the other side. Another five minutes saw them safely to her home; to his great surprise a fairly modest, white-washed cottage set back about a hundred yards from the road.

The rain had left the unpaved driveway muddy and flooded at several points.  Sarah carefully nudged the car forward and the luxury sports car traversed the slick with an agility and confidence any four- wheel drive cruiser would have been proud of.

The mood changed with the setting. Once released from the car and transplanted into the airy comfort of her cottage, conversation returned as though it had never faltered.

Sarah’s home was tastefully austere. The walls were simply painted in delicate pastels and the floors were of highly polished oak, not the imitation laminated sheets, garnished with deliberately placed rugs. A dark leather three-piece suite in the lounge was large and comfortable. Open plan, the effect was inviting and uncluttered, warming yet calm.

The kitchen was also styled in an old-fashioned way; there wasn’t a trace of a pre-fabricated unit anywhere. One half of the large room held an antique pine dining table and matching Welsh dresser, well stocked with expensive china plates and cups. The other side housed all the appliances, in matching livery of cobalt and chrome.

A free-standing unit by the back door held a double, stainless steel sink with two cupboards beneath and a small work surface ran on top of both the washing machine and drier.

On this short area sat a kettle, teapot and several china jars. Another antique pine unit in the very corner held the food, Pace assumed, but it was closed and its contents hidden.  He had imagined Sarah’s wealth would have steered her towards a large house, filled with expensive items, and it was a refreshing failure on his part.

Sarah busied herself making some tea, which they drank at the kitchen table beneath the soft light thrown out by a suspended, three-bulb kitchen light.

‘I could use a bath,’ she said suddenly.  ‘I think we could both do with one.’

‘Is your bath big enough?’

‘I’ll make you a deal,’ she said, totally ignoring his suggestive humour, although Pace thought he caught a brief flicker of a smile.

‘You McEntires do love your deals,’ Pace interrupted.  ‘Will I need a lawyer for this one?’

‘Funny.’ His heart started to pound faster as his thoughts raced ahead.  ‘Why don’t you go and have one while I make some calls.’  His heart slowed in disappointment.  ‘If you want some fresh clothing, my bedroom’s the one right next to the bathroom.  Just rummage for whatever fits.  I have collected a small amount of male clothing over the years, but the choice isn’t great.’

‘You’re sure?’  Pace wasn’t going to turn down the chance of a hot soak but he felt guilty about going first.  ‘You could always have the first one.’

‘Then who will sort out all your papers?  No, you go first.  One thing, though, when you’re done make sure you empty it out and run me a fresh one.’

‘No problem.’

‘Now go, before I change my mind.’

Pace needed no further prompting and soon luxuriated in a deep, round tub of hot water for twenty minutes before even bothering to engage in the mundane task of bathing.

While he steamed, his mind played out the events of the evening over and over without conclusion. Was it just bad luck that his home had been destroyed?  He couldn’t remember leaving any heating on, or using the cooker recently.  Something niggled at the back of his mind but it wasn’t clear enough to read.  He felt too tired, all of a sudden, to give himself over to deep thought.

At least the race would get him out of the country and give him a positive focus, he finally decided.  Finishing up, he dried off and put the now damp towel around his waist, using a smaller one to vigorously dry his hair while the bath water drained away. A quick rinse and the second bath was underway, this time profusely bubbled with an apple and peach concoction he spotted on a glass shelf above the sink. Steam filled the bathroom again and he had to constantly wipe the mirror clear with one hand as he smoothed his hair into some semblance of order with the other. Then came the slightly damp jeans and socks.  He had left his boots by the front door earlier.

A laundry basket in the bathroom swallowed his two used towels and Sarah’s wardrobe soon produced a dark green sweatshirt.  It fitted him comfortably, so he assumed it had once belonged to one of her lovers.  Her bedroom was as plain as the rest of the cottage although Pace made a conscious effort not to snoop.  He took in the king-size bed, the treble wardrobe and the single bedside table, before returning to the lounge completely refreshed.  Sarah was still on the telephone and gave him a thumbs up sign to tell him things were progressing well.

Anxious to make himself useful, he wandered into her kitchen and made some fresh tea. Sarah joined him a few moments later and beckoned him back into the lounge, where both settled onto the large sofa.

‘First things first,’ she began. ‘I spoke to Hammond. I told him about the fire. He knows a lot of people through the company and he told me to tell you not to worry. You just have to arrive, as planned, at the airport tomorrow morning.  He will have a new passport and visa ready for you.  You can pick up some new clothing and luggage in the airport shops before you leave.  Are you okay for money?’

‘Money’s not a problem.  I still have nearly four thousand pounds on me. I was going to exchange most of it into travellers cheques at Heathrow but I can use some of that for now.  Besides, I always keep my wallet on me, so my credit and bank cards are still quite safe.’

‘Good.’ Her own enthusiasm had returned. She was used to solving problems at short notice and basked in a job well done.  ‘I’m going to drive you to the airport in the morning myself.  I’ll even help you shop, so long as you treat me to coffee and a croissant for my trouble.’

‘You don’t have to do that, even though it would be great.’ Pace said quickly. ‘I can grab a taxi from here. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than play nursemaid.’

She laughed. ‘Not really.’

‘Not really?’ he parroted.

‘My father wants me in Brazil to handle a few reported niggles with the local administration, just until he flies in himself. It was always on the cards but he never decides until the last minute. Hammond knows his habits like I do.  I managed to book myself a seat on your flight out.  I had a feeling this would happen; it’s a good job too.’

‘So you’ll be coming with us, to Brazil?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long?’

‘I don’t know.  Not long I shouldn’t think.  Just a few days then I’ll be flying back here.’

‘That’s good news,’ Pace said.  He could now look forward to enjoying her company for a good deal longer. The atmosphere in the room seemed to thicken and he had the urge to loosen a non-existent tie and collar. The earlier electricity of her hand in his own was still a fresh memory and he was painfully aware of how close together they were sitting.

Finally, Sarah stood up and walked down the hall to the bathroom, taking her tea with her.  She shouted back that he should make himself at home.

A beautiful burnished walnut corner unit held a television, video and DVD, disguised behind a near seamless false front. Switching on the late film; a classic Gary Cooper western, Pace settled back to watch.

The film was drawing to a climax of exchanged gunshots when Sarah returned. She looked fresh and vibrant in a cream robe.  Her hair was washed, dried and back up in a manageable ponytail.

She disappeared into the kitchen and spent five minutes clattering around, returning with two glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniels on a tray. Another quick trip to the kitchen and she was back with another tray.  This one held a bowl of salad and a plate of cold chicken, together with some bread rolls, butter and some cold new potatoes.

Spreading it all out on a rug she got him to hold the glasses and poured a generous shot into each. She turned off the television and they tucked in, both realising how hungry they were as the food hit their tongues.  They demolished the spread before collapsing back onto the sofa with a second glass each.

Several glasses later and the clock on the wall registered close on two o’clock.  Pace knew he had reached his limit and was happy to agree with her suggestion that they should go to bed.

‘I don’t keep a spare room made up for guests, I never need one.  You’re in no state to sleep on the sofa either because you need a good night’s sleep.  Busy day tomorrow, so I’m afraid you’ll have to share with me.’

‘Okay,’ he agreed, feeling a little woozy now.

‘Luckily, you look exhausted. I don’t think I have anything to worry about.’  Sadly, she was right.

Sarah quickly turned out the lights, leaving the remnants of their meal until the morning, and led the way to her bedroom. Pace undressed down to his shorts and slipped beneath the quilt, suddenly feeling drained to the core.

Sarah’s dressing gown dropped to the floor and she climbed into bed with him.  Her long nightshirt felt cool and smelled of fragrant flowers as she leaned across him to switch off the bedside lamp. He awoke the next morning to find himself alone in her bed.  A strong shaft of sunlight filtered through a crack between the bedroom curtains and lay across the bed in a sharp line.

After dressing, he found her in the kitchen, wearing a loose-fitting floral summer dress with a hemline riding well above her knees.  She smiled when she saw him and offered him a cup of coffee and a slice of toast.  He wasn’t hungry but accepted a steaming mug gratefully.

Barely fifteen minutes later, with all the car windows wide open and the radio playing Dire Straits’ Sultans of Swing, they were cruising down the lane, heading back towards the motorway.  To any passer-by they would have looked like a normal couple, out for a morning drive to an unknown destination.

6

Heathrow was as busy as every news report or documentary showed it to be. It remained one of the busiest airports in the world, filled to overflowing with every race, creed, colour and religious denomination of human being, each respectively trying to reach his or her destination from the many hundreds worldwide on offer.

They parked in the short-term car park and rode the lift up to the main concourse, Sarah assuring him that a member of the company’s staff would be assigned to retrieve her car. To that end she left her keys with the car park supervisor. Apparently it was all arranged.

Pace carried Sarah’s small suitcase, pulled from the trunk of her car, while she gripped the sports bag that passed as her hand luggage, saving them having to collect a trolley.

Thousands of people were milling around the many miles of airport shops, food halls and financial serveries, and they quickly blurred into one seething mass a few minutes after they set foot from the lift.

Sarah expertly led them to the correct gate and was obviously an old hand at it.  Pace, for one, had never used Heathrow before. It wasn’t the sort of airport you used for short charter flights to Europe; Gatwick and Stansted catered for that market.

Heathrow was different.  There was a definite buzz in the air.  Perhaps it was the accumulated anticipation of thousands of travellers that filled the air with a feeling of excitement.  Whatever it was, the place almost possessed its own tangible scent.

They paused only long enough to shop, which took barely half an hour.

Two suitcases replaced the ones Pace had lost in the fire; both sturdy and waterproof. He filled them with new clothes, much to the expressed delight of the young assistant who lived off his, usually paltry, commission-based wage. Several pairs of jeans and slacks went in first, followed by some hastily chosen shirts, socks and underwear.  Two jackets and a spare pair of walking boots, almost identical to the ones he was wearing, ended a spree totalling a little shy of two thousand pounds.  The smile on the young assistant’s face said it all, beaming as he mentally planned some wild party nights out on next week’s much inflated wage packet.

The next shop added toothbrushes and paste, half a dozen bars of soap, deodorants, a hairbrush, wet razor and spare blades, shaving foam and a couple of bottles of aftershave gel, which smelled all right and contained a moisturiser.  This would be useful, given the heat and humidity to come.  Above all, he raided the chemist for insect repellent.  He understood some Amazonian insects had a ferocious appetite and so armed himself with a selection of bug sprays, creams and topical lotions.

They passed through check-in without a hitch after briefly stopping to change some of his remaining sterling into a mixture of US dollars, US dollar travellers cheques and Brazilian reals.

Hammond was exactly where he should have been, propping up the main bar in the departure lounge. He seemed pleased to see them and quickly told them that everything had been sorted.  As proof, he handed Pace a large manila envelope.

Inside were a duplicate passport and visa.

He ordered them all a drink while Pace studied the documents. Everything looked legitimate and he began to relax.  All the paperwork needed to get him out of Britain and into the adventure for which he had been paid so much money, was at hand. Up until that point he had been quietly doubtful that anyone had the influence to produce such important international documentation overnight.  But the proof was there, in his hands.

‘Ready for the trip of a lifetime?’

Hammond interrupted his thoughts and he turned to see both of them, sitting at adjacent bar stools, watching him intently. Sarah handed him a bottle of beer, which he gratefully half finished in a single swallow. Although it was barely eleven in the morning, Pace felt in need of it. The taste; crisp and clean, revitalised body and soul and any remaining doubts quickly evaporated.

‘Of course he is.’ Sarah looked straight at Pace, the twinkle in her eyes daring him to contradict her.

‘That reminds me.’ Hammond spoke before Pace could. ‘I’ve put the security boys onto last night’s events. Our company law firm has also been instructed to act on your behalf, in your absence.’ Hammond appeared as confident as Sarah. ‘Don’t worry, they’re the best legal people in London. They’ll handle everything.’

‘That’s good to know,’ said Pace.

‘That leaves all of us,’ Hammond pointed to them all in a quick, swirling movement of his index finger, ‘free to concentrate on the race.’

‘I’m glad both of you are so bloody cheerful about all this,’ protested Pace good-naturedly.  He ordered a fresh beer from the bartender with a motion of one hand.

‘Everything will be okay,’ promised Sarah.

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Pace said.  ‘I’m actually looking forward to running over a few things with you both again during the flight.’

Hammond stretched an arm down and patted his briefcase, perched on the floor by his stool.

‘All the final arrangements are in here and there’s plenty of flight time to run over anything you’re not sure about, several times if needs be. Speaking of the flight,’ he added, ‘we’ve only got about thirty minutes or so before boarding.  If there’s anything else you need you’d better run and get it now.’

‘No, I’ve got everything I need. Anything that springs to mind later can be picked up in Rio.’

He couldn’t think of anything else he needed to buy and the thought of spending some time browsing through balmy streets and bars, with all the normal tourists, was one not to miss. After all, he thought, how many times am I going to get to Rio de Janeiro in a lifetime, even with all that money in my bank.

‘Me neither, I’m good to go,’ agreed Sarah. ‘Travelling light is something I learned to do long ago. All I want now is to just get to Rio and hit the beach. I want to relax for a few days until the real work begins.’

Looking at her, dressed in the short, floral print summer dress split daringly high on the thigh to reveal her slim white legs, and with black hair hanging loose, Pace took a moment to imagine her laid out on a powder sand beach.  He saw her, skin gleaming with sun tan oil as she slowly roasted by a crashing, white-foamed azure ocean.  It was disturbingly erotic and a thought dispelled with real difficulty.

Pace had never been a particularly hard drinker but, for no reason he could understand, he sank another three bottles of beer before even boarding the plane and went on to polish off half a bottle of merlot with the in-flight meal.

Two hours into the flight and, for want of a better description, he was feeling light-headed yet pleasantly warm.  Contrary to his earlier plan, the last thing he now wanted to do was talk.  Besides, they had sumptuous first class seats, which were large and paired.  Hammond and Sarah occupied one set of adjacent seats and were engrossed in discussing paperwork right from take-off.

Pace was seated across the gangway from them and sadly blighted with the companionship of an incredibly fat old lady, whose excessive buttocks filled the wide girth of her own seat and hedged a little way onto his own, despite the seats themselves being wide and deeply contoured.

Obviously rich, her chubby fingers were strewn with gold and diamond rings that would have looked gaudy on somebody half her age.  Vividly coloured auburn hair was hard pushed to mask the original grey.  With several well-wrinkled chins and jowls a hound dog would have developed a complex about, she was the passenger from hell.

By the time he finished his meal and was getting to grips with the small video screen that popped out of the arm of his chair; moving smoothly on a specially designed metal arm, she’d eaten her own meal and demolished several snacks. She’d also polished off an entire bottle of expensive champagne and, much to his disgust, passed wind twice with little or no attempt at disguise. Pace couldn’t place her accent but she had little in the way of manners when summoning a hostess to attend to her slightest whim, which invariably involved food. Mrs Moorer-Simms was the name Pace heard her mention several times.

Even in his muzzy state he was pretty sure she had purchased the double barrelling.  He was also certain about the only double barrels she deserved. He so much wanted to say it, and very nearly did on at least one occasion but forced himself to stare blindly at the film being played until he dozed off.  Just as he started to drift off, she broke wind yet again.

The flight from Heathrow to Rio had an official duration, outbound, of just over eleven hours. The city lay comfortably within a time zone only three hours behind GMT so they touched down twenty minutes shy of midnight, altering watches back to local time of eight-forty pm. Pace had spent a few hours sleeping and a few more browsing through every word in a guidebook to Rio he picked up at Heathrow. It was interesting but purely in the sense that it allowed him to dissuade Mrs Moorer-Simms from bothering to engage him in conversation.

When he wasn’t sleeping, Hammond or Sarah were, though there were windows during the flight when Pace leaned across the gangway and they all talked together.  They even dared to play three hands of poker at one point.  Another good thing about the long flight was that Pace felt completely sober by the time they started their descent towards the coast of South America, if a little stiff.

Over the intercom the captain suggested looking down through the clear sky to see the coastline approach as they dipped through the thirty thousand feet mark, but Pace didn’t feel like leaning over his chubby neighbour.

Like everybody else he had planned to spot the famous statue of Jesus that overlooks the sea from high upon the summit of Mount Corcovado.  The reality would have meant getting far too close to Mrs Simms for his liking so, as they dropped down towards the Aeroporto Internacional do Galeao, he stayed seated, pretending to still be engrossed in his guidebook as the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from other passengers assailed his ears.

The plane continued to descend smoothly and landed with barely a bump, a few minutes later.

According to his book, the airport itself was built in a place called Ilha do Governador, about half an hour’s drive out of town and was a modern, highly acclaimed airport. As he stepped out of the door and into the extended disembarking tube; pushed up snugly to the aircraft’s door, Pace had to admit that it felt just the same as any other modern airport; he could have been anywhere.  He waited just inside the tube until Sarah and Hammond stepped out, each of them stretching their little aches from joints and muscles as inconspicuously as possible.

From the tube they entered the light, air-conditioned space of Terminal C and were duly processed through customs, then channelled professionally through checkpoints without a hitch. Luggage was already spilling out onto a circular conveyor as they entered the baggage area.   Hammond’s cases; three of them, came into view first, closely followed by Sarah’s.  Lastly came his own.

When they eventually got outside, his first experience of serious tropical heat since his flying days struck home like a sledgehammer. Although the sun had sunk beneath the horizon two hours earlier the air remained hot and humid, filled with the unpleasantly familiar tang of petrol fumes as taxi after taxi loaded up and pulled away from the kerb.  The rank of cabs stretched endlessly down the road for as far as the eye could see; a range of models but all painted yellow and sporting a blue stripe down the side.

The three travellers were targeted, pounced upon and hurriedly jostled towards the next available car by its enthusiastic driver, who urged them inside. The man was in his late fifties and as small and as bald as Hammond, although he did have eyebrows and a small grey moustache. Despite his size, he easily wrestled their cases into the spacious trunk of his old Chrysler, slamming it closed with practiced skill.  Barely a minute later he was settled comfortably behind the wheel and they were easing their way into city-bound traffic.

All the windows were open because the car did not have air-conditioning. It was large enough to house all three of them on its green vinyl back seat but Hammond chose to ride up front and give the driver details of their hotel.

The car turned onto a new section of highway and headed south, through some less than pleasant industrial areas before pushing on another eight or nine miles towards the coast. That was when they hit the more acceptable face of paradise.

They drove through brightly lit streets crowded with tourists, walking and shopping, eating and drinking in cafes or restaurants, both inside or on tables set out on the pavement. Music filled the thinner sea air, weaving a tapestry of rock, jazz, reggae and club anthems, as they sped past different car radios and townhouses.

The Zona Sul; an area for the rich and elite, was their destination. They reached the coast and turned onto the Avenida Atlantica, driving west.  The road ran parallel to the ocean, just a few hundred yards away, and it carried them swiftly into the famous Copacabana district.

Copacabana was a veritable rampart against the sea; a wall formed by huge glass and stone hotels.  The golden beach – man-made according to his guide book - stretched for over two miles as a frontage. Two casinos, glitzy and very Las Vegas, interspersed the hotels, as did several more sedate private mansions.  Most of the residences were hidden behind high walls and menacing security gates.

It wasn’t long before their driver pulled off the main road and turned through two huge stone pillars, hung with open, twenty-foot high  wrought-iron gates, and drove up a tree-lined gravel drive that led to the ornate double entrance doors of their hotel; Copacabana Ambassador.

The hotel was one of the thirty-storey monoliths of tinted glass. It occupied, Pace judged, about one hundred and fifty feet of the beachfront. Although it was too dark to see, Pace had done his homework and knew that the hotel’s grounds were laid to a mixture of lawn and exotic flowerbeds, allegedly maintained in rainbow bloom.

An immaculately uniformed commissionaire, his burgundy outfit decked with gold braiding and epaulets that matched his black and gold flat cap, waved a hand towards the taxi.  A couple of younger men in similar uniforms, minus the braiding, appeared from behind the gleaming revolving glass entrance door.  They skipped neatly down the three stone steps and busied themselves helping the driver unload the luggage.

Conversation had been light between all of them during the ride; nobody had the energy for anything heavier.  They were all in need of a shower and a good night’s sleep. Turning to suck in a deep lungful of warm evening air, rich with the scent of orchids and other expertly blended wild flowers, Pace stole a glance back the way they had come.

From this side of the gates it was now possible to see that the large stone pillars were not entirely solid entities. A small portal had been hewn into each one, large enough for a man to stand within, which was exactly what the security guards were doing.

Inside, the hotel was every bit as modern and luxurious as the outside led them to believe. They rode the escorted lift up to the twenty-ninth floor penthouse; Pace had been one out on his height guesswork, where they each took up residence in one of its three separate bedrooms. The penthouse was huge, having a lounge area, a bar, sauna and three bathrooms to complement each of the bedrooms individually. The entire space was expensively decorated and lavishly furnished.

Once he’d dumped his cases into a huge bed Pace had a good look around.  Finding a set of ornate patio doors, he went outside and up a small flight of stone steps that brought him out on to the flat roof of the hotel.  He expected to find some sort of little balcony but was amazed to find himself standing on a huge veranda.

The veranda housed a decent-sized swimming pool and an adjacent hot tub, together with a small patio area complete with sun loungers, table, six padded chairs and a large gas barbeque.  The whole area was subtly lit and the hot tub already bubbled away invitingly.  Black wrought-iron railings securely hemmed in all sides of the hotel’s roof – it would not do to lose guests over the edge he supposed – yet still afforded him a birds-eye view out over the ocean that was nothing short of breathtaking.

Looking out across the dark water, sparkling under moonlight in eternal motion, he felt a sense of inner peace he couldn’t remember feeling before in his life. High above everyone else, ensconced within a paradise, within paradise, any remaining cares about his decision met a timely end. Whatever happens, he thought, it was worth coming just to see this.

The other thing about finding himself in such an open, airy space was that it made him quickly realise just how hot and sticky he felt, especially when the gradually cooling sea breeze wafted his own smell up his nostrils.  It wasn’t a sweet smell either.  If he didn’t like it then nobody else would.

Pace dragged himself back inside reluctantly.  He quickly unpacked, taking no more than fifteen minutes to do so, and then dived into a shower that could happily accommodate a football team, with its four separate shower heads inside a ten-foot square, beautifully engraved glass cubicle. Like the other bathrooms he’d peeked into, these shower taps were gold-plated, as were the towel rings, toilet fittings and closet handles. He had hardly ever dreamed of such opulence.

He turned on the shower and water cascaded down from all sides, hot and pounding against his skin. Half an hour later, scrubbed clean, he slipped on a pair of swimming shorts, grabbed a towel, and headed back up to the roof. Nobody else had finished in their respective bathrooms and he had ten minutes of wonderful solitude, lazing in the open pool before being joined by Sarah.

She nearly took his breath away, clad only in a white bikini that left extremely little of her lithe figure to the imagination. Heaven had sent him a beach goddess and he could die a happy man.  Slipping into the water she stroked across the fifteen-foot distance between them and stopped with barely a ripple before disappearing beneath the surface with a deep breath, to sit on the bottom perhaps five feet below him.

The water was clean and pleasantly warm and being completely immersed in it seemed a great idea, so Pace joined her.  Together they sat on the bottom, facing each other in the ethereal glow from several underwater pool lights, for no good reason he could think of.  It turned into a good-natured breath holding contest.  Sarah surfaced first, but not by much.  She wiped water from her eyes with a big smile on her lips.

‘Now that feels better,’ she breathed.  ‘It’s so nice to stretch my muscles out in water, and what a view.’

‘Amazing isn’t it.’

‘It’s the best they have.  It’s my father’s treat for us all.’

‘Always thought he was a nice chap,’ Pace quipped.

‘When you’re struggling through a steaming jungle and trying to tackle the set challenges, or just trying to keep your footing over permanently flooded roads, think of this place and be happy.’

‘You say that so easily for a person who gets to stay in a nice hotel the whole time.’

‘I’ll be with you in spirit,’ she laughed lightly.

‘Oh, that’s okay then,’ he shot back.

Turning over onto her back, she allowed her body to just float as she stared up into the starry night sky, not moving.  Pace headed off on his own but Sarah soon rejoined him and they spent ages laughing and splashing, generally blowing off steam like a couple of kids on the first day of summer break, suddenly freed from the prison of a stuffy classroom.

Hammond hadn’t joined them and Pace was glad.  It was great to have Sarah’s company all to himself.  At times they raced but mainly they lazily matched each other’s speed so they could talk.

Pace’s pulse remained raised for the entire time, for reasons besides the energy he was using in the pool.  Sarah was graceful in the water, moving easily as though it was her natural habitat.  Her nearly-there bikini also hinted maddeningly at transparency whenever she stopped to stand up, at times lounging warmly against his shoulder for support.

An hour passed at least and Pace had kissed her, in his mind anyway, a dozen times before the chance to do so for real presented itself. Beneath a tropical night sky, lit in tandem by a bright full moon and sprinkling of stars, her hair plastered wetly down her back, Sarah leaned against him for another rest.  He slipped an arm around her waist and she slowly looked at him.  Her brown eyes were unreadable but suggested mild humour.

Was she waiting for him to kiss her?  Was she just amused by his indecision, or was he getting his signals all mixed up?

You could always bloody help me out, he thought angrily, feeling his cheeks flush hotly.  He was grateful for the soft lighting and the wealth of cast shadows all around but resolved to do it anyway.  Sadly, painfully, the kiss did not come.

As he started to move forwards she made no attempt to avert her gaze or move away. Then, a fraction of a second before their lips were to meet, his racing heart froze as Hammond’s voice cut across the moment. How long he’d been out there Pace could only guess at.  He hadn’t heard him because his eyes had been otherwise engaged.

‘Sarah.’ That word in itself was fine. It was what came next that crushed him flat. ‘Telephone for you. It’s your husband.’ A pause for effect.  ‘I’ll tell him you’re busy, shall I?’

‘No,’ she snapped at him.  The mood evaporated and she pulled away from Pace sharply. ‘I’ll come down and take it in my room.’

She pulled herself out of the water, wrapped a towel angrily around her shoulders and flew down the steps. Hammond followed.

Neither of them came back.

The pool felt suddenly chilly to him. It was purely a psychological phenomenon but Pace got out anyway, towelled dry for the second time that evening and returned to his room.  He pulled on a pair of black jeans and light blue cotton shirt.  On went a pair of trainers and he brushed his hair neatly in front of a large, gilded mirror before heading back to the lounge.

Hammond was nowhere to be seen and Sarah was still in her room because he heard the muffles of conversation from behind her bedroom door as he headed for the front door. Riding down within the walls of a lift large enough to have been called a room in its own right, he chided himself.

She wore no ring, so how was he to know she had a husband? She didn’t act like a married woman and had never mentioned a husband. What stung most was that he liked her; he really liked her.   The lift stopped on the ground floor and he made his way across the polished marble floor towards several restaurants and bars that were advertised.  Suddenly he needed a drink.  Fundador.

Although technically a cheap Spanish brandy, alongside Jack Daniels it ranked as a personal favourite. Mocked by friends with more pretentious tastes, it was obviously well exported because a bottle of it sat behind the first bar he came to.

He quickly took refuge inside a glass of it, swallowing most of it down in one before the understanding bartender smoothly refilled it almost before he set it back down on the bar.   Despite the late hour, a smiling waitress showed him to a small table and took his order.

Pace chose a hot chicken salad, which was delivered to his table within five minutes. When it came, there were at least two breast fillets, thinly sliced and coated with a chilli peanut sauce, layered on a bed of green salad, the strips seared black in places.  A large spoonful of the sauce was piled on top and the whole plate was garnished with a mixture of finely chopped spring onions, red chilli peppers and toasted sesame seeds.  He wolfed it down and finished his meal with a third brandy. In need of some fresh air, he then took himself out onto the hotel’s ocean patio, the route well signposted in several languages.

Outside, a light breeze blew in from the beach to ruffle at his hair, coaxing him to relax on a full stomach and to keep sipping at his drink.  He took a good look around him.  Cane furniture filled a large flag-stoned area.   Like the restaurant, it was bustling.     Couples of all ages, singles, children with their parents, and small groups of men and women, were all being very dutifully attended to by professionally unobtrusive waiters. Relaxing music played from concealed speakers, setting the mood nicely.

At that moment, though, he wasn’t in the mood to sit with company.  Instead, he ambled down some granite steps to his left and crunched his way across the wide, dark beach until water lapped the shore barely a foot in front of him.

Music wafted faintly across from the hotel behind him but the sound of the waves hitting the beach kept it in the background. The ocean was loud and predictable in motion, yet peaceful at the same time.  The air smelled strongly of salt, and of adventure, as he sat down on the sand to look up; pondering the moon and the stars.

He sipped slowly at his drink while the fingers of his free hand dug aimless shapes in the sand.  It was the perfect place and time to reflect and he quickly grew lost in thought.

*  *  *  *  *

Back in his own room, Hammond was worried.  It wasn’t the telephone call that had agitated him – Sarah’s love life was her own affair.  No, he was worried because the carefully laid plans designed to recover the missing cargo seemed to be unravelling before his eyes.

He’d heard James leave the suite an hour earlier, followed by Sarah about half an hour later.  Now alone, he dug his mobile phone out of his pocket, flipped up the screen, and punched in a pre-set number.  The call was recognised at the other end and a familiar voice sounded in his ear.

‘What’s the latest?’ Hammond asked quickly, forcing himself to relax and allow the tension to drain from his shoulders.

Doyle McEntire was used to having to alter plans on the flip of a coin, so he was less agitated than his company accountant; despite having more intimate knowledge of just how dangerous things were looking.

‘Sorry, Max.  Wish I had better news but the other side are adamant.  Our main contact claims to know nothing about the disappearance.  According to him, the plane was left where it should have been and was in perfect working order.  He has no idea why it never finished its run, or where it might be now.  He suggested treachery at our end but I set him straight there.  We both know Charlie was as honest as they come; she would never have double-crossed us.’

‘I agree,’ sighed Hammond wearily, and he meant it.  Any treachery had come from an outside quarter, and they were both increasingly aware of who that meant.  ‘What do we do about Cathera?  I don’t think our man is lying.  He’s been running the link with our Russian friends for several years.  I trust him.’

‘I agree, but I had to push him a little just to see if he had any idea.  As you said, that leaves Cathera and what we do about him.’

‘Do you think he’s found the plane, and Charlie’s body?’  Hammond knew it was almost certain that she was dead; the tracking unit built into her flying boots had been sending its signal ever since the plane vanished.  The signal had not moved, even by so much as a metre in all that time.  They knew exactly where the aircraft was; getting to it without raising suspicion was the thorn in their side.  Hammond didn’t bother to mention the lethal cargo that had been snugly tucked up inside the Harrier’s nose section.  Its loss was an enormous problem that didn’t need any discussion.

‘I don’t know,’ McEntire replied truthfully.  ‘If he has got his hands on it, none of my sources inside the government are letting on.  I pay them well for their ears, and the bonus for information is a good one.  No, if he has got the cargo, he hasn’t let it slip to anyone.  Doesn’t mean he hasn’t, mind.  Just that it’s unlikely.  He wants it though, that’s for sure.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘My spies tell me that Cathera has acquired the services of a nuclear scientist recently.  A stroppy, argumentative woman who’s blotted her copy book with the Ministry of Energy by all accounts.  Seems he’s offering her an all-expenses paid trip to the Amazon.  And he’s bought himself an abandoned gold mining facility deep within the Basin area.’

‘Now why would he need an expert in handling nuclear material?’ Hammond asked, feeling his heart sink a little deeper.  ‘And what has any of this got to do with an old mine?’  It was getting a hell of a lot worse by the minute.

‘I haven’t got a clue at the moment,’ Doyle McEntire admitted slowly, ‘but I will find out, count on it.  It doesn’t mean he’s got hold of the stuff yet but he knows its there and he obviously has some kind of plan, even if we don’t understand what it could be yet.’

‘You think he would use it?  On who?  Where?’  Hammond was incredulous at the thought.  ‘He wouldn’t dare.’

‘Of course he would,’ countered McEntire sternly.  ‘I don’t think he will, but he is just mad enough to use it if he feels cornered.  No, he probably plans to sell it to a terrorist organisation with deep pockets; that’s more his style.’

‘We can’t let him do that either,’ argued Hammond, feeling his hackles rise with temper.  ‘We’ve spent too long trying to get this shit out of circulation to allow it!’

‘And we won’t, even if we have to kill him.  But all this might never happen if we can get the package out of the plane before he finds it.  That is our priority.’

Hammond thought for a second, unsure of how to tackle the next subject.  ‘Look, Doyle, you’ve left me babysitting this amateur, which is fine for the job in hand but this whole operation could turn really nasty.  I think we might have to pull the plug.  He’s going to be a liability.’

‘Out of the question,’ dismissed McEntire brusquely.  ‘His involvement with Race Amazon is the whole reason we have so much publicity, and why the Brazilian authorities have stumped up such an increase in police and military presence around Manaus.  We need the uniforms and guns on the ground to try and dissuade Cathera from making a move against the President, let alone trying to retrieve our package himself.  We can’t afford to lose the influence we have down here; our activities must continue.  A new leader might not be as sympathetic to our cause.’

‘But if he does make a move, he’s likely to use the race to do it.  That could put all the runners at risk, including James.’  He paused, sucking in a slight breath to emphasise his next point.  ‘He could be killed; they all could.’

McEntire knew that Hammond was right but there were bigger things at stake than a few lives.  If he liked it or not, all the race competitors were expendable.  Hopefully, there wouldn’t be any problems.  He liked James, and his celebrity status had been a godsend for the operation, but this was a dirty business and thousands of lives were at stake.  He could not waver.

‘James stays.  Keep him in the dark and get him out there racing.  I will speak to you if I hear anything more.’

‘Any news about the fire at his flat?  He’s bound to ask.’

‘The fire brigade are very good at tracing the route cause of fires nowadays, and they haven’t wasted any time finding out that the fire was set deliberately.  An accelerant was used; probably petrol, but their investigators are still finalizing their report.’

McEntire didn’t bother to add that he had applied considerable political pressure to key brigade personnel in order to throw up a smokescreen around the truth.  Until the race was over, everyone would be told it was an accident triggered by faulty wiring in the kitchen extractor fan.

‘So, I’m guessing we tell him the results show an accident?’ Hammond knew the way things had to be.

‘You know the score, Max.  Just get the race going, make sure the publicity level remains high, and do your job.  Just find that damned aeroplane before Cathera does.’

The call was abruptly terminated at McEntire’s end and Hammond tossed the phone dejectedly onto the huge, sumptuous bed that sat in one corner of his room.

‘Sorry, James,’ he apologised in his absence.  ‘Orders are orders.’  Pouring himself a large scotch, he resolved himself to his task.

7

‘It’s a beautiful night.’  The cautious voice was the first thing that alerted him to her presence and it occurred to him that she would make a pretty good assassin. He had not heard her approach.

‘It beats London, that’s for sure.’  Half turning, he forced a smile as he took note of  her bare feet and clinging black dress, cut just above the knee. Sitting down next to him on the sand, a heady scent of her perfume pervaded his senses. ‘You look beautiful.’

‘All for you, so I’m glad you noticed.’  Her smile was natural.

‘A nice thought,’ Pace said, his fingers biting more deeply into the sand.  He didn’t trust himself to look at her and stared intently at his excavations instead.

‘Join me on the veranda for a few drinks?’ she asked, touching his arm.  He hadn’t expected her touch and jumped slightly.  ‘My treat.’

‘I like it here, by the ocean.’

‘Is that a no?’  A flicker of doubt edged onto her face and her stomach lurched at the glimmer of anger she caught lurking behind his eyes.  Damn Hammond and damn Tom, she thought.  ‘Are you okay?’ she ventured, knowing full well he wasn’t.  She needed to fix things quickly, that much was clear.

‘I’m already a few ahead of you,’ Pace conceded, raising his half empty glass.  He looked towards her and their eyes locked.  He was completely at a loss for what else to say.  He needed to stay in control.

‘I’d better catch you up then.’

‘Tall order.’

‘That sounds like a challenge.’

‘Are you game?’

‘Are you?’ she fired back.

‘I asked first,’ he said, suddenly feeling like a five-year old having a playground spat.

‘Now there’s a question,’ she laughed softly.

Suddenly the tension between them cracked, broke and dissolved.  Her eyes glinted with reflected starlight and his heart began to race again. She stood up and offered him her hand.

Not sure whether to be angry or excited, Pace allowed her to help him up from the sand with good grace. She didn’t let go of his hand so he left it where it was as she turned and led the way back towards the bright tower of twinkling lights that was their hotel.  The building looked magnificent against the starry backdrop of the tropical night.

They chose a small table in the far corner of the patio and Pace was contemplating what to do next when she leaned across the table and planted a kiss, very softly, on his mouth. Then again, this time kissing him harder; cradling his cheek in one hand. The kiss was emotional and lingering, with neither of them willing to break it. Sarah broke it eventually, sat back and regarded him whilst still firmly holding on to one of his hands.

She beckoned a waiter with her other hand, now vacated from his cheek, and ordered a bottle of well-chilled champagne.  It arrived within a minute, along with two frosted, tall-stemmed crystal glasses.  The waiter expertly popped the cork into a cloth in his hand and filled them both without spilling a single drop.

The liquid fizzed to the very rim of each glass before settling and being topped up. That done, the man discreetly withdrew.

‘My husband, as Max so delicately put it, is my soon to be ex-husband,’ she began slowly.  It was the first time he’d heard Hammond called by his first name.

‘You don’t have to explain anything to me.’  Still, if she wanted to, who was he to argue?

‘I know that,’ she said.

She looked at him, sipping her champagne with eyes half closed.  He had the slightly unpleasant feeling of being sized up, but for what he knew not. Another kiss and he didn’t really care. The feel of her soft lips, pressing wetly against his own, dulled any deeper thoughts.

‘Tom, that’s my husband, used to work for my father in our old London office. That’s where we met.’ For a second her eyes were covered by a wistful cloud but it quickly passed. ‘He was dynamic, big and strong. Intelligent and, well, just very sexy I suppose.’

‘Sounds perfect.’  Already Pace felt irritated but kept his gaze politely interested, nothing more.

‘At thirty-five, he was five years older than me but that didn’t matter. We started going out after a few weeks and he proposed within three months.’

‘He didn’t hang about then?’

‘Neither of us did.  I hate to say it now, but it was all incredibly romantic.’

‘Sounds like love.’

‘It was love,’ she agreed.  ‘Our only thorn was my father.  He was pretty mad when we told him.  He figured Tom had abused his position to get to me, and my money.’ She paused, glancing momentarily out over the dark ocean. ‘I didn’t care though. I was madly in love and my father finally had to get used to the idea.’

‘I hope you signed a pre-nuptial agreement,’ Pace smiled, instantly regretting it and mentally kicking himself for obviously saying the wrong thing. Her face hardened and her eyes flashed with temper.

‘That’s just what he said.’

‘A sensible precaution.’  He was committed now and felt a certain curiosity as to the anger he’d seen manifest itself, however briefly. ‘Even if Tom’s motives were totally honourable, your father probably wanted to make sure you were protected.’

‘He was protecting himself more like,’ she retorted, ‘and I’m very pleased about that now.  He was mainly just protecting his precious company, and my shares in it.’

‘Shares?  In the McEntire Corporation?’

‘Yes. My father gave them to me on my twenty-first birthday.  It was his only present.  A twenty percent stake for his only child.’

‘That’s quite some gift,’ Pace said.  He tried to imagine what kind of monetary value twenty percent of such a vast company would amount to, aside from the power inherent in being a major shareholder.  He didn’t know where to start so quickly gave up trying.   ‘So you became a director?’

‘No. Well, yes, I suppose.  Technically I am a director but the money was enough of a nightmare on its own, if that makes any sense. I’m not a lover of business really, although I’ve become very good at it over the years.  I help my father because he’s my father.’

‘All the money in the world and no time to enjoy it?’

‘Something like that, so I became more of a sleeping partner.  It’s what suits me.  I still work long hours, frequently six days a week, but it tends to be work close to my father, like scheduling, organising and overseeing his personal workload.  I leave the politics of big business to him and his management team.’

The people around them had gradually thinned out, disappearing inside in dribs and drabs until very soon they had the moonlit veranda practically to themselves.

‘Everyone has to have a private life though,’ he ventured.  ‘Sometimes work can be a way of coping with life so you don’t have to really live it, of avoiding it.’

He was thinking of his own preoccupation with work now.  He’d always been there, either working his hours, doing overtime, or sometimes just visiting on his days off.  A private life, for years, just hadn’t existed.  His only hobby was renting a helicopter once a month and blowing off the cobwebs, cruising up and down the south coast.  No women either; none who’d lasted more than a night anyway.

‘Maybe for some people but not me,’ she replied firmly.

‘Look at me, I nearly lost my life a few weeks ago.  I was given a second chance and I knew my life had to change, and it has changed.  Work must be just one part of my life from now on.’

‘It must have been frightening, thinking you were going to die.’

‘I was dying,’ he nodded, ‘and on the floor of a subway of all places.  When I was in the RAF, in some pretty scary places let me tell you, death was all par for the course.  I was prepared to be shot down in the service of Queen and Country but the older I get, the less inclined I am to peg out.  But now I’m here, with you, in Brazil. It’s absurd.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Sarah countered lightly.

‘You don’t?’  It wasn’t really a question.  ‘Okay, so what am I doing?  I’m preparing to go into the darkest jungle to play the daredevil cameraman. There isn’t much logic to any of it except the money gives me a future I can control.’  He swallowed some champagne.  ‘And, of course,’ he added, ‘I did get to meet you.’

She cocked a questioning eye at him.  ‘Is that a good thing or bad?  No, don’t answer that.  So, you can’t see yourself as an adventurer yet and the race is almost here.’

‘Not really, no.  You’ve got to admit, I hardly fit the bill.’

‘I think you make a surprisingly dashing hero.’

Slightly embarrassed, unsure if she was serious or just playing with him, he pressed her to carry on with her story.

‘Well, where was I?  Oh, I know, Tom.  Well he’s a director of my father’s company too.’

‘Sorry?’  Had he heard her correctly?

‘It probably sounds stupid but my father gave him a three percent share and a seat on the board when we married.  In return, Tom signed away all rights to my fortune if the marriage failed.’

‘That was your father’s idea of a prenuptial agreement?’

‘Carrot and stick.’

‘If he didn’t trust him enough to stay married to you, why give him such a big lump of the company? Isn’t that dangerous?’ Pace knew very little about business but it seemed like an over-payment.

‘Not really,’ explained Sarah, a weak smile forced onto her face. ‘My father retains seventy-one percent ownership all by himself.  I have another twenty percent stake, leaving nine percent shared equally between Tom and two other directors. Tom is very good at what he does.’  Her tone was matter-of-fact.   ‘The company needs his skills.’

So he’d have money for life, power and prestige, but all within carefully controlled parameters.

‘So?’ Pace steered the conversation back on track with his usual lack of tact. ‘How long were you together?’

Across the table, face softly lit, she flicked her hair behind her ear in a very sensual way. ‘I married at thirty-one and became separated a little over a year later.’ She rammed home her point. ‘We’ve been separated for about the same time again, with a rubber stamp on the divorce due sometime next month. Two years from start to finish.’  That made her thirty-three years old he thought, for no particular reason.

‘Amicable?’

‘Amicable?’ She tasted the word experimentally on her tongue before twisting her face up in mock disgust. ‘Not really, no.’

‘Sorry,’ said Pace, instantly regretting asking the question. ‘That’s your business.’

‘It’s okay,’ she said, sucking in a breath and seeming to collect her thoughts.  Her next words were carefully measured.  ‘I realised pretty early on that it wasn’t right. The loving side of him was there when he wanted sex, sure, but the pleasant manners dried up within six months. Then came the arguments and eventually the physical stuff.’

‘He was violent?’ Pace didn’t know how to react to the revelation and left his question unaccompanied by platitudes.  To his surprise, the seriousness of the subject wasn’t mirrored in her expression. She looked almost amused.

‘Don’t think for a minute that he beat me black and blue every day, or locked me in cupboards, or anything like that,’ she explained.  ‘He isn’t that way, or he wasn’t with me.  He just got very paranoid about where I was going and who I spent time with, even though he knew if I wasn’t at home, I was working. One night he cooked me this fabulous dinner and told me it was time to stop working.  Said he wanted us to start a family straight away and I didn’t need to work; we had plenty of money.’

‘Children?  Well, that’s normal in a marriage.’  The idea of kids had never appealed to Pace but maybe it was all about meeting the right person first.  It just seemed an awful lot of avoidable work, stress and antagonism to him.

‘But we’d already agreed not to start a family straight away,’ she added.  ‘He knew it but suddenly he expected the rules to change.  I wanted us to spend a few years together, as a couple, before thinking about children.  He thought he could simply move the goalposts.’

‘If you weren’t ready for kids, he should have respected that.’

‘Well he didn’t.  It was too soon for me but he wasn’t having any of it.  He doesn’t like to be told he can’t get his own way and he ended up losing his temper. Plates and glasses were smashed against the walls and he ranted on and on about me not caring about him.’ She paused and the humour slipped away to reveal a more grim expression.

‘He sounds a little insecure where you’re concerned.’

‘I tried to calm him down and have a rational conversation; he wouldn’t listen.  The shouting between us just got louder and louder.  Then, all of a sudden, he flew at me and punched me in the face, knocking me flat and splitting my bottom lip open.  I don’t remember much else until the ambulance arrived.’

There was an uncomfortable silence as they recharged their glasses. Pace broke it.  ‘And that was it, over?’

‘All bar the legalities,’ she agreed.  ‘I moved out of the house and went back home. My father was brilliant, I’m the first to admit. He wanted to fire Tom on the spot and press charges but I managed to talk him out of it. I just wanted to forget it ever happened.  I felt stupid and hurt.’ Pace listened quietly. ‘Dad turned it all over to the lawyers and my marriage was finished.’

‘What happened to Tom?’ The question masked a now burning curiosity in him; to know why he’d called her.

‘My father called him into his office, bawled him out and transferred him to project management. Whatever his faults, Tom is a fantastic organiser and negotiator.  My father didn’t want him anywhere near the accounting or security divisions any longer; the trust had gone you see, but he wanted to keep his experience.’

The waiter took the opportunity of a break in their conversation to slip up to the table and remove the empty champagne bottle. When he left, Sarah raised Pace’s hand up to her lips and kissed its back.

‘And that’s why he phoned this evening. As Projects Manager, he is over here as well. He’s actually been down here for over a month, managing the organisation until my father flies in and takes over right at the end. He wants to see me before I leave for home again.  He didn’t say why.’

In truth she knew exactly what he wanted; another shot at the marriage.  He’d pleaded with her to come back to him, saying they could have a few weeks cruising the nearby coastline in a luxury yacht if only she would stay in Brazil until after the race was run.

Pace dismissed the rising bitterness in his throat as trapped champagne bubbles, thankfully unable to read her thoughts. He couldn’t be jealous of a woman he barely knew anyway, he reasoned.

‘As I see it,’ she breezed away from the issue without telling him any more, ‘you still have over a week here to adjust to the heat and the humidity before flying inland.  My father is due to arrive about the same time.  He’ll need to check everything over with Tom before he gives a green light.’

‘I will look upon it as a taste of heaven before I die,’ Pace said.  He was also about to make some remark about the quality of her company but it felt corny even as he formed the thoughts, so he dismissed it. Besides, she hadn’t told him whether she was meeting her husband or not. It really wasn’t any of his business. Perhaps they would get back together in the end. Who was he to even attempt to get in the way? Not for the first time that night, his romantic fire fizzled out in a shower of self-doubt.

‘Common sense tells me to stop drinking before I end up totally plastered,’ groaned Sarah, stretching in a very slow, deliberate way.

‘I don’t know about that,’ Pace said, thinking that he could probably manage another brandy nightcap, ‘but I could do with some sleep.’

‘Let’s go then,’ she decided, fluidly standing and slipping an arm through his. ‘Max will be wondering what we’ve been talking about all this time.’

Back upstairs, there was no sign of Hammond. All the lights still burned brightly but his bedroom door was firmly closed and Pace guessed he’d turned in for the night. With his earlier thoughts of passion gone cold, he stifled a yawn and turned around to say something to Sarah, only to find his arms filled with her.  She pulled him close as their lips met; softly at first and then crushing as their tongues met tentatively inside her warm mouth, her fingers drawing small circles on his back.

His body reacted normally; rising to the occasion, as they pressed together but something didn’t feel right.  Tom was between them; he could almost feel his presence watching them. The thought went a long way to cooling him back down again. Did she really want to do this with him, for him, or was she just feeling vulnerable?  Or was it about needing some human affection and him happening to be close at hand?

‘Is something wrong?’ Sarah’s voice in his ear snapped him back to the present. She stepped away from him and cast a questioning look down, then a more searching one back up at him. ‘I thought you wanted me.’

‘I do...very much,’ Pace mumbled, feeling foolish and frustrated all at once. ‘I don’t know.  I know you’re not living with your husband but now I know he’s here, and part of this project, I’m going to have to meet him at some point.’ It wasn’t strictly the reason but it sounded more credible than his own barrage of insecure thoughts. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t complicate anything, for now.’  He could hardly believe what he was saying himself.

‘I don’t just sleep with anybody!’ Her face coloured and the snap in her tone cracked across the short distance now between them.  ‘I just thought…’

She was embarrassed and angry, her own feelings more confused than ever.  She needed him to take charge of the situation; to make the decision for her, but he just stood there looking aghast.  That made her even angrier.  It was all going wrong but what could he say to retrieve the situation? What would put it right?

‘I didn’t mean it like that, Sarah. I just meant that we need to be sure,’ he said, but his words trailed away as she turned her back on him and stormed into her bedroom.

She slammed the door hard against its frame to close the moment with finality. Twenty minutes passed, then thirty.  She wasn’t coming out so he retired to his own room and went to bed.

Hopefully he could fix things in the morning.

8

The aircraft descended gently towards the runway at Malaga airport, passing over undulating parched scrubland, seeming to skim the magnificent peaks of the Sierras on its way down.  It was a commercial Boeing 737 jet, sporting the rather dull grey and blue livery of one of the dozen or so cheap charter airlines that flew there.

The sun burned fiercely in a cloudless sky above, oblivious to the perfect landing the pilot executed, as the plane’s wheels kissing the runway with barely a judder.  The summer temperature in southern Spain was so high that a heat haze covered the runway and a stiff, hot breeze filled the air with wafts of dust and sand.  And this year was turning out to be hotter than most.

The aircraft reversed thrust on its two massive engines and its speed bled away.  Five minutes later it was safely tucked up on the correct apron and the passengers were being politely filed off down the tunnel that had been pressed against the forward port exit.

Marcus Browner was a small businessman, dealing in commercial plumbing supplies according to his papers.  He was a little shy of six feet tall and stocky but the rather cheap suit hung too loosely to see what kind of shape he was in underneath.  His features were sharp and his dark eyes roamed from side to side from behind cheap plastic sunglasses as he allowed himself to be swept down towards passport control by the surge of disembarking passengers.  His short hair was fair, cut spiky and receding at the temples.  He appeared to be pushing forty.

He was so plain that he was waved through customs without so much as a second glance.  He collected a rather ancient suitcase that had seen its share of baggage halls over the years before ambling out of the exit and into the first taxi he saw; a white Mercedes saloon.

The Spanish driver quickly cottoned on to Marcus’s nationality and assumed, wrongly, that he didn’t speak Spanish.  After all, hardly any of the English tourists could be bothered to learn another language – they just expected English to be understood wherever they went.  Mainly, it was, which was a little annoying to the Spaniard.

Marcus read off the name of a nearby hotel from a crumpled piece of paper pulled from the inside pocket of his polyester two-piece.  He played the perfect, stumbling Brit, then sat in the back and watched the world go by as the driver headed out onto the main road, slipping past the huge San Miguel brewery complex that appeared on the right.  The heat was tremendous but the air was dry and free from humidity.  As the driver muttered how much he hated British tourists and wished they would all learn a proper language for a change, his passenger stared blankly at him, smiling and nodding in obvious ignorance.  In reality, he understood every single word.

Hotel Pez Estada backed right onto the beachfront at Montemar, a little over fifteen minutes driving time from Malaga airport.  It was a large multi-storey hotel of gleaming white, with an impressive glass entrance at the front, just a quick left turn off the main road and down a small incline.  Surrounded by shops, bars and cafes, the area was a throng of seething humanity.

It was early summer and the tourists were out in force, drawn by the cheap living, gorgeous weather and hotels with decades of family-friendly experience.  Children were everywhere, bounding to and fro, while parents laden with armfuls of towels, rubber rings, buckets and spades, hurried after them.  The atmosphere was charged with excitement.

Unlike the taxi driver, the hotel’s reception staff were polite and genuinely pleased to see him.  He rode the lift up to the eighth floor and let himself into a smart, single room with a small balcony overlooking the ocean at the back of the hotel.  The balcony was only large enough for a couple of small chairs but the view out over the wide, horseshoe-shaped bay was perfect.

He spent a moment or two staring out to sea before rousing himself to the job in hand and making a call on his satellite phone.   The conversation was brusque and ended in seconds.  He had the directions he needed.  The meeting was set for the following day.

Rising at six, Browner ate a light breakfast of coffee and toast in his room.  At a little after ten o’clock, he took the lift back down to the lobby and exited through the front, where he hailed a cab.

He wore cream cotton trousers and a white shirt, left hanging down fashionably outside his trousers.  On his head he wore a blue baseball cap and the cheap sunglasses once again protected his eyes from the brilliant sunshine.  The sandals on his feet were of cheap plastic, with Velcro tabs across the middle and around the heel.

The taxi cruised easily through light traffic the seven or so miles west that took it past Benalmadena marina and a little way on down the coast.  He paid the driver, tipping him well to wait for his return, before following the signs leading to a flight of wooden steps that led down into a small cove.

The sand was clean and soon crunching beneath his sandals; the water sparkling blue and clear.  The beach was already filling with bodies; naked ones.  Without hesitation, Browner stripped naked and bundled his clothes into a red canvas bag he’d brought along with him.  The towel it had contained was laid out on the sands before he made his way down to the water.  The air was warm and the sun caressed his skin with gentle fingers.

Most men would have been strutting to the water’s edge with a huge smile on their face if they’d been as physically blessed as Browner.  Women stared appreciatively, to differing degrees, and most of the men pretended they weren’t bothered, while quickly checking to see if their lover was one of those looking.  Browner’s expression, however, remained one of fixed determination.

Entering the water, which was far emptier than the sand, he waded out until the gentle waves lapped around his waist.  A man swimming nearby turned and headed his way.  Reaching Browner, the man stood up and nodded at him.  He stood a few inches taller than Browner and, viewed from shore, it looked like nothing more than a couple of tourists having an innocent chat.  The text was very different, if anyone could have heard them.

‘An interesting choice of location, Wolf.’

‘Here, nothing is hidden.  It is the perfect choice.’

‘Fair enough.  To business.’

‘Is everything in order?’

‘The money you asked for has been wired to the necessary accounts this morning,’ answered the man.  He had a soft accent, East European sounding, and very pale, freckled skin that was already reddening in the sunshine.  His hair was dark and very long, held in a ponytail, and a gold cross dangled from one earlobe.  Unlike Browner, the man’s sunglasses were branded and exorbitantly expensive.

‘Good.  The job detail would be helpful.’

‘The mark lives in the United States.  Female.  Must be executed with extreme prejudice yet made to look like a random criminal act.  Full details have been placed inside your bag of clothes, as requested.  You are to complete the task with our compliments.’

‘I never fail.  You have my personal guarantee but that is why your organisation came to me in the first place.  I expect no further contact from anybody in your organisation, is that clear?  If I feel I’m being set up, or cheated, I will be coming for you.’

‘Threats are not necessary.  Your reputation precedes you, as does your ruthlessness.  There will be no tricks.  Just do the job right.’

‘Remember what I said.’  Wolf’s tone was icy.

He gave the man no opportunity to speak again, instead turning and wading out of the sea and back up the beach to where he’d left his bag of clothes.  Sure enough there was now a piece of paper stashed away inside it.  He left the paper inside and towelled himself dry.

He dressed quickly and headed back to the road.  The taxi was still where he’d left it and it whisked him back to the hotel in time for a light lunch on the garden terrace.

The information on the paper was absorbed and the paper itself flushed down the toilet before he checked out and headed back to the airport.  Three hours later, he sat on a flight back to Heathrow, from where he joined a connecting flight to New York.  He travelled economy class and managed to sleep most of the flight away.

As he boarded the internal flight that would bring him down into the fabled Windy City, he pondered idly on the name of his target once more, tasting it silently on the tip of his tongue.  Amanda Pace.

*  *  *  *  *

Sarah wasn’t there when Pace got up the next morning and he saw very little of her over the next three days, spending the majority of time in Hammond’s company, only returning to the hotel in the evenings to eat and sleep.

When he did see her, she was cordial and polite but refused to meet his gaze for any longer than she had to, preferring to stay in her room when he was around. What she did during those days he had no idea, although he couldn’t pretend it didn’t bother him, because it did. The closeness was gone, as were the range of smiles she usually wore.  Though not frowning, her expression over that period rarely altered from a countenance of indifference.  Fortunately, he didn’t have time to dwell on it.

Hammond spent the first day showing him around the event headquarters.  It occupied the entire top floor of a small office building, nestled on the very edge of the city centre.  Across from the market square of Praca XV de Novembro, it sat virtually opposite the recently restored eighteenth-century colonial splendour of the Paco Imperial building. Their office building was also a converted building, dating back to the turn of the century. Whilst lacking the architectural class of its geographical opposite number, its plain white exterior, carved stonework and impressive arched entrance still lent it decidedly more soul than a modern skyscraper.

The top floor offered a lot of space for relatively few people; Pace counted four in all. Most of the individual side offices were totally bare and a huddle of six desks sat pushed together in the middle of the main floor, looking ridiculous amid a wide sea of plush red carpet. Two computers sat on the little ship, with the rest of the surfaces swamped by an array of charts, papers, maps and detailed satellite photographs.

Only one side office was occupied. An ancient mahogany desk, sitting heavily on bowing legs, two chairs, a lamp and a telephone were all that accompanied their human master.  The man rose to greet Hammond like an old friend, then nodded towards Pace over their handshake.

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Pace,’ the man said. ‘You’ll have to excuse the basic facilities but the more corners we cut on administration, the more cash goes into the pot.’

‘I understand,’  Pace replied easily.

Hammond slapped him lightly on the back. ‘James, I’d like you to meet the brains at this end.  Tom McEntire.’  He waved a hand in a flourish towards Tom.  ‘Tom, meet James Pace.  James is going to work the camera for Team Two.’

It was interesting to see the marital role reversal.  Tom, as Sarah’s husband, had taken her famous name and would doubtless keep it after the divorce.  He knew it would open doors for him in the business world that would otherwise remain firmly shut.  Pace was making an assumption but his gut told him he was right.

Tom shook his hand quickly and led the way back out onto the desert of the main floor and across to the nest of desks. Sarah’s description of him was unpleasantly accurate. He was in his late thirties, stood about six two, was broad shouldered and had a full head of collar-length dark hair. His eyes were dark and he moved with easy grace that belied his muscular physique, obvious beneath a thin shirt and Bermuda shorts.

The four people he led them over to were all standing and debating a route marked off on a large-scale chart laid out before them. None were much older than him and all were dressed casually in shorts and tee shirts. There were two men and two women.

Tom interrupted them long enough to make the necessary introductions. Of the men, one was an American who dwarfed Tom with the obsidian body of a heavyweight wrestler, the leader of Team One; Tim Bailey.  He was a New Yorker and his speech was richly laden with the distinctive drawl of his home city.  The second man was another competitor on Team One. In complete contrast to Bailey, he was short, pencil-slim and spoke with a decidedly Mexican accent. His name was Miguel Poranchez and he specialized in native Amazonian languages.

The women were both components of Team Three. The leader, and doctor of the team, was a flame- haired young woman by the name of Kate O’Brannigan. Tall and heavily set for a woman, she gave the instant impression of being solid and reliable.  Her companion was the team’s seasoned adventurer; well versed in jungle life.  She wore her blonde hair up in a clip and was painfully lean; some might say wiry.  Tell-tale lines on her face told him she was in her late thirties; she actually turned out to be forty-three years old.  She was a Norwegian, named Anna Olsen.

They were a truly international bunch, with a range of accents and styles of speaking that blended rather than clashed.  Pace felt at ease with them pretty much from the start and Bailey, for his part, seemed pleased for the chance at gaining another perspective on the race plans.  He beckoned Pace in to take a closer look at their chart.

The race, he already knew, was divided into three distinctive sections, with each section presenting different obstacles for the teams.  The first section would be undertaken on foot.  The second section would involve collecting mountain bikes and riding for several hundred miles while the final leg would involve navigating specially-designed racing hovercraft back up river to the finishing line.

At points along the way, teams would have to tackle set-piece challenges as well.  The first two parts of the race would utilize part of a modern road built through the rainforest.  He asked Bailey about the road as he poured over the chart.

‘The Trans-Amazonian Highway,’ growled Bailey, his tone being naturally deep rather than a sign of displeasure; in fact he wore a broad smile. ‘The wonder road built in the eighties to encourage Brazilians to leave the cities and set up small farms in the forest.’

‘A great idea on the surface,’ cut in Kate. ‘The rain forest looks so lush and fertile anyone could be forgiven for thinking that by clearing the land you would have access to fruitful soils beneath.’ She sighed, sweeping her hand across the mass of green forest that virtually filled the entire chart. ‘In truth, the soil stinks. It is only ever good for one season, perhaps two with luck.  Never any more.’

‘Then it becomes sterile and the farmer has to move on and clear another section of the forest.’  Bailey seamlessly took back the conversation.  ‘Before long even the government could see the problems and shifted the emphasis back towards building new towns and cities to employ workers in industry.’

‘How far does the highway go?  How many people use it?’ Pace asked.  ‘There wasn’t anything in my briefing that dealt with it.’

‘The highway itself is a main route, but there were several other roads built around the same time, cutting off from it to other destinations.  Everyone just thinks of it as a single road but, anyway, back to your point,’ he laughed.  ‘All traffic is going to be suspended for the duration of the race.  We’re being trucked into the interior a little way so traffic would only have been light anyway.  For a few days, closure shouldn’t inconvenience too many people.’

‘Are you sure?’  Pace was incredulous.  ‘Shutting down the main jungle road has to cause some problems.’

‘Most of the traffic planned for the road switched back to the river years ago.  The road is so poorly maintained that travelling along it is no longer a guarantee of getting anywhere.  The constant rain and regular flooding make it an impossible job for the authorities to keep the thing in good repair.’

‘The main route was built to run from Belem, on the Atlantic coast, up river, to the jungle city of Manaus.’  Kate took up the baton. ‘From Manaus, sub-routes were cut south to Porto Vehlo, west to Benjamin Constant and north to a place called Boa Vista, not far from the eastern borders of Venezuela.’ She paused to allow the meaningless names to hang in the cool, conditioned air for a second. ‘Thousands of miles of road, cut at massive expense through almost impenetrable terrain and, in the end, all for nothing.’

‘What Kate means,’ explained Bailey ‘is that the road cost a fortune Brazil could ill afford to pay at the time. Right from the start, some places were only ever passable in the dry season.  Maintaining it properly, given the environment, just isn’t possible because very little was ever paved.’

‘Some was left as little more than a wide, smooth, dirt track,’ added Kate.

Bailey gave a resigned sigh.  ‘Once the thing was built, no amount of money could keep it open. Over the first five years, a lot of it either washed away, was covered by permanent flood water, or began reverting to forest.’

‘And there wasn’t just the economic cost to consider.’  Kate interrupted Bailey once again, but he didn’t seem to mind. ‘The road builders opened up huge areas of forest never before accessible to westerners.  They inadvertently subjected virgin tribes to our common diseases and destroyed millions of acres of forest in the process.’

‘I see,’ said Pace.

‘Do you?  I hope so. It was bad enough before, when the main problem was just a few mining camps set up to extract precious metals from the interior.  They polluted the water and poisoned the land. Many thousands of indigenous people have died as a result of outside exploitation.’

There is a mood of depression, a depth of sobriety even, that instils itself when death is brought into a conversation without warning. Pace didn’t know what to say and so the silence stood for perhaps ten seconds before Bailey, with a conscious shrug of gigantic shoulders, stabbed a thick finger down at the chart.

Mood broken, smiles returned and Pace stared down at the marked spot, waiting for enlightenment to strike.

‘I think I have a great deal to learn,’ sighed Pace honestly.  ‘Tell me what’s really out there, waiting for us.’

‘My pleasure,’ beamed Bailey.  ‘Ready?’  Pace nodded.  ‘Okay then, here goes.’

9

‘The first leg is the foot race, on a section of the highway that’s still in good condition,’ Bailey explained.  ‘We will be flown out to Manaus, the starting point for the race. Our first job when we arrive will be to work the media as hard as we can.’

‘There’ll be press from all over the world, hungry for interviews and comments,’ said Kate.  ‘Every bit of publicity will mean more money at the end of the day.  We all need to give as much time as we can to these people.’

‘As long as it doesn’t stop your own preparations,’ reminded Bailey.  ‘Anyway, the race will start with each team setting off at six-hourly intervals.  Remember, the whole thing is against each other and against the clock.’

‘Who will be keeping an eye on our time?’ asked Pace.  He was sure the times would be clocked externally but someone on each team would need to know how they were doing.  Tom McEntire’s voice sounded from over his shoulder. Pace turned to see him grinning.

‘The camera operator not only has the task of recording pictures and sound, but also of monitoring race times.’  That hadn’t been in his dossier but okay.  So it was his job.

‘Fine,’ Pace said.  ‘What about safety? I’m thinking of sickness, insect bites, accidents, that sort of thing.  Can you run over the cover we can expect, once we’re out there.’  He began to feel more involved as worthwhile questions came to mind.

‘Sure,’ nodded Bailey.  ‘Each team will carry a satellite-linked transmitter and the route, though demanding, has been specially planned so that a helicopter evacuation can be made within a couple of hours of receiving a call for help. Given that each team has a fully qualified doctor, complete with medical kit, anti-venoms and such like, there is very little real danger posed to anyone.’  He sounded very confident.

‘The one thing everybody should remember about this race is that it is for conservation.’  It was obvious Kate had no idea that interrupting somebody was anything other than her right. ‘Speed is essential for winning but it has to be tempered with a sense of where we are and the real dangers all around, whatever anyone says.’  She scowled at Bailey but there was an edge of humour in her tone.  ‘Every competitor has to complete each stage, then the person clocking up the slowest time will stand as the official team time. If someone gets injured, tough break.  If one of us becomes too ill to continue then the whole team will be disqualified and simply airlifted out.’  The sincerity in her body language was evident from her urgent stance and balled fists.

‘That’s right,’ nodded Bailey, ‘please remember that fact.  We are all in this thing together. Yes, we all want our respective teams to win but risking injury to keep up an unreasonable speed could be disastrous.’

It was Pace’s turn to chip in again.  ‘So the last member of the team across the line accounts for the whole team’s official section time?’ Kate and Bailey nodded in unison although they weren’t looking at each other at the time. ‘A team effort all the way, good.’ Another thought struck him.  It was something Tom McEntire had mentioned a few minutes earlier.  ‘As camera operator my duties are pretty straightforward.  Is the issue of time keeping just going to be about clock watching?’

Poranchez spoke up for the first time since introducing himself. ‘The race is going to be very arduous, my friend.  It will take many days to complete. The teams are allocated rest periods of six hours each day. How they rest is up to each team and it can be altered during the race if needed. Sleep for six hours solidly, or take three two-hour breaks, it doesn’t matter as long as a team only rests for the six hours. Any more would breach the rules and disqualify the team. It is your job to record each break and keep the team within the rules.’

‘I get the feeling that will be fine at first.’  Pace shot him a wry look.  ‘The further we get and the more exhausted everybody gets, I could become unpopular.’

‘Who said you’re popular now?’  Tom McEntire smiled as he jibed.

Not quite sure if he meant it or not, Poranchez ignored the comment and pressed on.  ‘The theme of the race is teamwork. Helping each other to help the world’s endangered habitats, it’s very simple. Anybody who can’t follow that principle may as well go home.’

The next hour passed in a pattern of occasionally heated, but good-natured debate. Pace spent it dutifully soaking up as much detailed information as he could. Tom left them to it, as did Hammond. They both knew the race plans inside out and locked themselves in the side office until Pace was ready to leave.  What they spoke about was anybody’s guess but the door was closed for the duration of their meeting.

The start of the race was going to be televised, live, across the world but the rest of it would be down to the video operator to capture. The video footage collected by each team would be cut together later to make a documentary film, which was to be auctioned to the major television networks around the globe.

The environment; in reality the constant damp and seclusion, made it impractical to send footage back to base on a daily basis.  The equipment all had to be carried and so needed to be minimal.  Editing everything in a comfortable studio at the end of the race was the most sensible option.

Pace’s brief was fairly simple. He was to film what he saw happening around him, to the team as a whole but also to individual members.  He had to capture on film how each competitor dealt with the conditions.  He would have to stage some personal interviews as well, to add real grit, but it was basic stuff.

The remaining days passed in a mixture of sightseeing in the mornings and workouts in the hotel gymnasium in the afternoon.  Pace managed a two-mile run along the beach at night as he began to feel more comfortable with the heat and humidity.  Before long it was time to wave goodbye to his palatial home and hop aboard the flight to Manaus.  Once there, he would meet the other competitors and together they would all make their final preparations.

An unexpected bonus for him was that Doyle McEntire was planning to personally oversee the start of the race from Manaus, so had asked his daughter to fly down with them. To that end, they were at least on speaking terms by the time their privately chartered executive jet dipped its wings below the low clouds of dawn and touched down on the tarmac at Eduardo Gomez International Airport.

Pace was first out.  He had been told to expect more intense heat but it felt as if he’d just walked down some steps into a bowl of clear treacle; the air was thick and heavy, drawing a fine sweat from his pores before he even reached the ground. Breathing was instantly laboured but he gritted his teeth and forcibly sucked in as much of the thick air as he could.  It was a horrible feeling after the comfort of the aircraft’s cool, pressurised cabin, and took a few deep breaths to adjust to.

A couple of blue, roofless military jeeps whisked them and their hand luggage over to a private terminal. The two policemen at the wheels did little more than acknowledge them with a nod, the weak sunlight reflecting softly off of their matt sunglasses.

Once inside again, the conditioned air prickled coldly against his skin in a sensation similar to that of standing in front of an open freezer door on a warm day. Despite the early hour, the lounge outside the small customs barrier was awash with journalists. Pace was getting paid a great deal to publicise the race and sat through a two-hour press briefing with a big smile fixed on his face.

Sarah made her excuses at the very start of the briefing and disappeared with one of the policemen, leaving Hammond to answer any questions that were fielded about the McEntire Corporation. He seemed pleased with the positive nature of the questions thrown at them and the news that another couple of sponsors had agreed to support them.

There were no foreseen problems from the official standpoint and Hammond was at pains to point out that the race would start on time. Finally, there were some words of welcome and congratulations from a member of the local government and a staged handshake for the cameras.  Once the last camera had clicked, they said their goodbyes and the briefing concluded.

At ten past eight they were back in a jeep; a large, air-conditioned Range Rover, following in Sarah’s apparent tracks, heading into the city.  That first sight of it was something that scored itself deeply into Pace’s memory; one of those dozen or so life experiences that can be recalled at any age and appear as fresh and clear as the day they took place.

The road into the city was a wide, modern highway that led them the eight or so miles into Manaus. They weren’t staying in a hotel this time, instead home was to be a re-fitted boat chartered specifically to house all the teams together. It would double as both accommodation and a floating race headquarters, which sounded fun.  The idea of sleeping on a jungle boat conjured images of Bogart and daring adventure in Pace’s mind; the first tangible step on the road into the Amazon.

After weaving through fairly quiet streets and Italian-style piazzas in the modern commercial centre of the city, they passed close to the stunning Opera House, resplendent in its newly renovated pink and white stonework. Sweeping arches and verandas were dwarfed by its huge cupola, clad with tens of thousands of imported French roofing tiles.

In the choking humidity, amid a city a thousand miles upriver from the mouth of the Atlantic, the building looked every bit at home as it would have in the midst of London, Paris or Rome. According to his guidebook, it was built around a wrought iron skeleton, forged in Scotland and then imported, along with tons of Italian stone and marble.  Once all of the raw materials were gathered, it had taken local builders twelve full years to put it up.  It was a breathtaking sight.

Heading down towards the docks the jeep turned onto the Avenida Sete de Setembro, where Pace noticed a definite thickening of both road and pedestrian traffic.  They passed by a huge cathedral, impressive in its contrasting simplicity to the Opera House, and drove down past the greenery of its adjacent public park.

Pace could already see the docks.  Built by a British company at the turn of the century, its concrete piers were supported on floating pontoons, designed to cope with the high shift in the tidal depth of the river. It sat just behind the Customs House, itself an impressive yellow-brick building, also imported in prefabricated blocks, again from Britain, in 1906.  That was when we were still kings in world trade, he mused.

The riverside was awash with life, both human and animal. Along with the sight of so much hustle and bustle came the noise and the inevitable smell.  Some were wonderful, as they slowly inched past locals selling unknown hot food from small carts. Less pleasant smells came from the close proximity of too many sweaty bodies and animals.

Manaus docks catered for every conceivable size of vessel. The river at this point was deep enough to comfortably accept the draught of an ocean-going tanker. It was a bizarre thing to see a dugout canoe housed along the same stretch of water as a towering oil tanker but this was one of the sights that met his gaze.

Finally arriving at one of the many privately owned berths, Pace knew that the adventure had truly begun.

10

The small ship sat motionless on the oily brown water.  Her metal hull was freshly painted in white, as were her upper decks. She looked to be a fairly modern vessel, and not for the pleasure market. She was more an ocean-going vessel and somewhat boxy in her design; a cargo vessel that had been refitted to accommodate passengers.

As he climbed out of the jeep and tried in vain to suck in enough air to comfortably breathe, Pace eyed her solid lines appreciatively.

Her captain was waiting to greet them at the dockside. A twenty-foot metal gangplank extended from the side of the ship’s lower deck. A hinged door in the railings was latched open; the space it left offering them entry.

The captain introduced himself as Eduardo Longe. Pace later learned he was an immigrant American; his family originally from Chile and he figured the man to be in his late fifties.

Longe wore a crisply pressed captain’s uniform; whites and cap, resplendent with gold braid in all the right places.  He looked fit and deeply tanned, and when he spoke his soft tones and delicate lisping accent were in striking contrast to his burly, two hundred pound stature. He sported a neatly trimmed full beard, more grey than black, and heavy eyebrows capped friendly eyes of deep blue. His hand was extended to them all in turn and the new arrivals introduced themselves to him, one by one, as they were invited aboard.

A proud Eduardo filled him in on its history as they all sat down together in a gorgeous, rosewood-panelled lounge and ate a very welcome breakfast of spicy sausage, fried eggs and bread rolls.

The food was delicious and tasted even better to him when washed down with a cup of freshly brewed coffee. The food was laid out, buffet-style, on a large table and, as he helped himself to another portion of sausage, Pace realised there was far too much food for just three of them.   Soon enough they were joined by a small crowd of equally hungry passengers.

It was breakfast time for everyone on board and he counted about twenty heads. A very efficient air-conditioning unit cooled the lounge but the temperature did start to rise a little as space filled up.  His answer was to pour himself some more of Captain Longe’s wonderful coffee and ignore it.

Just then, he spotted Sarah talking with a couple of people across the other side of the lounge. She was locked deeply in conversation and didn’t see him so he focused his attention back to their host.

The ship they were aboard was called Toronto, after one of the only cities that Captain Longe had never managed to visit. Something had always gone wrong whenever he’d been set to sail there, so many times in fact that it became a standing joke in the shipping company he worked for.

After several decades running ships as a paid employee, he had been fortunate to receive a large sum of money from a dying friend.  He was not specific on who, or how much. All he did say was that he retired on the spot and put in a bid for the Toronto.  He knew full well the company was looking for ways to cut costs and also that the ship, at the time called The Eskhal, was due for an expensive refit.

He had guessed the board’s predicament well and managed to acquire her for himself.  He then made Manaus his base, having been enraptured with its unspecified charms over his years of global trading.  As Toronto had been a destination to elude him so many times in his working life, he renamed his ship after the city. And no, he laughed, he had still not been there.

With his hunger sated, Pace began to feel the need to get settled and unpacked.  Perhaps Longe sensed it, for the next moment all talk ceased and he beckoned to a couple of hovering crewmen. Both were very young men, still in their late teens.  He instructed them to show Hammond and Pace to their cabins.

As Pace stood up and shook Longe’s calloused hand, he caught a glimpse of Sarah crossing the room in his direction.  She had some coffee in her hand.  He gave her his best smile, which she returned.

‘Sorry I haven’t been over to see you yet,’ she started. ‘There are so many things I need to check up on that I’ve been a bit caught up.’

‘No need to explain. This young man is about to point me in the direction of my room.’

‘Your cabin, don’t you mean?’

‘Stateroom,’ corrected the crewman politely. He was of oriental origin and spoke softly.  ‘All rooms on the upper deck are allocated to the racing participants. They are our very best.’

‘You see.’  Pace cocked an eyebrow in her direction.  ‘Stateroom if you please.’

They moved through a couple of internal passages and up a flight of stairs. The entire trip smelled of new carpet and Pace suspected the ship had won a top-of-the-range McEntire facelift; he couldn’t fault the vessel at all.

The refit had been extensive and must have cost a small fortune.  It was beyond clean and comfortable, instead edging towards luxurious and opulent.  He got an even bigger surprise when his guide opened the door to his stateroom and beckoned him to step inside, which he did, closely followed by Sarah.  Longe had done well out of the deal.

The stateroom was large and airy. The rosewood panelling from the lounge was repeated here, wall-to-wall; the outer hull wall sporting several large brass portholes, each with new curtains held open with sashes of ornate rope-work. Lights were unobtrusively sunk into a white ceiling, where they softly illuminated two distinct areas; a bedroom and a lounge.  There was a large bed in one corner and a smart lounge suite on the other side.

A flat screen television was neatly built into a wooden cabinet in the lounge area.  An adjacent mahogany unit, beautifully carved and buffed to a mirrored shine, held several bottles of alcohol and a small refrigerator. Inside, Pace supposed, would be a selection of chilled drinks which he determined to check out later on.

A door in the far corner led into a large en-suite bathroom. The floor was richly carpeted in a red, deep-pile pattern and strategically placed vases of exotic flowers filled the air with a faint sweetness.

There wasn’t an outer door; no companionway ran outside the room; it was sheer from the main deck, a dozen feet above, right down to the river’s surface some fifteen feet below.   The upper decks were only accessible through the main passageways.

The crewman bade them a good morning and left.  Alone with Sarah, he felt a wave of awkwardness wash over him. He stumbled around inside his mind for a suitable opener because conversation was needed.

‘The race has really begun,’ Pace ventured cautiously. ‘Who’d have believed there would be ships like this on the Amazon, let alone huge tankers.  I had dug-outs and rusting tramp steamers in mind.’

‘Most people just think of the Amazon as a very long, narrow, jungle waterway, which for a large part it is.  They also group the whole river as the Amazon, where really it doesn’t get started until about seven miles downstream from where we are now.  Manaus actually lies on the Rio Negro, which merges with the Solimões to become the Amazon.  It runs to a minimum depth of over a hundred feet here and can get much deeper from here down to the ocean.’

