Page 95 of Lash

"I think it will be more effective if we split up. We will cover more ground that way."

"Alright, then, I'll go right, you go left. Meet back here in thirty?"

"Excellent," I say.

I slip into the dense undergrowth, wishing I had a machete even though I know using it to clear a path would only alert any scouts or perimeter guards of my presence. No, I just have to do it the hard way. Ducking and twisting under low-hanging branches, stepping and climbing over fallen trees and tangles of branches, I make very slow progress. The undergrowth is amazingly dense, forcing me to go around dense clumps of flora. More than once, I duck under a fat, drooping leaf and dislodge a trapped palmful of water, which douses my head and runs down my back, making my shirt stick to my body.

Thunder grumbles threateningly, and lighting prowls across the sky restlessly; the scent of petrichor is thick in the air, and I know the deluge is imminent.

Only a handful of minutes later, the rain comes. It's just a noise at first, atick-tap-hissof plump raindrops on the canopy above, slow and desultory, just a few bold drops exploring the path past the foliage to the thirsty roots beneath the soil. And then a few more drops find the way down to plop onto my skull and dance upon my back and shoulders. And then, between one step and another, the sky unleashes a wet hell of rain so torrential it’s a silver curtain encasing the whole world. Within seconds, I'm soaked to the bone, and the sound of the rain is nearly a roar.

Which is how I almost ruin the whole plan—I can't hear them as I approach them, and so I almost stumble directly into the laps of a pair of scouts angling my way toward the road. I onlysee them when they're a few feet away, and the only thing that saves me is the fact that they're too busy trying to get their rain slickers on to notice me.

I throw myself to the ground and roll into the lee of a fallen tree and then shimmy further under it. The earth is pungent, the wet, rotting bark even more so, a sweet, thick smell. Something small and hard wriggles under my palm, and something else tickles over my scalp. I shudder as the insect—which I can only hope is not something venomous—crawls down my neck and, thankfully, over my shirt rather than beneath it.

The sentries get their slickers situated, grumbling in Spanish about bullshit perimeter assignments.

They continue past my hiding place on their way to the road—I assume they're making a wide circuit around the estate, looking for…well, exactly what's happening.

"Contact," I whisper into the mic. "Two tangos heading your way through the jungle."

"Copy," Solomon whispers back. "Do not engage."

"Roger," I answer back.

Once they're out of sight, I wait another minute or two, and then crawl out of my hiding spot; if possible, I'm even more soaked after laying under the log like that. Funny how you think you're as wet as you can get, and then somehow you get even wetter.

Moving slowly and pausing to listen, now, I continue my path through the jungle, and encounter no one else. Ahead, I start to see evidence of the forest thinning, and I slow my pace even more, eventually finding a spot where I can see the clearing ahead. The forest thins and then stops, becoming a hillside covered in low, dense growth of creeping vines and dense shrubs and ferns.

The hill slants sharply down into a deep ravine, which creates a remarkably effective natural barrier. While I could hitthe other side of the hill with an easy underhanded toss of a stone, the sides are so sheer crossing it seems nearly impossible—I'd be almost climbing a nearly vertical face through dense undergrowth. The other side is a steep-sided plateau a few hundred feet high, an island-like miniature mountain in the middle of the jungle.

I watch for a while—on top of the plateau is the estate itself, a sprawling, single-story hacienda-style mansion, whitewashed adobe, and red terracotta roof tiles. I see figures pacing the perimeter of the plateau; after ten minutes of watching, I count eight men in pairs at regular intervals. As advertised, there is only one approach to the hacienda from the east.

I leave my spot and move east, well inside the tree line, moving slowly and cautiously, listening every few steps. Another patrol approaches me from the east, heading west; they're running concentric perimeter patrols. Again I have to wriggle my way underneath a hollow created by a fallen tree, curled up in the depression where the root ball ripped out of the earth. More creepy crawlies across my skin and over my head, including a massive, venomous centipede. I have no choice but to risk detection by throwing it off of me; getting bitten by something venomous would be catastrophic right now.

I fling the gigantic, palm-length centipede away from me into the underbrush; the rustle-thump of it hitting the ground catches the attention of the patrol; being hidden a few feet below ground level and shrouded by the dirt-clumped tendrils of the roots, I cannot see them, but I hear them whispering to each other in Spanish. I hear their steps approach my hiding spot. I hold my breath and close my eyes, not daring to so much as blink for fear that they'll see the whites of my eyes. I hear them shuffling their feet in the dirt, muttering about it just being a forest creature, and then they move away. I continue to hold my pent-up breath with my eyes closed until the sound of theirpassage is gone, and then I slowly release the pressure in my burning lungs.

Easing myself upright, I climb out of the hole and crouch on the edge, watching and listening. When I'm satisfied the patrol has moved on, I key my mic. "A second patrol closer to the estate, moving east to west."

"Outer patrol and inner patrol?" Solomon says.

"Affirmative."

"Copy." A pause. "I count four patrols of two men each in the estate itself."

"Confirmed—that's my count, as well," I say.

"Let's head back," Solomon commands.

"Negative," I respond. "Need a closer look at the approach."

"Copy."

So I steal back toward the road and halt in a crouch when it's within view—I wait and watch for a few minutes and then make my way parallel to the road within the trees. The approach to the estate is not good news.

It's a short bridge—the plateau the estate sits upon is actually an island, so to speak. I'd assumed there was a natural land bridge where the ravine was broken up by an intersecting ridge or something, but no.

The bridge is only thirty or so feet long, but it creates a natural choke point. Guards are posted on either end, and on the estate side of it is a fenced-off holding pen with a heavy-duty gate manned by more guards.