CHAPTER 22
John tried to hurry his two charges quickly through the jungle. He knew he would be too late, even though he still held out hope that Trigger would somehow manage to get away. It was a foolish hope, and he had recognized Trigger’s fatalism in his voice. Trigger knew death was upon him. The American soldiers would take no prisoners back. They couldn’t afford to.
The trio had already been moving towards the hut when Trigger had warned them of the American soldiers’ approach. They had left Sylvester’s body to the jungle. John hadn’t wanted to do it and Neesha had violently protested, but there were still three more soldiers out there bent on killing them and John didn’t want to risk being caught in the open just to bury a corpse. It was cold and calculated, but he hadn’t seen another option.
They were still a good mile away from the hut when he saw the billowing clouds of black smoke rising above the jungle canopy. He knew instinctively what had happened.
“Stop,” he snapped at the other two.
Neesha and Ali halted and turned towards him expectantly. In just a short amount of time, the two had come to depend upon John fully. He had sustained them in the jungle. He had defended them from those trying to kill them. He was the one with the plan.
John didn’t much care for it. It reminded him too much of his old unit. They had worn similar looks of dependence for their Captain, whom they trusted right up to their deaths—well, most of them. And now Sylvester was dead and so was Trigger.
“Why are we stopping?” Ali asked. “I thought Trigger was in trouble?”
“Trigger is dead,” he replied shortly.
“What?” Neesha gasped, a hand involuntarily going to her mouth.
“See the smoke?” John pointed through the trees. “That’s the hut. They found Trigger.”
A single tear welled up in Neesha’s eye and spilled out onto her smooth face, tracing a lazy path down her cheek. “No. Maybe he got away.”
“He didn’t.”
“How do you know?” Neesha insisted. “We have to go and check.”
John shook his head. “It’s a trap. They’ll be expecting us to come back. They’ll pick us off the moment we step into view around the hut clearing.”
“You can’t know that! What if he is still alive? What if he’s hurt and needs help?” Neesha seemed unusually concerned. This was a changed girl, no doubt about that. Her experiences had fundamentally changed her.
John considered that for a moment. He recognized that everyone was but a product of their experiences and the influences around them. Change those experiences and influences and you have a completely different person. Oh, there would still be attributes that carry over into either personality—likes and dislikes of food and music, for example. But the core values, that which determines a person’s motivations and choices, would be essentially different.
“It’s too dangerous,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and looking into her eyes. “Trigger understood. He knew. He warned us to stay away.”
She pulled away from him, one hand going to her temple to stroke it. John saw a blood vessel throb in her neck. He was concerned. He needed to get her to a doctor soon. “I still think we should go look,” she said, lacking conviction.
Ali looked from one to the other. “Do you think Trigger managed to reduce their numbers?”
That was a positive thought. “We can hope,” John said. He drew his lips into a straight line and looked at the surrounding terrain. Darkness was fast approaching. They would need a place to hole up for the night. Tomorrow, they would need to find a way to get intel on the American soldiers. Without that knowledge, he would just be walking around blind.
“Let’s move off the trail and find a place to sleep for tonight,” he said. “We need rest and food.”
Not having any better plan, they nodded their acceptance and followed John as he moved off the path and struck out deeper into the jungle. A quarter of a mile in, they found a sheltered spot with running water that flowed off the nearby mountain. They made a cold camp that night, nervous that a fire would alert the American soldiers that were still out there or be too easily spotted by satellite.
All three had retained their backpacks, plus Sylvester’s, so they had plenty of food that night. The mood was solemn. Sylvester and Trigger’s death had resonated deeply with all three members of the little group. For John, both deaths meant failure. He had failed to keep Sylvester alive, and he had failed to be there for Trigger when he was most needed. Long after the other two had fallen into a fitful sleep, John lay awake staring at the stars visible through the tree tops and wondering if he would be able to keep the other two safe.
