RACE AMAZON: Maelstrom (James Pace novels Book 2) Read online

  The form stepped further out of the doorway and became clearly visible by the light of the gently swinging lamp. The man was in his late fifties, with shoulder-length grey hair that was thinning on top. His weathered, creased face was heavily tanned and his dark eyes were capped with absurdly bushy eyebrows, dark and flecked with grey. He was dressed in filthy denim dungarees. Bare-chested, his dirty feet filled open-toed leather sandals that had seen better days. A rolled-up cigarette was jammed between a pair of thinly pressed, scowling lips, unlit.

  The rifle lowered to waist height and swept slowly around towards Cosmos, Hammond and Ruby, still standing like forlorn sheep in the pouring rain.

  ‘I tik it,’ the rifle lowered to his side, ‘ye aint fuckin’ me abowt an’ ye’re really in the shit?’ The language seemed perfect for the man in front of him.

  The man turned and walked back into his house, throwing airily back over his shoulder. ‘Ye’d all better git in here, owt of the rain.’ Then, muttering to himself. ‘Damned fuckin’ rain. Pissin’ down day and night. Don’t know why I bloody stay.’

  Pace’s feet carried him inside after the strange Scotsman; into a building that was little more than a large hut. It boasted a single room, with no divisions of any sort. The floor, made of compacted earth, was littered with a tattered assortment of threadbare rugs. The light inside was provided by a similar gas lamp to the one swinging outside on the porch; it hung from a hook in the centre of the corrugated roof, some ten feet above the floor. Rain drummed loudly against the metal above their heads

  He sensed the others enter behind him as their host crossed to the far side of the room and paused at a scarred, bow-legged old cupboard. He rummaged inside and pulled out a bottle of Bells whiskey.

  ‘If ye’re as knackered as ye look then a drop o’ the old fire should help.’ There was no furniture in the room, save for one wooden bench and a single bed in one corner. He sat on the bench and motioned for them to take their places on the floor. There was a rug dead centre, along with an old pot-bellied stove. It had a chimney made from interlocked tin cans, which ran up and disappeared through a hole in the roof. There was no water running down into the stove because its door was open and a small fire blazed in its heart. Pace guessed the chimney must have had an effective water shield at the top.

  ‘Is there a radio we can use?’ blurted out Hammond, strangely uneasy all of a sudden. His eyes roamed the open hut as if seeking an invisible assailant but the hut remained empty of anybody save themselves. A single large window in the back wall was also glassless and netted over. Pace sensed nothing threatening, in fact he warmed to their host straight away.

  ‘Not here laddie, no,’ said the man, pouring a generous shot of whiskey into five surprisingly clean glasses produced from the same old cabinet, albeit in an assortment of sizes and shapes. Pace had never really liked scotch; finding it too sweet and cloying. He much preferred American sour mash whiskeys, but who was complaining? He knew it would warm his spirits and took the pint glass offered and quickly swallowed the brown liquid that barely covered the bottom. Funnily enough, it didn’t taste as bad as he remembered.

  Hammond placed his wine glass, untouched, on the floor beside him. ‘Is there one anywhere here, in this place I mean?’

  The man shook his head and swallowed his own drink down in one, smiling on completion. ‘Nay. There was one, a year or so ago. The roof came off the shack one day, in a bad blow. The set git knackered. Lots o’ smoke an I ne’er bothered sortin’ a new one owt.’

  ‘How do you communicate with the outside world?’ asked Ruby, also liking what she saw.

  ‘By walking down the road te other places, or hiking through the forest te the river and gitting on a boat.’

  He didn’t look at all upset at the inference of his home being some kind of hole in the middle of nowhere. Without a radio, their situation hadn’t improved much beyond obtaining a free drink and a few minutes out of the rain. Technically they were breaching race rules by accepting help from somebody outside the team but the race, and its rules, were history.

  Cosmos, well used to living most of his life in a small African village many days walk from the nearest town, was perfectly at home so far from help. To him, Manaus was only a week’s walk away, or a few days at a run. Despite his adventuring credentials, it was Hammond who seemed the most anxious.