‘Someone’s been reading their text books.’

‘It pays to know about the place you’re going to, however short a time you’ll be there.’

‘I read up on the place as well but missed just how huge a port there is here.   I was concentrating on the history of the city I suppose.’

‘And the heat here is something else.  No, not heat, it’s the humidity,’ she corrected herself.  ‘No amount of written warning can do it justice.’

‘Yes, it’s hot and sticky,’ he agreed.

‘And this is nothing compared to the basin itself, or so I’ve read,’ muttered Sarah.

‘Yep, this is where it all becomes real.  The humidity is going to be one of the toughest things we will have to cope with.’

Although their initial friendship was a strangely distant memory, things looked more positive and it was a calculated gamble on his part to draw her into a personal conversation. Pace only hoped it didn’t sound too much like playing for the sympathy vote.

‘You’ll all be fine,’ Sarah replied. There was no hint of anything else. ‘Once my father gets here, he’ll have any untidy threads neatly sutured before you get your marching orders.’

She hardly sipped from her own coffee cup, instead vaguely wetting her lips.

‘You’re probably right.  I’m fitter than I look.’ He was stung by her indifference. After all, wasn’t it her and her damned father who’d jumped on his temporary celebrity status to push their pet project?  ‘When I last the distance, I’ll have some great memories and be able to go home and spend all of that money he’s paying me.’

‘Money? You’re in the middle of Brazil, thousands of miles from England, and all you can think about is money?  I thought you were in it for other reasons too, or has the cash taken over?’ Her surprisingly bitter attack fanned the flames of his anger.

‘Look,’ he snapped, glaring at her as he brought his cup down a little too hard on a gorgeous mahogany sideboard.  ‘Money may not mean a great deal to someone like you, who’s practically bathed in the stuff since birth.  To someone like me, who’s never had much of it, you’re damned right it means a lot! It gives me the chance of a better future, simple.’

‘No amount of money will give you a future until you stop wasting your life and get your backside into gear,’ she countered testily, heading for the door.

She neatly sidestepped around him and he spun on his heels, watching as she flung the door open and stormed off into the passageway, heading back towards the lounge.

‘Really nice, thanks.’ Pace sent the words tumbling down the passage after her. ‘I’ve never had any money other than the damned pittance I’ve worked for all my life. So yes, the money is my ticket. Damned sorry to offend you!’

He bellowed the last few words but she had already disappeared from view.

He was furious. Not just at her but at the way he’d allowed the situation to deteriorate so fast.   It had been the perfect opportunity to repair the damage of the past week yet he’d blown it again.

‘Idiot,’ he admitted softly.  ‘You bloody, stupid idiot.  You deserve everything you get.’

*  *  *  *  *

On arrival in Chicago, Wolf checked into a cheap motel a few miles from the airport, having once again sailed through the admittedly far tougher United States immigration checks.  The false identity was flawless, even as far as the false fingerprint sheaths he wore; seamless artificial grafts as thin as a human hair.  It didn’t come cheap but it was a drop in the ocean compared to his own fees.

He could only use Browner once, knowing he would be fingerprinted upon entry to an increasing number of the world’s countries.  Next time he would be someone else, with a new set of prints.

He was meticulously careful and was confident he could continue to elude the authorities indefinitely.

His given name was Simon Maluse but he never went by that name.  He never spoke it, and hadn’t done for over twenty years.  The underworld knew of him only as Wolf.  Together with his sister, aptly called Puma, they had slowly risen in the assassination world rankings to become the most sought after of killers.

His sister had been christened Jasmine Maluse but she, like him, had discarded the name to carve out her own pathway to riches and power.  Wolf was ruthless enough but even the people that managed to hire his sister shivered at her murderous reputation.  It allowed them both to charge a high premium for their skills.

Wolf paid little heed to the drab surroundings he now found himself in.  The weather outside was hot and bright but his was not a sightseeing tour.  He knew what he had to do and he wanted to get on with it.  However, haste wasn’t in his vocabulary; it inevitably led to error and, ultimately, to capture.

So he spent several days watching his mark from a used Cadillac he bought, for cash, from a second-hand car dealership a mile or so down the road from his motel.  Rusty brown and very tired, the car served its purpose of being inconspicuous transport.

Disguises often drew more attention than anything else so he disliked using them.  His hair had been coloured and styled purely for his Browner identity; the real Browner having met an untimely end a few weeks earlier and now interred for all time beneath the newly-poured foundations of a city centre office building in Colchester.

Sadly for Browner, his had been a perfect identity snatch.  Wolf had felt no remorse at murdering a totally innocent human being.  He needed the man’s life for a job – simple.

Wolf easily tracked the mark from work to her home address and could have killed her a dozen times over if he had been more emotional about it.  He wasn’t and just waited, and watched, then watched some more. As he watched, he considered his victim’s impending fate with dispassion.  The name meant nothing to him.

Amanda Pace was a school teacher.  He had been given enough information to find her and to make a risk assessment; good background information had been provided about her friends, lovers, colleagues – anyone who might influence how, and where, he would strike.  Wolf did not feel pity for her.

On the fourth day, admittedly a couple of days later than he’d promised his criminal paymasters, he felt sure that all was as it seemed.  There would be no nasty surprises to interrupt the job.  The information proved to be accurate; there was no man in the house and no dog either.  Friends were few, and didn’t seem to visit her home.  The alarm system was rudimentary and could be, and was, easily by-passed.

Deciding that it was finally time, he slipped inside the smart, white-washed five bedroom townhouse a little after one in the morning.  The residential area boasted wide, clean roads and leafy, tree-lined avenues for as far as the eye could see.  It was typical of well-groomed American suburbia and the house owner had taken great pride in turning the building into a home.

The furniture was antique; none newer than the 1920’s, most from the mid-nineteen century.  The curtains were drawn tightly closed but his eyes were accustomed to the gloom so he picked his way easily around the chairs and sofa until he reached the foot of a flight of richly-carpeted stairs.  One of the upstairs lights had been left on but it wasn’t the main hall light; there was just a faint glow of illumination as he looked up intently.

He paused and listened.  Years of experience had given him the ability to stop and wait, mid-task, and to calmly detach himself from the coming experience.  His ears strained to catch any sign that his intrusion had been detected.  He heard nothing at all; the house was quiet.

The age-old problem with stairs, especially in a property of any years, was that they always had  at least one creaky stair that would immediately give the game away.  Because of this, he knew he had reached the moment when planning, observation and stealth could be discarded in favour of direct action.

Pausing long enough to slip on a black balaclava, and making no attempt to step lightly, he flew up the stairs and found himself on a wide, carpeted landing.  Five doors led off from the landing.  One was open and obviously a bathroom; it was this room that had its light still on although its door was only half open.  The remaining doors were all firmly closed, which was unusual and meant he had to check them all.

The first door he tried opened onto a study, complete with large wooden bookcases crammed with volumes and a huge desk.  He saw no more detail in the dark and didn’t need to.  The next door opened onto a spare bedroom.  A single bed and bare mattress told him nobody was using it.

As he reached to turn the handle of the third door, the brass knob turned suddenly by itself and the door opened inwards, leaving him face to face with his victim.

The woman had been rudely dragged from a pleasant dream by the sound of his footsteps on the stairs.  She didn’t quite know what it was she had heard, or thought she’d heard, and pulled herself from her large, warm bed with the idea of going to the bathroom.  She wasn’t frightened.  It was an old house and this wasn’t the first time a creak or groan from the old structure had roused her from sleep.

She was totally dumbstruck, as she blearily opened her bedroom door, to be confronted by the solid, sinister shadow of a masked intruder.  A scream welled up inside her but dread froze her blood and paralysed her larynx.

Though the sudden meeting was a surprise to both of them, the man recovered himself seamlessly.  He sprung forward and gripped the terrified young woman by the throat with one hand, while slapping the other hard over her mouth, stifling the scream that would never now come.  Her eyes bulged in their sockets as she was swept back into the room and pushed down on her bed, knowing she was going to be raped yet more concerned about breathing, as  strong  fingers crushed her tiny throat, constricting her airway.

She was in her late twenties, fit and slim, yet the speed of the attack left her no time to defend herself; she was helpless as the man pressed down on top of her.  He said nothing at all as he squeezed her throat harder, using his weight to pin her down.  Within a few seconds, she started to fade and soon passed into blissful unconsciousness without making a sound.

Releasing her throat, the man stepped back from the bed and eyed her limp form, darkness lifted only slightly by light spilling in from the hallway.

He had planned the actions meticulously in his head many times over and executed them now on autopilot.  Five minutes later, satisfied that he had set the scene well enough, he turned his attention back to the unconscious young woman.  An hour later, he was back in his motel room and preparing to leave for the airport.

The flight back to Nice, his home for fifteen years, was uneventful and achieved by way of a short stop in Paris.  A twenty-minute drive brought him to his plush hillside home, overlooking the deep blue of a sparkling Mediterranean Sea some two miles distant.

The neighbourhood was peaceful and affluent, being no more than a dozen large properties spread over several hundred acres of steep hillside and accessible via only one winding, dusty road.  It was a glorious day and the sun shone brightly over the vista of green and brown that typified the scenery.

He used a remote built into the car’s steering wheel to de-activate a host of concealed security devices as he turned off the main road and wound his way up a twisting track the few hundred feet to a set of impressive brick gateposts.  Between them hung a pair of huge, solid metal gates standing well over ten feet tall.

A brick wall of some seven feet average height stretched out from the gateposts to completely encircle the property.  Another button on the dashboard activated the gates, which swung obediently open for him on silent hinges.

Driving his luxury black Mercedes saloon through, he headed up the drive, stopping in front of a huge converted winery dating back nearly two hundred years.  The vineyards had long since been replaced by a walled garden, divided into areas of lawn, paths, flowerbeds, ponds and elegant fountains.

The building itself boasted eighteen bedrooms and had a sweeping, crescent-moon swimming pool that curled around one side, arcing front to back.  Rather too many large statues dotted the grounds and the tiling on the bottom of the swimming pool was a vulgar mosaic depicting battling gladiators and beasts.

The fighting men were not the only inhabitants of the oddly-shaped pool that day.

As he escaped the confines of his car and approached the pool, the man eyed the occupant slowly.  She was very pretty, in her mid-twenties, and twelve years his junior.  She wore her dark hair cropped close to her skull and her slim figure was modestly contained by a full, high-leg swimsuit, in canary yellow.  She watched him draw closer with a similar look of interest.

‘How did it go?’

‘Very well, as always,’ replied the man. As he spoke, he stripped off the cheap suit and discarded it on the neatly trimmed grass close to the pool.  With it he cast off the identity of Browner.  In a pair of designer boxer shorts, he joined her in the water and they stood facing each other in the clear heat of the afternoon.

‘That is good, brother,’ she replied evenly.  ‘Will you be able to stay for a while?’

‘No, I have just been contacted about another job by the same source.  Very big money, I have to say.’

‘I like the sound of it already,’ she giggled.

Together, brother and sister spent a pleasant hour swimming and discussing plans for future, lucrative murders.  If anyone had been there and looked closely, they would have noted that both pairs of eyes were cold and unclouded by sentiment.

If the eyes were truly windows onto the soul, theirs were indeed souls far, far beyond redemption.

11

The laboratory was perfect for her needs; much better equipped than any other she had yet been forced to slave away in, she was sure of.  And slaving was just how she saw it.

Ten years after finishing what seemed like a lifetime of study, Brenda Richards was bitter with the world.

A bright, ambitious youngster, she had been astute enough to understand that the world would soon have to shelve its distain for nuclear energy, as other power generation options dried up, or simply proved too expensive to be a practical replacement for the thousands of oil and coal-fired power stations due to come to the end of their working lives in the next thirty years.   She had moved into the nuclear power industry with high hopes of rapid success.

Sadly, her unpleasant personality, controlling nature and spiteful temper had so far thwarted her plans to rise quickly to the top of her field, retire early, and live a life of pampered luxury on a Caribbean island of her choosing.

Adding to her woes was a rapidly expanding waistline, due to several years of seeking solace inside her favourite iced cakes and chocolate bars.  She was only five feet four inches tall and tipped the scales at over fifteen stone.  Her straight, auburn hair was cut into a short, bob style which accentuated the roundness of her pale, flabby face.

At only thirty-two years old, she had the body of a much older woman.  Unfortunately, she failed to accept the additional five stone of fat that she’d piled on since hitting her third decade; still squashing herself into clothes that were far too small for her; stretching buttons and threatening seams to bursting point.

Before the weight, she had not been bad to look at.  She had good bone structure, pretty blue eyes, full lips and dimples in her cheeks that had captivated many men, until they grew to know her better and headed for the door at speed.  She’d been desirable, but those days were gone.

In fact, when working in the nuclear power industry should have been a surefire winner for someone with so many academic trump cards, Brenda’s career could be considered a spectacular flop.  Until now.  Now, she was on her way.  Now, she had finally fallen on her feet.  She grinned to herself, the world would finally see things her way.

Cathera’s approach, as always, had come through several different intermediaries.  At the time, she’d been working as a junior technical manager at a reprocessing site in Wiltshire, England.  She knew she was better than anyone else there; that she should have been running the entire site, and she blamed her superiors for deliberately ignoring her for promotion.

She was right too; they had seen how reckless she was when dealing with her colleagues, and how her ego always put in an appearance whenever there was a staff issue, quickly transforming any awkward situation into a crisis.  But Brenda was blind to her own flaws.  As far as she was concerned, it was always somebody else’s fault.  She was always the innocent victim.

Still, she had to admit, while her current job offered her the chance to finally earn the money she deserved, the living conditions weren’t good.  Her laboratory was air-conditioned, but it was the only place aboard that was.  The generators that fed its systems were separate from the boat’s other systems, which is why she was so happy to spend as much time in there as she could.

When she did have to return to her tatty cabin, purely to sleep, she tossed and turned in pools of her own sweat, locked beneath a stained mosquito net, until she could stand it no longer and hurried back to the cool sanctity of the laboratory.

The Amazon was not her idea of a fun place to be, and being on an ancient river boat made things worse.  If she’d been seeing the river at a wider point, closer to the mouth of the Atlantic perhaps, aboard a luxurious cruise liner she might have been able to stomach it more easily.  This job had paid so much, on a no questions to be asked basis, that she had agreed to do anything; signing a binding contract to that end.  She was stuck with the consequences of her decision.

It was eight o’clock in the evening.  Brenda had been working solidly in her laboratory since dawn and was exhausted.  It wasn’t physically taxing work, but the materials she was working with and the configuration of the delivery system she’d been asked to design, made mental focus essential.  Her head ached; pounding behind her right eye with the worrying suggestion of an impending migraine and her vision was beginning to blur with strain.

‘No use,’ she told herself.  There was nobody else allowed in the laboratory with her so she couldn’t have spoken to anybody, even if she’d wanted to.  ‘Time to get back into that sweatbox that we call home and get some sleep.’

The journey had already lasted for twelve days, heading upriver to an unknown destination.  Apparently, according to the crew briefing on the first day, it was a thirteen day trip.  With only one more day to go, she knew things would be tight.  She’d made good progress but a few snags along the way had eaten into her safety margin.

It wasn’t the plutonium that had caused her a problem.  She was adept at handling radioactive material after all.  Even her previous superiors would have grudgingly admitted that she was damned good at her job; at least the part that dealt with inanimate material.  The problems had occurred with the bio-hazardous material she’d been asked to work with too.  It wasn’t her speciality but the unknown, unseen person, or people, who were paying her nearly a million pounds sterling for a one month job, had insisted that she work alone on the project.

Still, dangerous substances were all one and the same to her.  Both types of material were encased behind protective glass; in a large, sealed box measuring five feet on each side.  A set of special gloves were built into each side of the centrally positioned protective glass cube, allowing her to work with the material safely, and computer controlled manipulator arms gave her the ability to  extract the material from their safe, internally-housed storage boxes, at the beginning of every day.

The risk of radiation poisoning, or contamination from the secondary material, was effectively non existent.

Leaving the cool sanctity of the laboratory, Brenda made her way up a rickety set of wooden steps and headed out onto the water-stained outer deck.  The riverboat had been plying its trade since the early twentieth century.  At some point, its steam engine had been replaced by a large diesel engine but everything about the vessel creaked, groaned and cried out to be mothballed.

The ravages of the damp, humid climate had taken their toll on the wooden hull and superstructure.  Any of the red paint still visible was flaking, and the wood was rotten in large sections across the deck.  Flat bottomed, with the water rippling barely twelve inches below the deck planking, the boat looked like a floating box.

Cathera had bought the boat for a single purpose, deliberately selecting an older vessel which would pass any checkpoints without raising suspicion.  Although arrangements had been hurried; like the installation of a completely sealed laboratory, he had achieved his aim by throwing money at the problem.  A suitably criminal, and therefore quiet, crew had been mustered and the services of a scientist with dubious morality had been engaged.

Money was still no object for Cathera.  Despite using up most of his personal fortune in his bid for power, he knew that the keys to Brazil’s tax coffers would soon be his.  Anyway, he planned to murder the scientist; Richards, as soon as she’d finished her job, so he would be saving on the wages that had been generously promised.

Looking out over the muddy water that passed slowly beneath their keel, Brenda wondered for the thousandth time where they would end up.  She knew what she was doing was wrong.  Although her verbal instructions were to ensure that both materials were suitably encased in a simple delivery system that could be handled without protective gear, she had been faithfully promised that devices she developed would never be used.

She conveniently convinced herself that she was actually doing the world a great service by showing how easily material could be obtained, and then turned into a viable weapon.  She had been assured that the devices were being shipped up the Amazon, away from centres of population, as proof that they would not be used.  This was purely a game of pretend terrorism, to make the world stand up and realize that it had to take the profusion of radioactive and bio-hazardous material seriously.

Brenda saw this as her chance for fame and fortune.  Not only would she end up a wealthy woman but she would then be catapulted onto the international stage.  Lectures and interviews, related to preventing terrorist networks developing weapons of mass destruction, beckoned her.  It was everything she’d ever dreamed about finally coming true.  Greed and self-obsession blinded her to the possibilities that she was being fooled.  Do the job, get the money and milk the fame was the mantra she now lived by.

It turned out that they were very nearly at their destination when, at a little after three o’clock in the morning, Brenda’s fitful sleep was interrupted by the sound of the diesel engine being cut, accompanied almost immediately by the tell-tale bump as the boat impacted against the riverbank.  She had been hungry enough to risk a dinner of tinned meat and potatoes with the crew before turning in, and this rather dubious meal now churned excitedly in her stomach.  Although there were no fanfares, bells, or whistles, she sensed that they had reached the end of their journey.

Getting up and struggling into a pair of tight, full-length leggings, she threw on a long-sleeved tee-shirt and slipped her small feet into a pair of long socks, then into a pair of worn running shoes.  Keen as she was to get out onto the deck, she knew the electric lights would have attracted swarms of biting insects and she wanted as much of her skin covered as possible.  Despite religiously swallowing anti-malarial drugs every day, even the slightest risk of getting sick with a parasitic blood disorder was not high on her wish list.

Out on deck, a heavy curtain of rain enclosed the battered hulk of the boat.  Several exposed bulbs lit the deck brightly, casting their harsh light out into the pitch blackness.  She didn’t quite know what she expected to see, but she was only one of two people seeing it.  The deck was completely deserted.

The crewman assigned to the night watch was missing.  Only the captain himself was visible, climbing back aboard having tied the boat off to a couple of stout wooden mooring poles set into the mud of the riverbank.

Satisfied, she watched him nod to himself.  Turning, he spotted her and his old weathered face broke into a humourless smile.  He knew she was a light sleeper and had half expected her to appear.  Hard and cruel as he was; and with several murders to his credit, committed over the years in various, seedy river stops along the Amazon’s vast length, he still found a part of his heart saddened when he watched her innocent face contort into a return smile.  She had no idea what was about to happen to her.  He did, the crew all knew, and so did the people paying for the trip.  They had their orders and he swallowed back his pity as he resolved himself to the task.

The land beyond the river’s edge was darker than the moonless night sky.  There was no flicker of light, nor hint of sound except the rain.  An irrational wave of fear suddenly washed over her and she instinctively took a step backwards.

Feeling stupid at once, she was grateful only the old captain was there to see it, although he was already making his way back to his own cabin on the upper deck, clambering up a rusty metal ladder screwed into the side of the wooden structure.

Unable to see where they had landed, she realised that bed was the most sensible option, so she slipped back to her sweatbox and went to sleep.  The rain pattered rhythmically against all the boat’s wooden walls; its comforting repetition helping her to slumber in peace.

The next day dawned bright and cloudless.  She woke to the smell of frying bacon and sausage.  The crew were celebrating arriving at their destination safely and were having a celebration that included rum and cold beer.  Settling for coffee, Brenda ate a hearty breakfast before heading back down to the laboratory.  The timing of their arrival could hardly have been better.  She had a couple more hours work to do and the devices would be ready to go.  She had explained as much to the captain at breakfast.  Not usually interested in her work, he’d seemed pleased to hear that she was very close to finishing.  The other crewmen had all exchanged knowing glances, which she mistook for relief.  Little did she know what lurked, with anticipation, behind a dozen pairs of cold eyes.

Heart filled with a rising sense of anticipation, she finished her work in under an hour and went off to tell the captain.  He was ready for her.

*  *  *  *  *

Pace eventually calmed down enough to take a warm bath in an ornate round tub in the en-suite.  He soaked for well over an hour before drying himself and slipping on a silk robe he found conveniently hung on a hook behind the door.  He raided the well-stocked bookcase and chose a new Clive Cussler novel he found there; a crisp and untouched paperback.  He then examined the little refrigerator and pulled out a chilled bottle of Michelob beer.

Settling deeply onto the sofa, sipping the delicious liquid straight from the bottle, he was soon totally absorbed.  He had read every book that Mr Cussler had set to print and was glad to be back with familiar characters again, each of whom would have handled his current predicament standing on their heads while downing a select brand of tequila.

Darkness was thick and Pace was reading by the light of a beautifully decorated glass lamp when another knock roused him from the midst of a titanic life-and-death struggle three hundred feet beneath the sea.  He checked his watch and was surprised to see it pushing midnight. In the same moment came the realisation that so many hours of engrossed concentration had tired him out.  He was on his second yawn by the time he begrudgingly reached the door.

‘Who is it?’ His voice was hoarse and dry, and he made no move to unlock the door. The only thought in his head was of the large bed and of how long it would take him to get into it.

‘James,’ said the recognisable voice softly. ‘It’s me.’

Roused, he shook the tiredness from his mind and watched his hands unlock the door as if they belonged to somebody else. He opened it and stepped back, motioning her to come in.

Sarah was dressed in a plain, deep crimson evening dress, cut off at the shoulder, with only a conservative sliver of cleavage on show. The length hung well below the knee but carried a near thigh-high split on one side through which her leg emerged and returned as she stepped inside. Her naked legs were capped with flat, open-toed black sandals.  Her expression was drawn and doubtful; beauty radiated from her but it was overshadowed by her troubled posture.

‘How was dinner?’ Pace asked, unsure of what to say to her. It was as if they’d never met before. ‘I’m sure they served up a fine menu.’  Part of him still felt angry with her.

‘Why didn’t you come to dinner?’ The question was blunt and direct.

‘I didn’t want to,’ Pace replied, not elaborating.

She had stopped only a few feet inside the stateroom and she showed no sign of moving further inside. The distance between them was barely six inches and her scent, typically intriguing, already pervaded the air.

‘You’ve had as long a day as anyone else. You need to eat if you’re going to keep your strength up.’ Her tone was level but the earlier hints of uncertainty on her face were still there. She wanted to be more forceful but wasn’t sure how he would react.

‘I didn’t feel like eating,’ Pace said honestly enough. ‘I had a bath and got stuck into a good book. There’s no mystery.’

‘That isn’t the sort of healthy approa…..’

‘Please don’t start telling me how to think, or how you think I should be acting again,’ he cut her off harshly.  ‘If I don’t want to eat, I won’t eat.  My mother’s been dead for a long time and, quite frankly, I don’t need another one.’

‘If that’s how you’re going to be,’ she snapped, ‘I’ll just go.’

‘Me?  It isn’t me who’s being anything!  You’re the one who seems to think you can lecture me on life.’

‘That isn’t what I mean to do.’  Pace had expected her to get angrier and storm out again but she surprised him by slumping her shoulders and lowering her tone.  ‘That isn’t why I’ve come.  Look, I know I can be a bit pushy sometimes.  I don’t want things to be like this.’

‘You and I come from very different places,’ Pace said slowly, his own anger dissolving into thin air as if it had never been.  ‘I wouldn’t tell you how you should think, that’s your choice because you have a mind of your own.  I have my own mind too, such that it is,’ he smiled crookedly, ‘and I’m doing the best I can with it.’

Sarah looked at him closely, noting the truth in his eyes as he met her gaze.  ‘I was worried about you, that’s all.  That’s why I came.’

‘There’s nothing to worry about, not while I’m here on this ship.  Save your energy for when I’m up to my armpits in jungle slime and being feasted on by hungry mosquitoes and leeches.’

‘Are you still angry?’ The question threw him for a second. Before he could phrase an answer, Sarah went on.  ‘I’m sorry for what I said to you about the money, it was out of line.’

‘Sarah, I’m not angry with you.  Actually, I…er…, in fact…..’  Come on man, out with it chorused his mind.  ‘I’ve only known you for a few weeks but I’ve become quite, well…you know,……quite attached to you.’

‘Attached?’  She smiled encouragingly.  He nodded.

‘After kissing you that night at the hotel, I just felt that something really good might be starting up. Then there was that stupid misunderstanding up in the room.’

‘More than a misunderstanding,’ she whispered.

‘Okay, you’re right there.  I was worried that your husband and I were going to be working together and I let doubt ruin the moment.’

‘You did that alright,’ she admitted, instinctively wetting her lips with a rapid flicker of her tongue.

It wasn’t coming out as he wanted it to but it was getting there.  He found himself stumbling less as he forced the words out.  ‘I guess I’m just not sure of what’s going on with us.  I should have put things better that night, and I didn’t.  Anyway, for what it’s worth, I'm sorry.’

‘I don’t remember giving you much of a chance to explain anything,’ she conceded quickly.  ‘And I do understand.’

‘I hope you do.’  He moved an arm out to her and a slight twinge of pain suddenly lanced into his chest. It went away as quickly as it had come but he knew it had shown on his face.

‘Did you just get a pain?’ She had watched his face turn ashen in a split second and was filled with immediate concern.  Pace nodded, swallowing.

‘It’s nothing, just a niggle. I’m fine.’

Sarah stepped closer and placed a palm against his forehead. ‘You’re a bit on the hot side.  I need to check your temperature?’ She muttered something about a doctor as she led him over to the bed and ordered him to lay down on his back.

‘I’m fine, really,’ he protested.  He felt okay and the pain was gone.

‘Your wound should have permanently healed by now,’ she said, sitting on the bed and parting the top of his bathrobe to examine the scarred skin intently.  ‘It isn’t sore or inflamed, so that’s good.’

‘Stop fussing, really.  A wound like this is bound to play up every now and then.  The doctors told me this would happen.’  He sat up on the bed and crossed his legs.

She was tantalizingly close to him and she watched approvingly as he swallowed a mouthful of water from a bedside glass.

‘We’re going to have to keep a close eye on your chest from now on,’ she chided, not too seriously.  ‘Still, there are plenty of doctors on board if you need one.’

‘I know, I know,’ Pace agreed defensively.  ‘That little girl and her popgun have got a lot to answer for.’

‘So do you.’

‘Me?’

Unconsciously she flicked her hair behind her ear, managing that peculiarly female trick of glaring and smiling at the same time.  ‘You’re really going to have to take better care of yourself, starting with getting enough to eat.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m not at death’s door yet. I didn’t fly all this way to cry off at the last minute.’

She suddenly slipped her hand in his and the familiar feeling of jangling, heart-stuttering electricity returned.

‘Maybe I’ll stick close by and keep an eye on you, just to be sure.’

‘It would be a way to protect your investment,’ Pace agreed, meeting her gaze intently.

‘As a company director, it would make sense.’

‘A sleeping partner,’ Pace corrected.

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ she whispered, leaning close to him in a conspiratorial manner.  For him, kissing her seemed the most natural thing in the world and he’d done it before his mind had time to agonise over the decision.  She didn’t scream or slap him.

Finally, she thought to herself, how many signals did a girl have to give nowadays?  She rammed her pleasure home to him by kissing him back, softly testing his lips with her own, then teasing them with a brief taste of her tongue.

‘You took your time,’ she breathed, then kissed him again, harder this time. Pace allowed himself to fall back on the bed, pulling her down with him.  The fading ache in his chest was completely forgotten as her hand slipped the knot of his robe and she pushed it off his shoulders, discarding it on the bed.

Pace was totally naked and in a painfully obvious state of arousal as she knelt up on the bed, gripped the hem of her dress with both hands, and pulled it up and over her head. Beneath the dress she was as naked as him, revealing small, pert breasts tipped with stiff nipples, glowing pinkly.  To his surprise she was totally shaven below; her delicate folds being neatly pronounced in the soft lamplight bathing the room.

For what seemed like hours, they pleasured each other in almost every conceivable way until, eventually, Sarah set a slow, languid rhythm; riding him expertly.  It was a powerful experience for him and one that was to keep his spirit alive on several hopeless, rain-sodden jungle nights to come.  Afterwards, they held each other.  Sarah dozed off before him, with her head nestled warmly on his shoulder, leaving him alone with his thoughts once more.

Having her so close, her scent in his nostrils, served to underline his determination.  His old self; assured, confident and resilient, suddenly rose up from beneath the quagmire of wasted years and assumed control of his life.

*  *  *  *  *

The airport had seen such a vast increase in passenger numbers that security, however good, was bound to have its lapses.  One such lapse was in not checking too carefully the identity of an Irish journalist named Paul Higham.

Complete with the correct papers, passport, laptop computer and enthusiastic itch for a good story, he was waved through security, despite a gut feeling on the part of the senior immigration official that something was amiss.  He wasn’t able to put his finger on it at the time and was too rushed to go with his instinct and pull the man aside for a more thorough interrogation.  Pity, because as Wolf sauntered out into the midnight heat, he could barely contain his smug grin.

This cover had been thrown together at the last minute.  He didn’t even resemble the man whose identity he had adopted and genuine passport he’d stolen.  The real Paul Higham now rested, with the help of some heavy chain wrapped around his ankles, on the bottom of the iron-grey stretch of foaming sea separating Scotland from Ireland.

Lured with the promise of a scoop on the upcoming Race Amazon, Paul Higham had agreed to meet Wolf on the late-night Stranraer to Belfast ferry.  It was to be his last ever journey.

A rough sea had helped keep sensible passengers inside the large, comfortable ferry but Wolf insisted the two men meet on the stern deck.  At a little after midnight, about half way through the scheduled three-hour trip, Wolf had the man’s car keys and house keys in his pocket.  Some chain, brought along specifically for the task and previously concealed under a nearby lifeboat tarpaulin, had provided just enough weight to sink the unconscious, newly bludgeoned body.

Wind and rain lashed the frigid deck, scouring Wolf’s face and hands as he had calmly dragged the body over to the railings and manhandled it up and over the barrier; watching to see it splash and vanish beneath the foaming white wake of the vessel.

He hadn’t had time to plan properly because his current paymaster had needed him out in Brazil immediately.  Normally, he would have refused rather than risk being caught but too much extra money had been put on the table, so he doctored the passport as best he could, dyed his hair jet black to match the deceased and raided the man’s home the following day for as many items as he could to lend him legitimacy.

Fortunately, the airport at Manaus was not using fingerprint registration yet so it was a simple case of using bravado and bluster to talk his way out of any awkward situation that might arise.  In a way, he almost relished the challenge.

A rather bland Renault saloon car waited for him outside the airport, flashing its lights at him to draw attention to itself.  Wolf sauntered across to it, pulling a single suitcase behind him on its wheels.  As he neared the car, its boot sprung open obligingly and he placed his case inside, closing it firmly before getting into the back seat.  No sooner had the rear door shut than the car eased away from the kerb and joined the traffic flow; mainly taxis and coaches.

The journey did not take him down to the waterfront like all the legitimate journalists, nor did it head into the centre of the jungle city.  Instead it headed out of the city, taking a southerly course into the heart of a fairly average residential area, miles away from the city centre.

After five further minutes driving through the rather bland suburb, the driver eased the car down a rather bumpy lane that led up to a set of gates.  Freshly painted signs showing internationally recognised building symbols of hard hats, warning crosses and electrical lightning bolts told Wolf that the place was still under construction.  It was perfect, as ordered.

The double wrought-iron gates were open and the car drove straight up an unmade inner road; each foot more bumpy than the last, eventually pulling up outside a small, single-storey structure.

The grounds were in a mess. Piles of bricks, blocks, sand, gravel and sacks of cement littered the area, along with a couple of battered cement mixers, stacks of shovels, picks and even the odd electrical tool.  Given the light rain that had started to fall, those tools wouldn’t last their owners very long, Wolf mused.

The building was in darkness, lit only by the twin beams of the car’s headlights, which then blinked out in time to the dying engine.  The area was quiet, with only the sound of rain pattering softly against the windows to break the sudden silence.

The driver was a tall, lanky young man no older than twenty-five, clean-shaven but sporting a small moustache and sideburns.  Dark haired, for some reason he had bleached his moustache pure blonde.  His most prominent feature was a huge, beak-like nose above the thin moustache that gave him a profile reminiscent of a toucan.  He wore expensive designer jeans and an open-necked silk shirt.  Quickly he motioned Wolf out of the vehicle.

The driver then led the way over broken ground, up to a side door.  He used a key from his pocket to unlock it and they both stepped inside.  Wolf was immediately hit by an overpowering stench of fresh paint and flooring adhesive as he moved deeper into the dark building.  A small torch suddenly appeared in the driver’s bony hand, stabbing a path through the darkness ahead.

Sebastian Malo had come from the streets of Rio, spending his childhood in poverty for the most part, until he developed a knack for stealing cars.  An intuitive ability to spring locks and hot-wire ignitions in seconds led naturally to him learning to drive at speed, in order to stay one step ahead of the police.

As a teenager he had moved up from petty car crime and theft, to stealing performance cars to order.  A physically unimpressive youth, he was bright and quick-witted in a crisis.  His skills had given him a certain status in the underworld, where he added to his growing income with stints as a getaway driver for bank heists and the occasional drive-by killing.

He’d seen enough murder on the hard streets of Rio and felt no shame in adding to the city’s crime statistics.  Money was good and he had sexy women on his arm every night, despite his physical shortcomings.  He was good at what he did, which was why he’d attracted Cathera’s eye.

Cathera never used open contact over the phone, or in person.  People around him were paid handsomely to act as intermediaries and offered huge sums as hush money if their crimes were discovered and they were brought to trial.

Three people currently languished in prison, serving lengthy terms safe in the knowledge they would never have to work again once they got out.  Anyway, everyone knew what happened to anyone who even thought of squealing.  They just never made it to court.

Malo had done a couple of minor jobs for the Cathera network, without knowing who it was who paid his wages.  All he knew was that the name of his contact was Joseph and that he would ring him on his mobile phone and leave the name of a place where Malo then went to meet him.  This time had been no different.

The only difference was that there were usually orders given orally, with no written evidence to ever prove they existed.  Malo had been surprised to be given an audio cassette, already ensconced within an old Walkman, complete with headphones.  Joseph had not listened to the tape.  His orders were to hand it to Malo, wait until the young driver finished listening to the instructions, then take it back from him and leave.

Once away he was to destroy the tape immediately.  He’d been warned in no uncertain terms how terminal an event it would be for him if he listened to the tape himself.  Joseph knew his masters too well to risk it, and they knew it.

In blissful ignorance of how much danger he was suddenly in, Malo swelled with pride as he beckoned Wolf through another door that led out to the rear of the new building.  He shone his torch around until he found the light switch and flicked it on, dazzling them both for a moment.

The back room was windowless, so there was no danger of them being watched and no light spilled out to suggest to any casual observer that the building was anything but deserted.

Unlike the unfinished front, the back room was already fitted out.  A huge metal door, inset with a thick window, was built into the solid brickwork of a huge furnace; far larger than any needed to heat water.  It took up the entire back wall.  Flames licked at the inside of the glass because the furnace was alight and working.  It was odd that it should be so, Malo wondered, when the rest of the building seemed weeks from completion, but this was not his concern.

‘You have some information for me?’ asked Wolf, looking around him and choosing a nearby stool to sit down on.  Malo made no move to find himself a seat, but nodded as he tried to remember everything on the tape.  It was such important information that he knew his star was on the rise.

To trust him with such a job meant he was being looked upon favourably by his bosses, whoever they were.  The money he’d been paid proved as much, being treble the normal amount.  He could hardly contain himself.

‘You must be a very important man,’ he began.  ‘I have been told many things that I must tell you.’

‘Go on.’

‘First of all, you are instructed that payment has been doubled since your last contact.’  The money had already been increased once, which was why Wolf was taking the gamble on the new identity, and now it had been doubled!  He made a quick mental calculation and smiled inwardly.  To Malo, Wolf’s expression remained fixed.

‘Payment terms the same?’

‘There has been a change.  The target was meant to be only one of the competitors; James Pace, the Englishman who the newspapers are always writing about.’  Malo was pleased to be able to show this man how well read he was.

‘That was always the case.  What has changed?’

‘Now you are to kill as many of the competitors as possible, starting with Pace first.’

‘I’m on my own.  How many am I expected to kill?’

‘That has also changed.’

‘How so?’

‘There will be men given over to your command, to help you kill many.’

Wolf frowned at this news.  He worked alone.  He was not a commander of men and saw any assistant as being a liability, to be historically despatched as soon as the job was done.  ‘That’s not acceptable.  I will kill Pace and whoever else I can but I won’t need any help.’

‘This is not a matter for discussion, or so I’m told,’ Malo added quickly as he saw Wolf’s jaw tighten.  ‘Mercenaries are being sent out.  You must work with them if you want to do the job. They will help you and do what you say.  They have not been told anything but that you are a foreign agent, working for the new revolution.’

‘This isn’t what I signed up for,’ Wolf muttered, mulling over things for a breath or two.  ‘I’m not part of anyone’s revolution.  That said, money is money.’

‘You will be in command of fifty men,’ Malo clarified.  ‘All are well trained and will take orders without question.  Most come from regular army units and good money has bought their loyalty.  Some are foreigners; experienced fighters.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Only the details of where you must go from here, and who you will be meeting to set up the operation.’

For the next five minutes, Malo gave Wolf detailed instructions on who he was to meet, when, and how he was to take command of his men.  Wolf absorbed it all; names, dates, places and pre-arranged command passwords.  He had to admit it seemed well planned and his initial doubts eased a little.  The young man in front of him was so pleased with himself that Wolf nearly felt pity for him.

Malo finished telling the stranger everything and then stood proudly, waiting to be asked more questions.  A smile slipped onto his mouth as the man reached inside his pocket and took out a wad of crisp notes.  Wolf stood up, peeling off several large denomination notes, as Malo eagerly stepped forward to take the money.

He was more positive than ever that he was now scurrying up the ladder to success.  He was just too inexperienced; too blinded by greed, to sense the coldness of a murderer preparing to strike.

Twenty minutes later, Wolf let himself out of the building by the front door.  He picked his way over to the car, visible only as a darker outline in the general blackness.

Behind him, rising thirty feet into the sky, the tall, thin steel chimney began to belch thick smoke as the furnace got to work; this building would soon be a working pet crematorium, serving the local community and offering a clean, dignified disposal service for their beloved animals.

Wolf got into the car, using keys retrieved from the unlucky Malo to start the vehicle, easing it out through the gates without turning on the headlights.  Once through them, he turned down the unmade road, switched on his driving lights and headed for the next meeting point as if nothing had happened.

Malo’s screams were soon forgotten and Wolf gave no more thought to the matter.

The next morning, workmen turning up on the site were surprised to find the furnace burning.  Assuming a supervisor must have authorised an overnight test, they simply switched it off and went about their work.

The inexplicable amount of ash and bone fragments would not be discovered for over a week.  Mystified, the manager simply ordered it to be ground up and added to the ashes of the first pet to be officially cremated at the site; a greyhound called Saha.  Her owners tearfully interred the ashes in their garden, planting a tree on top of them in their beloved dog’s memory, unaware of the grave’s shared occupancy.

Malo’s disappearance was never reported to police, nor would it ever have been solved if anyone had cared enough to investigate.

12

The morning came far too quickly for his liking.  Pace barely felt himself stir awake before the realisation that he was alone hit him.  He hadn’t opened his eyes or formed any conscious thoughts.  It was simply a sensation of loneliness.  He sat bolt upright, as if stung.

The room was dark although a vague hint of light caressed the porthole.  As his eyes adjusted, a large shadow over by the left of the bed solidified into Sarah.  She sat on a chair, with her knees drawn up tightly into her chest.  The smile on her lips was sensed rather than seen.

The shape unwound and floated across the floor towards him.  She sat on the edge of the bed and let her weight fall softly against him, pushing them both flat.

‘Did I wake you?’  Her voice lacked the croakiness that was a prominent feature of his own in the morning.

‘No.’ There it was, the word grating harshly against the tranquillity of an early hour.  ‘I thought for a second you’d gone.’

‘Are you really that insecure?’  She didn’t sound in the least bit surprised but recovered his good graces by planting a reassuring kiss on the base of his throat.

‘Only with you,’ Pace huffed.

‘And I find it charming.’

‘That’s me all over.’

She snuggled up and they gently kissed before she slipped the covers down and settled herself on top of him.  Her body felt warm and making love to her again was as natural as it was exhilarating.  As the growing dawn probed tentatively through the porthole, they lay together in the afterglow, talking.

Topic ebbed and flowed like a meandering tributary of the mighty river they now floated upon, never pausing at one point for too long.  Pace couldn’t have cared less that they talked in trivialities; just revelling in the feel of her in his arms.

He wondered how long it would last before the inevitable interruption of their early morning call broke the spell.  In the end, the moment lasted longer than he thought, meaning that he had been awake even earlier than he’d suspected.  Still, when it did come it was still too soon

The telephone rang loudly and the disembodied voice of the early caller politely called him to breakfast.   He grumbled a willingness to be there and hoped he sounded sincere.  He didn’t want the moment, there in that bed, to ever end so it was Sarah who made the first move.  She groaned with her own displeasure as she climbed out of bed and walked naked across the room towards the bathroom.  A few seconds later, Pace heard the rush of the shower that truly signalled a new day.  He gave up thinking of excuses to stay in bed and slipped into his dressing gown.  He exchanged weary glances with himself in the ornate wall mirror and waited his turn.

Even though they’d just spent the night making love, he did not feel comfortable breaking in on her, to brush his teeth or grab a quick wash, while she was showering.  Washing was something almost more personal than sex, so he waited.  Pace didn’t have long to wait because she was out, towel-clad, within ten minutes.  Her shoulder-length hair was towel dried and hung loosely around her shoulders.  The sight of her, glowing from the massage of the hot water, stoked the fires in his belly again.

‘I don’t think I’ve taken all the hot water,’ she laughed, crossing over to the bed and flopping down heavily to regard him with thoughtful eyes.  ‘On a boat like this there should be plenty.’  She sounded more hopeful than convinced.

‘Thanks for the thought,’ Pace quipped.  ‘A cold shower isn’t quite what I need first thing in the morning.’

She stole a glance down at his groin before looking back at him, one eyebrow cocked enquiringly.  ‘I wonder about that.  It might do you some good.’  His ardour softened in response.

‘That’s easy for you to say.  You’re not the one who has to find out.’

‘You’re a big, brave adventurer now.  What’s a little cold water?’

They had a meeting to get to, like it or not and Pace took his chances with the shower.  Luckily the twin heads still disgorged piping hot water and he was showered and shaved after fifteen minutes.  When he came out of the bathroom, Sarah was gone.  He wasn’t really sorry because he needed to concentrate on the meeting ahead.

He got dressed and made his way along to the lounge, or saloon, or whatever it should have been called.  Everybody, Sarah included, was already assembled and he mumbled a very insincere apology for being late before collecting his breakfast from the hot buffet table.  It wasn’t until he was actually piling the grilled gammon steaks, poached eggs, spiced sausage, tomatoes and toast onto his plate that he realised how hungry he was.  He hadn’t eaten since breakfast yesterday and soon made up for it with a big plateful.

Everyone was seated around several large wooden tables, draped with seamless white tablecloths.   The crockery was plain but the cutlery shone like silver.  At the head of the nearest table sat Bailey, the New Yorker, with his huge knees barely fitting beneath the tabletop.  Next to him sat Poranchez while opposite, across the length of the large table, sat Tom McEntire.  He must have flown in from Rio overnight, Pace guessed.  An irrational pang flashed through Pace’s chest when he noted Sarah seated next to him, locked in conversation.

The feeling quickly passed as Bailey caught his eye and waved him over to sit in a vacant chair on his left.  Pace forced a wry grin and poured himself some coffee from one of several communal jugs on the table, waving away the offer of a milk jug.  He was eager to tackle his plate but decided to wake up with a few swallows of the bitter liquid first.

‘Glad to see you’re still with us pal,’ Bailey drawled deeply, choosing that moment to take a swallow of very milky coffee from a cup that looked pathetically small in his huge hand.

‘I’ve been prodded, poked, injected and photographed with enough radiation to put a small warhead to shame in the last few months,’ Pace replied with a wry grin.  ‘Nothing’s going to stop me running this race.’

Suddenly serious, Bailey gripped his forearm.  ‘That’s the kinda spirit you’re gonna need.  Keep thinking like that and you may even beat me past the post.’  He boomed a deep, genuine laugh that seemed to fill the entire room.

‘As long as we all get to the finish line, that’ll be okay with me.  Anyway, I may just hide in your backpack and let you carry me all the way.’

‘With all the extra sponsorship I’ve heard you’ve brought with you, I’d carry you if I could.  But,’ he added slyly, ‘rules are rules.’  Pace found himself warming to the man even more and wished they were on the same team, which was a bit unfair because he still had to meet the rest of his own team.

‘It’s nothing really.’  And it wasn’t.  ‘I’m glad the media coverage has been good for the race but that won’t help me once we get started.  I’ll do my best but can’t promise I won’t screw up on the way.’

The chatter at the table was all around him, just a mass of voices with different two’s and three’s locked in conversations and sub-conversations.  Bailey nodded down at his plate for him to eat and, in tandem, their mouths settled to the task.  He must have been as hungry as Pace because they demolished the food at a healthy rate.

Between mouthfuls, Pace eyed the group of people around him.  They were a real mixture; all of them happily eating together as if they were in a city restaurant. It was hard to accept that they were, in reality, surrounded by thousands of square miles of timeless rainforest.

Hammond looked fresh and more alive than he had ever seen him, although a month wasn’t the greatest length of time to get to know somebody.  Like a changed personality, he sat easily in his chair, dressed in loose khaki shirt and cotton trousers.  Pace couldn’t see his feet because he sat on the opposing side of the table but he instinctively knew the man was wearing a pair of stout, high-laced boots.

Later on that morning he would note with great satisfaction that he had been spot on.  No more the accountant; that word and the man across from him were seemingly poles apart.  Finishing his plate and washing the meal down with more coffee Pace settled back, sated, to sip thoughtfully at the dregs.

A sharp, annoyingly repetitive ring roused him.  Tom McEntire was tapping a teaspoon against his china cup in a bid to draw everyone’s attention.  Pace wasn’t impressed; it was too much like a king bidding dutiful courtiers come hither for his liking.  A shout or a gesture would have been sufficient.  None of the other competitors looked that impressed either.  Completely oblivious to the apparent disapproval, Tom waited for a hush to settle over the room.

‘Right then,’ he said.  ‘Now that breakfast is out of the way it’s time to get down to business.’  As he spoke, members of the crew completely cleared the empty plates and glasses, leaving only the cups behind, along with fresh jugs of tea and coffee.  With the stilling of two dozen voices came a sense of anticipation.  Here and now things would begin for real. Pace found himself smiling broadly, just like everybody else, as cups were recharged and the meeting set sail.

To everyone’s relief, Bailey took charge of the meeting almost immediately, brushing aside Tom as though he didn’t exist.  In his mind the man was a waste of space, necessary for the administrative tasks but good for little else.  Now that the finer points of the plan needed cementing in place, his presence was merely a formality.  None of this was expressed verbally but the large American’s tone clearly prevented Tom from trying to interrupt at any point.

Everybody was an expert at something; some in two or three fields, and many had impressive histories of expeditions across the globe, from Everest to the Australian rainforests, and from Iceland to the Black Sea; most seemed embarrassingly proficient.

All Pace could offer them was his limited skill with a camera and a determination to succeed, but that seemed enough when it came time for his credentials to be read out.  He could land a helicopter on the back of a rolling destroyer in a Force Nine gale if he had to, but it wasn’t a skill he could really bring to the race, so he kept his mouth shut.

A couple across the saloon even bothered with some good-natured heckling about him, one in particular asking whether Pace was better at ducking now.  He half heard somebody use the term ‘Mr Millions’, which was greeted with a ripple of laughter.  They all knew he was only involved to drum up extra cash and he had yet to prove himself in the field.

Hammond’s history was the most surprising.  He was a veteran of three international expeditions in the last decade and he had also come second in a solo endurance run to the South Pole just the previous year.  Accountancy might have been a hobby for all he knew, or perhaps even a front.  Why that thought popped into his head he couldn’t fathom but maybe it was just his suspicious nature on the prowl for a suitable neurosis.

His own team was Team Two, as was Hammond’s.  The team leader and other members were all new to him; five people in each team.  Their doctor was an Egyptian named Prassal Attia; a specialist in both tropical and sports medicine, which meant he was essential to have around.

The fifth member was a lithely muscular, ebony-skinned Kenyan by the name of Cosmos Uchumiye, who towered an impressive six-feet five inches off of the ground.  He had a shaven head and possessed a tangible presence of strength.  His unique size was matched by another feature; a constant, white-enamelled grin.  Cosmos turned out to be the Kenyan long distance champion, successful marathon competitor and silver medallist at the last Olympic Games.

Their team leader was a woman by the name of Ruby Caff; a Canadian mountaineer of world renown who specialised in the perilous pursuit of free climbing; without any ropes, which he’d always felt was the bent of the insane.  Ruby was obviously no nutcase because she possessed a string of academic qualifications and an impressive list of field achievements.  Physically she was quite small, perhaps only a shade over five feet five.  Her frame was slim and wiry, despite a noticeable bust, and she wore her dark hair in a short crop.  She could have been described as beautiful if the scar running across her face hadn’t been so extensive.  Deep, though many years healed, it ran from just above the bridge of her nose, below her left eye and across her cheek, ending below the jawbone.  The injury would have been horrific at the time and looked like a knife wound.

She, like the giant Cosmos, wore an easy smile.  Pace hoped he had not stared too obviously and neither appeared anything less than pleased to meet him as he introduced himself.  When she spoke, Ruby’s accent was so watered down as to be barely noticeable.  She sounded more English than Canadian.

Then it was time for the teams to separate.  Each team moved to an allocated table and Pace watched their group dynamic unfold before his eyes.  Each of the tables held a detailed map and they sat huddled around theirs, waiting.  Ruby did her best to put them all at their ease but tempered her smile and the odd joke by diving right into the nuts and bolts of the race.  She went on to briefly explain how the sections would work.

After completing the foot section, and completing the set challenge, each team would collect three bicycles.  Two would be tandem mountain bikes that would accommodate four competitors.  The nominated scout would ride a single-seat mountain bike and would ride on ahead of the group by a few hundred yards or so, path-finding a way around obstacles and generally spotting trouble in advance of the team.  Ruby figured they would often end up struggling along a road little better than a flooded quagmire in places, which was why the scout had to stay alert.

Due to the arduous pace she was determined to set, at every rest break the scout would be changed and allow weary concentration rather than weary legs the respite of a tandem.  It seemed a sensible way of being able to maintain a safe speed.

The break pattern was down to the camera operator; him, to monitor and Pace raised it.  What were they going to do about it?  Pace would need to know so he could prepare the necessary paperwork for the judges prior to the starting of the race.  There was a brief debate.  Speed versus safety?  Speed versus fatigue?  Fatigue versus safety?

‘My own feeling,’ ventured Ruby, ‘is the fewer stops we make the better.  I know a bit about how to survive in a jungle climate, believe me.’  Nobody doubted her.  ‘Too many stops and legs have time to seize up.  If that happens, then the pain will really drain our resolve.  We have six hours to rest out of every twenty-four.  To me, that says two breaks of three hours a piece.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ argued Attia, in the least argumentative manner possible. His soft accent was steeped with intelligence.  ‘As far as I’m aware, and please correct me if I’m wrong, we can alter the breaks throughout the time period, so long as we only stop for six hours a day.’  He cast a glance in Pace’s direction, who nodded.

‘That’s right,’ Pace said.  ‘Whatever we do must conform to a pre-planned approach for every section of the race.  For example, we can take one break of two hours and eight thirty minute stops as well if we want but we have to stick to the plan once it is agreed.  Only an emergency can alter the breaks and any change will be subject to inquiry once the race is over.’  He’d only learned this much from reading Hammond’s race information on the flight down from Rio.  ‘My own feeling,’ Pace said hesitantly ‘is that a four hour break to enable actual sleep might be best, with four half-hourly stops whenever we want them during the rest of the day.’  When nobody moved to contradict him, he went on.  ‘The riding, especially in poor conditions, will require clear thinking.  For that we all need to sleep for a few hours every day, just to recharge our batteries.’

Still, no comment.

Hammond, seated to his left, nodded his agreement.  ‘Sleep will be important if we’re to avoid accidents.’  He nodded again.  ‘I think it’s a good suggestion.  I’m all for it.’

Others voiced their approval, including Ruby, who added that it was good to see the team thinking of the problems ahead.  His suggestion was adopted and the next issue tackled.

And so it went on, for hours, raising, debating and agreeing a plan of action for dozens of issues.  These ranged from food conservation, heat management and water intake through to the possibility of saddle-sore backsides.  The day passed in a blur of activity and information but Pace soon began to feel as if he had known his team mates for a lifetime.  The most important thing for him was that they seemed to see him as an equally valuable member of the team.

‘I may know about medicine and the human body,’ quipped Attia, just after they had broken for a late dinner of fresh fish and lightly dressed salad, ‘but when it comes to working one of those infernal cameras, I’m totally lost. I have trouble with an idiot-proof camcorder mind, not one of those professional things of yours.’

‘They’re not difficult to master,’ Pace protested but everybody was quick to agree that he would be responsible for all things technical, not just the filming.

‘Anything electrical is down to you then,’ said Cosmos.

Pace knew that anyway.  The job description also gave him the task of operating the team transmitter.  He spent the next morning being given a run-down on the set.  He would carry the main transmitter box in a specially designed, water-proof case.  It wasn’t particularly heavy, given the range, and would nestle in the bottom half of his backpack, allowing provisions and belongings to sit in the top.

Each team member would be wearing a wire-frame, telephonist-style headset.  Lightweight and durable, each competitor could send and receive a signal between the group members, up to a maximum distance of three miles.  When switched to external mode a signal from a headset could be boosted by the transmitter in his backpack, via satellite, literally anywhere in the world.

Although they would be in a jungle, fighting both time and the elements, they would never be truly alone out there.  The race organisers had outlawed the use of personal satellite phones – they needed to monitor any communication with the outside world to ensure that competitors didn’t try to secretly leak information to the press.

Sarah was conspicuous only by her absence that third day; from early afternoon onwards.  She disappeared after stopping to whisper in his ear that she had some errands to run for her father.

Pace didn’t have the time to give it any thought.  His attention was required by a calmly impatient Cosmos, interrupted mid-flow by their brief exchange.

By the time they all made it out of the room after dinner that evening, Pace felt drained from the intensity of it all.  His stateroom was dark and empty.

A quick trip down the hall revealed her own room to be unlocked, with no knife-blade of light showing beneath the door.  He knocked anyway, calling her name a couple of times before heading inside.  As he approached her bed, something caught his eye.

Moving closer to the dresser, he noticed a letter, with his name on it, sitting within a pool of soft yellow light cast by a table lamp.

Tentatively, suddenly feeling a sense of doom grip his innards, he picked it up, tore open the envelope and quickly scanned the contents.  Each word felt like a kick in the teeth.

James,

I don’t know how to say this, so I will just be honest.  I can’t bear being around you at the moment.  I am very confused by my feelings because part of me wants to be with you, but another part of me wants to try and save my marriage.  I thought it was over until I got down here and saw Tom again.  There is still something between us, though I’m not sure what it is.  I need time to decide.  I feel dreadful, but I cannot stay.  By the time you read this I will be on my way back to England.  I feel I am deserting you, and I am so sorry.  Please forgive me.

Sarah x

Returning to his stateroom, head spinning, he forced himself to keep it together.  He was here to do a job, nothing more.  Damn her!  As the evening aged, Pace turned in and tried to get some sleep.  He kept glancing at the telephone, willing it to ring.  The phone, in defiant mood, stayed silent until just after four in the morning, when it suddenly decided to wake him.

Pace snatched up the receiver, dropping it to the floor in his haste.  Sliding down onto the carpet beside the bed, he scrabbled it up to his ear.  He wanted so much to hear Sarah’s voice, albeit from thousands of miles away.

A strange voice on the other end of the line had a sombre tone and was very sorry to inform him that his sister, Amanda, had been found dead at her home, murdered during what appeared to be a botched burglary.  The homicide detective on the other end of the line explained that an investigation was underway.  They would keep him informed of any progress and, once again, they were very sorry for his tragic loss.

Not hearing anything more, he allowed the receiver to slip from numb fingers before bolting to the bathroom to vomit.

He hadn’t seen his sister for years and now there would never be a chance to do so again.  He screamed into a mirror he couldn’t see in the darkness, then pounded it into a million exploding shards with his fists.  As the strength faded from his legs, he sank to his knees in despair, choking and gasping for air.

Totally devastated, his only other sensation was a rising tide of pure, unbridled and indignant rage.

13

Cezar Cathera prided himself on never leaving anything to chance.  He liked to tackle any problem from as many angles as possible, to ensure that he always ended up coming out on top.

Today was no exception.  His plans this time, he knew, were so important that he had to pay extra attention to detail.  He did not trust anybody, and his frequent need to call upon the services of professional assassins, crooked lawyers and devious politicians translated into a lonely existence.  Sure enough, he had women when he wanted, he ate in the finest restaurants and was very wealthy, but he would never marry for love, or have a family.

Not that he was bothered.  Shallow, vicious and totally ruthless, his was a personality tipping into the realms of the madman.  He lived for power, and his newest plan would leave him as one of the most influential figures on the planet, if it succeeded.

Locked away in his office in the regional civic building, close to the centre of the bustling capital of Brasilia, he had plotted many treacherous acts.  The room was fairly sparsely decorated but the plain walls and cheap, government-issue furniture hid the truth.  Cathera had spent a small fortune having the room sound-proofed and electronically shielded from any known form of listening technology.

His office computer was completely safe, protected by multiple firewalls, privacy shields and other, cutting-edge covert protection systems and he always used a coded satellite phone when making dubious calls.  He was able to operate without fear of being caught out.

So when the phone rang in his pocket, he felt quite happy to pull it out and talk freely.

‘Is it done?’ he asked the caller.  He knew it was his hired assassin.  The best in the business had been needed to ensure his plan came off.  The money he was paying was huge by any standard, but a drop in the ocean to him and well worth it to get the job done properly.

‘She is dead.  I told you before.  I never fail to complete a contract.’

‘Good news, Wolf,’ Cathera sighed, relieved.  ‘Let’s hope that the news will send her brother running back to England, a broken man.’

‘The intelligence on her doesn’t read well.  They weren’t close.  In fact, they’ve had no contact for a long time.  It might not work.’

‘Did you make it look upsetting enough?’

‘Don’t worry.  I managed to get an incriminating sample from a local prostitute.  When they test the body, it will look like she’s been raped before being murdered.’

‘When he hears the details, he will leave the race.  I cannot have him staying down here.  The media contingent has trebled just because of his presence here, and the army has brought in extra troops to beef up security.’

‘Will that cause you any problems?’

Cathera had only let Wolf know as much as was necessary.  The killer had no idea how big the scheme was that he was involved in.  ‘If he stays here, the increased security will be a headache,’ he admitted.

‘Let’s hope it works then.’

‘If it doesn’t, he will just have to be removed the old fashioned way.’

‘For an extra fee,’ Wolf stated firmly.

‘Naturally.  But I hope the fire at his apartment, and the murder of his sister might just be enough to put him off.  When he backs out of Race Amazon, a lot of the media will pack up and go with him, and the army should pull back.’  Cathera hung up and found a satisfied grin spreading across his sweaty face.  Even with the air conditioning at full blast, the extra insulation of the sound-proofing made his office seem like a sauna most days.

This was the second good piece of news he had received today too.  Not an hour earlier, a call from deep inside the Amazon basin had come through.  The mine had been bought for very little money, and it provided the perfect launch site for his planned attacks.  The call had been from the captain of the riverboat, letting him know the material had been successfully smuggled to the mine.  The scientist who had been so stupid as to accept a job offer would also, he was informed, no longer be in a position to collect her payment.

She’d done her job brilliantly.  The plutonium; stolen from under the nose of the McEntire Corporation, had been readied for air dispersal and was now sitting snugly inside the specially designed delivery units.  As an added sting to any clean-up operation, she’d also found a way to incorporate a lethal dose of anthrax powder into the weapon.  Devious, scheming and fairly unscrupulous, he was almost sorry that she was gone.

It was nearly lunchtime.  The day had been good and he was about to make it better still.  He had a special guest coming for lunch, who duly appeared half an hour later.  Despite his military rank, the man arrived dressed casually, in jeans, shirt and trainers.  Designer shades helped to hide his features.  Greeting him warmly, Cathera motioned him to sit in a small lounge area in the corner of his office.  Once settled, a spread of smoked salmon, salad, bread and wine was ignored by the two men.  Cathera got right to the point.

‘Colonel Orsha, thank you for coming.’

‘It was my duty to come when summoned by such a powerful politician, so close to our beloved President.’

‘Of course, of course,’ agreed Cathera, smiling.  ‘I see you dressed as requested.  Very wise.’

‘I am a serving officer with the army, sir.  I would have been proud to come here in my uniform.’

‘Proud, yes.  But not prudent, I fear.’

Orsha was not a stupid man.  He had risen quickly up through the ranks by understanding how to play the game, until he was now second only to General Bragga in Brasilia’s main regiment.

He knew all about Cathera’s reputation as being a power broker with few scruples.  He also knew that the man had been  working behind the scenes for a while to unseat the President and seize the top job.  The President knew it too, but had the backing of the army, so his position was secure.  Even in Brazil’s democracy, the army’s support determined who ruled the country.

‘I have been asked here for a purpose,’ Orsha suggested, ‘that might not go down well with others?’

‘You are a wise man, colonel.  And that wisdom can be rewarded.’  Cathera had done his homework and chosen his victim carefully.  General Bragga was a staunch supporter of the President but his subordinate was hungry for power and promotion.  It was a weakness that Cathera meant to exploit.

‘Well, Mr Cathera.  I am here.  I am ready to listen.  What is it that we can do for each other?’

‘I will not insult your intelligence with lies, colonel.  I am sure you know that I see myself as presidential material, one day.’  Not giving Orsha time to reply, he went on.  ‘I believe that this great country of ours is being failed by the President, and his supporters.’

‘Are you not one of them?’ asked Orsha slowly.

‘I sit on the government and do my best to protect my people by blocking the worst of the decisions that are made.’

‘That sounds very patriotic.’

‘It is, I assure you, colonel.  Anyway, it is very simple.  I am going to need your help and the military support that you can muster.  I am willing to pay you a great deal of money, and I will make you a general if you are successful.  It is within my power.’

Orsha didn’t doubt it.  ‘And what do you need me to do, for such a generous offer?’

Cathera sucked in a thoughtful breath and locked his gaze firmly with the soldier opposite.  He read uncertainty in the man’s eyes, as well as excitement and greed.

‘Your regiment is providing the security for Race Amazon, in Manaus.  I need you to choose men who are loyal to you, and to money.  They will need to follow my orders, and those orders will involve starting a coup, or at least looking like they are.  Murder and mayhem aimed at the government.  Some of them will die.  But,’ he added firmly, ‘at the end of it, I will make sure the survivors are well rewarded.’

‘You speak of treason.  I should report this matter,’ said Orsha quietly.  There was a brief pause, as both men considered each other.  Cathera was sure he’d picked the right man and Orsha didn’t disappoint him.  ‘But I like the idea of becoming General Orsha.  And the money would be useful for the future.’

‘I knew my faith in you was not misplaced,’ soothed Cathera.  ‘I may need some of your men to go into the jungle and make an example out of the foreign athletes.  It depends on how things develop over the next few days.  Would they have a problem with that?’

‘The men I choose will be loyal,’ he chuckled, ‘and if the money is right, they will do whatever I command.  Killing civilians will be easy for them.’

‘Good.  Now, let’s get down to business.’

For the next hour, Cathera laid out his plans to Orsha and found the colonel to be an enthusiastic partner.  The enormity of what lay ahead was not lost on the ambitious soldier but he would go along with it to get what he wanted.  Anyway, he reasoned as he finally left Cathera’s office and headed out into the bright, warm afternoon sunshine, if it went wrong he could always blow the whistle on his new boss and worm his way out of any blame.

Humming to himself tunelessly, the colonel headed across to a nearby taxi rank, jumped in the first car, and gave instructions to be taken to the nearest gentleman’s club.  He was on leave for a couple of days anyway and felt in need of a few drinks to celebrate his coming promotion. Maybe he’d even pay one of the strippers for a sexual favour or two.  Excitedly he watched the world go by and became lost in a daydream.

Back in his office, Cathera couldn’t have been happier.  It had worked like a charm.  He’d picked the right man for the job and his plans for disrupting the race and starting his own revolution were back on track.

He laughed when he thought about the mighty McEntire Corporation; Britain’s corporate front in the world of international espionage and counter terrorism.  McEntire had only chosen to run the race in the Amazon because that’s where he’d lost his precious plane, with its secret cargo of weapon grade plutonium.

The fool had no idea that Cathera had his own spies in the Russian Federation, who had bribed the mafia into divulging the location of one of the ‘humanitarian’ purchases that Britain’s most secret, unaccountable intelligence operation favoured so much.

Trying to rid the world of nuclear and biological material was a ridiculous idea to him.  These weapons had been manufactured for a purpose.  They gave power to whoever held them and he needed that power, craving it like a drug.  Just to save face on the world stage; to prove they did not negotiate with terrorists, the western governments openly refused to talk to any terrorist group.  Secretly, using front companies, they all did.  Britain had spent billions of pounds already buying up dangerous material and then destroying it.

This time, however, he had managed to get there first.  The plane and pilot were disposed of with some well placed explosives and now McEntire was staging the race as a cover to get in and try to find it.  It was pathetic but had not been a problem at first.

Since James Pace’s heroic actions in fighting off robbers, and getting shot in the process, things had become complicated.  His addition to the racing teams had drawn huge media interest to the race and something that had been quite small and inconsequential was now to become a world-wide, televised event.

The last thing Cathera needed was a media circus down there.  He’d originally planned to overthrow the government with a mixture of military strength and well placed political bribes.

Having little success at getting Pace to pull out, killing the man’s sister would hopefully finally get rid of him.  Otherwise, Cathera knew he would have to put his back-up plan into operation.  Not one to leave things to chance, the outcome would still land him the top job, but it would be very bloody.

Like every tyrant who’d ever drawn breath, he accepted the inevitability of what he was doing and felt no remorse.  Still smiling, he settled back down to enjoy a smoked salmon sandwich and a glass of fine wine.

14

The final two days of training and planning, of checking equipment and medical assessments, passed in the same blur as many similar days before.

Amanda’s murder and Sarah’s vanishing act were facts of life that had not altered.  Angry and confused, Pace threw himself into the grind of race preparation with single-minded vigour because it helped him avoid thinking too much.

He knew the press were running sympathetic stories about his sister but he was kept well away from this side of things now; left alone to deal with his pain while others scurried around to reassure suddenly nervous sponsors that the race remained a positive promotional opportunity.  McEntire even offered him the option of quitting, with no financial penalty, but he had turned him down flat.

The only real thing Pace truly had left was the race and he was more determined than ever to succeed.

He had rung his brother, David, in Australia the morning he’d found out about Amanda’s death and it was the first time he could remember his elder brother ever crying; he’d not shed a single tear when either of their parents died.  Pace had agreed to fly out to America the minute the race was over, David would leave his wife and kids at home and fly there to meet him.

Money being no object, Pace demanded he be allowed to pay any costs incurred.  It felt strangely uplifting to hear his big brother’s voice telling him he was proud of him.

He said it back; a moment of light flaring up against darkest sorrow.

He had been informed, by the coroner, that Amanda’s body was going to be stored until the completion of the police investigation.  It was suggested she might be released for burial within a month, maybe two, but there were no guarantees.  It felt stupid, even as he thought of her lying in the chilling, final darkness of a mortuary drawer, but he couldn’t bear the thought of her being so cold.  He found himself stupidly wishing she had a warm blanket.

Race Amazon was scheduled to kick off at six o’clock the next morning, with the three teams starting at two hourly intervals.  The staging area, bedecked with bunting and lights, was surrounded with seating especially installed to house the two hundred dignitaries and world figures expected to turn up.  After a light meal, all the competitors turned in but they all ended up finding their way back to the saloon in dribs and drabs sometime before midnight, unable to sleep.

By the time the old, brass-trimmed saloon clock read three o’clock in the morning, there was no hope of sleep visiting any of them and a light breakfast of fresh fruit, almond croissants and coffee was served.  At about the same time news came through that the last flight in, carrying important spectators, had touched down, so everyone would be there for the start, gathering as they had been instructed for five thirty a.m.

Pace sensed some mild excitement but was numb to anything more as he concentrated his mind on the briefing, which was given within each team by the respective team leaders.  Ruby was their boss and did the honours.

The first stage was the running section but it actually entailed a split section.  An initial ten-mile run would lead the teams to the staging area proper, allowing them a nice warm-up and the press to shoot some film along a well maintained stretch of the road.  It was also about allowing the public, locals mainly, to line a decent length of the start route to cheer the teams on.

After ten miles, the running would stop for a time as each team boarded trucks to drive about seventy miles into the rainforest.  Each team would then be dumped out and their clock would start ticking again.

From thereon in, a one hundred-mile section of road had to be conquered on foot in the fastest time possible.   If a team successfully completed the miles, and a set challenge, they would move on to the second stage.  This stage was a two hundred mile mountain bike slog, ending at the final leg; a rapid river dash by small hovercraft all the way back to Manaus.

It would be a major physical challenge, conducted over several days, designed to push every competitor to their limits, and beyond.  The real problem wasn’t even the poor state of the highway away from the city, but the weather they would encounter.

Heat, humidity, heavy rain, insects and damp nights all had to be overcome.  There would be one set-piece challenge for each stage of the race and failure on any one meant the end for a team.  Only a successful outcome would allow progression to the next leg.  Video diaries would document the race, warts and all.

Tim Bailey, with Team One under his watchful eye, grinned infectiously with excitement and his smile was mirrored by the rest of his team.  Miguel, his number two, Pace knew in passing but the three others only by name.  The doctor, a young Scotsman with fair hair in a long ponytail was called Dungannen.  The camera operator was a solid, dark-skinned Italian called Vinzenzo Costoza and the final member was a rather muscular, athletic female Korean called Chi-Lu.  The latter was already well established on the international scene for her effective campaigning at home against cruelty to animals, especially in stamping out the practice of eating dogs.

Team Three had the inimitable Kate at the helm, supported by Anna and three others; Pace knew even less about those people except that they were all male and that one had been, until recently, an Argentinean champion wrestler.  There was a slim Russian; ex-Olympic swimmer apparently, and finally a white man-mountain complete with bushy black beard who stood nearly as tall as Cosmos.  Their names escaped him.

Anyone, it seemed, vaguely connected with the race gathered for the start of Team One’s journey, even the ship’s crew.  All of the competitors were there as Pace set up his own broadcast camera on a hastily borrowed tripod to shoot some footage of the excited runners shifting from foot to foot at the starting tape like anxious gazelles sensing a lion’s approach.  Beaming local officials swelled with pride at the sight of so many television cameras and radio booths set up along the water’s edge, and happily gave interviews despite the early hour.

About three minutes of film later, Pace paused long enough to wish all five of them luck before returning behind his eyepiece.  In the harsh brilliance thrown by so many television lights, he filmed the countdown draw to an end and the five smiling runners head off up the road at the request of a single shot from a starting gun.

‘Are you going to be ready in time?’ asked Cosmos, appearing at his shoulder.  ‘I could help you with your gear if you’d like.’

‘No thanks, I’m fine,’ Pace grunted, manhandling the big camera into its protective compartment in the base of his backpack, ‘but I appreciate the offer.’

‘Any time,’ the giant shot back, turning and quickly disappearing amongst the throng of people all around him.

After securing the broadcast camera, Pace gave a quick thought to what lay immediately ahead.  Each team had its own particular idea as to the right mix of speed and rest that was needed.  The initial going should be swift and easy for experienced athletes but managing the rest times effectively would be crucial to get the best out of everyone.

As the last runner disappeared into the ethereal light of an opaque dawn with a jaunty wave, a brief silence fell on the crowd.  This was followed by a frenzy of activity as the hordes began to disperse, most to buses that would take them back to their respective hotels, all to return two hours later.  The many newscasters and directors scuttled gratefully to the air-conditioned comfort of their broadcast vans to check pictures and sound quality.

Outside, in the fast stifling humidity, technicians battled to ensure satellite links were maintained and timetables for connection to news bulletins were being kept.  All of this activity was overseen by the largest police presence ever assembled in the city’s history.  One hundred and thirty regular officers kept a dutiful eye on the proceedings but kept their distance.  They were bolstered by plain-clothed officers, military police and McEntire’s own security team.

The next two hours quickly ticked down to minutes, bringing with them tangible daylight.  A sense of anticipation was tempered by having no choice but to participate in the final equipment check.  His backpack felt well balanced and the straps were softly padded against his shoulders as he humped it on.  Attia checked it for him and Pace did the same for him in return.

All of them wore the same clothing; a loose-fitting, single piece white running suit sporting a crotch to neck zip fastening at the front and reflective orange stripes on collar and cuffs.  Their backpacks were bright orange anyway and each had a large reflective triangle stitched onto the lower part so they would all be visible to each other, even in poor light.

Pace carried the transmitter, cameras, a dozen batteries and bike spares, as well as food and water in his backpack.  Crammed in a side pocket of everyone’s pack was a thin waterproof cover.  They were bright yellow and reflective also, worn like a poncho but with a hood.  They had been designed to allow for a backpack to be kept on and, when worn, the poncho tended to fall to about knee height (Cosmos’ rode above his knees).  On their feet they all wore special running boots which were supposed to be waterproof but would allow the socks and feet to breathe.

Suddenly it was time to go.  With the big camera packed away, he held a tiny camcorder; a new digital model called the MicroCam in one hand.  This was the camera he would use to film while moving.  The broadcast camera would only be used for filming interviews, while they camped or when he needed to grab some quality footage in really low light.

The dignitaries were back and his ears registered the cheering.  He caught an arm rising up out of the corner of his eye and swallowed quickly.  The arm ended at a hand, the hand held the starting pistol.  A high crack split the warm, sticky air and they were off.

The road was wide and in good condition.  Lining it were crowds of locals, together with positioned cameras set at mile intervals, surrounded as well by tourists and visitors caught up in the event.  A real party atmosphere cheered them along and willed them to succeed.  Despite the heat and the weight of his pack, his legs pumped away smoothly beneath him and he found himself settling to an easy rhythm by the time they hit the five-mile marker; at times he even managed a smile and wave to the crowds.

Pace remained settled to his task but was soaked with sweat as the last foot of the tenth mile disappeared beneath his feet.  The crowds had thinned out at about the eight-mile stage and there were no more than a couple of dozen waiting at the finishing line.  A single military truck, completely open-backed, awaited them and they were hurried aboard by a couple of race officials.

There was no ceremony to hold them up and they even managed some idle conversation during the two-hour drive deep into the rainforest.  After they were deposited by the side of a highway that was now broken and cracked in many places, it began to rain.  It fell fairly heavily as they assembled next to the section marker; a plain red signpost attended by a couple of stern-faced race officials who marked them in.

They barely had time to don their bright yellow ponchos and pull the little hoods up over their heads before the rain really started hammering down.  Another starter gun appeared and set them off again.

They began their race with an hour of fast jogging.  Some of the others chatted over their headsets but Pace concentrated on keeping moving, breathing deeply, while all around him the rain poured down from a thin strip of dark, gloomy sky roofing the narrow artery that wormed through the green heart of a forbidding, slumbering giant.

As they reached the end of the hour, he spoke into his mouthpiece for the first time, notifying the others.  They dropped the speed slowly, easing down the biological gears to a fast walking pace.  The plan was a simple one.

Rest periods would be at three hourly intervals.  In between each they planned to move on a sliding rise and fall of effort.  From rest they would walk at normal pace for thirty minutes before accelerating to a fast walk for the next thirty.  They would then step up to a fast jog for an hour before reversing the process; ending the three-hour period with a final thirty minutes of normal walking leading into the next rest window.  This had seemed the best way to keep moving, without killing themselves from heat exhaustion, as conditions deteriorated.

Conversation was light as they moved and Pace managed to grab several minutes of useful footage with the MicroCam.  It was all general atmosphere stuff; of towering, brooding walls of jungle pressing in on them from each side of the road and of the constant, heavy rain that dulled the sunlight and added a sense of eerie isolation to the view.  He was quite pleased to be able to concentrate on something other than his own growing weariness and looking through a lens did it for him.  He knew most of it wouldn't be any good because of erratic hand movements, which were unavoidable with a hand camera, but there was bound to be the odd segment that could be used.

‘How are you doing, James?’ asked Hammond, having taken position by his left shoulder.  The road was wide and they eased to a walk, five abreast.  Pace wondered if any of the others were as pleased as he was to be slowing down.

‘Hanging in there,’ he replied breezily.  ‘Nobody said it would be easy.  I’m okay.’

‘I knew you would be,’ he laughed, slightly breathlessly.

‘There’s confidence for you.’

‘I only know what I know,’ smiled Hammond. He liked the man more each day and this only added to the guilt.  Hammond knew why they were really here, and he had a fair idea of what could go wrong.  Because of him, and McEntire, the man he was now talking to might very soon end up dead.

The heat had risen intolerably as the morning wore on but was made bearable by rain that fell to earth in curtains.  As they walked, the constant drumming of the raindrops on the top of their poncho hoods became a familiar background sound.  They finally ground to a halt a mile further up the highway where the silent isolation was only broken by the splashing of the rain.

They all stood on the hard, soaked centre, catching their respective breaths.  Then, just when Pace would have expected the rain to ease up, it began to hammer down more viciously than he could ever have imagined, accompanied by sudden crashes of thunder that came out of nowhere to shake the massive trees all around, lightning scorching across the narrow strip of grey sky above.  There was nothing to be done as the storm attacked except to stop the clock and set up the survival shelter, quickly produced from Hammond’s backpack.

