As she crested a small mound and the men ahead of her started downhill, Raven knew what she would find. A massive and raging waterfall surged from the jagged cliffs beneath them. Breathtaking. From her vantage point, she didn't have a clear view of the pool of water below. A thick and constant mist churned, making it disappear. And the coolness of the waterfall billowed and touched her, giving an instant chill against the blistering heat of her skin, still damp with rain.
She turned to find Christian standing at her side. She felt his hand on her neck as he took a moment to enjoy the view. He let a couple of Zharan's men pass.
'Come on. They won't want us to pull up the rear. Time to go. You okay?' he asked.
'Sure.' Raven took a swig of water and nodded, wiping her mouth and face with a sleeve. 'Let's go.'
It took them the better part of an hour to clear the waterfall and start their descent into a valley. But as they did, Raven spied a small patch of grassland below, a break in the surrounding trees. A section had been cleared. She saw the rooftops of a small village, a circle of huts with thatched roofs clustered around a larger communal structure. Although small children played, most of the inhabitants looked busy, preparing for some kind of celebration. Too much was going on for an average day of survival.
A central fire pit burned high, natives milling around it, occasionally flailing into a dance. And a large blackened carcass spun on a spit nearby, smoke spiraling into the air. They were still too far away to see what was happening, but Raven knew Christian had spotted the villagers too. She only took a moment to assess the situation, then turned down the trail with him close behind. No doubt he grasped her sense of urgency.
These people would not be expecting a fight. On the surface, the element of surprise would be in their favor, but she didn't want to take that fact for granted. An offensive could turn deadly in a hurry with men protecting their families. Raven picked up her pace, ignoring her aches, pains, and mounting bug bites.
With women and children involved, Zharan knew this assault operation would be more difficult. He expected it and said so. This would be his show, and she wouldn't second-guess the man. Her experience in tactical operations was limited, but she had a working knowledge of what would happen. Out of reflex, her mind ran through a checklist of preparations after she'd seen the village.
First, the crisis scene, targets, and innocents would have to be identified with solid intel from two-man observation teams. Entry routes and rally points with backup strategies would be nailed down. Each assault team would be comprised of four to five men. They'd be assigned specific responsibilities, position locations, and fields of fire. Some men would be designated as perimeter security, and an officer or two would be tapped for sniper duty.
Given the layout of the village, mission briefings would be conducted on the fly by radio with no practice runs. After the initial round of diversionary tactics, a series of launched flash bang grenades, the teams would sync their assault using the explosives. They'd insert at multiple points to overload Araujo's ability to react. And Chief Zharan would coordinate the command from a central location through radio communications. With heavy firepower, they'd get in and out as quickly as possible.
Despite the expectation of a smooth maneuver, she couldn't help but worry. Her cop instinct kicked in with an underlying restlessness, a familiar sensation before an armed siege. She wanted this day to be over.
But most of all, she prayed no one had to die.
Sitting cross-legged on the ground, hands resting on his elbows, Mario Araujo stared straight ahead. Dressed in a fine colorful tunic, he held his back erect and his head perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the festivities outside the communal hut. The people of his village wore clothes of bright cloth and strings of beads, their cheeks painted with simple shapes. They displayed their finest baskets and pottery, filled to the brim with various food offerings—all in celebration of his return.
They had no idea of his plans to make their feast more memorable, but he had no choice now. The time had come.
He shut his eyes and let the man who knelt before him work.
The village medicine man took great pains in detailing the paint across the skin of Mario's face. With fingertips dipped in black and rich ochre, the man made elaborate geometric shapes, a sign of nobility for his tribe. The face paint smelled of clay and glided on smooth and cool.
It reminded him of his childhood days in the shadow of the great Chapada dos Guimaraes. He could hunt alone for days and not see another human being, then return to camp, a person to be admired for his kills. A simpler time.
When he opened his eyes again, he noticed the rain had stopped. Soon the celebration would begin in earnest. The hog had been butchered and was nearly done. His people waited. In anticipation, their eyes shifted toward him as he sat in the shadows of the communal hut.
The medicine man had done his work. He bowed his head, gathered up his materials, and retreated, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Under his tunic, Mario felt the weight of his gun, a weapon he had used countless times in the city. And he also carried the encrypted phone, his only link to the man who had arranged this whole thing.
Soon, he would not need the incriminating connection.
Mario would pay his final visit to Nicholas Charboneau in the cave behind the waterfall. Accompanied by two of his men, he'd pretend to bring the American water and sustenance, food prepared with an overdose of the Iboga. When Charboneau's mind was no longer his own, he would haul him from the cave to the center of his village for all to bear witness.
When they learned what he wanted to do, his people would be shocked at first, but he would make them understand. To return to the old ways, big medicine would be required. And to clean the slate of injustice, they would have to make difficult choices. But it must start here and now, with him as their new leader.
Nicholas Charboneau would be their first human sacrifice. His death would be merciful and quick, before the Iboga did its worst damage. By that time, perhaps a knife through his beating heart would be considered a mercy.
In his village, he would deal justice as he saw fit, with no one to answer to—a truly liberating feeling after years of denying his heritage. There would be no need to ask the opinion of an outsider, using the special phone to reach his mysterious benefactor. Mario had made up his mind, yet he didn't think of himself as a killer. Instead, he considered himself a man who did not shirk his duties. He had a responsibility to protect his people.
Between what his associate had told him before and what he had verified since, he drew only one conclusion. Someone had ordered the recent changes at Genotech Labs and must have found a way to profit from the pain of his people's addictions. Although Mario couldn't directly tie Charboneau to this, his accomplice had made the link clear enough, not holding back. As a fellow countryman, the man resented the intrusion of the wealthy American too.
Surely his partner would understand what must be done. Some beliefs transcended the significance of money.
Knowing the truth behind Charboneau changed everything. A simple kidnapping would not suffice now. Charboneau represented much more than just a threat to his people's way of life. He embodied the total disregard for them as human beings. This would not be tolerated.
Mario stood and pulled his tunic around him, his head held high. With the jail cell key in hand, he gathered a jug of water and a tin plate of food he had prepared earlier. Outside the hut, he nodded and gestured for two men to help him carry the special last meal for his American 'guest.'
Soon it would be over for Nicholas Charboneau. Mario sincerely hoped the man's god would have mercy on his soul—for he would find no forgiveness here.
