Into The Jungle

by Stephensmat

Stephen has dissapeared in the Amazon. Peter goes to find him, and finds the last thing he expected. CoWritten by Kimberly Murphy Smith.

Into The Jungle

The alarm buzzed on Peter Parker's bedside table at six in the morning. The young man was up in an instant, rushing out the door of his condo, right across the hall to the opposite door. Hoping against hope for a result different from any of the previous twelve days, Peter knocked on the door.

No answer.

Dammit, where was he?  This was not like Stephen at all.  Peter reined in the urge to break down the door and knocked again, more insistently this time.

There was still no answer.

Peter sighed and went back into his apartment.  This had gone on long enough.  It was time to call in reinforcements.

He pressed a button on his speed-dial and hurriedly dressed.

***

Four hours later, Victor Cranston opened the door to Cranston Manor anxiously. "Well?" the older man asked.

Peter shook his head. "Still nothing."

Victor let out a frustrated breath and went back inside.

Peter followed him in. "Victor, I know you have every confidence in Stephen's abilities.  So do I, but it's been twelve days since he was due back. I think we have to assume that something's happened."

Victor nodded sadly. "I guess so. But what?"

Peter took a breath. "Guess I'll have to find out once I get there."

Victor was surprised. "You're going after him?"

Peter nodded. "Before you jump down my throat and tell me that there's no reason, think about it for a second. We were all over him to take a vacation. He stubbornly says no every single time. Then suddenly, out of the blue, he announces that he's going to take a trip to Mexico and go lie on the beach to clear his head. He does this a day after Burbank lets him know that a new drug ring has been noticed somewhere around there, shipping hospital grade cocaine. There's no way in Hell that he was going down there for just a vacation. Oh, please. First of all, you and I both know that Stephen goes to the mountains to clear his head, not to the beach--way too many people on beaches."

"You do know Mexico has some grand mountain areas, right?"

Peter rolled his eyes.  "Yes, Victor, I know my geography.  Doesn't matter if it's mountains or beach or a jungle, it's all just a cover story.  Stephen just decided to do a part-time job and get us off his back at the same time. I am going after him. Period, end of discussion."

Victor frowned.  "He doesn't like being tracked, especially when he's on a trail. And he wouldn't be the first Cranston to go off on a deep cover mission.  But he could really just be seeing the sights.  If you go after him and nothing's wrong, you'll feel really foolish.  And if he's under deep cover, he'll be very upset if he thinks you're checking up on him."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Victor, I AM checking up on him. He's not on vacation. His vacation ended two weeks ago, and we still haven't heard from him. That's not like Stephen at all. I'll admit the man has an incredibly strong inner drive, but sometimes he just doesn't know when to back off. Sometimes he acts like a martyr in training. Great motives, heroic storylines, but really lousy endings. Just ask Joan of Arc. Victor, I am going after him. If nothing's going on then I'll personally help him carry his luggage back to the airport, but if he's in trouble we have to know."

Victor nodded and headed over to the phone. "I hope you don't mind flying first class."

***

Peter struggled to juggle the wheel and his map at once.

He had been driving south in his rented jeep through the jungle for an hour, trying vainly to make certain where he was. The thick branches reached out and slapped at him and the jeep as he forced his way through the brush. He knew he should have pulled over, but his spider-sense was jarring his nerves, telling him to keep moving. It was buzzing almost constantly about everything from the bugs and snakes to the slippery, uneven road. He fought for control as he rounded the next corner, wiping sweat from his brow for what felt like the millionth time.

Easing on the accelerator, he pushed the map aside and took a swig from his water flask, fighting the crushing humidity of the jungle. He had only been here for a few hours, but he already decided that he hated it. No wonder the Aztecs had died out.

On top of all this worry for his own safety was the fear for that of his partner's. Peter disliked leaving a trail, but had no leads as to where exactly in the area Stephen was. So, despite his better judgment, Peter had gone to the airport officials, desk clerks at the car rentals, and to a whole bunch of seedy bars near the few drivable roads, circulating Stephen's picture and asking questions.