A marvel of design, it was manufactured along similar lines to the explosively impressive emergency life rafts carried by ships.  Unlike these, it didn’t burst open in an instant to be tossed onto a stormy sea however.  Instead, Hammond attached a small bottle of compressed air into a nipple in the base of the neatly folded, clear plastic package barely larger than a box of breakfast cereal.  He twisted the cylinder head and slowly, sedately almost, the little shelter rose up from the road until it hardened into the shape of a small igloo.

Completely rigid within two minutes, with Pace snatching the chance to shoot some film of them using it for the first time, it was secured to the ground only by the weight of the people that hurriedly crammed inside.  The lip of the vertical entrance flap sat about two inches off the floor and the flap itself was tight enough to require a reasonable struggle to get through, sealing itself after each of them forced their way inside, leaving their packs and ponchos outside in the rain.

The shelter had been designed by a survival firm especially for the race.  Each team had one; the design provisionally called Lester (Life Enhance and Support Shelter).  The walls were thin and required only a small squirt of compressed air to fill them completely.  The material looked to him like ordinary plastic but apparently it possessed engineered qualities of strength and heat retention.

The designers hadn’t given them much in the way of space and it was a tight squeeze for five people.  In fact, Pace was sure Cosmos’s frame filled the small shelter on its own.   But it was dry and the inflated walls proved to be good at insulating them from the noise of the rain.   The silence was deafening.

They hardly needed communicators in there, so he pushed the mouthpiece down past his chin so that the sound of his voice didn’t activate it.  The others followed his lead and then came the looks, the wide-eyed sensation of achievement and the easy smiles.

‘Twenty-four minutes left of the rest period,’ he told them quickly.  ‘Two minutes to deflate Lester and one minute to get going again.  That leaves twenty-one minutes to talk, rest and moan.’  He eyed his companions speculatively.  ‘So, who wants to go first?’

There was no sense pulling out the large camera from his pack, despite the manufacturer’s claim that it was totally waterproof.  It wasn’t worth the risk and there wasn’t the space.  He carried on with the MicroCam, panning around to get a few introductory shots before recording some snippets of conversation, laughter and pictures of rain and sweat dripping off smiling faces.

The light was poor, dulled further by the opaque skin of the shelter, so Pace used a pocket torch held high in his other hand to lift the shots.  Sound was recorded with the pictures via the camera’s own microphone, which was amazingly good.  For a small camera, the technology was advanced enough that the tiny microphone could pick up a voice at twenty feet.  He didn’t try for any interviews.  All he needed was a flavour of their first stop.

Conversation was broken by long periods of shuffling clothing and silent grins. Somewhere up ahead, Team One was pushing on through the rain and behind them, Team Three would be aboard their truck and hot on their heels.  Bottles of sport soft drinks were handed out and gratefully drained, followed by half a litre of pure water each.  Food was a quick munch on some high-energy biscuits but nobody was particularly hungry.  He didn’t even try one, he just drank and filmed.

The transmitter, sitting outside in its protective box at the bottom of his backpack, had all necessary leads poking out through specially cut holes in the pack.  In theory Pace would never need to get it out.  He had to stick his head back out into the rain to make a call, switching the set from internal team communications to external signal and talking through his headset.

The signal was clean and Doyle McEntire himself came on the other end, having finally arrived from Australia.  He confirmed that Team One had just checked in for a second time and were making good progress.  Team Three weren’t expected to make contact for some time to come but had set off without a hitch.  The questions, once edited, would be fed slowly to the media contingent back in Manaus, tantalisingly building the biggest effect possible to promote best coverage but that was all part of the game.  McEntire wished him luck and signed off.

With spirits high they slipped on their backpacks and covered up again with ponchos.  They deflated Lester and started off up the wide road again. Pace was strong enough to move without any twinges but halfway through the next running phase it was a different story.  The rain still fell from the sky, although a little easier than before by then.  In the last hour and a half there’d been no sign at all that the clouds would lift.

‘They don’t call it a rain forest for nothing,’ he grumbled over the airwaves, to nobody in particular.

‘You can say that again,’ chipped in Ruby.

‘Oh, happy days,’ agreed Cosmos.  Despite their words, all three still wore easy smiles.

The late afternoon light practically dissolved beneath the relentless drudgery of his first tropical downpour and, as he snatched shots here and there, he was grateful for the camcorder’s total waterproofing.  The thunderstorm finally abated and at least they didn’t have to worry about being struck by lightning any longer.  When he thought the water must surely stop falling soon, it did something he could never have dreamed if he’d not been there to see for it himself.  Despite having been pouring for five hours solidly, despite the storm passing by, the rain actually grew heavier.

One moment they were jogging along, albeit splashing through inch-deep surface water now and the next somebody dropped an entire lake on top of them.  Pace floundered, partially through sheer surprise, and ended up skidding to an ungainly halt as water sliced into his eyes, blinding him.  His companions stumbled awkwardly about and instinctively everyone headed for the shelter of the trees at the roadside.

Once safely beneath the protection of these mighty guardians, his senses returned.  He took the time to set up the broadcast camera on its lightweight, collapsible tripod and filmed the crashing wall of water for a full minute, respectfully reverent and feeling he was in an old Tarzan movie, where the hero looks out from behind the falling rush of a waterfall to spy on the unwelcome hunters.

Visibility dissolved about ten feet out onto the road and the surface water started to get much deeper, especially at the edges and they were soon all standing knee-deep in thick mud and foul water.  As a safety precaution, the group had already pre-agreed to follow their leader in the event of a problem so when Ruby had headed towards trees on the left, the rest had followed.  Nobody had strayed to the other side so they were all together.

They all regarded the wall of falling water in their own way, but all quietly.  Ruby studied it with a mixture of awe and interest, Cosmos with the eyes of someone who respected natural power and accepted the rain for what it was.  Pace looked through the dispassionate lens of the camera and kept his thoughts tuned to focus, white balance and smooth panning shots.  He shot some wonderfully atmospheric images, especially a close shot of Ruby’s face staring out thoughtfully into the deluge.  Her face, framed like all of them in an unflattering yellow hood, was a picture of tranquillity.  A moment later, he packed the camera and tripod away, adjusted his poncho and nodded he was ready to carry on.

Running was out of the question so they moved off at walking pace.  They needed to stay as close to the edge to keep the worst of the torrent off.  The high canopy, stretching a little out over the  road,  gave  good  cover  but  wading  along  the road’s mired  edge  required  total vigilance and drained a massive amount of energy with every squelching trudge.

15

The next couple of hours were a real slog as they tried to keep to the outer edge of road surface.

Darkness fell at some point too, so they navigated by the light of powerful hand torches, still sticking to the edge.  At around seven in the evening, the rain was rejoined by thunder.  The deep darkness all around was split again by the brilliance of a lightning show, which stabbed at the forest all around them with magnificent flashes that cracked with ionising fury.

Walking so close to the edge of the jungle at night made them all feel uneasy.  Ruby’s animal instincts craved the time to see a predator and be able to flee for her life; a hungry jaguar or giant serpent could easily be on her before she would spot it with her torch beam.

Splashing through the water added to her concerns because she knew just how many dangerous creatures thrived in the Amazon’s murky waters.  It was obvious to her that the jungle on either side of them was actually one of the many flooded forest areas dotting the road’s route, so hungry creatures might be very close by.

She didn’t share her concerns with anyone but quickly gave herself a headache straining her eyes to see both ahead and to the side, watching for danger.

By the time the storm passed and the rain finally eased to a light drizzle about two hours later, the road itself was waterlogged on both sides for three or four feet, leaving only a very narrow strip in the centre of the road still visible.  They all sloshed out into the centre of the road and picked up the speed, wading through nearly waist-high water and mud being a slow way to get anywhere.

The next rest stop was subdued and the production of the MicroCam inside their hi-tech igloo was met with indifference.  Pace knew he had to shoot some film because it would make for gritty television, highlighting the highs and lows of their days.  For five minutes he filmed, using the tiny camera’s own built-in light again, asking probing questions and ignoring the fatigue in his body as best he could.

‘How are you feeling?’  Pace asked the Kenyan, speaking very clearly for the camera.

‘Same as you, I suspect.  Starting to feel it, but nothing that won’t wear off once my muscles get going again.’

‘We seem to be the victims of our first heavy storm.  How would you rate our progress so far?’

‘I think all of us are giving the best of ourselves.’  He waited for Cosmos to elaborate but he didn’t.  Instead, he began to make short work of a couple of energy biscuits and a bottle of fruit juice.

Pace turned his attentions to Ruby, who sat hunched in a ball, reading a map.  Well, it was a map of sorts.  One thing the race suppliers had done for all the teams was to equip them with simple gadgets that might help them cope.  Paper maps, being large and subject to falling apart in humid climates, were no good in the rainforest so what they used was something far better.

It was a simple device made of lightweight plastic and, in its flattened form, was no larger than a credit card.  A clever piece of design, it expanded into a pyramid-like framework.  At the apex to the pyramid sat a mounted plastic lens.  Small plastic map cards, shrunk to about one-twentieth of their actual size, slipped into the bottom of the frame.  By looking down, through the lens, these waterproof cards were magnified to the eye and read as clearly as a large, full-sized map.  Computer aids, GPS devices and the like, were not allowed in the race.

Ruby was engrossed through the little lens as he focused the camera on her and let the picture of dedication tell itself.  She must have sensed the camera on her because she twitched away from the map-reader and shot a sardonic smile directly into the lens.  Then she laughed and swore at him for filming when she wasn’t ready.

‘That’s all part of the job,’ he defended reproachfully, panning the hand camera around.

The drizzling rain could be faintly heard outside and he knew the camera’s sensitive microphone would pick it up well enough.  The atmosphere on the edit would be dark and powerful.

‘Are you still with us, Mr Cameraman?’ Hammond’s question jerked his thoughts back to the present.

‘This seems a good place to be at the moment,’ he shot back

‘Thinking about your lady, eh?’ Attia’s smile froze into a look of abject horror as he realised what he’d just said. 'James, I’m terribly sorry.  Please forgive me.’

‘It’s okay, it isn’t a problem.’

‘No, it isn’t okay.’

‘Why didn’t you ask me that one?’ interrupted Ruby quickly, sensing the need for a quick shift of attention.  ‘Don’t I get to worry about the love of my life?’

‘Sorry,’ stumbled Attia, grateful for the lifeline.  ‘You are right, I know.  So, how is Sasha?  Did she get down here in time for the start?  I didn’t see her.’

‘She was here but she couldn’t stay.  She had to fly back a couple of days ago.  I’m hoping to sweet talk James into arranging a phone link-up with her soon.’

‘There!’ barked Cosmos suddenly, finishing his drink.  ‘You are a man with great power and I bet you didn’t even know.’

Putting the tiny camera away in its belt-pouch, he checked his stopwatch and notified everyone of the remaining time.  The routine would become boring, especially as they grew increasingly tired.   He had to force himself to be strict right from the start as any mistake on his part could lead to their team being disqualified.  To that end, he made sure they set off again, back out into a soft drizzle, in good time.

The night passed in arduous fashion as they stuck to their routine and ate up the miles on an increasingly swampy road.  Several times they had to duck back under the shelter of the huge trees that edged the road; ancient brazil nut trees, towering leguminous trees and jara palms amongst them.  When the rain increased in anger, their speed would drop to a crawl as they half-walked, half-waded through the darkness, stabbing the way ahead with torch beams.

Occasionally they would stumble across dead trees that had fallen partially across the road, bringing down several neighbours; such was the lattice of lianas and creepers linking the canopy together.  Brightly coloured bracket fungi covered the dead wood, decomposing it with the help of the ever-present termites and ants.

His body shivered with exhaustion by midnight and only the cooling night air and rain stopped him from collapsing in a heap.  The final rest period of the first twenty-four hour cycle was set for six-thirty in the morning, when they would have three and a half hours to actually sleep.  Pace was determined to make it.

The brief rest periods throughout the night seemed to grow shorter and shorter but he knew they weren’t, and at each one they crammed energy biscuits down their throats; hydrating themselves with litres of water and isotonic fruit drinks.

Conversation over the headsets kept them amused throughout the night.  They took it in turns to tell a story, or talk about a part of our own lives, to fill the emptiness of the night.  Cosmos turned out to be a man of great wit and his observations on life were hilarious at times, which all helped to keep legs pumping and the team moving forward.

Deliberately shunning some hilarious military stories out of a sense of propriety, Pace regaled them with a story from his hospital experience.  They all particularly loved him telling of the time he’d gone into a patient’s room; an eighty-five year old maniacal woman called Josie, one morning to find that she’d climbed on top of her wardrobe and was sitting there, stark naked as she often preferred to be, singing Row, Row, Row Your Boat.  It had taken a long time to coax her back down and in the end she only agreed when he’d sung a duet of Roll out the Barrel with her.

The Trans-Amazonian Highway was a trunk route.  Although it was in a poor state of repair in many areas, making passage almost impossible, it would never alone have proved enough of a challenge to the competitors.  With television bids, ratings and money high on the organiser’s list, every section of the race also had an added challenge to be overcome.  At certain points the teams had to navigate off the main route and conquer the challenge before being allowed to move on to the next section.

The exciting part, especially for him as official camera operator, was that the challenges were only marked on their map cards as challenges A, B and C.  None of them had any idea what lay in store until they got there.

At a little after five in the morning it was still dark.    Ruby’s studious torch-lit scrutiny of the map card told her they were nearing the first challenge marker and, ten minutes of fast walking later, she raised a hand and called the team to a halt.  Almost at the same moment, the rain died.  Mists of water vapour swathed the shadowy forest edges to create an eerie, alien landscape, half lit by the bobbing beams of the torches.  The lack of rain should have been a relief but it actually felt disconcerting; the restless, hot air suddenly stilled.

If Ruby hadn’t known to look for a track, she would never have guessed one existed.  The distance between the huge tree trunks that walled the roadside averaged fifteen feet, with little in the way of floor scrub except for a carpet of dead leaves, mosses and lichens.  A thick tangle of lianas and trailing sucker plants hung in curtains between the trees, tying them together with knotted vegetation and preventing torchlight from penetrating very far into the rain forest.

She spotted the marker she sought after a few minutes careful study with her torch while the rest of them took a moment's rest.   The marker was nailed at head height to a tree; a red plastic circle centred with a yellow spot.  They gathered around it and noted the letter A staring back at them from its yellow centre; it was clearly the marker to their first challenge.

Just behind the huge tree, as they skirted its trunk of some twenty-foot diameter, a distinct jungle path could be seen, leading off into the gloom.

As if taking pity on the wretched group that she had hammered all night, Mother Nature cleared the ever-present clouds with a sudden breeze, transforming the strip of sky above them into a meandering channel awash with brilliant stars.  The sudden change lit up the road as if somebody had switched on streetlights.

Pace took a few moments to set up the broadcast camera, even going so far as to erect the tripod.  He set it to film a wide shot of the whole scene and left it running for a while as he rejoined the others.

‘Have a look at what’s next,’ Ruby said, handing the map device around.  They each looked through the tiny lens while someone else flashed a torch onto the map card in the base.  When it was his turn, Pace took a good look at where they were and where they had to go.  He mentally measured off distances in line with the scale and decided they had to move into the jungle for about ten kilometres to reach the challenge point; marked with a blue triangle.  Squinting hard, it looked as if they had to stop at some form of river tributary. The challenge marker appeared to sit smack bang on top of a marked waterway.

‘So?’ Pace spoke more to get a sound level on the camera than for anyone’s benefit and tried to keep from panting too hard.  ‘Who gets to lead the way?’

‘Looks perilous,’ commented Attia lightly, taking the chance to pull out some more water bottles from his pack and pass them out.  He popped the cap and drained half a litre without pausing for breath.

‘Hardly,’ Ruby quipped back at the doctor.  ‘Now, hanging by your fingertips four thousand feet up the side of a mountain, that’s real peril.’

‘Stupidity, don’t you mean,’ grinned Cosmos.

Another voice cut in.  ‘You should try sharing a piece of ocean with a bloody great shark if you really want to know danger.’

Pace was pleased that the camera would be picking up this wonderful exchange.  ‘It sounds like we’re playing a game of my danger is bigger than your danger’.

‘Never swum with a shark,’ admitted Ruby.  ‘It sounds like something to be avoided.’

‘It wasn’t intentional, believe me,’ explained Hammond.  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been as scared of anything before, or since.  One minute there was clear water, the next one huge shark; a tiger.  It happened while I was diving the wreck of the Saracen about eighteen months ago now.

‘Saracen?’  This might be interesting, Pace thought.  ‘What’s that?’

‘An old American submarine, Second World War vintage.  Lost her entire conning tower to Japanese depth charges out in the Pacific in 1944.  I took some holiday owed to me from the company and joined a commercial crew that tried to salvage her.   My way of relaxing, you understand.’

‘You’re still here, so the shark must have gone hungry.’

‘No,’ he frowned and shook his head.  ‘It had a go at getting me but missed by a whisker, thank God.  I managed to twist behind the protection of the submarine’s propeller just in time.  It was so close its tail knocked my mask off.’

He looked genuinely deflated as his thoughts took him back to the moment.

‘My diving buddy wasn’t so lucky; he was swimming in open water, a few feet out from the hull.’  He shook the image from his mind and sighed.  ‘United States Navy ended up taking over the show after that and I headed back to my desk.’

Cosmos and Attia stood chatting together, as did Ruby and Hammond, as Pace packed up the camera.  Then he did something stupid; on the spur of the moment.

‘I’d like to lead the way in, if that’s okay with you all,’ he found his mouth saying.  ‘It’s time I cut my adventuring teeth.’

‘That’s a fine idea,’ agreed Ruby, quite happy to let someone else start the forage into deep jungle.  ‘But what about the filming?’ she asked.

Pulling the camcorder out, Pace switched it to night vision mode; which would provide some green-tinged footage similar to the stuff seen from the military press briefings during both of the Gulf Wars.  ‘It’s okay.  Camera in one hand, torch in the other,’ he beamed, reminding himself as he spoke that the torch would have to be kept away from the camera to stop its beam ruining the night-vision footage.

‘As long as you can manage both, great, but let’s not be slow about it.  Last time I looked, this was a race,’ Attia reminded him with a sly grin.

‘Let’s go then,’ Pace retorted good-naturedly and turned his eyes to the ground, scanning for poisonous reptiles or concealed roots as he boldly strode off the road and moved out down the narrow track.  The going was easier than he imagined although the track wound its way through the choked forest like a schizophrenic serpent, twitching first one way and then another.

The ground was soft beneath the canopy, but not so swampy as to suck down their feet.  A deep layer of dead foliage acted as a barrier between any mud and their boots, as did a fine netting of thin roots that stretched all over the ground.  The track deftly navigated around large buttress roots; some reaching as high as fifteen feet before joining the main trunk.  Some of the trees must be fifty feet in circumference, he marvelled.

He soon got the hang of travelling along the track.  Hanging creepers, as a rule, could be pushed through and where they’d grown across the track too thickly, Pace employed his machete to cleave a passage.  This felt like true adventuring, of the type only seen in black-and-white classic films of the forties and fifties and he soon found himself slipping into an easy rhythm.  He was surprised to see rocky outcrops and to wade across rock-bedded, crystal streams at points along the path.  Pace had assumed it would all just be mud and leaves.

It was a revelation to see the forest floor give way to smooth, polished rock and clear pools, then to small streams of dirty brown water that completely flooded areas up to knee height before rising slightly back to an earthy, leaf-strewn carpet, all within five hundred metres.

The first hints of daylight were very subdued beneath the near total cover of a canopy fanning out high above their heads.  With the increase in still and flowing water, they were soon joined by swarms of insects that fell upon the intruders looking for an easy meal of fresh blood.

Apart from the biting insects, the humidity within the forest quickly became overpowering as the fog of vapour grew ever thicker with the rising temperature, swirling off the ground to shroud them in an eerie white blanket.  Slowing his speed and peering through murk as hard as his eyes would strain, visibility dropped to barely a few feet.

‘A forest like this,’ began Ruby suddenly, ‘has four or five distinct layers; I’d say four on average.  At the lowest point you get the forest floor, with bare earth, ground roots systems and low growing herbs.  The second level up contains juvenile trees and giant ferns.  This can be anything up to ten feet off the ground.  The third is the main canopy, reaching up between thirty and fifty metre, depending on where you are.  This is the main level but there can be a fourth level of flowering deciduous and emergent trees that sprout up above the main body of the canopy.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ Cosmos muttered over the airwaves.

‘But the canopy is where all the action is,’ she went on enthusiastically.  ‘That’s where most of the growth goes on and the animals live.  The forest floor is almost dead by comparison, with just creepers and aerial roots to hack our way through.’

‘You know your stuff,’ Pace replied. ‘Sorry, but I need to focus now so could we continue this a little later?’  A little offended, but not too much, Ruby ended the lesson and watched the man’s broad back moving with assured strength in front of her eyes.  She allowed herself a moment to imagine him naked, then shook the image from her head and replaced it with one of Sasha.  She’d always preferred women but had been known to occasionally sample a man when she came across an interesting one.  Soothed with another forced image of her girlfriend, she walked on.

After they had gone a couple of miles, Ruby offered to take over the lead so he handed her the machete and slipped into line behind her.  The camera in his hand had filmed little of use yet, except swathes of mocking fog, so he put it away.

Ruby walked confidently in the lightening gloom and he noticed how gracefully she moved.  It was easy to imagine her deftly shinning up a sheer cliff-face or competing in a demanding international triathlon.  Her frame was small and slender but she was surprisingly curvy at the hip now that he had little else to look at and it was not the most unpleasant thing, he thought, to be moving behind such femininity.

A few minutes later, a cry sounded from the back of the line of marchers.  Hammond had taken a nasty spill over an exposed root and twisted his ankle.

‘At least it wasn’t a snake,’ he groaned, his pride feeling more hurt than his ankle.  Attia checked it over and pronounced it fit to walk on but five minutes were lost strapping it up before they could continue moving.

Pace’s wrist alarm beeped only ten minutes later, telling him that it was time for the main rest of the first twenty-four hour cycle.  All but Hammond then worked together to set up the shelter.  The accountant rested his foot while Pace secretly filmed him looking thoroughly miserable.

It would make a powerful statement about personal suffering in the final edit, he decided.

Fortunately, none of them had any idea, at that moment, of exactly how much suffering was coming their way.  The jungle would have seemed a great deal more frightening if they had.

16

Three and a half hours in the middle of the damp, dingy jungle, that was the duration of the sleep break.  Unless he was strapped in the pilot’s seat of a helicopter cockpit, Pace had never been given to real clarity of thought, instead his mind tended to flit from subject to subject like a deranged butterfly.  Amongst the ancient trees, though, it was different.  There were no pressing matters to attend to other than getting through the race.  The rest of the world ceased to exist for him, except the link provided by the all-singing, all-dancing transmitter.

After eating a cold meal of dried fruit, salted crackers and cooked meat sticks (in foil wrapping) washed down with another litre of fruit drink, every person collapsed into the shelter and did the best they could to get comfortable.  Somehow they all fitted together but the smell of unwashed, stinking bodies quickly stagnated the air inside

Before settling down to sleep, Pace checked in with base.  McEntire wasn’t there but O’Toole, one of his associates, was.  With nothing really to report, Pace cut the call short and forced himself to take a few shots outside with the camera.  He set it to normal mode and used his torch to lift the dull daylight in his immediate vicinity.

He hoped he was creating some atmospheric shots but was too tired to really care if they were any good or not.  His wrinkled nose protested at the foul smell on re-entering the shelter but he squashed down with the others and soon dropped off to sleep.

For his melodramatic part, he awoke feeling near to death.  As he tried to move, tired muscles shrieked their protest and pain was etched onto his face.  He’d awoken to find himself curled up tightly with Ruby; their faces barely inches apart and her soft breath on his cheek.  In any romance novel it would have been described as sweet breath but nobody had cleaned their teeth for a day and it smelt as sour as his own mouth tasted.  Her eyes flickered open and she sat herself up.  Unlike his grimace, she immediately broke into a broad grin.

‘Morning,’ she breezed.  Strictly speaking it was nearly ten in the morning.  ‘Feeling it, I see.’

‘You tell me I’m the only one and I’ll shoot myself,’ he countered testily.  Pain plucked at each vertebra of his bent spine with sharp hooks as he straightened, his movements mirroring the agility of a geriatric sloth.

‘There is a cure.  Outside everybody!’ she commanded.  ‘We need to shake ourselves down.’  Groans of displeasure started to rumble around the shelter but she wasn’t standing for any of it.  ‘Besides, I can’t stand the stink in here. Come on!’

Outside, the surrounding jungle seemed brighter than before.  The fog of water vapour had finally evaporated and their eyes were still accustomed to low light through sleep.  They clearly spotted the patrolling swarms of blood-sucking insects waiting to dive-bomb some prey.   Rain still fell steadily.

They had also awoken to anything but a silent rain forest.  The air was alive with the shrill chatter of birds, and the grunts and calls of mammals, echoing all around them but mainly coming down from above their heads.  As Pace glanced above him, he studied one of the small breaks in the high canopy where the rain fell through.  Through this tiniest of natural windows, he saw only the washed out drudgery of heavy rain clouds.   Attia had been right next to him a minute earlier but when he turned to speak to him, the man had vanished.  He mentioned it but nobody had seen him leave.

‘Probably gone to see to his business,’ suggested Cosmos wisely.  ‘I know I have to.’

‘Nobody should leave the camp without telling someone else,’ said Ruby firmly.  ‘It’s a rule we have for everyone’s safety.  He knows it.’

Pace checked their time.  ‘We have to get packed up and be on our way in ten minutes so whatever anyone needs to do, do it now.  We must stick within the time rules or our race will be over.’  He volunteered to help Hammond deflate the shelter while everyone else discreetly disappeared into the jungle to answer various calls of nature.  Pace took himself off into the nearby foliage and returned from his own minute of relief to a sight that left him gaping, open-mouthed with surprise.

In the space of time he’d been gone, everyone had shed their clothing and selected a natural shower to stand beneath, some doubling up.  It looked like a nudists’ convention, as his comrades hurriedly soaped their bodies and revelled in a sensation of freshness as warm rainwater rinsed away sweat and temporarily soothed the irritation from multiple insect bites.  Attia had returned from his own mystery tour and was showering with the rest of them.  He spotted Pace and waved towards a small, unoccupied gusher.

With only five minutes remaining before they had to leave, Pace shook off his surprise and stripped off as fast as he could.  Cosmos threw him a bar of soap, which he caught deftly, and soon stood beneath his own hole in the canopy, allowing the rain to soak his skin before soaping his body like mad.

More conscious of the dwindling time than of showering in front of everyone, he couldn’t help but admire Ruby’s toned, pert body.  Shimmering wetly in the tropical heat, her skin gleamed pure ivory.  She caught his gaze and smiled.  The thoughts that sprang to mind at seeing the curve of her breasts, her large excited nipples and the neatly trimmed triangle nestled between her legs immediately wracked him with guilt.  He turned away and concentrated on getting clean.

‘How long?’ called out Ruby, addressing his back and returning the secret glance of admiration as it wandered up and down his muscular frame. She'd already stolen a glance at his front and a warm glow still stirred in the pit of her belly at what she had seen.

‘About four minutes, that’s all,’ he replied without turning.

‘I’m done anyway,’ said Hammond.  ‘Let’s get cracking.’

‘One more minute,’ protested Attia.

‘Your fault for being late,’ Ruby shot him down good-naturedly.  ‘Let’s hurry this up.’

Pace finished rinsing away his own dirt and felt a hundred times better for it, despite having to put damp, dirty clothing back on.  They all carried a couple of spare outfits but there were many days of the race ahead of them so they made do.

Hammond and Cosmos checked they hadn’t left anything behind and Team Two made it back on the trail with barely five seconds to spare.  Ruby took up the lead where she’d left off, having swiftly consulted the map card again.  Confident, especially now the track was clearly visible, she strode with purpose, determined to make up some time on Bailey’s team.

The target waterway lay about eight or nine kilometres further inside and the track supposedly led all the way there.  The going remained soft, on a mixture of red mud and brown leaf litter.  No one wanted to be in the forest depths when night fell again so they naturally picked up speed.  Pace took position at the very rear this time and shot some film of anything interesting they passed, which wasn’t much.  Ruby’s shapely hips no longer filled his eyes; Cosmos walked in front of him and he was just too massive to see around.

Ruby kept them to the tiny jungle track as best she could.  She kept up a running commentary over their headsets as she moved, warning each of them to any danger.  As leader she also had the honour of checking the edges of the track for deadly snakes, all too easily mistaken for forest roots.  Occasionally they were forced to stop when the trail vanished in a clearing or cluster of thick roots, but a quick scout around and they soon picked it up again.  Tell-tale boot prints often gave the best clue, thanks again to Bailey’s crew.

Conversation over the radio headsets was generally light because nobody could afford the luxury of allowing their thoughts to wander as they moved along the winding trail.  Hammond had already proved they were vulnerable to accident.

The air in Pace’s nostrils remained steeped with the scent of the jungle; earthy, strangely rich, interspersed by sickly decay wafting through the near colourless murk like the ebb and flow of an invisible river.  At times sweetness would reach out to tickle his senses and his mind’s eye would be positive the flowers giving off such wonderful scents would be brilliantly coloured; probably orchids.  He did see some flowers, several as large as his head, but they were high up above him and the grey-green spectrum of light that managed to penetrate below the canopy painted them all with a drab brush.  He was adamant the colours would have been vibrant under direct sunlight.

Seven hours of heavy slog later finally brought Attia to call out for them to stop.  They’d reached the target.   Relieved just to be able to stop, team members sank to their knees on a muddy bank gratefully.  Any sense of freshness after their showers was a distant memory.

As usual, Pace found himself slicked with sweat and his chest rose and fell in ragged, laboured gasps from the sheer effort of the trek.

He thought for a moment that he felt some hints of pain around the site of his gunshot wound but the signals from his body were not clear so he forced the thought from his mind.

Suddenly, an explosion of rustling erupted from deep within the foliage to his left, perhaps as close as twenty feet away. A squeal of terror, a lengthy snarl-cum-roar, shrieks of agony and then abrupt silence, broken only by the agitated ripples of startled birds and frightened monkeys from high in the treetops. It was doubtless a jaguar and it sounded too close for comfort but common sense told him they would be safe during daylight.  The mood switched immediately from one of exhausted apathy to alert tension.

‘At least somebody’s having dinner,’ remarked Attia lightly.

‘Yes, but something’s being had for dinner,’ added Cosmos.

‘Everyone just sit and wait,’ said Ruby, trying to sound braver than she felt.  She shivered, despite the heat, at the thought of razor-sharp teeth tearing living flesh so close by.

‘The beast has its food, so it will ignore us,’ soothed the giant Kenyan.  ‘There is nothing to fear, I promise.’

So they sat, or knelt, and waited quietly.  Soon after, they heard the distinct sound of something being dragged bodily through the undergrowth, slowly receding into silence.

‘How about getting started on this challenge?  Then we can all sit down and eat something ourselves.  Frankly, I’m jealous.’  Hammond’s grin was infectious and broke the moment.  Suddenly everyone was up again and raring to get on with the task.

‘Let’s hope dinner is satisfying,’ snorted Attia lightly, ‘or he may come looking for dessert.’

‘Biggest person makes the noble sacrifice.  Cosmos, my friend, it was nice knowing you.’  Hammond’s quick wit started the large Kenyan laughing and they all soon joined in, allowing the familiar sound to echo over the riverbank they now found themselves on, lifting away all traces of solemnity.

Race officials couldn’t monitor the challenges so there were no faces to greet their arrival. The challenge area was deserted, with no sign of Bailey’s team save for a multitude of footprints smearing and pitting the exposed mud of the riverbank.  The prints were fresh and not yet obscured by the renewed drizzle so Bailey could only be a matter of an hour or two ahead of them.  Obviously the challenge was achievable because Bailey’s team had already been there, overcome it, and moved on.

The water marked by X was one of the wide tributaries that criss-crossed the basin as they sought out the main channel.  The banks were rocky, the dark brown stone slicked with a green sheath of algae and moss.  It was a respectable river in its own right.  It looked to be about thirty feet wide and the dark brown water hid any inhabitants as well as the depth.  Across on the other side of the river, a stump of dead log rose from the water’s edge. Perched on the log, revelling in the light rain spilling down through the thin tear in the canopy above the river’s course, sat two large turtles.

Hammond identified them as yellow-spotted side-neck turtles.  They were each the size of a large plate and paid no attention to the intruders.  Insects buzzed around their eyes, probably feeding off the eyeball fluid, but they just sat still and relaxed.

A gorgeous blue and yellow kingfisher suddenly darted across from a tree on the other side and plunged into the water, exploding back out a moment later with a small fish flapping furiously in its beak.  Although the humans couldn’t see them, a pair of marmosets also eyed them from the safety of the high canopy, munching on the leaves of a nearby cecropia tree as they watched the evening’s entertainment begin to unfold.

Pinned to a nearby trunk was a large, laminated instruction poster, in English.  Cosmos clicked on his torch to light up the poster more clearly but even his strong hand wavered slightly with excitement, sending the beam skittering around the edges of the poster.  It read:

Your first challenge is to cross the river at the point marked.  All competitors must cross to the far side, where each must collect a marker card in their own name.  Each competitor must then cross back again, handing the marker to the team leader.  When all competitors have completed the challenge the team must return to the main highway via the secondary trail marked on your map cards.  Competitors may not collect markers for others.  Please note - the water in this area may contain dangerous creatures so the challenge area has been netted.

Sure enough, an area some ten feet wide had been netted, bank-to-bank, although the net sat barely six inches above the water.  Pace was not convinced that the weight of any of them wouldn’t end up dunking both competitor and net below the surface.  The rules came next.

Care must be taken.  There are ten points allocated to the challenge; two points for each personal marker retrieved.  One point will also be deducted for any competitor who falls into the net.  The deduction system applies to both the outward and return crossing.  Equipment has been provided for your team.   Take only the bag marked for your team and remove the items from the area upon completion of the challenge.

‘So, if all of us fall into the net, there and back, we get no points at all, even if we retrieve our own markers?’ Pace voiced the rhetorical question.  ‘But at least there is a net, I suppose we should be grateful.’  He eyed the gloomy water suspiciously, wondering what horrors might lurk beneath its less than benign surface.

‘The Amazon is teeming with things that bite, sting and crush.  Perhaps they could have been a little more specific,’ Attia suggested lightly.

‘I knew a young lady once who lived in Bond street and she was as dangerous a creature as you’re ever likely to find anywhere in the world,’ quipped Hammond in reply.

‘Does it matter?’ Pace said quickly.  ‘Let’s just dig out the bag and have a go at the challenge.  The longer we wait, the further Bailey will forge ahead of us.’

Suddenly energised and more comfortable with his surroundings, Pace practically bounded from tree to tree until he located two large duffel bags, propped  between  large  buttress roots nearby.  They opened one marked for their team and examined its contents thoroughly, spilling them out on the slippery, print-slicked bank.  There were several lengths of rope and an array of varying sizes of foot and handspike. There was also a reel of strong nylon safety line.

‘What, no collapsible bridge?’

‘Looks like we’re going up into the trees,’ grinned Ruby.

‘My mother always said I was a monkey,’ said Hammond.

‘Looks like she was right after all,’ she added.

‘We must climb into the canopy,’ deduced Cosmos slowly, cutting in on their banter, ‘and tie a stretch of rope to this side.  Somehow we have to take the other end across to a tree on the other side of the water and tie it on also?  Everyone then climbs up this side, goes across the rope and climbs down to get their marker?  Is this making any sense?’

‘Once the rope is tied, yep, I see what you mean,’ agreed Attia.

‘The second trail to the road is only a few feet into the trees,’ said Ruby, checking her map device quickly.  ‘It’s on this side, so you’re right Cosmos.  We each have to go over, then come back again.’

‘There and back,’ echoed Hammond.  He was in his glory and eager to start, all discomfort from his swollen ankle suddenly forgotten.

‘Seems simple enough,’ Pace ventured, ‘but how do we get across the water with the rope in the first place?  How do we bridge such a wide gap?’  There were no obvious limbs sticking out from trees on the other side, so a cowboy-style lasso wouldn’t work and the turtle log was unlikely to support the weight of a person, even if they could rope it.

‘Somebody will have to climb high into the canopy,’ answered Ruby, eyeing the treetops carefully.  ‘They’ll need to go high enough until they can move across some of the upper branches that join those of trees on the other side.’  Ruby scanned as she spoke and all eyes followed her gaze.

The water was wide enough to keep the trees almost totally apart from each other but there looked to be some thin foliage stretching out over the water, towards the tree canopy opposite, in a couple of places.  Pace swallowed uneasily.  The limbs looked frail and were very high up, perhaps one hundred and twenty feet from the ground.  From down on the forest floor, Pace couldn’t be sure they touched at all, though they looked like they did – just.  Whoever went first might even have to make some kind of jump.

Being an experienced pilot, he had never had a problem with heights but the sense of sheer scale and exposure tingled up and down his spine, stiffening the hairs on the nape of his neck.

‘Who’s the best climber?’ asked Cosmos rhetorically.  They all knew it was Ruby.  ‘My weight makes it impossible for me to try, so I am in luck,’ he grinned.  ‘Small and light would have the best chance.’

‘As the professional climber of the group, and the lightest, I’ll go of course.’  There was no trace of emotion in Ruby’s voice.  Without another word she started sorting through the equipment supply, choosing carefully before moving around to choose the best tree.  Then again, if you were used to hanging thousands of feet up a sheer cliff-face, one hundred and twenty feet was child’s play.

As Pace watched her prepare to get started, he remembered the fact that most creatures, including those with bites deadly to humans, were arboreal.  It wasn’t only the height she was risking.  To add to the tension, in the fifteen minutes she took to get herself ready, the strip of grey sky grew darker as the sun dipped towards an unseen horizon.  Her climb would soon be in the dark, guided only by torch light.  It was a journey fraught with danger and he said so.

‘Do you have any better suggestions?’

‘Not one,’ he replied truthfully.

‘I appreciate your concern, honestly,’ she smiled, ‘but I’ll be up and over before anyone knows it.  If I get going now I should be able to get the tricky bit done before the light goes completely.  I don’t plan on hanging around long enough to annoy any of the locals either.’

‘James is right, of course,’ agreed Hammond.  ‘You will have to be very careful but you know that. Bailey’s team aren’t here so they obviously made it across and back somehow.  Maybe they found a better way but I can’t think what it would’ve been.’

‘The equipment is for climbing, you’ve done enough yourself to know that.’  Hammond conceded a nodding shrug.  ‘There’s no time to waste thinking about it.  I’d be very happy if the bag held James’s collapsible bridge, but it doesn’t.  Anyway, wish me luck.’

Ruby strapped a set of spikes around her running boots, shunning the handspikes in favour of her own fingers.  It would be quicker, she explained.  Then she selected a nearby tree that reached high into the edge of the canopy and quickly shook out her muscles.  Its lowest limbs didn’t sprout from the trunk for a massive forty feet above their heads and the trunk itself was gigantic, measuring at least twenty feet across.

‘About thirty-five, maybe forty feet to the first limb, then I can speed up,’ she echoed their thoughts perfectly, looping a long coil of rope and the thinner nylon safety over one shoulder.  ‘I will tie on when I hit the first limb so the rest of you should be able to cross with only a forty foot drop to the net.  As soon as the rope is tied I’ll head on up, over and down, tying off at the lowest limb over there.  I should be able to tie on at about the same height.’

Pace piped up.  ‘Now get going before all my film gets used up.’  She gave him a rude finger-sign.

‘They’ll just cut that out,’ Pace shook his head reprovingly behind the eyepiece.  ‘I don’t know, the young women of today…’  She gave him another sign for good measure but then smiled sweetly and blew an exaggerated kiss into the lens.

‘Everyone okay with this?’ asked Hammond, using some bandages from Attia’s medical kit to fashion a makeshift torch mount for Ruby’s head.  It wasn’t pretty but he managed to tie his smallest torch onto the top of her head, giving her light for as long as the batteries held out.  ‘Any last questions?  No?  Okay then, off you go and good luck.’

‘In that get up, you look like you’ve already fallen off a high tree,’ said Attia and it did look like Ruby had suffered a serious accident, with the swathes of bandages Hammond had wrapped around her head.

‘I haven’t used the small torch much so you should have good batteries in that one.  There aren’t any spares for it, so when it packs up, that’s it.’

‘No time to waste then.’

‘One last thing,’ said Cosmos seriously, his tone low and instantly commanding attention.  All eyes twitched across to him.  ‘Remember not to put any weight on any epiphytes.’

‘I hadn’t planned to,’ answered Ruby, ‘but thanks for the reminder.’

‘Epiphytes?’ queried Pace, immediately aware of his lack of knowledge.

‘Epiphyte is a generic term for many species of the plants and flowers that grow in any rain forest.  It refers to any plant that grows out of the trees; sucker plants if you like.’  Hammond filled him in easily.

‘A lot of seed never gets to the forest floor,’ explained Cosmos.  ‘They get lodged in cracks of bark or the joints of tree limbs, where they happily grow.  There’s so much humidity all the time they can survive quite happily.’

‘Okay, I guess they aren’t too strong then?’

‘No, they’re mainly flowering orchids or fungi.  Some can look really tough but they won’t hold your weight.’  He spoke directly to Ruby now.  ‘Just use your spikes and stick to grabbing solid tree when you climb.’

‘Okay, enough lecturing,’ said Hammond.  ‘It will be dark any minute, so get going.’

Everyone wished her well and stood back to watch.  The vibrant Canadian sucked in a concentrating breath, reached up and started her ascent.  She moved purposefully, digging her feet into the bark and sliding up.  She stretched her arms as far around the trunk as possible before pulling her feet free, one at a time, and stabbing the spikes back into the flesh of the trunk a foot or so further up.

Ruby reached the first limb without incident.  She pulled off the rope coil, unwound the tie and let the bulk fall away to the ground, keeping a firm grip on the free end.  Tying it tightly to the limb she pulled up the rope, coiling it as she went but in a much looser way.  She then tied off the safety line and smiled down at them.  She waved before heading up into the foliage.

Soon after, the first drops of heavier rain began to fall against the lens of the big camera. Very quickly, Ruby’s diminutive frame was lost from sight by a deluge that closed down visibility to about thirty feet; enough to blur even the lower limb into an indistinct echo of itself.  Unusually, a slight wind drove the rain in underneath the trees and all they could do was bury themselves deeper into the waterproof clothing and wait.

Pace quickly packed the expensive camera away and continued filming with the MicroCam because he had more faith in its waterproof qualities.

Pace kept the tripod out and screwed the little camcorder to it instead.  Several torches were being shone upwards from the ground but the falling darkness and downpour made it pointless; so they were switched off.  The camcorder’s night vision managed to pick out Ruby’s hazy form and he was the only one able to see her for the next ten minutes until she completely vanished from view; any light diffused and reflected back by a thousand slanting raindrops.

Pace had no idea how she would cope with the bad weather.  If only the rain had held off for one hour longer.  The situation was tense but he was quietly confident Ruby would make it, which she did eventually.

An hour passed before Pace caught sight of her again.  The rain continued to pour down all that time and he couldn’t see anything until a regular check through the viewfinder picked her out just as she climbed back down from the obscured limb above their heads and into plain sight.  She resembled a drowned rat but the smile of achievement she wore burned itself into his memory.

All of their full running suits looked grimy and soiled and hers was no exception.  Her climb had pulled at her bottoms a little and the material was torn in a couple of places where she’d snagged herself on sharp points, a couple even spotted with fresh blood where thorns had gouged at her flesh.  Ruby pulled out a small red plastic card, with a flourish, from the waistband of her partially exposed underwear before readjusting herself.  The beaming grin never left her otherwise exhausted face and all of them got a hug.

For her, the challenge was over and she demanded to take over the camera for him, listening to his run down of the basic controls in between gulps of bottled water.  Pace had decided to go first, or second technically, just to get it over with.

Admittedly, she didn’t have time to fill him in on the entire climb but she’d managed to cross a few upper tree limbs, clamber down and tie the rope off to a branch on the far side.  Then she’d hauled herself back across the river using it.  Pace donned his spikes, including the hand ones.  He didn’t trust himself to look back at the team and threw himself determinedly up the tree.  His technique was bloody awful but he got the knack fairly quickly.

Water not only fell into his eyes, blinding him for the most part, but it also ran in streams down the trunk itself, bringing with it swarms of disgruntled, partially drowned insects. Pace jammed his head back and kept his eyes partially closed against the rain and concentrated on his goal.

‘You’re doing fine,’ called Hammond.  ‘Just remember to breathe.’

It was good advice and Pace forced his lungs to work more sedately.  Moving upwards steadily, the limb slowly solidified through the driving rain.  He reached it without incident and soon stood on it, gripping the rope that stretched out, he knew, across to the other side of the water.  He turned the handspikes around to the backs of the hand so he could manage the traverse and sucked in a deep breath.

Gripping the wet rope tightly with both hands, he stepped off of the limb.  Just as the rain had shielded the limb from below, it prevented him seeing anything below him at all, except his own legs as they dangled beneath him.

Pace hauled his legs up and hooked them over the rope as well, with his head facing in the direction of the opposite bank, which he could not see.  He wasn’t stupid enough to try a purely hand-over-hand crossing, instead opting for slow, steady progress across the slick rope.

‘Go on, James.  You are doing very well.’ He knew whoever had spoken couldn’t really see him unless they snatched a glance through the camera but he appreciated the encouragement.

Moving across the rope turned out to be far easier than he’d imagined.  Hand, hand, then slide feet together.  He repeated the mantra to himself as his body dragged itself across the hidden water some three storeys below.  The opposite tree banged into his head surprisingly quickly and he then managed a fairly competent climb down to the opposite bank.

A bag, neatly marked for the team, was propped against the base of the tree and in no time at all he was back up the trunk, over the rope and standing again on the limb of the starting tree.  He didn’t falter on the last leg and felt very pleased with myself as his feet pressed into the soft ground.  He hadn’t slipped, fallen, or screwed it up at all, which was brilliant.

Swallowing some offered water, Pace took back the camera, checked it was still running sweetly, and recorded the others as they each overcame the task in turn.  He panned, zoomed and tracked some really wonderful shots with the night vision switched on.  Nobody fell and, in the end, the first challenge proved a little anti-climactic.  An hour after his triumphant crossing, they were all making their way back up the second track.  Nobody wanted to walk the track at night but they couldn’t hang around.  Everyone had managed to rest when it wasn’t their turn to climb; drinking and eating some fruit and energy biscuits so they wasted no time in pushing on again.

With Cosmos in the lead, the team wound its way back inside the insidious, dark maw of choking forest.  To cope with the darkness they adopted a system of the leader and the vanguard both carrying one of the large torches.  This gave just enough light to follow the trail and nearly enough to keep unseen demons at bay.

17

They were on a high from their success and all ignored their fatigue.  At one point they even broke into an enthusiastic rendition of Heard it through the Grapevine, though the maestro himself would have turned in his grave to hear them murder his tune.

In time, Hammond took his turn up at the front. The rain slammed down onto the canopy with a continued ferocity and weight.  Thunder raged alongside the torrent of fairly cold water but any lightning was hidden by the dense foliage.

Water still found its way through the gaps and down the trunks with enough force to start some serious flooding and their ragged line moved ever more slowly until progress was barely more than a trudge through increasingly deep and slippery mud.

Pace definitely needed something to take his mind off being wet and surprisingly cold.  His eyes were heavy and fatigue was beginning to eat away at him.  As his chest strained under the constant exertion, he fought away the fear as needles of hot pain prickled around his edges of his wound.

No, he thought firmly, just ignore it and it will go away.   He still walked at the back of the line, with Cosmos in front of him.  He asked the cheery Kenyan how long he had been running.  It had been written down on the summary sheet he’d received about each of the competitors but his addled brain couldn’t remember.

‘I’ve been running for all of my life,’ came the reply, with a brief crackle of interference.

Pace’s eyes were rooted between the man’s broad back and the intercom meant Cosmos didn’t have to take his eyes off his footing to look around at his questioner.  ‘It is a wise man who learns to be quick.  In Kenya, especially back when I was a small boy, danger looked for you everywhere.  You had to be swift on your feet just to stay alive.’

‘Hard on a child,’ Pace said softly.

‘That’s just how it was, and still is in a lot of my country.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.  When I was barely a teenager I witnessed a massacre.’  He spoke in an emotionless tone, his unseen eyes taking on a faraway glaze although his feet never erred along the squelching track.  ‘Even at such a young age, I’d already seen a lot of killing. The only difference was that these were white people, not native Kenyans.  They had run an eye clinic just outside my village since I was a little boy.  Just a tent and some basic equipment but the doctors became part of our village; of our family.  It wasn’t planned, the killing I mean.  Strangers came and their anger turned to murder.’

‘I really don’t know what to say,’ Pace admitted, turning sharply to avoid a sharp root sticking out across the track.  Cosmos had seen it and instinctively stepped over it, waving his hand to point it out to Pace.  Nobody up in front had called out a warning, which was a worry.  Tiredness was taking its toll on concentration obviously.  Pace called out to Hammond and warned him to pay more attention.  An apology came back over his headset, alongside a promise to look harder.

‘They butchered everyone,’ Cosmos continued.  ‘Doctors, nurses, local volunteers…everybody.’

‘And you witnessed it all?’  Pace wasn’t sure where it was going but was intrigued to hear the giant speak of his past.

‘The gang didn’t know about the medical team that had left four days before; heading for a village thirty miles away.  There were three nurses and two native guides who went out on a six-monthly visit.  I knew they would be on their way back and they would have walked into certain death.  I decided to get away and warn them.  Nobody spotted me because I’d hidden myself well.  After dark, when the killers were all drunk and sleeping, I ran to tell them.’

‘You must have cared a great deal to risk your life for them.’

‘One of the guides was my brother, Kaur.  The nurses were always kind to us.  For years the hospital had been helping the people from all the local villages.  It was my duty to try.’

Pace barely remembered to move his feet, so enthralled was he becoming.  ‘Did you…find them?’  He mentally crossed his fingers.

Cosmos boomed a laugh so unexpectedly loud in his earpiece that Pace startled, twisted an ankle sharply and ended up sprawling face down and wrist-deep into red, stinking mud.  Seconds later a strong hand reached down and effortlessly yanked him back onto his feet.  His eyes were so accustomed to the gloom that he could make out Cosmos’s features quite well; he was smiling.

‘I ran for hours and hours, maybe through fear but I knew in my heart that I would succeed, don’t ask me how.’  He motioned for Pace to move again, which he did, slicking the worst of the mud from his tracksuit with his downwards sweeps of his hands as he hurried to rediscover a numbing rhythm.

‘Our man here ran the entire twenty-nine miles without stopping,’ Hammond chose to pipe up from the front.  ‘Saved those people and got himself noted by the local authorities.  There was even a small article in one of America’s national papers, I believe. The hospital was mainly American Red Cross you see,’ he added, by way of explanation.

‘You’ve done your reading,’ said Cosmos, mildly surprised.  ‘A little publicity and suddenly I was offered the chance to train in Spain, at a special boarding school for foreign sporting hopefuls.  When I was seventeen, I ran in my first marathon; in your homeland, James.  I remember the cold and the rain to this day, how it soaked into my very bones on the day.’

‘So you feel right at home here then?’ chuckled Attia’s disembodied voice.  ‘Rain, rain and more rain, perfect.’

‘He won, if you haven’t guessed, and after that there was no stopping the man.’  Hammond spoke again.  Pace heard him draw in a sharp breath but whatever he was going to say died in his throat.  The entire procession stopped in its tracks so suddenly that Pace barely stopped himself crashing into Cosmos.  He opened his mouth to speak but stopped as Hammond’s voice stammered softly in his ears.  ‘Nobody move, not even a twitch.’ The words were frozen with tangible fear.

At that moment, Cosmos swayed slightly to his left a few inches, revealing what was going on up the line.  Ruby and Attia had stepped about the same distance off of the track, but to the right, giving Pace a clear view of Hammond, who was slowly inching his way backwards.  Pace backed up a little himself, giving the retreating figure somewhere to go.  All eyes were glued ahead.

It was after the accountant had moved backwards perhaps two feet that the snake itself became visible.  And it wasn’t a baby either; it was huge, perhaps eight or nine feet in length and as thick as a man’s arm. It looked angry too, a flash of tongue flicked in and out madly, perhaps deciding whether to kill the human or not.  Hammond had already wisely dropped the beam of his torch away from the snake’s bobbing head, not wanting to provoke a panicky strike.

The snake’s body was kept in the edges of the beam; visible but only just.  Pace noticed a few darker stripes but the poor light made accurate study impossible.  At least one of his team had no trouble with the identification.

‘Damn.’   Ruby was close enough for him to hear her words with his own ears.  ‘Pit viper, shit.’  Pace caught the fear just before her words sparked an explosion of action that he barely managed to follow.

Attia, the normally mild-mannered doctor lunged at Hammond.  He spun him around bodily and started hauling him back up the track the way they’d just come.  He screamed to all as he did so.  ‘Run!’

Pace’s mind shrieked at him that you were meant to stand still when confronted by a dangerous snake (wasn’t it supposed to be more afraid of him than he was of it?) but everyone just made a headlong dash for safety.  Confused, but bright enough not to be the only one left within biting range, he turned on his heels and headed off after them.  Attia didn’t stop until they had left the serpent over one hundred feet behind.

Hammond was livid. As soon as everyone stopped, he grabbed his torch and flashed it right in Attia’s face, almost touching his nose with the glass.  ‘You stupid fool!’ he raged.  ‘I could have been killed!  What the hell were you doing, pulling a stunt like that?’

‘Easy my friend,’ soothed Cosmos, edging between the two men and gently pushing the accusing torch aside.  Hammond was seething; Pace could see the veins knotting in his neck but he didn’t take on the giant Kenyan.  Pace was pleased for he had no idea of how such a match would turn out.

‘Instead of being foul-mouthed,’ suggested Ruby sharply, ‘how about thanking the doctor for saving your hide!’

‘What are you talking about?’  Hammond wheeled quickly to face her.  The anger hadn’t died in him and the way the torch beam flashed all around them made him seem momentarily deranged.  ‘I had it all under control.  By making those sudden movements, that bastard thing might have stuck its fangs into me, or someone else,’ he snarled.

‘This snake was different,’ continued Ruby, her own tone calm.  ‘This wasn’t your ordinary, everyday deadly jungle snake.  It was a pit viper.

‘To be more precise,’ Attia explained, ‘out here that means the fer-de-lance, sometimes confused with a bushmaster but in reality a little smaller.  Deadly venom, very fast and that one was about eight feet long, give or take a few inches.  That’s as big as they get.’

‘And?’  Hammond was looking slightly bemused now, the anger fading away as the heat of fear subsided.

‘A pit viper is a special kind of snake; the fer-de-lance being a wonderful example of the family of vipers.  Its real name is Bothrops Asper, and it is one of the few snakes in the world which genuinely enjoys a high bite-to-fatality rate in human beings.’  The doctor definitely knew his snakes.  He looked completely unruffled by Hammond’s outburst and lectured so calmly that he might as well have been giving a presentation to a medical board in oak-panelled luxury.

‘It comes from a family of snakes found all across the globe.  They’re known as lance-heads locally.  They pack a lethal bite, some more than others of course, but the venom is more potent in the older snakes.’  He cast a look back up the trail as if expecting the slithering movement of pursuit to appear at any moment.  ‘They all also possess the family trait that makes all of them so dangerous.’

‘Fangs?’ said Hammond sarcastically.  ‘Yeah, I saw those up real close.’

‘Not fangs.’  Attia tutted.  ‘Radar.’

‘Radar?  What on earth are you going on about?’

‘To be more precise, it possesses a heat-seeking ability that makes standing still a total waste of time with this type of snake.  It just gives it more time to find somewhere nice and juicy to strike.’

Hammond looked uncertain.  ‘Heat-seeking snakes?’

‘The joke would have been on you, my fiery friend,’ Attia remarked easily, leaning in and patting Hammond lightly on the shoulder.  ‘Look, this sort of snake can sense body heat.  It doesn’t just react to sudden air movement and strike towards it like other snakes.  Heat is how they hunt, you see.  First, they strike the prey and inject venom.  The prey is usually fairly fleet of foot but a pit viper doesn’t have to worry about giving chase.  After the bite, all it has to do is wait for the poor creature to collapse and die before locating the meal by its waning body heat.’

Feeling ashamed and stupid, Hammond immediately apologised.

The team headed back up the trail again after a couple of minutes, when the adrenaline had passed out of their bloodstreams.  They cautiously approached the point on the trail previously occupied by the reptile but there was no sign of the snake, to everybody’s relief, and they pressed ahead, a little more alert to the danger of snakes now.

Rain was their constant companion for the night.  The first few hours were okay but the trail soon dissolved into some lower ground that was completely flooded.

They had no choice but to wade through the swamp, which was hellish.  As time-keeper, he calculated they spent over four hours on that dismal roller-coaster, first rising up to find the trail before dropping down back into tepid water that rose to chest height at times.

Whenever they went wading there came a fear of attack from more deadly snakes, black caymans or even the dreaded giant anaconda.  It was a blessed relief whenever they finally clawed their way up a muddy rise for a brief respite on drier ground.

Each time they dipped back down into deep water, Pace wondered if piranha might not be lurking around nearby.   Sloshing through the darkness, still with only two torches fending off a pervading sense of evil, he tripped on sunken roots more times than he could count and gradually grew used to swallowing mouthfuls of rancid river water with each unexpected dunking.

Thankfully, the torches were fully waterproof.

The tiny return trail cut back onto the road barely five miles further on from where they had left it.  With the oppression of close jungle lifted by the comparative openness of the thirty-foot wide roadway, Pace’s numb legs collapsed beneath him and he lay on the compacted mud and broken stone surface, face to the heavens, wheezing in great gasps of damp air.

After ten minutes, his chest slowed to a more regular rhythm and he seemed to come out of his stupor, dragging himself upright with some difficulty.  Attia lay flat out a few feet from him,  face down while Ruby  sat  huddled,  knees drawn up to her chin, massaging her calves through her running suit.  She looked pale and drawn, coated from head to toe with a healthy layer of river slime.

A sorrier bunch it would have been hard to find.

‘Time to get some hot food inside our stomachs.’  Hammond was the only one standing. He looked quite together as he pulled the pack from his wiry shoulders and set it down lightly on the highway.  Strangely, there was no sign that his ankle had been injured.  ‘No time for resting, not just yet.’

It was time for their second sleep session and Pace received a round of applause when he told them.  Having been living off cold rations since the start, the thought of cooking a hot meal made everyone’s mouth water.

Finding a section of unbroken road, Hammond set about inflating their shelter to the ominous rumblings of distant thunder.  Cosmos strode over to help him.   ‘While you start the home fires,’ decided Ruby, ‘it’s time for us to strip off again.’

‘What do you have in mind?’ groaned Pace, wishing to be left alone with his aching body for a few moments longer.

Without being crude,’ she breezed, ‘we’ve been wading in slime for hours and, well….I...er...think I feel things on my skin.  All over, if you get my meaning.’

As she said it, he noticed the strangest sensation of mild itching all over his own body; of areas of light pressure.  All at once it hit him and he sprang to his feet with a new-found lease of life.

That was how, only a few minutes later, five human beings stood communally naked once again, in the middle of the road.  There were no pleasant jungle showers to be had this time, instead they went through the humiliating but necessary process of de-leeching each other.

They even had a special tool for the job, produced from Attia’s bag.  It resembled a cigarette end, which Pace knew people used to burn away leeches in the past without them taking a chunk of flesh with them, but it was made mainly of plastic and battery powered.  It had a metal tip similar to a standard car cigarette lighter and worked in the same way.

Modesty went out of the window during this process because the leeches were everywhere, on all of them.  The group took it in turns to scour one person at a time, from head to toe and in every nook and crack, literally.

Cosmos wandered naked into the jungle and returned a few moments later with a huge armful of wet, spongy green leaves, which they used to wipe themselves down afterwards before each donned a clean running suit from their pack and slipped back on their waterproof ponchos in readiness for the coming downpour.

‘I’ll cook dinner if nobody minds,’ Pace offered.  ‘And if we eat fast, then we can get some real sleep.’  Another round of applause.  ‘Let’s get going.’

Dinner was freeze-dried chicken stew and dumplings, finished with chocolate biscuits and instant coffee; all of which he prepared in an ingeniously-designed aluminium saucepan.

The pan was ultra-lightweight and had to be assembled first, coming as it did, in flat-packed form from his own backpack.  Once rigged, it held five pints of water.  The clouds spilled rain down just as he finished assembling the gadget and the others retreated inside Lester, leaving him huddled outside alone; dry beneath his poncho.

He didn’t mind the sudden solitude, in fact he would have walked over hot coals for a cooked meal.  He allowed the pan to fill with fresh rainwater so as not to deplete any of their bottled stocks, which didn’t take long because the shower quickly deteriorated into a full-blown thunderstorm with rain lashing down hard.

The cooking unit was an amazing piece of kit.  It was a sealed, circular unit, that sat on retractable metal legs that raised it just six inches off of the ground.  The saucepan sat firmly on top of the unit, held snugly within guide runners.  A tiny gas flame, shielded from the rain but ventilated via tiny air holes in the unit’s circumference, was provided by a small gas bottle built neatly into the bottom of the unit.  The flame was tiny but the whole thing had been designed for maximum efficiency.

No heat was wasted, all of it was channelled directly against the base of the saucepan.  The saucepan even came with a handy lid, which kept any more rain out and retained almost all the heat energy inside.

Pace couldn’t help but think it was a camper’s dream as he placed five plastic ration bags into the soon bubbling water.  He slid on the lid and smugly proclaimed victory.

The rig boiled its five pints in as many minutes and they were all ravenously tucking into their first hot dinner barely fifteen minutes afterwards, eating straight from the bags using the small wooden spoon taped to the outside of each bag.  Although the shelter was up and inviting, the smell of the food drew everyone back out into the storm.  Using their packs as seats, they formed into a tight huddle around the tiny cooker.

Pace burned his tongue straight away as the glorious taste of chicken and gravy filled his mouth but he couldn’t help himself.  They lost about two pints of water in the cooking process – there was no simmer control so it continually boiled away.  The remaining three pints inside the saucepan was still enough to make fresh coffee for everyone.  Nothing was wasted.

For him, and he heard similar groans of ecstasy between delicious mouthfuls, it was the best meal of his life.  Not just because of the heat and the familiar tastes on his burned tongue, but more the emotional strength it lent him; revitalising his spirit from the feet upwards.

The taste of black coffee at the end of the meal literally blew his mind.  He revelled in the sensory overload of taste and a welcome fix of energizing caffeine.

After dinner, while the others gratefully turned in, Pace took a few minutes to dismantle the cooker and saucepan.  The food bags were bio-degradable, as were the wooden spoons, so he buried them in the mud at the roadside.

Setting his watch, he squeezed inside the shelter, awaking it seemed before he even closed his eyes to the sound of the alarm.  Sadly, four hours had passed and they had to start moving again.

They all pitched in to break camp.  As Hammond and Cosmos took the shelter down, he did a little more filming, managing to drop the camera onto the hard road surface in the process.  He was relieved when the sturdy casing stayed intact.  A quick check told him everything still worked but he put it away in his belt for the time being.  All in all, it was a manic scene, played out in a rainstorm that had not yet passed.   It was nearly eleven o’clock by the time they set off.

The conversation bantered freely around and even the odd joke put in an appearance.  As the morning wore on, clouds finally lifted to reveal a gorgeous strip of blue sky above the man-made valley of the road, with its steep sides of forest giants.

The sun slid into view, bathing the forest with a golden hue and burning off more surface water than sheer humidity.  The normal wisps of ever-present water vapour quickly thickened around them and rose from the forest on either side like a ghostly sea mist.  With the chatter of hidden wildlife, the Amazon truly echoed a sense of pre-history.

Frighteningly, as the evening drew near again and they’d just completed a running phase, he was caught by a sudden, vicious stab of pain in his chest; so ferocious that it snatched his breath away and persisted for about fifteen minutes before finally fading.  It was an ominous warning and he was very glad they were slowing down at the time.  He said nothing.

United, they walked, jogged and ran, in the planned pattern, ever deeper into the Amazon and deeper into a terrifying nightmare none could foresee.  Completely oblivious to events conspiring against them, each was geared totally to the schedule and their personal struggle against protesting muscles and sinew.

Yet one of them would soon be dead, and Pace’s life would never be the same.

18

There was no ceremony as they reached the cycling point just as darkness fell; Pace made it a little after six pm.  The road was straight and they spotted the distinct orange marker flag even in the failing light, hanging limply against its small steel pole.

Two separate sets of bikes were there, one for their team and one for the team following in their wake, all neatly set up in a row in the centre of the road; linked by a chain and padlocked.  Ruby already carried the key to unlock them.  Bolted to the top of the flagpole, keeping it well above any water level, sat the fire-truck red, automated checkpoint.

The checkpoint consisted of a small, allegedly indestructible transmitter box not too dissimilar from the black box of a commercial airliner in terms of durability.  All the box did was allow each team member to punch in a personal four-digit code, which in turn activated a small touch screen no larger than a watch face.  The competitor pressed both of their thumbs, in turn, against the screen, which then scanned the prints and checked them against a record stored in its memory.  Once satisfied, it would beep quietly and the information went digitally, via satellite link, back to the computer at race headquarters.

Pace’s concern for the past three hours had been the state of the road.  Near constant rain had virtually destroyed any quality in the surface and it was getting worse the deeper they went into the Amazon basin.  It was no longer mainly passable, boggy and with a few dangerous pot-holes, instead being little more than a broken track now.  It wasn’t paved and only the very centre seemed solid and compact. Riding at any speed across such a treacherous surface, with countless puddles littering even the centre to a depth of several inches, was going to be dangerous.

He took a moment to consider the dense walls of vegetation that imprisoned them and irritably slapped away a huge mosquito trying to make a meal of his left eyelid.  Typically, in that steaming swelter and humidity, his respite was brief and the annoying bug soon returned with a horde of its friends.  Those last thirty hours slogging up the road, nearly all of it in a deluge, had served to drain everyone virtually to breaking point.  They were all in one piece but ready to drop.

Pace checked his watch as he tapped his code into the checkpoint and pressed his thumbs against the screen.  Ruby followed and then helped him set up the shelter while the others checked in.  He switched the transmitter from internal to external and called back to base.

The computer had already signalled their arrival at the checkpoint and they were congratulated.  McEntire wasn’t there, apparently off in the city meeting some media executives.  Finally, all able to rest, they sank to the water-pitted ooze that passed for the road surface; each of them sucking hard at the slightly cooling evening air.  Pace felt shattered but exhilarated at the same time.  He had made it through a gruelling section over several days and his chest, though sore and burning constantly, had yet to fail.

Even the ever-present rain seemed less oppressive as they acclimatised to its power and all quickly learned the effect it had on their speed.

As official timekeeper, he’d already agreed a change in the rest periods once they hit the bikes.  Rest stops would now be broken down into eight fifteen-minute stops, two thirty-minute stops and a sleep period of three hours.  They’d saved enough time at the last sleep period to give them an initial break of one hour at the checkpoint before they would need to mount the bikes and be off.

Most of the weight of their packs came from the many bottles of water and soft drinks they had to lug with them – there wasn’t any fresh water in the jungle unless you counted the rain and they didn’t have time to worry about collecting it; it was a race after all, not a survival test.  Each plastic bottle compacted down after use and the packs were filled with empties.

Pace only had one bottle of water left but he wasn’t bothered.  At the start of every section there were fresh supplies.  True enough, three steel chests sat on the ground by the checkpoint, marked for each team.  Their chest was opened and dozens of full bottles were swapped for crushed empties.

Setting up the broadcast camera, he shot some really intimate footage of the team in suffering mode.  Sprawled across the road, athletes stretched and adventurers rubbed aching muscles to dull the pain and stay limber.  Everyone, without exception, was grateful for the extended rest and wished it could be longer.  They’d all pushed hard the last few miles, knowing the bikes lay so close by.

Hammond decided to hand out some sport drinks and energy biscuits when nobody volunteered to cook a real meal.  Pace quickly became lost in the art of filming, double-checking the white balance, sound level db’s and experimenting with several takes of the same general scene; even trying his hand at a few pulled-focus shots.

It was a brilliant camera to work with and he begrudged the time it took for him to bolt down his own biscuit and pint of drink.  It was almost accidental that he checked his watch just in time to shout a ten-minute warning to everyone; given there was no sleep involved this time, he had not bothered to set the alarm.  In return, Ruby forced him to cram down another dry biscuit.

Pace crossed over to the waiting machines, ready for a change from footwork.  They stood in a neat row, in the middle of the road, almost expectantly.  There were two tandem bicycles and one single, just as expected.  All were top-of-the-range mountain bikes and each sported large knobbled tyres and a great deal of polished metal.

Titanium framed, they were very strong yet allegedly lightweight and finely balanced on intricate suspension systems.  Twenty-one gears on each was a daunting thought but he knew they’d get the hang of things.  Shiny cycling helmets hung from the various handlebars, each sporting the name of a member on its front in bold, black lettering.  The head of every racer had been meticulously measured and these same helmets fitted to their heads the week before the race started.

‘Let’s go.  Time’s up,’ Pace said.

Ruby would take the single bike for the first stretch and act as the team’s eyes.  Pace would double with Cosmos on one of the slower tandems.  Hammond was with Attia on the other one.

‘No more walking.  I like it,’ beamed Attia, apparently grateful to give his sore feet a rest.

Pace climbed up onto the front seat of his bike and Cosmos mounted the seat behind him.  He reached an arm out to the automated box and lifted a small flap on the top.  Underneath the protective flap sat a small trigger switch.  He pressed it down and heard it click home.  The click sent a confirmation signal that they were starting the second section.  He’d barely drawn his arm back towards the handlebars before a huge surge of power erupted from the big man behind him, sending them rocketing up the muddy road.  His own legs scrabbled for the wildly spinning pedals and pressed into them.

Pumping his legs strongly, they soon settled into a good rhythm.  The two tandem bikes pitched along, side by side.  Ruby, however, sat up from her seat and pumped her lithe legs furiously on the pedals.  She slowly pulled ahead of the rest of them to assume her trouble-shooting position up at the front.

A few minutes into the cycling section, with his breathing easier as his body adjusted to the shift in exercise level from being at rest, Pace was able to spend a few minutes filming with the MicroCam, plucking it deftly from his belt and holding it in one hand; needing the other for the handlebars.  The riders bumped their way along the devastated highway for about a mile before it took a slow, easy amble off to the north and rose up a little.

With the height rise, the road lifted above any floodwater and the surface quality improved.  The brownish roadway became drier and smoothed out, as did his shots, although the rain started to fall heavily again; filling the noticeably fewer number of potholes within seconds.

‘Rain, rain and more rain,’ muttered Hammond, his voice clearly coming into Pace’s headset.

‘No wonder they gave up on this road,’ Pace replied.  ‘It’s no more than a wide track here.’

‘Only the main areas were ever planned to be paved,’ piped up Attia.  ‘What wasn’t built properly was just levelled and compacted.  It’s held up remarkably well considering where we are and how little traffic it gets.’

‘Everyone’s either back in the cities or using the rivers to travel around again.  It’s quicker and more reliable,’ reminded Hammond.

‘Will they keep it open?’ Pace asked.

‘Should they bother?’ replied Hammond.  ‘It would take a lot of money to make this road actually work.  It would need to be raised in level, given strong foundations and proper drainage.  That amount of in-fill, concrete and steel would cost billions.’

‘I don’t see this road doing anything but slipping back into jungle,’ said Attia.

‘That would be a shame.  After so much work to cut the road, it seems a hell of a waste.’

‘Mother Earth is just claiming back what’s rightfully hers.’  Pace couldn’t see Ruby because she was too far ahead and the light was almost completely gone, but her voice came across as strongly as anyone else’s.

Pace took a moment to wipe his lens and quickly filmed the forbidding walls of jungle on either side of him, panning around to show his fellow riders cycling doggedly through a veiled curtain of rain.  He squinted through the gloom and was just able to make out Ruby’s position by the small orange dot on her backpack.  ‘Ruby,’ he called into his tiny, wire mouthpiece.  ‘How are things up ahead?’

‘Just the same as back there, I imagine,’ she replied cheerily.  ‘The road is supposed to be navigable for the next hundred miles, even in the wet season.’

‘The basin doesn’t have a wet season,’ corrected Attia officiously.  ‘The fringes do, as does the rest of the country, but the rain forest proper is a self-contained weather system, just continually recycling the same old water vapour.’

‘Although,’ Ruby’s tone hardened, ‘I was about to say that there isn’t strictly a wet season here.’

‘Sorry,’ said Attia reproachfully. ‘I must stop finishing other people’s sentences for them. Bad habit.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘About the road?’  Pace coaxed Ruby back on the subject.

‘It was checked out by satellite but there’s no saying the rain won’t have changed things on the ground.  These bikes are the best around.  We should be fine.’

‘It’s getting very dark,’ said Hammond.  ‘Time to break out the toys yet?’

Each bike had its own set of powerful lights, at the front and the back.  Both were powered by sealed batteries and topped up via a dynamo as they pedalled.  The front beam especially cut an impressive swathe in the thickening darkness but they’d never planned to use them during the night.  It was just too risky to use them for anything other than late afternoon and early morning illumination.

Keeping up speed and remaining safe at night required something a little special.  This was why each team member had been given an experimental set of night glasses.  Developed as the next generation in military night vision they looked nothing like the bulky goggles currently used in the field.  Slim line, in the form of an ultra lightweight strip-visor no thicker than your average pair of fashion shades, they nestled in a specially designed pouch on the side of everyone’s backpack.

The rules stated they could only use them on speed sections, which was why nobody had used them on the first section.  They had all itched to use them, especially during the evil march to and from the challenge, but it would have been cheating and meant disqualification.

Ruby agreed with Hammond and they slowed to a halt, braking slowly in the soft mud.  Ruby was completely lost from view as the rain grew heavier and colder.  The Velcro flap on the side of his pack opened easily and Pace pulled the visor out.  The camcorder was safely returned to his belt as he slipped them on just like a pair of spectacles, hooking the moulded arms over his ears underneath the hood of his yellow poncho.  Nobody wasted any time getting going again and he was glad to have both hands firmly gripping the bars as the weather closed in.

The visor cast everything in a bright green hue, as clear as daylight, with every detail of his surroundings suddenly plucked from the pit of darkness and displayed for his viewing pleasure.  It took a bit of getting used to, seeing everything in green, but the fact they’d been cocooned in a dark, green rainforest all day helped him adjust.  The transformation was nothing short of magical.

‘Thank God for technology,’ said Attia.  His tandem was bringing up the rear, with him on the rear seat.  ‘How are you feeling, James?  Any pains or breathing trouble?’  Did he look ill?  He hoped not.

‘Not one, but don’t jinx me,’ Pace lied.  ‘With Cosmos on my bike, I already feel like a freeloader. His legs are doing more work than mine.’  Sharper than before, the underlying pain around the site of his healed gunshot wound was becoming his secret travelling companion.

‘That’s okay,’ interrupted the giant’s voice on the radio, even though he could have leaned forward and spoken in Pace’s ear.  ‘If I get tired, you can take over.  Make the most of the rest.’  Then his familiar laughter boomed before suddenly quieting.  Pace could still faintly hear him laughing but only because he was so close to him.  His earpiece had died.  He called out to the other riders but his headset remained stubbornly silent.

Twisting in his saddle, he craned his neck to see past Cosmos’s bulk.  Sure enough, Attia and Hammond were both tapping at their headsets uncertainly.  It was obviously not just him.  Pace called for Ruby but knew it was no good.  Something serious had happened to the transmitter and they needed to stop so he could take a look at it.  He signalled Hammond to pull up, with his hand raised.  Ruby, realising the headset had also packed up, pedalled back to join them a few minutes later.

‘What’s wrong with communications?’ Ruby asked.

‘Not being psychic, I’ve no idea,’ Pace replied truthfully.  ‘I need to take a look.’  The rain fell heavily all around them as they formed up into a little huddle in the centre of the mud highway.  Nobody got off their bike.

‘Can you do it in this?’ Cosmos raised his arms skyward, palms up to the falling water.

He was right.  The set might need to be pulled right out of the backpack.  It was water resistant, mainly to protect the innards against humidity.  Examining it in the pouring rain wouldn’t do it any good at all.

‘If we ride within earshot of each other until the next stop, it won’t need fixing straight away.  When we put up Lester, I’ll check it over in the dry.

‘Fine with me,’ said Hammond.  ‘Let’s keep going for now.’

Attia looked nervously at the steep walls of jungle around him, knowing the time was fast approaching for him to act.  Pace had never seen him look anything other than cool and calm and wondered idly what thoughts were running around his head.  ‘We should go.  Now,’ he insisted.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Ruby.  She was also surprised to see the doctor looking so uneasy.

‘Nothing,’ he replied, forcing a smile.

‘Nothing?’

‘No, Cosmos,’ Attia soothed, ‘I just think we need to get going.’

Pace wasn’t convinced but gave it no more thought as they all set off again.  Ruby remained in the lead but only by a few feet.  She could shout back if needed and still be heard above the rain.

Ten minutes later, his headset burst back into life; resurrected as quickly as it had died, as did all the others.  The thought that the set wasn’t broken after all came as a relief to everyone but Attia.  When he joined in the group conversations, his tone was tense and edged with unfamiliar steel.  Something was agitating him but he wouldn’t be drawn.

Ruby pulled far ahead the moment the headsets were working again.  Her voice stayed encouraging.

‘Remember, Tim’s team won’t be hanging around,’ she panted at one point, even her toned, lithe leg muscles straining to pedal through a sudden bog in the centre of the road.  ‘They’ll be putting as much distance between themselves and us as they can before the road conditions get too bad.  Time is of the essence, so keep pedalling!’

All normal traffic had been stopped for the duration of the race, although the road was little used in the deeper areas anyway.  The only spectators they’d come across were the odd family of settlers they passed during the foot section, watching with interest as the foreigners sweated past their tiny, corrugated iron and wooden shacks, huddled forlornly along an illusion of civilisation.

The last few villages had long since been deserted and, by the time they reached the bikes, even abandoned huts had stopped appearing.  The only locals, if there were any about, watched from the protection of the forest walls.  Humanity, out here, was apparently extinct.

With no people to spot, and wildlife too wary to show itself, the only constants were the pouring rain, oppressive heat, thick humidity that drew sweat with the aggression of a dentist pulling teeth, and the ever-present biting insects.  In fact, the one blessing of heavy rain was that it kept the mosquitoes at bay, allowing their bodies time to replenish depleted stocks of blood.

The rain fell steadily, hour on hour, straight down.  With no breeze it didn’t bother their night vision by being driven into the visors.  As long as you wiped them with your hand every few minutes, visibility was excellent.  In fact, Pace found it to be eerily pleasant.

They rode as fast as they could down the centre of the road, which remained soft, but the big tyres only sank in a couple of centimetres before finding hard dirt beneath.  Muddy water splashed high up their legs as large raindrops echoed off the slightly flooded ooze slipping beneath their wheels.  An hour later, Pace called time.

The shelter went back up as rapidly as always and everybody squeezed inside.  They left backpacks outside but Pace couldn’t film anything worthwhile because his hands were shaking with sheer exhaustion, so he gave up.  They huddled together in the close confines of the shelter.  It also allowed time to cook up another hot meal.

Nobody argued, especially when he slipped voluntarily from the shelter to set up his stove.  More packs of freeze-dried food disappeared into a pot of water, to emerge thirty minutes later as delicious beef stew.  As he passed the food packs back into the shelter, Pace slipped off his visor and allowed the darkness to wash over him.

