The Orphan Factory (The Orphan Trilogy, #2) (45 page)

There it is again!

It was static coming from a two-way radio. The radio belonged to the same Wapishana tracker who had shot Nine. He’d forgotten to turn it off after calling Snake to report their quarry’s whereabouts. Only when static crackled over the radio’s still-live microphone did he realize his mistake. Too late. His quarry had been alerted.

Nine’s pain disappeared as soon as he heard the noise. His first instinct had been to drop to the ground. Now, lying prone, he peered through the undergrowth. He recognized the tracker as soon as he saw him. The same bow was still slung over the Wapishana’s shoulder and the same quiver of deadly arrows was still on his hip. Nine instinctively reached for his knife.

Inching backwards, the orphan-operative climbed to his feet as soon as he was out of sight and hobbled off. He quickly found what he was looking for – a suitable place for an ambush. It was a fallen tree the tracker would have to walk beneath. Nine quickly hid in its foliage and waited, knife in hand.

The tracker soon appeared. His bow was now drawn, which flagged to Nine the tracker suspected his quarry was aware of his presence.

As the tracker walked beneath the fallen log, Nine jumped down onto his back. In one fluid motion, he cut the tracker’s throat then stabbed him through the back of his neck, slicing through his spinal cord. The tracker died quickly in a pool of his own blood.

Exhausted, Nine sheathed his bloody knife and stumbled to the nearest tree. He leaned against it and sucked in a welcome lung-f of air. His mind racing, he reasoned the tracker must have relayed his current location to his associates, so it was a fair bet someone else would be coming for him.

Nine was about to hurry off when his eyes were drawn to the bow the tracker still held. He was tempted to take it. However, the bow was one weapon the Pedemont orphans had never been taught to use. Kentbridge had always considered such medieval weapons had no place in the world of espionage. Nine had never even drawn a bow before. He was afraid if he tried to use it, he could end up shooting himself – and the memory of his recent poisoning was all too fresh on his mind. Reason prevailed and he left the bow where it was.

Limping away, he was relieved there was no sign of anyone else following him.

#

It was mid-day before Nine caught sight of the river – some two hundred yards away at the bottom of a hill whose crest he had just reached. By his reckoning, the arc he’d been following for the past two hours would bring him out of the rainforest at least a mile south of where he’d overnighted. Safely out of sight of the chopper – if in fact it was still there.

The orphan-operative was eager to get back to the river. An idea had been brewing in his mind for some time, and he now viewed the river as his best means of escaping the rainforest and reaching civilization.

As he limped down toward the river, a flash of sunlight alerted him to the presence of someone hiding among the trees to his right. It had been so brief he wondered if he’d imagined it.

There it is again!

Nine knew for sure now he hadn’t imagined it. The orphan-operative was in no doubt the flash of sunlight he’d seen was from the barrel of a sniper’s rifle around a hundred yards away. He was about to be shot.

Instinct took over. He hurled himself to one side, landing hard on the ground. Intent on reaching the cover of the nearby trees, he rolled over and over in the grass.

The bullet he’d been expecting struck his left shoulder. He felt the impact before he heard the shot. It momentarily knocked him senseless.

When he regained his senses, he found the momentum of his roll had carried him out of immediate danger. He’d conveniently ended up lying prone behind a tree trunk. Glancing around the side of the trunk, he saw the sharpshooter was already coming for him. The Afro-Guyanese agent was running fast up the hill, zigzagging as he ran.

Something about the man and the way he moved jogged Nine’s memory. Then he remembered he’d seen the man in the compound just before Seventeen had shot Ezekiel.

Nine could see the agent would be onto him within thirty seconds. Using the last of his reserves, he hauled himself to his feet and limped off into the undergrowth. He hoped he had enough of a lead to hide until the agent tired of looking for him. Then he saw the trail of blood he’d left.

What more can go wrong?

Nine knew he had to make his stand now or he was a dead man. Drawing his knife, he stopped, turned and waited.

Seconds later, Snake burst through the undergrowth just ten yards away. Rifle raised, he saw Nine and took aim. Too late. He never saw the knife that flew through the air and lodged deep in his chest.

