Page 40 of Rebel Protector
“Let’s sit tight until we’re in the clear,” Ghost muttered. The patrol boats wouldn’t get far before turning around. The river ahead was more marsh than water, and they'd have to double back. “We need to camouflage the boat, just in case.”
Biri nodded, already grabbing handfuls of reeds and muck. They worked in silence, covering the boat with slimy vegetation until it blended into the jungle around them. From the river, it would just look like another gnarled trunk swallowed by the undergrowth.
Then they waited.
Biri dozed off, while Ghost kept watch, his rifle ready. Not much was happening. A troop of monkeys swung by, chittering at the strange humans below. Ghost swatted at a relentless cloud of tapa flies, but otherwise, the jungle was quiet.
An hour crawled by before they heard the boats again. The patrols were heading back to base. This time, the noise faded fast, engines cutting into the distance.
They were clear.
Biri stirred and stretched, rolling to his feet. “I go now.”
Ghost gave a short nod. Colombia wasn’t somewhere he wanted to end up today. Biri knew what to do—he’d handled the handoff plenty of times before.
The two men shook hands, and Ghost stepped out of the boat into the thick, wet brush. Water seeped into his boots immediately, soaking the bottom of his pants. He pushed the boat into the current, gave Biri a brief wave, then turned and slogged his way toward the shore.
Ghost looked around, getting his bearings. He was in deep—way farther south than he’d planned. Pulling out his compass, he tried to figure out the quickest way back. If he could hit thelogging trail, it’d save him days of hiking, but to get there, he’d have to cross miles of impenetrable jungle and a fast-flowing river. Still better than the alternative.
He set off, ducking under low-hanging branches, climbing over aerial roots, and squelching through mud. Once he hit the logging station, he could hitch a ride back into town. For now, he just had to keep moving.
With the adrenaline fading, his thoughts drifted back to the ambush. That hadn’t been an accident.
As he trudged through the muck, Ghost mentally checked off the people who could’ve leaked their route to the authorities. Much as he hated himself for it, the first name that popped into his head was Becca.
Had she betrayed him? No, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe that. But how else could he explain the patrols? This wasn’t a random check—they were looking for them. And besides, Becca didn’t know their exact route. Yet somehow, the border patrol knew exactly where to search.
He scowled and hacked through a tangle of vines with his machete. Rain started to trickle through the canopy, but the dense leaves above shielded him from the worst of it. This rainforest had one of the highest annual rainfalls in the world, and the swampy delta he’d just left was proof. The entire region was like a web of interconnected puddles, all fed by the rivers snaking down from the purple hills of the Darien Reserve.
No, Becca wouldn’t do that to him—or her father. Next up on his list was Markov’s crew.
Ramirez loved his position, the money and power that came with it. He wasn’t going to blow up his own operation by tipping off the authorities. No motive.
Carlos? He didn’t know the details of the op. Sure, he had access to the cameras and mics in the hacienda, but Ghost only discussed plans in Markov’s office. The place was swept for bugsat least once a day. Markov wasn’t stupid. He was paranoid as hell. It had kept him alive this long.
Up ahead, a narrow river sliced through the jungle, fast and swollen from the rain. The ground was slick, the steep incline making it tricky to navigate. Ghost shrugged off his pack, stuffed it into a plastic liner, and tied it to his leg with rope. Wading into the river, the water hit him like a punch to the gut.
Damn, that was colder than he’d expected.
He forced his breathing to stay even and crossed as quickly as he could, eyes scanning for anything lurking beneath the surface that might want to take a chunk out of him. In a place like this, one mistake could cost him more than just time.
Once on the other side, soaked but alive, he continued upstream. If he kept his bearings right, he’d hit the logger’s drop-off point in a couple of hours.
His mind shifted to his own crew. He didn’t want to think it, but someone had to be the rat. How else did the patrol know where to ambush them?
He started at the top with Jesús and Pedro. They’d been in the game too long to snitch, unless someone had gotten to them. They had families, and when push came to shove, you could make anyone talk if you pressed the right buttons. Still, they didn’t know enough to sell out the whole operation.
Jonny, the logger, was solid. An ex-pat with a criminal record back in the States, he’d burned that bridge a long time ago. Panama was his safehaven. If he sold them out, he’d be cutting his own throat.
Biri had been just as shocked by the ambush as Ghost, so it wasn’t him. And Miguel? He was on the Colombian side of the border. If he’d flipped, the attack would’ve come from the south.
Shit. Back to square one.
The rain started to pick up again, heavy drops splattering against the leaves overhead. The sky was darkening. Soon, it’dbe too dangerous to travel. Navigating this jungle in daylight was tough enough. At night? Impossible.
Ghost scouted for a place to hunker down. Sleeping out here wasn’t fun, but he had the gear to string up a hammock between two trees and ration packs to get him through. He could live off the land if he had to—there were decent fish in the rivers—but he wasn’t in the mood for that tonight.
As he settled in, his thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to Becca. What was she doing right now?