A torch lit up the inside of the shelter but he couldn’t tell whose it was. For once, the dark jungle felt safe to him, not threatening.  The air was lighter and smelled fresh; the rain just part of the picture.  Slowly, quietly, he ate his meal outside, sitting alone and perched on top of his pack, allowing himself to think of nothing in particular.

The three hours they rested for were not enough for any of them to sleep.  When the alarm on his wristwatch buzzed him into consciousness at the end of the break period, every one of them still resembled the undead.  All grumbled in chorus about their cramps and aches but some humour remained.  It was still pitch black as they stretched away the sleep from stiff muscles.  The rain had finally died off to the lightest of drizzles.

Hammond took over at the front, with Ruby joining Attia on his tandem.  Cosmos and Pace stayed together, with Cosmos’s powerful legs making all the running again.

The lighter rain should have helped them but the road started an almost imperceptible descent at this point, evidenced only by floods appearing at the edges within a couple of miles.  After thirty minutes of cycling, even the centre of the road was covered by a thin brown sheet of water which grew gradually deeper.  The road continued to run fairly straight but, if he did not know better, he’d have thought they were cycling along a shallow river.  When the depth hit one foot, they had to slow down to walking speed because they had no idea of what lay hidden beneath the liquid’s surface.

Still, Pace mused as they cycled through the rain-flecked water, it gave him time for some steadier camera shots and helped ease his aching legs.  The footage he snatched was good quality; atmospheric and gritty.

It was a couple more hours before the road climbed out of the flood and they found solid ground again.  The rain hadn’t stopped now for the best part of twelve hours, maybe more.  Hammond was out of sight entirely for his leading role, riding over one mile ahead.  All around the forest was stirring; irritated by the excited itch of an eager dawn.  The relative calm of the night was cautiously broken by an avian chirrup or a primate howl.

‘Glad you could join us,’ grinned Hammond, as they hit their next rest slot and caught up with him.  He already had the shelter up, though his voice was shaky and he looked drawn. ‘I was getting lonely.’

‘Well, we’re here now,’ said Ruby, rubbing the blood back into her buttocks as she dismounted.  ‘Why are you riding so far ahead anyway?’

‘No reason,’ he lied easily, shrugging.  ‘I just love to ride along this road, it’s such a challenge.’  He couldn’t tell them the truth.

‘Something to be tackled alone?’ added Attia.

‘Maybe,’ he replied.

‘Anyway, I’m hungry,’ shrugged Pace.  ‘What stunning feast is there?’

‘It’s a surprise.’

It wasn’t.  They drank water and munched on energy bars as the morning spilled dirty light over the treetops, showing a strip of thick, grey cloud directly above them.  The rain grew slightly heavier but had warmed with the full arrival of the day.

Humidity was bearable and Pace decided to stay outside the shelter to eat again.  Cosmos and Hammond went inside, leaving Attia and Ruby outside with him.  Attia moved off down the road, Pace presumed to relieve himself because he took his backpack with him.

Ruby took a bottle of shower cream from her pack, calmly stripped off a few metres from him, and started to work up a lather in the middle of the deserted road.

Instinctively, he plucked the camera from his belt and pointed it at her.  It was meant to be a joke and he expected her to go mad.  Surprising, she just smiled as she lathered her hair, nodding that it was okay.  It took him by surprise but who was he to argue?  Naked bodies always added commerciality to television or film, especially when it wasn’t gratuitous.

This was real, it was happening because she wanted to get clean, so it was actually just part of what he’d come here to film.

A minute of film later, his own clothes were in a pile next to hers and he stood with her in the pouring rain, sharing some of her bubbles.  Afterwards, he dressed without drying himself and slipped his poncho back on, hood up.  Ruby bent over and slipped inside the shelter, determined to get dried off properly.  Pace felt refreshed and alive, and all of a sudden feeling a desperate urge for hot coffee.  He quickly set up his stove, filling the collapsible saucepan with rainwater, and got brewing.  After they all enjoyed a hot drink, they set off again.

Here the mountain bike truly came into its own as the water level deepened by several inches.  The individual suspensions coped excellently with sudden potholes when they found him and it meant he could stay mounted.  Any other bike would have required him to get off and wade.

By early afternoon a false darkness had fallen, with evil clouds piling one atop the other to form an impenetrable blanket of murk.  Pace turned the bike’s powerful lights on and wondered if the forest was turning on its rain tap in a bid to rid itself of an infection of humanity.

Eventually the road rose back up a few feet, lifting onto firmer ground, but where the road surface was eroded and pitted the enraged downpour quickly found its feet and turned the route into a quagmire.  It was here that his front wheel dipped into a really deep hole and he suffered his first spill over the handlebars, landing in an ungainly heap in the slick surface.  Landing wasn’t the problem; it was the bike following through and whacking him on the back that hurt.  He staggered to his feet, slipping over twice as he did so, and clambered back aboard, calling a warning for the others to slow down and ride even more cautiously.

After two hours, the storm finally decided that enough was enough.  The rain stopped completely and the sky cleared, giving patches of clear blue to be enjoyed.  A flock of gorgeous red-and-blue macaws hove into view, gliding across the road without a downwards glance, before being lost from view.

To his delight, the road lifted sharply, stretching for over a mile ahead of him before veering off to the northeast.  The centre became drier, despite the rain, and there were even some small stones compacted into the dirt.  The edges remained boggy but the centre surface would stand some speed.  Immediately Pace called back to the others, who sounded relieved.

‘At last,’ groaned Hammond in his earpiece, ‘we can get a move on.  Tim’s lot are probably already drinking champagne cocktails at the finish line!’

‘This is rain forest,’ chirped Ruby.  ‘They’ll have hit earlier downpours that we missed, the same as Team Three will miss ours but hit their own.  The weather’s going to hurt everyone’s time until we pick up the hovercraft.’

‘Hovercraft racing on the Amazon,’ laughed Cosmos.  It was the part he looked forward to the most.  ‘Machines that are dry and fitted with seats a little softer than these, I cannot wait.’  Pace smiled.  It wasn’t just the untrained backsides who were feeling a mite saddle sore.

‘Don’t worry,’ called Attia lightly.  ‘My little black bag contains soothing remedies for anyone feeling the pain of riding these things for too many hours.’

Pace heard a ripple of laughter, immediately followed by a fierce burst of static in his earpiece.  It cleared a fraction of a second later to be replaced with blood-curdling screams of real terror so pitiful that they chilled the very blood inside his heart valves.  Skidding his bike to a halt, he slewed the rear wheel around a pivoting left leg, and pumped furiously on the pedals, racing back the way he’d just come.

19

Doyle McEntire stared at the laptop computer screen in front of him and felt the chilling grip of looming disaster grip his guts with vice-like certainty.  He knew it had been on the cards, but his intuition had been telling him that everything would work out well; that Cathera wouldn’t be so stupid as to make his move when his treacherous powerbase was still so shaky.  Now he knew that his usually accurate sixth sense had failed him.  He also realised that, because of his own miscalculation of the situation, people were about to die.

In his private stateroom aboard the Toronto, he sucked in a thoughtful breath and considered the facts.  The screen of his laptop was being fed with secret data directly via the McEntire Corporation’s very own satellite link; channelled through one of a network of low-orbiting, NATO spy satellites.

Heavily encrypted and untraceable, the information came to him as a mixture of text and moving video images.  Sensitive cameras aboard the satellites allowed him to zero in on specific areas anywhere in the world, whenever he needed to.  Infrared and heat sensitive monitoring equipment added a night vision capability.

Unlike the movies, accuracy wasn’t good enough to be able to read the print on a newspaper someone was carrying, but he was able to get a clear enough picture down to a distance of perhaps one hundred feet.  Now, sadly, the cameras were trained on the Amazon.  He wasn’t trying to follow the progress of the racing teams; the Trans-Amazonian Highway was heavily shrouded by tree cover for the most part, obscuring direct sight, and the huge numbers of warm-blooded primates and other forest wildlife rendered the heat-sensitive equipment useless.

He replayed the images of men, weapons and helicopters being assembled at a remote cattle farm yet again.  Three hundred miles outside the city, where the jungle finally gave way to the vast Matte Grosse grasslands, Cathera’s plan was being put into action.

Intelligence reports from paid informants had steered McEntire’s cameras there a full two hours previously.  The images were old now, as the satellite had moved on for now – he would have to wait a while longer before another one would be able to reacquire the site.  This was an operation with deadly intent; that kind of firepower would not be needed if the plan was simply to go in, find a group of helpless, unarmed civilian athletes, and whisk them off somewhere.   This was an assassination squad.

Every few seconds, new reports were also coming in of armed clashes between police units and armed insurgents across several major cities.  The thrust seemed to be centred on government buildings, with several local politicians and administrators reported killed, leading the President to declare a state of emergency fifteen minutes earlier; bringing the army out onto the streets to support the woefully inadequate firepower of the police.  The situation was bad, and getting worse.

The world’s media; already assembled in the country in force, was on it like a shot, and already the world news channels were beaming pictures of raging urban gun battles into living rooms around the globe.  The mercenaries at the farmhouse numbered at least sixty, and they could clearly be seen loading an assortment of automatic weapons and explosives onto three military helicopters; old Hueys by the look of them.

Weighing up his options, McEntire paused to sip from a cup of herbal tea.  He had to get to the missing aircraft, and investigate the fate of its cargo.  That was the priority that he’d been given.  Losing the racing teams would be a media disaster, he knew, but if the wrong people ever found out what was onboard the plane, or somehow managed to use it, the consequences would be far worse.

It was obvious to him that the mercenaries were going to be dropped into the Amazon to prey on the racing teams.  He could do nothing officially other than make the information available to the President; but with armed uprisings being carefully co-ordinated in so many cities, rescuing the racing teams would be last on his list of things to do.

He had alerted Tom, and the rest of the race support team, instructing them to recall the teams.  Nobody would be allowed to enter the rainforest during the state of emergency, but at least he could get them to turn around and make their own way back to the city.  Ominously, Tom had just informed him that the support team had been unable to raise any of the competitors.  Some kind of technical hitch, but they were working on it.

McEntire had never wanted to risk direct action; that was the whole point of staging the race in the likely search area in the first place, but things had changed.  He picked up his private satellite phone and made a quick call.  Committed to a new course of action now, he knew that there was another pressing matter that also needed to be dealt with.

A second call was made and he began to mentally prepare himself to lose his only daughter, forever.

*  *  *  *  *

Pace didn’t have far to ride, perhaps half a mile, so it took barely a minute to reach them.  All were dismounted, their machines discarded in an untidy heap.  They were huddled in a tight circle around something lying on the road, Ruby kneeling.  As he drew up and leaped from his bike, he recognised the frighteningly still form of Attia sprawled on the muddy road.

‘What happened?’  Leaning in over the others he could see exactly what had happened, just as the words left his mouth.  A thin dart, about six inches in length, protruded from Attia’s exposed neck.  A thin trickle of dark blood ran down his throat and stained his clothing.

Everyone was rattled but Ruby was a total mess.   Poncho slicked with thick mud, she’d skinned both knees when Attia was struck and their bike had upended at speed.  She seemed oblivious to Pace and was scrabbling unsuccessfully to find a pulse on the doctor’s wrist.

Calmly, Pace knelt down next to her and used his fingertips to search out the best place to find a skulking pulse; the neck.  Attia’s skin was clammy and, tragically, there was no pulse to find.  Pace checked the doctor’s breathing next, as he’d done countless times to a rubber dummy on first aid courses in the past.  The chest was deathly still and Attia’s neck was at an awkward angle, maybe broken; Pace didn’t know for sure.  The dart might have killed him, or the fall.  None of it mattered to Attia.  He was as dead as he’d ever be.

Working on the assumption that the dart was poisoned and that the neck just looked worse than it was, he knew it was in vain but he did his best to put life back into the man’s body.  Pulling Attia’s medical bag from his discarded backpack, Pace fumbled around until he came up with a box of self-injectors filled with various anti-venoms.

A couple were filled with clear fluid and were marked as containing adrenaline.  It was one of these that he stabbed into the doctor’s arm, pausing only to pluck the dart from Attia’s throat and throw it away.

For five minutes he sweated over the doctor, giving heart massage and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.  He then ordered Hammond to take over while he jabbed Attia with another shot of adrenaline, before taking over resuscitation again.

If his brain had been in gear at all, he would have been watching his back for more poisoned darts but Attia’s condition demanded total attention.  Fortunately the unseen attacker seemed satisfied with only one victim, for now, because none came flying from the towering jungle walls.

Pace was a great deal more than just a competent first aider and he knew a dead body when he saw one.  The good doctor’s life had slipped away for good.  Finally, admitting defeat and stopping, his arms and shoulders ached with effort as sweat ran from him in rivulets.

Shock does strange things to people and the human beings in their little group were no different. They were all intelligent adults but it still took them another couple of minutes of numb fumbling and stunned squabbling before they finally came to terms with what was happening.

Nobody had seen anything.  Attia was on the back saddle, on the trailing tandem.  The dart had come out of the jungle, unseen, and struck him in the neck.

Race Amazon was over.

Fearing further attacks, they finally came to their collective senses and got back on their bikes.  Ditching the single bike, Pace took over Attia’s seat and the two tandems shot off up the road as fast as tired legs could manage.  Attia was left lying in the middle of the road, his lifeless upturned face covered with his own backpack.  Pace had taken the medical bag before they left.

Riding two-abreast, within seconds the body was lost behind them and all thoughts turned to putting as much distance between themselves and the unseen killer as possible.  Fear gave them all the energy they needed to stretch feet and yards into several miles, with the road thankfully remaining in passable condition all the way.

Ruby was the first one to break the silent ride, after maybe five miles had bumped and slipped beneath their tyres, muttering to herself but clearly audible over the headsets.

‘We must keep going for as long as we can….yes…that’s it…get as much distance as we can then stop and….er…stop and…yes….we’ll stop and James can call base.’

‘Are you okay? Ruby?’ Pace asked firmly.  This was no time for the team leader to fall down on the job.  Ignoring a sudden stabbing pain in his chest, he resolved to control the situation.  ‘Everything will be okay.’

‘James, when we stop, it’s up to you to raise McEntire on the transmitter.  He’ll have to sort this out.’

Cosmos suggested they stop immediately but Pace shot him down.  They needed more distance and the safety it would lend them.  Cosmos saw the sense and shrugged his agreement.

‘McEntire will send in a helicopter to pick us up,’ huffed Hammond, as he pedalled for all he was worth; the two tandems fairly flying along the worn centre of the jungle road.  ‘There was nothing like this considered, even remotely, but I know we’ll be all right when we get a message out to him.’

‘We need to warn Team Three,’ shuddered Ruby, almost faltering in her pedalling but catching herself just in time.  ‘The could ride into the same thing!’

‘First things first,’ insisted Pace, very gently. ‘We have to protect ourselves.  We’re no good to anyone if we allow ourselves to be killed or injured, that’s the first rule of survival.’

The bikes continued to fly up the gently meandering road as their conversation batted around the airwaves.

‘It was a native dart,’ observed Hammond suddenly.   ‘Probably loaded with reptile venom.    Poor bastard didn’t stand a chance.’  He said something else but it was swallowed in a fierce burst of static that vanished as quickly as it came.

‘What do we do about the race?’  Cosmos posed the question.

‘The race?’ asked Ruby, still in a daze.  ‘The race is finished.  You can forget the next challenge, or the hovercraft leg, or any of the money.  Sponsors will run for cover when this gets out.’

‘Maybe not,’ Hammond ventured hopefully.

‘Don’t you think we should stop now?’ Cosmos suggested, feeling they had come far enough.

‘You’re right,’ Pace conceded, hoping the extra mile or two travelled would be enough.

Pulling the bikes to a halt, they stayed mounted as Pace flicked the switch to alter the transmission from internal to external.  His was the only headset programmed to work with the external signal.  It was supposed to be a perfect connection, via satellite uplink, whatever the weather.   Ominously, the pit of his stomach knotted as static hissed loudly in his ears like a mocking serpent.

Something was very wrong.  He knew the signal wasn’t getting out above the crackle and pop of the interference but there shouldn’t have been any.  Without this lifeline to the outside, they were totally alone and cut off from all help.

Pace swallowed back thoughts of being stranded in a hostile jungle and tried the Mayday again but the static just grew louder in response.  The others couldn’t hear anything in their headsets when he worked on external mode, so he broke the bad news quickly.

‘How much longer before we get to the river?’ he asked Ruby, who looked stricken at the news of a dead transmitter.  ‘There’s another checkpoint machine by the hovercraft.  We could screw it up deliberately and let them know we’re in trouble.’

‘Why isn’t it working?’ Ruby asked tightly, hard pushed to control a rising sense of panic; a feeling alien to her normally adventurous spirit.

‘I don’t know why, just that it isn’t,’ Pace replied evenly.  'But we can’t stay here and sort it out now.  We have to move on.  If it stays down, we can still get help when we get to the river checkpoint, I’m sure.’  Just like any military training or exercise he’d ever been on, things invariably fouled up and you had to use your initiative.

‘When they don’t hear from us a few hours past the time they expect, McEntire will send in helicopters anyway,’ Hammond reasoned.  ‘As long as we stick to the road, they’re bound to spot us.  I’m sure we’re just in a dead spot with the transmitter.  Perhaps we should stay here and have a look at it, you know, in case there’s a loose wire or something.  We don’t need to press on, do we?  We’re miles away from whoever killed the doctor.’

‘Apart from the fact that the transmitter should be able to both send and receive, anywhere in the world, whatever the weather,’ Pace snapped brusquely, ‘time may be something we don’t have much of.  It depends on who killed Prassal and if one death is enough.’

‘It was a dart from a blowpipe,’ bristled Hammond, not liking Pace’s tone.  ‘A disgruntled native taking pot shots at foreign meddlers, that’s all it could be, come on.’

‘What if it isn’t just one person,’ Pace spoke coldly.  'We are in an area of the world notorious for dealing native populations a raw deal for hundreds of years.   There could be an entire tribe waiting to pick us all off, for a dozen reasons.  Publicity for a cause, international recognition of a problem, who knows.’

‘Anything’s possible,’ Ruby agreed, ‘but we have to deal with the probable.’  She had recovered some of her composure and was making a concerted effort to think clearly.  ‘And pray Team Three have better luck than us when they pass the same spot.’

‘There is no sign of anything befalling Tim’s team,’ remarked Cosmos, an ever-present sense of strength emanating from his towering frame.    ‘They passed the spot where Attia died before our transmitter failed.  We would have heard something from them wouldn’t we?’

‘That’s right.’  Light sparked at the end of the tunnel for Ruby.  ‘If they ran into trouble, we would have heard about it.’

‘We don’t know when our transmitter stopped working?  Pace disagreed.  ‘It might be a temporary glitch, or it could have been dead for external communications for several hours.’

‘A cheery thought,’ spat Hammond.

‘Enough talking anyway,’ Pace commanded, much to everyone’s surprise, although Cosmos was hard pushed to hide a knowing smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth.  ‘I’ll keep trying to raise Manaus while we ride. I’d rather offer a moving target.’

The next few hours gripped everyone with fear and doubt.  After an hour the road plunged back into the swamp but rose back up quickly before dropping once again.  It went on that way, like a demented water ride in a theme park, but at least the rain stayed off as evening fell.

Their speed had to change with the road conditions but they managed to put another twelve miles more between themselves and Attia’s killer before the cloud-shrouded sun set below the tree line.

As darkness thickened around them, they literally collapsed with exhaustion; chests and lungs heaving amidst rivers of sweat.

With all thoughts of legitimate racing abandoned, they all breathed heavily and rubbed the pain from burning leg muscles.  The others pushed their microphones away from their lips so they could speak normally together;  Pace kept his in place and tried to send a Mayday again, as he had now done a couple of dozen times.  Static hissed a mocking response.

While the others broke out some energy bars and bottled water, he took the chance of a rainless sky to examine the transmitter properly.  Once fully out of the protective casing in the base of his pack, all appeared normal.  The charge was high and the test circuitry looked fine.  Everything was as it should have been except he couldn’t get a signal out.

Ruby and Cosmos did their best to look unconcerned but their heads twitched regularly across to the intimidating walls of jungle hedging them in on both sides.  What was hiding in there?  Was death about to strike again?  The others slipped on their night visors as Pace waved away the offer of food and drink. A veteran of several military exercises, he knew that survival depended upon concentrating on the job in hand.  Hammond remained very cool and calm about their situation.

Pace’s hands flew across the obvious circuitry of the transmitter box once more and it still looked the same.  He took a tiny screwdriver from his pack and unscrewed the back cover.  Pace manhandled one of the bike frames so that the front light could be switched on again and directed into the transmitter’s innards.  He couldn’t use his own visor because he needed to be able to distinguish between different coloured wires and circuit boards.

The electrical charge was definitely reaching the right places, all the necessary lights were lit, and nothing was loose, broken or chipped on either the circuit boards or amongst the mass of tiny, interlocking multi-coloured wires.

He changed the back-up batteries and the three main internal leads for good measure but still the set refused to transmit anything over the angry static.  The entire process took less than a quarter of an hour, after which time he remained stumped.

Why did it work between themselves but not externally? If it was broken, team communications should have packed up as well, shouldn’t they?

He carefully packed the transmitter back into his pack and checked the internal communications again, which still worked fine.  What to do now?  More certain than ever that they were in real danger, he switched off the bike lamp and finally accepted a much needed bottle of water, which he drained.  He put on his own visor as he drank.

‘Behind us is a major city, with soldiers, policemen and the world’s media,’ panted Ruby, slowly recovering her breath as she tackled her second bottle of water.  ‘Ahead lies a short run of nothing.  We just get deeper and deeper into the Amazon basin until we reach the staging post, with the hovercraft.  There aren’t any people there, just another machine and some more supplies.  I feel like a sitting duck.’

‘The killer is behind us,’ reminded Cosmos.  They all now stood in a tight group in the centre of the slippery brown road.

‘The killer,’ Hammond said softly, ‘could be right here with us.  How do we know he hasn’t kept up with us and is just waiting for the right moment to strike again?’

‘Don’t be so melodramatic,’ snapped Ruby.

‘Melodramatic but possible,’ Pace cut in.  ‘If we turn back we will be heading straight into danger.  Ahead is the only option, and as fast as we can manage.  We’re all very tired I know but there can’t be far left to go.  We can ride on and take no breaks.’

‘It doesn’t matter who killed Prassal,’ decided Pace.  ‘All these things will come out in time and Cosmos is right on one thing.  If there’s an organised plan to get us, if it’s not just some lone nut, we don’t stand a chance anyway.  So we’re leaving, right now.  Agreed?’  It was rhetorical because he wasn’t about to take ‘no’ as an answer from anyone.  Ruby looked a little miffed but didn’t object. He was talking perfect sense, which pissed her off all the more.

‘Whatever is back down the road can stay there.  The set isn’t working and there’s no reason for it not to.’

‘Okay, so we should just start riding,’ offered Hammond icily.

Thirty seconds later, they were riding as fast as possible through the darkness.  The short spell of dry weather chose that moment to ditch them in their moment of need and a torrential downpour emptied upon their heads.

Gaze firmly fixed on the rapidly flooding road in front, the rain and darkness were the best cover they could hope for.

*  *  *  *  *

Rain hammered down onto the corpse, still in the middle of the road where it had been left.  Darkness had fallen in the hours since its companions had ridden away, fearing for their own lives, and a storm had come.  Alone, the body should have just waited to rot.

But, instead, it twitched; almost imperceptibly, then again more strongly.  Terrifyingly, it trembled and shuddered for a few minutes, then one arm slowly rose from the muddy road and pushed the pack off to one side.  With zombie-like deliberation, the body pulled itself up into a sitting position.

Eyelids flickered and snapped open.

Attia came to, as he knew he would, and felt as if he’d been run over by a tank.  His chest screamed in agony and he struggled for breath.  Leaning a shaky hand inside his top he pulled off the reinforced brace that was secreted beneath it; designed to protect his ribs from the CPR that was bound to be attempted by his companions, and also keep his chest perfectly still.

Next he pulled away slivers of fake skin from each wrist and from around his neck.  The clammy, rubberised material gave the perfect impression of cold skin and was designed to shield the living pulse beneath.  With a switch of the contents in the adrenaline injectors too, death had been fairly easy to fake.

He’d secretly swallowed a fast-acting tranquiliser pill to make sure the ruse looked as believable as possible, which it obviously had.  It took him a few minutes to recover fully but after a few deep breathing exercises and some light stretching, he felt pretty much himself again.  He didn’t like having to deceive people that he’d come to respect but his job allowed no room for sentiment.  He had needed to die in this place and he had done so convincingly.   Having a second spy in the team had also helped.

From his pack he pulled a hand-held GPS unit and checked his location.  Nodding to himself that he was in the right place, he headed into the solid wall of forest to his left, slipping on a night visor as he did so and cursing as his boots sank into deep, thick mud at the forest edge.   A very large machete appeared from another hidden sleeve inside his pack and easily slashed a path through the greenery.  Within minutes his footprints had been washed away and no sign that he had ever been there remained.

20

The bedroom was light, air-conditioned and spacious.  Solid wooden floorboards had been waxed and polished to glassy reflection over the decades, without a single creak or give, such was their strength.  Walls were of smooth plaster, painted in soft hues of lavender.

Sarah stirred on her four-poster bed; its huge proportions and exotically carved mahogany frame magnificent under normal circumstances.  The bedding was cream and fresh, suffused with a hint of blackberry and scented with pine.  Each over-sized pillow, encased in silk, added a touch of decadence to the overall finish.  Sarah sat up in bed, slipped her long legs from beneath the duvet and stood up.  She wore a pair of tan-coloured satin pyjamas.  The wood felt cold against her bare feet.  The room had been her prison for more days than she cared to count.

She remembered setting out for the airport in a taxi, eager to meet her father from the plane yet worried about why he’d pushed up his schedule without forewarning her.  Still, she knew him well enough to get on with things and wait for an explanation later.  The taxi had been pre-booked and whisked her easily through the streets, giving her no cause for alarm.  Now that she thought about it, she could kick herself for not checking the man’s identity at the time but she had no reason to be suspicious.

A few minutes into the journey, the car had started to slow as it eased towards a small junction a few hundred feet from the highway intersection.  Engrossed in paperwork, keen to make sure everything was ready for her father’s arrival, she hadn’t paid any attention.  Rain was falling and she had paid as little heed to two men standing beneath a large umbrella on the pavement nearby.

The taxi pulled to a complete stop and one of the rear doors burst open.  Startled from her work, suddenly frightened, she had attempted to slide across the seat, away from the open door, only to find the other door flung open so fast that she nearly backed herself right out onto the road.  The two men slipped into the back, pinning her neatly between them.   The doors were closed and the taxi roared away from the kerb.  A strong hand clamped over her mouth and her freedom ceased to exist.

She knew she’d been kidnapped, that much was obvious, but her fears of torture, rape and mutilation had so far proven unfounded.  In fact, the guards outside her locked door were always polite and courteous in their dealings with her; bringing her delicious food, with even a choice of fine wine every evening, and ensuring a daily change of linen and towels.

Sarah couldn’t fathom it.  It made no sense to treat her so well, unless of course her captors expected to fetch a higher ransom from her father when they delivered her unscathed.  But that was only guesswork.  At any moment it might all change into a world of pain and degradation, so she forced herself to keep up her mental guard.  There was no television in her room but a huge bookcase filled to overflowing with a wide range of literature.

She also whiled away the hours practising yoga; something she’d done for a decade or more.  It stretched her body, keeping it trim and supple, while the spiritual relaxation of the accompanying meditation often soothed the savage beast of a bad day.

The room boasted only one small window, which looked out over a small cobbled courtyard.  Three other windows, set around various walls, had been bricked up prior to her incarceration.  It meant she kept the electric lights on all day as the little window was barely a foot wide and twice that tall.  Vertical steel bars; newly fitted, reminded her she was most definitely in a prison, however pleasant.

That morning, quite early, Sarah heard the sound of heavy gates being drawn back outside.  She couldn’t see them from her windows but watched, with detached interest, as a large black limousine drew silently up into the yard.  It stopped and the driver got out; a lean, hard-eyed professional with a noticeable bulge under one armpit.

The figure he released from the luxurious confines of the car’s rear compartment brought her heart leaping into her mouth.  Tears erupted from her eyes like water from an underground pipe suddenly pierced by a road worker’s pneumatic drill, and a choking cry bubbled from her throat.

Suddenly panting for breath, pulse racing, she stumbled across to the door, where she hopped from foot to foot in desperation.  She was so excited that she almost wet herself and was visibly trembling by the time she heard footfalls on the wooden floor of the passageway outside.  Flushed and eager, she stepped back from the door; it opened inwards and she didn’t relish the idea of being knocked flat if it was opened quickly from the other side.

The footsteps halted outside the door and she could hear muttering as the key turned quietly in its well-oiled mechanism.  The door clicked open, as the handle turned smoothly, and it swung open.

It was a moment Doyle McEntire had been longing for and dreading at the same time.  Days had passed since Sarah’s abduction and it was now time to explain himself and face the music.  He had no idea how she would react and was uncharacteristically nervous.  Dressed in cream cotton trousers, white silk shirt and expensive, hand-made leather boots, he looked far more relaxed than he felt.

‘Dad!  Oh, thank God you’re here!’

‘It’s alright, it’s okay Sarah.  I’m here and you don’t have to worry anymore.’

He held her in his arms, with her looming over him with her added height, and fervently wished things could have been different.  Everything that had been so carefully planned was unravelling around him and, as fast as he was plugging his fingers into holed dykes, new leaks were springing forth.  It was all he could do at that moment to keep things under control and not lose sight of his objectives.

‘What is happening?  Tell me you’re here to get me?  Have you paid a ransom for me?  I am so sorry for not being more careful,’ she sobbed happily.

‘It isn’t your fault darling.  And we need to talk.’  He paused to gather his thoughts.  ‘There are things you need to know, things that I hoped never to involve you in.’

Sarah stepped away from his warm embrace, suddenly nervous again, wiping tears from her cheeks.  ‘What things?  What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing you could have done anything about,’ he soothed.’

‘Please, stop it.  You’re scaring me.  Tell me what’s happening.’

‘I’m so sorry for what’s happened to you, you must understand.  You are my only child.  I know I don’t show it but you mean the world to me and I could never put you in danger.’

Sarah was confused by his words.  Why weren’t they already on their way out of this place?  Where were the kidnappers?  Maybe they wouldn’t let them leave now that they had her father as well as her.  ‘We should go.  I’ve been locked in here for days.  I just need to get out of here.’

‘I am sorry.  Truly, truly sorry.’

‘Stop keep saying that,’ she said, wiping away fresh tears that refused to stop spilling from her eyes.  ‘What are you sorry for anyway?  You’re here now and that’s all that matters.’

‘I didn’t have a choice,’ he confessed.

Rain chose that moment to start hammering on the glass of the single window, rattling it hard within its steel frame.  Sarah’s eyes flicked momentarily towards the sound before returning to her father.  She watched his eyes harden, hiding the sadness within.  His face, tanned and more lined than she could ever remember, mirrored the melancholy of his thoughts.

‘What did you do?’ she asked, almost not wanting to hear his answer.  When he did not answer her straight away, she persisted.  ‘What?’  There was a lengthy pause as he collected himself.  He had tried to prepare the words many times in his mind, turning them over and over on the journey down, but with little success.  Whichever way he phrased it, the truth was going to hurt them both.

‘I had you abducted and kept you locked away here.  That’s what I’m sorry for.’

‘You?’  She was incredulous, her jaw dropping open in stunned disbelief.

‘That’s right.’  It was the hardest thing he had ever had to say to her.  ‘Me.’

*  *  *  *  *

The scent of rotting flora and living fauna mixed headily beneath the mighty canopy pressing in on him from each side.  Conversation over the headsets was sparse and related mainly to the road conditions.  Steer left, pothole to the right, that sort of thing.  Everybody seemed to be keeping their inner thoughts to themselves, no matter how troubling.

Pace marvelled at how one minute you could be struggling hard against the elements and your own human frailty, and the next see everything blown away by unexpected mayhem.

He stayed riding with Ruby but took the front seat after a couple of hours.  It was tiring to concentrate on the road as hard as they must, for long periods, so they swapped over again in the early hours.  Nobody complained about feeling tired.

The race seemed like another place and time now; an eon or so ago.  Pace had stopped wondering what the next challenge would have been because it had ceased to matter.  His eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep and would have been puffy and bloodshot had anybody bothered to lift his visor and look.  Several times he snapped himself from a near trance as his senses began to fog.  His legs were pumping the pedals instinctively and he surprised himself to learn that he could have actually fallen asleep while cycling.  Being in the driver’s seat, he couldn’t afford to slip up, so concentrated even harder, biting down on his lower lip until it bled at times; the pain a stinging aid to wakefulness.

At a little after three in the morning, their little band of exhausted adventurers turned quite a sharp bend in the road, which was rare to find, and were met by another straight section, stretching a mile or so ahead.  Ancient trees muscled in even closer and seemed more sinister, their upper branches reaching out and entwining across the road in places.

Pace suddenly spotted a flash of light in the jungle off to his left.  His heart leaped into his mouth and he was jerked upright in his saddle, instantly wide awake and alert.  He called a warning into his wire microphone and the tandems slowly drew to a stop.  He lifted his dripping visor and waited for his eyes to adjust to the surging blackness.  The others all followed his lead.

Ignoring the darkness, he stared silently to the left.  Sure enough, a flash of yellow light blinked on and off, on and off, in an irregular pattern.  It was about fifty feet off into the jungle and it was only now they’d stopped that Pace noticed a tiny, spidery track, heading east off of the road in the direction of the flickering light.

Fear slowly eased when nothing sinister sprang from the darkness.  Pace couldn’t just ride on, not knowing what it was, and suggested they investigate.  Nobody else seemed keen to go into the jungle but something inside him was curious.  After a couple of minutes the others begrudgingly agreed to come along.  They got off their bikes and navigated the short stretch of slippery mud.

The trail ended at a small settlement, looking as tatty and deserted as many others they had already seen; three or four ramshackle huts; walled and roofed with rusting corrugated iron.  The main street was overgrown in parts but muddy and obviously used in others.  Two of the huts, furthest away from them, were wrecked.  One sported only a single wall remaining while the other had all four walls but no roof.  Bent and twisted corrugated metal lay mangled amid encroaching jungle.

The nearest hut was the culprit Pace sought.  A single lantern cast its cheery glow out into the falling rain, swinging softly on a rusty chain, beneath a covered porch made from huge palm leaves tied over a wooden frame.  The wooden porch floor was bone dry so the leaves were obviously effective against the persistent rain.  A large creeper almost covered the road-facing part of the porch and it was the lamp swinging in and out from behind its leaves and stems that had given the illusion of a blinking light.  The sound of music wafted faintly from deep inside the hut, so someone had to be at home.

‘Do you think there’ll be a radio?’  Ruby asked Cosmos.

‘A lot of these small settlements were given a radio transmitter when they were set up, so it’s possible.  This place looks very promising.’

‘The deeper we get into the Amazon, the fewer of these places there are.  I’m surprised to find one still inhabited.  Most of them this far up have long since been reclaimed by the forest.’  Hammond spoke softly over the intercom, thoughtfully even.  ‘We’re still too far from the main river for anybody to make a living from fishing here, but there could be some decent tributaries close by, perhaps enough to feed a few people.’

‘If you like fish,’ Ruby quipped.

‘A case of having to,’ he shot back good naturedly.

‘Let’s see who’s home, shall we?  Perhaps we can get a message back to McEntire, if they do have a radio?’ Pace said.  He glanced from one to the other, knowing that they needed all the help they could get.  ‘A helicopter would find it easier pulling us up from here.  There aren’t so many large trees to threaten the rotors.’

‘I suppose there is safety in numbers,’ agreed Hammond, his tone cautiously optimistic.

‘I vote we see who is at home too,’ smiled Cosmos.  ‘This could be the answer to our prayers.’

There were two small windows in the front of the small building, sheltered by the porch and devoid of glass.  Instead each had thick curtains made from insect netting, drawn tightly closed from inside.  The front door was closed and made from some unknown timber.  Poorly fitted, it hung on one set of old brass hinges and was secured by a simple up-and-over latch bar; there was no sign of a lock.

Pace assumed it was bolted from the inside.

‘I’ll see who’s about.  The rest of you wait back here in case it doesn’t go well.’  Leaving Ruby to support their bike, Pace climbed the two rough wooden steps up onto the porch and crossed the few paces to the door.  He sucked in a deep breath and knocked loudly, twice.

The door rattled noisily against its frame with each rap of his knuckles. For a horrible moment, he had visions of it falling in on itself.  He doubted the owner would be best pleased if he came smashing down his home, even by accident.  Luckily it proved to be sturdier than it looked.

From somewhere behind the door came the sound of shuffling feet, moving slowly.  A few seconds later there was the sound of a heavy metal bolt being drawn back and the door opened limply out towards him.  Pace stepped back to allow it to swing right open until it clanged back against the corrugated wall.  There was no security chain but it was immediately obvious that one wasn’t needed.  The occupant had all the protection needed; the barrel of the rifle pushing coldly against the base of Pace’s throat said as much.

‘Hello.’  Pace kept his voice firm.  ‘I’m sorry to bother you but my friends and I have run into some trouble.’  Neither reply nor grunt of acknowledgement gave any hint that the shooter had understood a word.  He pressed on regardless. ‘We have a transmitter, but it’s broken down.  We hoped you might have one we could use.’

Still nothing and the pressure of the rifle muzzle against his skin did not lessen.

‘One of us has been killed.  We must get a message back to Manaus.  Do you understand me?  We’re not here to rob you, we just need some help.’

‘If ye were, ye’d be lying out there in the mud wi’owt a head.’  The sound of a Scottish accent so took him back that he heard himself laugh with surprise.  Still the rifle didn’t waver.

‘You’re Scottish?’

No reply.

‘My name is James Pace.  My friends and I are taking part in a race, for charity,’ he explained quickly.  ‘As I said, one of us was killed a few hours ago and we couldn’t bring the body along.  We need to get in touch with the city and get some help out here.’

The gun slowly pulled back from his throat but the evil hole at the end of a visibly scored and pitted muzzle still held its aim, unwavering.  There was a further shuffling of feet and a figure solidified out of the darkness as it stepped forward.  Average height and build, male by the low, gruff tone of the voice.

The form stepped further out of the doorway and became clearly visible by the light of the gently swinging lamp.  The man was in his late fifties, with shoulder-length grey hair that was thinning on top.  His weathered, creased face was heavily tanned and his dark eyes were capped with absurdly bushy eyebrows, dark and flecked with grey.  He was dressed in filthy denim dungarees.  Bare-chested, his dirty feet filled open-toed leather sandals that had seen better days.  A rolled-up cigarette was jammed between a pair of thinly pressed, scowling lips, unlit.

The rifle lowered to waist height and swept slowly around towards Cosmos, Hammond and Ruby, still standing like forlorn sheep in the pouring rain.

‘I tik it,’ the rifle lowered to his side, ‘ye aint fuckin’ me abowt an’ ye’re really in the shit?’  The language seemed perfect for the man in front of him.

The man turned and walked back into his house, throwing airily back over his shoulder.  ‘Ye’d all better git in here, owt of the rain.’  Then, muttering to himself.   ‘Damned fuckin’ rain.  Pissin’ down day and night.  Don’t know why I bloody stay.’

Pace’s feet carried him inside after the strange Scotsman; into a building that was little more than a large hut.  It boasted a single room, with no divisions of any sort.  The floor, made of compacted earth, was littered with a tattered assortment of threadbare rugs.  The light inside was provided by a similar gas lamp to the one swinging outside on the porch; it hung from a hook in the centre of the corrugated roof, some ten feet above the floor.  Rain drummed loudly against the metal above their heads

He sensed the others enter behind him as their host crossed to the far side of the room and paused at a scarred, bow-legged old cupboard.  He rummaged inside and pulled out a bottle of Bells whiskey.

‘If ye’re as knackered as ye look then a drop o’ the old fire should help.’ There was no furniture in the room, save for one wooden bench and a single bed in one corner.  He sat on the bench and motioned for them to take their places on the floor.  There was a rug dead centre, along with an old pot-bellied stove.  It had a chimney made from interlocked tin cans, which ran up and disappeared through a hole in the roof.  There was no water running down into the stove because its door was open and a small fire blazed in its heart.  Pace guessed the chimney must have had an effective water shield at the top.

‘Is there a radio we can use?’ blurted out Hammond, strangely uneasy all of a sudden.  His eyes roamed the open hut as if seeking an invisible assailant but the hut remained empty of anybody save themselves.  A single large window in the back wall was also glassless and netted over.  Pace sensed nothing threatening, in fact he warmed to their host straight away.

‘Not here laddie, no,’ said the man, pouring a generous shot of whiskey into five surprisingly clean glasses produced from the same old cabinet, albeit in an assortment of sizes and shapes. Pace had never really liked scotch; finding it too sweet and cloying.  He much preferred American sour mash whiskeys, but who was complaining? He knew it would warm his spirits and took the pint glass offered and quickly swallowed the brown liquid that barely covered the bottom.  Funnily enough, it didn’t taste as bad as he remembered.

Hammond placed his wine glass, untouched, on the floor beside him.  ‘Is there one anywhere here, in this place I mean?’

The man shook his head and swallowed his own drink down in one, smiling on completion.  ‘Nay.  There was one, a year or so ago.  The roof came off the shack one day, in a bad blow.  The set git knackered.  Lots o’ smoke an I ne’er bothered sortin’ a new one owt.’

‘How do you communicate with the outside world?’ asked Ruby, also liking what she saw.

‘By walking down the road te other places, or hiking through the forest te the river and gitting on a boat.’

He didn’t look at all upset at the inference of his home being some kind of hole in the middle of nowhere.  Without a radio, their situation hadn’t improved much beyond obtaining a free drink and a few minutes out of the rain.  Technically they were breaching race rules by accepting help from somebody outside the team but the race, and its rules, were history.

Cosmos, well used to living most of his life in a small African village many days walk from the nearest town, was perfectly at home so far from help.  To him, Manaus was only a week’s walk away, or a few days at a run.   Despite his adventuring credentials, it was Hammond who seemed the most anxious.

‘We must push on then.’ The normally cool accountant-cum-Indiana Jones spoke anxiously to Ruby.  ‘We have to get to the staging post, we’re just wasting time here.  No offence,’ he added.

‘Nun takin,’ the man replied easily.

‘You’re right,’ Pace agreed solemnly, draining his drink.  ‘Very sorry to have troubled you….er….Mr..?’  He struggled in vain for a name.

‘Name’s Byrne.’

‘Byrne what?’

‘Just Byrne, missy.’  Ruby’s smile broadened at the gentle rebuke.  ‘I might ‘ave ad a proper name, or names, but that was long ago.  Here, in this place, I’m just Byrne.’

‘Have you lived here long, Mr Byrne?’ Ruby rallied quickly, not one to give up.  ‘You’re a very long way from home.’

‘If, by home, ye mean the bonny isle o’ Scotland, ye’re about thirty years off.  I’m fifty-eight, or nine.’  He poured himself another generous drink.  ‘Came here to make a fortune in gold but ended up workin’ bars from Rio te Manaus.  Finally git on the wrong end of a business deal one day and did ten years in the worst pit on the face ‘o this earth.’  He leaned in conspiratorially towards her, winking.  ‘Ne’er, repeat, ne’er spend time in a Brazilian jail.  That be free advice.’

‘I’ll try not to,’ she whispered back, returning his wink slyly.

‘And that led you here?’  Even Cosmos’s deep voice seemed dimmed beneath the incessant drumming of rain on the rusting roof.

‘Yep.  There were others here back then but they all cleared owt a long time ago.  Another drink?’

Cosmos shook his head and stood back up, head seeming to hover barely a breath beneath the burning lamp.  ‘We would be pleased to know where the nearest radio is, Byrne.  The sooner we can get to one the better.  We are sorry but we cannot stay longer, even,’ he cast a doubtful look upwards at the rattling roof, ‘if we wanted to.’

‘Aye, the world still be rushin’ around owt there,’ he spat distastefully.  ‘Another reason to git out o’ the crap.  Rushin’ here an’ rushin’ there.  All the time.’  He smiled as he poured himself yet another healthy shot.  ‘Yep, reckon I’m better off here as ‘n anywhere else.’

Part of Pace, despite his love of civilisation, could see the attraction to Byrne’s way of life.  He had nobody to answer to, no clocks to watch and the only things that mattered were those that had plagued mankind since its birth; starvation, thirst and cold.  On the down side there were the animals to contend with.  Some were dangerous creatures that thrived in the gloom of the jungle.  Jaguars, lethal snakes, giant spiders.  He remembered the native dart sticking lethally from Attia’s throat and also reminded himself of the dangers of human beings.

‘At least you’ve got a rifle,’ Pace ventured.  ‘Handy in case paradise turns on you.’

‘Rifle?’  For a second Byrne looked bemused, then realisation hit him and he nodded over to where he’d propped his gun up against the corrugated wall. ‘Oh, that.  Nay, laddie. That little pop gun wouldn’t cut much cloth around here if’n ye needed it.’  His smile broadened and he moved across to a large, worn rug in the far corner.  One kick and the rug crumpled back on itself to reveal a hole in the dirt floor, loosely covered by old planking.

The planking was more gently eased aside and he motioned for them to gather around.  More out of curiosity than good sense, they all did what he wanted.

A very heavy tarpaulin was hauled out next, revealing several wooden crates beneath.  The hole was about three feet deep and Byrne jumped down more nimbly than his years might suggest.  He seemed to come alive as he lovingly prised off a couple of lids and showed them why, exactly, he’d given ten years of his life to the Brazilian penal system.

Byrne was, or had been, a gun runner.

There were dozens of individually wrapped shapes, in oiled cloth, filling the crate.  Amazed, Pace found himself joining Byrne in the hole to have a better look.  Nobody else chose to join them but he didn’t notice.  With someone maybe still wanting to kill them, he immediately wondered if he could persuade this strange character to part with one of his treasures.

As Byrne unwrapped one of the packages, Pace felt his initial optimism fade.  Indeed Byrne did have a hoard of firearms.  Unfortunately the gun he unwrapped was older than he was, even if it did look well oiled and rust-free.

Pace had always been interested in firearms and immediately recognised the weapon as a Second World War British Sten gun, complete with three magazines. In his time in the forces, he had practised with many different types of military firearm; the SLR, SA80, M16 and a range of handguns but he had always wanted to get his hands on more historical weapons.  Until that moment, he had not had the chance.

‘That’s a Sten gun.’

‘Yep.’  Pace still felt a thrill of excitement course down his spine as Byrne passed it to him, snapping home one of the magazines into its side-housing as he did so.   It felt quite comfortable and he instinctively knew how to hold it; left hand on the barrel, right hand cradling the trigger; no pistol grip.  The folding stock was already extended and the simplistic design balanced nicely in his hands.

‘It were a good weapon in its day, true enough.  That was a later model; the Mark Three.  Made around 1944 and ne’er fired, to me knowledge.’

The next oiled cloth disgorged a couple of automatic pistols, the third a pristine Lee Enfield .303 rifle.  The two crates he opened for them were obviously filled with British-made war goods and included an entire half-crate of various types of ammunition.  There were even a couple of Mills bomb hand grenades in the bottom of one crate.

‘So, this is why you went to jail?’ Pace felt bold cradling the machine gun.  Byrne nodded, eyes alive as he looked at his hoard.  ‘How come you still have such a supply?’

‘This is the oldest stuff,’ Byrne conceded.  ‘They took me newer guns when they shoved me in tha’ hellish place.    Mebbe nobody checked everywhere, eh?  I brought these along to trade with the locals.’  His enthusiasm dimmed and he began to re-package the weapons into their cloths.  ‘Haven’e sold a single one since I arrived.  Locals are too good wi’ their own stuff to want western weapons, so the guns stay here.’

‘Would this still shoot?’  Pace made a brief mental calculation.  ‘What, sixty-five years after it was made?’

‘Ne’er tried any ‘o them.  Should do, I reckon.’

Caught up in the moment and determined not be leave the hut defenceless, he pushed his luck.

‘Could I give her a try do you think?  Just a few shots?’

‘James, what the hell are you talking about,’ gasped Hammond incredulously.  ‘We don’t have time to screw around!’

‘He’s right,’ frowned Ruby.  ‘Get out of that hole and let’s go.’

‘No,’ Pace said firmly.

‘No?’ Hammond looked thunderstruck.

‘You heard me.  I want a few shots of this gun and I’m hoping Byrne will let me.’

Byrne didn’t care one way or the other.  For him, guns had been nothing but trouble but he still loved to look at them from time to time, so why not, he thought.  If it kept them around for a little longer, even better.  He was beginning to enjoy the company.

Hammond opened his mouth again, glaring at Pace, but he was ignored.  He repeated his request to the Scotsman, who shrugged agreement.  It was all right by him.

That really seemed to annoy everyone except Cosmos, who just looked on impassively.  Their thoughts were with the jungle and the road, and of getting to help quickly.  Pace was falling back increasingly on his military training, where the ability to survive was often a matter of how well you could defend yourself against the enemy.  Having a weapon seemed like a good idea, if he could get Byrne to part with one.  He wasn’t about to explain himself and instead sprang from the hole, heading back through the front door and out onto the porch, cradling the Sten.

Byrne followed to watch. Pace didn’t need any instruction on how to operate the submachine gun; he easily pulled back the bolt that fed in the first bullet.

‘These things were always a wee bit temperamental,’ Byrne cautioned.  ‘Prone to gitting stuck ‘cos the magazine is a single feed, not double like most of ‘em today.  This should be okay though.  They sorted owt a lot o’ the problems wi’ the first two versions.  Also, pretty good fer accuracy.  These things ‘ave always ‘ad a nifty little muzzle compensator in-built,’ the Scotsman went on.  ‘Keeps ye firing at what you want to hit.’

Having already selected single shot, Pace squeezed off a few shots into a nearby tree.  The sights were fixed and the weapon spat the old bullets with reliable ease, each shot a subdued crack beneath the din of the falling rain all around.  Gaining confidence he switched over to automatic and tried a lengthy burst into the same tree.

The difference was stark, as the entire thirty-two shot magazine emptied with a four-second rat-a-tat, clicking on empty as adrenaline coursed through his veins.  It performed as if it had just left the factory.  He had to have it.

‘This would come in very handy if we run into any more problems,’ he ventured cautiously.  The others had stayed inside the hut so didn’t overhear.  ‘Very handy.’

‘Losing yer friend wasn’a accident then?’

‘No.’

Pace didn’t elaborate and Byrne respected the silence.  Losing a weapon or two wasn’t a big deal for him, so he didn’t wait for his visitor to pluck up the courage to ask him.

‘Just return it to me if ye’re ever back this way.’ Byrne winked at him knowingly.  Pace liked him more by the second.

Losing patience with their cameraman, the others came outside and stepped back into the rain.  Hammond mounted the front seat of his bike while muttering loudly about people being out of their minds.

Leaving the others to mount up, Pace followed the old Scotsman back inside, emerging a couple of minutes later with a few heavy additions to his backpack.   He had no intention of adding to any friction by flaunting Byrne’s gifts and deliberately forced a look of steely composure as he slipped onto the back seat.

Cosmos and Ruby said nothing but Hammond continued to grumble about wasted time.  They rode their bikes very slowly back up the track until they rejoined the main road, bidding Byrne farewell as they did so.  Not wanting to get wet, he’d already disappeared back inside.

21

Five minutes later they were fighting through the pouring rain again, visors back on.  Byrne and his guns were left far behind.  Byrne hadn’t known where the next working set would be and he had told them there were no other settlements deeper into the forest; the way they were heading.

Daylight eventually arrived and with it came the relief of strong sunshine and a cloudless, brilliant blue strip of sky; visible at times where intertwining opposite treetops allowed.  Rising heat sent billows of evaporating water vapour steaming out across the forest floor and they were soon back to the odd reality of riding under clear skies, but through thick, swirling ground fog.

The visors, no use after the first hints of light, were packed carefully away and progress remained agonisingly slow, due to increasing group exhaustion and a rapidly disintegrating road surface.

The others were always going to be fitter and more prepared than him for a long slog, though Pace had done well so far.  Chest pains had returned with a vengeance in the few hours since leaving Byrne’s little shack but he had grimly pedalled on, praying they would subside again.

They didn’t go away this time and finally, the pain hit him in such strong, nauseating waves that it sucked the air from his lungs and sent a groan bursting from his lips; so loudly that he could do nothing to hide it.  Ruby heard the sound over her headset, as did Cosmos.  She drew their bike to an immediate halt.  It was a little after seven o’clock.

Pace tried to fight back the agony tearing into his chest and speak but the last of his energy seemed to drain from him like the final swirl of water sucked greedily down a plughole.  He fell from the bike, barely able to draw breath.

For some reason the road had chosen an opportune moment to broaden into a small clearing.  It had also dipped a little and the circumference was flooded to a depth of several inches, so it looked more like a little island than a clearing; some fifty feet across.  The ground was littered with dead leaves and fallen creepers so his fall was cushioned nicely.

His throat was growing tighter and he felt cold, despite the heat and humidity.  Hammond was vocally angry that Pace had not said anything earlier but his eyes were filled with worry. Serious illness here, with no help from the outside world, would almost certainly mean a second death in the team.  For his part, Cosmos cracked open Attia’s medical kit and Ruby made Pace as comfortable as she could on the leaf litter, scraping a pile of dead leaves together to form a shallow pillow under his head.

Almost unconscious, settled on his back, she slowly removed his waterproof.  One look at his chest confirmed her worst fears.  Rubbed raw by the frantic, constant movement of the past days, constantly bathed in a layer of sweat that didn’t have a chance to evaporate, the old wound had suffered.

His chest hair had re-grown nicely but there was no mistaking the spots of fresh blood inside his top.  A couple of tears in the soft, puffy skin oozed a bloody mixture of red and yellow fluid, matting the dark hair above the now angry scar.  Ruby recognised the sickly smell of infection even before her eyes settled on the bloody pus.

Hammond and Cosmos set up Lester as quickly as they could, then remained on guard outside, after carefully moving Pace inside.  Ruby stayed inside with him and fussed around him.  She helped him out of his running suit before rinsing the wound with fresh water from a drinking bottle.

Rummaging around inside the medical kit, she found some scissors, antibiotic powder and penicillin capsules.  She clipped his chest hair as short as she could and gave the wound another rinse before sprinkling the powder liberally over it.  Next she taped a sterile dressing over it and got him to swallow some capsules.  Finally, he was ordered to down two aspirin, and drink a litre of bottled water.

‘The aspirin will help the pain but it won’t get rid of it completely,’ she explained, wiping cold sweat from his forehead with another dressing, damped with more bottled water.  ‘I don’t want to give you morphine unless I have to.  If the wound gets worse you could cause extra damage by pushing yourself because you won’t feel anything.  Remember, pain is just the body’s memo to slow down,’ she lectured, her tone steeped with poorly disguised fear.

It was odd how, in himself, Pace felt quite at home in the Amazon now and was the least frightened of them all, but fate had conspired to suddenly knock him back down again just as he was beginning to come into his own.   He laughed, which turned into a series of coughs.

For a second, he was back in a hospital bed, on that fateful morning when McEntire nearly caused him to choke up his lungs.  A shudder of agony wracked his ribcage and sledgehammers attacked his sternum.  His body spasmed into a foetal huddle as he forced his breath in and out calmly and quietly.  Ruby held him close to her until the spasm passed.  She didn’t let him go even then.

As his breathing eased, Pace forced himself to swallow down a few more sips of water and cursed silently at how his worst fears of getting sick were coming true.  Looking up into Ruby’s worried face, he wanted it to be Sarah’s face staring back at him and felt an ungrateful bastard for thinking it.  She was probably enjoying Tom’s company and forgetting all about their time together.  Seeing the pain etched into his features, his team leader wiped his forehead again and whispered that it would be okay.

He didn’t remember falling asleep but when he awoke, the daylight outside the shelter’s opaque skin was fading into the darkness of another night.  The fire in his chest had gone out, leaving only the wispy smoke of a dull ache remaining.  He sat up gingerly and realised he was alone in the shelter, wearing just his boxer shorts.  A dark shadow outside moved as it saw him stir and Ruby’s lithe form slipped in through the tight entrance slit a moment later, water bottle and more pills in hand. By the obvious relief on her face, he must have looked better.

‘Was I that bad?’

‘Am I that obvious?’  Ruby’s counter was framed in a forming smile.

‘Transparent as hell.’

Sitting forward, Pace did a few experimental stretches and accepted the offer of more water.  Ruby crouched down beside him, watching him drink at least four large mouthfuls.  As soon as the first one hit his stomach he realised he was completely parched.  She made him swallow down three more penicillin capsules pills and let him drink a good pint before gently easing the bottle from his hands.

‘There’s plenty where that came from.  No need to drink it all at once.’

‘Just tell me I have only just swallowed antibiotics,’ he grinned at her.  ‘I wouldn’t like to think you slipped me another sedative tablet in with them this time.’  It was obvious she’d given him a knock-out pill earlier – natural sleep just didn’t strike him that fast.

‘I promise,’ she said solemnly, not bothering to deny the truth.

The water revitalised him and he noticed the outside of the shelter was dry, with no sound of rain hitting its skin.  Also the outside world seemed very quiet.  No other shadows were visible beyond the shelter.  He asked where Hammond and Cosmos were.

Ruby’s smile faded a little and she gave a little resigned shrug.

‘They decided we needed to get help as soon as possible.’

‘Because I was out of it?’

‘You were in no state to travel,’ she nodded.  ‘They’ve pushed on to the staging area by themselves.  To get the help we need,’ she added.

Ruby either elected to remain behind, or was persuaded to do so by the others.  Given that she was the team captain, and not one to be bullied, he suspected she stayed by choice.

‘They headed off after grabbing a couple of hours sleep and some food.’  She smiled again.  ‘I got that contraption of yours working and cooked up what I think was Beef Wellington.  I even made some hot chocolate with the water, but it tasted like crap,’ she admitted.  ‘Still, it was hot and wet.’

‘Sounds wonderful,’ Pace said, feeling a little hungry himself.

‘I’m just boiling another pan of rain water.  We might as well have some hot food ourselves while we’re stuck here.’

‘Sounds even better.’

‘What would sir like this evening?’ she asked pompously.  ‘Would you care for the chicken curry or a fine spicy sausage with onions?  The vegetable casserole is supposed to be wonderful, I hear.’

‘You choose.  Anything hot will be fine, thanks.’

‘Easy to please, I see.’

‘You were telling me about the others.’ He wanted to know more about their plans.

‘Right.’  She gathered her thoughts.  ‘Okay, they took enough fresh water and biscuits to last a couple of days.’  She checked her wristwatch.  ‘We figured out where we are on the map cards, near enough I think.  There can’t be more than another five hours riding left of this stage, maybe eight if the going is really slow.’  She paused to draw a thoughtful breath.  ‘If they’re not there already, they should be right on top of the hovercraft by now.’  Her cheery tone was so forced that it was clear she had her doubts about whether they would get there at all.

‘When they get there, they’re going to really mess around with the checkpoint to alert headquarters that we’re in trouble.  Hammond doesn’t think they’ll have to do anything though.  He went off certain that a rescue helicopter is already parked out there, just waiting for us to arrive.’

‘There’s confidence for you.  I hope he’s right.’

‘All we can do is wait for the cavalry to arrive, I guess.’  Her soft Canadian accent and gentle demeanour showed him another side to this dynamic adventurer.  He caught something behind her eyes but couldn’t quite tell what it was.  She looked pale but she had been on her own all day, hoping his condition didn’t deteriorate and no other killers found the camp, so the look was probably just a little fear he told himself.  As a static target, the shelter stuck out on the island like an emergency rocket flare against a midnight sky.

It was time he pulled himself together, Pace determined.  Despite her protests, he knelt up and found everything sore but functioning.  Planting a grateful kiss softly on her cheek, he slipped through the shelter entrance; careful not to brush the tight plastic lip against his dressing.  He needed to breathe fresh air and think through his options.

Once outside, he stood up and immediately felt the world around him start to spin.  Propping himself against the shelter, he stubbornly refused to sit down and waited until his undulating vision settled and he regained control of his legs.

‘I told you to take it easy,’ Ruby chided softly, joining him.  ‘You’re in no shape to do anything.  In fact, if the race was still on I would retire the team because of your condition.’

‘I’ve never been too good about taking orders,’ he admitted.  ‘That’s why my superiors in the Royal Air Force were so pleased to see the back of me.’  He knew she was right about his condition but it stung to accept.  ‘I really thought I could hold out.’

She nodded, eyes suddenly readable as sympathetic.  She instinctively understood his need to succeed because she had spent her own adult life hounded by the demons of personal failure.

‘It doesn’t matter now.  We just have to get out of here as quickly as we can.’

‘I’ll admit, I won’t be sorry to get back to civilisation now the wound is playing up.  I think I might need a couple of days in bed.

‘That’s an understatement,’ she laughed, the sound light and refreshing in the rapidly falling darkness.  ‘I’d say you’ll be taking forced bed rest for at least a week, maybe longer, back in hospital.’

‘Now there’s something to look forward to,’ he grimaced.

Staring back down the road, something began to nag at the back of his mind, demanding his attention.  He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch and the hope that he’d blown things out of proportion suddenly blew away as quickly as a dead leaf in a toying autumn wind.

‘Are you all right, James?’ When he didn’t answer straight away she tugged at his naked elbow.  ‘James?’

‘Look,’ he said slowly.  ‘I don’t want to be the voice of doom but I’ve been out of it all day, right?’

‘About ten hours, give or take.’

‘So, where is Team Three? They should have caught up with us by now.  We haven’t moved an inch in those hours, so a racing team only two hours behind us at the start couldn’t have dropped more than a couple of hours on us over that time.  They should have caught up with us after four hours, five tops.’

Ruby knelt down to check the cooker as it bubbled away.  She’d been thinking the exact same thing but had tried to ignore her own suspicions.

‘Maybe they got bogged down in bad weather.’

‘Bad weather comes with the territory.  They would have coped as well as us, if not better.’

‘Is there any chance they missed us?’  It was a stupid question given the conspicuous nature of their shelter and its position slap bang in the very middle of what now passed as the Trans-Amazonian Highway.

‘None.  The shelter is in plain view and you’ve been watching all the time, haven’t you?’  She gave an imperceptible nod, not looking up but still concentrating her gaze into the bubbling pan of water.  ‘Unless they’re lost, they should have passed this way hours ago.’

‘Then you think something has happened to them?’ Ruby asked slowly.  ‘Do you think they’re dead?’  He had a suspicion she had a couple of good friends running with Team Three and wasn’t surprised to see the glisten of welling tears in her eyes, despite her best efforts to keep her gaze fixed away from him.  The tremble in her voice was audible when she spoke again and a single tear rolled down her cheek and dropped into the boiling water.  ‘They could all be dead right now, couldn’t they?  Just like Prassal?’ Her tone grew thick with misery.

‘Or they might have already been pulled out by helicopter,’ Pace soothed.  ‘They could have turned back if they hit trouble instead of carrying on, like we decided to.  If they turned back, they’d have made it back to the city by now.’  He didn’t believe a word he said to her but it gave him a moment longer to think.’

From her pack, she took out two meal packs and dropped them into the boiling pan of water.  She started to say something else but her voice suddenly cracked and the tears flowed.  His arm was around her shoulders before he knew it and she turned and buried her face into his bare shoulder.  There were no wracking sobs or cinematic-style chokes, just silent tears and a trembling body.  Her strength of character made her seem impervious to things that had dogged him from the start, namely fear of failure, frustration and a healthy dose of doubt, but she’d been pushed to her limit, then just a little over it.

‘Everything will work out.’ Pace comforted her in as believable a voice as he could.  ‘Nobody’s going to get us and it will look brighter in the morning.’

Still her tears flowed.  ‘I believe you,’ she sniffed, suddenly angry with herself again.

‘If you want, we can pack up camp and follow the others.  I can pedal okay for a few more hours, especially if it means getting you to safety.  I’m feeling much stronger now,’ he lied, knowing full well that a few more hours in the saddle at that moment might actually kill him.

Ruby pulled away, shaking her head and wiping tears from her puffy face with the back of one hand.  ‘You’re in no condition to do anything of the sort.  We’d better just wait for help here.’

Pace didn’t relish the idea of dying in the middle of the jungle, so grudgingly agreed to wait.  ‘Okay, you’re the boss.’

They ate dinner at seven-thirty in the evening, spooning piping hot vegetable casserole down their throats as they watched the empty jungle road through their visors, first one way, then the other.  The Amazon basin is an impenetrable jungle and hid its secrets well behind towering walls of solid vegetation.  They saw nothing but the night air became swiftly vibrant with a thousand-species, nocturnal, insect chorus.

The coffee was ready just as rain returned.  It deluged down upon them; there were no distinguishable drops, just solid sheets of falling, tepid water that drove them immediately inside the shelter.  Fortunately Pace had poured a cup of coffee for each of them already, so they huddled together, sipping it in their man-made cocoon, sitting in darkness rather than lighting a torch.  Visors on, neither of them had thought it a good idea to set the shelter up as an illuminated igloo to attract unfriendly eyes.

Conversation was as minimal as the light.  They finished their drinks and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to pull close and hold each other gently; being careful to keep any contact away from his wound.  Pace again reassured her that they were survivors and promised the others would get help back to them quickly.  Barely minutes later, her head sagged heavily against his left shoulder and her breathing eased into sleep.

He didn’t move at first but after twenty minutes, when she had slipped into a much deeper sleep, he carefully disentangled himself and laid her down gently.  Then he slipped out of the entrance and fumbled for his pack in the incessant rain.  A few minutes later, he crawled back inside, soaked to the skin, and settled himself just inside the entrance.

Ruby remained fast asleep, so was unaware that he now cradled the Sten gun in his lap, freshly loaded with a clip of ammunition.  The cold metal felt reassuring in his hands as he slipped back the bolt quietly, determined not to wake her.  He kept his finger close to the trigger but not on it, just in case he dozed off and then woke suddenly.  The safety catch was now off and he couldn’t afford for any unintentional bullets to start flying about.

Taking a second clip of bullets, he propped it horizontally in between the lips of the entrance; jamming them open in the centre about ten inches and giving him an open window onto the road outside.

His ears strained to hear any suspicious sound above the rain, listening for the noise of a killer approaching in the darkness, but it was a pointless task because it was impossible to hear anything above the falling water.  He resolved to put all his faith into the green clarity of his night vision visor, vowing to concentrate and miss nothing.

Despite what he’d said to Ruby, somehow he knew things were about to get a great deal worse.  Somebody was coming for them, although he didn’t know who, or why.  He just prayed McEntire’s people would find them first.

22

What the bloody hell was that? Pace awoke with a start to find Ruby and himself huddled together on the padded floor.  He must have dropped off about midnight, when the thoughts in his head could no longer be bothered to go around and around in unending circles.  The Sten lay next to him, still pointing its dangerous end towards the entrance.

At first he wasn’t sure what had roused him; the darkness beyond the shelter skin was barely greying.  The dome still insulated them from the sounds of the jungle but it was immediately clear the rain had ceased.  The silence was total as he strained his ears to their limits.

The skin on his back crawled with anxiety but he shrugged off the last remnants of sleep and slowly slid away from Ruby’s sleeping form.  Suspicions of foul play jangled up and down the length of his spine but he moved with clear purpose, preparing himself calmly for what was to come.  He had once heard somebody say that the human sixth sense is a gift ignored at your peril.  Here, in this primeval place, it was an avoidable peril.  But what should he do?

If there was someone outside, waiting, what exactly could he do about it?  The answer was either hope whoever it was moved on, or pray that they allowed him to get off a burst with the Sten first.

The entrance lips were still jammed open with the ammunition clip from the night before but he had somehow lost his visor during the night.  The road was shadowed and forbidding without its technological enhancement, deepening to solid darkness a few feet from the choked edges.  Everything appeared quiet but was too indistinct.  A fumble on the floor of the shelter eventually turned up the visor.  He slipped it on and curled his finger around the gun’s trigger.

The world outside his constructed window brightened into green glory and he peered intently through it again, scanning his eyes from left to right but keeping his face well back from the opening.   Trees, low ground growth and lianas trailed from the ground up into the canopy hundreds of feet above.  It all looked normal.

The road was still heavily cracked and pitted, with puddles of muddy water dotting the surface wherever dead vegetation hadn’t fallen.  The odd, unbroken area of soft mud looked smooth and glistened with damp. It was a little early for the birds to be up and a light breeze, sweetly scented with an earthy fragrance of water-soaked vegetation.

There was no movement outside.  After a second, detailed look, he was about to slide through the lip when the static, solitary figure on the opposite side of the road suddenly moved, revealing itself to him.

The figure moved slowly towards the shelter, about one hundred feet away down the road.  It hugged the protected edges and stayed in the shadows.  Without night vision, it would have been impossible to spot.

Pace froze, cursing the accuracy of his intuition as he watched the figure sidle closer.  His heart pounded in the back of his throat at the sudden glimpse of a cylindrical object held in the stranger’s hands.  It wasn’t a walking stick.

Gathering his wits, Pace could see there were no glasses on the figure’s face and there was no sign of his own movements, at the entrance lip, having been seen.  The stalking figure, he assumed, remained unaware that anyone inside the shelter was awake, let alone up and watching.

The shelter entrance faced the stalker which gave Pace the advantage. He could see his enemy but the enemy had yet to see him.  He’d already made his mind up to shoot the intruder but he needed to close the range to be sure of a killing shot.  If he didn’t get a kill with his first few bullets, return fire might end all his problems.

There wasn’t much time so he quickly placed a firm hand over Ruby’s mouth and shook her awake.  She obviously wasn’t a heavy sleeper because her eyes flew open instantly and her quick intellect perceived the situation just as rapidly.  Her mouth hardly began to form a scream before her lips closed wetly against his cupped palm.

Pace raised a vertical forefinger to his lips and jerked his head over in the direction on the entrance.  She understood, nodding, so he removed his hand.

‘One person, armed, coming this way.’  He whispered low enough to be barely audible.  In return, she knelt up, face imploring him for their next move as she wiped a mixture of sweat and sleep from her eyes.  To her credit, he saw no trace of fear on her face, just a determined look.  Sleep had stiffened her resolve.

Fortunately, the events of the next minute moved at such startling speed that any plan he might have come up with would have been rendered futile anyway.

He eased the barrel of the Sten towards the opening and chanced another look, only to be greeted by the sight of the figure now standing barely three feet from the shelter.  The object in its hand was clearly a large automatic rifle and it was being brought to bear on the entrance as he watched.  The figure had crossed the road in a silent flash and a vivid realisation of the carnage that modern ammunition would wreak at short range stung him into action.

The barrel of the stranger’s weapon settled upon the entrance just as his own finger twitched hard against the Sten’s trigger.  It should have been a short, clinical burst but what it actually ended up being was an emptying of the entire thirty-two bullet clip, hurriedly aimed.

The first few rounds slammed into the stranger’s chest.  Despite the venting built into the gun, he wasn’t used to it yet and the old weapon bucked upwards to spew the remainder of its bullets skywards.

Those first few shots did the trick, thankfully.  The stranger flew up into the air and went sprawling backwards onto the road a few feet away, then lay still.  Neatly side-stepping its fallen companion, a second figure appeared from where it had been concealed, standing directly behind the first.  The benefit of surprise was gone and, sickeningly, a second weapon now pointed at them.

Launching himself with a fury driven of despair and an empty gun, Pace dived headlong through the entrance at the figure, yelling like a lunatic as he went.  The spare clip popped out and the entrance lips snapped shut on his hips, catching him hard.  Instead of the human bullet he needed to be, he ended up laid out at full stretch, face down, on the wet mud.

His reaching hands were suddenly filled with an assassin’s military boots, which was hardly the idea.  Still yelling, more from frustration at a bungled leap than anything else, he gripped as hard as he could and pulled.  He scraped skin from his elbows with the sheer venom of the tug, at the same time tensing his back muscles against the heavy impact of the bullets he knew were coming.

The muddy sole of one boot caught him under the chin and nearly kicked in his throat but he hung on like a limpet.  Twisting with all his strength, choking and gagging as he did, he was conscious of the figure overbalancing.  There was still time for a professional to pull the trigger and he would have died if Ruby hadn’t chosen to join battle.

Although Pace couldn’t see it, she leaped straight for the gun.  He blacked out for a moment but when air managed to force its way back down his bruised windpipe, he came around, still gripping the filthy boots.  They were not writhing as he expected them to; they were completely still.

‘Are you okay?’ a concerned female voice asked.

He couldn’t see anything from his position; face down on the ground, and he had to roll over to sit up.  He kept his hands stubbornly locked onto the boots as he moved.  Once sat up it dawned on him that he didn’t need to hold on any longer.  Instead of grappling with the assassin, she’d been lucky and managed to dislodge the gun as the figure overbalanced.  She now stood, panting with reaction, a stubby automatic rifle trained on the downed figure.

Pace pulled himself up and noticed the assassin had a stocky, muscular build of a male, was apparently uninjured and now stared motionlessly up into the barrel of what had shortly before been his own gun.  A look of anger, tempered with begrudging acceptance, formed his lips into a tight, icy smile.  Given that his position was hardly humorous, it struck Pace that here was an extremely dangerous man.  If there was a chance of escape; of getting free and killing them both, this man would not hesitate to grab it.

Ruby took a few steps back so she was out of his reach as Pace scooped up his empty Sten, before collecting the fallen automatic rifle from the corpse.

Pace strode over to her and they both stood in silence, watching.  There was a moment, looking down into those hooded eyes, that he should have said something but the moment passed in silence.  Ruby shuffled uneasily on her feet.  In the end, it was the stranger who broke the moment.

‘Mr Pace, I suppose?’

‘Will you return the compliment?’ Pace asked, his voice hard and cold.  Colder eyes flashed mockingly up at him and the smile grew thinner on the killer’s lips.

‘One killer to another?’ he spat.

‘I like to know the names of men sent to murder me.’

‘So melodramatic,’ he snarled. ‘It’s pathetic.  That must come from being the excess baggage, eh?  Still, you’ll be dead soon so you can call me Wolf.’

‘Very poetic,’ Pace wanted to laugh, despite himself.

‘You asked.’

For a second, as he trained the recovered rifle on Wolf, Pace was tempted to squeeze.

‘You have a big mouth for someone in your position.’

‘Not really,’ Wolf crooned.  ‘You are no more a killer than I am a scientist.’  He moved to sit up but stopped when he saw the warning look in Pace’s eyes.  He glanced over dispassionately at his fallen associate.  ‘You shot him because you had to.  He would have certainly killed you.’

‘Your point?’

‘To kill when you don’t need to is something quite different.  It takes a certain kind of man.  You don’t have the courage to shoot unless I make you.’  Wolf judged his intended victim smugly and spoke with absolute confidence.

‘I’ll be honest with you, Wolf.’  Pace fingered his trigger lightly. ‘I don’t know if you’re right or wrong.  I do know that testing your theory could end up getting you killed.’

‘Okay then.  I will just lie here in the mud until you decide what kind of man you are.  Will you be long making up your mind, do you think?’

Ruby cut into their exchange as her wits recovered.  ‘Are you alone?’

The thought struck like an executioner’s axe and Pace nearly spun around to look for other lurking assassins; catching himself just in time.  The man at their feet noted the move and sniggered coldly.

‘Scary thought isn’t it?  How many guns are trained on you right now?  Death in the blink of an eye,’ Wolf hissed.

‘If there was somebody else out there, we’d be dead by now,’ Pace retorted.  ‘There could be more of you somewhere along the road though,’ he conceded, wondering if there were.  ‘They could be waiting for your signal,’ he added, half to himself.

‘Oh, couldn’t they just,’ came the dark reply.

His mind raced as the hairs on the back of his neck prickled rigid.  He wouldn’t kill in cold blood, not yet, the man had guessed right about that.  He couldn’t just let him go either.  Even if he shot to wound, further gunshots might bring goodness knows what kind of response from anyone lurking nearby.  They would expect to hear one burst of automatic gunfire, maybe two, but more after time had passed would raise suspicion.

Besides, it was notoriously difficult to shoot someone in a way that wouldn’t seriously injure them, that was just in the movies.

‘What would you do in my position?’

‘If I were you, I would kill me.’

‘Really?’

‘Break my neck, or slit my throat.  As long as it’s quiet.  Then I’d dump my body in the jungle and let the animals tear my carcass apart.’

‘Or, he could just tie you up and dump you in the jungle alive,’ said Ruby lightly.  ‘If you have friends around then you shouldn’t have long to wait for help.  If not, the animals can make a snack of you in their own time.’

‘What about shooting you in the neck with a poisoned dart?’ Pace suddenly though of Attia.  ‘Was it you who killed the doctor or one of your cronies?’

Wolf looked genuinely blank.  ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Don’t play innocent with me,’ Pace snapped.  ‘Strange how Prassal was murdered and killers are now hunting us down in the dark.  Did you use the dart for authenticity or just to shift the blame to some poor bloody native tribe?’

‘If Attia is dead,’ Wolf said slowly, reality suddenly dawning on him, ‘then you have more enemies that even I know of.  I expected all five of you to be here. In fact, I was banking on killing you all, literally.  The money offered for you is exceptionally good, with a fat bonus for the others.’

‘You want me to believe you didn’t kill him?’

‘I don’t care what you believe,’ he sneered.  ‘Consider this a temporary reprieve.’

‘Much as I’m beginning to like the idea of you just shooting this scumbag, how about tying him up?’

‘That’s probably the best idea,’ Pace agreed reluctantly.  ‘Please roll over, arms behind your back.’

The killer smiled again, goading for a reaction and remaining infuriatingly calm.  ‘And if I don’t?  Are you going to shoot me, Mr Pace?’

‘If you don’t, he’ll have no other choice.’  Ruby answered the question for him.

‘I’m not stupid enough to underestimate you,’ Pace growled, anger building in him again.  ‘Tangling physically with a man like you might be a risk, so you either do as you’re told or I will shoot you.  I can’t think of another way and you’re really beginning to get on my nerves.’

Wolf regarded the Englishman thoughtfully for a moment before nodding.  ‘Perhaps you would after all.’

‘Believe me, if you haven’t already experienced it, being shot is something I couldn’t recommend.  It does wonders for clearing the mind but is good for little else.’

‘If the shooter does his job properly, there shouldn’t be any feeling.’  Wolf’s words were chilling.  This was a man who would do his job to perfection, allowing no room for error.  The attitude was clinical and if his wasn’t the profession it was, Pace might even have admired his dedication.

Despite his nonchalance, Wolf was not happy at the turn of events.  He had not wanted to take control of a small army in the first place but he’d at least been pleased to grab the chance of killing James Pace himself, after leading part of his new command into the jungle in a helicopter insertion.  Finding them so soon was not planned.

He had left the main force a few miles down the road, deciding to stretch his legs and scout ahead with one of the more experienced mercenaries.  When he had spotted the little shelter in the middle of the highway, he had sent his companion ahead to check it out.  He had not expected any resistance, especially armed.

Very slowly, Wolf rolled over as he’d been asked.  Ruby darted into the shelter, hunting for something to bind Wolf’s wrists with.  That had never been Pace’s intention but he was glad she was out of the way as he stepped in quickly to bring the butt of the automatic rifle down smartly on the base of Wolf’s exposed neck.  There was still a risk that the blow would kill instead of incapacitate, but he struck him with venom regardless.

