Max nodded. Held out his hand. “It’s a deal.”
Xavier spat into the palm of his hand and clasped Max’s. “It’s a deal, gringo!” And he laughed again.
Max knew he had to grasp every positive thing that happened in circumstances like this, so he allowed a sigh of satisfaction. He had managed to get to the other side of the river and back, avoided a horrific death and gathered a few bits and pieces that would help them escape from this place. So the day hadn’t been all bad. Max was determined never to lose hope. And he’d never have to spike his hair with gel again-he’d been so scared it would probably stand on end permanently.
Riga had an energy that frightened people. It was not that he flaunted it; it was something that anyone close to him could sense. Nor did he use his physical strength and endurance simply to impress anyone. He had supreme confidence in his ability to survive and preferred, at every turn of his life, to be alone.
From a young age, he had been trained as a destroyer of life and property and had been taught to get close to his enemy so he might understand him better. He held a deep sense of pride in his skills. It was his profession, just as a doctor was attracted to medicine or an attorney to law. It was a calling. He had no sympathy for his victims and was a confirmed sociopath by the age of fourteen. A perfect killer.
Chasing down Danny Maguire had been part of a bigger picture, so Riga’s status had not been diminished because his target was young. Cazamind and the people he worked for dealt only with issues at an international level, so when Maguire ran into the tunnel and fell onto the high-voltage rail, it ended one part of Riga’s brief. The follow-up, checking on Max Gordon, was like a full stop at the end of a sentence. It was all supposed to end there. Find out if Gordon had received anything from Maguire. He hadn’t, as far as Riga knew. End of story.
Not quite.
Cazamind had sounded worried-even, Riga suspected, scared. There were enormous implications for Cazamind’s “people.” Tendrils of corruption squirmed through the corridors of power in America and the UK, and national interests were at stake. All because a fifteen-year-old boy had outwitted them all. It seemed obvious Max Gordon had learned
Extreme caution had to be employed. A swift and low-key operation to remove the problem had been sanctioned, and the job had to be done by one man. The money was already in Riga’s Swiss bank account. It was more than generous, and he was to have anything he needed-weapons, transport and information.
A private Learjet with long-range tanks was a more luxurious way to travel across the Atlantic, and unlike Charlie Morgan, who had sat cramped in the back of an overcrowded commercial flight, Riga had unlimited resources at his disposal. He was already in Central America in a place of Cazamind’s choosing. From his vantage point deep in the rain forest-clad mountains, Riga could strike at Max should he ever reach this inhospitable area.
Riga was not waiting in luxury, however. The palm-leaf roof of the long hut kept the scorching sun off him, but the stifling jungle humidity enveloped everyone like a blanket soaked in hot water.
A decrepit air conditioner whirred noisily, the tatty piece of ribbon tied to the front grille fluttering pathetically, showing that the ancient cooler should have been replaced years ago. But the killer had learned to ignore any personal discomfort. This apparently abandoned airfield cut out of the limestone hillside deep in the forest was used years ago by the CIA for arms shipments to insurgents in Cuba and Central America. Those days were long gone, but secret airfields were still used by the people Riga worked for, as well as by the drug cartels, who needed to move shipments across vast areas of jungle.
Riga’s satellite phone beeped. It was Cazamind.
“The boat has been dealt with. They recovered two bodies; the others would have disintegrated when it exploded.”
“Was Gordon’s body found?”
“No. Two men.”
“Then we can’t be sure.”
“No one would have survived.”
“I want to double-check.”
There was a pause. “All right, Riga. As soon as it’s possible, I’ll have the attack helicopter’s video surveillance tape downloaded to you. But I think it’s over.”
Riga liked certainties. It was how he earned his reputation. It was how he stayed alive.
“I’ll wait,” Riga said.
Xavier followed Max’s instructions, just as he had promised, though he thought he was being asked to do girl’s work. He sat under the shade of a palm tree plaiting together strips of palm frond into a circle, like a crown. He had seen young girls at village weddings wearing things like that on their heads. It was a decoration! He wanted to protest but did not. It was of no consequence. He would keep his word to
Max used his teeth to tear apart some of the cotton pieces he had fished out of the water. They still stank of the fetid mangrove swamp, and he hoped he was not inviting every lethal germ under the sun to invade his body. He tore them into a roughly circular shape and then began ripping strips round the edge. This was going to help them survive the intense sunlight and the flies and mosquitoes. Xavier was muttering under his breath as he painstakingly braided the palm strips. He was clumsy and made a mess of it once or twice, but with grim determination, a tight smile and a shrug, he had continued the task.
It was only a small point, but Max had not told him of the palm crown’s use. If Max could get the boy to help without him needing to question and challenge him, so much the better; then the end result would be self- explanatory. Get on; do the job. Save time; save energy.
So far, so good.
Max knew he had to be organized. Tasks had to be performed, one of which was to make the raft. He could have used the animal tracks to help find their way out of this jungle and get inland, but that would be asking for trouble sooner or later. They certainly didn’t have any effective means of cutting their way through the dense undergrowth. They might not be able to stay on course; they would make less than a kilometer a day and would be vulnerable to the jungle predators. Max had considered the options and was convinced the river offered the best chance of escape. Sooner or later, he felt certain it would take them to a settlement or a town where he hoped the people might have heard of his mother or Danny Maguire. Then he might have a chance of tracking her journey. But he and Xavier needed food and water, much more than the slender vines offered; otherwise they were not going to be strong enough for what was bound to be an arduous journey.
Following Max’s lead, Xavier pulled down thin, twisting creepers that snaked up tree trunks and grubbed up ground roots to bind together the wood that they had gathered. Then Max put a layer of palm leaves on top, which he secured with the fibrous string Xavier had made earlier.
Max pointed. “You should let me see that wound.”
Xavier pulled back. “It’s OK. I don’ want you messin’ with it. What? Now you a doctor or somethin’?”
“OK. If it’s infected, it’s infected. You want to die of blood poisoning, that’s your business.”
Xavier looked worried. He eased up the damp T-shirt and looked at the wound for himself. “You think it’s infected?”
“You don’t let me look-I can’t tell.”
“You won’ touch it? Promise?”
“I promise. But you let your brother’s men fix you up; you never whimpered then.”
“What is ‘whimpered’?”
“Moaning like a baby.”
“Me? Hey, you look all you like. Here!” And Xavier pulled up his T-shirt and knelt next to Max.
The dressing had long since disappeared, and one of the butterfly clips had torn loose from the skin, which was puckered and looked clean. The salt water might have even aided the wound’s healing, but one edge of the wound was discolored, and that blemish was creeping round the boy’s side. It looked to Max as if there was some festering underneath the broken skin, which meant that in a couple of days, exposed to the river water, the infection could go right through the boy’s body.
“Does that hurt?” Max asked as he pressed very gently on the affected part.
Xavier yelped. “You said you weren’t gonna touch!”
