Island Inferno Read online

A moment later, Carlos and Alex came thrashing back into the clearing, panting from exertion. Carlos dropped his pack and said between gasps, “Water.”

  Zack and Fernanda set the pack up and opened the top pocket to get at the now-filled water bottles that Carlos had taken along.

  Alex also dropped his pack and was bent over, hands on his knees, catching his breath. “Don’t drink it yet. Give the iodine time to work.”

  Once the two had recovered, Alex went on to describe what they’d found. He unfolded his map, then pointed toward the steep hillside to their west. “The area we’re looking for is just over the other side of this ridge. But Carlos and I couldn’t find any good water sources over there. And since it’s about four hundred feet of vertical elevation to cross over, the best thing to do would be to cache our gear on this side, then hike up and over the ridgeline without the extra weight.”

  He indicated the spot on the map with a stalk of grass. “We’ll take only water and our collecting bags and tools, spend a few hours getting what we came for, then cross back this way and make camp on this side, closer to our water supply.”

  Zack was studying the map. “That’ll definitely make the hiking easier, but is there a way to safeguard our gear from the monkeys?”

  Alex nodded. “We’ll secure all of our packs together and tie them to a tree. The monkeys are smart, but they haven’t yet learned how to untie a square knot.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the team was laboring up the hillside armed with only their machetes and water bottles. While the angle of ascent kept getting steeper, Fernanda endured the burning in her thighs with the consolation that at least they weren’t in the hot sun or slogging through swamp. The deep humus underfoot made the slope even more difficult to traverse. Why does everything have to be slippery?!

  It took nearly an hour to reach the top of the ridge, because they had to take so many breaks to catch their breath. Going down the opposite side wasn’t much easier, what with the combination of treacherous and thorny plants and slippery footing. The dense canopy high above them shaded out so much sun that the forest floor looked to be in a sort of perpetual twilight.

  They moved without speaking, for the most part, and Fernanda concentrated on not slipping. She was convinced that if she lost her footing, she wouldn’t regain it until she hit a black palm tree or the swamp at the bottom of the ravine. Neither option sounded appealing.

  “Hey, Alex,” Carlos called out. “What kind of …?”

  “Shhhh.” Zack suddenly held up a hand, and everyone stopped and fell silent. “Did you hear that?”

  Nobody spoke for a moment, listening. Then Fernanda heard a rustling sound. Something was moving in the thick jungle below them.

  “What is it?” she hissed. Alex shook his head slowly.

  Fernanda clutched her machete and peered through the shadowy undergrowth. She began moving her head this way and that, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever animal they might have scared up.

  Then she slipped.

  A scream escaped her lips as her feet shot out from under her. She landed on her back, which sent her sliding out of control down the steep hillside.

  The dense undergrowth seemed to claw at her as she careened out of control. Then a few seconds later, she came to rest at the foot of the slope. She got to her knees, thankful not to have met any thorny trees on the way down.

  But the relief disappeared when she looked up into the black face of a man she did not know.

  Fernanda’s scream echoed through the forest and sent birds to flight in all directions. She heard shouts above, but before she could scramble away, the man took a step forward and seized her roughly by the arm, pulling it painfully back behind her.

  She cried out again, this time in rage. Pivoting her body so she was facing the leering thug, she brought her free hand around and dug her nails into the already scarred flesh above his eye.

  He roared and released her arm, and Fernanda lashed out with her foot and kicked him in the groin.

  He grunted and bent double, but when she turned to flee, his hand shot out and grabbed her ankle. She fell flat.

  Fernanda rolled onto her back and started to rise when a crushing backhanded blow connected with the right side of her face. Stars burst in her head, and she sunk back to earth, stunned.

  There was a crashing in the underbrush above her, and she saw Zack and Carlos half running, half sliding down the embankment like a couple of insane mud-surfers. “Leave her alone!” Zack called.

  She looked back at her attacker and, for the first time, noticed the enormous black pistol in his hand. She screamed and closed her eyes as the man raised the pistol from his waist. “No!”