When Ruby reappeared, moments later, he had already checked the now unconscious form and satisfied himself the breathing was rhythmic and steady.  If she was shocked at the sight, she didn’t show it.  Instead, she just handed over the only suitable binding she could find; a spare bra.

Ignoring the original purpose of the garment, he secured Wolf’s limp hands behind his back, managing to wrap the wrists several times and secure it using its own hooks and eyes.  It was so tight he considered reducing it by one entire wrap but dismissed the idea as charity they could ill afford.  If it cut off some of Wolf’s circulation, too bad.  After all, his plan had been to cut theirs off permanently.

While he swept the road, up and down, with the Sten, Ruby deflated and packed away their shelter.  Once done, he manhandled Wolf across the muddy road; half carrying and half dragging him, before lifting him onto his shoulder for a final slog about five feet into the dense undergrowth.

Even penetrating only that far, without the benefit of a trail as a guide, changed his perspective entirely.  It was all too easy to understand how people got lost and wandered around and around for days, looking for a way out before dying, sometimes within metres of a path or the forest edge.  Once within the thick foliage, his view was obscured by massive tree trunks and shorter ground foliage that grew in patches where sunlight spilled down from above.  Lianas were slung everywhere like giant cobwebs.

Nearly pitch black, he used his night visor to weave his way through and around obstacles, finally dumping the inert body down on heavily leaf-littered earth.  He tucked Wolf in between two huge roots of a gigantic tree, propping him upright with his head resting on his chest.  Wolf’s breathing remained steady, so his conscience was clear.  Wolf was very lucky that Pace had no concept that he was the man responsible for murdering his sister, or his life would definitely have ceased right there.

But Pace remained in blissful ignorance of that fact as he headed back to Ruby, where he reloaded the Sten with a fresh clip.  They couldn’t cart two automatic rifles with them and the modern bullets didn’t fit the Sten, so Pace took a few steps back into the jungle and dumped them. Together they rolled the dead man over to the nearside edge of the road and threw some hastily broken leaves and creepers over him.  They both wiped fresh blood from their hands with handfuls of leaves, then agreed to get moving.

Back at the edge of the road, he put away his visor as dawn truly arrived.  The slash of branch-latticed sky was a watery blue and clear, so the heat would rise quickly.  Ruby looked around but saw nothing except an empty road.  Donning their backpacks they climbed aboard the tandem bike.   The Sten hung snugly in front of Pace’s stomach as they began pedalling away up the road.  It was comforting and he had no plans to dump it, though he made sure the safety catch was on.  They would probably have need of it again.

Thirty minutes later, the ambush site and its terrors were far behind them.  Although the road was still in a terrible state of repair, they pushed the bike, and themselves, to the limit.  Bumping and crashing, with the suspensions working overtime to try and keep the machine moving, they put mile after mile of distance between any pursuers and themselves.

They pushed on into the morning, which then matured into a steaming, fly-infested day.  The sky grew more vibrant in colour and the sun trimmed the tree tops with a rich magnolia.  As it rose higher, rays of pure sunshine scorched the muddy road and patches of it started to dry out and quickly harden.

Ruby sat in the rear seat so he couldn’t see if she noticed the same beauty but he sensed she probably did.  That was the thing about riding; the legs pumped and the eyes watched instinctively for danger but monotony was unavoidable after the initial hour.   Despite their dire situation, he handled everything as if he were out on a military exercise.  His chest was very tender and he knew it was their Achilles heel.  He would keep a close eye on it and take regular antibiotic pills.

Ruby asked him to pull to a stop after another hour so she could get out the map magnifier and check their position.  Obligingly he applied the brakes and they eased to a halt, still beneath a gorgeous sky totally devoid of cloud.  While he climbed down and stood, covering the road with the gun, she leaned into her backpack and produced the gadget.

The road behind them ran fairly straight; that was the way the highway had been built.  There was no nice, easy way to cut through impenetrable rainforest, so as direct a route as possible had been bulldozed.  Of course, the road bent and curved at times but this particular section ran back for almost two miles before veering slightly west and being lost behind the edge of the forest.

Slightly higher, the road surface was dramatically improved and the blazing sunshine helped.  There were some small cracks and surface holes but, in the main, the deep orange dirt surface was smooth and compact.  This meant they could get up some speed if they had to and the two mile warning behind would give them plenty of time to get away if any pursuers hove into view.

Regarding the road behind them coolly, Pace fingered the weapon and allowed his mind to soak in every detail.  His ears strained to pick out individual calls in the constant, background racket of animal sounds.  Some he recognised as obviously birdsong or monkey chatter but other growls and chirps, cackles and howls gave him little clue.  Ruby soon had the gadget set up.

‘Well?’ he asked, half turning towards her but still keeping one eye firmly fixed on the road.  ‘What’s the verdict?’

‘If you mean how far before we reach the river, I’d say not far at all.’  Their voices were still being pumped through the internal intercom, so her words rang clear and crisp through his headset.  ‘We must be nearly on top of it.’

‘How far exactly?’

‘I don’t know.  Twenty miles?  No more than twenty five.’

‘We can do that easily.  Come on, let’s go.’

They climbed back onto the bike and headed off again.  Ruby, for one, was glad to be away.  Being stuck, immobile, was an uncomfortable situation despite the peaceful, near paradisiacal beauty of the Amazon on this rare, clear day.  She didn’t have the benefit of carrying a gun, not that she’d know what to do with one if she did, and she felt increasingly vulnerable.

Pace saw the cloud, hanging motionless above the road, about ten minutes later.   He mentioned it to Ruby, who was pleased because it meant they would soon be drenched with rain again.  She had been bitten mercilessly all morning on her eyelids and lips, which itched like mad.  The cloud looked a little odd though, and seemed to hang all on its own about a mile or so further on but neither had any idea it could be anything other than a mass of condensing water vapour.

But then the smell hit them.

It was initially just a faint hint of distaste, carried on the soft breeze.  Pace didn’t even register the change as a smell at first; just as a sensation of something being different.  As they pedalled further up the road, they rounded a slight bend and found the road stretching straight out ahead of them again, for at least three miles.  At the same moment a sudden waft of the smell swamped them, almost as if they’d ridden through an invisible curtain, the inhuman stench attacking the back of their throats with acidic bitterness.

Reeling from the stink, he suddenly spotted a slight bump in the centre of the road about half a mile ahead of them.  The bump was smouldering beneath the hot, mid-morning sun.

The cloud was one of flies, not water vapour.

Pace’s heart sank as they rode nearer and he filled Ruby in on what he could see ahead of them.  She couldn’t see past his broad back and wide shoulders but she was assaulted by the stench as much as he was.  He managed to keep his breakfast down then, not so Ruby.

As he pulled the bike to a stop some twenty feet from the scorched humanity piled up in the middle of the road, she leaned out and vomited a few mouthfuls of bile onto the baking mud.

Time slowed to a crawl.  He swallowed back his own horror as they both dismounted to behold a nightmare.

The bodies were in an appalling state of decimation.  Some sick-minded joker had torched them, hopefully after death, but the odd shred of singed cloth and a couple of half-burned backpacks, smouldering at the edges of the pile, were all the identification needed.  He shuddered at the sight and felt his anger becoming rage; icy and hard.

Behind him, Ruby was sick again.

*  *  *  *  *

The jungle was thick with hanging vines and trailing lianas but Attia’s razor-sharp machete sliced through them with little effort.

He was cleaving his own trail through the vegetation, skirting around trees and the worst of the low scrub, slashing expertly with his blade when he had to.  He was an old hand at this business and knew he needed to conserve his energy in the draining humidity.  It had been difficult to play the novice for the benefit of the others but he didn’t have to pretend anymore.  After ten years of conducting operations in this type of terrain, he was almost as proficient as a native Indian.

Every now and then he hit upon a patch of extremely thick, shoulder-high greenery; where a hole had opened in the canopy above and allowed a prolific explosion of growth directly beneath.  These were rare, so his progress had been steady.

He stopped regularly to check his position with the GPS set and compare it to the co-ordinates he had memorised weeks before.  He was nearly on top of them, after a full fifteen hours walking, when he finally paused for a drink and a few biscuits before the final push. He ate and drank standing up, enjoying the steaming tranquillity of the dark forest that others might have found frightening.

A further twenty minutes brought him to the exact co-ordinates he wanted and, as he’d expected, the jungle looked as untouched and brooding as ever.  There were no signs of disturbance; no broken tree limbs or crushed plants.  It was just hot, humid and eerily quiet.

The tracer unit in his hand was working perfectly, he knew.  What he wanted could only be in one place.  Playing Attia, the racing doctor, had entailed fitting in with the others and carrying the same kit as the others.  He’d managed to conceal the chest brace, fake skin sections and GPS unit but he would normally want specialist climbing equipment before tackling a search job in the canopy.  All he’d managed to do was spirit a set of climbing spikes; hand and feet, from the challenge supplies they’d supposedly left behind at the tributary.  These, he mused, would just have to do.

Quickly strapping on the spikes, he sucked in a deep lungful of soggy air and set about the nearest tree trunk.  An hour later, he was well into the search, eighty feet up, moving across the thinnest of upper branches, tree to tree, to try and spot any signs of a crash site.  It was painfully slow work yet he was agile and moved fluidly, with no thought to how far below him the forest floor sat.  Ideally he would have set up guide ropes and used a pulley system to move around the treetops but not today.  Instead, he moved slowly, testing branches as he went to make sure they would take his weight.  His eyes scanned the tops of the trees while his skin revelled in the feel of a cool breeze that skipped across the roof of green, whispering between the thin branches beneath a grey sky.

Attia paused to take in the view, stretching for miles in each direction; an undulating expanse of huge tree tops merged into one living, breathing entity, with an occasional loner sticking its crown up higher than the rest to form a little island of green, brown and red.  It never ceased to amaze him how magnificent it was but he had no time for the luxury of sightseeing, and so turned back to the task in hand.

Night was falling and several hours had passed since beginning his search.  He was just beginning to think about making his way down when he pushed aside a heavily-leafed branch to be faced with singed twigs and a massive tear in the canopy.  Heart skipping, he moved more cautiously and forced tired eyes to redouble their efforts.  Within minutes, he began to make out traces of wreckage lodged in branches all around the immediate area.

He’d expected to find nothing but scattered wreckage and was hoping to locate the pilot’s body, using the tracking system secreted in her boots that was still sending its signal, via satellite, to his GPS unit.  He was stunned to struggle through some precariously thin upper boughs, turn, and suddenly be confronted by the sight of a crumpled Harrier, complete save for its tail section and the tips of both wings.  Carefully planted explosives, detonated by a simple timer, had hewn off the tail just behind the shattered perspex of the cockpit, and trimmed two feet off of each wing tip, dumping it barely seventy feet down into the treetops, so low had been the pilot’s skimming flying style.

Charlie Stallie; renowned within the unit both for her incredible physique and her amazing skill as a pilot, was no stranger to low-level flying. She’d learned the basics with the United States Marines; they being the people who allowed her to train on a front-line fighter like the Harrier.  It wasn’t a standard commission, as she had been recruited initially to the National Security Agency, as a gifted translator, straight from college.  A flair for private flying, a dogged patriotism and psychiatric evaluations suggesting she would perform well in the field had seen her role quickly mutate.  She had jumped at the chance to play the spy and, barely a decade later, she had been seconded into the Marines, excelling in fighter school and using her new-found skills for the covert benefit of her country, mainly in the Middle East.

At the tender age of thirty-three, she had been loaned out to the British secret service, both as an operative and also as the American’s partnership liaison officer.  It all sounded very corporate, as espionage mainly was in the new century, but the reality was still lethal.

Beyond governments, international law, treaties, conventions and big business, she soon discovered that the world was blanketed by unaccountable and invisible organisations.  Each country had its place, knew friend from foe, and slotted within a global network that existed to balance the status quo.

Presidents, prime ministers and chancellors knew little detail but trusted that their own secret services could resolve any serious problems, with no direct come back.  It was a tried and tested system that had existed for decades, with governments getting on with running the world, safe in the knowledge that issues such as terrorism, nuclear proliferation and biological weaponry development were being constrained.

As traditionally covert organisations the world over were being made more accountable to the public, at least in the West, an ultimately gritty layer of subterfuge remained untouched and unknown.  It was ‘need to know’, and very few people did, with those in the know having a vested interest in keeping things quiet.

Publicly, governments ran countries, within alliances, using differing political systems, for better or worse depending on your viewpoint.  Everything came down to money; the global economy, at the end of the day and how each country sought to exploit its natural resources, including its citizens, to best advantage.  Democratic freedom and liberty opposed the ideology of dictatorships reliant on suppression of the people.  Wars were fought by aircraft, soldiers and sailors, in the name of justice, or plain survival.

Underpinning every government was the secret service system; seeking to protect a country and its interests from destruction, be that physical or financial.  These were also run on national lines, although international co-operation crossed borders as a matter of necessity.

Finally, dwelling deep in the shadows, lurked the network of operatives who risked their lives daily to nip rising tyrants in the bud, gather intelligence, sabotage weapon tests, assassinate difficult political figures and generally do all the nasty, morally questionable things that sometimes needed doing to protect society.  The network was vast, intrinsically linked by a desire for results, had little to do with national idealism, transcended governments, and existed through cooperation; America, Europe, China and Russia, to name but a few, all fielding agents who were often on first name terms with each other.

For Britain, protection came in the form of its own exclusive club member; the McEntire Corporation.

Charlie knew all this and the information inside her head could have literally brought governments to their knees.  Her head, or what was left of it now, was little more than a jumble of smashed bone and mashed brain matter.  Just to be sure the pilot did not survive, tiny detonators had been built into the flying helmet; placed against each temple.  At the same time the explosives went off behind the cockpit and out on the wingtips, a synchronised timer in the helmet set off both charges, shooting two steel bullets directly into her skull, imploding it so quickly that her hands continued to fly the controls for a moment afterwards.

The Harrier should have cart-wheeled into the trees and been completely destroyed.  Attia had no idea why it had fallen more or less intact.  Still, it made his task a lot easier and he set about it.

He had known Charlie, in the biblical sense, on more than one occasion over the last year and he was saddened to see her inert corpse still strapped into her seat, shoulders matted with dried blood and putrefying brain matter.  Maggots were feasting on her and they, in turn, were being gobbled down by a cockpit full of brightly coloured birds and buzzing insects.

A few violent waves of his hand sent them exploding skyward, whistling, squawking or humming angrily at having their dinner disturbed.  His nostrils rankled at the sickly stench of many weeks steaming decay and he knew well not to look too closely at the partially skeletal remains

There was nothing in the cockpit he needed to see anyway.  He knew the swarms and hungry birds would soon return and he could not watch a lover being eaten before him.  Swallowing the bitterness rising in his throat, he moved around carefully to the nose section.  It was tricky to manoeuvre around such fragile tree limbs and he stopped several times when he feared the whole aircraft might crash down to the forest floor in a cloud of splintered wood.  It didn’t, and he made it to the underside without a problem.

He knew where the secret compartment was but if he expected to find the prize inside, he was quickly disappointed.  The compartment was empty; had been empty all along if he was any judge of his surroundings.  He knew he was the first human to clap eyes on the plane since it went down and a quick sweep with a Geiger, cunningly built into the GPS unit, showed little more than background radiation.

‘This is going to get very messy,’ he told the ugly corpse that had once been Charlie.  ‘I think a few more of us will be joining you before too long,’ he prophesised sadly.  The insects, and then the birds, returned to their meal seconds after a troubled Attia began his cautious descent to the forest floor, far below.

23

There were at least two bodies, maybe more.  Bits and pieces had been hacked off, leaving an evil jumble of flesh, seared right down to exposed bone in places.

Pace would have needed a long, lingering examination to be sure of just how many bodies might be in there but he didn’t have the stomach for it.  He felt numb and found his fingers instinctively gripping the Sten more tightly.

He had seen similar sights before, especially when flying as part of the British contingent of the UN, in several peace-keeping operations within the African theatre.  It was a long time ago but exposure to previous horror allowed him to quickly adjust to the stink in the air and ignore the swarms of flies eagerly waiting for their feast to cool a little.  That was when a thought struck home; he should be filming what was happening to them, which he quickly did.

‘Who do you think they are?’ whispered Ruby, suddenly leaning heavily against his shoulder.  Deep down, she knew well enough but hoped to be contradicted.  Pace wasn’t going to help her out on that score.

‘What’s left of Team One,’ he said slowly.  ‘As for who, I can’t tell.  It might be all of them in there.’

‘But what about Hammond, and Cosmos?  Did they see this and just push on?  You don’t think they’re mixed up in there too, do you?’  Her face was pale with shock, her head shaking in visible disbelief.

‘I don’t think so.’  A niggling message itched at his tired brain until he had to acknowledge it.  The message told him that this was no time to stand around, out in the open; they were in danger again.  ‘But we shouldn’t stay here.’  His words came out too harshly and she shot him an uncertain look.

Gripping the bike by the handlebars, he led Ruby across to the far side of the road and pushed directly into the thick jungle, without pausing.  He concentrated on moving about thirty feet into the foliage, with the actual journey being nearer to sixty feet by the time they had circled around huge tree trunks, waist-thick aerial roots and luminescent green ferns with stems as thick as a man’s arm.

Propping the bike against a massive tree trunk nearly twenty feet in circumference, he motioned for both of them to sit, with a downward wave of his hands, suddenly aware that they should be making as little noise as possible.  They both crouched on a matted forest floor of dead leaves and thin, fibrous, ground roots.

‘What is it?’ whispered Ruby, both of them having pushed their radio microphones away from their mouths.

‘This is getting terrifying,’ she whispered again.  ‘James.…I don’t understand…who would do something like this?’

‘It definitely wasn’t the locals, that’s certain.  Bodies don’t burn that easily – they’re too full of fluid.  Did you smell the petrol?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘It’s a very modern way of starting a barbeque, don’t you think?’

‘So, who?  Those men back down the road?  Do you think there are others out here, waiting to catch us?’

‘It’s logical to assume that the same people who tried to kill us earlier are actually part of a much bigger group, given what we’ve just seen,’ he reasoned evenly.  ‘Those two weren’t alone after all.  There were others.’

‘Now you’re really scaring me,’ she shuddered.  ‘You don’t know really.  You’re just guessing, right?’

‘You’re right, but it adds up if we like it or not.  Whoever it is could still be close by, so we need to be on our guard.  Forget about moving hard and fast, that won’t keep us alive.  We must be very cautious.’

‘I agree with you there.’  She forced a watery smile and wiped away tears from the inner corners of her eyes, smearing whiter streaks across her dirty face.

Not for the first time that day, he had a very real suspicion hovering at the back of his mind that neither of them would survive to ever come out of the Amazon, though he would try his hardest to keep them alive.

‘If whoever did this is after the race competitors, it makes sense that they’d stick around and wait for the other teams to come charging in here too.’

Although her instinct was to flee, she agreed with him and they settled down to wait.  Morning eased into midday and they remained secreted in the small space between the buttress roots, well hidden from prying eyes.  Ruby even managed some fitful sleep during the next few hours, with Pace on guard.

He watched the minute hand on his diving watch crawl terminally slowly around the face, the luminous hands and time gradations clearly visible in the gloom.  When he wasn’t looking at his watch he was peering down the fixed sights of the Sten.  Sweeping it from left to right with mechanical regularity, he sat with his back pressed firmly up against the tree trunk, finger curled around the trigger.

He couldn’t understand where the killers had gone.  Why go to the extremes of torching bodies just to leave?  And why murder innocent people in the first place?  Life in the sweltering rainforest was no help at all, as it continued to squawk, chatter, cry and occasionally shriek above him, making it hard to concentrate.

The two human beings were the only creatures that stayed totally silent.  He watched and sweated; Ruby slept and sweated.   Wolf had known his name and admitted to being paid money to murder them, so it must be all the competitors that were being targeted, Pace reasoned.  Why?  He had no idea.

After nearly two hours or so, Ruby’s eyes twitched open and she came back to him.  Once fully roused, she was as worried as before.  They didn’t talk much aside from exchanging the odd whispered word of encouragement.  Pace stayed alert and focused on the surrounding jungle, watching for an attack.  In the end she dozed off again.

His watch told him they had been waiting in silent vigil for over three hours before muscle cramps and general frustration finally urged him to take a chance.  He gently shook Ruby awake before leaving the bike lodged between the roots and heading quietly back towards the road together.  They skirted the same mass of trunks and hanging vines until the wide slash of reddish brown mud became visible.

Their ears tuned out the natural sounds of the rainforest and searched for the slightest hint of a spoken word, a footstep or other human activity.  There was nothing out of place, save for the stink of charred death that still floated languidly on the still, humid air.  With the sun riding high in the clear blue sky, beating ferociously down upon the road, the smell had worsened.

Pace crouched down and crabbed across the last few feet, the moist soil giving beneath his running boots. Fortunately, no beast rose up to sink its teeth into his legs and he reached the very edge without incident.  Ruby hung back, ready to dive back into the safety of thicker cover if something went wrong.

He half expected to see a horde of machine-gun toting killers spill out of the jungle.  His imagination, fuelled by lack of proper sleep, worked flat out against him and he struggled to rein it in.  The stench of burned human flesh was tempered, thankfully, by the closeness of the damp earth and of a sweet-scented, broad-leafed plant that brushed against his left knee.

With the help of the natural air fresheners, he watched the road and the edges of the forest opposite for another full half an hour.  In that time he saw nothing, except a few spider monkeys playing mad games near to the very top of roadside trees opposite.  They were barely distinguishable as specks but their recognisable cry defined their species as they talked noisily amongst themselves, very likely about the strange antics of the two-legged creatures on the ground below.

Finally satisfied, he crabbed his way back to Ruby, whose anxious expression underlined his own thinking; that staying put was doing them no good.  They had to move on and try to get to the river rendezvous.

He got no argument from Ruby when he voiced his feelings.  Her face broke into a relieved smile and she turned on her heels to retrieve their bike before he could reconsider.  She picked it up and swung it across to him, taking a firm grip of the front bars and leaving him to grip the saddle of the second seat.  Together they carried the lightweight machine back to the road.

Remaining at its very edge, they started up the road again, eyes staring all around in painful concentration.  When they had left the pile of bodies several hundred feet behind, they made another quick check around before cautiously wheeling the tandem back out onto the centre of the road.

Pace looked one way and Ruby checked the other.  Nothing was seen to move.

At first they rode slowly, pushing up the road for several miles, closely watching the jungle walls and road horizon, both ahead and behind.  Pace rode in the front seat, holding the Sten with his right hand and swinging it first one way then another on its shoulder strap.

Stopping after fifteen minutes, they eyed each other speculatively.  Could it be that they had they escaped?   Pace wasn’t sure but he knew it was time to sacrifice caution in favour of speed.  He twisted in the saddle to look at her, his eyes fixing upon hers.  She met his gaze squarely.

‘Are you up for a bit of manic pedalling?’

‘Really?  Okay.  What about your chest?’

‘It’s fine,’ he said quickly.  It wasn’t fine at all.  It had been hurting fiercely, despite the pain killers and the antibiotics.

The air was so hot and humid around them that it felt like an almost solid entity.  Sweat dripped into the corners of his eyes and Ruby looked flushed and sweaty beneath her poncho.  Quickly he pulled off his pack and rummaged around until he pulled out a bottle of fruit juice and another of fresh water.  The juice was infused with added vitamins and salts, and they shared both bottles equally, draining them fast.

The remnants of each bottle, crushed, went back in his pack.

‘Come on then,’ Pace smiled wanly, feeling refreshed.  ‘How are your legs?’

'Ready as they’ll ever be.’

‘Good. Once we start, we don’t stop, understand?  We go flat out; take our chances with the road conditions.  Speed is our only protection and we must keep it up for as long as we can.’

With no time to look for signs of pursuit, they just kept their heads down and pedalled; the Sten poking out over the front handlebars.

The staging post for the river section lay barely three miles north and the thought of being so close to safety spurred them on.  The humidity took an unhelpful leap further upwards as their legs powered them up the road in a monotonous rhythm.

It was heading into late afternoon and the direct sunlight, though lower in the sky, also was becoming obscured by an untidy pile of cloud.

Ruby glanced skyward and had just decided it was about to pour with rain again when a dazzling flash arced across the sky, followed almost immediately by a tumultuous crash of thunder so powerful it threatened to shake the teeth from her head.  A ferocious storm exploded with typical, sudden fury and rain tipped out of the leaden clouds in solid sheets of water.  The slightest of breezes began to blow but it was not enough to move the water one way or another.  It fell straight down, in a second plunging visibility to barely ten feet and drowning a million bugs in mid-air.

Lightning stabbed into the road in front and behind them, terrifyingly close, supported by deep growls of disapproving thunder.

‘If we stay in the middle of the road, we might get through to the staging area without being spotted,’ he said; not having to shout above the storm because the intercom remained clear and sharp.

‘Then don’t talk about it, just keep pedalling,’ came the smart reply and Pace found himself grinning into the pounding rain, despite himself.

Then, without warning, they smashed into a wall that had been hidden by the pelting rain.  The bike tipped over and they were both spilled across the rapidly flooding road.  He tried to stagger to his feet but a crushing weight descended upon him as the wall pounced on him and pinned him flat.

A sharp, female scream cut above the storm to his left, chilling him rigid, as a rough hand clamped over his mouth. Then he was being dragged across the road.  His legs kicked for purchase but just slipped all over the place and his arms flailed wildly at his sides.  Thunder still reverberated all around and his blurred vision was filled with a disoriented view of the underside of the high canopy as he was manhandled into the jungle.

Then the last thing he could have imagined happened.  There was a flash of perfect white teeth, opening in the middle of a recognisable face.

It was a beaming face and, more importantly, the face of a friend.

24

Leading Team One into the depths of the rainforest had been a thrill for Bailey.  Careful planning and a pick of the finest athletes and academic minds had ensured that all the teams comprised a range of amazing talent.

He was delighted with the preparations, although as troubled as anyone else by the disappearance of Doyle McEntire’s daughter.  And then there was James.  Still unsure of how useful he would be in the field, Bailey was no fool and he accepted that the huge sums of extra sponsorship could be directly attributed to the unlucky Englishman.

He wasn’t convinced Pace’s physical health would stand up to the rigors of jungle racing but he wished the man well.  That said, his pride and personal craving for success meant that he planned to beat the other teams convincingly.  He would gain the glory, publicity and star status that would surely come as leader of the winning team.

All had been going so well, too, he mused.  The rain hadn’t been as bad as he feared, though it had deluged at times, and they had made good progress on the battered highway.  Even the first challenge had turned out to be a simple climbing exercise; in a way he felt a little cheated and had immediately wished for something tougher for the next challenge.

The agony in his skull was so intense that he kept staggering as his vision blurred, before he managed to force it into focus again.  He couldn’t afford to stumble, or collapse.  Then they would just kill him, he had no doubt.  Behind him, low murmurs told him that their captors were still alive, which meant the muzzles of several automatic weapons were loosely trained on his spine.

It had all been so crazy.  They had picked up the mountain bikes after a gruelling final few miles on foot.  As a team they had agreed to push on immediately, and try to get the drop on the competition.  Spirits had been high, even if bodies had been exhausted.  As his feet moved unsteadily beneath him, his thoughts cast him back to the point, two days previously.  They had been riding hard for hours when the nightmare found them.

‘How you doing up there?’  Dungannen’s cheery tone sounded lightly in his earpiece.  The young doctor had proved himself to be a resilient character so far and his jokes had kept their spirits up when the weather had closed in, or fatigue had sharpened its teeth.  His legs were also doing most of the pedalling on his tandem, as Poranchez seemed less than keen.  Nobody would have known it; Dungannen said nothing and just pedalled.

‘Fine,’ Bailey replied.  In truth, his legs felt like lead and his whole body cried out for a rest.  ‘Hey, Costoza,’ he called to the Italian cameraman; riding behind with the others,’ ‘how long until we get to pull over?’

‘Another ten minutes should do us,’ came the deep, thickly-accented reply.  ‘Then we can sleep for a few hours.’

It was music to Bailey’s ears.  He realised that he hadn’t spoken to Chi-Lu for a while and was just opening his mouth to call her when his front forks slammed into a length of steel wire, stretched out across the width of the road, from tree-line to tree-line.  Purposefully taut, and several centimetres thick, the thin cable acted like a sudden brake.  Bailey’s own speed worked against him and he was up and flying over the handlebars before his heart had time to skip a beat.  His already open mouth managed to utter a surprised cry before he crashed down onto the water-pocked surface.

Such was the speed, he had no time to throw his arms out to ward off the impact, which caught him straight on the front of his forehead.  The mud was only a soft surface layer, with the road beneath still being hard in this section.  Fiery detonations of yellow, crimson and green flared up inside his head, followed instantly by a heavy, insidious darkness.

When he stirred into consciousness, ten or so minutes later, he was met with a sight that was so surreal that he assumed he was still unconscious.  It had to be a dream, but why the hell would I dream of this?  It was a question he asked himself a few times as he shook his head slowly and raised himself up onto his knees.  Why would anybody dream of such a thing?

His bike lay where it had fallen.  It was a solid machine and could be ridden again.  The cable was clearly visible, stretched across the road at a uniform height of about one foot.  Behind him; about ten or so metres away, lay the discarded tandem bikes of the rest of Team One.  There was no second wire but the reason for the bikes being riderless was plain to see.

As he staggered to his feet and finally accepted that he wasn’t dreaming, the three twisted, heavily-bloodied bodies lay still and lifeless in the mud.  The rain, which had held off for several hours, had returned while he was unconscious and it fell in heavy sheets across a scene of evil destruction.

‘Oh my God,’ he breathed, not wanting to believe what he saw.  Rubbing the base of his neck to try and clear the ringing bells in his ears, he walked closer to his dead friends.  Dungannen would never again crack a joke, nor would Costoza manage to catch another shot of him taking a jungle shower.  Also, tragically, no longer would Chi-Lu’s passion for animal rights light the fires of change around the globe.  All three were clearly very, very dead.

Bailey had expected the odd accident, perhaps snake bite or a case of tick paralysis.  Never this.  How could he have ever imagined that death would come in the form of bullets.  He was no fool, and recognised the multitude of small entry wounds and the larger, jagged exit wounds.  The dead had been sprayed with bullets and their blood, still freshly flowing, was staining the mud around them in an increasing radius; mixing with the dark, muddy puddles to form elegant swirls and pirouettes of pink on brown.

Snapping out of his stupor with difficulty, he knew he was badly injured.  Despite the initial adrenalin rush of terror and disgust, his vision soon began to swim and he dropped to his knees amongst the dead; a deep groan escaping from his lips.

He might have given up at that point and slipped back into unconsciousness but the sound of approaching voices stung him back onto his feet.  It was only as he staggered back upright that he realised that there were only three bodies, not four.

Suddenly the obvious thought managed to find its way past his dazed senses and flash up a warning.  Someone had done the shooting and the closing voices were likely to be them coming back.  Bailey had no idea why they hadn’t killed him too, or if they had captured Poranchez, but he knew he needed to get away.  Unfortunately, his body chose that moment to switch off his sense of balance; buckling his legs at the knees and pitching him down onto the muddy road again.

Head spinning, vomiting foul-tasting bile and still bleeding heavily from the massive cut on his head, he resorted to dragging himself on his stomach, heading desperately away from the voices, aiming towards the opposite tree line.  He couldn’t tell if there were people on the side he was heading for, hidden in the jungle, but the voices only came from one side of the road.  He knew he had to get away from it.  Clawing at the mud for purchase, digging his strong fingers in until the nails tore and split, he inched his way towards safety.

‘I thought you’d be dead by now.   You must be a strong one.’  The male voice sounded frighteningly close and was surprisingly soft in its tone.  ‘We decided to leave you to the jungle.’

Resigned to his fate, Bailey stopped crawling and forced himself to roll over onto his back.  The rain, growing heavier by the minute, pounded into his eyes and cruelly stung at his open wound.  As he suspected, several men were standing nearby, all looking down at him.  Wearing military jungle uniforms and carrying stubby automatic weapons, their faces were blacked up, their eyes cold and calculating.

‘Go on,’ Bailey managed to whisper, fighting against the suddenly overwhelming urge to close his eyes.  ‘You bastards.  Go on!’ he managed a half-hearted yell.  ‘Get on with it.’  He was about to die and steeled himself for the end, feeling strangely calm.  At least the pain would stop.

‘Brave words,’ snapped the nearest man harshly, a bruiser who easily matched Bailey’s own hefty size.  ‘We wanted one prisoner to take back, now we have two.  That’s a good thing.  It just means more money.  There has been enough killing for today but the message we need to send to the others does need to be made a little clearer, that’s why we’ve come back.’  A snigger sounded from several men behind him.  It was a vicious sound.  ‘And, in case you think I am a nice man, I’m gonna make you watch us write our message.’

‘Message?  What are you on about?’  Bailey still expected to be shot at any time but he needed to know what they meant.

‘Watch and learn,’ sneered the man, who seemed to be the only one speaking and carried himself with the confidence of a leader.  Then, to his men.  ‘Let’s send our message.’

With that, the little group separated and the leader stepped behind Bailey, leaned down, gripped him under his arms and pulled him to his feet.  Bailey was a big man and it took a bit to straining to get him onto his feet.  Once up, the world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of starbursts again but the sight of Poranchez, hands bound tightly behind his back, gave him a shot of hope.

‘Miguel!  Miguel!  Are you alright?’’

Poranchez looked over at him and Bailey easily read the terror in his eyes.  He made as if to reply but several mercenaries appeared from the jungle edge behind him and one of them laughed as he landed a hefty punch against the back of the prisoner’s head.  Unable to see it coming, Poranchez took the full force of the blow and staggered to his knees, crying out in a mixture of pain and surprise.

‘Hey, you prick, cut that out!’  Bailey was incensed and still expecting to be killed, so bawled at the man across the sodden red mud road with as much venom as he could muster.  He figured he didn’t have anything to lose by annoying them.  Maybe it would hasten the end – he would rather take a bullet than a beating.

The mercenary started as if to approach Bailey but a hand signal from the leader stopped him in his tracks.  Eyes burning with frustration at not being allowed to pulverise the stupid American, the man contented himself by giving Poranchez a heavy cuff to the side of his head.

‘Let’s do this and be on our way.  Our money is waiting for us at the other end and I don’t plan to stay in this swamp for any longer than I have to.’

What happened next so shocked Bailey that he didn’t raise a word of protest.  It all happened so fast too.  He counted about a dozen men now and three of them pulled out large machetes from their belts and set about desecrating the bodies of Dungannen, Costoza and Chi-Lu.

Like a scene from a gory movie, blades flashed through the soaking air and limbs were hacked off; arms, legs and poor old Costoza even lost his head.  The bloody scene became even more crimson as the bits and pieces were tossed together to form a pile of dead human flesh.

A metal can of petrol appeared from somewhere and the pile was quickly doused.  A match flashed, followed by a whoof of ignition; the petrol easily winning against the rain and starting a rapid blaze.  As if trying to assist them, the rain suddenly eased and the flames licked higher into the grey sky, hungrily devouring its macabre meal.

Numb and half dead, Bailey then found himself and Poranchez frogmarched up the road, with mercenaries both in front and behind them.  After a mile or so, the leader spotted what he was looking for. They had been forced to cut their own trail in from their insertion site; a slog of three days, and he had no intention of wasting time cutting another one.  Their team would use the same trail to make faster time back out.

Suddenly drawn back to the present by the pain of a gun barrel being jammed against his spine, Bailey forced his feet to pick up the pace.  That had all happened a couple of days ago.  Since then they had been marched up this never-ending jungle trail, occasionally beaten, tripped, spat at and regularly threatened.  He knew now that there were fifteen mercenaries in the group but he only ever had anything to do with a few of them.  Most marched a few hundred metres up ahead, or the same kind of distance behind, with three main tormentors keeping an eye on them in the middle.

He didn’t know their names, nor did he understand many of the languages they used.  Occasionally they spoke in English and, from these snippets, he gleaned that they were nearing their destination.   As the men were careful not to use names in front of the prisoners, Bailey had made up his own names for them based on their physical features.

The one who had laid into Poranchez was tall and thin, with a hooked nose and an air of malevolence.  Naturally, he became known as Hooky.  Another suffered from quite severe dandruff; noticeable in his jet black hair.  He became Dusty.  Their final tormentor was very short and muscular, so he acquired the name Stumpy.  The leader did check on them from time to time; he was given the title Lenny.

Hooky had spent the past two days obviously enjoying hurting them, slapping, poking, kicking and occasionally threatening them with the razor-sharp blade of his machete.  He was the worst but the other two joined in happily; mainly with gestures although Stumpy often spat in their faces, especially if they stumbled and fell.  Walking with their hands tied behind their backs, they couldn’t save themselves if they fell and both men were heavily bruised and cut from regular falls.

When the men did use English, it was for the benefit of the prisoners.  They would talk about the money they were about to earn for bringing them in alive, and how much fun their paymasters would have torturing and eventually murdering the prisoners.

They also had a running bet on how long Bailey would survive.  Even they were aware of how serious his head injury was and they’d been betting each other almost since the forced march began.  Would he last two hours, or five more?  Would he survive a cold, rainy night without shelter?  Bailey took great satisfaction from having outlived all of their predictions so far.

The shadowy gloom of the forest floor in daylight thickened into the enveloping weight of darkness, as night fell at the end of the second day.  How Bailey had managed to keep going, having lost so much blood from his partially closing wound, was anybody’s guess. He himself had no idea; he’d just kept putting one foot in front of the other for fear of being viewed as a burden and killed by their captors.

The first day was the worst, with the dizziness and nausea settling by the second.

Poranchez wasn’t in much better shape except that his injuries were all superficial, and inflicted by the bullying mercenaries – he had no major wound to contend with.  Bailey had done his best to keep up conversation with him during the relentless drudgery of trekking up the trail.  At the start, Poranchez had responded but gradually he’d withdrawn into himself until now, Bailey’s attempts to talk to him were flatly ignored.

Bailey wondered if his unresponsive friend’s feet were as blistered and sore as his own.  Slicked with sweat and glad of the coolness the night would bring, he kept walking and waited for Lenny to decide to call a halt for the night.  An hour after night had fallen, word came back down the line that they were to stop.  A few minutes later, happy that his men were still alert and watchful, Lenny came back down the row of men, moving quietly down from his permanent position up at the front of the line.  He stopped as he drew level with the prisoners.  In the darkness, Bailey sensed rather than saw is unpleasant grin.

‘We aren’t stopping for the night,’ he said.  ‘We’re having a water break and then we’ll move on.  Only a few miles further and we get to the extraction point.  Then,’ he leaned in closer and Bailey caught the stench of stale sweat and halitosis, ‘I get to rid myself of you two.  We all get paid and you…well…you just get dead.’

‘Sometimes life doesn’t quite work out the way we plan,’ reasoned Bailey calmly.  ‘Don’t write us off too soon.  Whoever is paying you to bring us in might have more use for us alive than dead, did you think of that?’

‘You can think that if it makes you feel better,’ Lenny spat.  ‘I still think you’d better enjoy your last few hours while you can.’

‘Okay.  Why don’t you untie us and let us go then,’ Bailey jibed.  ‘I promise to use my remaining time wisely if you do.’

‘Smart mouth,’ Lenny said, his tone suddenly edged with steel.  ‘All I know is that you and your friend are gonna die.  And it’s only the thought of losing money on this deal that has stopped me and my men killing you ourselves.’  He meant every word, that much was clear.

‘You could end up dead before us,’ Bailey retorted, his anger rising.  He was exhausted, thirsty and didn’t have the patience to play the co-operative prisoner any longer.

Lenny laughed a surprised chuckle.  When he spoke, it was in a high, questioning tone steeped with sarcasm.  ‘Do you think so?  Really?’

‘Stranger things have happened.’

‘Unlucky for you, not this time.  You are gonna die and I’m gonna watch.’

Barely had the last word sounded from his lips than Lenny died; his head suddenly exploding like an overripe watermelon struck by an invisible sledgehammer.

25

‘Don’t cry out,’ Cosmos warned, raising a finger to his lips.  If death had just been about to sneak up on him again; angered at his narrow escapes so far, it was about to be really annoyed at being thwarted again.

‘What’s going on?’ Pace recognised the face but his mouth took a little longer to get into gear.  As his senses returned, his addled brain realised that he was lying on his back in the mud, with his pack digging painfully between his shoulder blades.  The storm raged furiously above the canopy and he could see the rain pouring unhindered on to the narrow strip of road a few feet from where he lay.

Cosmos was crouched down by his side, also looking out through the wisps of roadside foliage, looking for something although Pace had no idea what it might be.  Visibility was still practically nil, so an army could have been standing in the middle of the road; there was no way to see through the falling wall of water.

Just then, a female head rose from behind Cosmos, closely followed by the rest of her body.  Obviously shaken, Ruby looked over at him and noted Cosmos’ raised finger warning.  Pace crouched up to join the huddle.

His chest had cushioned the Sten in his fall and the gun was undamaged.  His inflamed wound grumbled at the added insult but at least they still had a weapon to use.  It then dawned on him that Cosmos must have carried both of them, on his own, across the road.  The solid wall he had ridden into had actually been the giant Kenyan.  But where was Hammond?  He was nowhere in sight.

Satisfied all was well, Cosmos quickly motioned for them to follow him deeper into the jungle, which they did, the Sten instinctively finding its way into Pace’s grip.

Weaving around trunks and pushing through a thick lattice of vines and climbing plants; some with painfully concealed thorns on the stems, Cosmos led them unerringly through the gloomy forest.  Streams of water poured down tree trunks and dripped all around the lianas, coating trailing creepers already swollen with a sheath of soaking moss.  Small waterfalls gushed down between some of the largest trees but this was no time for a shower.

The heat remained oppressive despite the torrential rain and they were glad when, a minute or so later, he called their little trek to a halt.  He’d stopped nowhere in particular; the jungle still looked thick and uninviting.  Beneath the canopy, light was subdued and shadowed completely in large patches, although hued green from passing through the treetops over a hundred and twenty feet above their heads.  To Ruby, nothing stood out as different but Cosmos knew exactly where they were.

Just having him with them, larger than life and physically towering, encouraged her own flagging spirits, and her mind began to click into overdrive in an attempt to make some sense of the past two days.  Before she could pull any threads together, however, she saw him shin up one of a dozen or so hanging vines that lay tangled against the trunk of an ancient tree, a few feet off to her right.  Within a minute he’d climbed up forty feet.  She admired him with a professional’s gaze, knowing how difficult it was to climb a free-moving rope to such a height, let alone a slippery creeper.

At about fifty feet, he drew level with one of the lower branches, in itself thicker than a man’s waist and almost completely encased with moss, lichens and sucker plants; some flowering.  Manoeuvring his buttocks nimbly onto this branch; making it look very easy, he grinned down and beckoned them to follow him up.

The tree trunk looked oddly twisted, unnaturally grey and bulbous.  Pace didn’t know enough about botany to recognise a tree totally encased by a strangler fig.

The fig had fallen as a seed and been trapped against the tree’s bark, many decades before.  Once there, it had sent out aerial roots that grew down to the forest floor, from where they drew up vital water and nutrients, allowing the seed to grow.  Strangler figs; and there were several types, just kept growing and growing; up, down and around, eventually totally encasing the parent tree and killing it.  Though long since dead, the tree remained standing and the fig had usurped its place in the forest ecosystem without having to try too hard.

Pace gripped a vine, watching as Ruby chose another.  The climb would have been impossible with their backpacks because they weren’t climbing up strong rope this time.  Neither of them knew how much weight the vines would hold, so they took a moment to stash their packs between some buttress roots, covering them effectively with handfuls of leaf litter.

He agonised about leaving the Sten behind but knew it would make the climb more difficult.  Loathe as he was to leave it, leave it he did.  All he took was a small torch and a bottle of energy drink, which he jammed into his belt.

The MicroCam remained snugly in its belt pouch.

It wasn’t quite as easy as Cosmos had made it look and he didn’t have the finely conditioned muscle tone of the giant, though being in the forest for so long had toughened him up.  Ignoring the prickling around his chest through gritted teeth, he made it up the vine in respectable time, despite feeling fresh blood seeping from beneath his dressing.

Ruby virtually scampered up her vine and was waiting for him, hardly out of breath, when he hauled himself onto the branch a few seconds later.  Once up, the reason for the climb was clear.

Nature, by accident, had allowed for a depression where the branch joined the trunk.  Over time this depression had become covered by the body of the strangler fig.  Tightly knotted, the sheath of the fig had created a small natural shelter between itself and the dead trunk.  It was ten feet high and five across; resembling a large, enclosed bird’s nest.

Cosmos had previously torn away some of the creepers to form a makeshift entrance and had already squeezed his huge frame inside.  Ruby and Pace followed the African inside.  It was a tight squeeze for the three of them but at least it was impossible to fall out.  The vegetation was so thickly entwined that it gave the shelter a solid, reassuring feeling.

It was obviously a hiding place.  But what was Cosmos hiding from?  Or who?  This seemed more likely, given their own recent experiences?  Had he run into whoever butchered the athletes on the road?

‘Where’s Max?’  Pace panted, still slightly winded from the climb.  It was dingy inside the hide and the cloud of anger that swam onto Cosmos’s features was more felt than seen.  He did not answer.  ‘Cosmos?  What happened to you two?’

‘That is something I have been trying to understand myself,’ answered the giant, thinking back.  ‘I do not really know.  We were making good progress for a while but Max argued for a rest stop.’

‘Nothing wrong with that.  Okay, so he wanted a break.’

‘I didn’t think we had the time.  The rain was stopping and I was not tired because we had not been riding for long.  I thought the same as you do now,’ he said to Pace.  ‘That he was tired himself and didn’t want to admit it, so I agreed to stop for ten minutes.’

‘Any problems on the road?’  His question was a veiled probe about piles of dead bodies.  Had they been there for Cosmos and Hammond to find?

‘I saw things later that I wish I had not, but that was later,’ his face looked pained.  ‘At the time, no.  Everything was clear and I was concerned for your life.  We had to get help quickly.’

‘Go on.’ said Ruby, fearing to hear the rest but needing to understand.

‘I should never have agreed to stop,’ continued Cosmos bitterly.  ‘Max was on the back seat. We slowed to a stop and I was about to get off of my saddle, then…’

‘Then?’ asked Pace

‘Then,’ he went on, ‘the next thing I knew I woke up in the middle of the road, with a terrible headache.’

‘What?’  Ruby’s was a reactive question.

‘I woke up, which I suppose I should be grateful for,’ he added ruefully.

Pace didn’t know why he was so surprised; at that point he would have believed almost anything.  Reality and his oh-so-normal life back home in leafy Essex were long forgotten.  Fighting to survive cleared the mind of disbelief and had expanded his boundaries of acceptance.

‘I don’t understand,’ frowned Ruby.  ‘What are you saying?  That you had an accident?  Did you fall off?’

His eyes had adjusted to the gloom and Pace noted that her face was taut with anxiety.  Too much had happened too quickly and she looked on the verge of screaming her head off with frustration.  He grasped one of her hands and gave it a squeeze.  She didn’t pull away or even turn to acknowledge him but the tension in her shoulders seemed to soften a fraction.

‘I did not fall.  I was hit over the back of the head.  Clubbed from behind like a helpless animal,’ explained Cosmos solemnly.  ‘I do not know how long I was unconscious but when I awoke, Max was gone and so was our bicycle.  That’s all I know,’ he added softly, subconsciously rubbing what must have been one hell of a lump on the back of his skull.  To floor a man of his stature, the blow must have been either incredibly heavy, or professionally delivered.  But Hammond?  Why?  What would he possibly have to gain?

And if it wasn’t him, then who sapped Cosmos and took Hammond?  For the next half an hour they discussed the possibilities but came back to the same point; that they had no way of knowing what happened because Cosmos had been unconscious.

Equally disturbing was the revelation that Cosmos had recovered his senses and pushed on alone, only to come across the same pile of corpses they had discovered; only when he got there they were still flaming.   He’d seen no sign of the perpetrators and had slipped into the jungle for cover.

Having a good idea of where he was, he took the brave decision to try to get to the river section by walking alone through the jungle.  He aimed to run parallel to the road as much as he could.  Apart from a near miss of treading on a snake and jumping quickly to avoid being bitten, the journey had been uneventful.

He had reached the river after twelve hours of hard slog, only to find the staging area swarming with heavily armed men; of various ethnic backgrounds.  He described them as mercenaries.

Remaining hidden in the jungle, Cosmos had overheard snippets of conversation.  Some were in Spanish and French but the majority in stilted English.  He overheard two of the men laughing together.  All they were waiting for was the final competitors to turn up.  Once everybody had been killed, they could move on to their next objective.

Cosmos had seen the hovercraft that they were supposed to use for the leg downriver, still tethered to a small wooden jetty, but they were well guarded.  They looked undamaged but he couldn’t be sure because of the distance involved.

He finished by explaining how some of the men had laughed about a radio message from another group of their men, telling them of the road massacre and of taking prisoners away to the main rendezvous.  The corpses had been torched and left behind to strike terror into the hearts of those teams still to pass by; a twisted message of doom.

‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ breathed Ruby.  ‘I don’t understand any of it.  It is so barbaric!’  Her one hope for salvation; the staging post, had just been flushed down the toilet and she couldn’t see another way to get to safety.

‘I killed one of them yesterday,’ Cosmos suddenly spoke up again.  ‘I was trying to leave the area; to make my way back to you two, when one of the men must have been patrolling the jungle.  I walked straight into him.’

‘I’m sure you had no choice,’ Pace agreed.  ‘And you’re not alone on that score.’  This was a very dangerous situation for them all.  Too many good people had already died for no reason.  Cosmos appreciated the unconditional support.

‘This is true.  He went to shoot me, so I snapped his neck.  There was no choice but I thank you for your words.  I wish it had not been so.’

Although Pace understood, a slight shiver ran up and down his spine at the thought of how destructive those big hands could be.  For a second he had images of them closing around his own throat, before shrugging them off.  He was very glad the man was on their side.

‘So you waited to warn us?  When did you find this place?’

‘I needed a hiding place and taking to the trees seemed best.’

‘How did you know this was here?’ asked Ruby.  ‘It’s perfect.  You can’t see a thing from below.’

‘I was lucky,’ he said.   ‘I saw the vines hanging down and started to climb, as fast as I could.  I checked out the nearest trees and found this hide on the fifth tree I looked at.’

A welcome silence filled the alcove and Cosmos shifted his weight on the root-matted branch.  Sitting on the roots was actually quite comfortable and, for the first time in days, Pace felt completely safe.  It also made the hide feel more homely; even the dripping water was unable to penetrate inside.  He took a second to flash his torch around inside.  There was no sign of spiders, snakes or bugs but Cosmos would have already removed any, so it wasn’t surprising.

The torchlight was effective and gave good illumination in such a confined space.  Pace figured it wouldn’t make them visible to anybody on the ground and decided to leave it on.  He pulled out the energy drink he’d carried up with him and passed it around.  They all took a long drink before Cosmos continued with the story.  The already stifling heat inside their hideaway rose with a smell of sweating bodies but they ignored it.

‘I knew you would follow at some point, even if it was just Ruby on her own.  It might have taken a week but the only thing to do was to wait by the road as much as possible and hope to stop you riding into them.’

‘I, for one, am pleased you did,’ Ruby said.

‘But I had to hide a great deal of the time and I worried that you would pass by when I was unable to see you.  Several times, after I killed their man, I heard voices in the jungle, close by.’

‘How close did they get?’

‘The voices came right underneath here once but nobody tried to climb up.  I stayed quiet and they moved away.  There sounded at least half a dozen men.’  He paused long enough to take another swallow of the juice and it struck them both how tired he looked, despite his natural strength.  Ruby wondered how long it was since he’d slept.

‘Are you sure nobody saw you?’

‘If they had seen me, they could have fired enough bullets up here to kill me twice over,’ he answered.  ‘They have not returned.’

‘I bet you haven’t had much sleep then?’  Pace said.

‘Not yet,’ the big man smiled.  ‘I do feel a little weary.’

Leaving him to drain the remnants of the bottle, Ruby and Pace quickly recounted the string of events since he and Hammond had left to get help.  Cosmos tried to look interested but his attention flagged towards the end, so Pace rounded off their tale as fast as he could.

He took first watch, ordering Cosmos and Ruby to get some sleep.  Cosmos was asleep almost before his head settled onto his hands, with Ruby soon afterwards.  The two of them curled up together and slipped into uneasy dreams.

Flicking the torch off, he moved to the mouth of the hide, blocking the man-made entrance with his body.  His head and legs poked outside but his frame effectively curtained off the dim sunlight, preventing it from shining in and disturbing his sleeping companions.

The storm no longer raged above the treetops but rain continued to fall steadily, as did the occasional waterfall; water dripping all around him to differing degrees.  He was sheltered from the worst of it where he sat and took the opportunity to remove his clothing and revel in the touch of the humid air against his naked skin.

A few feet out along the branch, a small cascade of water splattered cheerfully down from high up in the canopy.  Sliding out, straddling the limb cautiously and moving slowly to avoid splinters, he moved beneath its deliciously cool flow.

There was no way he would trust his footing fifty feet up on a branch, so he showered sitting down.  He spent a long time washing the filth from his hair and body until he eventually slid back to the hide entrance to retrieve his clothes.  They were washed out as best he could under the same flow, wrung firmly and then spread out on the branch to dry.

Pace took a moment to check his watch.  It read five thirty-three p.m.  When it read seven, the rain still fell and his clothes were dry enough to put back on, if damp and creased.  He felt good inside, suddenly really positive.  Being clean was a marvellous boost for confidence and he even started to feel hungry.

There was nothing to eat up in the tree so he had to climb down the vines to where they had hidden their backs.  From his own pack he collected a few blocks of high-energy biscuits and a bottle of water.  Showering had meant removing his wound dressing and confirming his worst fears.  Fresh pus and blood had soaked it into a gory mess but he’d washed it as thoroughly as he could.

In Ruby’s pack he found the antibiotic powder and pills, quickly dousing the weeping wound and swallowing some pills down. A fresh dressing was applied and he could do no more.

The climb back up seemed easier the second time around, as he willed the pain in his chest out of his mind.

His friends inside the hide, for that is how he looked upon them now, were still peacefully recharging their batteries.  There was no movement save their rhythmic breathing and he wondered what each was dreaming about.

Sitting back, munching contentedly on a biscuit, he allowed himself to stare out into the darkness and relax his mind.  His only conscious, repeating thought, was that death was probably not very far away.

26

Stirring sounds behind let him know the others were starting to rouse.  The air temperature was cooler, hot by English standards but surprisingly chilly to him now.  The waterfall had slowed to a trickle, telling him the rain had stopped for now.  Ruby and Cosmos, though restless, did not awaken.

The hands of his luminous watch crept past one o’clock.  In those long, reflective hours, his mind played and replayed the events since he was shot in the subway, linking up all the twists and turns that had finally led him to being huddled fifty feet up a gigantic tree in the middle of the Amazon rain forest.  The difference between his life before, and after, was bizarre.

Pace had seen death in his old life; on military service and in the cold, white-shrouded hospital environment.  His life since the shooting had exposed him, first-hand, to cold-blooded murder.  Strangely, his own likely demise was not as strongly featured in his thoughts as before.

In the darkness, he concentrated on soft memories of Sarah, of her smiling beauty and soft flesh pressed against his own.  He had barely spared her an active thought for days and he suddenly felt guilty, even though he’d only pushed her aside because it hurt to imagine her sharing a bed with her estranged husband while he slogged it out in the mud.

For now, he scolded, nothing matters but staying alive.   Physically shrugging off his melancholy, a hand touched him lightly on the shoulder and he turned his head to see Ruby’s smiling face.  She still looked tired but his eyes picked out a smile etched on her features, despite the darkness.  Behind her, Cosmos stretched himself awake, which was no easy feat for legs that long in such a cramped space.

‘Have you been alright?’  Her question was direct and slightly rasping, throat dry from sleep.

‘Fine.  How did you sleep?’

She rubbed her neck with one hand, turning her head first one way then the other to loosen stiff neck muscles.  ‘It was very snug.  Pretty comfortable though.’

‘Tarzan and Jane couldn’t do better.  A tree house to sleep in.’

‘I’ve slept in stranger places,’ she said.

‘Stranger than this?’

She managed to sit down next to him on the wide branch and placed a soft arm around his shoulders.  For a fleeting moment he had an uneasy feeling but it passed as she began telling him about some of her previous adventures.  Pace couldn’t describe her body odour as pleasant but she still smelled feminine to him, pungent and carrying a sense of earthy musk into the back of his nostrils.

Africa, India, Siberia.  He was amazed to hear about some of the terrible trials she had endured on previous expeditions.  Every kind of weather seemed to have tried to rob her of her life; sleep snatched in hastily dug snow caves, or while roped to tiny rock ledges high upon a sheer cliff face.

Ruby had once even grabbed a few hours sleep half submerged in an underground river, deep below the mountains of Tibet, when she became separated from her pot-holing expedition.  She’d managed to tie herself onto a rocky outcrop before falling into an exhausted sleep.  Her dry-suit, developed from the diving standard, had kept her from dying of exposure and she’d woken just as two members of her team backtracked and found her.

‘This must seem pretty tame then,’ he quipped lightly, ‘in the sense of being out in the wilderness.  Ever faced assassins before?’

Ruby was somebody too determined to live life to be frightened of much.  It was a sobering thought when compared with his own life.  Since leaving the Royal Air Force, all those years before, he seemed to have taken the path of least resistance at every turn. In comparison to the people he had met since coming to Brazil, years of his life had been wasted.  The race had been the chance to start over and he wasn’t sorry he’d come, despite their dire predicament.

‘This is the worst situation I’ve ever had to deal with,’ she admitted.  ‘I only have to worry about the elements normally and there are always other people around to rely on.  How have you spent your time?’ Ruby changed the subject.

‘Thinking.  The jungle at night offers a wonderful chance to mull over many things.  Oh,’ he added, ’and I took a shower.’

‘Were you thinking about Sarah?’

‘Yes.’  He saw no reason to lie.  ‘But she has a husband and I don’t think I figure in her future plans.’  He shrugged.  ‘Anyway, I’m sure you have the same thing on your mind.’  He gave her a playful poke with his finger to lighten the mood.  Cosmos stayed inside the shelter, choosing to let them talk alone.

Her face looked pained for a fleeting moment but the smile jumped back as she recognised the humour in his eyes.  ‘I think about her all the time,’ she admitted.  ‘Sasha and I have lived in each other’s lives for eight years.  She’s my lover and my best friend.  She’s everything.’

‘It’s hard being away from the one you love.’

‘At least I know she’s safe.  She’s a computer analyst,’ she added, ‘and a good one at that.  Hates me taking the risks I do but loves me for it at the same time.  Women?  Go figure.’

‘I’m glad you said that and not me.’

‘I know this will sound like wishful thinking but Sarah may decide that it’s you she wants.  You fit together, I think and she is a very beautiful, resourceful young woman.’

‘Hey, hands off!’ he said, with feigned caution.

‘No need to worry,’ she said.  ‘I just wish Sasha was here now, just for an hour.  I could do with some passion to lift my miserable outlook.’

‘Couldn’t we all,’ Pace agreed.  ‘No available women around here that I can see.  Sorry, you’ll just have to go without like the rest of us.’

‘Desperate times call for desperate measures,’ she said, without elaborating.

As Cosmos finally emerged, yawning into his hand, Pace decided they all needed some food. He quickly descended a nearby vine, hand over hand.  The ground beneath his feet smelt earthy and sweet; it was soft to walk on but not slippery, much of it littered with dead leaves.

Water dripped lightly in places and he found the patchwork created by differing depths of blackness strangely calming.  Sucking in a couple of breaths of cooling air, he rummaged inside his pack again for another bottle of water. He noted with some concern that it was his last.

There would have been fresh supplies waiting at the river stage for them but who knew if they were still there.  With armed men guarding the staging post it didn’t matter; they couldn’t get hold of them.  They would have to carefully ration whatever liquid they had left.

A rustle above his head signalled Ruby’s descent.  Her lithe body solidified, from shadow to form, as she climbed lower.  She jumped the final eight feet, landing as nimbly as a cat, without so much as a stagger.

‘Would you like a drink?’ he offered.

‘Thanks.’

Passing the bottle back after swallowing a couple of mouthfuls she nodded her head out into the darkness.  ‘I need to go and sort myself out.’

‘Will you be okay?’  Mercenaries aside, the middle of the night was also a time when some of the larger predators came out to hunt.  The thought of her heading out into deep undergrowth alone felt like tempting fate.

‘I could take your gun.’

‘How can you do what you have to do and hold a gun at the same time?  How about I come with you?’

‘If you like.’  She agreed instantly, secretly relieved at the idea.  It was what she had hoped he would say.

Pace pulled the Sten from its hiding place, checked the mechanism, and slipped the strap over his shoulder.  They both put on their night visors and Ruby led him off into the vegetation, travelling a few dozen metres west before she found a tiny stream.  She hadn’t been looking for one and smiled with surprise.  The shallow channel ran no wider than his foot and snaked restlessly around the undulating forest floor.  At one point it passed over an exposed piece of rock, forming a clear pool about the size of a dinner plate.

She stepped over the stream and moved behind a large bush.  Pace slipped off his visor and her modesty was instantly protected by a solid wall of darkness.  He started whistling softly to cover any undue noise and waited for her return.  The old submachine gun sat comfortably in his hands but he could hardly see a hand in front of his face, let alone shoot anything.

After a couple of minutes, she called out that she was finished and he slipped his visor back on; stunned to see her standing barely two feet in front of him, totally naked apart from her own visor.  Even in a world of luminous green, she looked amazing.  He’d grown used to her cropped hair and hardly noticed the weal of the scar across her face any more.  Her breasts were full and perfectly sized for her slight stature.

Kneeling down by the pool, she slowly started to rinse herself off with the clear water, sponging her body softly with a large, flat leaf pulled from a nearby shrub.  Water trickled down her skin and when she ran handfuls of water through her short hair, it coursed back down her arms and played games around the contours of her breasts, stiffening her nipples.

It was like being in another world, watching her bathe and knowing she wanted him to watch.  Ruby had a lover in her life and he had no idea if she even found men attractive.

‘This feels lovely,’ she said.  ‘Join me if you want.’

‘I had a shower when you slept, I told you.’

‘You did, sorry.  Would you wash my back for me?’  She had come too far to be put off by such a lame reply.  ‘There’s no soap, just water to get rid of the sweat.’

Pace stepped over to the pool and placed the Sten gun on the ground.  Kneeling behind her, he took the offered leaf, dipped it in the little pool, and proceeded to gently run it across her back.  After the third time his leaf reached down to the very small of her back and his heart was pounding beneath his ribs.  He felt scared, angry, guilty and frustrated all at once but the overriding feeling was one of heady excitement.

‘That feels really nice,’ she breathed softly.  ‘Don’t stop.’

‘This is crazy,” he said, making no move to go.  “We should head back.”

‘Don’t,’ was all she said.

Then she said it again as she turned into his arms.  His own clothing fell away at her urgent touch and he allowed her to push him down onto his back.  There was no foreplay; no words of any kind.  It wasn’t love; it was just a need to feel.

She had loved men before and still enjoyed the sensation of being penetrated; she and Sasha used a range of phallic toys to spice up their sex life.  Ruby still found her most intense orgasms came this way.  Leaning slightly forward, she crushed her pubis hard against his with every grinding, downwards thrust of her slight hips.  Every time she leaned in slightly, his lips instinctively sought out her nipples, sucking and gently biting at them until they resembled bullets.

Hard, furious pounding drove them both to rapid orgasm, as all thought of contraception and consequences were forgotten by two human beings who were preparing to die.  He shuddered, holding her tightly as he exploded deeply inside her.  For her part, Ruby sensed his approaching orgasm and matched her own speed so that she joined him in the powerful relief of ecstasy.

The first minute afterwards passed in a sense of mutual relief but a sense of awkwardness quickly replaced it.  Barely five minutes later, they had both dressed and returned to their tree in a sheepish, strained silence.

Hiding the Sten again, Pace checked he still had the water bottle and followed Ruby back up to their branch.  He handed Cosmos the bottle of water, the Kenyan positively beaming when he saw it.

‘It is time you took your turn to sleep, James.  We will take care that nothing disturbs you.’

Pace was in no mood to argue.  He was tired and, with the flushes of passion draining from him, his eyelids started to feel like lead.  He took one mouthful from the water bottle and bade them both a hasty goodnight, quickly moving inside the shelter.  Ruby acted like nothing had happened and just said goodnight.

Having two people sleeping inside the shelter for so many hours had left the air stale with the smell of hard-pushed, unwashed bodies.  The intense smell stuck like glue to the back of his throat and he was sure it would take him a while to get used to it before he would be able to sleep.   The next moment, however, he awoke to find Cosmos leaning inside the shelter, shaking him firmly by the foot.  He recognised the unique outline, silhouetted against the slightly lighter background of a jungle dawn and sat bolt upright, momentarily disoriented.  Cosmos raised his hands, palms towards him, in a gesture of calm.

‘Everything is okay,’ he soothed easily.  From behind Cosmos, Pace heard the sound of movement and correctly placed the sound as Ruby starting a trip down to the forest floor.

‘How long did I sleep?’ he asked.

‘It’s only six thirty, so not long.  The air feels ready for another downpour.  If we go now, moving fast, perhaps we can slip past the guards.  We might even be able to steal one of the hovercraft, if they have not been tampered with.’  He smiled broadly; his positive energy infectious.  ‘If fortune smiles upon us, we could be away downriver too fast for anybody to catch us under cover of a storm.’

‘It’ll be the first bloody time she has smiled,’ Pace croaked.

‘Maybe it is time that our luck changed.’

Pace eased the stiffness from his joints as he crawled out of the hide to stand on the thick branch.  The air was heating up but there was a very heavy humidity all around.  He instinctively knew that above the trees, heavy clouds were piling up again.  Light swathes of water vapour tickled the forest floor with playful fingers but there was little noise from the wildlife.

He suspected it was because too many humans were in the vicinity, unsettling the natural status quo.

Cosmos turned to reach for a vine but Pace placed a restraining hand on one of his massive shoulders.

‘Are you sure there isn’t another way?  What about trying to go around them?  Could we do that, and then push on further up the highway?’

‘There is nothing ahead except hundreds more miles of this, and the road conditions will get worse.  We might find some native villages, or tracks to use, but that is not certain.  Without fresh supplies of food,’ he emphasised seriously, ‘we will not survive.  We can always catch rain water to drink but moving deeper into the basin takes us further from help, should it ever come,’ he reasoned.  ‘I believe this is our best option.  Ruby and I discussed it while you were sleeping. Both of us would rather die quickly trying to get to freedom, than skulk in the darkness until the beasts scavenge on our bones.’

‘Okay.  Let’s try it.’

‘Sometimes the road ahead is not as we would like.’

Pace took a few minutes to film the tree and hide with the MicroCam, adding a few whispered words of voice-over to explain what had happened to them and what they were intending to try and do.  Satisfied, he followed Cosmos down a vine; not quite as gracefully but a whole lot better than the day before.  Sleep, together with the pills, had stabilised his wound.

Barely had his feet touched the soft earth than Ruby moved over to him and slipped her hand briefly into his.  She gave a quick squeeze before pulling it away again, as if letting him know everything was okay. Nearby, Cosmos pulled on his backpack.  She already had hers on.

Sten in hand, Pace pulled on his own backpack.  He ran his fingers over the weapon quickly and slipped the safety catch off.  He was ready to kill again if he had to.

Cosmos took the lead, taking them back towards the road.  Pace brought up the rear, sandwiching Ruby in between them.  He held the Sten lightly as he walked, keeping his finger away from the trigger again, in case he stumbled.  The last thing he wanted to do was risk pouring bullets into the backs of his friends if he fell over.

He wasn’t concerned about losing their way in the gloom, despite their little column twisting and turning all the time to avoid obstacles.  Cosmos’s stride never faltered and Pace had absolute faith that the giant would guide them safely back to the road, which he did.

Why had Ruby and he had sex last night?  What was that really all about?  It had felt amazing but almost unreal now he looked back on it; not making love but powerful, carnal need.  He also wondered about their chances.  Was there really any hope of slipping past armed men unnoticed, even if a heavy storm came?  Would anybody come to help them, and where the bloody hell was Hammond?

Good questions all, he knew, as he trudged through the shadowy gloom.

27

Cosmos was dead right about the rain. They reached the road just as someone cranked the tap open another notch.  It fell strongly but there was no accompanying storm this time.  Visibility wasn’t obscured very much but the dawn shadows helped to flatten everything out.  Pace figured they would have to keep a distance of at least five metres between them and any pair of observant eyes for the mix of rain and gloom to effectively make them invisible.  That would mean passing around the very edges of the staging area.

The pounding of falling water on the road would offer good sound cover but getting safely to one of the hovercraft seemed an impossible dream.  The odds on being killed were so high that Pace had to put money on the other guy.

Tension bit into everybody.  Water-beaded frowns became set and eyes grew thoughtful.  All of them ditched their brightly coloured ponchos, placing them in packs deliberately smeared with handfuls of mud to try to disguise their luminous markings.

Whenever they caught each other’s gaze, as they paused and crouched at the edge of the road every few hundred feet or so, badly forced smiles magically appeared.  There was nothing left to say.  They couldn’t go deeper into the Amazon and killers, like it or not, dogged their heels.  They had only one chance and it wasn’t much of one.

‘We should try to sneak up to the hovercraft as quietly as we can,’ suggested Ruby, wiping water from her eyes for the hundredth time.  ‘There’s no point making a mad dash.  We don’t know what state they’re in.  They may have been sabotaged, or secured somehow.  It could take time to get one going, so time is what we’ll need.’

‘Let’s hope they see it the same way,’ Pace said grimly.

‘Let’s hope they don’t see it at all,’ she replied, quick as a flash.  At least her mind was back on the ball, he thought.  She would need her wits about her when the time came.  ‘I’m the only one here who knows how to pilot one but it isn’t too difficult.  You’ll pick it up quickly enough once we get going.’

That was true.  Ruby and Prassal had been the nominated pilots for Team Two.  Each driver had been given one week’s instruction on a rough section of the Colorado River, a month before he’d even joined up.

‘We’ll get you aboard,’ Pace promised, crossing mental fingers.  ‘After that, as you say, it’s up to you.’

‘The electrical systems should come on-line almost immediately.  That’s how they’ve been designed, as long as the batteries are still charged.  As long as the engine hasn’t been tampered with either, or the controls, we might be able to get one moving within a minute, maybe a minute and a half.’

‘Our future seems full of ifs,’ commented Cosmos casually.

‘How noisy is it going to be when you kick over the engine?’  Pace had seen a photograph of one of hovercraft but had been too busy concentrating on getting his video skills up to scratch to worry about someone else’s speciality.

Squinting against rain that began to grow even heavier, she shook her head.  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem.  They were designed to be quieter than normal,’ she explained.  They had pushed their mouthpieces out of the way as they were so close together but her words were still subdued and fragmented by the rain.  ‘The speed is there but the mufflers on the exhaust ports, placed to the rear, port and starboard, are very effective.  When we used them in the States, you couldn’t really hear anything above the sound of the river.’

‘But white water’s loud, so that’s not saying much.’

‘Sure,’ she admitted, hands in the air, ‘a hovercraft makes more noise than a regular boat, even with mufflers.  But for hovercraft, and remember these are very small really, they run quietly.’

‘Still, we can’t hang around.’

‘It will be loud,’ she admitted with a resigned shrug.

‘It is the only way,’ Cosmos interrupted.

‘Look on the bright side,’ she said, patting Cosmos’s shoulder affectionately.  ‘With volume comes great speed.’

‘So we may get away without being sunk,’ he returned the pat brightly.  ‘Our plan must be clear.’  Cosmos was the only one of them to have seen the staging post and the positioning of guards first hand.  He had to take the lead and solemnly accepted the responsibility.  All their lives would ride on his insight and judgement.  Pace and Ruby were ready to do whatever he told them.

Cosmos ran through the plan with them briefly again, making sure they all knew what they were going to do.  Satisfied, he pondered for a second, then collected himself.  Using his finger he carved out a rough map of the staging area in the soft mud at their feet to add clarity to his words.

The main river cut across the road at the staging area, which was why they had seen no sign of it yet.  He then drew the outline of a large building just to the right hand side of the road.  The building appeared to be only a few metres from what looked like a small jetty, sticking out into the water.  A couple of finger stabs marked the hovercraft, one either side of the jetty.  There should have been three machines but Cosmos only marked two points.  Pace queried it and he nodded.  ‘When I looked, there were only two.  The other must have been taken away.’

‘Where did they take it?’

‘I did not see it being removed,’ Cosmos replied.  ‘I only saw two.’

‘What about guards?’  How many did you see?  How were they working, in two’s or in three’s?’

‘Never three, not together.’  Cosmos shook his head.  ‘They were paired, some static but others patrolled up and down the road for,’ he thought intently for a moment, ‘about fifty metres in either direction.’

‘Waiting to catch us,’ said Ruby coldly.  ‘Bastards.’

‘Catch us, then kill us,’ Cosmos corrected.

There were no other markings on the little sketch at their feet, which was already beginning to wash away despite the cover provided by the tree edges above them.  No guard sites were been marked and Cosmos quickly fingered them in.

There were four static sites; two at the roadside and one at the rear of the building, with another at its front.  The sites covered both the river and the jetty.  The two sites out on the road were spaced, according to Cosmos, about sixty metres apart.

One was open and plainly visible but the other had been concealed on the opposite side of the road.  Anybody spotting the visible post would naturally slip across the road, right into the sights of hidden guns.  Cosmos explained he only spotted the ruse by observing a shift change and being surprised to see a couple of hard-eyed men emerge from jungle cover opposite the visible post.  If he hadn’t seen it, they would be about to spring the trap.

‘Could there be other concealed posts?’  Pace’s hands gripped the Sten easily, pleased to feel the reassuring piece of metal beneath his fingers.  ‘Did you see any signs of others?’

Cosmos shook his head.  ‘No.  I thought the same thing and stayed where I was for many hours.  There were no more guard changes and I saw no others.’  He looked confident enough about what he was saying.  ‘No, I am sure there are no others, not close to the checkpoint anyway.  Further up the road, who knows?  There could well be more traps, just in case anyone does slip past.’

‘It all depends on their numbers then,’ Ruby concluded.  ‘How many men have you seen altogether, Cosmos?’

‘The rain and darkness made it difficult for me,’ he readily admitted, ‘and I might have counted one twice, or two as one.’

‘What’s your best guess?’  By now the rain had obliterated the sketch.  ‘Nobody’s going to hold you responsible for a miscount.’

‘I think about thirty soldiers, all armed with automatic weapons.  If there are others, they kept out of sight.’

Thirty-something against three, or put another way dozens of modern weapons against one Second World War relic.  It was a sobering thought, and one Pace decided to ignore, as was knowing that he would probably have to kill again within the next few minutes.

There was little chance of them slipping in and stealing a hovercraft from right under the noses of over two dozen men, undetected.  They were expected; he had no doubt that Wolf had been rescued by now and would have prepared his men for their arrival.

‘They’re going to start shooting the moment they catch a glimpse of us,’ said Ruby.

‘And I will shoot back.’  Catching a breath and finding the courage few men can summon, ever, he set his jaw rigid and stood up.  There would be no more talking, or waiting.  Without another word, he headed out onto the middle of the road, driven with purpose.

He was joined by the others.  The road was a slick of reddish mud at the edges, where it sucked his boots down a few inches, squelching but firmer in the centre.  Facing up the road, knowing violence waited just a few short metres ahead, he inched his way forward.  The Sten was braced into his shoulder, barrel pointing ahead of him as he swept it slowly from side to side.  His finger rested lightly on the trigger, ready to squeeze it the moment anybody emerged from the grey wall of rain to confront them.

Apart from anything else Pace was pleased Ruby was a few paces behind.  The thought of steel-jacketed pieces of lead tearing the life from her slight figure was not a pleasant one.  He wasn’t overly keen on his own death but it was hers that seemed to sting him the most.  Was it his male protective instinct? Or was it that his baby sister was gone, and Sarah had deserted him?

He felt he’d failed both of them somehow and resolved to be there for Ruby at least.

The plan was simple; they weren’t good enough to launch anything clever.  They could not split up and attack at different angles, for instance, because they only had a single gun.

Without surprise, sheer speed had to be their main weapon.  They had no way of knowing what sophisticated tracking and detection sensors the mercenaries might have laid down, so attempting to come at the hut from the jungle side had been out, as was pushing into the river and swimming up to get the hovercraft.  These stretches of the Amazon were teeming with black caymans, giant anacondas and the odd school of piranha.  They were more partial to being shot than eaten.

Shrouded by the rain, mist wafting around their feet as the water vapour collected and immediately began to evaporate in the rising heat, their approach didn’t have much further to go before they would be vulnerable.  Sucking in a preparatory breath, his hands gripped more tightly around the gun and his knuckles whitened, if only he’d spared a second to glance down and look.

As planned, Pace headed in first, with Cosmos and Ruby in single file directly behind him, offering only a one-person width target to the enemy.  He would fire at anything that moved to stop them, covering the others who were to make a mad dash for the nearest hovercraft they could see.  He would keep shooting until the ammunition he’d taken from Byrne ran dry.

The first guard post was ten metres further on, manned by at least two mercenaries.  Just to aggravate matters a little more, the rain decided the moment had come to ease down to a pathetic drizzle; in a matter of seconds visibility sprang an extra five metres in every direction.  The perimeter of the guard site immediately jumped into view.

In it, one standing and the other sitting, were two figures.  Pace stopped dead in his tracks, foot raised in mid-step.  He waited for the shots to ring out but, luckily, the men had their backs to him.  No immediate cry rang out.

But then the bullets did fly.  Not from their guns but from his own.  Sixty year-old ammunition spewed from the Sten’s muzzle as it barked angrily, the staccato clatter echoing flatly in the rising, oppressive heat.  The gun bucked in his grip, firing a lengthy, lethal burst.

Ahead, men twitched and fell from view, killed instantly and thrown onto the floor of the sandbag-rimmed position by bullets that severed arteries and ligaments, shattered bone and punctured into brain matter.   Pace charged forward, Sten poised.

The others were right behind him.

28

Time slowed to a crawl as he dashed madly for the safety of the hovercraft; shrouded somewhere up beyond the fog of steaming water vapour.  Startled shouts cut the early morning air.  The concealed guard position further up the road was rendered useless as they cut off straight into camp, aiming for the river.

He hoped the others were still behind him because he had no time to look.  A narrow path curved away to the right, just as Cosmos described, and this was where he headed.  As he moved, his mind absorbed more details of his surroundings.

The muddy path veered around for a hundred yards or so, leading to the front steps of a pre-fabricated, breeze block and corrugated steel hut, built on posts that raised it about six feet off of the ground; obviously to protect from flooding.  It continued past the building and veered away to the left, where a sudden sparkle of light reflecting on water caught his eye.

The jetty was plain to see, constructed of fresh timber, roughly hewn.  His heart leaped a mile upwards because there, riding peacefully at anchor, sat a solitary, turquoise painted hovercraft.

Pace couldn’t tell if it was damaged, fuelled, or even filled with the enemy, just waiting.  All he knew was that it was there, the fibreglass superstructure smoothly moulded and the wire-caged composite fan blades offering a glimmer of hope.

A wasp buzzed dangerously close to his right ear.  He half moved to swat it when another flew past his knee.  Not wasps; or insects of any kind; bullets from a dozen or so figures, now spilling out onto the covered porch of the hut, most half-dressed in grey combat fatigues; missing boots and shirts, and each looking dazed and angry.  They weren’t too confused to grab their machine guns and start shooting in his direction, he mused.

