peeled off her T-shirt and dangled it over the side.
“Watch out for the crocs.”
She pulled her T-shirt from the river and squeezed the muddy water over her head, then draped the wet shirt over her head and shoulders.
Other than the heat, humidity, bugs, piranha, crocs, and a psychotic renegade in the vicinity, this was a pleasant river cruise.
Taylor repeated her shirt dunking, but this time she pulled it back on.
She could easily win a wet T-shirt contest. Should he say that? Probably not.
“You should get yourself wet, Scott.”
“I was thinking of going in for a quick dunk.”
“Don’t let the piranha get your worm.”
“It’s actually an anaconda.”
She smiled. “Favorite croc food.” She glanced at the water. “Do you think there are poisonous snakes in there?”
“Probably. And snakes in the jungle.”
She nodded. “How can he live here?”
“We’ll never know. Because he’s going to die here. One way or the other.”
She thought about that, then said, “That would not be a satisfying end to this case.”
“No. But it would be the kind of rough justice he deserves.”
“We don’t really know that.” She reminded him, “You were looking forward to talking to him.”
“I’d like nothing better. He knows what we don’t know, and what other people don’t want us to know. And I’d also like to see what makes him tick. But we’ll have to settle for reporting map coordinates for a drone recon, followed by… whatever someone else decides.” He added, “Worley and his colleagues want Mercer dead.”
She nodded, then looked at her watch. “Almost an hour.”
“I still haven’t seen a place that matches the description of where Carmen said she and Mercer got off the boat.”
“For all we know, we’ve passed it. Sorry, Scott, but I’m not putting that much faith in the jungle descriptions of a Caracas call girl who’s probably seen more dicks than trees in her life.”
“Well, if you put it that way…”
“I’m thinking it’s time to turn around.”
So, yet another moment of decision.
He had a vision of himself and Taylor, back in General Hackett’s office, trying to explain why he went into the Hen House against Colonel Dombroski’s advice, and then the subsequent shoot-out that not only left dead bodies behind, but also probably alerted their fugitive that people were looking for him. Even harder to explain was Brodie cutting off Worley, their embassy contact, without providing convincing evidence to General Hackett that Worley was part of the problem. Hardest to explain would be his withholding of some key information from Colonel Dombroski, who would be there in the general’s office. So far, Brodie had taken a lot of big risks with not enough rewards to ensure his continued employment.
“Scott?”
“Well… I say push on.”
Taylor went back to her cell phone and pulled up a few more photos. “Okay, I see a place… a few hundred meters farther, where the trees recede from the riverbank… sort of a mudflat.”
“Good. Let’s check it out.”
“All right… Before we get to the mudflat, I see that thatched roof that Collins said was a Pemón fishing platform.”
“Okay. That’s a good landmark for the drones.” He added, “We’ll get the coordinates of the mudflat from the sat phone. Mission accomplished.”
She looked at him. “You’ve lowered your mission goals.”
“Close enough for government work. Now that I’m actually here, I see there is no way we can snatch our fugitive and get him on the plane.”
“I’m not even sure we can get ourselves on that plane.”
“Collins is still there. But I’m not sure who else is in Kavak with him. Maybe waiting for us.”
She thought about that, then said, “There’s always Worley.”
“That may be our next and last play. Meanwhile, call our pilot.”
Taylor called again, but again there was no answer. That would be a long shower, but maybe not a long nap. Or Collins had gone out to take a crap and a cougar ate him. Brodie said, “Most likely he’s sitting someplace—or sleeping—where he doesn’t have clear sky. That’s what happens when you hire an amateur.”
She nodded. “The cute ones are always stupid.”
Brodie smiled. He said, “When shit happens, you turn it into fertilizer for your tree of knowledge.”
“I’ll pass that on to my next partner.”
“Tell him where it came from.”
Brodie raised his binoculars and looked up the river. A gray and white bird plunged into the water and took off with a large silver fish in its beak. A snatch job should be that easy.
His mind returned to Uncle Reggie in the Mekong Delta. The Vietnam War had been an abstraction to Brodie—a