Ballistic

The blast of double-aught buckshot was roughly akin to ten simultaneous rounds from a .32-caliber handgun. At point-blank range to the face of even a massive reptile, it was almost certainly a mortal wound. But the death throes of such a powerful creature are just as dangerous as the attack, and again Court had to kick and twist and flail at the water to get away.

He also knew the fresh blood in the water would attract hundreds of piranha in seconds; he had to get out of there immediately for way too many reasons to count. He ejected the spent shell, chambered a fresh one, and kicked frantically towards his canoe.

He heard the first snaps of gunfire as he took hold of his little boat under the bridge, but he ignored them for now. With a free hand he unhooked the ties holding down the canvas tarp from two of the cleats. He tossed the shotgun onto the tarp and pulled himself into the craft. The massive open mouth of a twelve-foot crocodile lurched from the water behind him, followed his legs up and over the little boat’s edge, but the jaws snapped shut without taking hold. The animal’s front leg had made it into the canoe, and his thrashing weight threatened to flip the tiny craft over with Court inside it. Court grabbed the 12-gauge and fired one-handed into the reptile’s neck, flipping it back off the boat.

He tried to rack a fresh shell, but his gun was empty. The rest of his ammo was in the backpack at the bottom of the river, so he tossed the shotgun aside as he pulled the rest of the canvas cover free and let it fall into the water. Another long burst of rifle fire shot foam into the boat, but the distant soldier’s gun emptied before he could hit either the canoe or the American.

Court dove flat on the bottom of the ten-foot-long canoe, pushed the outboard’s propellers into the water, flipped it on, and pulled the cord.

The machine burst to life, and Gentry wasted no time turning his tiny craft upstream, away from the guns and the crocodiles and the piranha.

A minute east of the bridge he still panted and hacked river water out of his throat. He looked down and saw his wet pants ripped open at the left thigh. A long slashing wound bled from where the first crocodile had scratched him with its claws. The wound was relatively serious and could use a few stitches in the deepest part, but he knew it was a better outcome than he had a right to deserve. He shuddered thinking about the prehistoric monster on top of him in the water.

And then he let out a long sigh. Looked down at his boat, at what now amounted to the grand sum of his worldly possessions.

An old plastic flashlight, a one-liter bottle of outboard engine fuel, and a rusty speargun.

That was it.

Court wiped his long hair from his eyes, hefted the speargun with his free hand, and turned the throttle on the engine higher, steering the boat upriver towards Fonte Boa.

FIVE

The manhunter stood alone in his hotel room, wiped sweat from his face, and opened the second-story window to let in fresh air that, while cooler than the musty room, smelled like rotten fish and donkey shit.

He fought a wave of nausea.

He turned off his radio and tossed it into his suitcase. The rest of his clothes were packed. He just had to zip up the bag, and he was out of this disgusting and humid hellhole. In ten minutes he’d be at the dock walking up the plank of the steamboat to Coari. In two days he’d arrive in a real city, even if he were only speaking in relative terms by comparing it to this backwater coffee stain on the map. Another two days and he’d be in Manaus, and there he’d run like an Olympic sprinter to the airport, catch a flight to Rio or Sao Paulo and then back home to Amsterdam.

Only then would he breathe easy again. He’d take a day or two to tend to his tulip garden, and then he would regroup. Reacquire his target.

He would find Court Gentry again. And next time, he told himself with finality, he’d get a team of wet boys who would not fuck up the entire operation.

He still could not believe it. Six men out of twenty killed. Including the AUC commander. Five of them by goddamned bee stings, and the other after slipping into a river full of crocodiles. Seriously? The helicopters had radioed that they were heading back over the border to Colombia with both their dead and their living.

And they were leaving him out here alone.

Bastards.

A knock at the door.

A chill ran up the manhunter’s sixty-two-year-old spine. He turned away from the window and pulled the old.32-caliber revolver from its leather shoulder holster under his arm. He held it up with a quivering hand.

Slowly and quietly he took the four steps to the door, the weapon raised in front of him.

“Who’s there?”

“Sir? Do you need help with your bags?”

The manhunter unlocked the bolt and flipped the latch, hiding his pistol behind the door as he opened it.

He sighed in relief. It was one of the little savages from the front desk.

“No. I can manage.”

“Yes, sir. The ferry leaves in twenty minutes.” With a nod the savage turned and headed back down the rickety staircase.

The manhunter shut the door. Locked it back tight. Holstered his ancient pistol as he turned back around to zip his suitcase shut.

On the other side of the room Courtland Gentry, his target for these many months, stood by the window. Gentry wore a short beard and hair longer than in any of the photos the manhunter kept, but it was undoubtedly him. He sported a cream-colored shirt, unbuttoned, wet, and filthy. Brown cotton pants, ripped at the thigh and blood smeared.

He held a speargun in his right hand.

The manhunter grabbed at his pistol in its shoulder holster as he cried out in shock.

The loud spring mechanism of the speargun firing snapped in the air of the hot room. The manhunter felt his body slam back against the wooden door; his arms flew out wide from his body.

Only by looking down, away from his target, did he see that he’d been run through by a long bolt from the weapon. He was pinned to the door through the stomach. Blood wet the insides of his legs as it trickled down from the wound.

After taking the time necessary to recognize what had happened, the manhunter looked slowly back up to his target. The American tossed the empty speargun on the tiny twin bed and came closer. With a growing weakness the manhunter softly pawed again at the pistol under his arm.

The Gray Man gently moved the manhunter’s hand away from the shoulder holster and pulled the revolver out. He looked it over, shrugged, and slid it into his pants at the small of his back.

“You’ve been on me since Chile, haven’t you?” The manhunter was surprised by the gentleness of the American’s voice. The Dutchman had lived and breathed Court Gentry for over half a year but realized now that he’d never heard him speak, had never even wondered what he sounded like.

Pain burned in the manhunter’s gut. Weakness grew in his extremities, in his eyes. Still, he said, “Since Quito.”

Court Gentry smiled. His face was close to the manhunter’s, his tone still soft and familiar like they were father and son. “I didn’t feel you in Ecuador.” He raised his eyebrows. “That was one hell of a chase, you and me.”

The manhunter’s legs went slack, and he cried out with the pain radiating from the spike through his belly. Quickly the Gray Man grabbed him, held him up against the door, braced him to take away a measure of the agony. The American looked up into the manhunter’s eyes. “You know how it is. Men like me. We can’t help what we are. It’s not our fault. The man who sent you . . . he knew who I was. What I was. He was the one who killed you. Not me.”

The manhunter’s eyes were vacant. Still, he nodded slightly.

“Give me his name, and I’ll make him pay.”