Cursing as he took to his heels like a startled rabbit.  He dug deeply into his reserves of strength and added a few extra miles per hour.

The next three, maybe four seconds, buffeted to a tumultuous crescendo that sent water and dirt explosions erupting all around him.  He slowed slightly, turned his body and squeezed the trigger as the Sten came to bear on the hut.  He made no attempt to aim properly; it was more a need to throw off their aim than to be effective with his own.

The old gun spat its own bullets smoothly but suddenly he was knocked off his feet by the concussion blast of a hastily tossed grenade that exploded barely fifteen feet to his left; detonating in a small depression that swallowed most of the shrapnel.  He didn’t feel any pain and scrambled to get up.

Pace was covered in mud and overcome by a wave of cool, rational thinking.  Cosmos and Ruby were level with him, then they overtook him.  Ruby turned her head despairingly towards him but he frantically waved her on.

She didn’t look back again and he had no time to follow the remainder of their flight.

Gripping the Sten, he started jogging backwards in their tracks, sighting the hut and the enemy behind as he did so.  Men kept spilling out of it towards him, fanning out and diving for cover as they dispersed.

Bullets tore into the ground all around him but he doggedly continued firing, grimly satisfied to see his own bullets knock over at least two men.  He kept backing up, knowing that at any moment a bullet with his name on it would find him.

Suddenly there came a roar from behind him.  Instinctively he flinched before his brain recognised the sound as the hovercraft’s engine being kicked over.

The others had reached the machine and the gunning engine was the pre-agreed signal for him to stop covering their escape and run like hell.  Half stumbling on a twisted root, he bolted towards the hovercraft.  Ruby was nowhere to be seen but Cosmos was busily throwing off the front and rear mooring lines.  About twenty feet separated them but it may well have been a mile.  His shoulders tensed for the impact of a bullet as he started to zigzag wildly in the hope of presenting a more awkward target.

He actually reached the edge of the wooden jetty before a bullet struck home, creasing the top of his shoulder.  Blood exploded in a welter but it gouged a furrow only a couple of centimetres deep into the flesh.  Cosmos covered the few feet left between them, snatched him up like a sack of old potatoes and bundled him through the open cockpit roof, where he landed, head first, in the co-pilot’s seat.  There was a mass of disorienting movement all around him and he felt a surge of power press him into the seat.

He was thrown to the left, then to the right, as Ruby jockeyed to control the thoroughbred machine’s romping course as it flew away from the jetty.  Needing to be upright, Pace twisted and scrunched his limbs around like a demented spider until his body righted itself in the seat, pleasantly surprised to be still breathing.  Pain burned on his shoulder and he clamped one hand over the wound to staunch the blood, pressing down firmly and feeling the hot, sticky blood oozing through his fingers.

Outside, an incessant chatter of gunfire was mirrored almost immediately by the terrifying thud of bullets smacking into the little craft.  Twisting his head, he glanced at Ruby; sat in the driver’s seat next to his own.  He could only see her profile, fixed in single-minded concentration.  Vivid scarlet flowed steadily down the side of her face that he could see, from a hidden wound somewhere up on her hairline.  Three or four bullet stars in the twin windscreen nearly blocked her vision and she was squinting through a clear section of the glass to steer.

Another hail of lead punched into the hull, seeming to rain down right next to his left ear.  The craft was a specially designed racing model, rugged and all three had been supplied by one of the sponsors, for free.

Called the K12, and powered by a German-built gas turbine, it was never designed to be bullet proof.  It had, however, been built by a company in Canada who specialised in military hovercraft; this was a new sideline for them.  Consequently the hull was made from the same composite material they fabricated their military models out of, one of the main ingredients being Kevlar.

Thankfully the bullets were absorbed easily and none but the ones that came through the windows caused a problem.  Pace was amazed that Ruby hadn’t been killed by the ones that had already smashed most of the split-screen.

There was nothing to do but be a passenger as she sped the little craft out of harms way, literally plucking them from the slavering jaws of death.  Cosmos was in the tiny cabin area behind the front seats, keeping his head down and hanging on for dear life to a support rail moulded into the floor.

The gunfire quickly faded, leaving only the audible whine of the hovercraft’s engine.  Cosmos’s grip on the rail eased and he plucked a dressing from a medical kit screwed to the bulkhead and quickly dressed Pace’s shoulder wound.  The bleeding had already eased and it hurt little more than a bad cut.

‘You are a lucky man,’ beamed the Kenyan, leaning in between the two front seats.  ‘A few inches higher and our friends back there,’ he jerked his head towards the back of the hovercraft, ‘would have removed your head cleanly from your neck.’  He was right and to avoid thinking about having no head, Pace had a good look around him.  It was the first time he had seen one of these hovercraft for real.  Of course he’d seen technical drawings but being inside his first K12, he now understood just how compact they were.

There were the two moulded cockpit seats up front, occupied by himself and Ruby.  Cosmos sat across both the rear bench seats and on top of a tiny recess, Pace guessed, meant for their kit.  The roof was open-framed but a soft canvas hood could be pulled over to seal the cabin from bad weather.  The roof sat only a few inches above his head.  Cosmos took up nearly all the room in the back and Pace idly wondered how five of them would have coped.

He started to speak to Ruby at the same moment that she slewed the machine around some unseen hazard in the river and he found his face squashed suddenly up against a large glass dial set into the simple rubberised instrument panel in front of him.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered absently, her total concentration fixed on controlling the vessel’s careening ride over the rich, brown water.

Pace hadn’t given the river itself a look yet and he pulled himself upright in his seat to look through an undamaged section of windscreen.  They were riding low to the surface, as racing models were designed to do.  There was little visible movement on the water’s surface and barely any spray flew up to splash against the glass.  The racer was fitted with wipers but they weren’t needed.

At this point, the river spanned about eighty feet, from tree-encroached bank to bank.  Heavy, dense foliage reached right to the water’s edge on both sides.  Creepers and other lianas hung down in places, forming natural curtains but there were intermittent areas of exposed brown riverbank and slippery rocks.  From deep within the draped folds of green, dark holes and splits seemed to peer out onto the water, regarding them as if with soulless eyes.  Even as an educated, spiritless Westerner, he could easily understand how a forest was often described as being alive by its inhabitants.

The best thing about any hovercraft is its phenomenal rate of speed, mainly unburdened by the water drag that affects hulled vessels.  They zipped over the water on its shallow cushion of air, hovering between forty and forty-three, leaving only a shallow foam in their wake.

‘How far have we come?’ Pace asked Ruby.  She glanced down at another display to her left.

‘Five miles, nearly six.  Any sign of them coming after us?’

Pursuit hadn’t, until she mentioned it, come into his mind.  There had only been one hovercraft moored up, which left two unaccounted for.  Suddenly worried, he snapped his head around and stared out of the tiny rear window, past the circular fan propeller that sat dominantly at the back of the little craft.  Beyond the invisible, whirling blades, there was only empty river.  Because they were slewing around gentle bends continually, he couldn’t see back further than two hundred feet at any one time but they were not being chased.

In their wake, startled waterfowl began to settle back down on the agitated water in an erratic, disgruntled manner.  This noisy new creature of the river was not welcomed by its regular dwellers.

‘There should’ve been three machines,’ said Cosmos.  ‘I wonder what they have done with them.’

Then a terrible thought struck Pace; so hard that he physically jerked his head back round to the front, eyes alert for danger.  Cosmos looked at him curiously, without any sign he’d been hit by the same nightmare.

‘It’s a trap,’ Pace muttered, barely below his breath.  Cosmos looked at him as if he’d lost his mind and they both twisted their faces to look at Ruby.  Her hands flew across the controls automatically but her own head was cocked on one side, listening.  Pace was reminded they needed to tend to her wound, which still bled strongly down her face.

‘What did you say?’

‘Something that covers every eventuality,’ Pace reasoned angrily.  ‘If any survivors made an attempt on the hovercraft, the chances of them being gunned down was high, right?’

‘Of course. With all those mercenaries back there, it’s a miracle we made it through without one of us being killed at least.’

‘Were we lucky?  Maybe?  But on the slim chance that anybody might manage to get away with their life, and steal a machine, others would need to be moored somewhere downstream, ready to intercept them.’  The more he thought about it, the more he knew they were in trouble.  The stretching distance between them and the checkpoint was purely an illusion of freedom, as was the hovercraft’s speed and agility.  Somewhere downriver, the enemy lay in wait for them as certainly as they did behind.

‘You’ve lost the plot,’ Ruby barked.  ‘Maybe you’ve lost more blood than we thought.’

‘No, I haven’t.  We’re not being chased from behind; there’s no need.  We must get off the river. Now!’  His voice held firm, his sense of urgency unmistakeable.  ‘It can’t be much longer before we run into trouble.’

‘There isn’t anyone waiting for us,’ flustered Ruby, becoming exasperated with Pace for so quickly bringing her hopes of freedom crashing down.  ‘The other hovercraft might have been shipped out or sunk for all we know.  We’re on our way home and I won’t just stop.  I won’t do it,’ she told herself.

‘It might make sense to set a trap for us,’ concurred Cosmos quietly, having weighed up Pace’s fears for a moment in his typically gentle, methodical way.  There was little trace of emotion in his voice, just a thoughtful collection of words.  ‘Allowing just one machine to be moored might be enough to tempt any stragglers to try for it.’  He rummaged inside the medical kit again as he spoke, then proceeded to clean the nasty glass cut on Ruby’s frontal scalp with an antiseptic wipe.

‘Exactly.’  Pace felt his jaw tighten as anxiety began to writhe uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.  ‘Enough to entice us out so that they don’t have to carry on scouring the jungle.  Leave the bait and wait.’  He wanted to kick himself.  ‘How could we have been so blind?’

‘You may be totally wrong, James, let us not forget that.’ Cosmos played devil’s advocate.  ‘We could yet find our way back to Manaus unmolested.’

‘Do you really believe that?’

‘It is another possibility.’

‘This is all in your heads!’ snapped Ruby hotly.  ‘Total madness.  Let’s just get as much speed up as possible and get back to the city.  We’ll be safe there.’

‘No.  We stop now,’ ordered Pace.

‘No?’ Ruby queried.  ‘If they were so determined to set a trap, why not just plant a bomb?  I don’t hear any ticking,’ she added petulantly.

‘Those guards back there were really shooting at us. If this thing was rigged to explode, they could have saved their ammunition, or used blanks.  The bullet that hit me was real.’

‘I think you’re wrong,’ she continued to argue her point.

‘Maybe, but I don’t think so.  All that matters is pulling off the water, right now.’

‘We are all feeling scared and clinging to any chance of life.  Fighting amongst ourselves will help only the enemy.’  Cosmos’s observation hit home like a drunk finding that the pavement can bite.

Pace felt some of his anger being replaced by fatalism.  If he was right, it was something their enemy had banked upon.  The fact they avoided bullets earlier was a minor inconvenience for the mercenaries, nothing more.

‘We must stick together,’ Pace muttered to Ruby.  ‘I’m sorry to be brusque but I don’t want us to die after coming so far.’

‘Neither do I,’ smiled Ruby wanly.  ‘Maybe you are right, or maybe you’re plain crazy.’  Cosmos finished cleaning her head wound and wrapped a bandage neatly around her head, tying it off at the back like a bandana.  The little hovercraft whizzed around a sharp bend in the river and Ruby had to perform some fancy piloting to avoid an old fallen tree that leaned in from the bank and blocked three-quarters of the waterway with its skeletal, leafless fingers.

Once clear she eased back on the throttle and the blur of the riverbanks solidified again into leaves, trees, mud and huge, twisted aerial roots.  Slowly she steered the hovercraft into the far bank.

‘Thanks.’

‘You’d better be right, that’s all,’ she grumbled, still not convinced.  ‘This could be our one chance to escape and we’re throwing it away.’

‘We just need to stop and make a new plan.  If nobody comes looking for us in a few hours, then you can tell me I’m a fool and I’ll owe you both a huge apology.  But at least we will still be alive, either way.’

Slowly they swept into the bank. Pace stood up on his seat, pleased the material soft-top roof was neatly stowed away, and rested the Sten on the rubber lip running around the roof frame, exposed to the air from the mid-waist up.  He squinted down the sights as the bank drew near.

Then they nosed on to the brown, reed strewn mud that rose barely three inches from the water.  There were no hanging creepers here and the view into the trees was fairly clear until it fused into shadow a few feet in.  Ruby killed the engine and silence returned.

As the only armed team member, it fell to Pace to check there weren’t any mercenaries lurking nearby.  Cautiously he climbed out of the open cockpit and jumped down onto the muddy bank.  He purposefully moved into the trees, sweeping his gun from left to right, scanning for any signs of trouble.  There was the occasional rustle of leaves that raised his heartbeat temporarily but nothing leaped out to eat him or demand his surrender.  The animal noises from high above the ground slowly filled the air again, as the forest creatures forgot the anarchy of the now stilled engine.

High above his head, monkeys started eating and playing again, watched by hungry arboreal snakes, chattering exotic birds, and generally disinterested lizards.

He stepped back to the riverbank, beckoning for Ruby to bring the little craft up with a wave of one hand.  He couldn’t see beyond the shattered glass of the driver’s front window but she obviously registered the signal because the engine immediately exploded into raucous life again and the machine floated up the lip of the bank and eased beneath the protection of the trees, the noise resonating terribly within the cathedral-sized confines of the canopy.

Pace guided her in, around two huge tree trunks, until the machine was completely obscured from the river.  Nodding, he drew one hand across his throat and Ruby complied by switching off the engine.  The welcome silence was, for a second time, deafening.

The next ten minutes passed in frantic activity.  First of all, they had to check the hovercraft over for damage, it was frightening how many bullets had struck it.  There was barely a fist-sized area that hadn’t taken a hit, but dents in the Kevlar was all the bullets could muster.  The engine and fans were undamaged, as was most of the air cushion.  It was designed to be compartmentalised and only the rear, port air sac was holed.  The remaining three were undamaged and the little K12 seemed to work fine on just three.

A check of their stores brought both good and bad news.  While the small storage compartment beneath the rear seats had been stripped out, the emergency box had been left.  Apart from a second first aid kit, there was a similarly sized survival pack.  The mercenaries had not thought enough of their chances to bother removing it or they hadn’t realised what it was.

The main supply of food and water they had hoped to find was missing but the survival pack contained two large bottles of drinking water; about four litres in total.  It also boasted two ultra-light foil sheets, a dozen small bars of chocolate and a packet of high-energy biscuits, two spools of fishing line, an array of hooks and floats, matches, a small pen torch, miniature compass, penknife and some needles and thread.

The two medical kits had the usual assortment of bandages, dressing and plasters but there were also a number of refinements such as single-application syringes of penicillin, quinine and adrenaline.  A tiny pair of scissors and a plastic eye-bath nestled in their respective niches, set in the lid of the tiny green plastic box.

Ibuprofen tablets, a small bottle of aspirin and a tube of anti-biotic cream completed the drug selection.  Added to the full medical kit retrieved from Attia’s body, they were fairly well covered for basic emergencies.  Rations being limited, they had to make some speedy decisions.

The most important item in the survival kit, and one Pace could hardly believe was there, was a blood-red, hand-held radio transmitter.  When they were running through their equipment training back in Manaus, they were all shown how to work one.

Compared to the large transmitter in his backpack, they were little more than a child’s toy, with a battery life of no more than six hours from new and a paltry range of ten miles.  They were purely for use in an emergency and probably wouldn’t be much good even then.  They could be switched to transmit, on one of three pre-set frequencies, or left on a beacon mode.

In this state, the set would emit a homing signal every fifteen seconds until the batteries failed, allowing rescuers to fix the position of the team.

The three of them stood outside the hovercraft, with the rain beginning to patter lightly against the treetops above their heads, and surveyed their hoard.  It wasn’t great but it was something at least.  He took a moment to check his watch, noting it was still only seven o’clock.  The sun was up, although shrouded and diffused by low, swollen clouds clearly visible above the wide stretch of river.

After a brief conference, they agreed to sit it out for the day and attempt to slip downstream under cover of darkness.  Navigating in the dark would be difficult but the hovercraft would take submerged rocks and branches in its stride.  The real danger would come from any human element that might be waiting, perhaps anticipating the move.  Darkness, especially if it rained heavily, would be their protector.  It could do nothing to muffle the engine noise but it would definitely make them a harder target to sink.  Pace remained convinced that a trap waited for them, so running in the dark was a necessary risk.  The others agreed.

The day dragged its heels, with each of them taking turns, three-hourly, to crouch in the thick mud of the riverbank, hidden behind low vegetation, to keep watch over the sullen water.  Gentle rain fell until noon, the skies clearing rapidly afterwards with the afternoon breaking clear and hot.  Humidity stayed constant, sapping their energy levels but they were all accustomed to it by now.  As the water vapour and rising heat worked in tandem to draw sweat from their pores, they tried hard not to move and talked as little as possible to conserve their bodily fluids.

At a shade past three o’clock, during Ruby’s watch, a commotion from the direction of the river snapped Pace from a half-hearted, fly-irritated doze.  Cosmos was already up and alert, as Pace rose from his position; sitting with his back propped against the hull of the hovercraft, and crossed the few paces to where the huge Kenyan stood.

Ruby chose that second to appear.  Her face was drawn and her complexion was swollen and ruddy from relentless sweating.

‘What is it?’ Cosmos asked.  At the same time, a high whirring sound floated to their ears, growing louder by the second.

‘Our friends aren’t giving up by the looks of things.’

‘How many?’ asked Pace, hurriedly retrieving the Sten from where he’d been sitting.

‘Three boats,’ explained Ruby.  ‘Two inflatables, with large outboards engines on the back.  I couldn’t see how many people were in each.’

‘And the third?’

‘A larger boat.  It looks like some kind of small patrol boat.  Again it was too far to see much detail.’

‘What were they doing?’  The engines were very close now and they could make out the lower throb of a heavy, inboard diesel engine rumbling below the buzz of the outboards.

‘They were moving slowly downriver,’ she went on, ‘searching for us I suppose.’  She shuddered involuntarily.  ‘The inflatables hugging the banks, one on each side and the patrol boat in the centre of the channel.  They were moving quite slowly and I don’t think they saw me.’

Cosmos said, ‘Let us hope we did a good enough camouflage job.’  As always his attitude was one of quiet acceptance.  ‘We covered our tracks well.  We can only wait.’

The engine noise grew to a crescendo and they all waited, hardly daring to breathe; Pace fingering the trigger of his gun lightly, ready.  Then slowly, very slowly, their pursuers moved on.  Five minutes later and the engines could barely be heard in the distance, finally dissolving into silence after another two minutes.  The engine noise didn’t return and after another half an hour of silent waiting, they allowed themselves to relax a little.  Cosmos took up his watch by the river’s edge and Ruby settled herself in the pilot’s seat of the hovercraft to grab some sleep.

At a loose end, Pace took the opportunity to examine the radio set in his pack for the umpteenth time.  It hadn’t been damaged by the bullets that nearly blew his head off.  As he fiddled with its inner workings, it rewarded his every effort with no more than static.

Back to basics, he disassembled it fully again, just as he had done previously, on the flooded road.  Maybe I missed something, he reasoned.  A loose wire hidden, behind a panel?  A short-circuit, or a fuse touching against metal?

For a solid hour he dissected the set, checking every examinable component.  Once rebuilt, he tried to transmit again but there was no change, just a cascade of static.  Whatever was jamming the signal had rendered the hi-tech marvel little more than a worthless jumble of expensive components.

Feeling despondent at his own sense of failure, his frustration threatened to border on the pathological in the sauna of the jungle.  More for something to do than for any real purpose, he turned his attention to the emergency radio.  Whatever was jamming the large set, he was sure, would do the same to this tiny transmitter.  He genuinely wasn’t thinking anything other than what he would do when it too spat static at him, as he turned it on.  For a second his ears and brain ran at opposites until the reality of the words filling the steaming air all around set off a sudden mental thunderclap.

Words!  They were clear and strong, so loud in fact that Ruby heard them from inside the cockpit and was by his side in a flash, her eyes shining and her face bewildered.  The disembodied voice, speaking the familiar words, was female.

Suddenly fearful for his sanity, recognition set in.

29

Had he finally buckled under the pressure and been overtaken by some kind of psychosis?  It couldn’t be her, not here in this nightmare.

Yet there was no mistaking her tones and the weariness in her voice.  His heart leaped as memories, long held back, cart-wheeled like tumbleweeds across the dusty plains of his consciousness.  A lump filled his throat and threatened to choke him as he numbly listened to her calling out for him.

‘This is base calling Team Two, over.  Can anybody hear this transmission?  If you can hear this message, someone please respond.’  A pause was followed by, ‘If anybody is listening, please respond, over.  James…are you out there?  Cosmos?  Attia?’  There was a tinge of resignation in the voice.  ‘Is there anyone out there?’

Was she within ten miles of him?  Pace’s senses reeled and Ruby chose to close a hand softly around his lower arm.  Her eyes were full of concern.  ‘James, are you okay?

‘What?’  He shook off the hand absently.

‘Is that Sarah?  You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing.’

‘You cannot answer.’  Cosmos’s deep tones alerted them to the man’s presence as he pushed through some giant ferns to join them.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Ruby.  ‘If they’re out there, nearby, it’s our chance to get out of this place alive.  Those men might come back and find us at any time,’ she added fervently.

‘The chance that a rescue party is within such close range is not likely.’  He fixed his gaze, looking her straight in the eye, with a trace of pity etched on his forehead.  ‘It is far more likely to be a generated recording, a hoax if you will.

‘Cosmos is probably right.’

‘You too?’  She was incredulous.  ‘How can you ignore her?’

‘I said he’s probably right,’ Pace repeated slowly, an idea germinating in his mind, ‘not that we weren’t going to answer.’

‘We cannot answer.  I listened to you out on the river.  You must listen to me now.’

‘I’m not asking anybody else to risk their neck.  I’m just going to head upriver for a few miles and try to make contact.  That way, if it is a trap, the soldiers will head past you, to close in on me.  They will assume we are all together, then you and Ruby should have a clear run back down to the city.’

‘You would not stand a chance alone.’  The statement from Cosmos was flat.  ‘You would be killed.’

‘If they catch us here, three can die just as fast.’  Big as the man was, Pace’s skin prickled and he could feel his temper beginning to fray.  His mind was made up and he would not allow anyone to stand in his way.  ‘I have the gun, and I’ll take some food and a bottle of water.’

‘You will die.’

Pace stared at him deeply, unflinching.  ‘It’s my life.  If there are people out there, looking for us, I will lead them back here.’

‘How will we know what is happening to you?  There’s only one radio working.’  Pertinent questions from Ruby.

‘Give me an hour to get a decent distance away upstream, another hour to make contact, then two more for help to reach me and for us to all get back here.  That makes roughly four hours in total.’  He made a mental calculation.  ‘It will be dark in about the same time so it’s simple enough.  As soon as darkness falls, if I’m not back, get the hell out of here and make your run.’

The discussion muted then, with him having to switch the radio back off just so he didn’t have to hear Sarah’s voice.  The urge to press the switch down and answer her was very great but he had to wait.  Slipping the handset into his belt, he plucked out the MicroCam and got Ruby to film him while he briefly explained what he was planning to do.  The mood was sombre and the recording was quickly completed.

Afterwards, they all sat down on the leaf-littered ground to fuel up with biscuits and a couple of mouthfuls of the bottled water.  Already, each of them had taken a small drink as they ended their three hour stint by the river bank and one bottle was half empty.  This meal drained it completely but a funnel hurriedly fashioned from a large, flat leaf, served to refill it with rainwater; Pace concealing it at the edge of the exposed riverbank, where it quickly filled again beneath open, pouring skies.  Some small pieces of chocolate from the emergency pack were melted to the point of being drunk rather than chewed but they all felt better after swallowing some down.

Preparations for leaving were short.

He dumped the now useless backpack and its equally useless radio with the others, telling them to take the footage from the broadcast camera with them if they could.  All he carried with him was the radio handset, MicroCam and the Sten.  He also changed his mind and decided against carrying any food; he figured they would need it more than him.  Luckily his chest had not bothered him too much either.

Beneath the dressing, his flesh remained red and weeping but he had continued popping antibiotic tablets for the last twenty-four hours and swallowed a couple more for good measure before leaving.

Then it was time to go.  One final wry grin to his two companions sufficed as a goodbye and he pushed through the giant ferns that took him back out onto the exposed riverbank.  He did not spare a backwards glance, as to do so would have been too hard.  Leaving his friends to face the jungle alone felt bad enough.

He kept on the jungle side of the outer fringe of hanging creepers and ferns, whilst keeping the river itself in sight.  As long as he didn’t lose sight of the brown water he could find his way back.  If he headed into the jungle he knew he could quickly becoming disoriented and lost.

Trying to concentrate on his footing while watching for snakes in amongst the low vegetation, and keeping one eye on the river at the same time, took a little getting used to.  The sounds of an ageing jungle afternoon were all around him, as were the ever-present clouds of biting flies.  Pushing along the riverbank was hard work and the heat was exhausting.  Determined to save himself and his two companions, he pushed on through the nightmare of vegetation and lengthening shadows.

He turned the radio back on periodically, relieved to still hear Sarah’s voice broadcasting.  She sounded more tired than before, mirroring his leaden feet and laboured breathing.  He fell over at least half a dozen times in the slick mud and nearly had a heart attack at one point, when he fell down almost directly on top of a whip-thin green and yellow snake.  It hissed, reared and he sprang away from it just in time to avoid a bite.

Carefully working around it, he moved on.  As his pulse returned to normal, he reminded himself that it was the duller, dark snakes that were the most deadly, as a rule.  Bright colours looked terrible but were normally harmless, unless terror brought on a coronary.

A few minutes later, he knelt down and turned the little radio on again.  Sarah was still on the air.

‘Team Two, this is base, please respond.  Are there any members of Team Two on air?  This is base calling, respond please.  You are in grave danger.  If anybody is reading this, please respond.’  She wasn’t wrong about their predicament, he smiled.

He had travelled a mile at least and decided it was enough.  His heart in his mouth, he pressed the transmit switch.

‘Sarah, this is James, can you read me, over?’  Releasing the switch he closed his eyes and prayed for a coming miracle rather than more trouble.

‘James?’  The voice was instantly energised.  ‘James, is that you?!’  This was no bloody recording, Pace knew immediately.  It was Sarah for sure.  ‘Team Two, repeat message.  James!  James!’

‘Hey, I’m here,’ he said lightly.  ‘But where in the hell is the cavalry?’

There was an explosion of shrill, excited screaming from the other end of the signal, followed by the crash of feet and hubbub of other people being told what was happening.  For him, standing in the shadowed rainforest, only the eerie sensation of being alone yet watched by hundreds of animal eyes remained.

‘Sounds like you’re all having a great party.  Any chance that someone might get off their backside and save us anytime soon?’

‘Mr Pace.  Where are you please and how many of your team are with you?’  A deep male voice that he did not recognise suddenly boomed at him from the handset.

‘Who am I speaking to?’ he asked.

‘Can’t tell you that, sorry, just answer the questions.  How many people are with you?’

Pace was irritated by the attitude although he knew they needed help and he was on shaky ground.  ‘If memory serves, these things are only good for about ten miles.  Are you close, or are you boosting your signal?’

‘Forget that for now!’ snapped the voice.  ‘I need the information first.’

‘No,’ Pace shot back icily.  ‘You need to learn some manners first.  Lesson one on how to win friends and influence people - speak to them properly.  Put Sarah back on.’

‘I’m in charge here.’  Whoever he was, he didn’t like anyone saying no to him.  ‘Give me the details and we’ll come for you.  There’s no time for this.  Your position is compromised.’

Pace thought about continuing the argument but knew the man was right.  It wouldn’t be long before he was discovered, now that he’d given away his position by replying.

‘There are three.  That’s me, Cosmos and Ruby.  Hammond disappeared. Attia was killed.’  Mutterings could be heard in the background.  When the voice returned, it seemed softer.

‘Look, I understand that you are in the dark about all this but we have to decide if it’s worth risking a rescue or not.  If you’d been alone, I wouldn’t do it.  To pull out three people out, I’ll risk it.’

‘Nice of you,’ Pace quipped.  ‘Any time you want to come charging over the hill, feel free.’

‘We’ve run a check on your signal.  We are on boosters but you’re still only about fifty miles out.  Stay put.  The team will come in and get you.  What’s your current status with injuries and supplies?’

‘No injuries.’ Pace ignored his chest.  ‘I have one machine gun and a feeling that the Grim Reaper is hovering over my right shoulder, sharpening a farming implement.  Now where’s Sarah?’

The voice chuckled.  ‘At the moment I have two heavily armed men physically holding her back.  Hang on.’  In the background he heard him order her release.  There followed the sound of a single, stinging slap and then her breathless, tearful voice came on the air.  It lifted his spirits just to hear her, although conversation was difficult through her unseen tears and his own delight.

She couldn’t tell him much; just that she was here with people sent to get them out.  Then she told him she loved him and that he had to trust her, despite what he had read in her letter; she would explain everything.  In reply, he told her she had better not change her mind before he saw her again and she managed a laugh, promising that she would not.

At that point the male voice came on line again and told him to switch the set to beacon mode; they would be there as soon as they could.  It would mean not being able to talk to Sarah again because the radio had to emit continuously for the rescue team to get a good fix.  He reluctantly agreed.  Then she was gone, leaving him alone in the jungle again.

Gripping the Sten, he slid a further three metres into the jungle and clambered up onto the exposed buttress root of a huge tree, perching there with his legs dangling a good four feet off the jungle floor.  He set the radio down next to him, checked it was transmitting, and settled down to wait.

He was committed to the course he had chosen and believed that rescue was coming.  Sarah would not lure him into danger and he sensed she was being honest with him.  No, the good guys were coming, he was certain.  The problem was that if he had heard them, perhaps the enemy had too.  It was a toss up as to who would arrive first.

Pace hoped the rescue team dropped in before the blanket of true night fell, otherwise Cosmos and Ruby would take off downstream.  Slipping the safety catch off of the machine gun, he rested it across his knees and stared off into the deepening gloom.  His mind was filled with images of Sarah.  Not only was she alive and well but he was going to see her again within hours.

The rain had stopped at some point during his trek along the bank; he hadn’t noticed when, but the incessant dripping from the canopy high above his head remained, like an old friend sent to ease his troubles.  In a way, it was comforting.

He checked his watch.  Robust and waterproof to a depth of two hundred metres, it was perfect choice for an adventure race in the Amazon.  In such a wet environment it was almost like being underwater at times, he thought idly, letting his eyes move from the luminous watch face over to his muddy right thigh, where a brightly striped, red and yellow caterpillar had hitched a ride.

He shook his leg and the visitor fell off, immediately lost from sight in the rich tapestry of dead leaves, fallen creepers and patches of bare, muddy earth around the huge tree trunk.  His eyes returned to the watch face. It read six fifty-one p.m.  Time didn’t mean much where he was but it served as a comforting reminder of civilisation. His mind decided to occupy itself by re-running some recent images across the back of his retinas.  What had really happened to him since getting tangled up in the race?

Financially, he was set….if he survived.  He’d been swept along, mainly by falling for Sarah, though God only knew why she affected him so strongly, or what the situation was between her and Tom McEntire.  But she had just told him she loved him, hadn’t she?

The chance to help the planet and take centre stage in a media circus had been an opportunity too golden to ignore.  For some unknown reason, just at that moment, an image of the fat Mrs Moorer-Sims popped into his head and he laughed aloud, catching the sound in the back of his throat.  She had been the ultimate nightmare of a travelling companion but he thought of her fondly all the same.

Memories; unique in their flavour, of sex, love, fear, anger and disbelief flitted into view.  He had enough material for a book, let alone the few post-race articles he’d agreed to contribute to.  But they hadn’t even been rescued yet.  That thought brought him round to a jungle shrouded in deepening shadow.

Pace was not sure what to expect from his rescuers and was a little worried that he might miss them in the dense jungle.  Luckily for him, they arrived with little thought of concealment.  A distant buzz rapidly grew into a thunderous roar of multiple aircraft propellers directly overhead, deafening his ears and literally shaking leaves, insects and small animals out of the canopy with their vicious downwash.

Seconds later, a body harness resembling a lifejacket dropped into view beneath the lower tree boughs, attached to a thin steel cable.  Pace recognised it immediately as a standard body belt, typically used in helicopter extractions by both military and rescue services worldwide.

Someone had tied a length of metal chain around the belt to stop it swinging and allow it to push through the canopy without getting tangled up. Also tied to the vest was a small smoke flare. Discarding the chain, Pace strapped himself into the vest, pulled a release pin from the top of the flare, and tossed a few feet away from him.

Within seconds the flare began to throw out great billows of red smoke, curling and swirling skywards.  Unseen eyes spotted the tell-tale signal smoke and almost immediately Pace felt a tug on the vest as the cable was slowly reeled in.  After a minute of careful negotiation through the thickly entwined vegetation that comprised the canopy, Pace finally felt himself pulled into clear air.

Smiling with relief, he relaxed into his harness and waited for the ride to end.

30

‘You’re a very lucky man,’ the familiar lips chided warmly, almost the moment that the outer door had been slammed shut and the harness removed.

Her eyes brimmed wetly and a silver trail of tears tracked down her cheeks.  Leaning against him; hardly daring to believe he was real, Sarah half laughed and hurriedly wiped her eyes with the back of her hands, at the same time cocking her head upwards as if to keep the water trapped between her eyelids.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Pace asked, feigning a sternness his overjoyed heart didn’t feel.

‘I could ask you the same question,’ she cried softly into his shoulder.  ‘Were you deliberately trying to scare the living daylights out of me?  I’ve been worried sick for days, praying you were still alive.’  Her cheeks flushed hotly.

‘What happened?’ was all he could say. Seeing her again so overwhelmed him that he was lost for the words he knew should be coming out of his mouth.  He had so much to ask her, and so much to tell her, yet his tongue seemed to have short-circuited.  Before she could reply, another voice broke in on them.  It was the same gruff speaker he’d heard on the other end of his radio set.

Pace twisted his body to see who the voice belonged to, eyeing the approaching soldier carefully.

‘I’m glad to see you, Mr Pace.  How do you feel?’  It was a genuine question but there was little sincerity in the man’s tone.

‘I’ve had better days.’

‘I bet you have.’

‘Would you mind telling me who you are, where the hell I am and what the bloody hell is going on.’

‘I know you’re in the dark.  There are some things I can tell you and some that I can’t.’

The man was mixed race, tending more towards the lighter skin tones of an Asian rather than the ebony of Afro-Caribbean heritage.  His nose was thin and slightly bent at the tip, as if it had been broken more than once.  He looked close to one hundred and ninety pounds, sported a heavy build and wore his hair cropped close to his skull.  He wore a black combat suit with no markings, military boots and carried an evil-looking survival knife set in a sheath just above his left ankle.  A webbing pistol belt, snugly housing a large automatic pistol, gave him an air of purpose.

‘Okay, so start with something you can tell me,’ said Pace.

At this point, another similarly clad soldier walked into view, carrying two plastic mugs of steaming coffee.

‘Thanks,’ she said, as she took it from him, then handed one to Pace.  The hot liquid was strong, sugary and milky.  He hated sugar in hot drinks almost as much as he hated milk in coffee but he managed a couple of swallows and felt the warmth flooding down into his stomach, revitalising his spirit a little more.

‘Well, Mr Pace.’  Pace tutted sharply and asked the man to call him James.  ‘Okay, James.  My name is one of those things I cannot tell you, not my real name anyway.  For the sake of convenience you can call me Baker.’

‘Special Forces?’  It seemed too obvious not to be the case.  In return, Baker smiled and shrugged his broad shoulders.  ‘Forgive me, Baker, but you don’t sound Brazilian.’

‘Let’s just say that I’m a specialist in this kind of operation and leave it at that.’

‘Fair enough,’ Pace conceded, ‘but I expect as much information as you can manage.’

Baker proceeded to fill him in as much as he was going to.  It seemed that Doyle McEntire had decided it was time to use a team drawn from his company’s more than useful private security arm.  A group of thirty individuals had been hastily gathered, equipped and dropped into Brazil clandestinely after it became clear that the local authorities were struggling to deal with the situation.

The rescue team had set up a central base of operations and scoured the route in a desperate bid to recover as many competitors as possible.  Baker’s tone told him their efforts hadn’t been completely successful.  Pace saw the pile of smoking bodies in his mind’s eye, so didn’t need to be told.

‘How many have you saved?  I couldn’t tell you that Cosmos and Sarah weren’t with me when we spoke on the radio, it would have compromised their escape plan.  Now I know you are real, and not a trick, they’ll need your help.  You have to go and get them now.’ His voice cut the air with urgency.

‘Were they in a hovercraft, sir?’  The question came from the second soldier, still standing behind Baker.  Pace shot him an enquiring look and the man met his gaze squarely.

‘Yes, they were going to make a run for Manaus if I didn’t return in time,’ he explained.  An oppressive atmosphere had sprung up from nowhere and his sixth sense tickled at his spine with icy fingers. ‘They thought it was a ruse, to trap us.  I said I’d go alone and come back with help.  They’ll have started their run by now.  What time is it?’  For some reason, his brain forgot that he had a watch strapped to his own wrist.

Baker fixed Pace with a sombre stare.  ‘The hovercraft was picked up on our tracking system before we reached you.  It got about ten miles downstream before it was destroyed by enemy action.  Looks like a couple of fast boats intercepted them.  I’m very sorry.’

‘Sunk?’ Pace was dumbstruck. More good people, friends even, gone forever.  They’d been through so much together and he owed his very life to each of them.  Pace hadn’t even been there with them at the end.

‘I should have been with them.  I owe them everything.’

‘Then you’d be dead, just like them,’ said Baker.  ‘And what would that achieve?  Nothing.’  He wasn’t being deliberately blunt.  Later, after knowing him better, Pace would begin to understand that Baker was a man of few words and of little wasted breath.

‘That would be the last thing they’d have wanted,’ soothed Sarah.  She held his hand again and gave it a gentle squeeze.  ‘They would be over the moon to know you escaped with your life.’

Of course she was right.  If the circumstances were reversed, he wouldn’t have begrudged them their lives; far from it.  Still, their loss was devastating to him.   Wonderful souls had been murdered. The image of Ruby’s slim frame being torn to shreds by gunfire chilled him to the bone.  And then there was Cosmos.  How anything could snatch the life from such a gigantic presence was hard to bear.  Their loss was more than a horror, it was a tragedy.

‘No one should have died.  That wasn’t the point of any of this.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ admitted Sarah gently.

Unable to cope with the flood of emotions threatening to swamp him, Pace pushed thoughts of fallen comrades from his mind and took time to have a good look around.

The bare metal of the fuselage was uniformly black and there was thin, dark cord carpeting on the floor. He was able to stand up straight, with a good few inches left to spare.  There were no windows anywhere.

‘We couldn’t use a helicopter,’ Baker answered his querying look.  ‘They just don’t have the range to get in here deeply, and none of them large enough to carry men and equipment have any real speed.  Have you ever heard of tilt-rotor aircraft?’

Pace nodded slowly.  ‘Aircraft that look like normal turboprops but have engines and transmission nacelles mounted on each wingtip.  They fly like a conventional aeroplane but can take off and land like a helicopter.’

Baker smiled and nodded.  ‘You know your aircraft.  The nacelles look like large rugby balls with the propellers sticking out the front end.  They pivot up ninety degrees for take-off and landing so the props spin like miniature helicopter rotors at the end of each wing.  This allows you to take off and land like a helicopter, as you rightly said, then you can drop the props back level again once you’re up and you have a standard aeroplane. It gives the range, power and speed of a small plane but with the versatility of a helicopter.’

‘This is an Osprey we’re in now, right?’  Pace had remained interested in military aviation after leaving the Royal Air Force and was intrigued at the thought of a conventional aircraft with the strategic benefits of a helicopter.

Baker nodded.  ‘Built for the United States Navy, it is based on a variant known as the V22 Osprey.  Naturally, Mr McEntire has paid for some very extensive modifications that help with covert ops.’

‘Like no windows.’

‘Only in the fuselage,’ he explained.  ‘There are windows in the cockpit of course.  The airframe is standard but the electronics are top of the range.  Most is equipment you normally only sell to the military; it’s against the law to sell it to civilian outfits, but McEntire obviously has his sources.’

‘So I’m beginning to see,’ agreed Pace.

‘The aircraft has some very special modifications built-in,’ he spoke airily, gesturing around with his large hands.  ‘It is virtually invisible to radar and satellite tracking.  The fuselage is reinforced against small arms fire and the engine exhausts have been muffled to reduce the heat signature.  We carry no running lights and the internal lights cannot be seen outside because there are no windows.  The pilots use night vision systems after dark so they don’t have cockpit lights on.  Even if they did, the treated glass used for the cockpit windows is coated to stop spillage.’

‘So, we are in a perfect night aircraft,’ Pace summarised.

‘True.’

‘How many people are on board?’  The large lower deck was totally empty.  This was obviously where the cargo or troops were usually kept.  The single flight of steps led upwards, he guessed, to the flight deck.

‘Only seven,’ Baker answered.  ‘We couldn’t risk bringing any more on the rescue.  It can carry over fifty at a push but come and see for yourself.’

He stopped at the steps and waited while Baker slipped past him and went on up.  The other soldier obviously had things to do on the lower deck because he made no move to follow them.  Pace followed Baker up, trailed by Sarah.

The steps led him into an enlarged cockpit area which was spacious and crammed with bank upon bank of computer terminals and hi-tech gadgetry, all slotted neatly into flush fitting consoles and wall panels.  Chairs, bolted to the floor, sat in front of these stations.  Most of these chairs were empty, their screens silently relaying information to nobody in particular.

Radar scopes scanned green and orange at different terminals, whilst text scrolled continuously across screens, set at a forty-five degree angle into the roof edges of the Osprey’s fuselage.  There was little noise inside the Osprey and the ride was so smooth that Pace could easily have thought himself to be in a room underground if he hadn’t known he was really skimming above the dark heart of the Amazon.

A mass of electronic instruments comprised the control systems that two pilots carefully tended.  A female, crop-cut and dark clad like her male colleagues, sat off to one side, navigating.  Another two members of the rescue team stood impassively around a small circular table in the main area; it was a high table, designed to be used when standing, sporting nifty metal grab rails around its circumference.  The table top itself was a circular computer screen and the men were discussing a detailed, digital chart currently on display.

These were serious men, with automatic weapons slung easily on shoulder straps.  Their features looked Caucasian but both were very heavily blacked up around face and neck.  They were fighting men and each exuded a similar sense of solid professionalism to Baker.  He introduced them as Smith and Brown.  All exchanged brief handshakes and they left them to their planning; Pace following as Baker led him over to a long, low seat built flush against the fuselage.

They all sat down, for a moment in silence, then Baker buckled himself into one of five seatbelts.  He seemed relaxed as he motioned for them both to do likewise.  A sudden sensation in the pit of Pace’s stomach made the reason clear.  They were about to land.

Sarah suddenly grabbed at her seatbelt for dear life, as the aircraft literally leaned over on its side and pulled up into an incredibly tight one hundred and eighty degree turn.  Baker just held the edge of the seat, seemingly unaffected by the next few minutes of wild turning and pitching.  Pace was an experienced pilot and his body naturally compensated for the sudden movements.

The landing itself was over barely before Pace realised it had happened.  The pilots bled off the speed as they switched the nacelles gradually through ninety degrees, until their forward momentum stopped and they hovered, motionless, in the night sky.  Easing down the throttles, the Osprey slowly descended until the wheels touched down.

Baker led them back down the steps and out of a large rear door that had opened and lowered, to form a ramp.  Outside, he spoke to someone curtly and so rapidly that Pace couldn’t catch what was said.  Sarah stayed close behind him but the rest of the crew made no move to join them.

They had landed in a sizeable clearing, edged by huge forest trees.  At some point in time one of the trees had fallen, dragging a few of its neighbours down with it; so intertwined most of them were with creepers and vines.  The soldiers had helped nature by clearing away the rotten wood to make their camp.  It was large enough to take the Osprey but not by much.  Pace knew it had taken a highly skilled pilot to get them down in one piece.

With its hugely outsized rotors now slowed to walking pace, it looked menacing, even in repose.  It was painted completely black; an ugly-looking machine yet strangely graceful with it.  It reminded him of a squashed down Hercules transport, but the wings were short and stubby, capped with nacelles that were more cigar-shaped than he’d imagined, with darkened windows in the cockpit and an array of ugly attachments all over.  Slung beneath the nose section sat a large calibre cannon, set into a turret-ball mount.  He recognised it as the same attachment fitted to attack helicopters like the Apache and Cobra.

Baker didn’t pause in his stride and there was no sign of whoever it was he spoke to; they must have disappeared around the other side of the aircraft Pace decided.

Walking beyond the clearing, returning with a strange feeling of homecoming, the trees swallowed the rapidly clouding night sky from view.  For somebody more used to semi-rural England, he couldn’t understand why he felt so comfortable beneath treetops that had made him feel so claustrophobic barely two weeks before.

The camouflage netting was so good that he nearly walked right into it.  If Baker hadn’t stooped and lifted the curtain, he wouldn’t have seen it in the thick darkness beneath the trees.  It wasn’t like any netting, military or otherwise, that he had ever seen before.  It had a solid inner lining to block all light.  As Baker lifted it, a wave of red light rolled out to taunt the darkness.

He held it up for them to enter and they slipped beneath it, moving inside what soon became apparent was a command tent.  Once inside with them, Baker dropped the curtain.  The red light was then replaced by the harshness of bare electric bulbs.

The command tent reached to a height of twenty feet in the centre and sloped down to three feet at the edges.  Circular, like a miniature big top, it was dark green and vaguely musty.  The camouflage netting draped from the lower lip of the tent, which was designed to be open, down to the ground sheet.

Lights were of the bare-bulb variety, taped up to the plastic support skeleton of the tent.  Basic in design, it looked as if it could be put up and down in a matter of minutes.  At least it was waterproof, Pace thought, as the first drumming of rain on canvas told him the forest had started another of its watering sessions.

Even beneath the canopy, it was falling noticeably heavily within a few moments.  Pace had always liked the sound of rain on a caravan roof, or rattling against a windowpane, and he felt a shiver tingle involuntarily up and down his spine.

‘What can you tell me about what happened out there?’  Baker’s question came from the far side of the tent, where he had seated himself behind a computer console.  The chair was canvas, similar in design to a camping chair, and was one of a dozen or so that made up the furniture inside.  There were three laptop computers, a fold-up table sporting a merrily bubbling coffee percolator and a stand-alone rack filled with automatic rifles, handguns and something resembling a bazooka.  It was sparse and also completely empty.

‘What do you want to know?’ Pace replied, moving across to join him.  ‘People were suddenly getting murdered all around us and I still don’t understand why.’

‘You will, but for now try telling me about the people you say died.  Did you run into any of the other competitors, alive I mean?’  The image of burned, twisted corpses sprang back into his mind and Pace shook his head solemnly.

‘Not alive, no.’

‘Go on.  Please, it’s important.’

‘I saw bodies,’ he explained tightly.  ‘Out there on the road but they were in a real state.’  Bile burned at the back of his throat.  ‘Burned beyond recognition and covered with flies.’

‘You think they were competitors?’  Baker tapped a code into the computer as he spoke, not looking at Pace but concentrating hard on the screen in front of him.  ‘Any clothing or unburned parts you might have recognised as specific people?’

‘Not that I noticed,’ Pace replied sharply.  ‘I didn’t feel like rummaging around the entrails to find out.  Whoever did it couldn’t have been far away so we high-tailed it into the jungle and laid low.’

Baker didn’t bat an eyelid at the rebuke.  ‘Definitely the best thing to do, given the circumstances.’  Then a question he didn’t expect.  ‘And did you kill anybody?’  Baker turned and noted Pace’s incredulous expression, mistaking it for poor hearing.  Louder this time, he repeated himself.  ‘I asked if you killed anybody.’

Pace flicked his eyes across to where Sarah was standing.  She looked at him, expectancy creasing the corners of her eyes.  Then he looked back at Baker.  ‘I can’t be sure.  There was some shooting and admit I did some of it.  I can’t say if anybody died at my hands.’  It was a blatant lie because he knew he’d killed several men with the Sten but Baker didn’t need to know that, and neither did Sarah.

‘I understand.  What do you think though?  Did anybody fall down after you fired your weapon at them, for instance?’

Pace was silent for a moment.  ‘What do you want to hear?  Maybe yes?  Maybe no?’

‘James, this is not a courtroom.  Just your best guess.’

Pace felt himself straighten and square his shoulders.  Their eyes locked and, in that split second, Baker knew the truth.   ‘I never wanted to hurt anyone.’

‘When you’re in that kind of situation, there is little choice,’ Baker agreed gravely.  ‘Nobody is here to blame you, James.  I have to file a report for certain governmental types, shall we say.  Nothing will happen to you, believe me. This stuff is well beyond the remit of law enforcement.  People just need to know how bad it got down here.’

Pace began to feel a little light-headed and crossed to the table.  There was a stack of plastic cups next to the coffee percolator and he pulled three off of the stack, revelling in the familiar scent that assailed his senses, bitter and steaming.  Just the smell of it steadied his legs and he poured three drinks before sitting down heavily into one of the canvas chairs.

Baker typed in a few lines while he settled himself, lost in thought.  Sarah came and sat down next to him, sipping the coffee he handed to her.  She had left their drinks on the plane.  Although she smiled at him when he glanced her way, he was obviously miles away, replaying memories she wished she could erase from his mind.

Baker began to ask another question but Pace raised his hand with a deep sigh, suggesting it might be better if he told his story from the beginning.  ‘If I don’t cover something, at least you can then ask me specific questions.’  It was a good idea and Baker immediately agreed.

Throughout its recounting, Baker typed key lines or points into his computer, not interrupting even once.  When Pace finally reached the part about first hearing Sarah’s voice on his emergency radio, he stopped.

‘You know the rest.  So, anything else you want to know, or is that good enough?’  His throat was dry by then.  The story had taken nearly an hour to tell and he’d been so engrossed that his coffee now sat cold and only half drunk.

‘You’ve given me everything I need and more, thank you.’  Baker finished his report with a rapid flurry of keying before encrypting it into the machine’s memory and switching it off.  Pace took a moment to glance at his watch.  It was just after eleven o’clock and his eyes were itching with fatigue.  Baker on the other hand showed no sign of being tired.  He stood up and shook the cramps from his fingers.

‘I have to take the Osprey out on another mission,’ he told Pace.  ‘There’s been a lot of enemy activity in an area about twenty miles from where we picked you up.  There haven’t been any radio messages but it might mean some more of you managed to escape into the forest and are being hunted down,’ he added.  ‘Perhaps we can get in there and even up the score a little more.’  Pace was under no illusions as to what he meant.

Sarah stirred in her chair, still stunned to hear everything that had gone on.  She checked her own watch and climbed to her feet, rubbing the stiffness out of protesting muscles.

‘It’s late,’ she smiled wanly.  ‘James, you need to get some sleep.  There’s nothing more either of us can do tonight.  If Baker and his team need to burn the candle at both ends, that’s down to them.’

‘I could use a wash,’ Pace agreed, stifling a yawn.  ‘I don’t suppose secret bases run to hot showers?’  Sarah forced the smile to stay on her lips, still struggling to come to terms with how close she’d come to losing him forever.

‘You’d be surprised what magic there is in these fingers.’  She waggled them at him to emphasise her point.  ‘Come on, bed.’

31

His exhaustion was replaced seamlessly by a wave of anxiety.  His pulse quickened and he wished Baker luck for his mission as Sarah flicked a switch hanging loosely from one of the overhead poles, instantly changing the light back to red.  He followed her as she lifted the netting and they quickly slipped outside.  Rain fell steadily and he was momentarily disoriented by the thick darkness.

Sarah grabbed him by the hand and led him expertly through the mud-slicked void, unerringly following a nearly invisible path that had been cut between the command tent and her own, which was a smaller version of the same design set about thirty feet further around the edge of the clearing.

Under another set of netting they went, back into total darkness and she released his hand. Pace heard her fumbling for the hanging light switch, which she quickly found, and the light from another bare bulb instantly vanquished the blackness.

Hers was a little more comfortable than the command tent but not by much.  With the ever-present sound of rain drumming on the taut canvas above their heads, she led him across the floor to a separately screened area on the right, next to a neatly made camp bed.

Perfectly self-contained, the little shower unit inside had a plastic floor tray at its base.  The sides were made of waterproof grey canvas and a single water pipe ran from a pump unit set into the base, up one canvas wall.  When it reached above head height, it bent over and became a ten-hole shower head.  The system was totally portable and its water supply came, via a thick hose, from a large water drum next to the shower, passing through a heater in the base as it went.  Pace was too shattered to be impressed.

‘Why don’t you have a shower while I sort the bed out,’ Sarah suggested.  The thought of a shower was wonderful and it made him feel painfully bedraggled and smelly; something he’d grown used to in past days as his vanity had taken a back seat to survival.

The thrill of holding her again also teetered precariously around the edges of his mind, mixed with feelings of grief, trepidation and guilt.

‘That’s a good idea, I will, thanks.’

‘The water gets hot straight away, which surprised me I can tell you.  There are a couple of bottles of shower gel and shampoo on the floor in there already, if you don’t mind using female products,’ she added with a smile.’

He didn’t and piping hot water was soon spraying down onto his head with surprising force.  After allowing himself to wallow in the feel of the multiple, fiery needles impacting his skin, he began to scrub away at the caked mud and sweat slicked all over his body.

The shower gel was nearly full when he started but there was very little left ten minutes of hard washing later.  He had to wash himself, head to toe, three times to get his body completely clean, before allowing himself the luxury of a two-minute rinse down.  Finally, numb and red raw from heat and rubbing, he switched the water off and poked his dripping head through the entrance split, asking for a towel.

Sarah had heard the water stop and she was already standing, arm held outstretched to him, holding a large bath towel.  Stepping out onto the ground sheet next to her, he towelled himself down, completely at ease with his nakedness in front of her.

His clothes still sat in a heap where he had just climbed out of them and he immediately noticed their smell now that his own foul odour had been washed away.  The smell; which was a cross somewhere between mildew and raw sewage, had to be dealt with.  Wrapping the damp towel around his waist, he knelt down and scooped them up.  Crossing over to the edge of the tent he lifted up the netting and dumped them out into the pouring rain, glad to be rid of them.  He turned back to find Sarah gone.

Before he could open his mouth to call for her, the shower started up again, along with a billow of steam from the open top of the unit.

Pace rubbed his chin, feeling the fires in his belly beginning to fan; imagining her naked body being caressed by suds and hot water.  His brain registered a growth of unkempt stubble on his chin at about the same time it told him that his mouth tasted, and probably smelled like, a blocked drain.

There was a small sink unit set a few feet behind the shower, fed by the same water barrel and obviously designed by the same company.  It sported a similar heater base but had the luxury this time of a small ceramic sink and two brass taps.  Sarah’s toothbrush and paste stood in a plastic beaker between the taps and Pace spent at least five minutes scrubbing his teeth with it until they felt clean and fresh.  He hoped she wouldn’t mind and he made sure that he rinsed it thoroughly afterwards.

His hair was still fairly short so he didn’t bother looking for a brush, instead pushing it back and roughly combing it through with his fingers.  There was a mirror hinged to the back of the sink unit and he took a long, hard look at himself.  Surprisingly, the man staring back at him looked in far better shape than he should have done.

He looked trim and muscular after days of hard slog.  His skin was as white as snow except for the arms and shoulders, which were a rich, nutty brown.  His face was tanned but his partial beard made him look grizzled, and years older.  What was worse, Pace noticed a few flecks of grey.

Glancing around, he spotted a disposable razor in a small waste bin next to the sink.  Pulling it out, he examined the blade.  Sarah had only used it on her underarms or legs a couple of times by the look of it.

After five minutes of very carefully shaving, using lather from a bar of lilac-scented soap sitting in a recess on the sink, he was done.  The blade was quite good but his beard had been long enough to make every pull a wincing affair.  He only nicked himself once and had to make do with a splash of cold water to close the pores.  There was no aftershave in sight, for which he was thankful.

His feelings for Sarah were as strong as ever.  As he checked himself in the mirror, he tried to push aside feelings of guilt.  After all, he had expected to be dead by now and he couldn’t deny the feeling of comfort that having raw sex with Ruby had given them both.

Just then, her voice cut in over his thoughts.  She needed a towel too.  Picking a fresh one up from a pile on a canvas chair nearby, he waited for her head to appear.  It didn’t and she called out again.  Feeling oddly foolish, he pulled open the flap and leaned inside to give it to her.

Immediately a wet hand gripped his wrist and pulled him inside.  The towel dropped from his fingers and was lost at their feet as his eyes feasted.  Her lean body was beaded with water and her breasts pressed quickly against his bare chest, their pink crowns stiffening as she wasted no time in finding his lips hungrily with her own.

Ten minutes of wondrous, soft, deliberate kissing led them both outside the shower and onto the green plastic of the inner groundsheet.  Pace explored her with his mouth, kissing every delicious inch of her body very slowly until she could take no more.  Sliding on top of him, with their lips softly touching and her hair falling all about his face, she felt his heat between her legs, drawing an involuntary shudder from deep inside her.

Both were in such need that it was over quickly and yet they felt as if they had been locked together for an eternity.  Later, sweating from the mixture of humidity and exertion, they lay in each others arms, intertwining luxuriantly as urgency faded.

They didn’t talk much but just held each other.  Pace felt happy to tell her that still loved her and she didn’t hesitate in telling him that she loved him too. Perhaps an hour later he fell asleep, protected from nightmares by the warmth of her skin against his own and the feel of her head nestled against his shoulder.

He was summoned to the command tent early the next morning, while Sarah still slept.  The soldier who quietly roused him from his own dreams; calling repeatedly from outside the canvas walls, was insistent that he come now.  Doyle McEntire wanted to speak to him.

Intrigued, yet unhappy to drag himself away from Sarah’s warmth, Pace plucked her silk robe from a small plastic peg set into one of the tent poles and followed.

The command tent was deserted, with dawn having barely broken.  A laptop had been set up on a small table.  The soldier informed him that a satellite link was established and then left him to it.

Pace settled down in chair in front of it and hit the enter button, noting the webcam built into the computer.  So, he mused, a video call.

The screen flickered into life, showing Sarah’s father seated in a comfortable chair.  Wearing a suit, but with the collar open and tie loosened, he looked tired.  The smile was humourless.

‘They tell me that you’ve been really earning your money in the past few days.’

‘A bad habit I seem to have picked up,’ Pace forced a wry grin.

‘I am very glad to see you in one piece,’ McEntire said honestly.  If half of what Baker had reported to him last night was true, then this young man might prove invaluable to the Corporation in the future.  A skilled pilot, a fighter who was not afraid to kill and someone who now had a track record of handling a crisis.

‘That makes two of us,’ replied Pace.  ‘Now, do you mind telling me what the hell is going on down here.  This is meant to be a charity race.  Where did guns and murder come into it?’

‘Unfortunately, I made a mistake.  I knew something was brewing politically but I didn’t think it would blow up like this, not so soon.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Cezar Cathera,’ McEntire replied flatly.  ‘He is a fairly small time political figure in the Brazilian government.  He’s the prime mover behind a coup that has exploded in the last couple of days.  He craves power in Brazil and is not about to wait around for any kind of natural, or democratic succession, to get it.  He wants foreign companies out and international debts wiped clean.  It sounds reasonable, if a little draconian, until you scratch beneath the surface and take a peek at what he really wants.’

‘Which is?’

McEntire’s eyes hardened and there was real passion in his voice as he continued.  ‘James, beneath all the patriotic crap he’s been spouting, to try to turn the people his way, lies a simple truth.  He wants old-fashioned wealth beyond reason, and he is very close to muscling his way to a fortune.  Intelligence sources I have access to are substantial.’

‘I’ve already figured that there is a lot more to the McEntire Corporation than meets the eye.’

‘He attempted to turn the tide politically before last year’s elections.  While rallying support for his party and supporting the leadership on the surface, he secretly used a mix of intimidation and bribery to skew the vote.  Sadly for him, he’s been unable to win around the more resolute military and political figures and was forced to back off before he was exposed.’

‘What are you saying?  That he realised plotting had failed and decided on more desperate measures?’

‘Exactly.  The most worrying thing he did in the run up to the election was to let some information leak out to journalists about the radical policies he wanted to see implemented.  It was done in such a way that he could later deny them but he got his message out all the same.  The President was livid but couldn’t afford a show of party disunity so close to polling day.  He was forced to publicly accept that Cathera had been misquoted and got on with campaigning to stay in office, which was successful.’

‘What sort of ideas are we talking about?’

‘One was to use the global importance of the Amazon as leverage; blackmail if you prefer, against the rest of the world.’

‘For what?’

‘To agree terms.’  It was a phrase normally connected with warfare and surrender. Pace failed to understand the link.  ‘Although he never put it in as many words,’ McEntire explained, ‘the idea was straightforward enough.  Either the world wrote off billions of dollars of debt and offered Brazil first option to purchase all foreign operations, at cost, or he would have no choice but to open up vast sections of virgin forest for the logging of ancient hardwoods and the mining of precious metals.  He knows how vital the Amazon is to world climate control, especially what a vast carbon store it is.  The world couldn’t allow the forest to be ravaged any more than it has been already.’

‘He sounds like a nut.’

‘If Cathera ever succeeds in undermining the President and moving into a higher office, I have no doubt he will issue logging and mining licenses by the hundred until the global economy coughs up the money.’

‘But he failed,’ argued Pace.  ‘So he remains on the sidelines.  How did that lead to what just happened to us out here?’

‘The killing of interfering, foreign do-gooders would have reinforced his alleged ideal of national pride and isolationism, even though he would have publicly condemned the act.  It’s an old trick, believe me.  You put up a supportive general to act as head of state for a new regime, paying him handsomely to take the initial international flack.  The west hates it when a democratic system is overthrown by a dictatorship.  They would just open secret channels with the old government to try and find someone willing to step up and retake power.’

The penny dropped inside Pace’s mind.  ‘Cathera.’

‘Cathera,’ agreed McEntire.  ‘He would offer to challenge the dictator and restore democracy, in return for an initial period as leader under the guise of a stabilising period.  He would successfully overthrow his own man, then issue an official apology on behalf of the new democratic government, with elections to be arranged.  Sorted.’

‘The world would welcome Brazil back with open arms under those conditions,’ said Pace slowly.

‘These things are very quickly forgotten in today’s global economy, I assure you.  Of course, that’s the best scenario he could hope for.  It might not go quite as smoothly for him as that.’

‘Can it be that easy?  Can you imagine countries like America, Britain or Russia rolling over and meekly handing over vast sums of money?  Would they be so easily duped by Cathera?  Even the European Union might stop its internal bickering long enough to stand firm against a threat like that.’

‘But they wouldn’t be dealing with Cathera at that time,’ explained McEntire.  ‘He would be in the background, reinventing himself as a people’s champion while the chosen general threatens to seize international assets and beats the citizens down in a reign of terror.  Fear of antagonising a dictator tempers international response, it always has done,’ persisted McEntire.  ‘It’s immaterial now, perhaps, but it would have taken months of failed diplomacy before any kind of sanctions were imposed, and many months more before the world lost patience and threatened anything harsher, or perhaps paid up.’

Pace began to see things a little more from McEntire’s perspective and it didn’t sit well.

‘He’s only out for himself, I understand that.’

‘And he could end up becoming a world leader.  Planning elections would be a slow process; he’d have plenty of time to cream a fortune from the governmental coffers.  A couple of years of power, at least, and whenever he gets voted out he can flit off with enough stolen cash to make a Saudi prince weep with jealousy.’

‘Very patriotic,’ sighed Pace.

‘Oh no, he isn’t even Brazilian?  If you dig deep enough, you find out he was only naturalized a decade ago, but that’s not public knowledge.  The man was actually born in Spain, of third generation Egyptian blood.  He moved to Brazil when he was fifteen years old, after his parents were killed in a boating accident off the coast of Cadiz.  His only living relatives were an elderly great aunt living in Cairo and a wealthy uncle in Rio de Janeiro.’

‘So, he opted for his uncle’s money.’

‘His uncle was very rich, unlike his own parents, who had been only vaguely wealthy.  Cathera was suddenly thrust into a life of riches and pampering that most people only dream of.  There was the money of course, and the servants, powerboats, women; you name it.  He wanted for nothing.’

‘So what happened to turn him into a bastard?’

‘He was probably a bit of a nasty character anyway,’ replied McEntire airily, taking a moment to glance around the room with an appreciative eye.  Turning back he continued.  ‘Money did little to sweeten his disposition.  In fact,’ he laughed, ‘his uncle got fed up after a few years and kicked him out.  Gave him a decent monthly allowance and a small apartment on the seafront just to be rid of him, which would have been ample for most eighteen-year-olds but Cathera had tasted the really good life and he wasn’t about to give it up.’

‘Let me guess,’ offered Pace.  ‘Lucky old uncle ends up being found dead somewhere and Cathera gets another visit from the money fairy?’

‘That’s what he must have thought,’ smiled McEntire, picking some invisible fluff off his elegant silk tie.  ‘A road traffic accident claimed the uncle and the car burned up along with his body.  There were no other relatives.  The aunt has passed on, childless.  The uncle had no wife or children himself, just a great number of mistresses. Cathera must have been drooling at the prospect of the inheritance.’

‘Was he disappointed?’  Pace was intrigued by the story and the manner of the man being revealed.  He wanted to know more.  ‘Go on,’ he encouraged, feeling like an impatient child at bed-time, urging his parent for one more story before lights out.

‘Cathera was named in the will as a major beneficiary, something in the region of twenty million American dollars.  That was a quarter of a century ago now, and a huge fortune.  The only catch was a clause that stipulated death in suspicious circumstances would mean forfeiture of all assets to a judicial trust until a satisfactory investigation was concluded.’

‘Dying in a car crash is fairly common.  It hardly constitutes a suspicious death.’

‘Had the car been able to burn for a little longer there wouldn’t have been a problem.  The emergency services were quick to respond and put the fire out before the body was too badly cremated.’  He paused and the pause lengthened.

‘And?’

‘And,’ he continued, ‘two bullet holes changed an accident to murder.’

‘I assume there was an investigation.  What did it turn up?’

‘In a way, Cathera had covered his tracks too carefully.  Whoever he hired to do the dirty deed left no trace evidence.  No arrest meant no conclusion to the investigation.’

‘And no money?’

McEntire shook his head.  ‘He was smart.  He used the wealth he already possessed to grease the right palms.  It took him the best part of a year but he got the cash.  Then he used a great deal of it to buy a political career.’ He added slyly.  ‘At least three of his known opponents met premature deaths in the early days of his political life.  He would never have risen so high without his wealth to smooth the ride.  Getting in his way became dangerous.’

‘Tell me about this coup.’

‘Cathera wanted another shot at the top job.  Chanced his arm.  O he found himself a greedy ranking soldier based in Brazilia, a guy named Orsha, and decided to move against the race to start the process rolling.  With the world’s media already here, he obviously thought it was a good time.  Risky though, with so many soldiers and police drafted in for the event.’

McEntire did not mention any of his own reasons for running the race in the Amazon.  Secret arms deals to remove weapons of mass destruction from circulation was definitely on a need to know basis.  Pace didn’t need to know.

‘He did all this for a power grab?’

‘Yes.  It’s not gone well for him, so he’s getting desperate.  The President has a very popular base in the military and the numbers Orsha fielded just weren’t enough.  He’s already been executed.’

‘Is that legal?’ Pace wondered aloud.

‘Of course not.  Officially he committed suicide in his apartment.’

‘Does that mean that we’re safe now.  A lot of very decent people are dead because of him.  What is the army doing about the men he sent here to get us?’

‘Nothing at the moment.  They are too busy.  Cathera will probably pull them out now anyway, and make a run for a friendly country.  You should be alright.  How is my little girl, by the way?  I didn’t want her to go into the jungle but she can be fiercely determined.  She must like you.’

‘Glad to hear it.  On that note, I need to get back to her.’

McEntire signed off and Pace headed back to his tent, head filled with information.

Cezar Cathera had a lot to answer for.

32

After stopping to relieve himself in one of the small toilet tents dotted around the camp, Pace returned to Sarah.

She was still asleep but rolled over and opened one eye as he was replacing the netting skirt.  Her other eye popped open and she looked him up and down quizzically.

‘Nice outfit,’ she quipped.  ‘You shouldn’t walk around a military camp looking like that,’ she yawned, ‘you never know what might happen.’

‘I’m touched,’ he retorted, hanging it back on its peg and joining her on the floor.  Sliding over, she put her arms around him and kissed his ear.  She snuggled against him, unwrapping the sheet from herself and sharing it with him.

‘I bet it was a surprise hearing me on the radio,’ she smiled.

‘It was the nicest surprise I’ve ever had,’ he replied truthfully.  ‘I thought I was imagining it at first.’

‘I had no idea all of this was going to happen when I left that morning to meet my father’s flight,’ she explained.  ‘I found a note in my cabin and just assumed it had come in from the radio room.  Doyle McEntire often changes his plans at the last minute, especially when he wants to make surprise visits to his pet projects.  He likes to keep everybody on their toes, you see.’

Pausing to plant a kiss on his lips, she pressed herself closer against him, her warmth arousing in every way.  They were so close there was no way Pace could hide it from her and she snuggled even closer, smiling knowingly.  He wanted to know what had happened to her but it was an hour later before they finished with each other and she could continue with a story to rival his own.

‘Where was I? Oh, yes,’ she remembered.  ‘I just took the note at face value and didn’t question it. I headed out to the airport, as the note instructed.  A taxi that had been pre-booked for me. There was nothing out of the ordinary,’ she explained.  ‘It was painted in the normal livery of a local company and the driver took me out towards the airport.’

‘So far, so good.’

‘I sat in the back and was pouring over the schedules for some of the invited dignitaries.  I didn’t notice the cab pulling into the kerb.  The first I knew was when the doors on either side of me flew open and two men jumped in, pinning me between them.  I didn’t even have time to open my mouth,’ she told him.  ‘I was so surprised it was as if my brain wouldn’t accept what was happening.  My arms were pinned to my sides and one of them put a hand went over my mouth as the cab headed back out into the traffic.’  She shuddered and Pace gave her a squeeze.  ‘It all couldn’t have taken more than five seconds.  The streets were full of people but I don’t think anyone had time to notice.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘One of the men spoke very calmly and told me that they’d been sent by my father.  They had a letter from him, which I knew was from him.  He hates using computers for personal mail and so he handwrites every private letter he sends.  I recognised the handwriting straight away.’  She sat up, exposing her firm breasts as the thin sheet slipped down to settle on her creamy thighs.

Pace was thunderstruck.  ‘Your father sent men to kidnap you?  Why on earth would he do that?’  McEntire had failed to mention that little piece of information in their video call.

‘The letter said I was in danger by being close to you.  It said that he needed me somewhere safe while he sorted out some group that was planning to hijack the race.’

‘He knew things were looking that serious right at the start?  And he let us run anyway?’  Pace was stunned, and definitely needed a follow-up chat with her father.

‘I don’t understand why, but it’s true.  I was driven out of the city to a beautiful mansion owned by one of my father’s political associates.  I was confined to the house, and told to wait until he came for me.  Armed men guarded me night and day.’

‘But your letter?’

‘They made me write it so that you wouldn’t get suspicious.  My father needed the race to continue.  He said he was sure that he could handle the security issues once I was out of the way.  They told me what to write, James.  I didn’t mean any of those things but I knew you would try and find me if I didn’t make you think I’d gone.  My father’s letter said I had to make you believe I had left Brazil.  It said that you were only in danger as long as these people thought I was close to you.’  She paused, face flushed and close to tears.  Her words dripped with sincerity.  ‘I thought I was protecting you, and us.  I’m so sorry.’

‘It seems it was the race that Cathera was after,’ Pace muttered.

‘Nobody knew how serious Cathera was,’ she explained.  ‘Even the men guarding me, when they were finally allowed to discuss it, said that the best place for the competitors was running the race.  They were confident government troops would contain any problem quickly.  Apparently the army down here doesn’t mess about with that sort of thing.’

He couldn’t say if she was right or not but he had seen how ruthlessly efficient the rebels were, first hand.  ‘Your father should have told me, especially after he knew about my sister.  I nearly walked out on everything.  Thinking I’d lost you too made things worse.’

‘Amanda?  He told me, and I’m very sorry.  I wish there was something I could say that would help but I know there won’t be.  What happened to her was an evil thing.’

‘I hadn’t seen her in years, or spoken to her.  My fault really, but it makes it worse.  I look at all the time I wasted when we could have been there for each other.  Maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything, then again maybe it would have.  Like too many good people recently, she’s dead and she shouldn’t be.’

Sarah decided to say no more but just to hold him for a while.  They lay together, lost in their own emotions for another twenty minutes before the mood lifted and they got up.

Sarah dived into the shower while Pace made a fresh pot of coffee.  While she was showering, a pronounced cough from outside the tent grabbed his attention.  He had to wear the dressing gown again because there was nothing else.

He lifted the flap of netting and slipped outside for the second time that morning.  The camp was still deserted except for the same soldier as earlier, this time standing with a neat pile of clothing in his arms.  Before turning to leave, the soldier slipped a familiar weapon off of his shoulder and handed it to Pace.

The Sten had been cleaned and oiled.  The soldier also handed over a box of fresh ammunition.  The unknown cleaner had already reloaded the two magazines he had taken from Byrne.

‘Interesting choice,’ commented the soldier, no more than twenty-five years old but staring through eyes filled with memories beyond his years.  ‘You must have been in real trouble to use that antique.’

‘You never know just how big the mosquitoes will get this time of year,’ Pace shot back with a smile.

‘One of the lads tidied it up for you and he wants first refusal if you ever want to sell it.’

‘Thank him for me and tell him I’ll keep it in mind.’

The soldier informed him that there was to be a meeting in the command tent in half an hour’s time.  Both of them were invited to attend.  Pace told him that they would be there.

Outside, the heat was pushing into the high eighties.  The sky gleamed pale blue above the clearing, with only wispy clouds scudding across intermittently a thousand feet up.  Humidity was lower than before and the jungle all around seemed peaceful and safe.  The sights and smells were familiar and wonderful as he stood there for a minute, soaking them up.

When he’d ducked back beneath the netting and poured two cups of coffee, Sarah stepped out of the shower.  Pace had tucked the Sten gun at the back of the tent before she appeared and saw no reason to make a big deal out of it.  He slipped out of her dressing gown and handed it to her, along with a towel, before taking to the shower himself.  He deliberately avoided looking at her dripping body.  She was gorgeous but they had a meeting to attend.

By the time he came out of the shower, she had dressed in cropped, knee-length blue jeans and a long-sleeved, white cotton blouse.  Her hair was already dry in the warmth of the tent and had been brushed to a glossy shine.

Pace dried quickly and dressed in the clothes supplied by the soldier.  They had managed to guess his sizes accurately and the supplies had come straight from the Quartermasters stores.  By the time he finished dressing, there was nothing to distinguish him from any of the other soldiers; he wore a black combat suit comprising trousers and front-zipped jacket.  Added to this was a webbed belt, minus gun pouch thankfully, around his waist and a pair of military boots that fitted, albeit a little snugly.  It felt strange to be wearing clean clothing again.

‘Very dashing,’ quipped Sarah from behind him.

‘As long as this doesn’t mean I’ve signed up,’ he shot back.  ‘I never was very good at taking orders.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ she replied quietly.  He eyed her quizzically for a second, then let the comment pass.

They were about ready to head across to the meeting.  The pile of clothing had also thoughtfully come with a bar of soap, canister of shaving foam, razor, toothbrush and paste.  A quick scrub of his teeth and they were walking over to the command tent, circling the edge of the clearing as they went.  Nobody crossed the clearing unless they were going to, or from, the camouflaged Osprey, Sarah had instructed him.  It was too risky, especially during daylight hours.

As if to emphasise the fact, a slight buzzing in the distance slowly grew louder until it became recognisable as the beating rotors of a helicopter.  They reached the command tent netting just as it buzzed by, almost directly overhead.

Their clearing seemed terribly exposed to Sarah but Pace knew from hard experience how difficult it would have been to spot anything from a helicopter, even if it was hovering directly overhead.  The aircraft; a green painted Sea King, flew on by at an altitude of about twelve hundred feet.  It did not change course or slow down and gradually the engine sound faded away into silence.

The command tent was full this time, with about a dozen soldiers all similarly dressed to him.  Black combat suits were obviously the norm.  Baker had everyone sitting down in a semi-circle; three rows deep, facing him.  There were still a few canvas chairs empty at the back so they slipped into them.  Baker spotted them enter and nodded an acknowledgement.  Pace nodded back.

‘Now that everybody is here,’ Baker said crisply, ‘we need to run over today’s plan.’  There was no flipchart or screen for him to work from.  Everything was going to be committed to memory.  ‘As you know, last night’s engagement gave us a good result.  We picked up two bodies but were forced to engage hostile forces who were in possession.’

‘So they know we’re here now, sir?’ A young man, broad-shouldered and of Hispanic ancestry, posed the question from the front row.

Baker nodded.  ‘Yes, Sanchez.  To be more precise they know that someone is down here.  None of the hostiles lived to tell about the encounter.  Their command will be at a loss to account for their absence but they will quickly put two and two together.’

Pace had become used to strange situations and hardly found himself surprised at this mention of more death in the jungle.  He wasn’t sure if the bodies mentioned had been recovered alive or dead, so raised his hand.  Feeling momentarily like a foolish schoolboy, he posed the question.

‘Sorry,’ said Baker.  ‘For the benefit of the civilians present, the two people we recovered last night are still alive.  They were being transported back, I assume from wherever they were captured, down through territory north-east of the final checkpoint, close to the river.  Our team intercepted the target and managed to retrieve them alive.’

It was great news that more people were alive.  ‘Who are they?’ asked Sarah quickly.

‘I don’t have their names yet,’ Baker admitted.  ‘By the time we got back here, they needed medical attention, food and rest.  I’m going to debrief them myself, straight after this meeting.  You are both welcome to join me if you wish,’ he offered.

They both agreed immediately and Sarah’s face beamed with anticipation.

The survivors had been put together in a tent across the clearing from Sarah’s, with two soldiers standing guard outside the entrance.  As Baker, Pace and Sarah approached, the guards both threw him a smart salute and stepped aside.  He called out to the unknown people inside that he wanted to come in and a muffled reply gave the permission.  Not pausing, Baker lifted the camouflage netting and disappeared inside.  Sarah went next and Pace followed.

Even in daylight the tent was lit by more naked bulbs, as there were no windows set into the canvas.  There were two camp beds inside, still in disarray, and a metal-framed, plastic table.  Sat in canvas chairs at the table were two very tired, ragged, familiar figures, both drinking steaming cups of coffee from plastic cups.

Heads turned, stomachs lurched, and eyes met.

33

Despite the excitement, both looked like shadows of the people Pace had last seen heading off into the jungle.  Bailey had shrunk; his cheeks visibly sunken.  He was at least a stone lighter, maybe more.

Poranchez on the other hand had fared better physically, except for the bandage tightly binding his left hand.  With him, it was his eyes that told of the terror.  They were haunted and his pupils shifted nervously from place to place.  He didn’t seem able to concentrate his gaze on anything for more than a second, which was a far cry from the confident man Pace had first met on his trip to race headquarters in Rio.

