makes for a piss-poor performance.” Good advice for next time. But for this time, so far, so good.
“Scott…”
“What?”
She pointed at the elevated platform, about twenty meters ahead.
He looked, and he didn’t need his binoculars to see two men—not Pemón, but bearded, bad-looking hombres in jungle fatigues—standing at the edge of the platform, pointing AK-47s at them.
One of the men yelled something; then the AK-47 spoke and a stream of red tracer rounds streaked into the water less than a meter in front of their bow.
One of the men again yelled something, and Brodie didn’t need much Spanish to understand “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
They were totally exposed, in an open boat without cover or concealment, armed with two pistols that didn’t have the firepower or accuracy of an AK-47, and jumping into the piranha- and croc-infested river was not a good option.
He looked at Taylor, who was looking at him.
They were abreast of the platform now, and he glanced up into the muzzles of the two automatic rifles.
“Alto!”
Well… there is a time to fight and a time to run. There is never a time to surrender—but there is a time to bluff. This was that time. He put the motor in idle and said to Taylor, “Talk to them.”
“What should I say?”
“Maggie. We’re bird-watchers.”
She nodded, but didn’t say anything, and he saw she was staring past him. He looked over his shoulder at two boats, similar to theirs, coming toward them from the direction of the mudflat.
Taylor said, “This does not look good.”
“No.” He looked at her. “Sorry, Maggie.”
“Not your fault. I’ll do my best with the cover story.”
“Okay.” He glanced up at the two men still aiming their rifles at them, then looked through his binoculars at the approaching boats and saw that each boat had three armed men aboard. He said to Taylor, “I think we’re going to meet Captain Mercer.”
CHAPTER 43
They drifted downriver past the fishing platform where the two men stood with the AKs trained on them. One of the men shouted something and motioned them to get closer.
Taylor replied in Spanish, then said to Brodie, “We should drop our guns overboard.”
Brodie twisted the throttle and moved the boat slowly toward the platform. “We’re close enough now to use them.” He unsnapped the lower right pocket of his cargo pants where he kept the Glock. “You take the guy on the left. On the count of three…”
“Scott, there are two boats filled with armed men coming at us, less than a hundred meters away.”
Brodie moved the boat to within ten meters of the platform and stared up at the two men, who looked like tempting targets.
One of them shouted and Taylor replied, then said to Brodie, “He asked if we have an anchor, and we don’t.” She looked at him. “Scott?”
He glanced at the approaching boats. Sixty meters. He looked again at his two targets, working out the math. The first shot is a big surprise to everyone except the guy who fired it. The second target has a split second to react before the second shot surprises him when it punches through his chest. Then the AKs are just heavy metal objects on the battlefield, waiting for new owners. Guns don’t kill people—people with guns kill people.
One of the men shouted at them and motioned them closer.
“Scott—”
“I think I can take both of them. Get ready to jump on the platform and grab an AK.”
Taylor glanced up at the two men, then at the approaching boats. “Won’t work, Scott.”
“It’s either this, or something you don’t want to think about.”
She took a deep breath, then said, “We’re bird-watchers, Mr. Bowman. That has a better chance of getting us out of here than a zero-odds firefight.”
He didn’t reply, but he moved his right hand along his leg toward the open pocket and his fingers felt the butt of the Glock. In five seconds or less he could be pulling an AK out of a dying man’s hands—just like in the Hen House.
Taylor said to him in a calm, controlled voice, “Scott… no. You wanted to meet Kyle Mercer. Mr. and Mrs. Bowman will do that.”
He looked at her.
One of the men threw a nylon line into their boat and shouted something.
Taylor looked at the line, then at Brodie, who nodded, and she tied the line around the bow cleat. Brodie shut off the engine.
The two other boats were approaching the platform, and Brodie could see that each held three men—one piloting, and two with AK-47s, which were aimed