“Ahh!” he cried out, immediately taking it off the ground.
Even without the weight of his body on it, the pain lanced up his arm.
“Ahh!” he cried out again, panting.
He tried to close the fingers of his right hand but that was even more painful. His wrist was broken.
“Where are the cuttings?” he heard from behind him.
Still on his knees, he had just started to turn as something knocked him forward. It was Jean. She’d managed to get up and was trying to tackle him. She landed on his back as he hit the ground, his broken wrist pinned beneath him.
“Ahh!” he screamed again.
“Where are the cuttings?” she yelled.
Her arms circled around his neck. With her extra weight, he couldn’t push up, especially with one arm. But the pain in his pinned arm was so excruciating that he immediately rolled to get off it. He rolled fast and hard, Jean still on his back. Together, they thudded into the wood wall of a raised bed, with her sandwiched between him and it. He had to outweigh her by fifty pounds and the choked grunt that escaped from her let him know his tactic had worked. Her arms went slack around his neck and he rolled onto his knees.
Cradling the broken wrist, he finally stood. He looked behind him. Jean was trying to get up. She had grasped the edge of the raised bed and was standing, her back to him.
“You bitch!” he yelled.
He balled the fingers of his left hand into a fist and made an awkward swing. Though he’d intended to hit her in the head, the blow landed in her upper back. Even so, it sent her forward, doubling her over the edge of the wood with a sharp cry. His hands were no good for this so he did what he should have done from the start. He kicked her. His entire shin came up under her midsection, lifting her with the blow. A loud grunt shot from her lungs as her body arched upward. As she came down, George drew his foot back to kick her again but realized he was wasting precious time. No longer able to hold on, Jean came down on her knees and slumped forward with her chest against the raised bed.
With his left hand, George dug in the right pocket of his pants and brought out the old woman’s lighter. He turned and ran the several yards to the front door before he spun around. Jean was where he’d left her except that she’d slid all the way to the floor.
Bitch! Now you get to die.
With a click, he ignited the lighter and touched it to the nearest tree. In a great whoosh, flames immediately shot up its length. He jumped back and shielded his face from the sudden heat. As he watched, the flames spread to the next tree. He tossed the lighter to the floor, turned, and opened the door. The plaza was clear. He ran for the garage.
JUNGLE FEVER
An Erotic Expedition Novella
PART 3
By Hazel Hunter
As the door to the greenhouse shut behind him, George Liew ran. Though the garage wasn’t far, the plaza between the buildings of the Peterson rubber ranch was completely open. Anybody looking for him would spot him immediately. And
everybody
was looking for him.
Phuket Island in Thailand had proved to be the perfect place to develop the next generation of rubber plant and the perfect place to steal those plants. But the well-planned theft had gone awry when George had tripped a silent alarm. Now, with his right wrist broken, it was going to be a challenge just getting out.
Each jarring footfall made George wince with pain but he ran anyway. All he needed to do was get in the waiting Jeep and go. He checked over his shoulder, glanced around the plaza, and stared at the back door of the large main house. The only person he really needed to worry about was Clark Peterson and the last time he’d seen him, he’d been running into the main house. He looked at the garage. Almost there.
Clark had obviously figured out by now that Jean had been there to distract him, so that no longer worked in his favor. Soon, though, Clark would have much more than her to distract him.
George ran into the relative protection of the garage and leaned heavily on the Jeep. In a moment of panic, he touched his back pocket. In the scuffle with Jean, he’d fallen and broken his wrist. But the only important thing was the specimen case. His left hand finally landed on it in his right back pocket. He exhaled loudly. Three pristine buds of the most advanced rubber tree ever bred were his. And, according to his buyers, worth billions. His fee, ten million per preserved functioning bud.
“Thirty million,” he ground out through clenched teeth.
He heard a moaning from the front of the Jeep. That would be Mrs. Juntasa. He’d knocked her unconscious and dumped here there earlier when she’d arrived home. Not only did she have the keys to this Jeep, she’d had a lighter. The lighter he’d already put to use. Now it was time to use the keys.
