Blood and Bone (A Jack Hawthorne Adventure Book #3) , livre ebook

© 2013 by Don Hoesel
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means for example, electronic, photocopy, recording without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6144-1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Lookout Design, Inc.
Author is represented by Leslie H. Stobbe
For Dawn
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
1
Brazil, 1996
JACK HESITATED FOR A MOMENT, calculating the risk of distracting Romero before reaching over and swatting the tarantula from his friend’s shoulder. The huge spider tumbled out of the jeep. To Jack’s relief, Romero kept his eyes aimed ahead for as long as it took to make sure the jeep avoided the cecropia that appeared in their path, only turning to raise an eyebrow in Jack’s direction once the tree was behind them.
“Believe me, you don’t want to know,” Jack said.
Romero held the look for a while longer, then turned his attention back to the road ahead.
That road was the 156, the only even marginally serviceable route for those traversing the northernmost three hundred kilometers of Amapá. Most of the 156 had disappeared behind them as they neared Oiapoque, the jeep churning up red clay, bouncing over terrain that, back home, Jack would have described as prime off-roading territory. As if to punctuate that thought, the jeep’s right front tire dropped down into a hole, sending a shower of moist red clay into the air. He barely grimaced as some of that shower landed on him; after almost five hundred kilometers he’d given up trying to preserve the integrity of his clothes.
As the jeep navigated a sharp curve, the first sign he had seen in more than a hundred kilometers came into view, the faded wood placing Oiapoque less than twenty kilometers ahead. Then the sign was gone, leaving nothing to prove that anything existed beyond the rain forest, save the road the jungle was ever working to reclaim.
The branches of mammoth kapoks hung over the road, their pods dangling in patches like ripe fruit amid the leaves. Intertwined with the kapoks were other lesser trees, many so snuggly placed against their larger cousins as to provide as solid a wall as any a man could make with brick and mortar. And among this tangle of limbs and leaves that wove a cover over the rain forest, insects and animals in types and numbers Jack could hardly fathom made their homes.
The tenuousness of humankind’s foothold in this formidable place was enough to humble even a seasoned traveler, but rather than continue to ponder the question, Jack reached for the travel bag between his feet, fishing around until he found a cigar, a Dona Flor he’d picked up in Macapá.
Romero watched as Jack cut and lit the cigar, not saying anything until he’d released the first puff of smoke to the jungle. “Since when do you smoke cigars?”
“Since the day Jim and I pulled that fifteen-hundred-year-old Mochica headdress out of that royal tomb in Peru,” Jack said.
At the time, it was the most valuable artifact ever discovered in the country, and Dr. James Winfield, who was lead archaeologist for the dig, had pulled two cigars from his breast pocket the moment the headdress was packed safely for travel. Considering the magnitude of the find, Jack couldn’t refuse the celebratory token.
“As I recall, that artifact was worth 1.5 million,” Romero said.
“Closer to two,” Jack said.
Romero grunted.
“An occasion worthy of a fine cigar, indeed.”
Jack took another puff as the jungle passed by on either side. He glanced over at the Venezuelan.
“How does Espy feel about men who smoke cigars?” he asked, trying to keep a smile from touching his lips.
Romero didn’t say anything right away. In fact, the only evidence that he’d heard the question manifested itself in a reddening of his ears. It was a reaction that reminded Jack that while Romero was a friend, his temper was often unpredictable. And he was very protective of his younger sister.
“I think the more accurate question is how she feels about men who are forced to eat their cigars for even entertaining ideas about another man’s sister,” Romero said.
Jack chuckled, yet he knew enough to let the matter drop, a decision that coincided with the jeep rounding one last corner to reveal their destination—opening up before them, the whole of it, in a single instant.

They drove in above Oiapoque, a border town where the streets and buildings lay clustered closely together along the river that shared its name. At first glance, the place looked as if it had been ravaged by a natural disaster, a flood pushing through long ago and leaving behind red silt to mark its passing, filling the streets, staining everything the water touched. Just when Jack figured the town to be dead or abandoned, he saw movement. As Romero gave the gas pedal a nudge to send the jeep in the direction of the river, Jack could see the people who gave the place life.
As the 156 widened, the results of the wet season became visible. Deep ruts had been cut into the slope, sending the jeep bouncing and dipping until finally they reached a spot where the road leveled out. Heading deeper into town, Jack took a long draw from the cigar and watched as people stopped to view the jeep and to size up the visitors. Oiapoque was remote enough to make every visitor an opportunity, and the locals seemed to be experts at assessing the nature of one’s need. Because outsiders wouldn’t go through the hassle of traveling all the way here if they didn’t need something.
Before long, most observers dismissed Jack and Romero, and of those whose gazes lingered, all were men who looked like the kind it would be wise to avoid. It gave Jack a moment’s pause to consider that these were just the sort of men he and Romero had come to see.
When they reached Oiapoque’s version of Main Street, it seemed to him that everything worth doing in the place had been crammed into a few square blocks. Shops of various sorts sat almost atop each other, a curious mix of modern-looking establishments with a European flair, along with other storefronts and vendor stalls that had a more local flavor. But the shops were secondary to the people who began swarming the jeep, a great many of them calling out to Romero and Jack, offering a variety of services, their French and Portuguese forming a carnival-like cacophony.
Romero maneuvered the jeep to the side of the road, spurring a more intense movement of entrepreneurs toward the vehicle, but the Venezuelan’s glower quickly dispersed them. Thus freed, Jack and Romero stood on the road for a few moments, taking the place in, Jack’s eyes seeking out someone who might convey them to Saint George, which was located across the expanse of water separating two nations.
There was something of the Wild West to Oiapoque. Its people, left to their own devices, had created something wholly unique—and maybe even a little dangerous. Jack decided he liked it. Save for the ubiquitous red clay his boots kicked up, which coated everything and everyone.
He took Romero’s grunt as agreement.
“I’d say we have as good a chance of finding a ferryman there as any,” Romero said, nodding toward a tavern that also had caught Jack’s eye, mainly for the group of men gathered beneath its overhang.
As Jack and Romero drew nearer, the odors of fried food, stale beer, and cigarettes wafted through the tavern’s open door, along with the hum of conversation and the occasional clink of glass. He saw the look on Romero’s face, understanding that Taberna da Esquina was the kind of place to which he could lose his friend if they lingered. So he quickly made use of his rusty French to see if he could find someone willing to take them across the river.
Less than a minute later, he had secured the services of one of the locals, who immediately started off in the direction of the jeep. But when Jack moved to follow, he noticed that his friend seemed rooted to the spot.
Romero’s eyes were fixed on the tavern entrance.
“Our meeting is more than an hour off,” Romero said. “A ten-minute river transit should allow time to enjoy some of the fruits of this lovely town.”
Jack didn’t answer right away because, in principle, he couldn’t fault the argument, but pragmatism eventually reared its head. “We can either stay here for a drink and let Paulo get there first, allow him to set things up how he wants them, or we can delay gratification, beat him there, and maybe have time for a nice Malte Barrilete.”
Romero turned that around for a time, wearing a frown that told Jack he was without a rebuttal. He grunted again, then turned away from the door. “Fine. Even if I think you’re being overly optimistic if you expect to find bourbon of that quality this far from Macapá.”
With Romero in tow, Jack started after their Brazilian Charon, who had stopped to wait for them. Soon they reached the marina, where they navigated a cursory customs checkpoint.
It was his first good look at the Oiapoque River, a waterway that wound like a ghost through trees that stood like sentinels along its banks—except where towns like Oia