State of Emergency

CHAPTER 63


Yazid Nazif swung his machete as if wielding a baseball bat. He’d never seen so much vegetation in his life and felt as if it was closing in around him. The intensity of the moist heat and droning hum in the surrounding trees caused his heart to pound out of control. He found it difficult to breathe, but consoled himself with the knowledge that he was at last in possession of Baba Yaga. Soon, all of the decadent West would bow to the white-hot power of a new al-Qaeda. He would be the leader of the most feared organization on earth—if Borregos didn’t kill him first. With Zamora gone, he realized that was a very distinct possibility.

They walked in a single-file line, each man giving the next room to swing his own blade should he find it necessary to hack a vine or push a troublesome spiderweb out of the way. One of Borregos’s men was in front, doing the lion’s share of the work, followed by the cartel leader himself. Nazif was next in line with another two Yemenis behind him. The bearded professor stayed with the bomb, which was now carried by two of Borregos’s men farther back in the line. He was the only one who seemed unafraid of the thing. Everyone else kept a little distance away from the simple footlocker, as if a few feet would save them when such a bomb went off. A Yemeni and two Colombians brought up the rear.

Strange and colorful birds flitted through the dark canopy of trees overhead, shrieking frightened warnings at the little parade. A troop of monkeys screamed from the shadows, pelting them with bits of wood. Here and there a snake coiled around a low-hanging branch like some sort of prop in an American horror film.

A cloud of mosquitoes buzzed around Nazif’s face. Sweat rolled down this back.

“Why do you not take the bomb for yourself?” the Yemeni suddenly asked, preferring to know his fate up front rather than fret over it. If Allah willed his death, there was nothing he could do about it.

Ahead, the Colombian used a long machete to hack his way through a dense stand of bamboo and tresses of hanging vines as thick as his wrist.

He stopped, turning to catch his breath.

“My mother used to read me the Bible when I was a child. I was particularly fond of the Old Testament because it contained wonderful stories of violent men.” His eyes gleamed with the memory. “Do you know of David and Saul?”

Nazif nodded. “Of course. The writings of Moses and David were once pure, but corrupted by men.”

“Ah, I see,” the Colombian said. “Well, they say Saul killed his thousands and David his ten thousands. Unlike Saul, I am happy with my thousands. I find the reputation of a narcotics dealer makes me less of a target for government manhunts than that of a terrorist.” He pointed the tip of his machete at the footlocker. A sinister smile crept slowly across his face. “Though I must admit, it does not displease me that you plan to use this to kill your ten thousands. Despair, after all, turns out to be very good for business.”

“Oh,” Nazif said. “There will be plenty of despair. I can assure you.”

Borregos turned and nodded at the lead man, who began to hack away at the wall of jungle before them. The lush rainforest had all but obliterated the vague trail, but thanks to the swinging machetes, they moved quickly, stepping over mossy deadfall and skirting stands of bamboo packed as tight as the bars of a prison.

The leader stopped abruptly by a moss-covered log. Resting on the jungle floor, it was even with the man’s waist. He stooped to study something on the ground. Bin Ali, the youngest of Nazif’s men at twenty-three, moved up the trail to investigate. His white shirt was stained as if he’d been wearing it for months. His machete hung limply at his side as he stooped in the green gloom to study the five-inch track of a jaguar pressed deep in the jungle floor beside a steaming pile of scat.

“Relax,” Borregos roared with a great belly laugh. “Jaguars rarely develop a taste for human flesh. On the other hand, there are dozens of venomous snakes and spiders that will kill you very dead.”

Branches snapped and groaned in the gloom behind them, causing the entire group to spin, searching their back trail.

“Probably a tapir,” Borregos chuckled. “Fleeing the scent of the cat.”

“Maybe.” Nazif nodded. Fear was contagious, especially when a bomb worth nearly a half a billion dollars was at stake. “Or perhaps someone is following us. We should pick up our speed.”

The Colombian scratched the back of his neck with the dull side of his machete, thinking. “Our load is heavy and the jungle is full of surprises to trip us up if we do not move carefully.” He pulled a length of twine from his pocket, then plucked a M67 hand grenade, green and roughly the size of a baseball, from a camouflage pouch on his belt. “We could go faster—or we could leave behind us a nasty surprise.”