Operation: Amazon

- 11 -

“Now what?” Buller said, too loudly, at Banks’ back.

“Now we’re royally fucked,” Hynd said.

“Can’t you build a raft or something?”

“Aye,” Wiggins replied from the rear. “Maybe we could at that. But it would be easier to hollow you out and use you as a fucking canoe.”

Banks had a sudden memory, a flash of Wilkes on the altar, scraped clean on the inside. He felt gorge rise in his throat as he turned and hushed the others with a finger to his lips.

“Stow it, Wiggo,” he said in little more than a whisper. “Behave yourself if you want that beer.”

He turned back and, motioning for Hynd to come with him, stepped out of the foliage onto the quay. The stone underfoot was baking hot, even this early in the day, and Banks kept moving, aware that to stand still might raise blisters on the soles of his feet in no time. They walked the length of the dock and partly along the hillside track they’d taken the night before, looking for any clue as to what might have happened. They found two shell casings, from Wilkes’ gun he guessed, and a smear of blood that led them to a trail of spatter that in turn led farther off along the stone pathway back up to the hill.

“This is where they got Wilkes,” he said to Hynd.

“Aye, I guess so,” Hynd said. “I saw the flare and heard the shots in the night. Any clue as to what went down?”

“No, but I know what happened to the big man.”

They were out of hearing range of the others now, so Banks gave his sergeant a quick rundown of what he’d seen from atop the pyramid during the night and the snakes’ feeding ceremony.

“Fucking hell, Cap,” Hynd said. “What are we into this time? And where the fuck’s our boat?”

“The answer to both is the same, Sarge. I don’t have a Scooby. But we’re running out of options. I’m thinking I’d rather use a raft than take a swim.”

“I’m with you on that, Cap,” Hynd replied. “But will we get the time to build it? Are those big snakes round do you think? And can they swim?”

Banks shrugged.

“I don’t have any answers for you, Sarge, and I don’t really care. We’re getting out of here, one way or another. And I’m with Wiggo. I could murder one of those beers back in the dredger. Come on, let’s get started. I want us back on that rig before it gets dark again. I’ve got a feeling we’ll need to be tooled up for whatever else is coming.”

They spent the next hours alternately seeking shade and water and taking turns in chopping vines and assessing what tree branches might be of best use in the building of what would have to be a rough and ready raft. McCally found some large nuts that, when cracked open, proved to be edible when washed down with water and took the edge off what was a growing hunger.

While the work proceeded, Buller sat in a shaded spot on the edge of the quay, and refused point blank to help in any way.

“I’m the fucking job, aren’t I?” he said. “Just fucking rescue me, will you? Once we get that gold out of that rock, I’ll make you all rich men.”

Wiggins looked up at Banks from where he was trying to lash three poles together with a braided rope made of stripped bark.

“I still like my idea of using him as a canoe,” he said.

“Best idea you’ve had in years, Wiggo,” Banks replied. “But the lad’s father is a big shot back home and wants him back. Although I’m fucked if I can see why.”

He spoke loud enough to ensure that Buller heard, and waited to see if there would be a comeback, but the man stayed seated, staring out at the river. Banks went back to helping Wiggins lash poles together.

By the time they were nearly ready to get their raft into the water, the sun had already passed its highest point overhead, but they’d been allowed to go about the build without anything attacking them. It seemed that, if their escape had been noted, nobody was all that bothered about finding them. But that thought only got Banks thinking about snakes again, and to wondering how long it might be before they returned to human form, to themselves.

He didn’t want anything more to do with Buller than he had to, but he had questions, and the man might have answers. He left the others to get the raft in the water and test it out for strength and buoyancy, and went to talk to the man they were tasked with rescuing.

“Where are they?” he said, without preamble.

“They mostly come out at night,” Buller said, not looking around. “I think they don’t like the sun.”

“Then we’re safe?”

Buller laughed bitterly.

“That’s not the word I’d use. But we’re as safe as we’re going to be as long as we stay out here in the open. But I’m not a fucking expert, you know?”

Oh, I know that just fine.

He didn’t say it, and didn’t push for more information, for by that time the others had the raft floating below them, with Wiggins using a large paddle as a rudder. McCally and Hynd were using two smaller, spade-like paddles to propel the structure, somewhat unsteadily, along the side of the quay.

Banks got Buller to his feet and the two of them stepped gingerly aboard. The raft wasn’t that much larger than a wide door, and it rocked alarmingly, then steadied under their weight.

“Careful, Cap,” Wiggins said from the back. “She goes well enough in a straight line, but she’s a bit too chunky for anything complicated. A bit like the sarge’s wife.”

Buller sat squarely in the middle, cross-legged, and already looking off into space. Banks ignored the man and knelt at the front where he could give direction, and warn them of anything ahead in the water.

The quay sat in a sheltered inlet, and they managed to navigate easily enough in the relatively still waters on their way out to the river itself. Banks looked up, to the wall that towered high above to his left, and picked out his climbing route of the night before, now marveling that he’d managed it without falling and getting dashed on the rocky hill below. He was also looking out for any attack, for now would be a good time for one, if their opponents had any tactical savvy. But no arrows, rocks, or spears came down from higher up, and they emerged out into the Amazon, where the current hit them side on and immediately threatened to tumble them away at its mercy.

The first few minutes were a frantic flurry of paddling and rearranging their weight while Banks tried to gauge the river ahead and shout out a course of least resistance to the flow. Several times they nearly tumbled over completely and river water washed over the top of the raft, threatening to sink them. But eventually Wiggins got the hang of the makeshift rudder, and McCally and Hynd were able to work in tandem to stabilize the raft and get it moving with rather than against the flow. By the time they got going in a straight line, they were 30 yards and more from the right-hand bank, heading down river almost sedately.

Banks had a last look back at the high tower where they’d been held. It already looked much smaller, almost insignificant when measured against the magnificence of the wide snaking river. Then all his attention was on the water itself, as he watched for eddies or cross currents that might throw them off course.