Page 39 of Rebel Protector
The truck driver who’d dropped off the crates was long gone. No one stuck around these parts longer than they had to. But now it was time to move.
Ghost waded into the murky water, helping Biri drag the boat onto the mossy bank. He handed him a bottle of water, and Biri gulped it down, nodding his thanks.
Together, they started loading the crates. Twenty in total. Heavy and awkward, each one filled with weapons bound for Colombia. Sweat trickled down Ghost’s neck as they heaved the last crate into the boat.
Biri might have a crooked spine, but the man was as strong as an ox. Ghost had seen plenty of hard men in his time, but Biri—this man had survived the jungle. The two shook hands, and just as Biri climbed into the boat, Ghost heard it—the unmistakable roar of high-powered engines, growing louder by the second.
Fuck.
Panamanian border patrol. The sound was unmistakable. This deep in the jungle, it was either them or the Colombian military, and neither option was good.
“Vamanos,” Ghost growled, already back in the boat, backpack and all. He wasn’t going to wait around for armed militia to spray him down, or worse, arrest him and shove him in a stinking Panamanian jail.
The fisherman was quicker than Ghost expected, pushing off the bank and revving the engine.
They shot off downriver into the swampland and towards the Colombian border. The drone of the pursuing motorboats got louder, but the myriads of twists in the river meant they were still invisible.
Biri, gripping the wheel like his life depended on it, spotted a tiny, overgrown inlet. He cut the engine, letting the boat glide into the thick brush. They ducked, branches and vinesslapping their faces as they pushed deeper into the jungle’s green labyrinth.
Ghost’s heart hammered in his chest as the boat drifted to a stop. The loud, mechanical growl of the patrol boats filled the air. They’d been spotted. He was sure of it.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath. Biri didn’t need to be told—they both knew what was coming.
The engines cut out, and the jungle fell eerily silent.
Ghost crouched low, rifle in hand, ready to bail and dive into the river if they got too close. He was an expert at escape and evasion, but there was no way to know if they’d been tracked. If their pursuers opened fire, they’d be dead in minutes.
Biri’s eyes were wide with fear, his hand hovering over the shotgun stashed beneath the seat. But Ghost knew better than to go loud. There were too many of them.
This was an organized bust—they’d be outgunned and outflanked in seconds. Sweat poured off him as he focused on the water’s edge, watching for any sign of movement. The silence was suffocating.
A rustle. Then, the menacing steel nose of a patrol boat poked through the foliage.
CHAPTER 16
It was game over.
Ghost held steady, his rifle aimed at the approaching motorboat. He might get off a few shots before they took him out. Best case scenario, he could slip overboard in the chaos and disappear into the jungle. Worst case… well, he didn’t want to think about that.
Biri grabbed the shotgun.
Wait.
Ghost froze, his heart hammering.
“Por aquí!” a voice called in Spanish. “This way!”
There was a grunt, followed by the low mechanical growl of the patrol boat's engine shifting into reverse.
Ghost held his breath.
The patrol boat backed out of the inlet, and disappeared into the muddy tributary.
Thank fuck.
Within moments, they heard the deep hum of the three boats roaring off up the river. They must’ve decided the smugglers had made a break for the Colombian border. The Panamanians had gone in pursuit, but that part of the river was a mess of swamp and tangled vegetation. Good luck finding anything in there.
Biri exhaled loud and long, and Ghost let out a shaky chuckle. They grinned at each other like idiots before collapsing onto the deck, adrenaline crashing hard.