Snake reflexively fired, but his shot missed its intended target by several feet. Nine was onto him before he could get off another shot. He hit him with a flying tackle. The two rolled downhill, locked together in a deadly embrace.

Fighting with the desperation of a man who knew he was dying, Snake brought the open palm of his right hand up savagely beneath Nine’s chin. The impact of the karate-style blow jolted Nine’s head back, causing him to lose his grip on the Nexan who immediately rolled to his feet.

Nine tried to stand, but couldn’t. His injured ankle wouldn’t support his weight and the blow he’d just received had left him stunned. He couldn’t think clearly and blackness threatened to overwhelm him.

Snake swayed on his feet as he stood over Nine. Gasping for breath, he tried to stem the flow of blood that gushed from his mouth. The Nexan somehow found the strength to pull the knife from his chest. Groaning, he dropped to his knees alongside Nine and prepared to finish him off.

As his head cleared, Nine had the presence of mind to raise his arm to deflect the blow. The knife’s wicked blade pierced his left forearm, causing him to cry out in pain.

The effort of trying to stab Nine, was too much for the mortally wounded Nexan. He rolled over onto his back, gasping for air. A small fountain of blood erupted from his mouth every time he exhaled.

Nine knew instantly his knife had pierced Snake’s lungs. Realizing his enemy no longer presented a threat, Nine pushed himself up into a sitting position.

The two operatives looked at each other gravely.

“Who sent you?” Nine asked.

“Nexus,” Snake gasped.

Nine had to put his ear close to the Nexan’s mouth to hear him.

With his dying breath, Snake whispered, “I was created, just like you were created.” Snake’s eyes began to cloud over. “You and I, we are both slaves.”

As Snake’s life ebbed away, Nine pondered what he’d meant by being
created
. He wondered if Nexus had created their own batch of genetically engineered operatives.

84

It was dusk before Nine reached the southern Rupununi savannahs. He reached them courtesy of the river.

After his fight with Snake, the wounded orphan-operative had returned to the river and, using the last of his physical reserves, fashioned a crude raft from branches and vines. When he’d finished, it resembled one of the many small
islands
of fallen logs, trees and other flotsam that regularly drift down the rivers of the Amazon Basin.

Fortunately for Nine, the raft looked natural enough to pass the casual scrutiny of any Amerindians who saw it along the way. He hid beneath its branches to ensure he wasn’t spotted from the riverbank.

The three-hour voyage had been uneventful. Only twice had he had to risk being seen, and that was when the raft had run aground close to the bank. Both times he’d had to jump off the raft and push it back out into deeper water.

Nine had been aware of the risks from the outset, but considered the river a safer bet than trying to trek out. On foot, the journey would have taken another couple of days – and he wasn’t sure he’d have lasted. The knife and bullet wounds he’d sustained were still bleeding despite his best attempts to stem the blood flow using large leaves and material he’d cut from his trousers as makeshift dressings. And he was physically spent.

His main concerns before setting out on the raft had been sharing the river with the anaconda and piranha he knew frequented its waters, and also floating past Ezekielville while it was still daylight.

His concerns had proven unfounded. The only river life he’d seen had been a school of Guyana’s famed pink river dolphins, which had provided a spontaneous escort for the raft soon after it had floated past Ezekielville. And none of the village’s residents had given the raft a second glance as it floated by.

Now, as Nine quit the raft and swam to the near bank, he assessed his options. From his earlier research, he was aware the southern savannahs were home to cattle ranches and tourist lodges. He knew he should probably seek sanctuary at the first ranch or lodge he came across. However, something told him he needed to get across the border into Brazil.

Distant lights signaled to Nine he’d reached civilization. With darkness descending, he limped away from the river and headed for the lights.

Fifteen minutes of hard slog across the savannahs brought him to a truck stop and diner. Seemingly in the middle of nowhere, the truck stop currently played host to half a dozen cattle trucks whose drivers were eating inside before continuing their journey south to the abattoirs of southern Guyana or, in some cases, Brazil.

