Beyond the Breaking Point - Lori Sjoberg Page 0,16
hell was that?”
“I don’t know, but it sounds like something just became part of the circle of life.” On the outside, Wade projected confidence but inside, his pulse had kicked up a few notches. With a casual shrug, he slipped the shotgun strap off his shoulder and gripped the stock. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but it never hurt to be prepared. He glanced to Hector, who’d drawn his pistol. Good to know they were on the same page.
“Want to check it out?” Hector asked, and Hope stared at him as though he’d lost his mind.
“Why on earth would you want to do that?”
Hector shrugged. “Better to know what it is.”
“Seriously?” She gaped at him. “That’s right up there with ‘Let’s go down to the basement and see what’s making that creepy noise.’ No wonder men on average have shorter life spans than women.”
Under normal conditions, Wade would’ve agreed with her. The last thing he wanted was to go looking for trouble, but ignoring a potential problem could result in disastrous—or deadly—consequences. “You two stay here. I’ll go check it out.”
“No, I got this. It was my idea.” Hector slid his pack off his shoulders and set it on the ground. “Watch my stuff. I’ll be back in a few.”
He disappeared into the thick brush, his steps surprisingly silent.
With nothing to do but wait for Hector’s return, time seemed to slow to a crawl. Hope busied herself by rearranging the shit in her bag, while Wade continually scanned the rainforest for signs of anything out of the ordinary.
“He’s been gone a while,” Hope said. “Should we go after him?”
Wade checked his watch. What felt like forever had only been fifteen minutes. “Let’s give him a few more minutes.”
Those few minutes passed. Still no sign of Hector. A knot formed in Wade’s stomach. This couldn’t be good. If something bad had happened to his friend, he’d never forgive himself.
Up ahead, something rustled in the brush. Wade froze, his grip on the shotgun tightening as his eyes searched for the source of the noise. He heard it again—over there, to his left, a little louder this time, and alarm bells went off in his head.
“Get behind me,” he ordered Hope. For once, she didn’t argue. He didn’t want her in the line of fire if things went down the shitter.
But then he heard a high-pitched whistle and the breath that had been caught in his chest came out in a whoosh.
Seconds later, Hector emerged from the brush, his lips pressed into a thin, grim line.
“What is it?” Hope asked.
“There’s a group of hunters about fifty yards away. They’re not speaking in Spanish, so I’m guessing they belong to one of the indigenous tribes. From the looks of it, they killed some sort of wild hog.”
That explained the godawful noise. “How many?”
“I counted six, but there could be more. They’re mostly hunting with bows and arrows, but at least one of them had a rifle.” Hector’s expression darkened as he slipped his pack back on. “They’re setting up camp near the river.”
“Fuck.” Wade rubbed the back of his neck. The way he saw it, they didn’t have much choice. There was no way of telling if the hunters were friendly, and six—or more—against three weren’t very good odds. They’d give the hunters a wide berth and find another safe place to cross. “All right, let’s go around. We’re wasting daylight.”
Cautiously, they hacked through the dense vegetation until they came upon a clearing roughly the size of a football field. A rough dirt path cut the field in two, with row upon row of densely planted tall leafy bushes with little red berries.
A crudely built shack stood along the far edge of the field. Both of its windows were boarded over and ratty blue tarps covered half of the roof. Drying laundry hung from a clothesline strung between two large trees. No signs of people, which was a good thing, because they probably wouldn’t be happy to see strangers.
“What kind of crop is this?” Hope asked.
Hector frowned. “Coca.”
Her eyes widened, while her voice lowered as if she were afraid someone might overhear. “You mean cocaine?”
“Yep. That’s the plant it’s extracted from.” Wade took off his cap, scratched the top of his head, and slid the cap back on. Most of his work with the DEA had been in metropolitan areas, but he’d been to a couple of fields like this—right before they were burned to the ground.