The next day promised rain. Rolling dark clouds swept in from the ocean, and flickers of lightening danced in the sky. It looked to be a fairly large storm, one that would take several days to blow over. This meant days of being wet and uncomfortable. John grimaced as he roused the other two from a fitful sleep.
“Get your things together,” he told them. “We move out in 20 minutes.”
“Where are we going?”
Pointing at the storm, he said, “We’ll go to the village. I think the locals call it Dayaks. The network is still down. I checked. This means we can still move freely, but that storm is going to be a problem. It will, however, be a problem for everyone. Communications will be weak or intermittent at best, and I think we might have some allies within the village itself.”
“Didn’t some of those villagers try to kill Sty?” Ali countered. “And didn’t you kill them?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Isn’t someone going to take that personally?”
John looked off into the distance and cursed silently. He hadn’t considered that. He had hoped that the villagers would look favorably upon them, seeing them as victims of Manari’s manipulation as much as they were. He had completely forgotten about those hunters he had killed to save Sylvester. He rubbed his head as the first drops of rain hit it. “It might be a problem,” he conceded. “But we’ll just have to deal with it when or if it comes up.”
Neesha, her face pale, nodded. Ali studied John for a moment before nodding too. “Okay,” the Middle Easterner said flatly, “guess we don’t have much choice.”
John turned from them and started off, his eyes scanning the terrain ahead for any sign of the American soldiers. The rain began to fall in earnest then, a torrential downpour that left all three soaked to the bone and visibility reduced to mere scores of meters. Soon, the ground where it was free of debris turned to mud, making each step a struggle in itself.
Neesha bore up under the strain bravely, but it didn’t take long before she fell to her hands and knees, breathing hard. One hand stayed at her temples, even as her head hung like a wilted flower. She was shaking all over.
“Help me,” John ordered Ali, moving to one side of the girl.
Ali moved to the other side, and together they hoisted her up between them. Her wet, stringy hair hung down around her face, clinging to her chin and neck. John couldn’t see her face, but he knew she was hurting something awful.
“We’ll take it slow,” he said to the young man on the other side of the Neesha. “But we need to get to that village.”
Nodding, they trudged forward. The going became even rougher. To get to the village, they had to cross several rugged ridges and make their way through dense underbrush. Since John had based their activities outside the camera network of the game, they weren’t all that far from the village as the crow flies. But trying to cross these ridges with an ill girl in the rain became an exercise in frustration.
They rested every half hour for ten minutes. This slowed things down even more, but John couldn’t see any way around it. He needed to get to the village before nightfall. As it was, they barely made it. Evening announced itself by turning everything a darker gray. The sun was completely hidden in the storm clouds and the rain had not let up.
They staggered out of the jungle with barely enough light to n
avigate by. Dayaks lay before them, its narrow streets empty of everything except a mongrel dog that barked at them with abandon. No one came out to shut it up or even to see what it was excited about. It seemed everyone except them had enough sense to stay inside during the storm.
“Where to now?” Ali asked, wiping water out of his eyes.
John pointed to the largest structure in the village. “There. I think that’s the chief’s house. Our best chance of getting help lies with him.”
The house he pointed to looked like an old plantation manor. It was surrounded by clay brick houses or thatched huts, but even in the dim lighting, John could see that the manor house was well constructed. As far as he could tell, no one had yet noticed them.
They trudged up the central avenue, their boots thick with mud, making every step a labor in itself. When they reached the white manor house, they had to climb a half dozen steps to reach the double oak door. Oak? John thought to himself. Wonder how much that had cost to get imported. “I got her,” he said to Ali. “Knock.”
John took Neesha’s weight on himself. She didn’t weigh much, at least not enough to really inconvenience him—unless one had to trudge through rain and mud. What really worried him was how listless she had become. Her skin looked pale and waxy, her eyes drooped, and she had ceased to be responsive.
