It makes more sense to hide out under a skiff of shelter than hurtle into the woods, tired and unprepared. Hypnotizing plops land overhead until the rain finally passes. My belly growls for dinner, and my heart hurts knowing Bruce is behind me, muted and cold.
The last point I remember is a shivering fantasy where I hug my mother and father, then I jolt awake to a racket of gossiping macaws. My legs tingle from being huddled up, and my muscles are stiff. The gash on my cheek burns, congealed and sticky. When I lift the heavy curtain, a sphere of blinding orange burns fresh cantaloupe-colored rays through the lush green jungle.
Steadily straightening, I stare at the devastation surrounding me. There’s not much to salvage. Our rations are scattered. Tinned tomatoes poke out of the ground, which I’d happily tuck into if I had something sharp to cut into the metal.
A haunting cry warns of an imminent threat. I heave myself on top of the horizontal trunk, scanning the periphery, and then roll off the other side in an undignified manner. Now is not the time for decorum or dignity.
I have to find help. To leave camp and not look back at the sickening reminder of death. If I trek along the riverbank, it should eventually lead me to the village we flew over in the helicopter. It’s a long shot without a digital map and on an empty stomach, but I have to at least try.
From stifling sunrise to sticky sunset, I follow the muddy river and swat irritating mosquitoes. My lips are dry even though my matted hair is damp, and my spine slick. I’m slowing down, exhausted and surpassing shock. Sprigs crunch underfoot. Dense undergrowth heaves with life. A nasally snuffling pricks up my hearing.
I freeze, holding my breath as a spotted jaguar strolls down to the river’s edge only a few feet away. Holy hell, it's impressive and terrifyingly massive. If I were behind a glass screen, shielded from deadly jaws, I’d be in awe of its lithe beauty, however I’m unprotected, bleeding, and potentially its next big meal.
My feet itch to run. To climb a tree and hide until the next sunrise. Instead, I crouch down and shuffle backward, veering into the mouth of the rainforest where I’ll blend into the shadows. The jaguar lifts its head to the sky, sniffing the air before releasing a powerful roar that reverberates in my skull, whipping up the forest energy.
I’m going to die here. This is how Iris Kitson will meet her ultimate end. Torn apart limb by limb. Fought over by predators. Devoured until I’m a measly carcass. The rip-roaring boom stills. Repeated birdsong rivals the crickets’ sounds. A flash of light brightens the canopy, leading me deeper into the tangle of vines.
This is no longer a quest to find civilization.
It’s a prayer to the ecosystem I endeavor to protect.
Save me.
2
“Here’s your new life,” I say as I hand over a flash drive to the guy wearing cargo pants and a pressed shirt in stuffy humidity. He huddles beneath an umbrella pelted by raindrops bigger than beetles. “Our business here is done, Mr. Suarez.”
He arrived on site four weeks ago to the day, checking in under his birth name and leaving as an altered version of his former self. The transformation is a success. A day longer would have him outstaying his welcome. In five days, a new paying guest will go dark in my hideaway, and the process will start all over again.
This guy differs from the others. He served a purpose, and I’ve repaid the favor. “You’ll find a sufficient amount credited to your new bank account.” I push black aviators further up the bridge of my nose, masking my eyes. “As agreed.”
Mr. Suarez stretches out his hand. Lasered fingertips have healed well. “Obrigado, el Fantasma.”
“You’d do better to thank me in Spanish, Mr. Suarez. Isn’t that where you’re from?” I smirk. His mother tongue is Portuguese. Not anymore. A curse of being reborn.
He scowls. “Fuckin’ idiota.”
Freedom is both a state of mind and a costly fantasy that’s paid with a hefty chunk of tender that lands in my tortured hands. Those who haven’t lived the life of a criminal won’t understand the game. They aren’t dealt the same cards. Normal assholes consider themselves the judge and jury of right versus wrong. Superior. Authoritarian. They haven’t met me.
Currency is a language. A powerful barter for my specialized services. And that's exactly what paying guests receive when they arrive in my kingdom.
Before packing up their troubles, they transfer funds into an untraceable bank account. A week later, they dodge an arranged domestic flight and slip into a waiting light aircraft, courtesy of el Fantasma—me. They turn all sources of technology over to my staff, who destroy it prior to departing. Then they’re flown to an unknown destination, and by the time they touch down in paradise, I’ve wiped their slate clean. My guests are erased from the planet, a lost body in the morgue, or simply presumed dead. Digitally blacked out. Permanently nullified. I have the power to manipulate records, create identities, and alter the path of history. That’s just for starters.
These men truly believe they’re the lucky ones. That tweaking a lie or rubbing out an act of violence will mitigate their lawless past. No matter the scars, fancy new name, or altered personas to slip into, no man will avoid haunting flashbacks.
Memories are never erased, only temporarily blocked.
Recollection is pressed into brain cells like fossils, triggered awake by each of the five senses.
Familiar perfume.
The sound of betrayal.
A taste of bitterness.
Warmth draining to deathly cold.
Faces I’ll never forget.
