Court slowed and turned, expecting to see Davi behind the wheel.
But no, one hundred yards back he saw Davi’s truck, but it was full of armed men in bush hats, and as Gentry turned back to run for his life, he heard the pops of rifles.
“Fuck!” shouted Gentry as he dashed off the road, back into the thick jungle, digging his way through vines and bush and palm fronds the size of truck tires, desperate to make himself small, fast, and slippery.
As he pushed his way into the tangle of undergrowth, he worked on a new plan. His old plan had been simple. He had a canoe stowed under the little bridge just a hundred and fifty yards ahead. He’d planned on running up the road, sliding down the bank, and then making his escape via the little boat, being careful to dodge the choppers by staying under the trees that hung out over the river’s edge.
But now he’d have to approach the bridge from upriver, which presented one extraordinary obstacle. Or a dozen or more obstacles, depending on how you looked at it.
Both sides of the riverbank north of the bridge were literally covered with crocodiles.
Huge fucking crocodiles.
As Court powered through the nearly impenetrable growth, he settled on his new plan—a plan that would require skill he was not sure he possessed, execution he was not sure he could pull off, and luck he was not sure he could count on.
But it was better than dancing down the road ducking rounds from a truck full of rifles.
He heard the men entering the vegetation behind him. A few fired their guns into the trees and bushes. Court knew his trail would close itself as soon as he moved through; he was not worried about the men any longer. Their eyes could not see him and their guns could not reach him.
But he was worried. He was worried about the damn crocodiles ahead.
The rifle fire picked up. It was as if the men were trying to tear their way through the jungle with lead. It would not work, not before Court made it clear. But that was not to say that one lucky bullet fragment couldn’t crash its way through and bury itself into the back of the American’s head.
Court ducked down lower, pushed through on his hands and knees, scraping them raw in the process. He ripped down spiderwebs the size of fishing nets and used the barrel of his shotgun to knock a boa constrictor from a low hanging branch so he could limbo under it without fear of having the angry snake wrap around his neck.
Soon he broke out of the jungle and onto a hill above the riverbank. Forty yards to his left the wooden bridge sat invitingly in the sun. His little boat bobbed in the shade under it, a canvas tarp tight as a drum over it for protection. Below him, and for at least twenty-five of the forty yards along the water’s edge, a dozen crocs ranging in size from six to sixteen feet basked in the mid-morning rays.
Gentry found a thick vine that shot out from the bank in a diagonal off to his left, ran over the riverbank, and connected to the highest, most outstretched limb of a two-hundred-foot-tall kapok tree that hung over the river like a great arm.
It might not take him all the way to the bridge, but it would get him to the bank right next to it. That was far enough from the crocs, and that would be just fine.
He’d tossed his machete ten minutes earlier, so he pointed the wide barrel of his shotgun just above where the vine entered the hard earth.
And then he hesitated. Panting from the exertion, stinging from the abrasions on his hands and knees and the scratches and insect stings he’d picked up along the way, he just stood there, his shotgun poised to fire. He had swung on vines many evenings with the boys in the village; he trusted their strength and their ability to get him from here to there. But in his mind’s eye he saw this plan of his going very, very wrong. In fact, he could not even conjure a mental image of the next fifteen seconds going off without a hitch.
A long, angry burst from an automatic rifle thirty yards behind him in the jungle helped him focus on the task at hand. He fired the pump shotgun at the vine, it split and frayed beautifully, and he caught it with his free hand before it swung away. Hurriedly, he refastened the shotgun to his backpack one-handed and leapt into the air to take the vine at the highest point he could reach. His sore red hands gripped hard, his legs wrapped around tight, and he began swinging off the hill and over the massive reptiles below.
The vine shot him above the near bank; he passed over sleepy crocodiles warming themselves at the water’s edge. Many of the crocs lay with their toothy mouths wide open, cooling their bodies with the intake of air and presenting an especially ominous image to swing over.
His grip was secure; he grimaced with the effort but held firm as gravity took him out over the water now, his legs jutted in front of him, his knees cinched tight against the vine, and his eyes focused on his landing area on the bank by the bridge.