  ‘We must push on then.’ The normally cool accountant-cum-Indiana Jones spoke anxiously to Ruby. ‘We have to get to the staging post, we’re just wasting time here. No offence,’ he added.

  ‘Nun takin,’ the man replied easily.

  ‘You’re right,’ Pace agreed solemnly, draining his drink. ‘Very sorry to have troubled you….er….Mr..?’ He struggled in vain for a name.

  ‘Name’s Byrne.’

  ‘Byrne what?’

  ‘Just Byrne, missy.’ Ruby’s smile broadened at the gentle rebuke. ‘I might ‘ave ad a proper name, or names, but that was long ago. Here, in this place, I’m just Byrne.’

  ‘Have you lived here long, Mr Byrne?’ Ruby rallied quickly, not one to give up. ‘You’re a very long way from home.’

  ‘If, by home, ye mean the bonny isle o’ Scotland, ye’re about thirty years off. I’m fifty-eight, or nine.’ He poured himself another generous drink. ‘Came here to make a fortune in gold but ended up workin’ bars from Rio te Manaus. Finally git on the wrong end of a business deal one day and did ten years in the worst pit on the face ‘o this earth.’ He leaned in conspiratorially towards her, winking. ‘Ne’er, repeat, ne’er spend time in a Brazilian jail. That be free advice.’

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ she whispered back, returning his wink slyly.

  ‘And that led you here?’ Even Cosmos’s deep voice seemed dimmed beneath the incessant drumming of rain on the rusting roof.

  ‘Yep. There were others here back then but they all cleared owt a long time ago. Another drink?’

  Cosmos shook his head and stood back up, head seeming to hover barely a breath beneath the burning lamp. ‘We would be pleased to know where the nearest radio is, Byrne. The sooner we can get to one the better. We are sorry but we cannot stay longer, even,’ he cast a doubtful look upwards at the rattling roof, ‘if we wanted to.’

  ‘Aye, the world still be rushin’ around owt there,’ he spat distastefully. ‘Another reason to git out o’ the crap. Rushin’ here an’ rushin’ there. All the time.’ He smiled as he poured himself yet another healthy shot. ‘Yep, reckon I’m better off here as ‘n anywhere else.’

  Part of Pace, despite his love of civilisation, could see the attraction to Byrne’s way of life. He had nobody to answer to, no clocks to watch and the only things that mattered were those that had plagued mankind since its birth; starvation, thirst and cold. On the down side there were the animals to contend with. Some were dangerous creatures that thrived in the gloom of the jungle. Jaguars, lethal snakes, giant spiders. He remembered the native dart sticking lethally from Attia’s throat and also reminded himself of the dangers of human beings.

  ‘At least you’ve got a rifle,’ Pace ventured. ‘Handy in case paradise turns on you.’

  ‘Rifle?’ For a second Byrne looked bemused, then realisation hit him and he nodded over to where he’d propped his gun up against the corrugated wall. ‘Oh, that. Nay, laddie. That little pop gun wouldn’t cut much cloth around here if’n ye needed it.’ His smile broadened and he moved across to a large, worn rug in the far corner. One kick and the rug crumpled back on itself to reveal a hole in the dirt floor, loosely covered by old planking.

  The planking was more gently eased aside and he motioned for them to gather around. More out of curiosity than good sense, they all did what he wanted.

  A very heavy tarpaulin was hauled out next, revealing several wooden crates beneath. The hole was about three feet deep and Byrne jumped down more nimbly than his years might suggest. He seemed to come alive as he lovingly prised off a couple of lids and showed them why, exactly, he’d given ten years of his
life to the Brazilian penal system.

  Byrne was, or had been, a gun runner.

  There were dozens of individually wrapped shapes, in oiled cloth, filling the crate. Amazed, Pace found himself joining Byrne in the hole to have a better look. Nobody else chose to join them but he didn’t notice. With someone maybe still wanting to kill them, he immediately wondered if he could persuade this strange character to part with one of his treasures.

  As Byrne unwrapped one of the packages, Pace felt his initial optimism fade. Indeed Byrne did have a hoard of firearms. Unfortunately the gun he unwrapped was older than he was, even if it did look well oiled and rust-free.