  The shot exploded above her head, so loud she thought her eardrums had burst.

  Zona Libre, Colón. 1205 hours

  “MARCEL IS GOING to kill me if we don’t get that PDA back!”

  Beads of rainwater splashed off the hood of the rental as Phoenix pounded it with her fist and uttered a string of profanities that almost made Rip blush despite his years in the military.

  He swiveled his head around, looking for anyone who might be the thief to no avail. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Okay, look. Walk me through what happened.”

  The CIA operative inhaled deeply, visibly taking control of her emotions. “I was waiting for you in the car, and all of a sudden the device started beeping like crazy. One look at the screen and I realized that it had picked up the tags on the products from the ship. So I looked around. I mean, we weren’t moving, and the only thing that had changed was the white truck passing by. I tried to get your attention, but you were busy with the food.”

  Rip slapped his forehead. Duh! The empanadas.

  “So I just jumped out of the car and ran after the truck. At the end of the block here, it turned into that big white warehouse, and the door closed behind it. Then you showed up.”

  Rip scanned the street again. “Well, it probably won’t do any good to ask if anybody saw anything, but it’s worth a try. You stay with the car. I’ll get us some more food, and see if the vendor saw anything while I’m there.”

  “No, I’ll come with you. I’ll just lock the car this time.” She reached across and locked the driver’s door, then her own, and then slammed it and joined Rip on the sidewalk. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”

  Several minutes later they were munching on warm pastries filled with beef and cheese. They actually weren’t half bad. The fact that the two of them were soaked to the bone probably made them that much better.

  As Rip expected, the food vendor had been distracted by Rip running after Phoenix and hadn’t seen anyone near their car. Rip didn’t bother asking anyone else.

  “What do we do now?” He wiped the extra grease on the paper bag the merchant had given him.

  Phoenix looked up from her makeshift meal. “How about we see if we can find that truck.”

  Rip grinned at the way she politely covered her mouth when she spoke. She could be so in-your-face and confident one minute, and so demure the next. Mary Walker was definitely a complex person.

  “Any reason why we couldn’t simply walk into the white warehouse and pretend to be interested in whatever they have to sell?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

  He nodded toward the end of the street. “Let’s do it, then.”

  As they walked, the sun appeared momentarily, and it quit raining. Instantly, steam started rising from the pavement, and the humidity was almost suffocating. At the end of the block, a large white building occupied the corner across from a six-story edifice that, judging from the gigantic half-dressed white women whose pictures adorned the outside, was the home of a lingerie company. The building they were interested in had a grimy storefront on one side with a wide sidewalk, and a grungy sign hung above it that read: ODMAI Ferretería.

  “They sell hardware,” Rip said.

  Phoenix had her game face on. “Makes sense. I want to see what they have to off
er.”

  Rip pasted on a smile as he pulled open the glass door that led inside, then whispered. “Just let me do the talking.”

  The dimly lit “showroom” wasn’t much larger than Rip’s hotel room, but its walls were lined with pegboard holding various kinds of tools, machetes, hoses, and such. Against one wall leaned a piece of plywood upon which were various sizes and styles of boot soles, each with a crudely scrawled price taped to it. A television was propped on a desk in the back of the room, tuned to a Panamanian game show, but no one was around to watch it. Rip and Phoenix found themselves alone.

  Rip pointed to the boot display and snorted. “I wonder if the devil comes here to buy soles.”

  She gave him a serious look. So much for comic relief. He cleared his throat and called toward the back. “¿Buenas tardes? ¿Hola?”

  No answer. Rip felt his hackles rise. A door in the far corner of the room stood ajar. He crossed to it and peered into a long, dark hallway.

  “¿Hola? ¿Hay alguien aquí?”

  Nothing. The place smelled like a gas station bathroom.

  He started to turn around when Phoenix pushed past him and went striding confidently down the hallway. Somewhat flustered, he followed quickly behind.

