parked in clearings and trailheads to the north, east, and south of the area where the fake
Bludd’s Money
airplane fuselage was located. It was clear to her they were trying to corner Jake against the steep ridge to the west.
“We’re in position,” Virgil said. “If there’s anybody down there they’re gonna be watching you drop.”
“I’ll be in the treetops before they have a chance to pick me off.”
The chopper was hovering a hundred feet over the canopy of trees. Kate put on her gloves, tightened the straps of her backpack and the lanyard of her shotgun, attached one end of the fast rope to the fixed connection ring, and dropped the other end out the open cabin door of the chopper. The heavy rope ran straight down into the forest of tall bamboo, huge palms, wild guava, banyan trees, and Norfolk pines.
She strung the rope behind her back and around one leg, putting her right hand on the rope above her head and her left hand on the rope below her waist.
“Ready,” Kate said.
“Good luck,” Virgil said.
Kate jumped out of the helicopter and slid rapidly down the rope, through the thick layer of leaves and branches to the muddy ground below. It took her less than thirty seconds, and gave her an adrenaline rush.
She let go of the rope and immediately crouched down low, listening and waiting. The chopper rose, the rope dangling beneath it, and veered away toward the mountains.
Kate checked her compass and her GPS app to confirm her position. She was roughly fifty yards southwest of the abandoned
Bludd’s Money
set. There was a trail, but rather than take it, Kate moved slowly on a parallel course through the brush, keeping her eyes open for trip wires and anything that didn’t seem to fit the natural pattern of forest floor. She didn’t want to get nailed by one of her father’s booby traps.
She moved slowly until she reached a school-bus-sized section of a passenger jet cabin. It was completely wrapped with vines, and a plastic sign was nailed to the fuselage and engraved with the words “
Bludd’s Money
2009.”
There was movement in the trees. Kate dropped flat in the mud amid a thick patch of philodendrons. Three Hawaiians emerged from another trail. Two of the men were large enough to be sumo wrestlers and carried machetes casually at their sides. One was wearing flip-flops, the other neon-bright yellow Nikes. The third man had the lean build and stoned demeanor of a surfer. He held an M16 rifle tightly in both of his hands.
The guy in flip-flops squinted at the sign and read it aloud, sounding the words out phonetically, then turned to the two other men. “You ever see this movie, brah?”
“Three times.” The surfer pointed his M16 into the fuselage and peered inside for any signs of life. “It could only have been better if Steven Seagal was in it. Steven Seagal is a badass. He’s like Alika only he’s not fat.”
The guy in the Nikes gave a bark of laughter. “I’m telling Alika you said he was fat.”
They moved on with Flip-Flops at point, flanked by his two buddies. He’d gone only a couple steps when his right foot plunged into a hole that had been hidden under a blanket of leaves. He pitched over with a shriek of pain, his trapped ankle breaking with a snap.
Small punji-stake pit, Kate thought. One of Dad’s favorite booby traps.
Neon Nikes quickly moved away from the trail, breaking a trip wire at his ankles. He instinctively looked down at his feet to see what he’d walked into, heard something move in the jungle, and then straightened up to see whatever was coming at him. It was a coconut tied to a vine like a tetherball. The coconut slammed into his shoulder with bone-breaking force and knocked Neon Nikes to the ground.
The surfer raised his M16, let out a furious banshee roar, and sprayed the dense foliage ahead of him with bullets until he’d emptied his clip. He was reaching into his pocket for a fresh clip when a long branch whipped out of nowhere and
Bludd’s Money
airplane fuselage was located. It was clear to her they were trying to corner Jake against the steep ridge to the west.
“We’re in position,” Virgil said. “If there’s anybody down there they’re gonna be watching you drop.”
“I’ll be in the treetops before they have a chance to pick me off.”
The chopper was hovering a hundred feet over the canopy of trees. Kate put on her gloves, tightened the straps of her backpack and the lanyard of her shotgun, attached one end of the fast rope to the fixed connection ring, and dropped the other end out the open cabin door of the chopper. The heavy rope ran straight down into the forest of tall bamboo, huge palms, wild guava, banyan trees, and Norfolk pines.
She strung the rope behind her back and around one leg, putting her right hand on the rope above her head and her left hand on the rope below her waist.
“Ready,” Kate said.
“Good luck,” Virgil said.
Kate jumped out of the helicopter and slid rapidly down the rope, through the thick layer of leaves and branches to the muddy ground below. It took her less than thirty seconds, and gave her an adrenaline rush.
She let go of the rope and immediately crouched down low, listening and waiting. The chopper rose, the rope dangling beneath it, and veered away toward the mountains.
Kate checked her compass and her GPS app to confirm her position. She was roughly fifty yards southwest of the abandoned
Bludd’s Money
set. There was a trail, but rather than take it, Kate moved slowly on a parallel course through the brush, keeping her eyes open for trip wires and anything that didn’t seem to fit the natural pattern of forest floor. She didn’t want to get nailed by one of her father’s booby traps.
She moved slowly until she reached a school-bus-sized section of a passenger jet cabin. It was completely wrapped with vines, and a plastic sign was nailed to the fuselage and engraved with the words “
Bludd’s Money
2009.”
There was movement in the trees. Kate dropped flat in the mud amid a thick patch of philodendrons. Three Hawaiians emerged from another trail. Two of the men were large enough to be sumo wrestlers and carried machetes casually at their sides. One was wearing flip-flops, the other neon-bright yellow Nikes. The third man had the lean build and stoned demeanor of a surfer. He held an M16 rifle tightly in both of his hands.
The guy in flip-flops squinted at the sign and read it aloud, sounding the words out phonetically, then turned to the two other men. “You ever see this movie, brah?”
“Three times.” The surfer pointed his M16 into the fuselage and peered inside for any signs of life. “It could only have been better if Steven Seagal was in it. Steven Seagal is a badass. He’s like Alika only he’s not fat.”
The guy in the Nikes gave a bark of laughter. “I’m telling Alika you said he was fat.”
They moved on with Flip-Flops at point, flanked by his two buddies. He’d gone only a couple steps when his right foot plunged into a hole that had been hidden under a blanket of leaves. He pitched over with a shriek of pain, his trapped ankle breaking with a snap.
Small punji-stake pit, Kate thought. One of Dad’s favorite booby traps.
Neon Nikes quickly moved away from the trail, breaking a trip wire at his ankles. He instinctively looked down at his feet to see what he’d walked into, heard something move in the jungle, and then straightened up to see whatever was coming at him. It was a coconut tied to a vine like a tetherball. The coconut slammed into his shoulder with bone-breaking force and knocked Neon Nikes to the ground.
The surfer raised his M16, let out a furious banshee roar, and sprayed the dense foliage ahead of him with bullets until he’d emptied his clip. He was reaching into his pocket for a fresh clip when a long branch whipped out of nowhere and
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