David ed. - Face Off (2014) Anthology

Everything happens fast.

Nothing atypical for these two.

The Devil’s Bones

COMMANDER GRAY PIERCE STOOD ON the balcony of his suite aboard the luxury riverboat and took stock of his surroundings.

Time to get this show on the road.

He was two days upriver from Belém, the Brazilian port city that served as the gateway to the Amazon—one hour from the boat’s last stop at a bustling river village. The ship was headed for Manaus, a township deep in the rain forest, where the target was supposed to meet his buyers.

Which Pierce could not allow to happen.

The long riverboat, the MV Fawcett, glided along the black waterway, its surface mirroring the surrounding jungle. From the forest howler monkeys screamed at its passage. Scarlet and gold flashes fluttering through shadowy branches marked the flight of parrots and macaws. Twilight in the jungle was approaching, and fishing bats were already hunting under the overhanging bowers, diving and darting among a tangle of black roots, forcing frogs from their roosts, the soft plops of their bodies into the water announcing a strategic retreat.

He wondered what Seichan was doing. He’d left her in Rio de Janeiro, his last sight of her as she donned a pair of khaki shorts and a black T-shirt, not bothering with a bra. Fine by him. Less the better on her. He’d watched as she tugged on her boots, how the cascade of dark hair brushed against her cheeks and shrouded her emerald eyes. He’d found himself thinking about her more and more of late.

Which was both good and bad.

A ringing echoed throughout the boat.

Dinner bell.

He checked his watch. The meal would begin in ten minutes and usually lasted an hour. He’d have to be in and out of the room before his target finished eating. He checked the knot on the rope he’d tied to the rail and tossed the line over the side. He’d cut just enough length to reach the balcony directly below, which led into the suite belonging to his target.

Edward Trask. An ethnobotanist from Oxford University.

Pierce had been provided a full dossier. The thirty-two-year-old researcher disappeared into the Brazilian jungle three years ago, only to return five months back—sunburnt and gaunt, with a tale of adventures, deprivation, lost tribes, and enlightenment. He became an instant celebrity, his rugged face gracing the pages of Time and Rolling Stone . His British accent and charming self-deprecation seemed crafted for television and he’d appeared on a slew of national programs, from Good Morning America to The Daily Show . He quickly sold his story to a New York publisher for seven figures. But one aspect of Trask’s story would never see print, a detail uncovered a week ago.

Trask was a fraud.

And a dangerous one at that.

Pierce gripped the rope and quickly shimmied down. He found the balcony below and climbed on, seizing a position to one side of the glass doors.

He peered through the parted curtain and tested the door.

Unlocked.

He eased the panel open and slipped inside the cabin. The layout was identical to his suite above. Except Trask seemed a slob. Discarded clothes were piled all over the floor. Wet towels lay scattered on an unmade bed. The remains of some meal cluttered the table. The one saving grace? It wouldn’t be hard to hide his search.

First, he’d check the obvious. The room safe. But he had to be quiet, so as not to alert the guard posted outside. That security measure had necessitated his improvised point of entry.

He found the safe in the bedroom closet and slipped a keycard, wired to an electronic decoder, into the release mechanism. He’d already calibrated the unit on the safe in his cabin. The combination was found and the lock opened. But the safe contained only Trask’s wallet, some cash, and a passport.

None of which he was after.

He closed the safe and began a systematic examination of the room’s hidden corners and cubbies, keeping his movements slow and silent. He’d already reconnoitered his own suite in search of any place that might hide something small.

And there were many possibilities.

In the bathroom he checked the hollows beneath the sink, the underside of drawers, the service hatch beneath the whirlpool tub.

Nothing.

He lingered a moment and surveyed the tight space, making sure he didn’t miss anything. The bathroom’s marble vanity top seemed a collage of dried toothpaste, balled-up wet tissues, and assorted creams and gels. From his observations over the past three days he knew Trask only allowed the maid and butler into the room once a day and, even then, they were accompanied by the guard, a burly fellow with a shaved scalp and a perpetual scowl.

He left the bathroom.

The bedroom was next.

A loud oomph reverberated from the cabin door, which startled him.

He froze.

Was Trask back? So soon?

What sounded like something heavy slid down the door and thumped to the floor outside.

The dead bolt released and the doorknob turned.

Crap.

He had company.

COTTON MALONE CROUCHED OVER THE slumped guard. He held a finger to the man’s thick neck and ensured the presence of a pulse. Faint, but there. He’d managed to surprise the sentry in a choke hold that took far longer than he had expected. Now that the big man was down he needed to get him out of the hallway. He’d just arrived on the boat an hour ago at its last stop, so everything was being improvised. Which was fine. He was good at making things up.

He opened the door to Trask’s cabin and hauled the limp body by the armpits. He noted a shoulder holster under the guard’s jacket and quickly relieved the man of his weapon. He’d not had time to secure a sidearm due to the foreshortened nature of this mission. Yesterday, he’d been attending an antiquities auction in Buenos Aires, on the hunt for some rare first editions for his Danish bookshop. Cassiopeia Vitt was with him. It was supposed to be a fun trip. Some time together in Argentina. Sun and beaches. But a call from Stephanie Nelle, his old employer at the Magellan Billet, had changed those plans.

Five months ago, Dr. Edward Trask had returned from the Brazilian rain forest, after three years missing, toting an armful of rare botanical specimens—roots, flowers, leaves, and bark—all for the pharmaceutical company that had funded his journey. He claimed his discoveries held great potential, hope for the next cancer drug, cardiac medicine, or impotency pill. He’d also returned with anecdotal stories for each of his samples, tales supposedly told to him by remote shamans and local tribespeople. Over the intervening months, though, word had seeped from the company that the samples were worthless. Most were nothing new. A researcher for the pharmaceutical firm had privately described the much publicized bounty best. It was like the bastard just grabbed whatever he could find. To both save face and protect the price of its stock, the company clamped a gag order on its employees and hoped the matter would just go away.

But it hadn’t.

In fact, darker tales reached the U.S. government, as it seemed Trask had not come out of the forest entirely empty-handed. Folded amid his specimens—like a single wheat kernel amid much chaff—lay the real botanical jackpot. A rare flower, still unclassified, of the orchid family, that held an organic neurotoxin a hundredfold deadlier than sarin.

Talk about a jackpot.

Trask had been smart enough to both recognize and appreciate the value of his discovery. He’d analyzed and purified the toxin at a private lab, paid for out of his own pocket, his book deal and television appearances lucrative enough to fund the project. Part P. T. Barnum, part monster, last week Trask had secretly offered his discovery for auction, posting its chemical analysis, its potential, and a demonstration video of a roomful of caged chimpanzees, all bleeding from eyes and noses, gasping, then falling dead, the air clogged with a yellow vapor. The infomercial had gained the full attention of terrorist organizations around the world, along with U.S. intelligence services. Malone’s old haunt, the Magellan Billet, had been tasked by the White House to stop the sale and retrieve the sample. His mistake had come when he’d mentioned to Stephanie Nelle last week, during a casual conversation between old friends, that he and Cassiopeia were headed to Argentina.