He didn’t bother with the old woman. Not again. It was time to go.
He fished the keys out of his left pocket, opened the driver door, and sat down. It was awkward using only his left hand, especially when he wasn’t left-handed, but eventually he got the keys into the ignition and the engine started. Now all he had to do was drive a stick using only his left hand.
“Thirty million,” he muttered.
Feet on clutch and brake, he reached across his body and put the Jeep into reverse. He backed and spun the wheel as the Jeep cleared the garage. At the front of it, he could see Mrs. Juntasa, still lying where he’d left her. The kick to the head had assured she wouldn’t be making trouble any time soon.
Suddenly, George saw someone in his peripheral vision. He swiveled his head right and saw Tam, the old man-servant. George had thought it was Clark and his heart had leapt into his throat. He was a second recovering as the old man teetered toward him but, like Mrs. Juntasa, he was slow.
George threw the stick shift into first and gunned the engine. Gravel spewed from the back wheels and the vehicle lurched forward. Tam was left in a hail of rocks, dirt, and dust. George was finally on his way.
• • • • •
Clark bolted out the back door and headed straight to the garage but what he saw there brought him up short. Both Tam and Mrs. Juntasa were seated on the ground. The two elderly servants of the Peterson Ranch, with their white hair and weathered skin, looked like a match set. But something was wrong. Mrs. Juntasa was holding her head and Tam was supporting her from the back.
“Tam?” Clark said as he knelt beside them.
“I think she’s all right, Boss,” said the old man.
All right from what?
When Mrs. Juntasa looked up at him, he saw the injury immediately. An angry red welt and dark bruise had formed on her forehead.
“What happened?” Clark said, taking her hand.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice quavering. “I went to town for the shopping…” She closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. “I don’t remember.”
“That’s okay,” Clark said squeezing her hand. “That’s okay, Mrs. Juntasa.” He paused. “Open your eyes for me,” he said. “I want you to look at me.”
Though she still held her head, she turned her face directly toward him and opened her eyes. Clark stared for a second at the black pupils in the dark irises. They were equal and appeared normal. Probably no concussion. Even so, she might have a fracture. She needed to see a doctor. He glanced around the garage. All that was left was the motorcycle.
“Tam,” Clark started.
“I called the doctor,” Tam said, nodding. “And the police.”
Clark breathed a sigh of relief. Count on Tam to keep his head.
“Good man,” he said, patting him on the back.
“It was George Liew,” Tam said.
Clark immediately tensed.
“You saw him?”
“Yes, Boss. He took the small Jeep.”
Clark stood.
“Headed for the gate,” Tam said.
The sound of crackling was dim in the distance. Although Jean heard it, the sound didn’t really register. Instead, a dull ache in her stomach made her hug herself. Slowly, she opened her eyes to a strangely tilted world. She was lying on her side. With some effort, she pushed up onto her elbows and raised her head. This was the greenhouse.
She looked up the row of raised seed beds that she lay between and suddenly the crackling hit home.
“Oh my god,” she muttered. “
Fire.
”
Gripping the edge of the raised wood bed behind her, she shakily got to her feet. Three of the rubber trees near the front of the greenhouse were burning!
She needed to get out!
The only door was just past the trees. She lurched forward, stumbling, but used the seed bed for support. As she neared the flames, she got as far away from them as she could, moving to the opposite side of the row. Even so, the heat that radiated from them was fierce. She put up a hand to shield herself and ran. In moments she was at the door. She turned the knob and pulled. It was locked.
“
No.
”
She yanked at it, over and over.
“No!” she screamed.
She pounded on it with her fists.
“Help! Please, help!”
At her back, she could feel the heat from the flames.
“Fire!” she screamed, pounding the door. “Help!”
But she already knew that there was probably no one to hear her. They had all gone in search of George. George who had lied to her and everyone else. George who had stolen the precious rubber plant buds. George who had set this fire and left her to die.
