Suspicious, Vanik narrowed her eyes. “You’re hoping that a well-publicized science team will deter this Chinese guy from coming back until you can find the treasure.”
“I have no interest in the treasure,” Mercer countered. “Hell, I don’t even think there is one. I just want the son of a bitch who almost had me killed in Paris and came here to murder my friend.”
Gary Barber’s Camp on the River of Ruin
Police Colonel Sanchez and his troopers spent a total of thirty-eight minutes at the camp before the last of the bodies was stowed on the largest boat and they were ready to leave. The officials wanted to be in El Real as soon after sunset as possible. He tried to order Captain Vanik back with him, but Mercer got the impression that no one but a direct superior officer could order her anywhere. She’d made her decision to remain behind and that was it. Sanchez boarded his launch, warning her about guerrillas and saying that he had no desire to return in the morning to pick up more gringo corpses. She threw his retreating party a mocking salute, cursing them in a frustrated breath. Ruben tossed in a few choice phrases of his own and then they were alone-Mercer, U.S. Army Captain Lauren Vanik, and three Panamanian mercenaries.
Sundown was an hour away and already the light was diffused, ruddy and deeply shadowed. They quickly established a smaller camp upstream from the ruins of Gary’s bivouac. The prevailing wind swept away the coppery smell of blood, but none wanted to remain near the site of so much death. They tolerated the hordes of insects that swarmed their campfire because its cheery glow dispelled the superstitious chills that struck them all.
“You’re sure we’re not in any danger from another wave of gas bursting from the lake?” Lauren asked as Mercer heated cans of spaghetti he’d taken from the camp kitchen.
Mercer used a bandana as a pot holder to retrieve one can and set it next to her. “The CO2 needs to build to a critical level before it can erupt. It may never reach that level again, and even if it does, it’ll take months, maybe years.”
“So we’re safe?” She savored the hot food.
Mercer imagined she’d spent part of her military career where this meal would be a luxury. The Balkans was his guess. “From the gas, yes, and I don’t think the gunmen will be back for a few days at least. They’ll wait until local interest dies down entirely.”
She gave him an appraising glance. “You seem to understand something about tactics.”
“Isn’t that what you would do?” Mercer asked innocently.
“Absolutely, but most civilians don’t think that way. Fact is, most civilians would be in Panama City right now waiting for a flight to Miami.”
There was an invitation in that statement to further explain his motivations. Mercer was about to tell her how it was he knew terrorist tactics probably better than she did when a single rifle shot cracked from the jungle where Ruben was collecting firewood.
Lauren Vanik’s reactions were like electricity, sharp and fast. She kicked at the fire, scattering the logs to create a curtain of dense smoke, then rolled away, her Beretta coming out of her holster. She racked the slide, fingered off the safety and had the area where the shot had originated covered in a prone, two-handed position. In the time it took her to do all that, Mercer had barely thrown himself flat. Ruben’s two men remained seated on the far side of the fire, their guns just now coming up when there was a crash of tree limbs followed by a high-pitched scream.
Twenty seconds ticked by before Ruben shouted from the bush and Lauren safed her weapon.
“What is it?” Mercer whispered, still marveling at how fluidly she moved.
Before she answered, Ruben stepped into the clearing holding a boy by the back of his T-shirt. His M-16 was on his shoulder. He spoke in quick Spanish and Lauren laughed.
“Says he caught the kid in your friend’s camp looking for food. The shot was over the kid’s head and he says he tried to bury his head in the dirt.”
The boy was about ten or twelve, rail thin and exhausted. His dark eyes dominated the smooth planes of his face. They were wide with shock and fear, like a caged animal’s. His hair was as long as a girl’s, dirty now, but so black it would probably shimmer after a proper bath. His eyelashes too were long and made his face a thing of delicate beauty. Once he spotted the can of spaghetti near where Mercer stood brushing sand off his clothes, he had attention for nothing else.
Lauren holstered her Beretta and got down on her haunches when Ruben dragged the boy closer. The mercenary went to the far side of the fire to rejoin his men. Lauren spoke in melodic Spanish, her Southern accent transmitting the care of a mother soothing her own child. The change from combat readiness to such tenderness was remarkable. Mercer wondered again if she had been a peacekeeper, a job that demanded equal measures of ferocity and sensitivity. That she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring didn’t mean she didn’t have a child of her own, either.
“I speak English,” the boy said after a moment’s conversation. “My name is Miguel.”
“I’m Lauren.” She shook the boy’s hand. “And this is. . I’m sorry, I forgot your first name.”
“It’s Philip, but everyone calls me Mercer.” Getting down to the boy’s eye level, he also shook Miguel’s hand. “What are you doing out here?”
“Mi mama and papa, they work for Mr. Gary. They went to sleep two days ago and I couldn’t wake them.”
Mercer handed over his canned meal and a spoon. “Where were you when they went to sleep?”
From around a mouthful of food he said, “I was playing up the hill.” Miguel pointed to the top of the ridge flanking the valley. “I hear a big wind that tore up the jungle and when I come down everyone was asleep. And then. . a day later. .”
A shadow settled behind his eyes, dimming them.
“We know what happened,” Lauren said. “Men came, didn’t they?”
The boy nodded, his meal forgotten.
“They did bad things?” Another nod. “Do you know how many?”
He held up four grubby fingers.
“You were very smart to hide in the jungle when they came, Miguel. That was the bravest thing to do.” She intuitively knew he felt like he’d let his parents down by not preventing the desecration of their bodies. “Your mama and papa would have wanted you to stay away from the bad men.”
“I wanted to come out, but I saw guns. I’m not supposed to be near guns.” His gaze flicked to her pistol peeking out the back of its holster. “You are a soldier so it’s okay you have one.” He looked at Mercer. “Are you a soldier too?”
“No. I’m a friend of Mr. Gary’s.”
The name seemed to bring out the boy’s natural resilience and his voice brightened. “I like Mr. Gary. He is funny. Can you be funny?”
Mercer was at a loss, uncomfortable in the child’s presence. How can you entertain a boy who just lost his entire family, but desperately needed reassurance that all adults weren’t butchers who shoot up corpses? “I’m not funny,” he said, pulling his bandana from a pocket. “But I can make a rabbit poop chocolate.”
Miguel giggled. “No, you can’t.”
The Snickers bar was half melted from the heat and misshapen from being in Mercer’s pocket. He’d found it earlier in the camp. He palmed the candy bar before the boy saw it and tucked one side of the bandana in the creases between his three middle fingers. By pulling the cloth’s tails through his fingers he created long floppy ears, and when he wiggled his middle finger, it looked like a rabbit sniffing the air. Miguel’s wary expression became wonder at the transformation. Mercer blew a wet raspberry and let the candy fall from inside the rabbit to his other hand. Miguel screamed with delight.
“Told you so.” He gave the chocolate to Miguel.
The boy petted the rabbit before tearing open the wrapper. “Can he do it again?”
“He needs to eat first.”
“I’ll go find some leaves for him. I’d like another candy bar.”
“Not so fast, young man.” Lauren grabbed his arm before he could run off into the jungle. “I think you should