Alik banged on the door, keeping it up until a light in the foyer came on, a yellow glow through the windows to either side of the double doors. When the door opened, John was unprepared for the huge man that practically filled the doorway. The man was dark skinned, nearly seven feet tall, and wore a large headdress that merely made him seem gigantic to the tired trio. He was dressed in tribal leathers that left most of his chest bare except for two leather straps that crisscrossed each other. A dark jerkin and brown pants hardly hid the muscles that rippled on the man’s frame. His bulk barred the door as he took them all in.
“Help,” John said, not knowing if the man before him even spoke English. “We need shelter.”
The man didn’t move for a long moment. Finally he moved aside and allowed the trio to stagger into his house. John had already guessed that this was the chief, Bangor. John regretted the trail of mud he was leaving, but Bangor didn’t seem to mind for he barely noticed, his steely gaze on his wide face never leaving the three fugitives he had allowed into his house.
Spying an old worn couch that was probably left over from the original owner of the manor, he picked Neesha up and deposited her gently on the cushions. Her breathing seemed okay, but she winced in pain, a whimper escaping her lips.
“What is wrong with her?” the giant man asked.
John looked up, thankful the man spoke English. “Thank you for letting us in. It’s nasty out there.”
“What is wrong with her?” he repeated.
“Something is wrong in her head. There is a growth that is pushing on her brain. If it is not treated soon, she will die.”
“This is not good,” Bangor rumbled. “You are the man who has been helping them.” He pointed deliberately at Neesha and then Ali.
“Aye, that’s me.”
“Why have you done this?”
“Because what Manari is doing is wrong,” John said, rising to his feet to address the chief more directly. His head only came to the man’s chest. “Manari is nothing but a thief and a liar.”
The man seemed to consider this. Then he pointed at the youths again. “They were to kill the dragon that ate my son. Why have they not done this?”
John let out a slow breath. He had forgotten that the Billy the dragon had supposedly killed this man’s son. There was an anger there, a hurt that went beyond words, beyond containment. “Bangor, I don’t mean to question you, but did anyone in your village see the attack on your son?”
“No. We read the tracks. We followed the tracks and found the creature.”
“But did anyone actually witness the attack?”
“No.”
“Could you be mistaken? Could someone have deliberately misled you?”
The large man had been shaking his head, but this last sentence brought him up short. “Deception?”
“Aye. Is not Manari a master of deception? Perhaps there was no dragon that killed your son.”
Truthfully, John hadn’t the slightest clue as to what really happened, but if he could turn the man into an ally, then all the better. Bangor stared at the three of them for a long time, mulling over John’s words. John could see that Bangor wasn’t quite convinced. A seed of doubt had been planted, and John knew when to leave well enough alone. He turned back to Neesha, stripping her of her boots and socks. He would need a blanket.
“You cannot be here,” Bangor suddenly chimed in.
“We have nowhere else to go, Chief. I know it is dangerous, but as soon as we rest up and the rain stops, we will be on our way.”
“No. That is not why it is dangerous.”
John looked up. “Why? What’s wrong?”
At that moment, Manari came through one of the other doors that led deeper into the manor. “Bangor? What is all the noise down here? Who did you—” He stopped cold the moment his eyes fell upon John.
“You!” they shouted simultaneously. With matching fury they leaped at each other. John had already set aside his side arm, and he would have no chance of getting it before Manari could draw his own weapon. So John attacked. Manari, his rage a match for John’s, totally forgot about his sidearm as he also charged John.
They came together in the middle of the foyer.
Manari could be classified as a scrapper, not a fighter. It became clear to John that Manari didn’t have any real training to speak of. John, on the other hand, had been trained in several of the martial arts. But it was John’s exhaustion from carrying Neesha through mud and rain all day that evened the fight out. Manari looked rested and well fed.
The Italian swung a powerful roundhouse that John only managed to partially evade. The mobster’s fist clipped John’s chin, spinning him around to crash painfully into a wall. With a primeval growl, Manari leaped upon John as he fell heavily to the ground.