She put her forehead to the door.
I am not going to die.
She looked up above her.
The opaque white glass of the greenhouse soared two stories high, supported by metal girders. Only the glass at the very top of the ornate structure was clear. No one heard her and no one could see anything either.
She pounded the door with her fist.
Hold on. Wasn’t there an irrigation system for the greenhouse?
She turned and looked up toward the center of the roof. There were no sprinklers or other plumbing but the trees had to get water
somehow
. As her eyes lowered to the raised beds, she realized with a start that several trees were burning. The fire was spreading. It was still confined to the same seed bed, but it was spreading. She remembered George marching up the row with the can, dumping gas as he went. Of course it was spreading.
She needed water.
Where did the trees get water?
• • • • •
Now that he was finally in fourth gear, George stepped down hard on the gas. The muddy road was puddled in spots but he sped forward at high speed. There was no time to worry about how deep the puddles were. He needed to be gone.
Steering the Jeep was another matter. With only the use of his left hand, it took every bit of strength he had to control the wheel as the Jeep took the dips and ruts of the dirt road. It bounced and skid along but it stayed on the road.
He let his foot off the gas as he entered a sharp left curve. Mud spewed from the tires on the right side as the Jeep slid sideways. He turned into the skid and the Jeep finally straightened out as he narrowly missed hitting the trees at the side of the rode.
“Shit,” he muttered.
This part of the plantation was no denser than the rest but it was planted right up to the edge of the road. He checked the rear view mirror as the curve receded behind him. When he looked forward, though, he hit the brakes.
It was Annan, Clark's main help at the ranch. In the distance, on this stretch of straight road, George could clearly see him behind the wheel. Earlier, George had seen him take the other Jeep when he’d been hiding in the garage. Wherever he’d been, he was heading back–along the only route that led in or out and a narrow one at that.
Could Annan see that it was George driving?
Would Annan try to stop him?
Just then, George had a crazy thought.
He stepped on the gas and moved the Jeep over in the road a few feet. He had no idea how fast Annan was going but they were closing quickly. He lined up his Jeep with Annan’s, heading straight for him. His broken wrist throbbed, cradled in his lap, and sweat poured down his temples. His grip on the wheel was slick but he didn’t swerve. Neither did Annan.
He had the gas pedal all the way to the floor.
In a moment of cold panic, George realized he couldn’t remember which side of the road they drove on in Thailand.
Right?
Left?
The Jeeps were hurtling toward one another. It would only be another few seconds before they’d be too close to react. George gripped the wheel, stared straight ahead, and held his breath.
Finally, Annan turned to George’s right. As George side-swiped him at high speed, he clearly saw Annan’s face: wide-eyed, his mouth open, maybe screaming. Metal briefly screeched against metal and George hung on for dear life. Even his arm with the broken wrist moved to grab the wheel but he couldn’t close his fingers.
Then, he was on the road by himself again, the Jeep fishtailing as he took his foot off the gas. He exhaled in a huff and looked in the rear view mirror. Annan’s Jeep had almost completely spun around before it collided with one tree and then another. George realized he’d been traveling much faster than Annan. The momentum of George’s vehicle had easily sent Annan’s off the road.
George concentrated on the road in front of him. Even if Annan’s Jeep still ran, he’d never catch up–not if George kept moving.
• • • • •
The motorcycle roared beneath Clark. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ridden it but the skills had come back quickly. He cranked the throttle in his hand and dodged trees.
With the head start that George had, he’d never catch him, but George didn’t know the plantation like Clark did. By taking a shortcut through the trees instead of the road, he’d be able to get to the gate before him. Even though Annan should have closed it by now, he couldn’t take any chances. The gate was really for keeping honest people out–people who were lost. The ranch entrance was only guarded by metal frames. They swung together to block the road, with just a chain and lock across them. A vehicle traveling at high speed ought to be able to punch through.