The Jungle (Oregon Files 8)

Cabrillo could see that Smith had a follower’s mind-set. He took orders, executed them, and moved on without giving them the slightest thought. It showed that he lacked imagination, unlike MacD Lawless, who could see the benefits of understanding Soleil Croissard’s motivations. Why she was there was an important factor in how they would get her out.

What if she’d gone in to make a major opium buy? Cabrillo doubted that was the case, but if it were true, it would alter how he would want to approach the situation. Dope peddlers don’t like being interrupted in the middle of a deal. What if she’d gone to meet some escaped human rights activist who had an entire army chasing after him? Speculating about her presence there now might save lives later.

He didn’t expect someone like Smith to understand that. He recalled his first impression at the Sands resort in Singapore. The guy was just hired muscle, a thug who Croissard had polished up a little so he fit into decent society and could do the financier’s dirty work.

“Since time is of the essence,” Juan said with a nod in Smith’s direction, “we’ll let that rest for now. Since none of us could pass as a native, there’s no sense trying to blend in in terms of the weapons we bring. John, what’s your preference?”

“MP5 and a Glock 19.”

“Okay. Tomorrow morning at oh-eight-hundred, I’ll meet you at the fantail with one of each. You can test them as much as you’d like. MacD, do you want the Barrett REC7 like we had in Afghanistan?” Cabrillo asked it in such a way as to make Smith think Lawless had been with the Corporation for a while.

“Saved our butts quite well, as I recall. And a Beretta 92, just like the one Uncle Sam gave me.”

“Linda?” Juan asked to make this sound like normal operating procedure. “So I can tell the armorer.”

“REC7, and I’ll take a Beretta too. Uncle Sam showed me how to use one, but he never gave it to me.”

“Truth be told,” MacD said mischievously, “Ah kinda stol’d mine.”

Smith must have sensed the meeting was winding down. He cleared his throat. “I myself am not a parent,” he said, “so I do not know the anguish Monsieur Croissard must be suffering right now. Young Lawless here told me on the chopper ride out to the ship that he has a daughter back in the States. Perhaps he can imagine what my boss is suffering.”

He looked pointedly at MacD. Lawless nodded. “If anything were to happen to my little girl, Ah would hunt down and butcher the person who did it.” The mere thought of his daughter being hurt brought a flush to his face and real anger into his voice.

“I can see that. And that is exactly what Monsieur Croissard expects of us. If, God forbid, something has befallen Soleil, we must be prepared to exact his revenge.”

“That isn’t exactly what we signed up for,” Cabrillo said, not liking the direction the conversation was going.

Smith reached into his back pocket for his wallet and withdrew a piece of paper. He unfolded it and laid it on the table. It was a bank draft for five million dollars. “He has given me sole discretion to give this to you if I feel it warranted. Fair enough?”

Cabrillo met his steady gaze. For a moment electricity seemed to arc between the two. All the others at the table could feel it. Ten seconds went by, fifteen. If this had been the Old West, the room would have cleared in anticipation of a gunfight. Twenty seconds.

The ex-Legionnaire glanced down and picked up the bank check. He’d blinked.

“Let us hope it doesn’t come down to that, eh?”

“Let’s,” Juan replied, and leaned back to throw an arm over the back of his chair in a studied relaxed pose.

The following morning Smith met Cabrillo at the fantail as they had arranged. This morning both men wore camouflage fatigue pants and plain khaki T-shirts. A folding card table had been set up next to the rust-caked railing and on it were the weapons Smith had requested and extra magazines as well as several boxes of 9mm ammunition, since both pistol and submachine gun used the same. There were also two sets of earphones and several blocks of yellow-dyed ice in a cooler under the table.

The big MD 520N helicopter sat squarely on the rearmost hatch cover, its blades folded flat and covers installed over its jet intake and exhaust. Usually the chopper was lowered into the hull on a hydraulic lift, but, as with everything else Juan had done since Smith came aboard, he didn’t want to tip his hand about his ship and her true capabilities.

The gray tarp had been removed from over the RHIB that was resting on the second aft-deck cargo hatch. Two crew members were giving the lightened craft a final inspection.

“Sleep well?” Juan greeted. He thrust out a hand to show there were no hard feelings over last night’s little staring contest.

“Yes, fine. Thank you. I must say, your galley produces delicious coffee.”

“That’s the one thing this outfit doesn’t skimp on. I’d have a mutiny on my hands if we served anything other than Kona.” There was no sense in being petty and feeding Smith swill.

“Yes, I’ve noticed other places where you are not so, ah, generous.” He wiped a finger along the rail, and the tip came back stained red.

“She may not be much to look at, but the old Tyson Hondo gets us where we need to go.”

“Odd name. Is there a story behind it?”

“That’s what she was called when we bought her, and no one felt any great urge to change it.”

Smith nodded to the pristine weapons. “I see another area where you do not pinch pennies.”