  Pace had always been interested in firearms and immediately recognised the weapon as a Second World War British Sten gun, complete with three magazines. In his time in the forces, he had practised with many different types of military firearm; the SLR, SA80, M16 and a range of handguns but he had always wanted to get his hands on more historical weapons. Until that moment, he had not had the chance.

  ‘That’s a Sten gun.’

  ‘Yep.’ Pace still felt a thrill of excitement course down his spine as Byrne passed it to him, snapping home one of the magazines into its side-housing as he did so. It felt quite comfortable and he instinctively knew how to hold it; left hand on the barrel, right hand cradling the trigger; no pistol grip. The folding stock was already extended and the simplistic design balanced nicely in his hands.

  ‘It were a good weapon in its day, true enough. That was a later model; the Mark Three. Made around 1944 and ne’er fired, to me knowledge.’

  The next oiled cloth disgorged a couple of automatic pistols, the third a pristine Lee Enfield .303 rifle. The two crates he opened for them were obviously filled with British-made war goods and included an entire half-crate of various types of ammunition. There were even a couple of Mills bomb hand grenades in the bottom of one crate.

  ‘So, this is why you went to jail?’ Pace felt bold cradling the machine gun. Byrne nodded, eyes alive as he looked at his hoard. ‘How come you still have such a supply?’

  ‘This is the oldest stuff,’ Byrne conceded. ‘They took me newer guns when they shoved me in tha’ hellish place. Mebbe nobody checked everywhere, eh? I brought these along to trade with the locals.’ His enthusiasm dimmed and he began to re-package the weapons into their cloths. ‘Haven’e sold a single one since I arrived. Locals are too good wi’ their own stuff to want western weapons, so the guns stay here.’

  ‘Would this still shoot?’ Pace made a brief mental calculation. ‘What, sixty-five years after it was made?’

  ‘Ne’er tried any ‘o them. Should do, I reckon.’

  Caught up in the moment and determined not be leave the hut defenceless, he pushed his luck.

  ‘Could I give her a try do you think? Just a few shots?’

  ‘James, what the hell are you talking about,’ gasped Hammond incredulously. ‘We don’t have time to screw around!’

  ‘He’s right,’ frowned Ruby. ‘Get out of that hole and let’s go.’

  ‘No,’ Pace said firmly.

  ‘No?’ Hammond looked thunderstruck.

  ‘You heard me. I want a few shots of this gun and I’m hoping Byrne will let me.’

  Byrne didn’t care one way or the other. For him, guns had been nothing but trouble but he still loved to look at them from time to time, so why not, he thought. If it kept them around for a little longer, even better. He was beginning to enjoy the company.

  Hammond opened his mouth again, glaring at Pace, but he was ignored. He repeated his request to the Scotsman, who shrugged agreement. It was all right by him.

  That really seemed to annoy everyone except Cosmos, who just looked on impassively. Their thoughts were with the jungle and the road, and of getting to help quickly. Pace was falling back increasingly on his military training, where the ability to survive was often a matter of how well you could defend yourself against the enemy. Having a weapon seemed like a good idea, if he could get Byrne to part with one. He wasn’t about to explain himself and instead sprang from the hole, heading back through the front door and out onto the porch, cradling the Sten.

  Byrne followed to watch. Pace didn’t need any instruction on how to operate the submachine gun; he easily pulled back the bolt that fed in the first bullet.

  ‘These things were always a wee bit temperamental,’ Byrne cautioned. ‘Prone to gitting stuck ‘cos the magazine is a single feed, not double like most of ‘em today. This should be okay though. They sorted owt a lot o’ the problems wi’ the first two versions. Also, pretty good fer accuracy. These things ‘ave always ‘ad a nifty little muzzle compensator in-built,’ the Scotsman went on. ‘Keeps ye firing at what you want to hit.’

  Having already selected single shot, Pace squeezed off a few shots into a nearby tree. The sights were fixed and the weapon spat the old bullets with reliable ease, each shot a subdued crack beneath the din of the falling rain all around. Gaining confidence he switched over to automatic and tried a lengthy burst into the same tree.

  The difference was stark, as the entire thirty-two shot magazine emptied with a four-second rat-a-tat, clicking on empty as adrenaline coursed through his veins. It performed as if it had just left the factory. He had to have it.

