Page 45 of Fall
The late afternoon sun peeks into the shade of waving fronds. I inhale a delicate floral perfume of brightly colored orchids spanning the dappled walkway. Stuffy warm air hazes with animal musk and rotten vegetation when I reach the opening to the jungle. The very place Dante offered me freedom the night I asked to leave. Where I bolted into the wilderness, naked and scared. Had I known his treehouse was down this worn track, I would have kept running.
Years of heavy boots have carved out a natural path. It twists and winds through slippery leaves and rough vines, leading to the rope bridges beneath the camouflaged overhead structure. The entrance to his private treetop paradise.
My arms are tired from carrying the sleeping cub, and my shoulders burn. I traverse the swinging walkways, each one linking from tree to tree until I’m miles above the earth and facing Dante’s desolate hideaway. There’s an eeriness. A ghostly whisper of loneliness kissing the breeze.
I’ve become an intruder––an uninvited guest invading his personal space. The scent of him lingers like a ghost. He’ll never know I took refuge in his bed in the absence of his arms or comprehend how I find peace and safety in this hidden location, miles from my home.
When I cross over the threshold, I set Laoch on an armchair facing the greenery and shake out my tingly arms. I take my time to wander, ambling toward the unmade bed. He has men at hand to act on his every whim. To clean and tidy, mend and update, yet this place is unseen by anyone other than me.
With a tug, I untie the knot above my belly button and let the dress drop to the floor. It flops to my feet, and I bend over, picking it up for tomorrow's journey. A deflated sigh puffs out my cheeks. I perch on the end of the mattress and loosen the laces before kicking off my boots.
Padding to the twin doors next to the bed frame, I expect to find a wardrobe. Instead, I’m met with a cubed room clad in floor to ceiling timber. An overhead skylight welcomes bold sunbeams that stream in from above. A wooden countertop fits snugly between two walls to create a uniquely shaped desk. On top, four computer screens form a grid and below a high back office chair sits empty like a throne.
Crumpled fabric sits in a heap beside the keyboard. If I’m not mistaken, the satin garment is like the night dresses I wore in the cabin. To the right, a dog-eared burgundy passport looks all too familiar. On closer inspection, there’s a water stained interior and laminated photograph of a girl called Iris Kitson.
The old me with an innocent youthful face.
Unaware.
Ambitious.
And now a ghost.
In the distance a creature screams, either in warning or fighting for its life. The ghastly echo makes my blood pump faster. Holding both items to my chest, I wonder what he’s doing now––if death stains his hands and if his soul has blackened with cruel deeds.
15
Dry dirt plumes as the private chopper descends. We’re hovering on the outskirts of Brasilia, a few yards from the abandoned aircraft hangar where I lured Miguel.
A utility helicopter transporting my special ops guys lands next to us. Barren ground stretches for miles, tapering to a clear blue sky. The bold sun sinks to the horizon, dropping my temperament to subzero.
I’m laser focused on the retrieval mission, having pushed Iris into the depths of my mind. My men and I are exposed without a network of trees to conceal our identities and protect us from bullets. As I look around, I can’t help but think it wasn’t only Iris who was held hostage by the remoteness of a wild landscape.
This is the first time I’ve ventured out of the rainforest after years of hiding. I hesitate before disembarking, mentally preparing to plant my boots on concrete. The door shunts sideways, and I virtually heave myself out, not wanting to smell the city air that stinks of pollution and urban decay.
One after the other, men dressed in black to mirror my own clothes exit the adjacent aircraft. A gentle breeze tumbles parched weeds in our path. My hidden hands curl to fists with apprehension. I haven’t seen this fucker since that day. On the surface I’m calm and composed, yet beneath my crawling skin, my pulse hammers.
“Sir.” A trained medic joins my side. Together, his strides match my fast pace. “Are we certain the hanger is secured?”
“Yes,” I confirm, pushing metal framed aviators further up my nose. “Luiz detained the prisoner. The rest of Miguel’s men are dead.”
“Understood.” He shrugs an emergency medical backpack onto his shoulders as we march in the direction of the old building. “We need to locate all our men. Dead and alive.”
“Agreed.” I roll out my neck, wondering if Miguel is still unconscious. If the guy is awake, he’ll have a heart attack when he sees me. A wicked sense of pleasure buzzes through my muscles. I’ve waited so long for this day.
We hang back, watching the team assess the surroundings. Once I get the nod it’s safe to enter, I slip from dusk to shadows and drag off my sunglasses. The temperature instantly cools, complementing my already icy veins. Raised crates line monolithic steel-clad walls. A thin beam of failing sunshine peeks in from a crack in the old roof.
Eerie silence teams with groans. To my left a prone body. A glossy pool of blood spreads over the floor, mapping out a path to the afterlife. It’s fucking carnage.
I dip my head, silently indicating to the medic. He crouches down beside me and checks for a pulse, shaking his head to confirm what we already suspected. The dead guy with a bullet in his throat isn’t one of mine. I can tell by the shitty firearm in his lifeless hand. These guys weren’t prepared for my skilled assassins. They put up a good fight, but, in the end, we won the war.
I’m standing amidst it all, slowly stepping further inside. The soles of my boots crunch over gritty concrete. A sea of human life source sticks to the dirt underfoot, and I can’t help but question if vengeance for one life was worth all this.
This wasn’t my plan. It should have been an eye for an eye. Miguel’s life for my sisters. But this––this is a bloodbath.
In the world of drug trafficking and smuggling, it’s understood the end is only a pendulum sway away. From the second they take a first breath; the timer is set. It’s the only certainty in this godforsaken world. Day by day, they inch closer to a grave without warning.
For me, the frosty acceptance of finality breathes down my neck. It waits at the foot of my bed, reminding me that one day my family’s fate will be mine. Except, they are saints and I’m a sinner. Even in death, we’ll be separated. The good and the bad. The deserving and the unworthy.
