PRECIPICE (39 page)

Chip didn’t have time to wonder who in the hell might be shooting at him. Every blast from the shotgun was removing a significant portion of his perch, and he knew that he had to act fast before he was left with no cover at all. He reached up on the bench and grabbed the high-powered rifle from where Moore had left it. Chip cycled the action to chamber a round and rolled over to point the gun in the direction that the shotgun blasts were coming from. He tried to get a clear image through the scope, but before he could resolve on his target he realized that this was taking far too long. He rolled back over to the far side of the platform as the wood where he had just been exploded into a blizzard of mulch.

The mistake had almost killed him, and Chip knew that he had to do better if he wanted to survive. Before his assailant had time to rack another round into the shotgun’s pipe, Chip rolled over to take aim again. This time he used the open sights on the top of the barrel beneath the fat scope. He found his target easily—a short, musclebound monkey of a man with black hair, a tattooed arm, and crazy eyes. Chip squeezed the trigger and watched as the man staggered backwards from the bullet’s heavy blow. But the man didn’t go down. Chip watched in astonishment as his assailant regained his balance and turned back to face the tree, a bright red wound pumping blood down the upper left portion of his chest.

The man raised the sawed-off shotgun, but Chip squeezed the rifle’s trigger again before his opponent could take aim. His second shot hit the smaller man dead center mass, flinging him backwards ass-over-teakettle like a rag doll to land in the sticky Alabama mud.

To Chip’s astonishment, the monkey-man struggled to his feet again and wildly fired the shotgun in his direction. The heavy pellets missed wide and rattled through the bare branches a few feet to Chip’s left. The freakish man was raging now. He spewed obscenities in Spanish that sprayed from his mouth in gurgles of sticky blood, spreading across the front of the sleeveless t-shirt that was stretched tautly over his musclebound chest.

Chip didn’t hesitate again. He took careful aim and fired another round, gratified to see his attacker fall back for a third time. The man’s arms and legs were still twitching and kicking as he lay on the ground, and another blast rumbled aimlessly from the shotgun as he lay there.

Chip calmed his breathing and sighted carefully through the scope this time. He settled the crosshairs on the center of the prone man’s head, exhaled half of his breath, and steadily squeezed the trigger. It was an easy shot from this range, and the heavy round had the desired result. The man’s head exploded. His limbs twitched for a few seconds more, and then he finally lay still.

Chip gently laid the now-empty rifle back across the bench on the tattered deer stand. He cautiously descended the precarious ladder of spikes, his gloves protecting him from the cold metal’s sting. By now light was spreading slowly over the landscape, so he retraced his path from the evening before, remaining concealed in the woods on his trip back to his kayak lest he be seen by anyone happening by.

When he reached his boat he ate a second breakfast of energy bars before changing into his river gear. All of his camping equipment, his pistol, and the camouflaged clothes were stuffed back into drybags and secured behind the seat of his kayak. It was still before 8 in the morning when he slid his boat into the rushing river and began stroking steadily downstream.

The rhythm of his paddle strokes became a meditation as he entered the easier whitewater in the lower portion of the gorge. This was the deepest and most spectacular section of the canyon, with sandstone cliffs towering five hundred feet over the river on each side. For the first time since that fateful morning in Mexico, he finally felt at peace. He wasn’t out of the woods yet—so to speak—but his cover was solid. He didn’t know who the crazy man that had attacked him was, but his presence provided Chip with a perfect alibi. Hopefully it would be assumed that Moore had shot the man and then fallen to his death. Even if an investigation determined that a third person had been present, Chip would be long gone before anyone began to look for him.

He realized then in a shot of clarity that he had been perfectly suited for this mission. Although he hadn’t been able to save Duval or Sam, he had survived and completed the task when others had failed. The reason was suddenly clear: He hadn’t rushed in. Instead of countless impulsive actions that would have cost his life, he had waited patiently through extreme circumstances for the proper times to act—or not acted at all when the odds were stacked too high against him—just like in those horrible moments when he’d sat on the shore the day that Daniel died. The truth was that if he had impulsively tried to save Duval or Sam, the cartel probably wouldn’t have been dismantled and countless more innocents would have died. Moore would never have been caught. And Chip would not still be here. He finally began to forgive himself for his inaction as he stepped back and looked at the bigger picture. He had done the right things, and he was through second guessing now.

He stroked though Bottleneck Rapid, the biggest challenge he would face from his kayak today. He smiled to himself as he finished the required move and paddled across the pool below it. What had seemed like a colossal obstacle when he first kayaked here at the age of thirteen was little more than a pleasant diversion to him now. He wondered briefly if this mission would bring him the same kind of nostalgia some time down the line. It was funny how his perspective had changed as his experience grew and his horizons expanded. Yesterday’s death-defying stunts had a funny way of turning into tomorrow’s pleasant rides. He had experienced ups and downs in both kayaking and this new adventure, losing friends to each along the way. It was all part of the game. Unlike most people, the reality was easy for Chip to accept. He had made a difference. He had survived the fight, righted some wrongs, and even served and defended his country along the way. Although he had been unable to save Sam, how many more like her would his actions save? He would miss her—just like he missed Daniel, and like he would miss Duval, Roberts, and Mendez. But after a lifetime of laying his life on the line for little more than just a thrill or the clichéd “because it’s there,” he finally felt a sense of greater purpose. It gave him a new satisfaction, and he felt the weight of his guilt melt away. It was worth the risk.