  ‘This would come in very handy if we run into any more problems,’ he ventured cautiously. The others had stayed inside the hut so didn’t overhear. ‘Very handy.’

  ‘Losing yer friend wasn’a accident then?’

  ‘No.’

  Pace didn’t elaborate and Byrne respected the silence. Losing a weapon or two wasn’t a big deal for him, so he didn’t wait for his visitor to pluck up the courage to ask him.

  ‘Just return it to me if ye’re ever back this way.’ Byrne winked at him knowingly. Pace liked him more by the second.

  Losing patience with their cameraman, the others came outside and stepped back into the rain. Hammond mounted the front seat of his bike while muttering loudly about people being out of their minds.

  Leaving the others to mount up, Pace followed the old Scotsman back inside, emerging a couple of minutes later with a few heavy additions to his backpack. He had no intention of adding to any friction by flaunting Byrne’s gifts and deliberately forced a look of steely composure as he slipped onto the back seat.

  Cosmos and Ruby said nothing but Hammond continued to grumble about wasted time. They rode their bikes very slowly back up the track until they rejoined the main road, bidding Byrne farewell as they did so. Not wanting to get wet, he’d already disappeared back inside.

  2

  Five minutes later they were fighting through the pouring rain again, visors back on. Byrne and his guns were left far behind. Byrne hadn’t known where the next working set would be and he had told them there were no other settlements deeper into the forest; the way they were heading.

  Daylight eventually arrived and with it came the relief of strong sunshine and a cloudless, brilliant blue strip of sky; visible at times where intertwining opposite treetops allowed. Rising heat sent billows of evaporating water vapour steaming out across the forest floor and they were soon back to the odd reality of riding under clear skies, but through thick, swirling ground fog.

  The visors, no use after the first hints of light, were packed carefully away and progress remained agonisingly slow, due to increasing group exhaustion and a rapidly disintegrating road surface.

  The others were always going to be fitter and more prepared than him for a long slog, though Pace had done well so far. Chest pains had returned with a vengeance in the few hours since leaving Byrne’s little shack but he had grimly pedalled on, praying they would subside again.

  They didn’t go away this time and finally, the pain hit him in such strong, nauseating waves that it sucked the air from his lungs and sent a groan bursting from his lips; so loudly that he could do nothing to hide it. Ruby heard the sound over her headset, as did Cosmos. She drew their bike to an immediate halt. It was a little afte
r seven o’clock.

  Pace tried to fight back the agony tearing into his chest and speak but the last of his energy seemed to drain from him like the final swirl of water sucked greedily down a plughole. He fell from the bike, barely able to draw breath.

  For some reason the road had chosen an opportune moment to broaden into a small clearing. It had also dipped a little and the circumference was flooded to a depth of several inches, so it looked more like a little island than a clearing; some fifty feet across. The ground was littered with dead leaves and fallen creepers so his fall was cushioned nicely.

  His throat was growing tighter and he felt cold, despite the heat and humidity. Hammond was vocally angry that Pace had not said anything earlier but his eyes were filled with worry. Serious illness here, with no help from the outside world, would almost certainly mean a second death in the team. For his part, Cosmos cracked open Attia’s medical kit and Ruby made Pace as comfortable as she could on the leaf litter, scraping a pile of dead leaves together to form a shallow pillow under his head.

  Almost unconscious, settled on his back, she slowly removed his waterproof. One look at his chest confirmed her worst fears. Rubbed raw by the frantic, constant movement of the past days, constantly bathed in a layer of sweat that didn’t have a chance to evaporate, the old wound had suffered.

  His chest hair had re-grown nicely but there was no mistaking the spots of fresh blood inside his top. A couple of tears in the soft, puffy skin oozed a bloody mixture of red and yellow fluid, matting the dark hair above the now angry scar. Ruby recognised the sickly smell of infection even before her eyes settled on the bloody pus.

  Hammond and Cosmos set up Lester as quickly as they could, then remained on guard outside, after carefully moving Pace inside. Ruby stayed inside with him and fussed around him. She helped him out of his running suit before rinsing the wound with fresh water from a drinking bottle.