“You ruined everything!” the Italian shouted, his fists pumping up and down. “You blasted fool! You pig! You stupid pig! You idiotic pig! You—”
John interrupted the man’s tirade by slipping his hands over his opponent’s neck and jerking the man’s face down into his forehead. Manari’s nose splattered, sending snot and blood trailing in an arc as he reeled backwards.
Feeling misused, bruised, and abused, John rolled to his feet and stalked his enemy with implacable determination. He wiped blood from his face and winced as a cracked rib protested, but otherwise kept cold eyes on Manari.
The Italian staggered upright, both hands cupping his ruined nose. He swore viciously. He pulled his hands away to look at all the blood and swore again. “Gyou pheg!” he wheezed. He turned, saw John advancing, and backed up a step. “Sthay awathy!” he yelled.
The ex-soldier slapped the mobster’s hands away and closed on the man who had set up this revolting game. He hit the Italian once in the stomach, doubling him over. He then slammed his knee into the man’s face, snapping him, swaying, back upright. John then, with cold deliberation, spun the man around, put his arms around his neck and snapped it in one smooth motion.
The body flopped limply, and John let it fall to the floor. He bent over the still form, trying to catch his breath. Finally! He exalted. The man was finally dead. All his energy seemed to drain at once, and he put a hand out to a nearby wall to steady himself. He breathed heavily as he waited for some strength to return.
Two more of Manari’s men ran into the room with guns drawn. They froze upon seeing the dead body of their leader. One, his face clouding over in rage, swung his sidearm over to target John. John just sighed. He neither had the strength nor the energy to try to dodge.
But then Bangor was there. He slapped the handgun out of the man’s hand and delivered as powerful a blow as John had e
ver seen with a man’s fist. It literally picked the man up and flung him a dozen feet to slam into a wall. The entire wall vibrated and a few items attached to it fell off to clatter onto the ground. The henchman himself was no longer conscious of anything. He slumped to the floor and remained still. An impression of his body had literally been stamped into the plaster.
The second man looked from his partner to Bangor and abruptly dropped his gun, holding up his hands. “If it is all the same to you, I see no reason for me being here. Do you?”
Bangor grunted and nodded towards the door. The man swallowed and beat a hasty retreat, fleeing into the rainy night without even a backwards glance. John watched him go, too tired to stop him and question him.
Ali came over, offering a steady hand. “Are you okay?”
John waved him off. “I’ll live.” He looked down at the body of the mobster with satisfaction. “I’ve been meaning to do that for a long time now.”
“You won’t hear any complaints from me,” the Arab murmured. He then said something in Arabic that John didn’t catch.
Bangor strolled over. “You may stay now,” he said simply. He pointed to the foyer. “Here. Stay here.”
John had no inclination to argue. “This will do just fine.” He hesitated. “Do you know where the American soldiers are?”
The village chief regarded John steadily. “There are only two remaining. One died in the battle against the one known as Trigger. He too is dead.”
John swallowed heavily upon hearing that. It was one thing to suspect a friend’s death; it was something altogether different to have it confirmed. He nodded shortly and looked away. “Do you know where the other two are?”
“They take refuge in a hut at the edge of my village.” He pointed in the opposite direction from which John and his two charges had entered the village.
“They are here? In this village?”
“Yes.”
Ali looked up. “What are we going to do?”
“We are going to get some rest. We can’t do much in our condition. Tomorrow, we will set up an ambush away from the village.” He glanced at Bangor, who nodded in appreciation of his village’s consideration. “We don’t want anyone else to get hurt, even accidently.”
The young Arab thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “Fine. I’ll help you. But we can’t take Neesha. She is not well enough.”
Bangor raised a hand. “I will look after her. She will come to no harm as long as she is here. You have my word.”
That was good enough for John. He nodded gratefully, turned and slumped down next to a nearby wall. Without any prompting, Bangor heaved Manari’s limp body up, slung it over one shoulder like a sack of grain and walked towards the door Manari had entered from. John watched him leave, but the chief was back soon after to collect the unconscious mobster he had punched.
If Bangor returned a second time, John didn’t know it. He was sound asleep by then.