Jungle of Deceit by Maureen A. Miller Page A

anchor in that melee−and then the anchor was gone. Damn him. Dammit.
    “ So what’s your take on this?” Alex leaned forward to confer with her two veterans.
    “ It’s shady as hell,” Chuck snorted. “Christ did you see the AK-47’s? Not exactly hunting gear.”
    “ We have nowhere to go. We have no options.” Wes reasoned. Perspiration poured in rivulets down the sides of his temples until he reached up to swipe their path.
    Alex searched the dark quarters. Young men sat on cots in the shadows, their hushed exchanges interrupted by intakes from canteens of water they had been supplied with before the door closed behind them. Staring at one of the thermoses she was aware of her own dry mouth and the pungent taste of fire on her tongue.
    On either side of the door were two small outcroppings, like stick-figure eyes, both only six inches in width−enough to offer a sliver of daylight, as well a brief glimpse of the compound.
    Seeing that the sky had grown dark she said, “There is nothing we can do for tonight. Let them eat and sleep. By the morning the fire will have exhausted itself and we will leave.”
     
     
     
    C hapter Six
     
    Mitch nudged the inert body with the tip of his boot. His fist ached, but it was just another pain to add to the repertoire. If there was any consolation, the mercenary at his feet would sport a busted jaw to equal his own.
    Patience had paid off. Well, not really patience…more futility. Mitch had paced the perimeter of the compound, trying to calculate the circumference on foot. During his career he had seen similar facilities and estimated this one as 50,000 square feet of suspicious real estate plopped in the middle of the Petén jungle.
    In the race to reach the front gate, Mitch had not trusted the salvation this compound represented. He had diverted from the archeologists and from a secure distance watched as they filed inside. As the deadlocks slid shut he was seized with dread. Left alone with the fire that sounded like chorus of a thousand snakes, he began to pace the perimeter, conscious of the turrets above, praying that the vapors would obscure him from the guard’s view.
    By the time Mitch reached the furthest extent of the wall and rounded the corner, the blaze was in its death throes. At this point, he felt his only course of action was to wait for nightfall before attempting any grand plans. Surprised to find the forest unharmed on this end, Mitch discovered the accrediting factor…a small tributary, sizeable enough to deflect the fire’s path, small enough to be neglected by the local maps. Granted, these were the same maps that left this compound uncharted. What bitter irony that the archeologists had an escape route so close at hand.
    With the sun slanting across the treetops, he estimated there were only a few hours left before nightfall. The lure of fresh water was a temptation greater than the finest whisky. Mitch knelt on the bank and scooped his hands into the cool stream, throwing fistfuls over his face. Cinder residue tarnished his clothes and plagued his sinuses until he removed his shirt and thrust it beneath the current. Next he did the same with his pants, until finally he immersed his body in the water and tried to wash the terror of the jungle away.
    Once again dressed, Mitch sat on a limestone rock on the edge of the forest, staring down the rampart that rose before him. He envisioned himself as a medieval marauder about to storm the castle gate.
    To kill time and distract his worries about Alex, he picked the camera bag up and extracted his Canon 1D Mark III and started flipping through the digital images. This was his backup camera. His primary camera was fish bait in the Hudson River. Photos of Mayan artifacts scrolled by as he paused on one of the rock slab with its graphic carvings. No wonder the museum had posted a disclaimer as to the nature of the exhibit. Moving through images, Mitch saw familiar faces from the camp flash by. He