He reached the Canyon Mouth Picnic Area at 9:30. He’d made excellent time. There was nobody in the parking lot as Chip made his way across the blacktop and past the gate. He walked a short distance down the rural road to his truck. Fifteen minutes later his kayak was tied securely on the roof racks, and he was back in his street clothes sitting behind the wheel. The putter of the exhaust leak made him smile as the old Tacoma sprang to life. He headed down the road, bound for the Atlanta airport. He had plenty of time to catch his all-night flight to South America. The rivers should be running strong in Chile right about now.

Monday, March 5th

EPILOGUE

A LOW ceiling of surly dark clouds shrouded the towering snowcapped peaks of the Andes Mountains, heralding the inexorable approach of the rainy season and time for Chip to leave. Unlike the whitewater rivers of North America where the trick was to catch them after a rain so that they would have enough water for paddling, it was imperative that the rivers of Ecuador only be attempted at their lowest flows of the year. January and February were the best months before the March rains set in. Chip had spent an amazing February in Ecuador after a January filled with expeditions in Peru and a December of waterfalling in Chile. It had been the trip of a lifetime—although there was no reason that he wouldn’t be able to do it all again next year. He wished Daniel could have been here for it.

Chip finished his morning jog and headed into the hostel for a quick shower. He’d been running every day and had never been in better shape in his life. After quickly finishing his packing, he headed across the brick-paved street from the hostel, carrying his duffel bag to his truck. He had sprung for a Toyota Hilux four-door 4x4 pickup truck when he arrived in South America. He had also stayed in climate-controlled hotels every night of the trip, a far cry from the dirtbag camping that he and Daniel had done on past South American voyages. Having a couple of million dollars in an offshore account had brought him a major lifestyle change—Eric West had a much higher standard of living than Chip Wilson had ever achieved. He could get used to this life.

He checked to make sure that his kayak was securely tied down in the bed of the truck and then climbed in just as a wall of raindrops marched across the valley and down the street toward him. The purring sound as his Hilux started up was drowned out by a wave of fat raindrops that hammered against the hood, roof, and windshield. It was definitely time to go. He pulled down the street and rolled onto the narrow highway that would take him over the crest of the Andes and down to the airport in Quito. He carefully navigated the steep, winding road in the deluge, dodging ungainly trucks and wobbling buses piled high with supplies, livestock, and soaking-wet passengers. Through the torrential downpour he could make out white bands of waterfalls cascading hundreds or even thousands of feet down the green, jungle-shrouded flanks of volcanoes whose cones were hidden high above in the turbid sky.

As he drove, he wondered what would come next. His usual routine would take him back to the US to start working the rivers so that he could save up enough money to do it all again. With the windfall of money from his mission last fall, there was little need for him to work. He considered the possibility of touring around all summer, kayaking rivers across his home continent and enjoying a season away from the rafting outposts. Although the idea had some appeal, there was something missing from it.

After the trauma of the events of last fall had worn off, Chip had slowly come to miss his brief life as an assassin. Although it had been a violent and terrifying experience, he had been to some amazing places and lived through things that few people could ever dream of. He was proud of what he had accomplished and of the difference that he had made. He wondered for a moment what his friend Harris was up to. He would try to look him up when he got back to the States—maybe see if he wanted to go to The Woods and do some shooting.

Although the last few months of vacation had been relaxing, Chip’s travels had lately taken on an almost pointless and monotonous feel. Where would they lead? Could he just live out his life wandering from river to river, or would the thrill and challenge eventually dull and leave him wanting more? He reluctantly admitted to himself that the process had already begun.

As he dropped out of the mountains and into an area of lighter rain, the vibrating of the phone in his hip pocket interrupted his thoughts. He pulled it out and looked at the display, startled to see the number that the call was coming from.

“Hello?” he answered cautiously.

“Eric?” asked a distantly familiar voice on the other end of the line.

“Yes,” Chip said in response to the name printed on his current passport.

“Eric, I was wondering if you would mind stopping by to see me?” the old spy Sutherland went on. “We could use your help.”

“I can be there on Wednesday,” Chip replied.

“Thanks, Eric. I look forward to seeing you.”

They disconnected the call, and Chip pressed a little harder on the gas pedal of his Toyota.

About the Author

Leland Davis is a professional writer, editor, publisher, extreme kayaker, and river guide. He is the author of two whitewater guidebooks,
The River Gypsies’ Guide to North America
and
North Carolina Rivers & Creeks
, and his writing has appeared in numerous international, national, and regional whitewater and outdoors publications. He has been a whitewater instructor and guide for over twenty years, leading tours and expeditions across the US as well as in Canada, Mexico, and South America.