Commando. Lindsay McKenna

      “Hey!” the skipper called. “We’re here!”

      Groggily Jake sat up. He was damp with sweat. He untied his neckerchief and mopped his face and neck. The tug was slowing, the engine’s forward speed checked as they aimed at a dilapidated wooden dock where several Tucanos children waited.

      Wiping sleep from his eyes, Jake stood up and rapidly sized up the small village huts thatched with palm fronds. The tall trees of the Amazon still lined the riverbanks, but just inside them the land had been cleared for homes for the Tucanos. He counted roughly fifty huts, and saw a number of Indian women near fires tending black iron cooking kettles. The women were dressed in colorful cotton dresses, their black hair long and their feet bare. The children raced around, barely clad. The short, barrel-chested, black-haired men held blowguns. Machetes hung on belts around many of their waists.

      The odor of wood smoke combined with the muddy stench of the river. As the tug gently bumped the dock, Jake could also smell fish frying. About a dozen Tucanos children gathered, wide-eyed as Jake leaped from the tug to the dock. He set his duffel bag down on the gray, weathered surface of the poorly made dock.

      “How can I get a ride back up the river to Manaus?” he asked the skipper.

      Grinning toothily, the skipper pointed to the village. “Pai Jose has a radio. He knows the name of my tug. He can call the wharf at Manaus, and someone will find me.”

      That would have to be good enough, Jake thought. He lifted his hand to the skipper and turned to find the Indian children looking solemnly up at him, curiosity shining in their dark brown eyes. They were beautiful children, their brown skin healthy-looking, their bodies straight and proud. He wondered if Shah, because of her native ancestry, felt at home in the village.

      “Pai Jose?” he asked them.

      “Sim! Sim!” Yes! Yes! The oldest, a boy of about ten, gestured for Jake to follow him.

      Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Jake followed the boy through the village. The ground consisted of a whitish, powdery clay base that rose in puffs around his boots. Most of the village was in the shade of the trees overhead, and the smoke purled and made shapes as it drifted through the leafy barrier. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the trees here and there, and Jake’s skin burned. Tropical sunlight was fierce.

      A well-worn path through the vegetation wound away from the village and up a small incline onto a rounded hill that overlooked the river, and Jake could see a rectangular adobe brick structure near the top of it. Palm trees, both short and tall, bracketed the path. The calling of birds was nonstop, and sometimes, Jake would catch sight of one flitting colorfully through the brown limbs and green leaves of the thousands of trees.

      The path opened into a small, grassy clearing. At the other end was the mission. It wasn’t much, in Jake’s opinion—just a grouping of three or four structures with a white cross on the roof of the largest building. That had to be the church. The place was well kept, and the path obviously had been swept, probably with a palm-leaf broom. Pink, white and red hibiscus bloomed around the buildings in profusion. Orchids hung down from the trees, turning the air heady with their cloying perfume.

      Just as the Indian boy stopped and pointed at the church, Jake heard angry, heated voices. One was a woman’s. He turned, keying his hearing to the sound. Giving the boy a few coins in thanks, Jake set his duffel bag on the ground and followed the sound. Turning the corner, he spotted a small wooden wharf down by the river, with several canoes pulled up onshore nearby. Five people stood on the wharf.

      Frowning, Jake lengthened his stride down the sloping path. As he drew closer, he recognized Shah Travers in the center of the group. His heart started to pound, and it wasn’t because of the suffocating humidity or because of fear. Shah was tall—much taller than he’d expected. Her hair hung in two black, shining braids that stood out against the short-sleeved khaki shirt she wore. Mud had splattered her khaki trousers, and she wore calf-high rubber boots that were also covered with the thick, gooey substance.

      What was going down? Jake saw the Catholic priest, an older man with wire-rimmed glasses, dressed in white pants and a shirt, plus his clerical collar, standing tensely. The other three made Jake uneasy. Two of them looked like goons hired by the well-dressed third man. Shah’s husky voice was low with fury, and he couldn’t catch what she said, but she was squaring off with the man in the light suit and white panama hat.