Nine spotted two Guyanese truckers outside. They were talking as one of them inspected his load of cattle. Moving closer to them in the dark, he established the trucker who was inspecting his load was headed across the Brazilian border.

The truckers then retired to the diner, leaving Nine free to scramble, unobserved, into the back of the truck that would soon be Brazil-bound. Ahead of him was a two hundred mile journey over mainly gravel roads. Nine was resigned to an eight-hour trip just to reach the border. He was also resigned to sharing the journey with some thirty Red Angus cows as his traveling companions. The smell of cow manure was almost overpowering.

Making himself as comfortable as he could amongst a load of hay, he waited for the trucker to resume his journey. He didn’t have long to wait. The trucker returned from the diner, jumped up into his cab, fired up his truck and set off for Brazil. Despite the noise, the bumpy drive and the ever-present smell of cow manure, Nine was soon fast asleep.

85

As the wounded and exhausted ninth orphan was being hauled to Brazil in the back of a cattle truck, the seventeenth orphan was being fêted
by the head of the Omega Agency back in Chicago.

Naylor had decided to treat the agency’s new golden girl to a few nights at one of the Windy City’s most luxurious hotels as reward for successfully completing the Guyana mission.

Seventeen’s assassination of Quamina Ezekiel had kick-started a flood of cash from the British Monarchy, and the early signs were the Royals’ initial re-injection of finance into Omega’s coffers was just the start. The coffers were now flush with funds and the agency’s financial woes were behind it.

Instead of focusing on survival, Naylor was now completely focused on expansion. Gone was the hesitation and self-doubt that had gripped him since he’d learned that Nexus had cleaned out Omega’s funds. His confident, aggressive, alpha-male personality had returned with a vengeance, though he wasn’t showing that side of his personality to Seventeen.

A beaming Naylor topped up the glass of expensive red wine Seventeen was drinking. Having not long finished a late night meal delivered to them by Room Service, they were now sitting close to each other on a leather couch in the hotel’s penthouse.

Seventeen observed the wine was playing havoc with Naylor’s complexion. His nose and cheeks were now rosy red, and the rest of his pock-marked face was turning a fiery crimson. Added to that, his lazy eye was starting to twitch. However, he seemed blissfully unaware of his appearance as he studied his subordinate over the top of his wine glass.

Seventeen was uncomfortably aware of Naylor’s close proximity. Earlier, when he’d opened the wine bottle, they’d been sitting at opposite ends of the couch. Two glasses of wine later, he was so close their thighs were touching. With nowhere to go, Seventeen crossed one leg over the other, breaking contact with her superior’s thigh for the moment at least.

Naylor seemed oblivious to Seventeen’s discomfort as he raised his glass. “Here’s to you, my girl. A job well done.” He was making no secret of the fact he considered the radical shift in Omega’s fortunes was all thanks to the blue-eyed, blonde operative he was now wining and dining. Many had tried to assassinate Ezekiel over the years, but all had failed – until now.

As Naylor drained his glass, his thoughts turned to Nine. He, for one, wasn’t going to miss him despite the huge investment Omega had made in him.

We are well shot of that troublesome orphan
.

Sensing Seventeen shared his feelings, he looked at her shrewdly. “Don’t worry about Nine. He knew the risks.”

“I know,” Seventeen said, “but that doesn’t make it any easier.” She did her best to present a grim face to her opposite.

They sat alone with their thoughts as Naylor refilled his glass. He offered to top up Seventeen’s glass again. She put her hand on top of her glass, sensing she needed to keep a clear head. She’d heard all the rumors of Naylor’s infidelities – not to mention the latest rumor that he’d recently been served divorce papers from his wife.

“Who knows, maybe we’ll have Nine cloned one day,” Naylor continued. “We have the genetic codes for all you orphans stored back at HQ.”

This came as news to Seventeen.

Naylor continued, “They’re just waiting for when we find a scientist who can finish the cloning project Doctor Pedemont started.”

Seventeen frowned. The thought of a Nine lookalike running around some time in the future bothered her.

This wasn’t lost on Naylor who hurriedly added, “Don’t worry. If we ever have Nine cloned, I’ll put in a special order for a more likeable personality!”