  She reached the door at the far end and opened it like she owned the place. The two of them stepped out into the warehouse proper and saw a cluster of six men gathered around a desk, speaking excitedly. The moment the two of them stepped through the door, however, all conversation ceased.

  Rip took in the scene in an instant—crates and boxes stacked almost all the way to the corrugated metal roof; the white box truck parked near the still-closed garage door; and five rough-looking laborers gathered around an older well-dressed Asian man, seated at the desk with an ornate cane in one hand.

  But it was the man’s other hand that contained the one thing that surprised him most.

  The PDA!

  The precariousness of their situation hit him in an instant; their agreed-upon cover of being interested in purchasing hardware was blown. They were outnumbered, and if the men had understood what was on the PDA, the entire mission might be compromised.

  Phoenix didn’t miss a beat, though. She strode to the desk where the Asian man was sitting, bent over, and looked the surprised man directly in the eye. Without blinking, she said, “I believe this is mine, thank you.”

  She picked up the device, turned on her heel, and walked past Rip and back through the door. Everyone, including him, watched in stunned silence.

  Rip realized what had just happened and quickly followed Phoenix into the dark hallway. When muffled shouts told them that the men in the warehouse had also regained their senses, he and Phoenix broke into a run. Rip pulled a display case over on his way out the door, hoping to slow their pursuers.

  When they hit the sidewalk, the rain had begun again in earnest, pounding on the parked cars and hot pavement like a million snare drums.

  “This way!” She took off up the street in the opposite direction from where they’d come.

  Rip quickly caught up with her and grabbed her arm. “Wait! They know which car is ours.”

  Mary’s blue eyes widened under her matted, wet hair, and they both sprinted back toward the vehicle. They made it halfway down the block when Rip turned and saw the workers pouring out of the Asian man’s building like bees from a hive that had just been kicked.

  “Hurry!” Rip fumbled in his pocket for the keys and got the driver’s door open without looking back. Behind him, Phoenix vaulted over the hood of the car, sliding across, and then tumbled inside the moment Rip got her door unlocked.

  He fired up the engine, threw it into reverse, and backed into the car behind them. When he pulled out into the street, Rip could see several men running toward them, some brandishing crowbars and one with a machete.

  “Hold on!” He threw the car in reverse again and accelerated to the corner, where he had to slam on the brakes to keep from hitting a man on a moped.

  “Go, Rip!”

  “I’m going!” He gunned the engine, turned the wheel to the left, and spun the car into the intersection. Then he put the car into second gear, floored the gas pedal, and popped the clutch. Smoke from his tires mingled with steam from the pavement, but the car didn’t accelerate fast enough.

  The man with the machete reached them and took a savage swipe at their left rear tire as the front wheels finally gained traction and the car sped away.

  Unfortunately, the streets were so crowded with people, cars, and delivery trucks, that the men on foot nearly had the advantage. Rip weaved through the tangled maze of traffic, honking at pedestrians with one hand and steering and shifting with the other. But every time he looked in the rearview mirror, the pursuers were still there, running down both sides of the street.

  “And Marcel didn’t think we’d need a handgun,” Rip muttered under his breath.

  “Just drive!” Phoenix craned her neck to see out the back window.

  “How do we get out of here?” Rip shot back, realizing that they had failed to formulate an escape plan.

  She pointed to the right. “Turn here.”

  Rip jerked the wheel and careened around a corner, then slammed on the brakes to avoid a large delivery truck that was occupying the entire street.

  Rip clenched his teeth and threw the car into reverse again.

  The men on foot rounded the corner and then dove aside just in time to keep from being flattened by Rip’s vehicle as he reversed through the intersection and kept going for another block before spinning into a tight J-turn.

  Rip turned into an alley, then right onto another street, and then they were on the main thoroughfare, less than a football field from the free zone entrance.

  “Oh, thank God,” Phoenix said.

  Rip crossed himself. I’ll second that motion.

