Seconds to Live(9)

“Great,” Cheryl muttered. “I had to pull the Dances With Otters assignment.”

“I am a wildlife biologist,” Mac whispered. “Now shut up so I can listen.”

The faint sputter of a motor drifted over the water. Most of the local fishing boats were man-powered. Engines were faster, but they were also expensive and required fuel. Most locals didn’t have the resources for such luxury.

An ecotour maybe?

This was a particularly dangerous region in South America, where the borders of Peru, Brazil, and Colombia converged. Drug traffickers, both large cartels and small-scale operations run by families tired of hardscrabble, subsistence living, used the river as a key method of transportation.

Cheryl went still. They both knew their university credentials satisfied villagers and officials but garnered no respect from drug traffickers.

The nose of a boat appeared around the bend in the river. The craft was a long, dilapidated vessel with a rectangular cabin and a pair of rusted outboard motors that looked like they belonged in a salvage yard. A man in the bow, wearing only a pair of frayed denim cutoffs, lifted a hand in greeting. His skin was brown, his hair black, his body slim and hard in a way that suggested a lifetime of manual labor and minimal nourishment. A second man sat in the stern, one hand on the tiller to steer the boat.

“See. Fishermen.” Cheryl gestured toward the boat. She raised the camera. The lens whirred and clicked as she snapped pictures.

He pushed the camera’s nose down. “I know most of the villagers, and these guys don’t look familiar. That boat could be full of coca paste instead of fish.” Not to mention men with machetes and machine guns. Mac’s gaze swept the riverbanks.

“Sorry.” She snapped on the lens cap.

Not her fault, he reminded himself. She hadn’t asked for this assignment. She didn’t have the necessary experience. With his eyes focused on the waterway, he asked, “What brought you out here anyway?”

Cheryl and the third member of their team, a guide named Juan, had just returned to the camp for an afternoon siesta. Napping was the only part of South American life she embraced. “You got a call from the States. Your brother.”

An instant ache tightened behind Mac’s sternum, and guilt washed through him with the force of the river. His brother Grant would not have called unless it was an emergency. “Did he leave a message?”

“Yes.” Cheryl waved her hand at a swarm of insects buzzing around her face. “It’s your dad.” Sympathy softened her voice. “Your brother said, ‘This is it, Mac,’ and that you should hurry if you want to get there before . . .”

“Oh. OK. Thanks.” Mac lowered his binoculars, his emotions going into limbo. Their father had been actively dying for the past fifteen months. A paraplegic war hero, the Colonel had been robbed of his mental faculties by dementia in recent years. Mac had thought he’d come to terms with his father’s imminent death, but the scratching sensation inside his chest said otherwise.

“You should go home, Mac.” Cheryl nodded toward the river. She might be a disaster in the jungle, but she was a decent soul. “This will keep.”

“You’re right.” Mac turned toward their camp, dread slowing his movements. Home. A small word with big meaning. He’d spent most of his childhood watching his father suffer. Just thinking about returning to his hometown made the ground feel unstable under his feet. But after his brother Lee’s murder last year and his sister’s close brush with death last November, Mac had sworn he wouldn’t leave his family high and dry again. He’d be there for them this time, no matter what the cost.

“I’ll drive you into the village,” Cheryl said. The team had only one vehicle, and no one wanted to be stranded in the jungle without transportation. The mile to the nearest village would feel like twenty in sweltering temperatures and jungle humidity.

“Thanks. From there I should be able to bum a ride into Tabatinga.” The border city’s airport had limited flights. He’d be lucky to get on a plane in the next twenty-four hours. Once he got to Manaus, catching a flight to New York would be easier. If he got lucky, he could be home in two days. But transportation in the South American jungle was highly unreliable.

In all likelihood, whatever was going to happen at home would happen without him.

“You shouldn’t stay out here by yourself,” Mac said.

“Because I’m a woman?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Because your jungle survival skills suck.” And because she was a woman. As much as he believed in equality, the dangerous men who trafficked drugs on the Amazon didn’t.