‘Glad to see you back with us, honey,’ said Bailey to Sarah, the thick Bronx drawl the same at least.  Then he looked Pace’s uniform up and his weary face broke into a smile.  ‘They’ll take anybody in this outfit,’ he chuckled.

‘I don’t think I qualify.  It was either this, or have me running around naked.’

‘You said the same thing about being in the race,’ Bailey reminded him kindly.  ‘The fact that you’re still alive tells me you had as much right to cross that starting line as any of us.’

‘Thanks,’ said Pace, meaning it

‘Boy, you should have seen it last night,’ Bailey went on, standing and hugging first Sarah, then Pace.  ‘It was all over so fast.  One minute we were being frog-marched along, hands tied behind our backs and the next there was all this screaming, and more guns going off than a crack deal gone bad.’

‘Sounds familiar,’ agreed Pace.

‘Something hit me in the back and I went down.’  Wincing, he moved a hand around and rubbed a sore spot in the centre of his back.  ‘Turned out to be one of these guys, getting me down so that they didn’t accidentally blow my head off.’  His tone was tinged with genuine respect.  ‘If those bastards holding us hadn’t been such assholes, I might have even felt sorry for them.’  He paused, recollecting the vicious fire fight in his mind’s eye.  For a brief moment his eyes clouded.  ‘I do feel sorry for them anyway,’ he confessed.  ‘They didn’t stand a chance.’

‘My men had to be thorough,’ Baker remarked from the sidelines.  ‘To tackle the situation any other way would have put both your lives in danger.’

‘I know,’ said Bailey.  ‘You’re right.  My brain tells me you’re right, but to see it....well…the way they all died, and so fast.  To hear the cries and see the looks on their faces is something I will never forget.’

‘It will haunt me forever,’ Poranchez grieved, remaining seated and distant.  ‘I came into the race for life.  It was my dream to face the hardships and help our planet.  Because of me; in my name, bullets were fired and people were killed.’

‘They would have killed you at some point, make no mistake,’ Baker explained gently.

‘So?’

‘Sensibilities must be put into perspective in the heat of battle.  Ask yourself, would they feel badly about your death if the situation turned out differently?’

‘I don’t care,’ he countered testily.  ‘They died so I could be saved.  One life, for what?’ He did the sums in his head.  ‘For ten others, fifteen maybe.’  Both of them had seen a brutal snapshot of real warfare and were struggling to cope.

Sarah was incredulous.  ‘Did they all have to be killed?  Couldn’t you have captured them, or arrested them?’

Baker studied her for a moment.  All eyes were on him, although Poranchez had sunk deeper into his chair, head in his hands and alone with his visions.  ‘The men did not hang around to do a body count miss,’ he replied.  ‘Their job is to get in, extract as many survivors as possible and get out again.  If there were fifteen enemy soldiers to go through then there will now be the same number of dead bodies lying out there in the jungle.  I am sorry that it became necessary but that’s how it works.’

‘It just seems….’

Baker he raised his hand to cut her off.  ‘We can’t try to capture mercenaries and we are not law enforcement officers.  For one, we have nowhere to keep prisoners.  Also, at some stage it would mean releasing them and being identified as being active down here.  This is a covert operation and not for public consumption.’

‘So that makes it okay?’

‘The enemy are no slouches,’ he went on, showing no sign of being irritated by her position.  ‘All the dead from last night were hired, trained professionals.  If my men hadn’t been so thorough, the enemy would have had time to fight back.  Then it might be my people dead out there and none of us came here to die.  I’m sorry.’  He didn’t look very sorry, she noted.

She fixed his gaze and shrugged.  She didn’t like the sound of it any better but was an intelligent young woman who knew when a reasonable argument was being offered.

Pace knew she wasn’t convinced but decided to let it go.  She forced a smile back on her lips and crossed to a small table where an urn of water simmered, grey trails of steam escaping periodically from beneath its stainless steel lid.  There were more of the disposable cups and, surprisingly, a box of familiar-brand tea bags.  The thought of tasting a real cup of tea made his stomach rumble.  That, in turn, reminded him they hadn’t eaten anything.  Pace was suddenly starving but it was definitely the tea first.

Together they made four fresh cups of tea, with Baker making his excuses and leaving them alone.  Pace wanted to know what had happened to them because they should have hit the trouble first.  Two more canvas chairs were found and they settled into them, away from the table.  Sipping the hot tea, he asked Bailey for the story, which was horrifically similar to his own.

His own tale came next.  Bailey listened intently, making appropriate noises when he heard about the fire-fight and then muttering his sorrow at hearing of the deaths of Attia, Cosmos and Ruby.  Poranchez seemed to rise from his trance every now and again, just to listen briefly, before sinking back into his own world.  He seemed to have been totally phased by his nightmare, almost unhinged by it.

Pace recognised similar symptoms in his behaviour to some of the patients he’d looked after in the mental health unit.  He had grave doubts about the man’s state of mind but had more important matters to consider, so pushed any worry aside.

Baker returned with a large tray of scrambled eggs, sausage and toast about an hour later.  It smelled heavenly and they all ate well.  He stayed for breakfast as Bailey took the opportunity to question him about other survivors.

The news, for once, was heartening.  Team Three had been plucked from the jungle before the mercenaries could hit them.  A team of soldiers had dropped in on them and whipped them off to the safety of an undisclosed hideaway.  They were lucky.  What Pace still couldn’t understand is why one of the mercenaries had used a native dart to kill Attia when a burst of automatic fire would have killed them all.

Baker moved as if to say something, caught himself, then said simply, ‘It could have been a disgruntled local tribesman,’ he sighed.  ‘A lot of them have every reason to detest modern influences on their homeland.’

‘For influences, read destruction, disease and death,’ ventured Bailey.

‘Anyway,’ Baker began, ‘we have recovered all the live bodies that we are going to.  Just in case I’m wrong we will wait for the rest of today and pull out under cover of darkness.  Be ready.’

‘Where will we be going?’ Sarah asked.

‘Can’t give you specifics,’ Baker replied.  ‘Just that we have a small airfield prepared on the outskirts of Manaus.  Once there, my guess; and it’s only a guess mind, is that you will be driven into the city and de-briefed at a safe house.  After that, I’ll bet it’s a private plane home for each of you.’

He seemed quite certain that this would all pass off without a hitch, so Pace tactfully reminded him of all those armed mercenaries still prowling through the rainforest.  Baker laughed, assuring him that they were in no danger from ground forces.  He was more serious when he said that only an aerial assault could cause them real problems.

‘Government aircraft are hunting the rebels now and, as we are not meant to be down here, we could be attacked as well.  They would assume we were rebel forces.  We’re carefully monitoring all air traffic because we don’t want to get hit.  Out here, there is hardly any legitimate air travel so we must consider all aircraft to be hostile.’

‘So, as long as we aren’t spotted today, we should be okay?’  Bailey growled.  ‘What can we do between now and then?  I, for one, don’t want to sit in this damned tent all day long.’

‘There isn’t anything for any of you to do, other than stay out of sight and let my men get this little mission tied up.’  Bailey thought to speak again but Baker cut him off with a look.  ‘Your meals will be brought to you in your tents.  If there is anything you need to know, I’ll send a soldier to brief you.  Please remain under cover, either under the trees, or in your own tents,’ he looked over at Sarah and Pace.  ‘It’s for everyone’s protection,’ he added.

He left after breakfast was finished, closely followed by Pace and Sarah.  Bailey and Poranchez needed to rest.  The big American talked as if he was up for a marathon or two already but his body was weak.  Poranchez remained alarmingly distant and remote.

Outside, the sun beat down strongly.  The sky was free from cloud and formed a gorgeous blue oasis above the clearing.  Pace actually dared to begin to look forward to a day of safety but he should have known that fate wouldn’t be kind enough to give him a break just yet.

34

At about the same time a very different disaster was playing out, as two worlds prepared to collide.

Party hats and bunting had been banned, with good reason.  The company had just been taken over by a major international firm, with plans for expansion and heavy investment.  Every job was secure, after months of uncertainty, and bonus cheques were supposedly in the post.  The deal had been cemented at midday and by eight in the evening, most of the staff were dangerously drunk at the impromptu celebration bash hurriedly cobbled together in the conference room above the main floor.

Despite the need to celebrate, nobody had forgotten the pain of the man now slumped at his desk, in his office next door to the conference room; more drunk than anybody else.  Sympathy cards still lined the window sill, overlooking the main street, and his staff were amazed that he had managed to pull off such complex negotiations so soon after learning of his sister’s murder.

But David Pace, their boss and head of the firm, was not going to fail the very people who had helped him to such commercial success.  He had put aside grief, and anger, and got on with securing the future of the business.

He was now a wealthy man, not that he hadn’t been before, but money meant nothing to him.  After being able to buy a large, comfortable house, three cars, a forty-foot motor yacht so he could indulge his passion for sport fishing, and owing not a cent on any of them, money lost its power over him.  He was happy with his lot in life and had no intention of getting a bigger house, or larger boat, just because he now had the extra cash to do so.

There was a knock on his office door but David ignored it.  He was too drunk to care who it was and sought only to focus his bleary eyes on the empty glass and half full bottle of Scotch, wondering if his co-ordination would allow him to refill his glass.  He didn’t think so but was going to try before he watched the bottle slide out of his reach, clutched firmly in a beautiful, sculptured and feminine hand he knew all too well.

‘Paul told me I’d find you in here,’ said the tall brunette softly, hating to see the man she loved so damaged by tragedy.  ‘I’d like to tell you off about drinking so much but then I’d have to tell them all off,’ she nodded out towards the conference room.  ‘You’ve done a great thing today and they all know it.  Why don’t we go home, eh?’

David sat up in his black leather chair and looked at the woman he’d been married to for the past eight years.  Bethany Pace looked back at him and they smiled together; they knew each other so well that they often did the same thing, or went to say the thing, together. Some people found it sickening but they were still very much in love, and they were caring parents to their two children; Ethan, aged seven and Charlotte, barely five.

As far as David was concerned, he’d struck gold when he met his wife at a tennis club, barely six months after leaving England to start his new life.  Beautiful, sexy and bright, she had eased his homesickness and started him on the road to success.

A trained chef, she noted her new boyfriend’s financial management flair and his own passion for cooking.  Unable to find the kind of English food that he so loved, he had hit upon the idea of starting a takeaway business selling just traditionally prepared, British favourites.  With so many British people flocking to start anew in Australia, he figured they’d do well.

A decade on and the Roast2Go chain boasted fifty outlets across Australia; soon to be two hundred now that the buy out had gone ahead.  It was hard work but they’d slogged through together, emerging stronger because of it.

‘Who’s looking after the kids?’

‘My mother.  You know how she loves to spoil them and they love having her over.’  It was true, his mother-in-law was far removed from the stereotypical harridan.  She also loved to sport fish, in fact it was his mother-in-law who first got him interested in the sport.  She was a clever, strong woman, who pulled no punches when telling you what she thought, but also blessed with a wonderful heart and humour.  Widowed five years earlier, she lived in a nice apartment only a couple of miles from their home.

‘Come on then.’  Accepting her arm, David staggered to his feet and waited for the room to stop spinning.  When it didn’t, he gave an indifferent shrug and allowed himself to be helped from his office, out into a small, carpeted hall.  On the way over to the lift, he passed the open door to the conference room.

People were still dancing to some old seventies party tunes but a few had collapsed on the floor and one couple; probably Mrs Byers from Accounts and Mr Carpenter from Sales, were going at each other hammer and tongs.  Poorly covered by a stained tablecloth, ripped in a frenzy of passion from the conference table, bare buttocks pumped up and down in plain view.

‘Get a room,’ David managed to call before the lift came and he was gently steered inside the car.  Riding the two floors down to the lobby of what was once his very own building, he leaned heavily against his wife for support, wondering if he would make it home without throwing up.

‘They’ll both regret that in the morning,’ she said, smiling at what they’d just seen in the conference room.

‘I don’t know,’ he slurred a little.  ‘Maybe they’re star-crossed lovers who are meant to be together.’  His wife shot him a questioning look.  ‘It happens,’ he finished firmly.  ‘Sometimes people find their soul-mate at an awkward time.’  He didn’t know why he was defending them really but he had learned that life was never as cut and dried as it should have been.  ‘Let’s hope they used protection though.’

‘The only protection they’re going to need is from their respective spouses.  Their both married,’ she argued.  ‘How can that be okay?’

‘If it’s just sex, then it stinks,’ he agreed softly.  ‘But if they are in love, and want to be together, then this may be the start of something that lasts for the rest of their lives.  And that makes it the right choice.’

‘Okay, I’ll give you that,’ she conceded.  What he was saying did make sense to her and she was secretly impressed that he could think so deeply, given the state he was in.

‘Great,’ he beamed a drunken smile at her.  ‘If they’re meant to be together, then they should be, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘At least I can always trust you to only be shacked up with a bottle of good Scotch when the mood takes you,’ she laughed.

‘I’m the luckiest man alive,’ he said honestly, trying not to stagger.  ‘I was lucky enough to find my soul-mate and marry her.’

‘If you weren’t so smashed, that little bit of creeping would have earned you a night of animal lust.’  Her voice dropped to a sultry whisper.

‘There’s life in the old dog yet,’ he shot back.  ‘Let’s see if I can raise a smile when we get home.’

‘We’ll see.  Just walk with me, that’s right, one foot now the other…good.’

With Bethany’s help, he made it to the waiting taxi, oblivious to the driver’s look of despair at the thought of carting another drunk passenger.  He’d better not puke, the driver thought, then got the car moving.  He was determined to get rid of them before the man ruined his upholstery.

The driver flew through the little seaside town of Dasler as darkness fell.  Situated on the eastern coast of Australia, some one hundred and seventy  miles north of Brisbane, the thriving, cheery community was one hundred miles south of Rockhampton, and the southern tip of the breathtaking Great Barrier Reef.

There was no crime to speak of in Dasler.  The police officers that patrolled the streets were well liked by the inhabitants and commanded old-fashioned respect, even from the teenagers.  It was a fantastic place to live, work and raise a family as far as the Pace family were concerned.

Blessed with a fantastic climate, beautiful beaches and great diving, the town was a favourite of sporting tourists, mainly scuba divers and windsurfers.  Its three hotels were all five-star rated and attracted the better-heeled tourists, while tight controls on guesthouses and private rooms limited tourist numbers to a manageable level.  Their money was very welcome but tacky motels or amusement parks would never be allowed in Dasler.

Their house backed onto the beach but the front entrance led the taxi up a brick drive, through lush landscaped gardens, infused with carefully placed lamps and water features, until it pulled to a stop in front of a beautiful set of carved oak double doors.

Bethany paid the driver, tipped him well, and led her sozzled husband up three stone steps, where she propped him against the brickwork while she rummaged in her purse for the door key.  Her mother would be upstairs, reading a story to the children and there was no sense disturbing her as she got them settled for the night.

Sliding the key into the lock she turned it and pushed the door, which opened smoothly into a gorgeous, marble-floored hallway.  Leaving the door open she turned back to David, who by now was smiling blankly at her, like all men tended to do when the worst of the alcohol had fried their brains.

‘Come on honey.  Let’s get you to bed.’

‘Now you’re talking,’ he said, attempting a knowing wink.

Once inside, Bethany turned and closed the door.  She heard a thump and was about to turn back to her drunken husband, who she guessed had just fallen over, when something cold and hard pressed against the base of her neck.  She froze.

‘If you don’t want to lose your head, I’d be very quiet and very co-operative, understand?’  The voice was low but blatantly female in nature.  ‘I wouldn’t want to spray your brains all over such a beautiful floor, so be nice.  Any tricks and I will kill you, then your husband, followed by your children and their babysitter.  Believe me.’

‘Okay.  No tricks,’ Bethany cried softly, terror gripping her heart.

‘Now turn around slowly.’

She did as she was told, turning on the spot very slowly until she was facing a slight figured female, dressed head to toe in a dark running suit and wearing a black, woollen balaclava helmet, with eye holes cut in the right spots.  The intruder wore black leather gloves and was pointing an ugly black handgun, complete with a smoothly-machined  silencer, directly between her eyes.

On the floor, David was laid out, rendered unconscious by a vicious pistol whip to the side of his head.  The wound was open and blood pooled onto the white marble floor; vivid red.

‘What have you done!’ she cried out, kneeling down and applying pressure to the wound with her hand.

‘I would worry more about what I might do to you,’ the intruder said nastily.  ‘A bump on the head is nothing.’

Like her brother, Jasmine Maluse was a cold-hearted killer.  Known in the professional only by her tag, Puma, her reputation for cruelty was well deserved.  For her, murdering an entire family was just another assignment.  She had done it several times before and never gave a thought to who the terrified people were, or why anybody would want them dead.

As far as she was concerned, she was simply a tool others used to get their dirty jobs done quickly and efficiently.  This family was no different, except she knew this job would be directly helping her brother.

He was working a troublesome job in the Amazon, which should have been finished long ago but the mark was refusing to allow himself to be killed.  The client had offered him a further sum of money; very large, if he could arrange for an assassin to fly down to Australia and kill the mark’s brother, and his brother’s family.

Naturally, when it came to choosing a second killer to send, he had only one in mind.  His sister, after him, was the most ruthless killer he knew.

Dragging Bethany Pace up off the floor by her hair, causing her to shriek with pain, Puma jammed the silenced gun back against her neck and ordered her up the wide, sweeping staircase.  David was left on the floor; Puma planned to kill him later on if he didn’t bleed to death first.

Having no choice, Bethany walked up the stairs, fearful of what she might find when she got up there.  Her mother would have heard the commotion downstairs, as would the children.  They hadn’t come to see what was going on and Bethany correctly guessed that the intruder had already discovered them.  Her stomach knotted and she felt faint as she reached the top stair and was pushed roughly into the family bathroom.

Inside, bound hand and foot, and with mouths taped shut, her mother and her two children lay piled into the empty bathtub.  Her mother was bleeding from a cut under one eye and she had an ugly bruise on her hairline, directly above her nose.

Her eyes fluttered as she swam in and out of consciousness.  Ethan was trying to be brave but his eyes spoke of terror, and his little sister had tears spilling from her eyes.  At seeing their mother the two children grew excited and Ethan tried to stand up, only to be pushed roughly back down again by Puma.

‘Stay there and be still.  You won’t be told again,’ she hissed.

Fury welled up inside Bethany at seeing her son mistreated and she made up her mind to try and overpower the intruder.  Seeing how callously she treated a child told Bethany that none of them were going to be allowed to live – the woman beneath the mask was a monster.

‘Why us?’ she asked, summoning all of her strength for her children.  ‘If it’s money you want, I’ll open the safe.  We have a few thousand dollars in cash and you can take my jewellery,’ she pleaded.  ‘Take it all, please, and leave my family alone.’

‘I am touched,’ Puma lied easily.  ‘Unfortunately your husband is related to a thorn in my side. This is nothing you’ve done, not at all.  But I have to send him a message that he will finally understand.’

‘Related?  David?’  That could only mean his brother, James.  But James was in the jungle, running that crazy charity race.  Bethany had heard press reports that some kind of armed militia had attempted to hijack some of Brazil’s government buildings but an information black-out meant she knew little more.

Rumours flying around the globe spoke of the athletes somehow being caught up in the bloodshed but David had been unable to find out more, despite hours on the telephone to the British Consulate and the Australian media networks.  It was the last thing he’d needed, after his sister’s death, and with the company poised for a take-over.

‘That’s right.  James Pace, hero to the masses,’ she scoffed.  ‘He should have learned how to die, like his sister, but…’

‘Amanda?  What do you mean?’

‘Just what you think I mean,’ Puma grinned under her mask.  ‘Aunty Amanda was a good woman,’ she told the frightened children, who huddled together, ‘but your Uncle James wouldn’t take a hint so she had to go.’

‘You killed her?  But that’s not true,’ snapped Bethany.  ‘She was attacked by a burglar.’  She looked at her children as she chose her words carefully.  ‘She was killed by a man.  It can’t have been you!’

‘No, that honour goes to my brother,’ Puma agreed.

‘You are sick!’ Bethany trembled as she raged.  ‘Just go away and leave us alone!’

Puma cocked the hammer on her gun and delved inside a pocket, pulling out a mobile telephone.  A quick touch dial and she soon heard her brother’s familiar tones on the other end of the line.

‘I am here, with the family,’ she said excitedly, her heart racing with the expectation of bloodshed to come.  ‘Everything went well.  I am ready to retire them.’

On the other end, Wolf nodded with satisfaction.  Not only would this mean more money but it was a way of directly hurting that fool, Pace.  The man already knew his sister was dead but had chosen to run the race anyway.  Soon he would learn that the remainder of his family were gone too.

‘Don’t waste time talking to me,’ he ordered.  ‘Get it done and get back home. We have spent more than enough time on this one already.’

‘I look forward to it,’ she giggled, her eyes rolling wildly.  ‘Do you want to listen while I do it?’

Wolf was angry.  The simple job of hunting down civilians had been hampered by one of McEntire’s rescue teams.  They had failed to get the job done.  Standing in the middle of the jungle, surrounded by hard-eyed mercenaries, he was waiting for Cathera to ring him on his satellite phone with new instructions.  Wolf welcomed the chance of some murderous relief.

‘I’d love to,’ he said.  ‘Leave the phone open and work your magic.’

Back in the bathroom, Puma squealed with psychotic delight.  She put the telephone down on top of a nearby toilet seat and swung around to face Bethany.  Like any mother, she had moved over to the bath and was standing in front of her children and their grandmother with her own body.

‘Please don’t do this,’ she pleaded.  ‘Please.  I’ll do anything but don’t hurt my babies!’

‘Can you hear this brother?’ Puma chirped towards the telephone.  ‘Ready for some fun?’

‘Please no!  No!’

Wolf heard the shot and was surprised it was so loud.  He’d assumed his sister would use a silenced weapon.  He heard a faint thud as a body hit the floor and he licked his lips as he anticipated the next shot.  He waited, and he waited, but no second shot came.

David Pace had been roused by his wife’s screams and pleading.  He never knew what hit him but he saw the blood all over the floor and realised he was badly injured.  Pain throbbed in his head as he staggered to the hall cupboard, yanking open the doors.

A steel box inside was secured with a coded lock.  Somehow, despite suffering from the effects of concussion and alcohol, his fingers flew over the keypad and sprung the lock.  Inside, he pulled out the single-barrelled shotgun that he used for clay pigeon shooting at a local gun club.

Up the stairs he had gone, his heart pounding as he shook his head; splashing blood all over the wall as he moved, desperately trying to make the world stand still instead of spinning and reeling as it was.  Reaching the top, he’d stumbled and fallen flat on his face into the deep, fawn-coloured carpet.  Looking up, he focused blearily on a scene of horror; framed through the open door of the bathroom to his right.

A black-clad figure was standing, pointing a gun towards the bath that he knew was there but could not see from where he lay.  All he could see was the figure.  Not knowing if his family were alive or dead, he brought the gun to his shoulder, sighted down the barrel, and pulled the hair-trigger.

One minute the intruder was pointing a gun at Bethany’s throat, ready to murder her.  The next, the balaclava vanished as Puma’s head was completely blown off her shoulders.  It was a complete surprise to David because he knew the minute he’d pulled the trigger that the gun was empty.  In his daze, he forgot that he never kept it loaded.  The gun clicked impotently in his hands.

Confused, he blinked hard to try to clear his increasingly foggy vision.  As he did so, a pair of black-clad legs appeared from behind him, heading towards the bathroom door.  As the figure moved further away from him, it grew into that of a man, also dressed in black from head to toe.  For a second he thought the man was Puma’s companion but he wasn’t wearing a balaclava and his .45 calibre automatic pistol was still smoking from its recently delivered killing shot.  He was also completely bald.

Dragging himself into the bathroom, leaving a trail of fresh blood staining the light carpet, David saw his family alive and being helped by the stranger, before he slipped into unconsciousness.

Leaving their grandmother to take the children out of the carnage, Bethany rushed to cradle her husband in her arms and tried to staunch the fresh flow of blood that now gushed from his head.

‘Don’t you bloody die on me, baby,’ she scolded tearfully.  ‘I need you.’

‘He won’t die,’ said a friendly voice from behind her.  ‘Help is on the way.’

‘You killed her.’  The man nodded once.  ‘Thank you.  She was going to kill all of us, she said so.’  Again he nodded.  ‘Who are you?’ Bethany asked finally, giving up her attempts to stop sniffling and shaking.

Returning the weapon to a visible holster beneath his left armpit, the man knelt down and quickly checked on her husband.  Satisfied that the man was stable, and breathing easily, he patted her softly on one shoulder.

‘My name is Hammond.  Glad I could help.’

35

The afternoon passed in almost holiday mood.  The weather stayed hot and fine.  Sarah moved a couple of canvas chairs outside, still shielded from view overhead by the thick canopy of trees above the tent.

There was nothing in the way of a breeze so they both stripped down to their underwear to spend a few carefree hours soaking up the warmth of the day.

Together they talked about the past, about each other’s family life and history.  It was relaxed and Pace found out a great deal more about her than he already knew.  Nobody came around the tent to disturb them that afternoon.  It was almost as if they were in their own little Eden.

Monkeys and exotic birds screeched and called to each other, hidden from view above them.  If Pace hadn’t known there was a small military camp hidden in the surrounding jungle, he could have believed them to be totally alone; the last two people on earth even.

Sarah looked wonderful, sitting relaxed in matching white bra and briefs.  It was sports underwear, a perfect substitute for a bikini, and left very little to the imagination.  Her long hair was piled up in a loose bunch on top of her head, tied with a simple black band.  It accentuated the slimness and grace of her long neck, the feminine curve of her slightly reddening shoulders and the delicacy of her collarbone.

The McEntire Corporation had taken a great deal of time, effort and financial genius to ascend to its current heady heights.  Sarah’s father had started the business off his own back, with financial support gleaned from a mixture of family, friends and a small bank loan.

It took the best part of ten years of solid work before he’d begun reaping any rewards from his labours, though since then the company had grown remarkably and miraculously avoided market crashes and national hiccups that had sunk many others.

During the lean times, Doyle McEntire had met a girl and married.  There was no money spare in those hard years and no children could be afforded.  Sarah was pretty sure this was why her father’s first wife eventually left him, married again quickly and proceeded to start a family.

Newly-divorced, McEntire continued building up his business.  He had a string of love affairs before finally meeting Sarah’s mother.  By then he was thirty-five years old and ready to be a father.  His business was everything to him but he loved his daughter when she came along, in his mind providing well for her being the best way he knew to show affection.

There was a hint of sadness behind Sarah’s eyes when she told him about the private nannies and of the boarding schools she’d come to see as home during her childhood.  She would only get to see her father occasionally, no more than three times a year for over a decade.  She always went home on school holidays but her father was rarely there.

A soldier interrupted them briefly to hand over a plate of cheese sandwiches and they brewed some more tea to wash it down.  A long time into the future, Pace had sharp, fond memories of those precious few hours together.

Barely five hours after his last bite of sandwich, he again found himself crouched in the dark, Sten in hand, squinting through the rivulets of cold rainwater that ran down his face.  He was keen to see a waving hand because if it didn’t come, it meant they were in real trouble.

In the darkness, his thoughts briefly wandered back over the events of the past few hours.

The same soldier had returned later, just as they were packing away for the evening.  Dusk had arrived and the coming evening air had cooled slightly, accompanied by rain.  The soldier’s manner was calm and his face expressionless but the request to attend a meeting in the operations tent was delivered in such a way as to be urgent.  Pace had pulled on his military clothing while Sarah slipped on a pair of knee-length cotton shorts and a dark blue, cropped top.

A sense of sudden unease made him retrieve the Sten gun, which he slipped over one shoulder on its strap.  Sarah noticed the weapon but she chose not to comment as they hurried around the clearing to the command tent, getting fairly drenched on the way.

Baker was already addressing the meeting when they arrived.  This time, there was an air of expectation about the tent; a tense, barely contained sense of excitement from the men beneath the canvas.  He wasted no time in spelling out the issue.

‘We will be pulling out in about thirty minutes,’ he explained.  ‘We have one more patrol still to return, then we can pull the plug.’  He looked grave.  ‘There is a lot of radio chatter flying about, close by, from the Brazilian airforce.  For some reason, they are focusing on this area, looking for anything out of the ordinary, especially anything that looks like an armed force.  If they spot us, we’re in serious trouble.’

As if on cue, a succession of concussions from high explosive ordinance flattened all the tents in the camp, a vicious blast wave lifting bodies high into the air before casting them back onto the ground.  In a split second, the command tent was ripped from the fabric of existence by a thousand jagged pieces of shrapnel that tore into canvas and flesh alike, leaving its human occupants struggling to recover their senses beneath open, pouring skies.

Pace’s overriding instinct was to protect Sarah but his vision was blurred and his heart wanted to explode out of his ears, so violent were the exploding munitions.  It was all he could do to stagger back to his feet.  His nose itched and he reached a hand up to scratch it, pulling it away to stare dazed at a palm smeared bright crimson with blood.  Acrid smoke stung at his eyes and scalded its way down his throat, burning cruelly.

Under normal circumstances he would have understood that the pressure blast was to blame but his brain was totally confused by the blast and he couldn’t string together any cohesive thoughts.  He found himself shaking his head furiously, desperate to clear the haze.  Cries of pain filled the air from every direction, heard in snatches between massive explosions.  Hands suddenly grabbed hold of him and he felt himself slung over a broad shoulder as he was carried out of danger.

Pace wasn’t aware of it at the time but it was Baker who’d pulled him out and dragged him deeper into the forest.  Dumped unceremoniously on the ground, he found himself surrounded by bloodied and bruised soldiers.

Turning, he caught a glimpse of a familiar face and his heart jumped.  Sarah was next to him, sprawled in the mud, drenched and shaking.  Her eyes were glazed and fixed blindly down at her muddy legs.  She made no attempt to look at him.  He called her name several times.  He knew the words were coming out even though he couldn’t hear a thing above the din of a thousand church bells.  She stirred a fraction when he shouted at her but it was barely a flicker of recognition.  Still her stare remained fixed.  Reaching out, Pace pinched the skin on her calf, hard.  ‘Sarah!  Snap out of it!’

A huge explosion rocked the jungle about a quarter of a mile away, sending a thunder-flash whipping through the trees and a pillar of choking smoke stabbing upwards like an invisible finger, jabbing accusingly at the invisible jets.  Led to believe they were attacking a rebel compound, the aircraft pressed home their attack mercilessly.  Pace felt a succession of pressure blasts ruffle his ears and saw even the mighty tree trunks shiver in their crushing grip.

Baker was suddenly at his side again, his lips moving slowly as he formed a question.  He knew the man could hear nothing, same as him.

‘Are you okay?’

Pace nodded.  Explosions still came thick and fast, brightening the night with flashes that silhouetted gnarled tree limbs, turning them into evil, grasping demons.  The soldiers all around were fast disappearing as they headed in single file from the clearing.

Baker made sure everyone was accounted for, except for the eight dead men he knew would be going nowhere before pulling Sarah roughly to her feet and urging them both to hurry after him.

They followed him without question.  Pace didn’t see Bailey or Poranchez and hoped they were somewhere up ahead.  He wasn’t frightened.  It was just a continuation of a nightmare, briefly reprieved.  Plunging through the deep darkness of a jungle night, running for his life, was all too familiar.

For perhaps the first hundred yards or so, which meant travelling more like five hundred yards as they skirted tree trunks, tangled creepers and boggy patches underfoot, Pace concentrated on his footing while adjusting his eyes to the darkness.  His hearing improved until there was just the faintest of background buzzing and his thought processes returned.

The whole time, he steered a dazed Sarah firmly around the obstacles, leading her by the elbow.  Her cheeks were filthy and stained with tears, though he couldn’t see it in the darkness.  She allowed herself to be led, as if locked in a hypnotic trance.

The soldiers had all donned night vision goggles, including Baker, but Pace had left his own pair back in their tent.  His night vision was good enough to avoid any major accident as they hurried along in near pitch darkness but he still stumbled more times than he cared to count, nearly taking Sarah down with him on two occasions, though she hardly seemed to notice.

After an hour, Pace moved to call out to Baker, represented by a shadowy hulk up in front of them.  Before he could do so, Baker stopped suddenly and allowed them both to catch up to him.

The rain fell steadily, the distant pattering and splattering an old friend to Pace now.  Under the trees, as usual, it fell in patches; lighter here, heavier there.  Water trickled down the ancient tree trunks and cobweb of hanging vines, adding to the eerie, isolated feeling of their forest flight.

‘You two all right?’  Baker asked, holding out two sets of night goggles to them.  They took them without question and slipped them on.

‘We’re okay,’ Pace replied.  To his left, Sarah nodded dazed agreement.  She seemed to spark back to life as her vision returned.  Pace was used to the technical enhancement but she found the transformation nothing short of miraculous.  Trees and plants ceased to blur into single shadows, becoming clear and sharply defined before her.

‘So near and yet so bloody far,’ Pace commented wryly.  Sarah marvelled at how calm he was.  Perhaps with him by my side, I might just cope with the jungle and the fear, she thought.

‘These guys are sharper than I gave them credit for,’ admitted Baker, ‘and I didn’t think they were amateurs.’

‘Cathera’s mercenaries?’ wondered Pace.  ‘I thought we were just nailed by the airforce.’

‘Someone fed them our location as a legitimate target.  My guess is Cathera’s men.  Either they’ve spotted us covertly, or they have some inside information.  From where, I have no idea.’

They were a short flight away from civilisation, so close that Sarah could almost taste it. Now the rescue operation was in need of rescuing and they were on the run for their lives with no means of escape.  The Osprey lay in a million smouldering pieces somewhere far behind them.

‘So, somewhere out there,’ Pace said to Baker, ‘are mercenaries still hunting for us.  They haven’t packed up and gone home?’

‘Not yet.  And my guess is that they aren’t far away either,’ explained Baker.

‘I agree, but we are more than a match in any fight that might come our way,’ he answered.  ‘My men are the best around.  I have soldiers on point and on deep reconnaissance.  Some have dropped back to act as a rearguard and we are flanked by two pairs.’  His voice took on a flinty edge.  ‘They can give as good as anybody cares to give them, be sure of that.’

‘You can count on my help when things get bad,’ said Pace, tapping the Sten still slung over his shoulder.

Baker looked dubious.  ‘Those things had a bad reputation for jamming in the war.  I wouldn’t put too much faith in it if I were you.’

‘It hasn’t let me down yet.’

‘If it comes to it, do what you can,’ sighed Baker with a mischievous grin.  ‘Just don’t shoot me, or yourself come to that.’

‘Don’t underestimate me.’

‘Believe me, I don’t.’  Baker meant it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Pace caught Sarah looking at him.  He gave her a grin as they started to move again, this time with the Sten held lightly in his hands.  The thought of a pressing, closing enemy drew his thumb to the safety catch, which he flicked off as he walked.

Pace checked his watch several times during the slog through increasingly sodden and muddy ground.  Time seemed to drag as he and Sarah struggled against the terrain and the fast pace set by the soldiers.  It occurred to him, after about twenty minutes, that he didn’t have a clue where they were actually heading.  With the rain staying heavy, the ground soon ran with surface water in places and their speed dropped as they navigated pools, fast flowing streams and slippery, exposed rock beds.

Pace was aware of it becoming cooler around him, although the exercise kept him in a familiar state of constant sweat.  He was helping Sarah up after she’d just stumbled over a hidden root when Baker suddenly spun around and literally pushed them flat, into an inch-deep ooze of reddish mud.  They didn’t need a diagram to know that trouble had found them.

‘James, I’m scared.’ Sarah’s voice trembled softly and her face was so close to his that he felt the warmth of her breath against his cheek.   Even beneath the thin veil of streaked mud, now noticeable with the goggles, she was beautiful.

‘We’ll be fine,’ Pace promised, finding and squeezing her hand in the mud.  He’d had many days to get used to the claustrophobic grip of the forest at night and to the terror of imminent death but it was a new experience for her.

‘When we’re lying dead in the rain, you’re in big trouble,’ Sarah griped humourlessly.

‘Very poetic,’ Pace whispered.  ‘At least you’ll be in good company.  You get the privilege of sharing my final resting place.  I don’t offer that to just any girl.’

‘What an honour.  Just don’t hog the whole grave,’ she shot back, actually managing a more genuine smile as she felt the last vestiges of terror leave her body.

‘I’m going to move up ahead,’ cut in Baker swiftly.  ‘Wait for my signal before you come up and join me.  Until you see me wave, stay put.’  He turned to go before shooting a glance back at Pace, over his shoulder.  ‘And keep that relic of yours handy.’

‘You can count on it.’

‘I’ll hold you to that.’

‘If it comes to it, you won’t have to look for me.’

Baker slid forward on his belly about twenty feet, where he stopped, staring intently ahead.  Next to him, Sarah shivered.  She was freezing cold, still dressed only in thin shorts, crop top and a pair of tan walking boots.  One of the soldiers had taken a moment to drape a thin plastic poncho over her shoulders at some point, but she was soaked to the skin.

When the wave finally came, Sarah was up in a flash and moving off ahead of him.  Ten feet further on, she nearly fell over the bodies.

36

It was the last thing either of them expected.  Somehow Pace just assumed the hiding and silence meant trouble had passed them by, or been a false alarm.  By the look of the half a dozen corpses that lay in the mud at their feet, the silence had been just a testament to how good the men with them actually were.  Eyes stared sightlessly skyward, or down into the mud; eyes that had been alive and watchful only minutes before.

At least two had been slit across the throat with an assassin’s knife stroke.  One had his head turned at nearly one hundred and eighty degrees, with the skin on the neck being creased and bruised.   The others had been shot in the head at close range with silenced handguns, the powder burns around the solitary entry wounds evidence as to just how close the discharges had been.

What was strange was that the three of them were still alone.  The enemy had been dealt with and Baker’s men had simply moved on again.

Only a few rustled, agitated creepers up ahead gave away the path the soldiers had taken.  Pace checked the Sten while Sarah sank down on a large buttress root of a nearby tree.

‘The threat has passed for now,’ explained Baker, pulling a water bottle from his belt and passing it round.  ‘This was a probe.  My men had to remove these guys quickly and quietly.  The enemy will be blind for a while.’

‘Others will come,’ sighed Sarah forlornly.  ‘And then what?  Are you going to kill them all?’

‘If we have to, yes,’ he replied brutally, ‘but I hope it doesn’t come to that.  That’s not what I want.’

‘You’re not the only one,’ Pace agreed.  ‘Where the hell are we anyway?  I’m assuming you know the best route out of here and are following an agreed emergency plan, right?  Please tell me we’re not all just blundering about in the dark until we bump into more of the same.’

‘You were the rescue team, so who rescues you?’ echoed Sarah.

‘We have two choices,’ answered Baker evenly.

‘Which are?’ asked Pace

‘We can head back to the river and wait for a rescue boat to be sent in for us by McEntire.  If the hostiles have cleared out, we will be safe enough.’

‘And if they’re still here?’  Sarah’s question was simply met with a knowing stare from Baker.

‘Our other choice lies about ten miles west of here.  It’s an automated research station, funded by the McEntire Corporation.  We’re lucky it’s so close.  If we push hard we could reach it by nightfall. Once there, we can set up camp and wait for rescue.’

The choice wasn’t really a choice at all.  A quick consensus opted for the base.  At least it could be defended while they waited for help to arrive.  Sitting back on a riverbank would leave them too exposed.

‘Let’s go then,’ Baker decided.  ‘The sooner we get there, the sooner we can be evacuated.’

‘Lead the way then,’ shrugged Sarah quietly.  ‘I’m all for getting out of here.’

Baker gave the leading soldier new directions and they set off again.  Pace settled back into the familiar routine of hot, stifling trudging, making sure he walked behind Sarah and gave her an encouraging touch every few minutes.

Everyone slogged onwards over mud, exposed rocks, thick, slippery mosses and heavy leaf litter.  Sarah, not as acclimatised to the heat and humidity as the others, struggled to keep up the pace but uttered no word of complaint.  Several times, Pace saw her stumble and grimace from the pain of a twisted ankle, or grazed knee whenever he failed to catch her in time.

The trek lasted five sultry, tough hours.  They were moving through a very old section of the forest, with gigantic trees and an inner forest of lianas and ferns that made travelling in a straight line impossible.  For every hundred feet they moved forwards, they must have walked closer to three.

Baker kept a close eye on a hand-held computer that lived in a belt pouch when it wasn’t in his fist.  It served many purposes but GPS was the crucial one for a group of travellers swallowed by a disorienting green blanket, devoid of distinct features or landmarks.

When they finally arrived, darkness was falling and the permanent gloom beneath the canopy was lengthened and thickened by brooding, hungry shadows.  The rain hadn’t let up since leaving the river and Pace was looking forward to cooler temperatures that the night would bring.

Baker called a halt just as an almighty thunderstorm broke directly overhead.  If they were expecting a neat ring of tents and a blackened, stone-ringed campfire they were sorely mistaken.  The thick vegetation looked as virgin and uninviting as any they’d been slogging through in the past hours.

‘This is it,’ Baker sighed.  He added something else but his words were drowned out by a violent thunderclap that shook the earth beneath their feet.

‘That machine of yours needs an overhaul,’ Pace cocked an eyebrow suspiciously.  ‘Take a look around.  I don’t see any sign of recent camping, let alone a research station.’

‘That’s,’ Baker said smugly, ‘because you’re looking in the wrong place.’  All around him, the group formed into a loose circle as the rain continued to lash at the high canopy.

‘Are you telling us that it’s hidden near here, somewhere?’ ventured Bailey.  Despite his size and physical strength, his injury and the trials of the past few days had worn him down.  He had no energy left for a drawn out search.

‘The research station was never...er...,’ he chose his words carefully, ‘…legitimately declared to the relevant authorities, shall we say.’

‘A secret base?’ said Sarah.  ‘What were they researching?’

‘Anyway,’ said Baker, brushing off the question, ‘here, in the Amazon, you must think of the forest, or jungle, however you see it, as a high-rise city.  Different animals live in different parts of the forest but they also live on different floors.’

All eyes immediately turned upwards, hands raised to ward off intermittent raindrops that found their way through the canopy.

‘More tree climbing, wonderful,’ Pace groaned.

‘That’s the spirit.  Now somewhere around here, probably on one of the older trees, there will be the bottom of a ladder.  Spread out and look.  We must find it before it gets too dark.’

‘And that gives us only minutes, so let’s get this thing found,’ added Pace.  His own experiences trekking through the jungle had taught him it was a mere heartbeat between dusk arriving and darkness falling like a solid mass.  If they still had a climb ahead of them, they needed to use the failing light as much as possible.

Luckily, Baker’s co-ordinates were spot on.  Once they knew to look for something on a tree trunk, it didn’t take more than a couple of minutes to find.  A shout from one of the soldiers signalled the end of the quick search.  Moving about twenty feet to join an assembling group, Pace noted the ladder to be far more modern than he’d imagined.  For whatever reason, possibly too many Tarzan films as a child, his mind had conjured an image of a single, worn and hairy old rope, hanging limply against a mighty trunk.

To his surprise, the ladder was made of black-painted, highly polished steel, and resembled an American fire escape on a New York tenement building.  The first length of ladder hung about six feet off the ground and stuck horizontally out from the trunk at ninety degrees, where it was hinged to the upper fixed section that was secured directly to the trunk.

A jump, grab and pull by Baker fixed it, the horizontal section dropping silently down in his grip until it clicked vertically into place a couple of inches above the leaf-littered dirt.  Ten feet from the ground, the ladder became encased in a tubular metal cage similar to the high ladders found on sky-scraping construction cranes or gigantic industrial chimneys.

The tree itself was huge and disappeared into the canopy high above their heads, as did the newly discovered ladder.

‘Impressive,’ Sarah said.

‘I say we get up there and find out what’s waiting for us,’ said Bailey.  ‘We don’t want to be messing around in the dark.’  He echoed Pace’s earlier thoughts perfectly.

‘Agreed,’ nodded Baker.  ‘Let’s go.’

Pace shunned his distaste for climbing and offered to go first.  Sarah went up right behind him.  There was little risk from enemy action in the canopy, so Baker’s men set up a perimeter and guarded the ladder as the civilians went up, one at a time.  Baker came after them, followed by his men.

Being encased in the cage lent a sense of security and they all felt strangely relaxed as they pressed on upwards like a column of thrill-seeking ants.  At well over one hundred feet the ladder ended, twenty feet shy of the very top of the tree.  A small steel platform had been constructed but it only held two standing.  Pace and Sarah climbed onto it.

‘Where’s the base?’  He’d expected to stop much lower down and perhaps find some shelters or a tree-house.

‘The climb isn’t over yet,’ noted Sarah.  She pointed to the rapidly thinning trunk that continued above their heads, where she’d spotted a single length of red nylon rope snaking up to the drenched, uppermost leaves.

Pace relayed the situation down to Bailey, to stop the grumbling and increasingly vocal New Yorker hassling him from below.  He, in turn, sent word back to Baker who sent a simple message back.  Keep climbing.

‘Where to?’ Pace snapped to Bailey, who looked up at him from the top rung of the ladder with a shrug. How did he know?  Wasn’t he stuck on the damned ladder too?

‘Just keep climbing,’ Baker’s disembodied shout drifted up for all to hear.  ‘Trust me.’

‘Famous last words.’

Before Pace could move, Sarah grabbed at the rope and used it to continue the climb.  She quickly disappeared from view, becoming lost within the leaves.  A wild period of shaking and trunk wavering was followed by a sudden stilled hush.

‘Sarah!’ Pace called after her.  ‘Sarah.  Are you okay?  What do you see?’

Her voice sounded distant when she replied but filled with relief.  ‘Get on up here.  We’re going to be alright.  Come on.’

Pace shinned up the increasingly flimsy trunk until he was able to push his head through the final scattering of leaves, out into the full force of a spectacular tropical storm.  Rain hammered onto his face and lightning flashed with stunning magnificence across the darkening sky, illuminating very clearly the simple truth behind Sarah’s words.

37

What Pace saw took a few seconds to sink in and he actually forced himself to blink hard against the storm, just in case the sight vanished before him.

For what he saw was a huge airship, shaped like a ring donut instead of the more traditional cigar.  The ring stretched over one hundred feet in diameter and stood some thirty feet high.  The skin had been carefully painted in various uneven shades of green and light brown, to camouflage it from snooping eyes in the sky above.

The strangely shaped gas envelope was stretched taut and looked to be in perfect condition, with no sign of any tears or leaks.  The ring floated about eighty feet above the treetops and sat fifty feet over to his left, but was completely invisible to anyone looking down on it, even by satellite, such were the specialist materials used for the envelope.

Plastic-coated steel cables sprouted from hard points all around the bottom circumference of the balloon, tethering themselves to a large disc-shaped structure that hung twenty feet below it.  The disc was as wide as the balloon and built to the height of a single storey; perhaps fifteen feet in uniform height across the entire disc.

It too was painted in a camouflage style, with the exception of the entire outer rim, which was made of a slightly tinted, clear material. Pace couldn’t tell if it was glass or plastic from where he gripped the dangerously swaying upper branches but it looked like a single, continuous passageway that ran right around the circumference of the disc.

A nylon rope bridge, complete with guide ropes for handholds, reached from the top of his tree up to a small platform built centrally into the underside of the research base.  The whole base appeared tethered by several more of the plastic sheathed steel cables, to the tops of a dozen nearby trees, including his, where each end was firmly secured with a metal bracket.

The trickiest bit was manhandling himself off the moving tree and onto the bridge.  Once that was done, the climb itself was fairly easy, moving up at about forty-five degrees.  The rain battered him but it fell fairly straight and he was soon standing on the solid metal of the platform floor, a little less than sixty feet above the carpet of treetops below.

The platform itself resembled a ten-foot square elevator car, bolted underneath the base, open to the elements on one side only.  A small hatchway was sunk into the roof of the platform and would take them, Pace assumed, directly inside the base once they were all gathered together again.  It was firmly closed and sported a naval-style, centrally positioned wheel lock.  Sarah was there to greet him, smiling broadly.

The platform was large enough to take everyone and they waited until everyone completed the climb over the rope bridge before thinking about the hatch.  Baker took charge immediately that they were all together.  Leaving two of his men to guard the civilians and the platform, he spun the wheel on the hatch, which moved easily.

Pushing it open, the hatch opened upwards ninety degrees before coming to rest.  Some form of magnetic latch engaged with a dull thud and it stayed open.  The hole it left was dark but a quick flash of Baker’s torch, inbuilt into the barrel of all the automatic weapons sported by his men, revealed the bottom rungs of an extendable metal ladder.  This one was made from aluminium and was quickly pulled down to the floor of the platform.

Baker went up first, followed by seven soldiers; the remainder of his command, not counting the two soldiers left to guard the platform.  They were gone for at least ten minutes before one of the soldiers reappeared and gave the go ahead for everyone else to climb aboard.  The two soldiers guarding the bridge were ordered to remain where they were.

The ladder climbed out of the platform and deposited the eager explorers inside a central chamber, no wider than the platform below.  Two doors broke the uniform smoothness of the metal walls, this time with standard door handles.  The soldier led them through one, into the innards of the base.  The single, circular floor was split exactly in half down the middle by a solid wall; the second door obviously led into the other half.

This particular half section housed a wall crammed from floor to ceiling with dozens of computer screens, satellite tracking hardware and a sophisticated array of communications monitoring equipment. The screens were dark, despite the power being on everywhere else.  It didn’t look like the kind of equipment that a weather station should have.

A kitchen-cum-dining area occupied the right side.  The floor was covered with some type of cream coloured resin flooring that matched the cream paint covering all exposed metal surfaces, including the interior wall.  A few simple tables were screwed to the floor, as were the seats in front of each of them.  The kitchen was well appointed and boasted stainless steel surfaces, in-built cooker, refrigerator, freezer and microwave oven.

An archway led out into the observation ring.  Several small lights were countersunk into the smooth ceiling plates and were already switched on, casting a bright, cheery glow throughout the room.  The sky outside the rim looked black now that darkness had fallen completely.  The fireworks display had ceased and static beads of water on the glass told Pace it had finally stopped raining too.

It was so nice to see familiar symbols of civilisation again that the surviving competitors investigated every nook and cranny of the empty research station with the enthusiasm of young children on a treasure hunt.  There wasn’t much to see though.  The second half had been set aside as living quarters and housed five sets of neatly made double bunk beds, two shower cubicles, three toilets and a tiny, three-machine gymnasium.  Everything was in working order and was so tidy that Sarah half expected a horde of angry scientists to appear at any time to berate their uninvited guests.

A quick check of the kitchen area turned up cupboards bursting with tinned, dried and packet foodstuffs.  The power had been off when Baker entered but he’d found the controls to a small generator easily enough, which was why the lights were on.  Designed to be charged by hundreds of experimental solar panels; flexible and sewn into the upper skin of the gas envelope, the charge was showing as full.  The refrigerator and freezer were both empty but a large, one hundred gallon tank of fresh water bolted above the kitchen sink was still full.

It was a fantastic piece of technology and they all started to feel safe at last.  With armed men guarding the only way in or out, Sarah found her shoulders dropping as pent up tension drained from the muscles around her neck.  She wore an easy grin as Baker charged her with the task of organising everyone, allocating bunks, and starting an inventory of the kitchen supplies.  He didn’t expect them to be there long enough for it to matter but a good soldier always had a handle on his supplies.

Next, he led Pace out into the observation rim, leaving Bailey to rustle up a hot meal for them all.  The rim was built of clear, reinforced plastic and offered magnificent views of the canopy, beneath and all around; in daylight you would be able to see for miles. As it was, the moon hung low in the night sky and a scattering of stars lit the undulating living carpet with eerie shadow, proving the rain clouds were moving on.

They walked the entire length of the rim, stopping at a small metal ladder that led up to a closed hatch.  Up Baker went, popped the hatch, and Pace followed, finding himself standing upon the roof of the base, ensconced within a similarly transparent tinted-glass corridor.  It ran across the roof and into a small glass dome in the centre, again tinted to prevent glare and sunlight reflecting off it.

The central dome was obviously designed as a mixture of relaxation area and command centre.  There were several large, comfortable chairs set before computer consoles and telephones set on a couple of desks, as well as several sofas and armchairs.  The floor was richly carpeted and a large flat-screen television sat nearby.

Looking up through the glass, Pace marvelled at the stars he saw twinkling down through the hole in the centre of the ring-shaped envelope.

‘This is a wonderful machine,’ he enthused, ‘but I wonder why something so advanced has been tied up here, in the middle of nowhere.  Any ideas?’

‘You are smart enough to know I can’t answer that,’ replied Baker.  ‘Just be grateful that it’s here.  The others can eat and sleep in safety while I work out the flight controls.’

‘Flight?’

‘Well, it didn’t just get here all by itself,’ sighed Baker wearily, as if having to explain basic addition to a mathematics graduate.  ‘These things are designed to be flown to a major airport, or shipped to a main port, in sections.  Then the envelope is filled with helium and the whole rig is flown to wherever it is needed.  I’ve seen one before, in the Arctic, when I was there last year.  These things can go anywhere and they don’t have the restrictions of a land base.’

‘Like a gigantic mobile home,’ Pace said simply.  ‘And you say it can be flown?’

‘It’s designed to do just that.’

‘How?  I saw no engine, or propeller.’

‘Nothing so simple.  The envelope has a ring of tiny fans built into the skin, running around its entire circumference.  There are over eighty of them and they can each pump out a decent blast of air when you ask them to.  That’s why we aren’t moving even an inch,’ he added wisely.  ‘The computer controls every individual fan, making adjustments in each of the eighty, second by second, to keep the balloon stationery.  I’ve heard they can cope with winds up to force five with no problem.  The rig is tethered to the trees as a back-up for when the power is down but it needn’t be – the fans are holding us on station now that the power is back up.’

‘So, by shutting off some fans, and blowing fully with others,’ said Pace, ‘the whole airship can be moved under power.’

‘Exactly.  And they don’t need a crew.  This one has obviously been set up for people, but you can pre-program these things to take themselves anywhere in the world.  Totally self-sufficient, they can stay aloft indefinitely.’  Baker scratched his head, looking phased for the first time.  ‘Now, all I need to do is sort out the controls.  They aren’t typical flight controls, you see.  It’s all number crunching and button pressing.  I prefer an old-fashioned joystick myself.’

‘Well,’ ventured Pace slowly, ‘if you do this cloak-and-dagger stuff for a living, and you’ve seen one of these before, then this isn’t something a civilian research outfit would use?’  Baker eyed him, giving nothing away.  ‘And don’t tell me its purpose is to monitor the weather.  I noticed some very advanced technology downstairs.  Tracking and monitoring systems.  This is a surveillance tool, a spy in the sky.’

‘That’s McEntire’s business,’ Baker replied.  ‘I don’t ask unnecessary questions and neither should you.  Someone must have been here at some time because the remote systems don’t go so far as to fasten ground tethers, or to fix ladders into tree trunks,’ he admitted. ‘Whoever it was could have left yesterday, or a year go, I don’t know   Anyway,’ he glanced at his wristwatch, ‘I have to get the control systems online.’

He settled into a chair by an impressive-looking piece of equipment, complete with touch screen operation, and lost himself in its complexities.  When he didn’t speak again, Pace guessed that he’d been dismissed and went back down to rejoin the others.

Sarah had hit the showers by then and was now dressed in a clean, if unflattering, green boiler suit that she’d found in a bedroom locker; sleeves and legs rolled up to the correct length for her.

A wonderful smell assailed his nostrils as he walked across to the kitchen.  Bailey showed a hidden culinary flair by turning tins of red kidney beans, chopped tomatoes, chilli powder and dried soya mince into a chilli dish fit for royalty.  He had boiled up a huge pot of it on the hob and served it to the hungry hordes with some dried crackers and mugs of warm, fresh water.

Baker came down towards the end of the meal.  He spooned a large portion on to a plate and ate quickly, issuing orders for his men between mouthfuls.  He sat in between Sarah and Bailey but didn’t speak to either of them until he’d sorted everything he needed to with his men.

‘I managed to get the navigation and communications systems up and running,’ he said eventually, to nobody in particular.  ‘Everything seems to be in working order.  I also contacted McEntire again.  He’s given us new extraction co-ordinates, about fifty miles from here, on a northerly heading, up towards the Venezuelan border.’

‘Did my father say anything else to you?’ asked Sarah.

‘He did miss, yes.  Apparently the revolt is all but crushed.  Government troops are back in control at nearly all the key buildings that were simultaneously targeted by the rebels, across several cities.  Your father said an estimated one thousand armed men took part, mostly soldiers from a single barracks outside Brasilia.’

‘And Cathera?

‘Oh, I’m sure he’s wormed his way out of it by now.  There’s no doubt that he’s behind the whole thing but proving it will be hard work for the authorities.  For now, I doubt they can touch him.’

‘Why is everybody so sure Cathera’s behind it anyway?  However nasty he is, are you absolutely positive it’s him?’

‘All sources point to him,’ explained Baker.  ‘There’s very good intelligence but it’s been gained covertly.  How much would stand up in court, even if it could be disclosed, I don’t know.’

‘So what good is that?’ muttered Sarah, incredulous at the thought.

‘That’s just the way of the world, miss.  But I’m sure the law will catch up with him at some point.’

‘How long before we can set off?’

‘I just have to program the flight course now.  Once the system accepts the co-ordinates, we can get going.  I can do it manually, if the computer lets us down, but I have no experience with this system.  We could all end up in Paris.’

‘How long then?’ Pace repeated his original question.  ‘I could help you with the flying if it comes to it.’

‘I reckon two hours, maybe three.  I am sure the automated pilot will get us where we need to be but I’ll call for you if I need help.’

This marvel of technology may have possessed the power of flight but the primary function of the thrusters was to provide stability.  Consequently, it floated towards their rendezvous like a lifeboat being paddled over a rolling green sea with a toothpick, covering barely eight miles every hour.

If they didn’t hit any more bad weather, Baker figured, the journey would take about five hours; a little longer than his original estimate.

Still, they were on their way and Sarah squeezed his hand tightly, feeling positive now that the worst was behind them.

38

Baker took them both up to the control room later and showed Pace how he’d programmed their course and how to control the balloon manually, using a small keypad set into the control chair armrest.  He still wasn’t too clear himself about the system and Pace wasn’t used to this kind of flying either.  Give me a helicopter cyclic any day, he mused, but ended up being fairly confident he could take control of the base if a need arose.

While they worked, Sarah disappeared briefly back down to rustle up some hot chocolate from a tin she found in the kitchen and soon they were all sipping at mugs of the steaming, sweet liquid as their new home floated quietly over the dark landscape.  Finishing his drink, Baker headed back down below to get some sleep himself, leaving them alone.

They sat together on a long sofa, with Pace’s arm laid gently around her shoulders, and talked about whatever came to mind.  Sarah brought up the subject of Amanda after a little while, tentatively of course, but she needed to know how he was coping with it.  What could he say?  Nobody could change the facts so he had forced himself to not think about it.  Fighting for his life recently had also helped keep her from his thoughts.

Promising to help in any way, she then asked him about his brother.  There was another sibling not seen since he moved to Australia, Pace thought bitterly to himself, and that had been nearly a decade before.  He knew he had a nephew and a niece because he had received photos and an annual Christmas card but he had yet to meet them in person.

‘Maybe you should go and visit your brother after Amanda’s funeral,’ suggested Sarah lightly.  ‘It will give you some time to get to know him again and you could play favourite uncles with the children.’

‘I plan to do just that,’ he agreed.

‘Very glad to hear it,’ she smiled, kissing him softly on the mouth.

‘I have wasted years of my life when it comes to family.  I know I can’t fix things with my sister, apart from giving her the best send off money can buy, but I can build bridges with David.

‘And I’m sure you will.’

‘You’ll come, won’t you, to Amanda’s funeral?  Australia is a long flight but I’ve heard it’s supposed to be beautiful.’

‘It is very beautiful,’ she said, with the certainty of a regular visitor.

‘I’d like you to come but I’ll understand if you’re too busy.  The McEntire Corporation will be in need of cool heads when this is all over.’

‘The company I thought I knew is obviously just a smokescreen for something I really know nothing about,’ she replied cautiously, as if unwilling to articulate the truth openly.  ‘I need to sit down and get some straight answers from my father but that little discussion, and the business, can manage fine without me for a few weeks.  Spending time with you, if we ever get out of here alive of course, is all I want right now.’

‘Of course we’re getting out of here,’ Pace reassured her, nodding over to where the ever-present Sten sat purposefully on a table.  ‘I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise.’

‘I think I believe you.’

‘I’m sorry you were dragged into this,’ he said.  ‘Your life is in danger because of me.  I wish you were a thousand miles from here.’

‘I don’t,’ she replied flatly.  ‘It isn’t over yet and, besides, you just promised to get me out of here alive.  I’m going to hold you to your word.  To tell the truth, even if I was to die tomorrow, I’m still glad I came looking for you.’

‘We’ll both live through this, don’t worry.’ He hoped it sounded more believable than it felt.  ‘I have to survive to get things sorted with David, and to make sure Amanda didn’t die in vain.  There must be something I can do in her memory, perhaps at the school where she taught.  A memorial garden, or a playground; something the kids will enjoy.’

‘What a wonderful idea,’ said Sarah, understanding that little bit more just what a good man he was.

‘I also need to decide how I’m going to spend my time.  After I help sort out the disaster that this race has become, there will be a film to edit.  But after that, I don’t know what I will do.’

‘You could always come and work with me,’ Sarah suddenly sat up straight, as though struck by a revelation.  ‘My father will fall over himself to find a place for you in the firm, I know he will.’

‘I don’t think your husband would be too impressed,’ Pace argued, but not too strenuously because he was feeling too tired.  If the McEntire Corporation was really the front for dastardly deeds, did he really want to get tied up with it?

‘I don’t care,’ she said.  ‘We are divorcing, if he likes it or not, so it’s up to me who I spend my time with.’

‘Still no love lost there then?’  It was nice to hear his most dangerous love rival remained out in the cold.

‘No way,’ she breezed.  ‘That part of my life is over.  I’m looking to the future now.’  Settling back into the sofa, she shifted around to get more comfortable and yawned widely.  Groaning, she rubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands.  Within a minute she was fast asleep.

Pace left her to her slumber and wandered around the control room, trying to think of something to do.  He was very tired himself but it didn’t feel the right time to rest.  His mind was as active as ever and he knew that danger was still out there somewhere.  At least the airship flew below radar height so the chance of being shot down by the airforce was slim.

He finally made his mind up to join Baker and Bailey downstairs, automatically slipping the Sten over his shoulder, and moving into the covered walkway, heading for the hatch.  Just before he reached it he noted a small latch set into the tinted glass on his right.  He tested it gently and it clicked, opening a small glass door leading out onto the open roof of the habitation disc.

Obviously some kind of maintenance hatch, Pace was through it in a moment and suddenly standing out in the warm night air.

Above him the clear sky in the centre of the donut-shaped envelope still twinkled with a thousand visible stars as he strolled slowly across the roof, stopping little more than a foot from the edge.  With no guard-rail, a fall would ruin everything.

The thrusters were working well, not that there was much for them to do in the near windless conditions, and everything was perfectly stable, although their creeping progress was clear in the painfully slow passage of the treetops below.  Pace started singing to himself; the famous song about being up on a roof, and settled down onto his back to watch the stars drift across the natural picture-window above him.  Just in case he drifted off to sleep, he moved himself away from the edge by a good three feet.

He yawned and stretched like a cat, revelling in the delicious sensations that working his aching muscles brought.  The roof was solid but felt very comfortable as fatigue inched his eyelids shut.  A fly buzzed at his ear and he tried swatting it away.

His hand hit nothing but they were bloody fast those things, his addled brain reminded him, not caring if another insect made a meal of him.  But the fly was a persistent devil, make no mistake, and it wouldn’t go away.

Pace waved his hands wildly, still not wanting to open his eyes or sit up again.  Finally, his brain decided that something wasn’t quite right and grumpily forced his eyes open to hunt for the soon-to-be-squashed bug.  Strangely, the air around him was clear and empty.  He could still hear it clearly buzzing and it took a full second for his brain to snap itself into gear and send him a disturbing message.

There was no fly.  It was the sound of an approaching helicopter!  They were not expecting help to arrive so it had to be bad news.  He was up and heading back towards the service hatch just as he spotted Baker come flying down the dimly lit glass passageway circling the habitat, snatching Sarah from the sofa and carrying her back into the passageway.  Suddenly awake and groggy with sleep, her legs and arms flailed in panic and a couple of terrified punches bounced harmlessly off of Baker’s sturdy frame.

Three feet still separated Pace from the hatch when not one, but two helicopters hove into view across the skyline, making a beeline straight for the base.  The peace of the night was shattered as the helicopters opened up on the airship with machine guns while still five hundred feet out.  Bullets whizzed overhead before the gunners adjusted their aim and scored hits on the habitation disc itself, bullets easily tearing through soft metal and plastic.

One of the helicopters drew closer to the airship; they were both old Hueys with open side doors and a gunner on clear show.  It dropped into a neat hover barely fifty feet away, with its rotor assembly chopping the air almost level with the roof of the disc.  Smiling to himself at the ease of the kill, the gunner took careful aim and poured hundreds of heavy bullets into the defenceless structure.

Moving over to the lip of the open roof, Pace knelt down and slipped the trusty Sten from his shoulder.  He worked the bolt smoothly and raised it to his shoulder, sighting the helicopter’s exposed rotor assembly.  Squeezing the trigger sent a stream of bullets smashing into the delicate mechanics and the range was too close to miss, with the remainder of his last clip scoring vital hits immediately.

As an experienced helicopter pilot himself, Pace knew the machine would not survive the assault but what he didn’t expect was to see the rotor blades fly straight off.  A lucky shot must have sheared a crucial retaining bolt because there was an almighty bang and suddenly all the blades were gone, whipping into the night sky too fast for the eye to see.

Grateful not to have been decapitated, he watched with satisfaction as the aircraft pitched forward and fell like a stone into the upper canopy.  Being heavy, it fell right through the thin upper layer and he heard it crash, smash and grind its way down to the forest floor.  He just began to wonder if the crew would survive the fall when a dull crump sounded from deep within the trees and a plume of dark smoke curled upwards to tickle the base’s underbelly. No, he thought, listening as the fuel tank erupted, that was their lot.

‘If you keep this up, I’m going to have to recruit you into my team of cut-throats,’ came a gruff voice from behind him.  ‘Good job.’

Baker had joined him on the roof, having dumped Sarah inside the relative safety of the stainless steel kitchen.  Spotting the glass service hatch on his return trip to the control room to look for Pace, he guessed where he’d gone and headed outside just in time to see the helicopter shot out of the night sky.

‘All things considered, I’d rather be at home.’

‘What, and miss all this fun?  I don’t understand you,’ Baker grimaced.

From down below came the distant chatter of small arms fire as Baker’s men on the lower platform valiantly returned fire on the second helicopter, which now stood off over three hundred feet, no doubt trying to understand the loss of its companion.  At such a safe distance, its heavy guns easily peppered the base and decimated the platform, the rapid muzzle flashes from its machine gun barrels jarring to eyes adjusted to the darkness.

Muffled screams of agony sounded from the platform and then abruptly died, as did the men who owned them.  Baker frowned into the darkness; he knew all of his men and had just lost a couple more very good ones.

More muzzle flashes split the night and bullets tore into the envelope.  The gunner waited for it to shrivel theatrically and send the base plunging into the trees but nothing happened.  Ten seconds of continuous fire later and the gunner was getting understandably annoyed.

The belt-fed gun was reloaded with a mix of standard rounds and tracer rounds, averaging one tracer to every three standard rounds, with the gunner obviously sure his sights were off and that his fire wasn’t hitting the envelope at all.

Satisfied with the change of belt he opened up with another brilliant burst, this time the multiple flashes from the barrel enhanced by red streaks marking the passage of every bullet.  Even though he watched his tracer rounds hit their target, the balloon shrugged the hits off and remained fully inflated.  He was furious.

‘The balloon is designed to be self-sealing,’ explained Baker, prepping his own automatic rifle as he talked.  ‘These stations are designed to be strong and the envelope has always been the weak point.  It wouldn’t do for a pointed branch, or an angry local with a rifle, to be able to bring the whole, multi-million pound station crashing down.  It isn’t bullet proof as such, but bullets will go in and travel out the other side without deflating the envelope.  The skin will keep sealing itself as long as there aren’t too many holes put in it at once.’

‘How long can it take this sort of punishment?’ Pace asked.

‘I don’t know,’ he conceded.  ‘Not much longer, that’s for sure.  It just isn’t designed to take a heavy assault.’

The helicopter was a dark spot in the deep blue of a starry night, clearly highlighted by the streaming tracer bullets that the gunner still poured out of his gun.  It was out of effective range of their own weapons, so all they could do was aim a dozen feet above it and hope their fire would reach.  Pace grinned as Baker handed him a box of ammunition, which he quickly thumbed into the clip before re-inserting it and snapping back the bolt.

Their automatic weapons spat angrily towards the helicopter but they knew they’d need a great deal of luck to do any damage to it.  The second they fired, their own muzzle flashes gave away their position to the helicopter crew, who suddenly clicked as to why their friends had fallen out of the sky.  Luck deserted the defenders as the gunner switched targets.

‘Scatter!’ yelled Baker, pushing Pace away from him and heading out across the flat roof at a mad dash.  Scrambling to his feet, Pace bolted the other way, trying to weave as he moved, hoping to throw off the gunner’s aim.  The helicopter’s heavy machine gun sounded again but Baker was too busy running to give any thought to who the bullets were hunting.

Pace ran for his life, hunching low and twisting for all he was worth.  Bullets peppered all around him in the darkness and, for a moment, he ran too close to the edge of the habitat roof.  He started to change direction when a massive concussion suddenly rolled across the roof like a tidal wave.

Shrapnel and debris crested the heated blast of air that scoured its way over the dome and lifted him bodily into its talons.  Pain stabbed across his exposed face and hands as he instinctively flung them up to protect his eyes.

Dazed, he found himself hanging several feet away from solid ground as the blast wave washed him over the edge.

Not being a superhero, his body succumbed to the force of gravity and he plummeted downwards, a cry of surprise breaking from his lips.

39

Pace’s flailing arm struck one of the hanging anchor ropes that dangled beneath the habitation disc and his fingers instinctively grasped it, yanking his shoulder agonisingly as all his weight was brought to a sudden stop.  His hands slid down the rope a few feet, burning his skin red raw, but he held on.

Ignoring the pain, he swung his other arm around and gripped it tightly with both hands, quickly slipping the snaking rope between his legs and trapping it with his feet, military style.  Safe now, he shook his head to clear his senses and allowed himself to steal a look upwards.

The sight that met his gaze filled him with renewed dread.  More helicopters had appeared and were pouring a withering fire into the habitation disc and the gas envelope, which had passed its damage threshold and was beginning to deflate, tipping the disc down at a thirty degree angle.  A crash was inevitable.

Within a minute, his feet were being dragged into the uppermost fronds of the canopy as the airship lost height rapidly.  He held on for as long as he could but soon he found himself dragged deeply into the treetops and the rope was wrenched from his numb, bloodied fingers.

His fall to the ground was broken by several small tree limbs and he luckily ended up landing in a deep, muddy puddle.  Winded, bruised and scratched all over, he staggered to his feet and checked himself over.  Nothing broken, not even a sprain.

A mile away, the stricken airship settled onto the treetops with a wounded sigh, like a great whale beached and ready to die.  The habitation disc dropped through the thinner branches until it came to rest about thirty feet off of the ground, tilted up at nearly ninety degrees.  Smashed beyond recognition, it resembled the wreckage of a doomed airliner.

Pace heard the crash and clocked the direction.  Without a machete, he did his best to get there fast but the section of forest he was in was fairly lightly covered with tall trees, allowing smaller trees, ferns and bushes to choke the normally barren forest floor.  The going was tough, and very slow.  Above him, the loud thump of multiple rotors woke all wildlife for twenty miles around, vibrating the ground and forcing tree trunks to shiver.

After ten minutes, Pace broke out onto the banks of a narrow stream, snaking a path through the foliage to the east and west.  He needed to head north but he realised it was impossible, especially in the dark.  He’d nearly lost an eye to several unseen thorns and vines, and to go on would have been suicidal.

He knelt down and splashed some cool water onto his face, feeling better immediately.  As he stood up, though, a cold metal sensation pressed against the side of his temple.  He hadn’t heard the soldiers rappel down over the roar of the low flying helicopters but, as he slowly turned, he knew the game was up.  Three purposeful looking figures now stood next to him.  He raised his hands.  Getting shot was pointless.  Maybe he could find a way to escape later.

Back at the crash site, a group of Cathera’s soldiers were surrounding the wrecked habitation disc and pouring small arms fire upwards, spraying everything and anything that moved.

Inside, Baker and the remaining survivors huddled behind whatever metal fittings they could.  A couple of his men had died in the crash.  There were only a few of them left breathing.  Sarah had managed to avoid any injury, and now clung to the refrigerator door for dear life.

Under normal circumstances, Baker and his team would have fought to the death but he was in charge of civilians and that changed the rules.  Although it went against every instinct, he shouted down that they were prepared to surrender.  Demands that they toss out their weapons were complied with.

Five minutes later, what was left of their little party stood battered and exhausted on the ground.

Locating a small clearing nearby, Cathera’s helicopter had landed and the man himself now put in an appearance, looking like a demented peacock in full military dress uniform, overly stitched with gold braiding and sporting a dozen fake medals on colourful, striped ribbons.  Like a faithful guard dog, Wolf stood at his shoulder.

At that moment, Pace was shoved into sight through the surrounding jungle, jostled roughly by his three minders.  Sarah made to go to him but a warning look from Baker stopped her in her tracks.

Wolf eyed his approach and a broad, twisted smile of satisfaction spread over his lips, pressed thinly together as he anticipated the infliction of pain to come.  ‘Ah, there is a face that I recognise,’ he sneered.

‘I should have killed you when I had the chance,’ Pace shot back sarcastically.  ‘It would have saved a lot of lives.’

‘That will teach you to be a bit more ruthless in future,’ Wolf laughed.  ‘Not that you will have very much time to learn that particular skill.’

‘I wondered how long the threats would take to come.’

A sudden blow came from the side and slightly behind, not particularly hard but with enough force to stagger Pace.  Wheeling around as he recovered his feet, he found himself facing Cathera; the smaller man’s fists were balled and a gleam of excitement danced in his eyes.

‘I hope you don’t mind, but I plan to kill you very shortly,’ he stated pompously.  There was no beating about the bush now.

‘Attacks from behind and at a distance seem to be your speciality,’ Pace spat.

Blood rose in Cathera’s face at the insult and he stepped forward again, pulling his fist back to land a second blow.  Pace stepped in to meet the attack and easily warded off the blow.  He started to move his other arm up to send his own punch winging through the damp air when Wolf jammed the muzzle of a Sig Sauer automatic pistol into his throat.

‘If he wants to hit you, you’d better just take it,’ he hissed evilly.  ‘Lower your hands.’

Pace slowly dropped his arms and sucked in a breath as Cathera laid into him with several further punches.  None particularly hurt but the feeling of helplessness fuelled the fire in his heart as he forced himself to endure the insult.

‘I could have you killed right now and there would be nobody to ever tell the tale,’ Cathera said, as he stepped back, his ego now satisfied by the red marks on Pace’s cheeks and the light trickle of blood coming from his nose.  ‘I would rather wait until I am ready but if you give me any excuse, I will forgo my planned pleasures of inflicting a slow, lingering death and have your throat slit.’

‘Kind of dramatic for a man who can’t even manage to fight fairly, isn’t it?’ Pace pushed.  ‘I am surprised that you have the balls to kill me yourself, quickly or slowly.  You are used to paying your lackeys to do your dirty work for you.’

Stars suddenly exploded in front of Pace’s eyes before a deep darkness enveloped him.  Wolf had brought the butt of his pistol down hard against the back of his skull, satisfied to see Pace slump, face down, into the mud.

Once he’d seen his nemesis fall at his feet, Cathera seemed to recover his senses.  He gave orders for everyone to be taken to the helicopters and led the way with an arrogant swagger.

They reached the clearing after three minutes fairly easy walking.  It housed two helicopters.  One was a converted Lynx that Cathera and Wolf had come in on, the other an old Russian assault troop carrier that looked similar to an over-sized Sea King; massive with a set of clamshell rear doors that sat wide open, revealing a huge rear hold.  The remaining Huey had vanished, heading for home.

Baker could not tell the make or model as he looked at it.  What he could judge was that it was easily big enough on its own to transport the two dozen or so mercenaries that comprised Wolf’s team.

In fact, it was a venerable MIL Mi-6 heavy lift and assault carrier; once the world’s largest helicopter, that Baker and his team were presented with.  Originally designed in the late 1950’s, it could cruise at 160 mph and carry a load twice as heavy as its own weight, or up to sixty-five fully-equipped troops.  Rugged, solid and dependable, this particular model had been flying since 1963 and could fly on for another fifty years, with right maintenance.

Baker’s party filed obediently behind him as they were jostled into the clearing.  The skies were ominously grey but kept their watery contents to themselves for now.  The air was hot and very humid and a background chorus of insect life clicked and buzzed in the sweltering heat.

Only four men had been left with the helicopters; the pilot and co-pilot of each machine.  When they saw the others push into the clearing, they darted inside their machines and began pre-flight checks; all too aware that something was coming their way that would arrive in about ten minutes time.  Blades began to spin as the mercenaries pushed the prisoners into the huge transport helicopter before following them inside.

Wolf and Cathera clambered inside the luxurious confines of a Lynx.  The inert form of Pace was dumped on the carpeted floor at their feet by the big mercenary before he threw a quick salute and headed off over to the MIL Mi-6 at a run.

The sight of Pace’s head lolling from side to side drew a muffled gasp of horror from the only other occupant, as Sarah was bundled into the back as well.

‘Don’t worry,’ promised Cathera.  ‘At least he cannot feel his pain at the moment.  When he awakes, I assure you that he will pray for unconsciousness again.’  He laughed at the fury in her eyes and the obvious frustration of being tied up.

‘We should get to the mine,’ said Wolf.  ‘We only have a few minutes to get clear.’

‘Of course.’  Cathera gave the instruction to the pilot and they were soon lifting off the ground, beating a path north-east barely ten feet above the trees.

40

For a corpse, Attia looked very healthy as his hands skilfully manipulated the helicopter’s control pedals and cyclic stick with the easy touch of a veteran, whisking it towards their target coordinates as fast as the sleek machine could manage.  Stranger even than that, perhaps, was his passenger.

As bald accountants went, he was a one-off original.  His adventurous spirit had drawn him to the murkier side of the McEntire business and his years of martial training in Hong Kong, where he was raised from early childhood, made him a valuable asset in covert operations.  Interestingly enough, his credentials; both botanical and financial, were genuine and he was equally at home handling a weapon as he was a fountain pen.

Seated next to him, Hammond watched the world flash past the cockpit glass and thumbed the safety catch on his M16 to safe mode.

The weapons they used in the field were usually the older sort, bought up on the surplus markets and thoroughly reconditioned.  So many M16s had been made over the past thirty years that tracing them, in the event that they had to leave someone behind, was impossible.  Also, the older weapons had proved themselves in battle and were often more reliable in poor conditions than more complex, modern firearms.

In case the landing was bumpy, he was taking no chances.

‘This is it,’ Hammond remarked casually.  ‘A few more hours and we can put this mess behind us.’