  Five minutes later, once they were back on the road to Panama City, Rip felt like he could start breathing again. He accelerated to get ahead of a diesel-smoke-belching truck.

  Then, just as they rounded a corner, the back tire blew.

  Amador Causeway. Panama City. 1740 hours

  “SO THEN THE TIRE blows out, and I almost lose it on this turn, you know? I don’t know how we kept from flipping over the embankment.” Rip shifted uncomfortably in the cramped confines of the taxi. “Hey, Coop, mind getting your elbow out of my ribs, ese?”

  “Here we are, boys.” Phoenix, sitting in the front, indicated for the driver to stop.

  The aged minivan coasted to a stop in front of an open-air restaurant at the water’s edge. Buzz Hogan pulled the side door open and unfolded his six-four linebacker’s frame from the taxi, followed by Rip, John Cooper, Frank Baldwin, Doc Kelly, and Bobby Sweeney, all complaining about the cramped conditions.

  “Next time, I’m springing for a second taxi.” Sweeney stretched.

  “At least we don’t have all our gear, like that time in Lebanon,” Hogan said. “Now that was cramped.”

  Phoenix finished paying the driver and closed the passenger door. She shook her head in mock disgust. “You guys are a bunch of whiners.”

  Coop was peering at the lit sign in front of the establishment. “Restaurante Mi Ranchito—Causeway Amador. Is this, like, Mexican food?”

  Phoenix shook her head. “No. Marcel recommended it for classic Panamanian fare.” She indicated the view of the canal with a sweep of her hand. “And for the atmosphere.”

  Rip couldn’t argue with that. Their taxi had taken them to the end of the causeway at the mouth of the Panama Canal, where open-air palapas shading each table gave a fantastic view in both directions—of ships passing beneath a colorfully lit bridge on one side and the Panama City skyline across the bay on the other.

  A light breeze brought cooler air in from the Pacific, and a lively salsa band was playing in the restaurant’s bar. Rip took a deep breath of salty air and watched the sunset flare over the Pacific like a curtain of fire. He had definitely been on worse depl
oyments.

  “What’s the name of those islands out there?” Frank pointed to the far end of the causeway.

  “That used to be Fort Grant, I believe,” Phoenix said. “It was used for coastal defense during World War II. The land side of the causeway, over near the bridge, was Fort Amador, and they built this causeway in the early part of the twentieth century with earth that they excavated when building the canal.”

  “And then we just gave it all away in 2000,” Sweeney said wryly, shaking his head.

  Phoenix shrugged. “It was a money-losing venture anyway, from what I’ve read.”

  Doc Kelly noted the steady traffic traveling the brightly lit causeway. “It certainly looks like the place is popular now.”

  She nodded. “Definitely. Most of the former US canal zone has been renovated into high-end retail and tourist attractions. You wouldn’t believe the size of some of the boats that dock at the yacht club over there.” Phoenix pointed to the marina visible in the distance.

  “Well,” Hogan slapped his belly with one hand, “let’s quit talking and start eating!”

  Ten minutes later they had been seated around an oversized table at the far end of the patio of the Mi Ranchito. The waitress brought their drinks, took their meal order, then left.

  Coop leaned forward and rubbed his hands. “Okay, I want to hear how the rest of your fact-finding mission went today—before Rip almost crashed the car.”

  Rip gave Phoenix a crooked smile. “Do you want to give them the rundown, amiga, or should I?”

  She sighed. “The good news is, we found some of the products from the hijacked ship.”

  Coop raised his eyebrows. “Really? What’s the bad news?”

  “Well, we were compromised in the process.” She proceeded to tell them about losing the PDA, and Rip filled in the details on how they got it back.

  “You should have seen her, man. Phoenix just walked right up to those guys like she was some kind of pro-wrestler chick, then picked up her PDA and left. Once the thugs realized what had happened, everybody went ballistic.”

  Laughter erupted around the table. Buzz Hogan slapped his thigh. “I bet you left that part out when you explained what happened to Marcel.”