Amazonia

Nate grabbed up a pistol from dead fingers and ran headlong into the main camp. The mercenaries were still in disarray, only now beginning to fall back into a defensive line. Nate raced through the wet shadows, meaning to get behind their lines before they tightened.

As Nate ran, he was spotted by one frightened man, hiding under a bush, clearly unarmed. The man dropped to his knees at the sight of Nate’s gun, hands on his head, in a clearly submissive posture.

Nate ran right past him. He had only one goal in mind: to find Kelly and her brother before they came to harm.

On the other side of camp, Kouwe ran with Dakii, flanked by other Indians. He paused to collect a machete from a dead body and toss it to the tribesman. Kouwe confiscated the rifle for himself.

They hurried forward. The line of fighting had fallen toward the camp’s center.

But Kouwe suddenly slowed, an instinctual warning tingling through him. He twisted around and spotted an Indian woman slinking from behind a bush. Her skin was dabbed in black like theirs.

Kouwe, having been raised among the tribes of the Amazon, was not so easily fooled. Though she might paint herself to look like them, her Shuar features were distinctive to the educated eye.

He lifted his rifle and pointed it at the woman. “Don’t move, witch!” Favre’s woman had been trying to slip past their lines and escape into the woods. Kouwe would not let that happen. He remembered the fate of Corporal DeMartini.

The woman froze, turning slowly in his direction. Dakii held back, but Kouwe waved him forward. There was fighting still to be done.

Dakii took off with his men.

Kouwe was now alone with the woman, surrounded by the dead. He stepped toward her with caution. He knew he should shoot her where she stood—the witch was surely as deadly as she was beautiful. But Kouwe balked.

“On your knees,” he ordered in Spanish instead. “Hands high!”

She obeyed, lowering herself with subtle grace, slow and fluid like a snake. She stared up at him from under heavily lidded eyes. Smoldering, seductive…

When she attacked, Kouwe was a moment too slow in reacting. He pulled the trigger, but the gun just clicked. The magazine was empty.

The woman leaped at him, knives in both hands, poisoned for sure.

Kelly stared at the two mini-Uzis held by Favre. One was pointed at her brother’s head, one at her chest. “Drop the pistol, mademoiselle. Or you both die now!”

Frank mouthed to her. “Run, Kelly.”

Favre crouched under the lean-to, using her brother’s body as a shield.

She had no choice. She would not leave her brother with the madman. She lowered her pistol and tossed it aside.

Favre quickly crossed to her. He dropped one of the Uzis and pressed the other against Kelly’s back. “We’re going to get out of here,” he hissed at her. He snatched up a pack. “I’ve got a backup supply of tree sap, prepared for just such an emergency.”

He shouldered the pack, then grabbed Kelly by the back of her shirt.

A shout barked behind them. “Let her go!”

They both turned. Favre twisted around behind her.

Nate stood, bare-chested, in his boxers, painted all in black.

“Gone native, have we, Monsieur Rand?”

Nate pointed a pistol at them. “You can’t escape. Drop your weapon and you’ll live.”

Kelly stared at Nate. His eyes were hard.

Gunfire sounded all around them. Shouts and screams echoed.

“You’ll let me live?” Favre scoffed. “What? In prison? I don’t like that proposition. I like freedom better.”

The single gunshot, at close range, startled her—more the crack than the pain. She saw Nate fly backward, hit in the hip, his weapon spinning away. Then she felt herself fall to the ground, to her knees, pain registering more as shock. She stared at her stomach. Blood soaked her shirt, welling through the smoking hole.

Favre had shot her through her belly, striking Nate.

The pure brutality of the act horrified her more than being shot, more than the blood.

Kelly looked at Nate. Their eyes met for a brief instant. Neither had the strength to speak. Then she was falling—slumping toward the ground as darkness stole the world away.

Kouwe butted the first knife away with his rifle, but the witch was fast. He fell backward under her weight as she leaped on him.

He hit the ground hard, slamming his head, but managing to catch her other wrist. The second knife jabbed at his face. He tried to throw her off, but she clung to him, legs wrapped around him like a passionate lover.

Her free hand scratched gouges in his cheek, going for his eyes. He twisted his face to the side. The knife lowered toward his throat as she leaned her shoulder into its plunge. She was strong, young.

But Kouwe knew the Shuar. He knew about their secret arsenal of weapons: braided in the hair, hidden in loincloths, worn as decoration. He also knew women warriors of the tribe carried an extra sheath as a defense against rape—a common attack between the Shuar tribes during their wars.

Kouwe used his free hand to snatch between her legs as she straddled him. His fingers reached and found the tiny knobbed hilt hidden there, warm from her body heat. He pulled the blade free of its secret leather scabbard.

A scream rose from her lips as she realized this most private theft. Teeth were bared.

She tried to roll away, but Kouwe still had her wrist in his grasp. As she spun, he followed, holding her tight and using her strength to pull himself to his feet.

They crouched at arms’ length, Kouwe keeping an iron grip on her wrist.

She met his eyes. He saw the fear. “Mercy,” she whispered. “Please.”

Kouwe imagined the number of victims who had pleaded with her—but he was no monster. “I’ll grant you mercy.”

She relaxed ever so slightly.

Using this moment, he yanked her to him and plunged the knife to its hilt between her br**sts.

She gasped in pain and surprise.

“The mercy of a quick death,” he hissed at her.

The poison struck her immediately. She shuddered and stiffened as if an electric shock had passed through her from head to toe. He pushed her away as a strangled scream flowed from her lips. She was dead before she hit the ground.

Kouwe turned away, tossing aside the poisoned blade. “And that’s more than you deserve.”

The gunfire had already died around the camp to sporadic shots, and Louis needed to be gone with his treasure before his defenses completely fell.

Gathering up the second Uzi from the ground, he watched Nate struggle to his elbows, a fierce grimace on his face.