“You have a point,” she admitted. “Let’s pack up. I’ll stay in Tabatinga until you come back. How long do you think you’ll be gone?”
“Couple of weeks.” Long enough to bury the Colonel and help his siblings deal with the fallout. Hopefully not long enough for his troubled youth to catch up with him. The gang he’d been in back then was still active. And still dangerous.
Pushing aside the poke of guilt, Mac turned toward the rough path that led to their campsite just as rain began to fall. Grant wouldn’t have called unless there was a chance that Mac could get there in time to say good-bye. He quickened his steps.
On the bright side, in Scarlet Falls there was the possibility he’d run into Stella Dane, the only police officer he’d ever wanted to see in his life. Since he’d met her last November, dreams of her all buttoned up in her uniform had made some hot South American nights swelter. The chances of anything happening between them were slim. She’d helped find his sister and stop a killer. She was totally out of his league, and since his past wasn’t exactly a secret, he was pretty sure she didn’t trust him. But a man could fantasize.
“Wait.” Cheryl was looking out over the water. Rain speckled its surface. “Where’s the boat?”
Mac pivoted. The river was empty and silent. Even if the boat had rounded the bend, the motor should still be audible. Despite the intense and steamy heat of the jungle, his insides went cold. He shoved at her. “Move. Back to camp.”
She nodded. The rain increased to its usual afternoon torrent. A gunshot rang out, and Cheryl’s body jerked.
He dove for cover, one arm catching Cheryl around the middle and taking her to the ground.
Cheryl. Mac rolled her to her back. She blinked at the canopy, raindrops beating on her face as blood spread across the chest of her soaked safari shirt.
Another bullet zinged past. Mac draped his body across her torso, shielding her as best he could.
“Hold tight.” Mac lurched to his feet.
He grabbed her under the armpits and dragged her into a patch of underbrush. Then Mac pulled a clean bandana from his back pocket, folded it, and pressed it to the wound high on her chest. He took her hand, put it over the square, and whispered, “Pressure.”
Eyes wide and shivering, Cheryl pleaded in a whisper, “Don’t leave me.”
Another shot rang out. Mac got to his feet and hesitated. He needed to do something about the men with the guns. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”
“No.” She shook her head. Rain slicked her hair and face as blood darkened the entire front of her shirt. She reached out for him.
Backing out of the foliage, Mac put a finger over his lips. She needed to be quiet. If they found her, she was dead.
A voice yelled, “Get them!” in Portuguese.
He sprinted down the trail toward camp. He needed the satellite phone, and the SUV was their best hope for escape. If these men had come from the boat, they wouldn’t have land transportation. He also had to warn Juan, although their guide certainly would have heard the gunshots.
Vegetation sliced at Mac’s arms and face as he raced down the rough path. Behind him, over the echo of his thundering heartbeat, men shouted and foliage snapped as bodies crashed through the jungle. He broke into the clearing. No Juan. Odds were he had run. Money could buy interpretive and guide services, but not loyalty. Had Juan sold them out? Mac ran behind the supply tent and skidded to a stop.
The spot where the four-wheeler should have been parked was empty. The SUV was gone.
A figure burst into the clearing. It was the man from the bow of the boat. Brown skin glistened with sweat as he slashed a machete toward Mac’s head. He ducked. The blade kissed his hair.
Mac lunged forward and grabbed his assailant’s right wrist with both hands. A solid front kick drove the ball of his foot into the man’s solar plexus. The machete fell to the ground. Mac kicked out again, this time striking him in the side of the knee. The man’s leg buckled, and he swung out with his left hand. Light glimmered on a short blade. Mac yanked hard on his right arm, throwing him further off balance.
A twig snapped. In his peripheral vision, Mac saw the second man enter the clearing, an AK-47 in his hands.
The bastard who’d shot Cheryl.
Anger surged hot through Mac’s veins. The muzzle of the AK arced toward him. He whirled around, swinging Machete Man between him and the gunman as a shield. Shots burst from the rifle muzzle with orange flashes. The man in Mac’s grip flailed as the bullets cut across his middle. Something hot stung Mac in the side.
The trigger clicked on an empty cartridge. The gunman snapped the magazine off the bottom of the rifle and reached for his pocket. Mac tossed Machete Man’s dead body aside and lunged toward the machete on the ground. He snatched it off the dirt as the gunman shoved a new magazine into the AK.