‘As long as we don’t make even more mess in the process,’ cautioned Attia.  ‘Cathera is a cunning operator and the complexity of his network has surprised us all.  I don’t think we have a clue what he’s really planning to do yet, so we must be careful.’

‘McEntire is always careful,’ Hammond replied.  ‘You know that.  Besides, how often do we know exactly what we’re walking into?  That just doesn’t happen in our business, you know that.’

Attia did know that. Being uncertain of an outcome was expected in the field, as was making difficult decisions on the spot that often led to human beings ceasing to exist.  Lying convincingly was a skill that all operatives honed, though he had still found it hard to deceive the other athletes on his team by pretending to die.  It had been necessary and necessary actions were often unpalatable in the clandestine section of the McEntire global umbrella.

They had been sent in by McEntire after contact was lost with the surveillance airship.  There was no mayday or any hint of why it had suddenly vanished, so they were on their way to the last know coordinates, flying as fast as they could from where they’d been on standby, close to the Venezuelan border.  Journey time could be measured in a matter of minutes.

A sudden, sweeping turn whipped the helicopter around the top of an unusually tall tree that erupted from the fairly uniform carpet of tree tops below the fuselage; the lurching change of direction threatening to tip Hammond from his seat.  The accountant just grinned and braced his legs against the floor, riding out the imbalance easily.

He never buckled up when flying on a mission, in case the aircraft went down and the seatbelt became a deadly shackle against escape.  His pulse quickened as the expected rush of adrenaline coursed through his veins; his mind telling him that the climax of months of clandestine work was barely minutes away – he had to be ready.

They had picked up Cathera’s helicopters as they were beating a path away from the scene of their attack, Attia noting their flight path on a secretly-developed, short range radar unit that had been configured to read down to thirty feet above ground level, leaving the fleeing aircraft clearly visible on a small computer screen set into the helicopter’s overhead control panel.

He eased the stick forward a little and twisted open the throttle a little further, easing pressure on one of the rudder pedals in order to swing them around slightly to match Cathera’s bearing.  The increased airspeed pushed them over the treetops at nearly two hundred miles an hour, which caused them to rapidly gain on their quarry.

Tom McEntire had been along for the ride earlier in the day, with his role as Cathera’s spy in the McEntire camp no longer needing to be kept secret.  He’d received an instruction to join Cathera and Wolf at a small airfield just outside Manaus and had smugly climbed aboard the Lynx, sure that his life was now about to get even better.

He would soon get to see James die, then be able to watch his estranged wife beg for her life at his feet.  His brain found itself suddenly addled, twenty minutes into the flight, by the sight of the sliding door being dragged open in midair.  A heavy shove between his shoulder blades had sent him flying through the open door to his doom.

Cathera didn’t even glance over as Wolf slid the door closed on yet another murder.  Tom’s screams barely started before he struck the ground, on the edge of a small, rocky stream bed, deep within the forest.

Unbeknown to her, Sarah’s divorce worries were now a thing of past.

Up ahead, Cathera’s team were heading towards an old, opencast gold mine, abandoned four years earlier and long since forgotten by the outside company that had sold the land rights to one of Cathera’s many front companies a few months after the last miner had headed off downstream.

When operating at its peak, tonnes of surface soil had been scraped away and washed with river water to reveal gold deposits; the deadly addition of heavy metals and poisons in the separation process having a catastrophic affect on the local river system and wildlife, leaving a trail of death snaking downstream for over twenty miles.

Now, overgrown and rapidly being reclaimed by the jungle, it was the perfect place for Cathera’s back-up plan to be set in motion.  Desperate and deadly, the psychotic Egyptian was quite prepared to unleash the unthinkable in a desperate bid to keep his dream of eventual power, and untold personal wealth, alive.

Barely six miles separated the two groups of weaving, tree-skimming helicopters when a small, dirty tributary suddenly flashed into view below Cathera’s helicopter.  A quick twisting turn and a brown and green expanse of open space on one bend of the narrow waterway opened up eighty feet below their whirling rotor assembly.  A collection of battered, disused shipping containers sat huddled forlornly at the edge of the open ground, closest to the encroaching jungle.

‘We can’t afford to stay,’ decided Wolf quickly.  ‘McEntire’s people will surely find us before we can complete the operation.’

Cathera had no idea just how close the enemy was, nor how fast they were closing in.  Despite that, he knew that his hired assassin was quite correct, which infuriated him.  All he wanted to do now was land, conduct some pleasurable torturing of the prisoners and then execute his escape plan.

‘You are right,’ he agreed reluctantly.  He issued some rapid orders and the helicopter dropped from the skies and settled on the soft mud close to the abandoned containers.  Wolf then dragged the unconscious form of Pace out of the aircraft and carried him across to one of the containers.  Sarah watched, horrified, as the men disappeared inside.

Wolf emerged a minute later, carrying Pace’s clothing.  He ducked down and ran back to the helicopter, forcing his way through the downdraft of the rotors.  Once inside, the helicopter rocketed back into the sky and, together with its companion, veered westward.

‘I locked him up and he won’t get far without his clothing, even if he does manage to get free before we return.  Too many dangerous things that bite, sting or scratch to try and walk through this kind of jungle naked.’

‘Good idea,’ congratulated Cathera.  The man was proving to be well worth his exorbitant fee.

Accelerating to maximum speed, Cathera ordered the pilot to ascend to two hundred feet so that any pursuers would get a clear radar reading on them.  He wanted a chase to move away from the mine so that he could double back later and have his fun, undisturbed.  The last thing he needed was for the force that McEntire was bound to send finding the mine, release Pace, and perhaps even foiling his plan.

With barely a minute’s flying time between the hunter and hunted, the weather chose its moment to change dramatically.  Within thirty seconds, the grey skies thickened and the cloud dropped down to smother the canopy, plunging visibility to zero.

With the low cloud came heavy rain.  Humidity remained high and there was no wind, just a steady pounding of water on metal, glass and plastic.

Attia flew on as if nothing had changed, continuing to monitor the instrumentation, keeping a close eye on Cathera’s flight.  He was slightly puzzled to note the change in height but it made no difference to the chase.  The only difference was that they now had to catch up to their prey and try to force them down without actually being able to physically see anything.

‘Do you think the weather is trying to tell us something?’ Hammond asked. ‘And do you think Sarah is in there?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Attia replied.  ‘It’s safe to say that Cathera has her somewhere close by.  She could well be with him, or he might have had her taken somewhere nice and safe to use as leverage at some later date.’

‘So, do we shoot them down or not?’

‘Not with missiles.  We’re carrying heat seeking, air-to-air hardware.  We could easily destroy them from here.  We’re in range but it’s not an option.  Everyone would be killed.’

Hammond knew the plan was to bring any aircraft down using guns, by targeting engines and rotors before calling in back up helicopters with men who could be sent down on ropes to finish off any survivors.  McEntire had given clear orders that Pace and his daughter; if she was somehow included, were to be given every chance of survival.  Unfortunately, the weather now made forcing targets down into the canopy with guns an almost impossible job.

They needed a new plan, and quickly.  That was why, a few seconds later, Cathera’s radio crackled into life.  Time for concealment was gone.

‘This is Rescue One calling unidentified aircraft, over.’  Attia hoped he was doing the right thing as he finished the sentence.  He repeated it again and was rewarded with a stern reply.

‘Rescue One.  Your assistance is not required, over.’

‘Copy that, unidentified aircraft.  We have orders from your government to render assistance, even if it is not welcome.  Please acknowledge and reduce speed to a holding hover, over.’

There was a long pause before the radio burst into life once more.  ‘Rescue One, we require no assistance and we will not comply, over.’

‘Unidentified aircraft, acknowledged.  Failure to comply will lead to consequences, over,’

‘Understood, out.’

The brief play of words had got Attia nowhere, other than alerting the enemy of their presence but he knew this was a surprise to no one.  Cathera would have been expecting them soon enough.

Having attracted attention away from the mine, the fleeing aircraft dropped low again, which put them at risk of running into a tall tree in the thick cloud. Attia was still able to track them but he wisely chose to fly higher, now that he could not see anything outside the cockpit bubble.

Levelling off at three hundred feet, he noted with satisfaction that the gap between the two sides had closed down to within five hundred feet.  Rain mocked him and the low cloud swirled thickly outside water-beaded glass.

Attia was flying a variation of the Aerospatiale Dauphin 2 variety, originally built in France but now manufactured under licence in several countries around the globe.  Favoured by both the US Coastguard and civilian companies for its sleek design, durability and high performance, these four-bladed helicopters had been modified by the McEntire Corporation for a more aggressive role, mounting a radar-controlled 50mm cannon in the nose and a pair of Sidewinder, air-to-air missiles slung beneath the fuselage.

In the cloud, however, their superior firepower was worthless.  As the distance closed; to within one hundred feet behind and two hundred and twenty feet above, visibility remained at zero.    Peering down between his feet, through the glass panels, Hammond saw only thick white emptiness.

Attia kept his eyes firmly fixed on the instruments.  The last thing he wanted was to bump into Cathera in the murk, in case he decided to alter course and height suddenly.  The radar told him the enemy remained flying in the same direction, at a little over one hundred and seventy miles per hour.

‘We have to do something to bring them down,’ Attia said firmly.  ‘We can’t chase them around in this soup for hours.  Our fuel reserves will force us to turn back in about ten minutes.’

‘Where do you think James is?  I can’t tell if these two helicopters we’re chasing are the same model, or who is in which.  We have to be sure before we shoot.’

‘Suggestions?’ growled Attia.  He was getting tired of waiting and he was more than a little bit irritated that his attempt to scare Cathera down by exposing themselves had failed miserably.

‘Go to thermal imaging through the gun-sight,’ Hammond suddenly commanded.  The thermal capability was normally used to track living targets that were hiding on the ground, so Attia shot him a look that forced a brief explanation.  ‘Use the thermal imager to scan both Cathera’s machines.  We might get lucky and spot something to tell us which one to shoot at.’

It was a good idea, Attia thought.  Flicking the relevant switch, he pulled on a flying helmet, fitted with its military style head-up display and gun sight.  Immediately, the thermal signatures of the previously invisible machines sprang into his eyes.

The hot engine exhausts from the fleeing aircraft muffled the readings because they were flying almost directly above them, so he carefully turned the collective handle and eased back on the throttle, descending slowly until he matched the enemy’s height and flew a parallel course.

Without the cloud, it would have looked something similar to two thoroughbred racehorses running, neck and neck, for the finishing post.  Through the power of the imager, however, Attia found his smile again.

‘First helicopter is smaller and it has four body signatures.  The one behind it is a big beast and has multiple signatures.’  He made a quick tally.  ‘Over a dozen, maybe twenty.’

‘Odds are that Cathera has the luxury one leading the way and the bruiser flies behind to watch his back,’ decided Hammond.

‘That’s about it.  What do you think?  I’m all for shooting the big one out of the sky.  If I’m careful, I can use the thermal imager to still try and target the engines with the cannon.’

‘If James isn’t already dead, he’s going to be in that smaller helicopter, with Cathera.  Sarah too,’ Hammond said.

‘We’ll just have to be careful,’ said Attia solemnly.

‘Then let’s do it.’

‘Okay. Here we go.’  Settling himself deeper into his seat, he flicked his eyes across to the huge heat signature radiating from the MIL Mi-6’s two massive 5,500 horse power Soloviev D-25V turboshafts.

The gun barrel in the nose moved in time to his eye movements and the crosshairs soon settled on the tail section, a few inches just behind the engine cover.  A red button on the control stick was slowly depressed and Hammond felt a familiar shudder as the heavy ammunition streaked away from the unseen muzzle of their weapon, spewing through the thick shroud and slicing the tail of the Russian machine neatly off.

Neither man had any way of knowing for certain whether Pace, Sarah, Baker or the rest of the McEntire team were on board the doomed helicopter.

As the machine cavorted wildly in its death throes, spinning and twisting, both men pictured the scene in their minds.  Attia took his finger off of the button knowing he’d taken a gamble that might have just killed  his own people.

Shaking off the same thought, Hammond urged him to close on the remaining machine.  Its pilot had seen their companion vanish from his own radar screen and was coaxing every last horsepower from the power-plant in a frantic bid to outrun a similar fate.  The Lynx was fast and bolted away from the pursuing helicopter, revelling in the speed it could build as it was tested to the limit.

Once upon a time, the fastest helicopter on earth, it started to pull away.  Attia had to gun the Dauphin’s engines for all they were worth just to match the velocity.  Going at full tilt, he could do nothing more than keep up with it.  Cathera had had a few upgrades added when the Lynx was refurbished and slowly, painfully, it began pulling away towards safety.

To make matters worse, a warning light began to blink red from the console to Attia’s left.  Fuel was running out fast.

Inside the Lynx, Cathera was a happier man than might have been expected.  The situation wasn’t as bad as it felt.  He just had to lose the attacking force and head back to the abandoned mine.  Then the plan could be carried out as if nothing had happened to disturb it.

Unfortunately, his pilot had already informed him of the loss of the transport helicopter and suggested that bullets or a missile might bring them down too, at any moment.  Cathera assured him that this was not going to happen.

With McEntire uncertain as to his daughter’s whereabouts, Cathera correctly guessed that their pursuer would be more careful with them.  Any other man might have been given to panic but Cathera was no fool.  Wolf looked more than a little worried but stared ahead into the gloom beyond the cockpit, trusting in the plans he had helped conjure to deal with this very eventuality.

Sarah looked as terrified as she felt.  Struggling to breathe calmly, she could do nothing but listen to her unwelcome companions talking about possible, imminent death and ways to avoid it.  She felt sick and wanted to vomit but swallowed the bitter bile back down.

Wolf dialled a number into his satellite phone and it was quickly answered.  Cathera eyed him, hoping that their carefully laid trap would do the job.

‘Ground team, are you in position?’ he asked.  The voice on the other end assured him that they were.  ‘We are painting ourselves now,’ Wolf added.  ‘Can you see the beacon?’  Again, an affirmative reply.  ‘Over to you then.  Just make sure you shoot at the right target.  We will meet you at the rendezvous point tomorrow, at noon.’  Wolf finished the call and nodded to Cathera.  ‘All is ready.’

‘Good,’ sighed Cathera.  Then, to the pilot.  ‘How far are we from the zone?’

‘Almost there,’ stammered the small, wiry man who had been bribed handsomely to betray his country.  He paused to wipe a heavy sweat from his brow with the back of a gloved hand.  ‘We will be over them in less than a minute.’

‘Excellent,’ smirked Cathera.

‘Only if our friends hold their fire for that long,’ countered Wolf conversationally.

‘They will.  Predictably, they will.’

*  *  *  *  *

Down in the bosom of the foggy canopy, two men braced themselves against the wavering upper fronds of the tree and checked their safety tethers.  The heavy rain made moving treacherous on the slippery branches and night was also fast drawing in; thickening and darkening the eerie cloud in a way that added an almost supernatural malevolence to a scene more suited to an old Hammer horror.

Ordered to this exact location a day earlier, they had climbed up into the upper canopy and set up a firing point.  A lattice of safety lines penned them in and protected them from a lethal drop to the ground over eighty feet below their boots.  Both men were experienced mercenaries and they did not complain about rain or heat; they were being extremely well paid for a simple little mission that didn’t even put them on a front line.

They could not hear the helicopters approach over the suffocating density of the cloud blanket stretching above their heads for a depth of over six hundred feet.

But, just as Attia had relied upon the marvels of technology to get a result a few minutes earlier, so too did the mercenaries.

The Stinger, shoulder-launched anti-aircraft system, was sighted and its own tracking system detected two contacts.  The contact at the front was emitting a slow, regular blip that flashed on the small LCD screen that one of the men had taped to the weapon’s side.

‘That’s the one we must not hit,’ laughed one man.

‘Not if we want to get paid,’ agreed the other.  This was just too easy, he thought, as he targeted the contact at the back and locked on.  A bright flash and the missile streaked up into the clouds, leaving the two men below to watch the show on their little screen.  With both aircraft almost directly overhead at that point, and flying very low, the missile was only in flight for five seconds before impact.

Unaware of the danger, at the same moment the mercenary was squeezing the trigger of the launcher, Attia decided they could not let the faster helicopter outpace him and escape.  Grimly aware of the possible consequences, he targeted the tail section of the Lynx and sent another stream of cannon shells punching through the cloud.

The Lynx shuddered under the painfully accurate onslaught and Cathera had the realisation that he was being shot down at exactly the same moment that the missile attack warning claxon sounded inside the Dauphin’s cockpit.  There was no time to say anything, or try to outmanoeuvre the missile – they were too low and couldn’t see where it was coming from.

Together, Hammond and Attia popped open their doors and threw themselves bodily out of the cockpit barely a second before the Stinger entered, announcing its arrival with a vicious explosion that tore the Dauphin to shreds, disintegrating it in mid-air and sprinkling the jungle treetops with ten thousand fiery slivers of metal, glass and molten plastic.  A few hundred feet away the Lynx died too.

41

When Pace regained consciousness, he found himself in near total darkness, in a small room where only the thin outline of a closed door spilled a credit card thickness of yellow light inside.  The room was some kind of storage area, he surmised.  As his eyes adjusted and his head stopped swimming, he noticed several shelves of tins and some large plastic barrels stacked in one corner.  The air was stale and musty.  Worst of all, he was naked.

There was no sound at all from the world outside the storage room as he shuffled slowly to the door and pressed his eyes against the top hinge, where a missing chip of wood about the size of a pea gave the most promising spy hole.  The room outside was a kitchen, he could tell as much by the small area of counter and the stainless steel sink he could see.

The sink was heavily stained and dented, as was the piece of counter; smothered with a thick layer of dust it had obviously not been used to prepare food for a long time.  Nothing stirred and he strained his ears, holding his breath, to try and catch the sound of any guard or other unwelcome visitor outside.  He heard nothing.  Uncanny, total and utter silence was his one companion.

‘He won’t have just dumped you somewhere and disappeared,’ Pace told himself quietly.  ‘He wants to kill you in spectacular fashion so he will be around here somewhere.  Time you got going.’

The walls were solid, leaving the door as his only escape route.

Testing his weight against it gingerly, he was pleasantly surprised to find it little more than a standard plywood internal door, with a single lock at the handle and, possibly, some kind of bolt security on the outside.  The door gave a little under the pressure and he was fairly confident he could smash it open with a heavy shoulder charge.

The drawback was that this would create noise and attract any nearby bad guys immediately.  He could try picking the lock but he was not a thief and had no experience there.

The door gave way with a splintering crash on the first attempt.  Managing to keep his feet, Pace found himself in the large kitchen.  There were no windows and the whole place looked like it had been deserted for months.  A small window, set high into the wall, lit the kitchen with a vague gloom, casting shadows into the corners.  Dust coated everything, with only fresh footprints on the floor having disturbed it and gigantic cobwebs curtained the ceiling with a gorgeously intricate billow of silk.

Not a single shred of cloth lay around and he silently cursed the thought of facing whatever lay on the other side of the door without the protection of clothing.

Only one door broke the smoothness of the kitchen walls.  Walking over to it, he pressed his ear against it and listened.  Again, he heard nothing.  There were no cracks of holes in this one, just a single knob in the centre.  Hearing no sounds of alarm or action, he drew a deep breath and slowly turned it, being rewarded with a subtle click as the latch released.

The world that flooded in was as alien to him as anything he had ever seen before.

The self-contained kitchen unit was actually a metal container, exactly the same as one hundred thousand others that crossed the oceans aboard huge ships every day of the year.  Unlike their cargo-bearing cousins, this container did not have large double doors at one end; instead it had a single door set into its length.  Designed to be dropped, ready-to-use, by helicopter to any destination, these types of containers were the backbone of mining exploration field equipment.

Painted in matt brown, it looked as drab as its interior.

Once, the jungle around it had been thick and lush.  Now it stood, raped and ravaged of its natural resources; gold.  Open-cast, the top layers of soil had been blasted away with jets of water, drawn from the meandering nearby river tributary, and channelled into sluices that emptied thousands of tonnes of precious dirt into the river, mixed with a healthy dose of arsenic that was used by the miners to separate gold from the background slurry.

The mine stretched for as far as the eye could see.  At some point, sensing no further financial benefit from surface washing, the miners had moved on and simply left their equipment behind.

The kitchen unit was not the only unit on the site.  Eight other units sat dotted around the kitchen, comprising the accommodation, showering and toileting facilities for the men that had once worked there.

The mine was deserted.  No sign of Cathera, Baker or the others could be seen as he scanned the horizon, sweeping his gaze from end to end several times.

Apart from the units; all painted the same drab shade, old hoses, pumping units and hand tools lay scattered around a landscape that resembled the pitted, muddy trenches of Ypres.  Massive, rusting runs of sluice-bed ran around the site like a maniacal giant’s marble run, only slowly beginning to be reclaimed by moss and low fern growth.

Pace estimated that the mine had been abandoned for over a year.  There was barely a covering of low scrub and most of the area remained brown and sullen.

Why leave me here?  It doesn’t make any sense, he thought to himself.  Cathera would gain nothing by dumping him somewhere like this.  Even though it was a deserted mine, he still had access to the river and would definitely be able to fashion some kind of boat, then make a damned good attempt at getting back to civilisation.  Where was everyone?

The light was failing fast, and a fine drizzle iced the scene with misery.  He had been unconscious for many hours but a few breaths of the cooling air served to sharpen his senses and kick start his mind.  Quickly, he set about exploring the units in the hope of finding something to wear.

The other units had been stripped bare by the miners, leaving only empty shells.  Even the showers and toilets had been removed.

Small windows in one of the accommodation units still sported a set of green and grey, striped curtains and a bit of careful tearing soon allowed Pace to cover his modesty with a loincloth.  In another, he found several pairs of old working boots discarded in one corner.  The first pair he picked up disturbed a family of angry scorpions but he finally managed to find an uninhabited pair that matched his size.  There were no laces so he tore more strips from the curtains to fashion some.

The rest of the units yielded nothing of interest and by the time he finished, darkness had fallen.  Fortunately, the sky had cleared and starlight flooded the mine with a silvery glow, so he was able to see.

Wherever Cathera and his cronies were, they would soon be back to get him and he had no intention of waiting around for them.  Despite the lure of settling into the relative safety of one of the units, he trudged down towards the river.

He was so used to the animal sounds of a jungle night that he felt perfectly happy in a place that would have seemed terrifyingly alien to him a few months earlier.  He sat a little back from the water’s edge so as not to invite attack by a lurking cayman or giant anaconda and forced himself to think more clearly.  He could not really go traipsing through the thick jungle with no torch to guide the way and no clothing to protect him from potentially poisonous bites and stings, nor could he set up temporary home in one of the metal units.

The thought of waiting until daylight to move was depressing because it gave time for Cathera to come back, but he saw no other sensible option.  If he’d found some clothing, he would have risked walking out.

‘You are really good at landing yourself in it,’ he muttered to the empty darkness, focusing his gaze absently on the beautiful shimmer that the moon was casting over the gentle water.

As his eyes adjusted more accurately to the low light level, he noticed a section of rusty steel piping off to one side.  He scooped it up.  It was heavy and would make a good enough weapon to fight off any of the local predators.  Against a gun it was as good as useless but it made him feel a little better about his chances of making it through the night.  Camouflaging his exposed skin with handfuls of stinking, sticky mud from the river’s edge, including his face and neck, he sat hunched by the river, watching and waiting; looking as if he’d just stepped out of a page from Lord of the Flies.

He half expected Cathera to appear at any moment and was genuinely surprised to see the first streaks of pink massage the pre-dawn sky without his nemesis putting in an appearance.

Leaving the river’s edge, he decided to check out all the containers again in the strengthening daylight.  It was as he was checking the last of them again, having still found nothing useful, that he noticed a narrow trail that ran off between two of them and disappeared behind a stand of tall ferns.

Curious, he made his way along the muddy track.  It didn’t go far, ending in a small clearing edged on all sides by jungle.  In the clearing sat another container.  This one was red and streaked with rust, yet the hinges glistened with grease and two new, heavy-duty padlocks secured the door tightly closed.  There had been a lot of recent foot traffic in and around the doors, as testified by the numerous boot prints.

Pace knew there were no tools around that he could use to overcome the padlocks but he also knew he had to get inside the container somehow.  Something interesting must be inside, he reasoned.

He didn’t care if it held half the national wealth of Brazil in gold ingots, he just hoped for some clothing, some food and maybe a radio of some kind.  The only problem was the padlocks, and it was a serious problem.  Toughened steel, specially tempered, would not give way under the pounding of a rock or a heavy branch.

‘Think, James, think,’ he muttered under his breath, smiling to himself grimly.

He sat for the best part of ten minutes, wracking his brains for a way to break open the padlocks.  Getting nowhere, he decided to have a closer look at them.  Amazingly enough, upon close inspection, the padlocks were not actually locked.

Both had just been hooked through and closed but they were of a type that sported an opening latch, so just closing them did not lock them.  Just out of hopeless interest, Pace tested one latch and the lock had sprung open.  Hardly daring to believe that the other would also be unlocked, he repeated the action and was rewarded with a second open padlock.

Sucking down a calming breath of the moist morning air, he carefully removed the locks and placed them down on the ground.  Half thinking that they had not been locked because the container was going to be as empty as all the others, he pulled open one of the heavy steel doors and peered inside the gloomy, windowless interior.

Immediately he reeled backwards, gagging on the evil stench of putrefying flesh that leapt out of the dark interior to attack his nose, burning his throat and making his eyes sting.  After a few seconds, he turned back to the open doors and allowed himself to adjust to the foul presence within.  Determined to see what was inside, he took a deliberate step forward.

There were multiple wooden crates, each about the size of a large suitcase, stacked up in the far right-hand corner.  In the middle sat six large boxes, this time made of heavy-duty plastic.  They were not stacked, but pushed together to form a neat rectangle; each box was similar in size to a large refrigerator. Next to them, a clear plastic five-gallon barrel half filled with white powder of some description sported a skull and crossed bones.

Pace’s blood ran cold.  Sitting on top of the barrel was a compact steel container, no larger than a sports bag.  Although small, the triple key locks and stark warning sticker drove despair deep into his heart.  The sticker on the case glowed yellow with visions of unspeakable disaster; internationally understood and immediately recognisable.  Yellow and black, with a circular and segmented centre, the warning sign for radiation stared back at him coldly.

Once secreted within the lead-lined nose of a doomed fighter jet, it had until recently held several kilograms of weapons-grade plutonium removed from the ex-Soviet missile arsenal.

Now freely available to terrorists with deep pockets, mainly via the Russian mafia, McEntire’s policy of negotiating with criminals and paying top dollar to remove the material from international circulation had, in this instance, been derailed.  It was never an ideal solution but the McEntire Corporation had already purchased and permanently recycled enough radioactive and biological material to save the planet from destruction a hundred times over.

If Doyle McEntire had been standing next to him, the little man would have doubtless explained that it was a system that worked, but one that had to operate covertly to prevent governments from being tainted with the legitimate truth that they were negotiating with terrorists.

Everyone was a winner, he would have argued; the criminals made money and the world paid a small financial cost to rid itself of large quantities of lethal material, albeit small only in relation to the cost that would be incurred cleaning up after a major nuclear or biological terrorist attack.

A quick inspection of the crates was helped by the convenient discovery of a small crowbar.  He had to move carefully around them to avoid stepping into a sticky puddle of decaying bodily fluids being excreted from the corpse that lay on the floor right next to them.

Dead for a few weeks at least, the heat and humidity had already ravaged the body.  Swollen and bloated with gases, several large splits in the exposed flesh of the calves pinpointed where the leaking fluids came from.  Up close the stench was almost overpowering but he bit down on his lip and concentrated on the crates.  The rather large woman was wearing knee-length khaki shorts and a long-sleeved, collared shirt, and she was beyond any earthly help.

The wooden crates held components and instructions; conveniently in English, for assembling small, six-foot miniature airships.  Complete with powerful electric motors and remote control sets, there was nothing sinister about them on their own.  You could probably buy this kind of thing at good model shops the world over, he thought.

Six airships, with batteries and helium bottles for filling the gas envelopes, were simply a variation on the toy radio-controlled aeroplanes that he’d used to fly as a child.  These models even came with their own tiny crew gondola.

The plastic crates were opened by way of flip catches on one side.  The first one he opened presented contents consisting of a large metal cylinder, with dozens of small holes in its exterior skin, resembling a cross between a large metal rolling pin without the handles and a cheese grater.  A heavy screw-thread at one end meant that it could be opened and a welded metal hook centrally placed on the lid told him that they were designed to hang vertically.

As his mind raced, a sinister idea began to form in the shadows of his consciousness.  It quickly grew teeth and barked for his attention.  Though he tried to push it away, the terrier would not be silenced.

‘Oh my God,’ he breathed, his stomach suddenly lurching with a sickening realisation.  ‘Utter madness.’

‘Not madness,’ came a voice from behind.  ‘Genius, I would say.’  The noise of the rain on the roof, together with his own total concentration on the crates, had allowed unwelcome guests to sneak up undetected.  Forcing himself to smile, he spun around neatly on his heels.

Cathera and Wolf stood just outside the open doors of the container.  Cathera wore a sidearm in his belt holster but made no move to draw it.  Wolf already held a stubby machine pistol, aimed low at Pace’s belly.

‘At this range,’ Wolf sneered, ‘I would cut you in half, so don’t think of trying to be clever.’

If Pace had not been totally drawn to something else, he would have noticed that both men were injured.  Cathera had a huge gash down his left cheek that oozed blood, and he held his right arm in an improvised sling to cushion a fractured wrist as best he could.  Wolf was a mass of cuts and bruises.  Unfortunately he’d survived the crash with no broken bones, unlike the pilot who had sadly snapped his neck on impact with the trees.

He did not notice them, or the gun.  She saw him at the same time and, as their eyes met, he seethed at her condition.  Wet, battered and bleeding as well, with her stained, muddy clothing practically shredded by flying glass from the crash and by a thousand vicious thorns that had eagerly probed her soft flesh during the stumbling trek through thick jungle at night, she had been forced to cover several trudging miles with her hands bound tightly in front of her and with her mouth gagged.

‘A touching reunion,’ mocked Cathera nastily, ‘but one that will have to wait.  There are things that need to be done and you, James, are going to help me.’

‘Like hell,’ Pace snapped furiously.  ‘If you think I’m going to have anything to do with this lunacy, forget it.’  He knew what Cathera’s response would be and he was not surprised when the pistol left its holster and the barrel of the gun swung slowly; not towards him, but towards Sarah.

‘You will do as I say or she will die,’ he promised.  ‘I have no time for games.  I will shoot her, so decide quickly!’  His voice rose to a breathless squeak as he revelled in watching Pace’s resolve crumble.  With Sarah there, the man would do as he was told.

‘Alright, alright,’ agreed Pace steadily.  ‘Just don’t hurt her.’

‘A braver man would have let her die and stuck to his refusal,’ hissed Wolf.  ‘You are pathetic.’

Pace noticed the assassin properly for the first time and eyed him curiously.  ‘I really should have killed you when I had the chance.’

‘It was a mistake you will definitely live to regret,’ agreed Wolf unpleasantly.  The gun never wavered and his finger rested on the hair trigger quite firmly.

‘It isn’t one I plan to repeat,’ warned Pace coldly.

‘Get your eyes off me,’ he snapped furiously, ‘or I’ll shoot you where you stand.’

Cathera watched the interplay with mild interest but he had to move things along.  He ordered Wolf to start unpacking the crates, taking the machine pistol off of him just in case he did decide to drill Pace too soon.  Then he moved Sarah into the dark container, roughly shoving her to the back and kicking her legs away from under her so that she landed heavily on her side, close to the dead woman.  Pace cursed him violently but the machine pistol cocked at her head forced him back into silence.

He had little time to ponder the thought.  Cathera ordered him to help Wolf assemble the model airships, one by one.  As the hours dragged on into early afternoon, a heavy storm set in overhead, complete with massive flashes of lightning that stabbed brilliantly into the earth’s vitals, followed soon afterwards by angry rumbles of thunder that shook the breath from their bodies, seeming to suck the very oxygen from the heavy, humid air.

Sweating rivers, Pace focused on assembling the models while he considered his options.  He ignored Cathera’s orders to stop talking to Sarah, knowing the man needed his help for the moment, and would not kill him unless he did something silly.  Pace told her about all the great things they would do when they returned home and generally tried to bolster her spirits.

Cathera refused to remove her gag so the conversation was strictly one way.

A little after three o’clock, assembly of the final model airship was completed.  They were too big to keep in the container once built and had been lined up outside in a row, as each was finished.  As Wolf and Pace carried the sixth airship out and placed it down on the mud, Cathera’s stern features broke into a grin of relief.

Keeping the gun trained on Pace, he ordered Wolf to free Sarah from her bonds, including the gag, and watched with wry amusement as she flung herself at Pace, burying her face in his shoulder and sobbing with a mixture of sheer relief and frustration.

‘Both of you deserve a drink,’ Cathera said, still smiling.  From a nearby bag he produced a bottle of water and tossed it to Pace, who caught it deftly.  Throat parched and tongue beginning to swell with dehydration, he opened the screw cap and offered it to Sarah.  Gratefully, she swallowed several large mouthfuls before handing the bottle back to him.

Planting a tender kiss on her cracked lips, he drained half of it without pause, enjoying the physical sensation of the liquid passing down his throat and pooling inside his stomach.

Revitalised, his mind still keenly sought out an opportunity to attack, deciding to try an old favourite.  Groaning and suddenly sinking to the muddy ground, feigning exhaustion.  Sarah knelt immediately by his side but Cathera was not easily fooled.

‘I warn you, Mr Pace.  I am not someone to be toyed with.  Please spare me the theatrics.’

‘I need a rest,’ he puffed, ‘that’s all.  I’ll be fine in a minute.’  He added some panted breaths and a magically conjured wheeze for good measure, hoping Cathera might at least grow unsure about the ‘act’.

‘Have some more water,’ said Sarah, her eyes imploring him to get better.  She’d already been through so much and she needed him to be strong; to give her hope.  Pace hated that he could not somehow let her know he was pretending but her obvious panic did add to the sense of genuine illness.

Although Cathera said no more and just watched, Pace noted that the gun barrel dropped a fraction and swung ever so slightly away to one side as the man subconsciously relaxed.

Wolf had been standing off to one side, drinking a bottle of water, watching Pace grow ill with fatigue and enjoying the sight.  ‘We need to execute your plan and get out of here.  There is no telling when government troops, or McEntire’s people, might find us.’

‘All in good time,’ Cathera soothed.  It was almost time to get rid of Pace once and for all but he planned to make the end as painful, in every aspect, as he could.

Suffering was required to make all the aggravation worthwhile and he knew just how to make the Englishman’s last few moments of life as agonising as possible.

Cathera instinctively glanced around, checking to see that there would be no witnesses to his crime, and this momentary lapse offered Pace a slim chance.

From a groaning, flaccid heap on the muddy ground, his body exploded into a frenzy of action.  Before he could react, Cathera felt a heavy fist slam into his jaw.

Stunned and reeling, he fell heavily backwards and Pace easily snatched the machine gun from his flailing fingers, wheeling around and cocking the weapon in a fluid movement that even defied Wolf’s razor-sharp reflexes.  Before Cathera hit the ground, Pace lined up the gun on the assassin’s chest and was hit by an uncanny sense of déjà vu again.

Same jungle, same enemy, same situation.  He just had a different girl by his side this time and a heart that was much harder.

Although his instinct was to squeeze the trigger immediately, instead he twisted and targeted the line of model airships.  They had not been loaded with their deadly cargoes yet and he planned to ensure none of them every got off the ground.  Keeping one eye on Wolf, who appeared completely calm and relaxed despite the sudden turn of events, he squeezed the trigger.

Instead of the airships being instantly shredded and reduced to splinters by dozens of steel-jacketed bullets smacking into them at virtually point blank range, all that happened was the sound of a firing pin hitting an empty chamber.  Unfamiliar with the weapon, Pace had not realised it was far lighter than it should have been.

‘Do you think me foolish enough to bring a loaded weapon in here?’ asked Wolf quietly.  Turning back towards him, Pace’s heart sank as he found himself staring down the barrel of a squat little automatic handgun, which Wolf had pulled from his pocket.  ‘This one, on the other hand, is loaded.’  Small yet quite lethal, the tables reverted back again.  Having no choice, he allowed the empty gun to drop from his hands and he took a step back as Wolf moved in to collect it.

Angered by Pace’s predicable failure to behave, Wolf rammed the butt of his pistol hard against the side of his head, as he straightened up from retrieving his machine gun.  He grunted with satisfaction as the man crumpled to his knees in the mud, swaying dangerously close to unconsciousness and only prevented from collapsing by Sarah’s supporting hands quickly thrust under his armpits.

As an ugly purple welter spread across his temple, she whirled on Wolf and screamed a string of abuse at him.  When his smile broadened into a grin, she saw red and spat at him; luck more than aim being responsible for the gob of spittle striking him directly in the centre of his forehead.

Stunned with disbelief, Wolf’s brain could not begin to fathom what she had done.  How dare she do that to him!  Instantly furious, the grin changed into a thin-lipped snarl.  Too late, Sarah tried to dodge out of his way but Wolf was too fast.  He grabbed her around the throat with his left hand and applied crushing pressure to her throat, cutting off her air and choking any sound that she might have made.

With her own anger suddenly transformed into terror, she found herself lifted right off of the ground as he began to slowly throttle the life out of her.

With impending death filling her eyes with pitiful dread, Wolf’s grin returned and he squeezed even harder as he watched her legs kicking helplessly in the air.  A warm thrill washed over him as he prepared a final squeeze that would crush her windpipe.

‘Enough!’ ordered Cathera urgently, picking himself up and shaking his head to clear his mind.  ‘Release her.’

‘When she is dead,’ Wolf retorted coldly, his eyes burning with icy excitement.

‘She is no good to us dead.  Not yet.’

Wolf did not care about her life but as Sarah’s twitching began to fade, a new thought sidled into his fevered brain.  Flinging her down onto the ground, he could not contain a sense of psychotic satisfaction at what was to come.  Lips blue, and more dead than alive, the dazed young woman lay sprawled helplessly at his feet, gasping for air to soothe her burning, oxygen-deprived lungs.  Turning to Cathera, Wolf suggested that he make himself scarce for a while.

Without Sarah to hold him up, Pace had fallen face first into the mud and only the dread of hearing Wolf’s words through a muzzy head spurred him up onto shaky hands and knees.  His vision remained blurry but he bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, forcing his sight back into focus.  Seeing Sarah’s condition gave him the extra strength he needed to stagger back up onto his feet.

‘I thought it was me you wanted,’ Pace gasped, swallowing down a wave of dizziness and wiping mud from his eyes.  ‘Some big, bad killer you turned out to be, eh?  Tell me,’ he added harshly, ‘are all your victims helpless women?’

Cathera had always planned to rape Sarah in front of Pace; to see the agony on the man’s face before he killed him.  Sure, he would play a game with McEntire first, but he would eventually kill Sarah too and return her to her meddling father in several pieces.  In his mind, he had planned to do the deed himself but now, sensing Wolf’s furious urgency, it made more sense to allow his pet killer the pleasure.

‘If you don’t mind an audience,’ Cathera said, ‘I’d like to stay and James will stay as well.  Will the show be a painful one?’

‘I always give my employer what they ask for,’ promised Wolf, with a mock bow.  ‘Stay if you like, just don’t get in my way.’

‘We will not interfere,’ agreed Cathera, smiling cruelly.

‘Speak for yourself,’ snarled Pace dangerously.  His head had cleared fully and he readied himself to protect Sarah.  He took a deliberate step towards her, stopping only as the pistol cocked in his direction.

‘We don’t need to do this now,’ thought Cathera suddenly.  ‘Before the show starts, we should get the airships hooked up to the delivery systems.  When they’re on their way, we can come back to this.’

Unwilling to wait, Wolf cast a hungry look down at Sarah and imagined tearing her clothing off and hurting her, over and over.  ‘I can make it quick,’ he suggested.

Cathera chuckled.  ‘That’s just it, Wolf.  I want it to last and I want James here,’ he waved a hand towards Pace, ‘to suffer for a long time.  It will be better if we wait, then you can take your time with her.  As much time as you can manage.’

‘I understand,’ Wolf agreed, obviously disappointed.  ‘Let’s get them flying then.  I plan a long, unpleasant performance.’

‘It will be the last thing you ever do,’ spat Pace.

‘We shall see.’

Cathera refused to allow Pace to get involved with the final stage of preparing his flying bombs.  The simple, donkey work had been fine but Cathera knew he’d try to sabotage them if he got the chance.  Instead he was walked at gunpoint back down the path that led out onto the main mining compound.  Once there, his hands were tied above his head, to a tall piece of rusting pipe-work with some of the heavy nylon rope that seemed to litter the ground all over the mine.  With her fate postponed, Sarah was also led down the path and tied to the same metalwork.

‘Enjoy the time you have left together,’ Wolf sneered, as he headed back up the path.

Pace had bitten back the urge to say something witty in reply.  Wolf had tied them both expertly and there was nothing either of them could do to free their hands.  With the large, ugly swelling on the side of his face, and the nasty, red hand marks around her neck, they looked a right mess.

‘You look beautiful,’ Pace said, meaning it.  To him, she would have looked stunning if she’d been wearing an old sack and had just spent the last month digging ditches on a chain gang.

‘Thank you, liar,’ she said lightly.  Fortunately she had been dazed when Wolf and Cathera had been discussing her abuse and was unaware of what was soon going to happen to her.  Pace chose not to fill her in.

He had to find a way to overcome the gun, two men, save Sarah from the unthinkable and prevent an ecological disaster.

‘We have to get free.  They’re planning to launch those bombs any minute now and we can’t let that happen,’ he explained quickly.  ‘Can you move your hands at all?’  Sarah tried again, twisting and pulling as hard as she could, but succeeded only in rubbing away the skin on her wrists.

‘No, I can’t.  Sorry,’ she puffed.

‘Me neither,’ he conceded.  Sarah watched Pace test his own bonds until his wrists began to openly bleed, marvelling at the look of dogged determination on his face.  In her heart, she felt a sense of hopelessness.

‘Are they really going to kill us?’ she asked suddenly.

Pace thought about lying but eventually nodded.  ‘They might try to get some ransom money from your father first but then they will kill us.  Men like that don’t leave witnesses alive.’

‘Honesty is a strength.  I like that about you, though maybe you could try lying to me at the moment,’ she sighed.  ‘You know, soften the blow a little.’

If only you knew, he thought.  ‘Okay, I’ll try.  They are going to frighten us a bit and then send us both home in one piece.  Feel better?’

‘Much, thanks.’

Back up the muddy path, Cathera and Wolf had fixed the small delivery systems beneath each six-foot gas envelope.  Although Pace had time for a quick look at the release cylinders, he’d been lucky enough not to try to unscrew the ends.  Each cylinder had already been loaded with its multiple, lethal cargo, and sealed.

Once hooked up to a specially adapted eyelet on the base of the fake gondola, each machine was ready.  Remote control units had been supplied with the model airships but they were surplus to requirements.

Cathera had paid handsomely to have the airships modified before being re-packed and brought down to the mine.  Normally empty passenger gondola was now fitted with a powerful computer and associated sensors, designed to trigger release and detonation mechanisms at the appropriate times along a pre-programmed flight-path.

One fact was set in stone.  Once started on their flights, the airships could not be recalled.

42

The sound of multiple electric motors whirring into ominous life told Pace that their time had run out and still he had been unable to free either himself, or Sarah.  Helplessness fuelled a growing sense of desperate anger but be forced himself to stay calm.

Sarah had gathered from the men’s conversation that the airships were designed to explode but she had not seen the stores of radiological and biological material inside the container, left over from filling the cylinders.  She had no idea yet how disastrous it would be if the model blimps were allowed to reach their destinations and detonate.

She asked him about it and he explained what he had seen, watching the colour drain from her face as the meaning of his words sank in.

‘You mean that he is going to detonate radioactive material up in the air and cover the rainforest?’ she asked incredulously.  ‘How can he do that?  Why would he?  What can he gain from polluting the wilderness with radiation?’

‘I don’t know,’ answered Pace truthfully.  ‘And I don’t think that’s important right now.  Whatever his reasons are, he plans to do it and those innocent children’s toys back there are about to be used to do the job.’

‘We have to stop him,’ decided Sarah, staring wildly about for the hundredth time to find some way of escaping her bonds.

‘You’re right, and we will, somehow,’ he assured her.

Unaware of the one-way nature of the flights, Pace’s eyes suddenly flicked skywards as the first of the six models lifted into view above the treetops, laboriously struggling for altitude and appearing as if it was carrying a small, narrow beer barrel slung beneath its gondola.  Slowly, surely, it reacted to its internal computer and circled as it gained height until it was barely a speck in the grey, cloud-filled sky, levelling off at eight hundred feet and nosing off on a course to the south-west.

Within ten minutes it had been joined in the air by its five companions; each one tracking a pre-determined course that steered it out from the mine.  Cathera had programmed their courses to resemble the spokes of a wheel, with the mine being the central point.  The six vehicles would fly out in all directions, to a distance of ten miles, before releasing their cargo and detonating.  The area covered would be extensive; the ecological damage horrendous.

While they were still watching the last of the dots fade into the distance, Wolf and Cathera appeared at the bend in the path and approached them at a leisurely stroll.  Cathera was smiling broadly as he made a quick call on his satellite phone, using his good arm.  He made no attempt to disguise the content from his prisoners as he called in his emergency extraction helicopter, parked on top of a large, specially converted river boat seventy miles away.

With the engines already idling, it would be at the mine within the hour.  The slow speed of the airships gave them each a flying time of two hours to reach their target areas, so there was plenty of time to have some fun yet and still get well clear of the blast zone in good time.

‘You are too late to stop me,’ he beamed, pausing to stroke Sarah’s wet, bedraggled hair as he drew level with them.  He shrugged indifferently as she angrily shook off the offending hand.

‘Get your hands off me!’

‘It isn’t my hands you should be worrying about, Miss McEntire.’

She glanced over at Pace, eyes questioning him.  He fixed her gaze and smiled encouragingly.

‘Now, I think it is time that my associate here,’ Cathera jerked a thumb towards Wolf, ‘thinks of a really unpleasant way for you both to spend your last few minutes.’

‘You don’t need to hurt Sarah,’ Pace injected evenly.  ‘It isn’t her you want to hurt.  She’s far more valuable to you unharmed, you know that,’ he added.  ‘Take her out of here with you.’

‘Maybe, maybe not.  I haven’t decided yet,’ said Cathera.  ‘But, for now, I want to watch you squirm.’

‘Then do what you must to me.  Leave Sarah out of it.  Come on, Cathera,’ he hissed.  ‘It’s me you want, so get on with it.’

‘James, no!’

‘Stay out of this, Sarah.  It will be okay.’

‘She’s all yours,’ Cathera said to Wolf, ignoring Pace’s plea.

‘No!  Damn you, leave her alone!’

Wolf stepped up to the hanging prisoners with a look of professional interest ingrained into his features.  The sexual thrill and necessary arousal would come with the infliction of pain; it always had, so his mind began to coldly plan the sequence of degradation that he would inflict upon her soft body, mindful that the main intention was to cause Pace as much emotional trauma as possible.

The brief red shorts and matching crop top that she still wore were stained, torn and dirty from trekking through the forest, and her sandals had long since been discarded.  Hanging before him, helpless, she could do nothing but watch as he stepped closer, reached out a hand and gripped the thin material of her top, ripping it from her body so swiftly that Pace’s string of threats did not even have time to form on his lips.

Shocked, and suddenly all too aware of what was about to happen, Sarah bravely fought back tears and managed to look Wolf in the eye, trying her best to seem strong.  Her strength sapped almost immediately when he began to stroke the skin of her bare breasts, caressing them ever so slowly, one at a time.

He paused at each nipple and gave it special attention, tweaking and pinching the sensitive spots until they peaked through overload of sensation rather than any interest.  Although she valiantly struggled to twist out of his grip; first one way and then another, it was useless.  Eventually, she stopped trying and hung there, submissive in resignation.

‘I must compliment you on a beautiful body, young lady,’ offered Cathera.  ‘You were a very lucky man, Mr Pace.’  His use of the past tense was very deliberate.

‘You are both going to die in agony, long before I meet my maker,’ Pace prophesised bitterly.  Lava seethed inside him and he strained fruitlessly at the ropes like a dog on a leash, ignoring the pain and the blood that started to flow freely down his bare arms.

‘Just enjoy the show.  Watch your lover shamed before your eyes.  I want her pain to be the last thing you feel.’

Wolf looked over at Cathera who, slightly breathless now, gave an almost imperceptible nod.  Nodding back, Wolf dropped to his knees in front of her and reached out for her shorts.  Unfortunately for him, it was only Sarah’s hands that were tied and the sight of him dropping level with her hips stung her back into fighting action.

As his hands reached out for her, she swung herself back out of his reach and then threw her legs forward again, swinging by her tied hands as hard as she could and delivering a hefty double-footed kick squarely in his stomach.  Caught off-guard, Wolf took the kick well but it overbalanced him and sat him back down on the muddy ground with a jarring thud.

‘Stay the hell away from me!’ she screamed at him, venting herself at the top her lungs, in a voice that would have been heard a mile away.  ‘Stay away!’

She was not as lucky the next time.  Springing to his feet, Wolf slammed a fist into her stomach and as she gasped for air, her shorts and underwear joined her top in a torn heap on the ground.  Totally naked, every centimetre of her soft skin clearly exposed to the afternoon air, she slumped from her wrists, groaning with pain.

The next few minutes were the most hateful Pace could ever have imagined.  The killer toyed with Sarah, mixing periods of gentle touching with sudden outbursts of violent slapping, pinching and pummelling.  Her fair skin rapidly became marked with red blotches and angry welts as he abused her.

At the start she screamed out at every blow, her own cries only drowned out by Pace’s bellowing.  He threw himself forward as he frantically tried to break his ropes, over and over; nearly breaking his wrists each time.  He didn’t care, nor did he feel the pain.  He had to get to her.  He had to stop her pain.  Tears of bitter frustration flooded down his face as the torture went on.

Wolf kept up the beating for a while longer before finally stepping back and pulling out a small knife from his belt.  Reaching up, he sliced through the ropes and caught Sarah as she collapsed into his arms.  Bleeding from cuts to her lips and no longer able to understand the events going on, her mind decided to retreat from the physical agony and allowed her the blessed relief of unconsciousness.

Laying her on her back, Wolf unceremoniously threw her legs apart and paused just long enough to savour Pace’s impotent fury before reaching down and freeing himself.  Pace reviled at the sight, knowing he could do nothing to stop Sarah being brutally desecrated.

‘About time she had a real man, wouldn’t you agree?’ Wolf spat cruelly.  Whereas Amanda’s murder had been faked to look like rape, this time Wolf was perfectly happy to commit the actual act.  His professional need to ensure that he never left his own DNA at the scene of a job wasn’t necessary here.  Nobody would be able to enter the area for so long after the bombs went off that Sarah’s body would have long since turned to dust.

‘Do it,’ piped up Cathera.  He remained sitting on the ground a few feet away, his own perverse nature thoroughly enjoying the moment.  Penetration, when it came, was swift and brutal.  But it was not one that any of them had foreseen.

Instead of forcing himself upon his unconscious victim, penetration consisted of a bullet neatly slicing through the ropes holding Pace’s wrists to the pipe-work.  As Pace was already in the process of repeating one of his mad lunges towards Wolf, both men were surprised to find him suddenly free, with his forward momentum bringing him crashing into Wolf just as the killer was about to lower himself into position on top of Sarah’s inert body.

Although the bullet had freed his hands from the pipe, several strands of the nylon rope still looped around his wrists, keeping his hands locked tightly together.  Elated to finally be able to act, Pace moved like a blur.

Wolf had placed his knife down on the ground so he could focus on the coming act of savagery.  Pace snatched it up, twisted nimbly on the spot and brought the serrated blade flashing down in one ferocious movement.  Locking eyes with Wolf, Pace noted them widen as a terrible message charged up to the killer’s brain.

Wolf opened his mouth to scream.  The agonised shriek sounded from his throat at exactly the same moment that his rigid manhood, neatly sliced off at the base, dropped silently to the ground between his legs.  A firework display of bright red sprayed for several feet in all directions.

His hands automatically flew down to his stump but blood continued to gout from between his fingers as he sank to his knees, unable to cope with the sudden onslaught of indescribable pain.  Howling and screaming, Wolf crumpled down next to Sarah, thrashing about like a freshly caught salmon yet still clutching his hands between his legs.  Blood covered everything.

Every ounce of hatred drained out of Pace as he watched Wolf’s life pumping out onto the mud all around them.  The screaming went on and on until Pace’s own sense of humanity resurfaced.  Ignoring Cathera, who remained sitting down and wore a mortified look on his face, Pace leaned down and grabbed Wolf’s pistol from his loose grip.

Without giving the matter a second thought, Pace stepped over to the prone, writhing assassin and pumped two bullets into the back of his head, shooting two-handed because of his bonds.  If he’d known the truth about Amanda’s murder, he might have let him suffer for longer but he would not find out the truth until much later.

As the echoes of the screaming and the gunshots faded from the air, an eerie silence descended over the mine.

‘I think that settles the matter,’ came a familiar voice from over his shoulder.

Turning slowly away from the body, Pace found a watery smile for Baker.  The veteran soldier looked down at Wolf as another familiar face stepped into view from where he had been standing behind Baker. Hammond was not sure of the reaction he would get from Pace because he hadn’t had any contact with him since having to ditch Cosmos.

At the time, he knew he might have been condemning all his team mates to death, especially as he had last left Pace gravely ill in their little shelter, but he’d had a vital mission to complete.  Everyone, including himself, had been considered expendable in the hunt for the radioactive cargo.

‘You look awful, both of you,’ Pace ventured, unsure about his own feelings towards the bald accountant.  He was glad they had turned up when they did, so an overwhelming sense of relief was allowed to prevail.  Both men were scratched and battered from their separate crashes and subsequent slog through the forest.  The M16 in Baker’s hand was the only weapon visible.

While Baker reacquainted himself with Cathera, now pale and cowed after the drastic switch of power, Pace lovingly scooped Sarah up from the ground along with her clothes and carried her up the path, back to the open container.  Once inside the shelter of the huge metal box, he laid her down and gently dressed her.  She remained mercifully unconscious for the whole time.

The heat and humidity was at its peak at that point, so he had no need to try and cover her.  Instead, he settled her down onto her side, pillowing her head with one of her own arms.  Kissing her softly on the cheek, he apologised for not being able to spare her the ordeal she had just suffered, before leaving her and rejoining the others.

‘I don’t know your story,’ he said to Hammond when he reached them.  ‘I know Baker would not have allowed you to live if you had betrayed us, so I’ll take it on trust that you have a good story to tell me.  But that can wait.  For now, follow the path up around those bushes.  You’ll find a large shipping container.  Sarah’s there, resting.  Guard her.  Here,’ he tossed Wolf’s handgun to him.  ‘Just in case.’

‘Okay, James.  But there is a story to tell, so don’t judge me yet.’

The truth was that he’d been ordered to make his way to a river extraction point so McEntire could get him out by native canoe, with the help of a friendly local guide.  The others were expendable in Doyle McEntire’s eyes at that point but not someone as prized to the organisation as him.  The boat only held two people anyway.

It had meant sapping Cosmos and leaving them to their own fate, and he had hated to do it, but he had his orders.  There was more to it than that but he needed time to sit with Pace and explain things properly.  He hoped he would get the chance to set the record straight but he knew it would be hard, especially as Cosmos and Ruby had been killed.

‘If I was that way inclined, I’d have shot you too,’ Pace said truthfully.  ‘Now move.’

Hammond hurried away to take up his sentry duty while Baker and Pace quickly exchanged news.  Neither man paid much attention to Cathera.  Unarmed, and with one arm in a sling, he posed no threat to them.  The airships, on the other hand, threatened to destroy them and much of the surrounding rainforest within the next ninety or so minutes.

Baker told him about the helicopter pursuit and the disastrous end for all of the machines.  He did not tell Pace about Attia not surviving the fall through the trees, not mentioning his name so as not to open a can of proverbial worms.

He related the tale of how he had survived the crash, after Hammond had shot down the transport helicopter.

No one else onboard had survived for more than a few minutes due to the severity of the injuries sustained.  Other helicopters had appeared above his crash site and, unsure which side they belonged to, he had struck out into the cover of the deep jungle, almost bumping into Hammond after a mile or so, the accountant having managed to survive his freefall through the trees.

Pace had gone through the exact same experience when he was blown off the roof of the science base, so he knew how Hammond must have felt.

‘We back-tracked along the route, planning to make it to the river and try to get some kind of signal fire going on the open riverbank,’ he explained.  ‘McEntire will send more people into the area; he had them on standby, so our situation wasn’t dire.  Then, luckily, we happened upon Cathera, his associate, and Sarah.  They were making so much noise that it was easy to track them without being seen.  They led us here but we had to wait before we moved in, sorry.’  He looked a little stricken as he remembered fighting off the urge to help Sarah earlier.  ‘I wish I could have helped sooner.’

‘So do I,’ agreed Pace fervently.  ‘But at least you did act, and you saved our lives.  Don’t feel too bad.’

‘I did what I had to do but that doesn’t make it any easier having to watch that bastard hurting Miss McEntire.’

‘Forget that for now.  We have bigger problems.’  Pace briefly filled Baker in about the airships and their deadly cargo.  ‘We don’t have long.’  He turned to Cathera and asked him how to recall the airships.  Cathera seemed to snap out of his stupor and stood up, puffing out his chest importantly.

‘They cannot be stopped,’ he sneered.  ‘They are programmed to fly to a given set of co-ordinates, using an onboard guidance computer.  They are totally independent.  There is nothing anyone can do.’

‘If they detonate, you will die just as surely as the rest of us,’ argued Pace, sensing he was telling them the truth.  ‘They must be stopped.’

‘My helicopter will be here any minute,’ Cathera reasoned quietly.  ‘It will take us all out of the blast zone in good time.  None of us will die.’

‘Let’s hope your pilot doesn’t have any technical problems then,’ said Baker ruefully.  He knew enough about the lethal effect of a dirty bomb to realise the devastation that six detonations would wreak on the practically virgin forest.  ‘The radioactive material will render a wide area uninhabitable for centuries.  A clean up team wouldn’t be able to cleanse the area easily because of the multi-layered nature of the forest,’ he explained to Pace. ‘Plant and animal life will die off, or be horribly mutated over time, as the water and food chains become compromised.  The river will spread irradiated plant and animal matter downstream, delivering a more diluted dose of radiation over a massive area.’

‘And that’s just the plutonium,’ Cathera beamed.  He’d made sure that each bomb had a double surprise.  Pace shot him an inquisitive look just as an image of the skull and crossed bones flashed into his mind.  He had forgotten all about it.

‘The powder.  What is it?’ he barked.

‘What powder?’ asked Baker.

‘An extra kick, nothing more,’ gloated Cathera.

‘Tell us,’ ordered Baker harshly.  ‘I have nothing to gain by keeping you alive.  We can flag down your helicopter and James can fly us out himself if your pilot tries any heroics.’

‘It makes no difference now, I suppose,’ Cathera conceded.  ‘Anthrax.’

‘You are crazy,’ breathed Baker softly.  ‘Why would you use such an agent?’

‘Each cylinder is programmed to start dropping five kilograms of anthrax powder when it’s one mile out from the final co-ordinates.  It will add to the damage and hamper any clean up operation,’ he explained matter-of-factly.

‘Wouldn’t the radiation destroy the anthrax spores?’ asked Pace.

‘I don’t know.  Anthrax is nasty stuff.  It can survive for hundreds of years in its natural state.  And in powdered form, it would be inhaled by local wildlife long before it became dormant.  When you breathe the stuff in, mortality rates are nearly one hundred percent, even with antibiotics.  Wildlife would simply be eradicated but there would be a period of several days between exposure and death.  Infected animals could spread it far and wide.’

‘You have just destroyed hundreds of square miles of invaluable rainforest in your own country.  How can that possibly help you achieve any aim?’ asked Pace, confused.

‘It wasn’t me,’ Cathera muttered.  ‘No, it will be blamed on international terrorists and I will use it as a springboard to challenge for power again, with the people on my side this time.  The government will be painted as an incompetent failure.  I will make sure of it,’ he said snidely.  ‘I plan to lead this country, one way or another.’

‘One bomb would do.  Why six?’

‘The bigger the disaster, the more ammunition I will have,’ reasoned Cathera.  ‘It is far enough from a major city to prevent serious harm to voters but the world’s love of the rainforest means I will have a political stick to use against the current government.’

‘Unless you happen to be one of several thousand native Indians that inhabit the infected areas,’ argued Baker.

‘Ah, but they don’t vote,’ hissed Cathera.  ‘No loss there.’

In the distance, the growing buzz of an approaching aircraft could be heard.

‘Just what I need,’ Pace said, his features suddenly breaking into a soft smile.  ‘You don’t mind if I borrow your ride?’

43

Cathera gawped helplessly, along with the pilot and co-pilot, as his escape helicopter took off without him; an elderly but serviceable Westland Gazelle, sporting the vivid purple livery of a Manaus helicopter rental company, easing itself back into rapidly darkening skies.

The 592 horse power Rolls Royce Astazai IIIN engine shook off the ties of gravity with distain.  Recently reconditioned, the power throbbed through the control stick in Pace’s hand and he felt a sense of calm wash over him as he settled back into the familiar territory of a pilot’s seat.  Twisting open the throttle, he eased it upwards to increase the speed of the machine’s ascent as rain began to speckle the cockpit glass.

Next to him, perfectly comfortable with the man at the controls, Baker checked the compass and marked off a series of bearings on a large paper map, having managed to persuade Cathera to divulge the exact destination co-ordinates for each of the flying bombs.

Turning on the wipers, Pace brought the helicopter up to a height of one thousand feet and hovered expertly.  Both men wore the standard flying earphones, with wire microphone sticking out in front of their mouths.

‘Which way to the first one?’

‘Take a bearing of one eight five degrees.’

Pace pushed the stick forward and the helicopter moved off from its hover, slowly picking up speed as its rotor blades thrashed at the moist air.  The weather closing in was the last thing on either of their minds.

Pace pushed the engines to their maximum speed of 150 mph – they had to catch six bombs and they barely had an hour left to do it.

‘Any idea what we’re going to do with these model airships when we catch up with them?’ Baker asked, not looking up from his map.

Pace did have the glimmerings of an idea but thought it best to spare him the details until the last minute.  He just shrugged.  ‘I’m working on it.’

‘Work harder,’ Baker quipped.  ‘At this speed we should overtake the first one in two minutes, if Cathera’s information is correct.’  He had no doubt that it would be because when he’d left Hammond guarding the prisoners, he had openly instructed him to shoot Cathera if they radioed back that the information was false.  A pair of walkie-talkie radios found in the helicopter guaranteed the ground and air operation stayed in touch.

Visibility dived, along with the clouds, and very soon the helicopter was struggling through heavy rain and rolls of thickening cloud.  Pace had wanted to have a clear two hundred feet height advantage on the airships, to help with spotting them in the failing light, but he had to descend to match their eight hundred feet altitude in order to stay below the cloud.

Just then, the first target airship appeared through the wiper-cleared glass in front of Pace, barely a thousand feet ahead.  Despite the worsening conditions, the little electric motor was pushing it along at a steady 5 mph.  Pace checked his watch.  They had fifty-three minutes before detonation.  Taking up a hovering station a few feet off its port side, Pace sucked in a breath and forced a grin.  Baker felt any shred of enthusiasm drain out of him as he recognised the physical preparation for delivering bad news.

‘Okay, what’s the plan?’

‘I fly, you hang out of the cockpit and snag the cylinder.’

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it.’

‘What do I do with it if I manage to get hold of it?’

‘Bring it inside and put it on the back seat.  Then we’ll go and get the rest of them.’

An ordinary person would have baulked at the thought of risking life and limb, high above the canopy, to recover lethal nuclear and anthrax bombs from hanging balloons, and would have screamed at the idea that they should be stockpiled inside the helicopter with them.  Baker was not an ordinary man.  He assessed the risk and knew there was no alternative, so he set about planning how he needed to go about it.

Pace had brought along a good supply of nylon rope from the mine and Baker wasted no time in constructing himself a secure chest harness, leaving about sixty feet of rope left, with one end knotted tightly to his DIY harness.

‘I can’t stay level with it,’ said Pace, wrestling the controls to retain his creeping hover as a gust of wind sprung up to rattle his windows.  ‘The wash from the rotors will blow the airship away from us if I get any closer.  I’ll have to hover above it and get you to climb down onto the balloon, slide down the gas envelope and then make a grab for the device.’

‘Walk in the park,’ Baker breezed.  ‘I’ll tie on to the skids and double up the rope.  That should give me about thirty feet to play with.  Is that enough?’

‘Perfect,’ Pace replied.  Keeping the helicopter under control, in a growing wind, without affecting the model airship with his downwash would be very tricky but that was his problem.  Baker had enough to worry about.  ‘You’d better get going.’

Ditching his headset, Baker grabbed the spare walkie-talkie and gave a quick wave before popping open the door and disappearing outside.  The door slammed closed but not before the cockpit was soaked by a strong gust of rain-filled wind.

Outside, Baker got down to business.  He was a dab hand at covert operations and had rappelled into enemy territory countless times while serving with the SAS, so balancing on the skids of a moving helicopter was not a new experience.  Shrugging off the rain and ignoring the wind that tugged at his clothes, he knelt down and tied the loose end of the double-looped rope securely to one of the landing skids.

Satisfied that it would hold, he gripped the rope as close to the skid as possible and allowed the rest of the loop to fall into space.  Then, carefully, he lowered himself down, hand over hand, until he reached the end.  Releasing the rope so that he hung by his harness, legs swinging over emptiness, he used the radio to tell Pace that he was in position.

Immediately, the helicopter edged up and over the tiny airship.

Very slowly, Pace bled height, one foot at a time.

Baker was suitably impressed at the piloting skills on show as he was quickly dropped onto the taut skin of the model blimp.  Sliding down the rain-slicked material as Pace dropped lower, he made a grab for the cylinder beneath, catching it easily.  Unhooking it from the eyelet welded to the base of the gondola, he was pleased to find it very light.  Then he had another thought and radioed it to Pace.

‘We don’t have time for me to keep climbing up and down with these things!’ he shouted to be heard above the noise of the wind and rotors.  ‘I can tie each one on to my harness.  They don’t weigh a lot.  That way I can stay at the end of the rope and you can just head off to the next one!’

‘Sounds good.’  Pace agreed because it made sense.  Leaving his friend to dangle at the end of the rope, he snatched up the map and zeroed in on the projected position of the next airship, altering course and accelerating as fast as the machine would allow.  Below, buffeted and wet, Baker had nothing to do but wait until they reached the next airship.

During those minutes he turned his attention to what to do with the cylinders once he snared them.  He was not a bomb disposal technician, so any attempt he might make at disarming them would have to be very simplistic.  Baker had hoped there might be an abort switch on the device itself but a quick examination turned up nothing.  It was a sealed unit.  Cathera had made sure that disarming his bombs would not be an option.

Over the next half an hour, their plan ran smoothly and Baker ended up with five of the six devices tied to his harness.  Though individually they were light, together the combined weight pulled down on the harness rope, digging the cord painfully into his chest and shoulders.

Ignoring the pain, Baker got on with the job.  Checking his watch, he noted they had barely twenty minutes left before detonation but he had not forgotten the cylinders were programmed to start releasing anthrax dust a mile before they reached their target co-ordinates, which equated to about twelve minutes.  That left only eight minutes before the ecological disaster would start.  He took a second to remind Pace but found the pilot needed no reminding.

Grimly focused on jockeying the helicopter through increasingly stormy skies, Pace also had to contend with the fact that fading light had now transformed into full darkness.  Not only was he flying the helicopter to the limits of its capability, but he ended up having to knock out his side window so he could stick his free hand out, holding a torch, that he shone in front of the helicopter to try and spot their final airship.  If it wasn’t such a dreadful situation he might have laughed.

With six minutes to go, his wavering torch beam finally picked out a flash in the sodden darkness, as torchlight was reflected back off of the skin of the last airship.  Wasting no time, he flung the helicopter into position above it, whipping the nose up sharply and switching from virtually full speed to a dead hover in a vicious movement that smashed him hard against his seat harness.

Fortunately, he was unable to hear the string of expletives issued by Baker as the soldier was slammed bodily against the side of the envelope, bouncing off a few feet before swinging back.  Winded but functioning, he grabbed for the cylinder but missed.  Mindful of the time but experienced enough not to panic, he lunged at it again.  This time his fingers clasped tightly around the cold metal casing of the device and he rapidly dislodged it from the gondola, making it fast to his harness.

‘Got it!’ he shouted into the walkie-talkie.  ‘Let’s go!’

‘Where to?  We only have five minutes before these things start spraying dust,’ Pace shot back.

‘I have an idea that might work,’ Baker’s voice came crackling back over the radio, ‘but you have to get this thing back to the mine before our time runs out.  Can you do it?’

Pace made a quick mental calculation of distance and direction, even as he was wheeling the machine around in the sky.  It would be very close.  At full speed, they might just get back there in four minutes.

‘On our way,’ he informed Baker, committing them to the man’s plan on trust.  ‘But what happens when we get there?  Sarah and the others are at the mine.  Shouldn’t we be heading the other way?’

‘There isn’t time and we can’t let these devices pollute vast tracts of forest.  We have to contain the blasts and the material.’

Suddenly, like a light-bulb flicking on inside a dark skull, Pace hit upon the same idea that Baker had.  ‘The shipping container?’

‘Exactly,’ said Baker’s disembodied voice.  ‘Those shipping containers are made from heavy steel and are usually air tight when sealed.  If we can get the devices inside and close the doors, most of the material should be contained.  Maybe,’ he added, just to show that he wasn’t certain of success.

‘At least it’s a plan,’ growled Pace, opening the throttle as wide as possible and draining every last drop of speed from the engine.  As though nature was determined to mock them every step of the way, the darkness was suddenly lit by a succession of brilliant lightning bolts, arcing across the sky so close to the helicopter that they threatened to blind him.  A lightning strike now would spell disaster.

Down on the ground, they did not hear the helicopter approaching until it was nearly on top of them.  Sarah, now awake but still groggy, waved hand torches wildly as Pace hurtled in at break-neck speed.  Hammond had been hurriedly told of the plan over the radio and had moved the whole group up to the container, whose open doors now offered their one slight hope of salvation.

Cathera and the two aircrew sat on the mud outside the container.  Sarah covered them with the pistol while Hammond took her torches and continued waving both in the air, guiding the helicopter in right on top of the container.

There were only thirty-nine seconds to go as the helicopter braked to a sudden hover just above the container and Baker appeared from the darkness, dangling on the end of the rope, with all six devices tied tightly to his harness.  So accurate was Pace’s judgement that Baker’s feet kissed the ground only a few feet in front of the doors.  But there was no time left.

‘Knife!’ he bellowed at Hammond, who was already forewarned and stepped forward to slice through the nylon rope above Baker’s head.  Released from the helicopter, Baker turned and grabbed the knife from Hammond, breathlessly checking his watch at the same time.  Barely ten seconds remained before they would all be smothered with anthrax dust.

His mind made a decision and his body moved in a blur.  It was a calculated risk but what the hell.  Slicing through the rope harness with three swift cuts, Baker leaped to one side and grabbed Cathera by the scruff of the neck, yanking him powerfully up off of the ground, despite the weight of the bombs gripped in his other hand.

Too late, Cathera had the sickening realisation of what was about to happen to him.  He opened his mouth to protest but Baker dragged him over to the open doors of the steel container and tossed the smaller man inside, together with the deadly bombs.  Turning back to Hammond, he dragged one of the heavy doors closed and reached out for the other one.  Hammond helped him with the second door and the clang of steel on steel was followed by the quieter bangs of bolts being securely slid into place.  The fate of the despot inside was forever sealed.

By the time Pace had put the helicopter down on the main compound and run back up the muddy trail, Sarah was openly in floods of tears while still keeping the frightened pilots covered with a wavering gun.  Hammond was crouched down, sitting on his heels in front of the container, grinning knowingly to Baker.  Pace saw the doors were closed and looked around for Cathera.

‘I had no choice, sorry.  He just wandered in front of me,’ smiled Baker.  ‘Poor man.  Such a shame.’

‘Pity we can’t get him out,’ Pace muttered sarcastically.  ‘He will be sorely missed.’

‘By now it will be filled with anthrax dust.  He’s already as good as dead and the detonations will mercifully finish the job,’ said Hammond.

‘Will the container even cope with six explosions?’ Pace asked quietly.  ‘If they blow open the container, all this will have been wasted effort.’

‘Even if the shell is compromised, most of the plutonium and anthrax will stay inside.  A clean up team could make the area safe with minimal damage to the eco-system.  But,’ he added, ‘any local leakage will still kill us if we stay.’

‘Then let’s get the hell out of here,’ sighed Pace.  His body was aching with fatigue and his head suddenly felt very heavy on his shoulders.

Nobody needed any persuading to head back down the path and over to the helicopter.  As soon as they reached the aircraft, Hammond took the gun from Sarah and bundled her into the co-pilot’s seat.  He waved the pilot and co-pilot into the back seats with the gun before climbing in after them.

With the engine already hot from the last hour of strenuous use, the machine fired up instantly and was soon clawing for altitude in the flanks of the angry storm.  Circling the container once, feeling the need to take a final look, Pace brought the aircraft around on a bearing back to Manaus and gunned the engine hard.

Climbing to three thousand feet, they had enough fuel to take them nearly two hundred miles.  He got straight on the radio and managed to raise McEntire.  Pace did not divulge any details over the airwaves, other than to tell him who was onboard, their direction and airspeed.

A small airfield within Pace’s fuel range was agreed and Pace altered course, pleased to see the rain ease outside as they passed out from beneath the storm and broke into clear, star-sprinkled skies.  The moon shone so brightly that visibility stretched for miles and he would have marvelled at the breathtaking beauty if his heart had not been so heavy.

‘You did a good job, James,’ ventured Sarah gently.  ‘Amanda would have been proud of you.’

‘If I’ve done anything good, it’s been inspired by others.’

‘Of course,’ she smiled, feigning arrogance and planting a soft kiss on his defenceless cheek.  ‘That’s because we’re all a team now.  We bring out the best in each other.’

Pace nodded and settled back in his seat to concentrate on getting them to the airfield in one piece.

‘That is very true.’

Behind him, Baker closed his eyes and drifted off into a light sleep.  This adventure was over but the McEntire Corporation would doubtless need his services again soon, as it would those of the man now flying them all to safety.

James Pace’s life was never going to be quite the same again.

Epilogue

The pain was palpable, going around and around angrily inside her skull like a dog chasing its tail.  Her eyes were closed and it was a real effort to force the sticky lids to open.  When they finally pulled apart, the gloom outside did little to brighten her mood.  Sitting, alone in the darkness, looking out over the sombre river, Ruby knew she was in serious trouble.

Her left arm hung limply down by her side after being badly smashed.  She should have been dead, she knew that.  She still couldn’t decide how all the other bullets that had wrecked the hovercraft and sent its shattered remains to the riverbed could have missed her.  Only two of them had found her; one at the shoulder and another that had gouged a deep furrow of flesh out of the top of her hairline.

The pain in her arm was intense but she was so weak from loss of blood and dehydration that her head hurt more.  Her arm needed to be strapped up but she had no belt to bind it with and no knife to cut vines loose from the trees. The deep gash running across the top of her skull no longer bled but the crusted wound now offered a home for buzzing black flies that she didn’t have the strength to swat away.

Cosmos had not been so lucky.  As they had nosed the hovercraft out into the river, preparing to make a dash for the city, two speed boats carrying heavy calibre machine guns had swept into the main channel from their hiding places, set back in small tributaries downstream, and opened up on them.

One of the very first bullets had found the Kenyan; the larger ammunition easily breaching the Kevlar impregnated hull.  One minute she had been talking with him, the next he had slumped in his chair, as his head exploded against the inside of the cockpit in a welter of blood and brain matter.  Then the hovercraft had literally been shot to pieces around her.  Fully expecting to die, she’d remained in her seat .

Just as the two bullets had hit her, the floor had fallen away beneath her and she’d been tipped into the river, sinking deeply and being swept along by a surprisingly swift current; agonisingly flapping her useless arm against her body.

It seemed like hours before she surfaced and was finally able to gasp a deep breath of warm air.  The sound of gunfire had died away and she couldn’t see the boats, but she couldn’t swim for the shore, which was by then some thirty feet away.  Helplessly she had drifted within the iron grip of the current, waiting to succumb to her injuries, eventually washing up onto a small sand bar nearly two hours later.

Shivering and exhausted, Ruby had waded the few feet across to the main river bank, staggered up the gentle bank, and promptly passed out.

Dishevelled in her tattered, stained running suit, she wondered for a moment if there were any mercenaries nearby, who might end her suffering quickly.  Then she thought about Sasha and a faint smile found its way onto her lips, dispelling any thoughts of suicide from her mind.

And what about Pace?  What about all the trials they had faced together to get this far?  Was he dead too?  He’d never returned from his trip to find the source of the radio message, so it had obviously been a trap.  She and Cosmos had decided to follow his final instructions and try to make it back together.  But Cosmos was now dead and she was sure that James was also as dead as the Kenyan athlete.  Good lives wasted, and for what?

It was a good question but it didn’t alter the fact that they were gone, and she was the only one left alive.  It was all up to her now; to get back to civilisation and tell their story. She knew she had to survive, if for no other reason than to make sure they had not perished in vain.

‘And that means doing something about your arm, patching the hole in your head, and getting moving,’ she chided herself, glad to hear her own voice in the loneliness of a jungle night.

Searching around at the edges of the bank, she managed to find a strand of fallen creeper, which she lashed like a high belt around her chest.  Lifting her damaged arm up with her good hand, she jammed it inside the tight band, relieved that the weight of the useless limb was instantly supported.  Kneeling down by the water’s edge, warily eyeing the dark, softly rippled surface for signs of hungry predators, Ruby carefully washed most of the matted blood from the wound in her scalp.  She winced with each careful sweep of her fingers but persevered until she was satisfied that it was as clean as she could get it by bathing it in a muddy river.

Ruby wished fervently that she had some of the antibiotic tablets to ward off possible infection but their supplies had gone down with the hovercraft.  Instead, she selected a large, flat leaf from a nearby bush and pressed it against the wound with her hand.

Drawing in a fortifying breath, she knew she had only one hope.  Follow the river downstream, keeping to the bank.  In the end, if she was lucky, she might get back to the city in one piece.  It was a long way to go on foot, especially hampered by serious injuries, and she refused to fool herself about her chances of making it.  Within a few hours, she was likely to be as much a ghost as her fallen companions.  But there was no choice.  The dead deserved better than for her to just lie down and give up.

‘Come on then,’ she resolved, somewhat dubiously.  ‘At the end of this damned riverbank, the world awaits you.’

Walking gingerly, forcing the pain from her mind as best she could, Ruby kept the river to her left and noted the ominous growls of thunder in the disgruntled skies above.

‘At least it will keep the insects away,’ she sniffed, swallowing down the growing sense of wretchedness that was gnawing at her insides.  Self-doubt was her biggest enemy now and she was determined not to let fear get the best of her.

Hugging the edge of the jungle closely, she began the walk of her life, whistling softly to keep her spirits up.

‘Here we go then.’

As if the forest knew she needed company, the rain decided to fall again in torrents.

399

Table of Contents

Copyright

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

Epilogue