The Jungle (Oregon Files 8)

“Okay. George is already on the tarmac in the chopper to ferry you guys out to the ship, and we’ve maybe got another job lined up.”

“Really? That was fast.”

“Came through from L’Enfant. Some Swiss financier’s daughter crossed the border from Bangladesh into Myanmar, and he now can’t raise her on her sat phone. He’s afraid something’s happened to her and wants us to get her out.”

“Two questions,” Juan said. “What’s she doing in that godforsaken area in the first place and, second, has he been in contact with the government?” The first was really rhetorical. It didn’t matter. But the second was critical.

“No. He’s a smart guy. He knew that if he reached out to the ruling junta, his daughter would be hunted down and either ransomed or imprisoned for life.”

“That’s good. Listen, we’ll talk about it when we get back to the ship. Meanwhile, start a background check on the financier and his daughter and anyone she was traveling with.”

“Eric and Mark are already on it.”

“Oh too, if MacD comes back with us, it’ll be on a limited access basis for now. Tell Hux to bring her medical bag to meet us. I want her to make sure the guy’s not worse off than he’s letting on.”

“Ranger tough, huh?”

“Macho 101 is the first class they teach at Benning.” Juan killed the connection.

In the main cabin of the executive jet, Linda was bent over Seti, checking on his condition. He asked how the boy was doing.

“The sedative’s starting to wear off. I don’t want to risk giving him any more, but I also don’t want him regaining consciousness before we transfer him.”

“They have an air ambulance waiting. If you juice him a little, they’ll be able to handle it.”

“Okay.”

Linc and MacD Lawless were swapping Afghanistan war stories. Linc’s had been one of the first pairs of boots on the ground while MacD hadn’t gotten into the country until a few years later. They didn’t know any of the same people, but the situations they’d faced were usually similar, especially when dealing with the locals.

“Pardon the interruption,” Juan said. “MacD, can I have a word with you?”

“Sure.” He set aside the bottled water he’d been sipping and limped after the Chairman to the rear of the aircraft. “What’s up?”

“How’d it happen?”

Lawless immediately grasped what he was being asked. “There were three of us guarding a Pakistani TV crew—myself and two locals we’d worked with before. We were about an hour out of Kabul when the cameraman asks to pull over. Ah tell him it’s a real bad idea, but he said it was an emergency. The terrain was clear, so Ah figure, what the hell. We pull over, and no sooner had the wheels stopped turning than about a dozen Taliban materialize out of the ground. They’d been hiding under blankets that they covered with sand. It was a perfect ambush. Ah didn’t even get a shot off.

“The camera crew was a plant. They killed the two Afghan guards on the spot and trussed me up like a Thanksgiving turkey. They stole our truck, and, well, you pretty much know the rest. At some point Ah was transferred to the trunk of a car, Ah think before we crossed into Pakistan, but there’s no way to be sure. Whenever they got the chance, they’d smack me around some, and brag about how Ah was going to be a hit on the al-Qaeda version of YouTube.”

He spoke as if he were reporting the events of someone else’s life. Cabrillo suspected that it was still too fresh in his mind. The one thing he could tell was that Lawless regretted what had happened to the two Afghans more than his own capture.

“By now,” Juan said, “you’ve figured out what we do, yes?”

“Private security, like Fortran.”

“It goes well beyond that. We’re also an intelligence gathering operation. We do some consultancy, and we take on some ops for Uncle Sam when he needs complete deniability, though for reasons that aren’t important right now that line of work has dried up for the time being. We thoroughly vet all our clients. We work only for the good guys, if you follow my meaning. And we work so far under the grid that only a handful of people in the world know who we are. Your bosses at Fortran, for example, have no idea. You won’t see us mentioned in the media because I run a tight outfit that leaves no room for error.”

“Sounds like a pretty good crew,” Lawless said neutrally.

“It’s the best at what it does. Each member has been handpicked, and when someone new comes aboard everyone gets a vote.”

“Are you offering me a job?”

“Provisionally. A couple months ago we lost a man. Jerry Pulaski was his name. He was what we called a gundog, a hardened combat veteran used mostly for when the fur starts flying. You’d fill his position.”

“Do you guys mostly operate in this area?”

“No. Actually, this is our first time here. This whole region’s lousy with outfits like yours and Blackwater, or whatever they call themselves these days. We’d just as soon leave it to them. This rescue was a one-time type of deal.”