about a hundred feet wide. He said, “The water is flowing at maybe four or five knots. It’s a little deeper than I thought, but no more than chest-high. We could actually wade upriver.”
“The piranha would enjoy that.”
“Right… well…” He looked to his left, where he saw the mudflat that he’d glimpsed from the air. There was a scattering of wooden canoes in the mud, all about fifteen feet long with square sterns and small outboard motors. “So near, and yet so far.”
“Ready for your picture?”
“Let’s get the boats in the shot.” He walked down to the mudflat and stood by the canoes, which he noted had wooden plank seats every few feet, and were wide enough to hold two Pemón or one hog-tied Captain Mercer, stretched across the seats. The canoes had nylon bow lines, and that should do the trick. Then all they had to do was call Collins with a heads-up, get Mercer ashore away from the village, cut through the grass to the landing strip, and board the plane. It’s all about planning and logistics.
“Scott? Hello? Smile for the camera.”
He smiled, and pointed upriver. Taylor took three shots and said, “Okay, let’s go.”
“Hold on.” He noticed a bamboo platform on which was a pile of wooden oars and also yellow life vests, which weren’t needed in this chest-high water unless the piranha and crocs had made off with your legs.
He walked over to one of the canoes. The small, gas-powered engine had a recoil starter that Brodie was familiar with. He guessed it was about two horsepower, and given the speed of the current they’d be going against, he thought his initial estimate of seven or eight knots was about right.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m verifying Carmen’s testimony. It all fits.”
“Good. We’ll mention that in our debrief. Let’s go.”
“I have an idea.”
“Like the one you had when you walked into the whorehouse?”
“Even better. Why don’t we get into one of these canoes, paddle out to the middle of the river, and take a few pictures?”
“Why?”
“So we can say we did a river recon.” He added, “No one has to know we were fifty feet from the boat landing.”
“That’s deceptive.”
“Right. It’s our turn to be deceptive.”
“Don’t justify—”
“Come on. This will take ten minutes.” He added, “We need to make a convincing case for what we believe.”
She looked around. “All right…” She walked to the canoe where Brodie was standing and he handed her the nylon bow line.
“You pull, I’ll push. But first I’ll get some paddles.” He grabbed two oars and two life vests and threw them into the canoe, then rounded the back of the canoe to push. Taylor remained standing, holding the bow line.
He asked, “What is it?”
She kept looking at him, then asked, “How far are we actually going, Scott?”
“About an hour.” He looked at her. “Okay?”
“I don’t like being bullshitted.”
“No one does.” He added, “You knew where we were going since we left Caracas.”
“Right. I should have known to just apply the Brodie Rule.”
“What’s that?”
“In any given scenario, do the thing most likely to get you killed.”
“I’m offended.”
“No, you’re not.” She pulled on the line as Brodie began pushing the canoe through the mud.
They got the canoe into the shallow water and both scrambled aboard. Brodie grabbed an oar and pushed against the river bottom until they were clear of the shore. The canoe began floating downriver, and Brodie moved to the stern, tilted the propeller into the water, then started the engine and gave it some throttle until the canoe began moving upriver. He steered it into the middle of the river and twisted the throttle. The canoe gained speed, cutting through the tea-colored water, moving along the grassland toward the jungle.
The morning sun felt good, and Brodie felt good. They were close to their fugitive now, under the same sky and sun, breathing the same air, and heading up a river that Kyle Mercer had traveled. The detective work was behind them and this was now a reconnaissance mission into hostile territory, and the success of this mission depended on the skill and instincts that Scott Brodie and Maggie Taylor had honed in war zones on the other side of the world.
He and Maggie Taylor had been sent here with fairly simple and straightforward orders: Find and apprehend Captain Kyle Mercer, and return him to face American military justice. Or, if they couldn’t bring Captain Mercer to justice, they—or a drone or a Delta team—would bring justice to Captain Mercer. Either way,