“Wait.” Cheryl was looking out over the water. Rain speckled its surface. “Where’s the boat?”

Mac pivoted. The river was empty and silent. Even if the boat had rounded the bend, the motor should still be audible. Despite the intense and steamy heat of the jungle, his insides went cold. He shoved at her. “Move. Back to camp.”

She nodded. The rain increased to its usual afternoon torrent. A gunshot rang out, and Cheryl’s body jerked.

He dove for cover, one arm catching Cheryl around the middle and taking her to the ground.

Cheryl. Mac rolled her to her back. She blinked at the canopy, raindrops beating on her face as blood spread across the chest of her soaked safari shirt.

Another bullet zinged past. Mac draped his body across her torso, shielding her as best he could.

“Hold tight.” Mac lurched to his feet.

He grabbed her under the armpits and dragged her into a patch of underbrush. Then Mac pulled a clean bandana from his back pocket, folded it, and pressed it to the wound high on her chest. He took her hand, put it over the square, and whispered, “Pressure.”

Eyes wide and shivering, Cheryl pleaded in a whisper, “Don’t leave me.”

Another shot rang out. Mac got to his feet and hesitated. He needed to do something about the men with the guns. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”

“No.” She shook her head. Rain slicked her hair and face as blood darkened the entire front of her shirt. She reached out for him.

Backing out of the foliage, Mac put a finger over his lips. She needed to be quiet. If they found her, she was dead.

A voice yelled, “Get them!” in Portuguese.

He sprinted down the trail toward camp. He needed the satellite phone, and the SUV was their best hope for escape. If these men had come from the boat, they wouldn’t have land transportation. He also had to warn Juan, although their guide certainly would have heard the gunshots.

Vegetation sliced at Mac’s arms and face as he raced down the rough path. Behind him, over the echo of his thundering heartbeat, men shouted and foliage snapped as bodies crashed through the jungle. He broke into the clearing. No Juan. Odds were he had run. Money could buy interpretive and guide services, but not loyalty. Had Juan sold them out? Mac ran behind the supply tent and skidded to a stop.

The spot where the four-wheeler should have been parked was empty. The SUV was gone.

A figure burst into the clearing. It was the man from the bow of the boat. Brown skin glistened with sweat as he slashed a machete toward Mac’s head. He ducked. The blade kissed his hair.