Anna screamed, swooning into Kouwe’s side.
With his back to Nate, Favre faced the shock and dismay of the other prisoners. “Please, did any of you truly think I’d let Monsieur Azevedo strike my love without recourse? Mon Dieu! Where’s your chivalry?”
Beyond the kneeling line, Nate saw the Indian woman touch a gash on her cheek.
Favre then turned back around to face Nate. His white outfit was now decorated with a crimson sash of Manny’s blood. The monster tapped his wristwatch and waggled a finger at him. “And, Nathan, the count did reach zero. You were late. Fair is fair.”
Nathan hung his head, sagging toward the ground. “Manny…”
Somewhere in the distance, a feline howl pierced the morning, echoing over the valley.
Seventeen
Cure
AUGUST 17, 4:16 P.M.
AMAZON JUNGLE
Louis surveyed the final preparations in the valley. He carried his soiled field jacket over one arm, his shirt-sleeves rolled up. The afternoon turned out to be a scorcher—but it would get hotter here, much hotter. He smiled grimly, satisfied, as he stared over the ruins of the village.
A Colombian soldier named Mask snapped to attention at his approach. The fellow, standing well over six feet, was as lethal as he was tall. A former bodyguard for the captain of a drug cartel, the swarthy man had taken a face full of acid protecting his boss. His skin was a boiled mass of scar tissue on one side. He had been fired afterward by his ungrateful ward, too ugly and too awful a reminder of how close death had come. Louis, on the other hand, respected the man’s show of stalwart loyalty. He made an excellent replacement for Brail.
“Mask,” Louis said, acknowledging the man, “how much longer until all the charges are set in the valley?”
“Half an hour,” his new lieutenant answered sharply.
Louis nodded and glanced at his watch. Time was critical, but everything was on schedule. If that Russian hadn’t gotten that damned GPS working and a signal transmitted, Louis would have had more time to enjoy his victory here.
Sighing, Louis surveyed the field before him. There were eighteen prisoners in all, on their knees, hog-tied with their hands behind their backs and secured to their crossed ankles behind them. A loop of rope ran from the bindings and encircled their necks. A strangler’s wrap. Struggle against your knots and the noose tightened around your neck.
He watched a few of the prisoners already gasping as the ropes dug deep. The others sat sweating and bleeding under the hot sun.
Louis noticed Mask still standing at his side. “And the village has been scoured?” he asked. “There are no more of the Ban-ali?”
“None living, sir.”
The village had numbered over a hundred. Now they were just one more lost tribe.
“How about the valley? Has it been thoroughly scouted?”
“Yes, sir. The only way onto or off this plateau is the chasm.”
“Very good,” Louis said. He had already known this from torturing the Ban-ali scout last night, but he had wanted to be sure. “Do one last sweep through all stations. I want to be out of here no later than five o’clock.”
Mask nodded and turned smartly away. He strode swiftly toward the giant central tree.
Louis followed him with his eyes. At the tree, two small steel drums were being rolled out of the trunk’s tunnel. After the valley had been secured, men with axes and awls had hiked up inside the tree, set deep taps into the trunk, and drained large quantities of the priceless sap. As the men pushed the drums into the field, Louis studied another team laboring around the base of the giant Yagga tree. His eyes narrowed.
Everything was running with a clockwork precision. Louis would have it no other way.
Satisfied, he strode over to the line of segregated prisoners, the survivors of the Ranger team, baking and burning under the sun. They sat slightly apart from the remaining members of the Ban-ali tribe.
Louis stared at his catch, slightly disappointed that they hadn’t offered more of a challenge. The two Rangers glared back at him murderously. The small Asian anthropologist had calmed significantly, eyes closed, lips moving in prayer, resigned. Kouwe sat stoically. Louis stopped in front of the last prisoner in the lineup.
Nathan Rand’s gaze was as hard as the Rangers’, but there was a glint of something more. A vein of icy determination.
Louis had a hard time maintaining eye contact with the man, but he refused to look away. In Nathan’s face, he saw a shadow of the man’s father: the sandy hair, the planes of the cheek, the shape of his nose. But this was not Carl Rand. And to Louis’s surprise, this disappointed him. The satisfaction he had expected to feel at having Carl’s son kneeling at his feet was hollow.
In fact, he found himself somewhat respecting the young man. Throughout the journey here, Nathan had demonstrated both ingenuity and a stout heart, even dispatching Louis’s spy. And finally, here at the end, he had proven his loyalty, with a willingness to sacrifice his own life for his team. Admirable qualities, even if they were directed at cross purposes to Louis’s own.
But finally, it was those eyes, as hard as polished stone. He had clearly known inconsolable grief and somehow survived. Louis remembered his elderly friend from the bar back at his hotel in French Guiana, the survivor of the Devil’s Island penal system. Louis pictured the old man sipping his neat bourbons. The chap had the same eyes. These were not Carl Rand’s eyes, his father’s eyes. Here was a different man.
“What are you going to do with us?” Nate said. It was not a plea, but a simple question.
Louis removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “I swore as a gentleman that I wouldn’t kill you or your friends. And I will honor my word.”
Nate’s eyes narrowed.
“I’ll leave your deaths to the U.S. military,” he said sadly, the emotion surprisingly unfeigned.
“What do you mean?” Nate asked suspiciously.
Louis shook his head and took two steps to reach Sergeant Kostos. “I think that question should be answered by your companion here.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kostos said with a glower.
Louis bent down at the waist and stared into the sergeant’s face. “Really…are you saying Captain Waxman didn’t confide in his staff sergeant?”
Kostos glanced away.
“What is he talking about?” Nate asked, directing the question to the sergeant. “We’re well past secrets now, Kostos. If you know something…”