The nose of a boat appeared around the bend in the river. The craft was a long, dilapidated vessel with a rectangular cabin and a pair of rusted outboard motors that looked like they belonged in a salvage yard. A man in the bow, wearing only a pair of frayed denim cutoffs, lifted a hand in greeting. His skin was brown, his hair black, his body slim and hard in a way that suggested a lifetime of manual labor and minimal nourishment. A second man sat in the stern, one hand on the tiller to steer the boat.

“See. Fishermen.” Cheryl gestured toward the boat. She raised the camera. The lens whirred and clicked as she snapped pictures.

He pushed the camera’s nose down. “I know most of the villagers, and these guys don’t look familiar. That boat could be full of coca paste instead of fish.” Not to mention men with machetes and machine guns. Mac’s gaze swept the riverbanks.

“Sorry.” She snapped on the lens cap.

Not her fault, he reminded himself. She hadn’t asked for this assignment. She didn’t have the necessary experience. With his eyes focused on the waterway, he asked, “What brought you out here anyway?”

Cheryl and the third member of their team, a guide named Juan, had just returned to the camp for an afternoon siesta. Napping was the only part of South American life she embraced. “You got a call from the States. Your brother.”

An instant ache tightened behind Mac’s sternum, and guilt washed through him with the force of the river. His brother Grant would not have called unless it was an emergency. “Did he leave a message?”

“Yes.” Cheryl waved her hand at a swarm of insects buzzing around her face. “It’s your dad.” Sympathy softened her voice. “Your brother said, ‘This is it, Mac,’ and that you should hurry if you want to get there before . . .”

“Oh. OK. Thanks.” Mac lowered his binoculars, his emotions going into limbo. Their father had been actively dying for the past fifteen months. A paraplegic war hero, the Colonel had been robbed of his mental faculties by dementia in recent years. Mac had thought he’d come to terms with his father’s imminent death, but the scratching sensation inside his chest said otherwise.

“You should go home, Mac.” Cheryl nodded toward the river. She might be a disaster in the jungle, but she was a decent soul. “This will keep.”