engine, and they continued along the riverbank. Up ahead, he could see the thatched-roof platform, which sat on stilts, overhanging the river, about five feet above the water—looked like a nice place to have a cocktail.
Brodie tried to replay that three-minute conversation, to figure out who’d got the best of it. And more importantly, figure out the future implications—legal, professional, and personal. But for now, the future was on hold, and the present needed his attention.
He focused his binoculars on the platform and thought he saw movement up there, but it could have been a moving shadow made by sunlight coming through the trees.
Taylor used her cell phone to take a long shot of the platform, then said to him, “Maybe we’ve reached that edge of danger.”
The platform was still about a hundred meters ahead, and the mudflat where Carmen might have disembarked was maybe another hundred meters, according to Taylor’s aerial recon shot.
“Scott?”
“I’d like to get one ground shot of the mudflat to verify your aerial shot.”
“Not necessary for a drone recon of this area.”
“I’m thinking more of a White House press conference with visuals.”
“Scott… there will be no—”
“After the mission is successfully completed, of course, and Captain Mercer has eaten a Hellfire missile, or has been taken into rough custody by a Delta Force team.”
She looked at the wall of jungle. “His camp is somewhere right in there.”
“Carmen said a fifteen-minute walk. Assume a trail, but also assume the lady is not used to much walking, so that could be between two hundred and fifty and five hundred meters of dense jungle.” He assured her, “They can’t see or hear the river from the camp.”
“I know, but… they could have lookout posts.”
“Captain Mercer would do that.”
“Correct. So—”
“This isn’t the first motorized canoe to sail up this river from Kavak with pale faces onboard.”
“It might be the first without a Pemón guide.”
“In retrospect, we should have taken César with us for five bucks. For another five, he’d have pointed out the gringo’s camp.”
“I agree. But there are no redo’s today, so time to turn around.”
“I need to verify with my own eyes what Carmen said to me and what you saw from the air.” He added, “Perfect triangulation of Intel. That wows them back in the Pentagon.”
“We’re CID, Scott, not a recon team, and this is a criminal case, not a combat mission.”
“It’s sort of morphed and overlapped. But, okay…”
The elevated platform was less than fifty meters away now, and he checked it out with his binoculars—no one there—then steered the boat to the opposite shore where he had a longer view of the river, which was bending to the right.
After they passed the fishing platform, Brodie raised his binoculars again and focused on the right bank while he steered. “Okay… I see it… definitely a mudflat, and definitely a partially cleared area… Take a look.”
Taylor moved quickly toward the stern, took the binoculars, knelt on the bench seat, and focused on the opposite riverbank as they continued upriver. “I see it…”
“Good. We agree that we saw the same thing.”
“I agree.” She handed the binoculars back to him, took out the sat phone, and pulled up their grid coordinates, then called Dombroski’s message line and left a brief message with the coordinates. “All right… we can turn around.”
“Take a picture.”
“It’s a hundred meters away.”
“I’ll get closer.”
“No. I’ll take the picture.” She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, shot three photos, and said, “I’ll even do a video.”
“Good idea.”
She did a ten-second video, then put the cell back in her pocket. “Mission accomplished.”
“Agreed.” He added, “I’m not totally crazy.” He brought the boat around and they began gliding downriver, making, he thought, about ten knots. “Kavak in less than an hour.” Which sounded better than “From the frying pan into the fire.”
Just when he thought it was safe to be on the water, he heard the unmistakable sound of automatic rifle fire.
Taylor, who was scrambling back toward the bow, froze and turned toward him. They made eye contact, but neither of them had to say, “AK-47s,” whose sound they both knew well.
The firing was distant, about five hundred meters, the hollow popping echoing through the rain forest. Brodie said, “Training.”
Taylor nodded, but didn’t move.
He twisted the throttle to full open, and the boat picked up a little speed. He should have checked the fuel before they left, but the worst-case scenario would be paddling downriver with the current. He recalled the Army’s famous advice: “Lack of prior planning