The hard part, Peter reflected, was avoiding names.  Not to mention trying to figure out which one of his thousand pseudonyms he could be using.  Stephen was, after all, The Shadow. And if he had gotten himself involved in some sort of drug ring related deep cover, then chances were he'd be using one of The Shadow's myriad faces and/or names. So Peter was reduced to paying drunkards for scraps of information on where Stephen had gone.  But one of them thought he remembered the dark-haired man with the mysterious blue-green eyes asking for directions to a secluded collection of Aztec ruins.

The same ruins that Peter was able to pick out in the distance.

Slowing to a halt in the mud, Peter jumped out of the jeep and started looking around. At first glance there wasn't much to see, but as he slowly scanned the area, he noticed a small blackened circle at the foot of the broken ancient buildings.

A campfire.

It was fairly recent, but had long since burned to cold ash. Nevertheless, it proved that someone had been here. As he leaned closer to check the campfire site for more clues, one of the few streams of sunlight that broke through the canopy glinted to his left.

Peter wandered over to the glinting metallic point and picked it up.  Then he realized immediately what it was.

It was a bullet casing.  A spent .45 caliber bullet, specifically. Just the sort The Shadow used.

Taking a deep breath, he dropped it, and suddenly noticed a lot more of them. There were about half a dozen of them…one clip's worth, he realized.  So, Peter thought grimly, Stephen was here.  And apparently there was a gunfight. A big one. So who won? And where is Stephen? Or at the very least, where's his...

He refused to finish the thought.

A sound.  Peter spun but saw nothing.  He held perfectly still.

There it was again. A low whistle. Coming from the bushes.

Creeping closer, Peter felt his spider-sense begin to buzz louder.  Reflexes on a hair trigger, he crept closer still. Reached out to the wall of leaves and vines...

A sudden blur of movement! A sudden scream from his spider-sense!

Peter pulled his arm back with a yelp, the striking snake barely missing his hand.

Jumping back as the snake settled down, Peter took a breath.

In fact, he was so relieved that when the gun barrel pressed into the back of his head, he barely noticed the change in his spider-sense.

"Don't move," whispered a steely Spanish-accented voice.

Peter nodded and slowly raised his hands.

"Don't try anything," the voice advised. "I have friends in this jungle."  The low whistle repeated, another answered it, and another.

"See?" the voice said smugly. "Now, let's go."

Peter nodded and started back for his jeep. "Can I get my backpack?" he said, trying to stall for time while he picked out escape routes from his car to the trees.

A sharp click of a gun cocking made him freeze. "You mean the one you're wearing?"

Peter looked and saw that he was in fact wearing his backpack. "Uh...yeah."

"You know what?" the voice asked. "I don't think I trust you. Maybe you'll be more trustworthy when you're asleep."

Peter had half a second to realize what he meant, when a crushing blow on the back of his head made the world go black around him.

***

Peter felt the sun on his back, the hard ground under his face, and the pain in his head, but experience told him not to move, and to keep his eyes shut.

Awareness quickly returned, and he could hear voices.  Several of them, all speaking rapid-fire Spanish.  He reached back to high school language classes, trying to focus as much of his consciousness on translation as possible.

"We should kill him now!" insisted one voice.

"We have an opening after Marco was killed last week, and it's not like we can put an ad in the papers," argued a second voice.

"We've already got an unknown in charge," hissed the first voice fiercely. "How many strays you want to bring in?"

"That unknown has saved your life twice already, Antonio," pointed out a third voice. "Besides, I'm tired of doing the grunt work."

"Alejandro is right," said a fourth voice. "Let him do the heavy lifting, then he can dig his own grave."

There was a low chuckle at this, then the conversation started again.  "Maybe Toni has a point," said the second voice. "Besides, a five-way split pays out more than a six-way split. And we know nothing about this guy. He could be a cop for all we know."

"Where's the fearless leader?" Toni asked sarcastically. "Isn't this the sort of decision he should make?"

"He hasn't been seen in a day and a half. He said he had some business to do in town. He left a cell phone number. I'll call him," volunteered the second voice.

"Make it quick, Rios," Alejandro snapped.

"That won't be necessary!" declared a new voice. "I'm here."

Peter felt his heart stop. He knew that voice. He knew!

"Jeez, boss," Rios yelped. "Do you have to sneak up like that?"

"Yeah, Montana, you'll give us all heart attacks sooner or later," said the fourth voice.

"Ah, Quinn, you frighten too easily," chuckled the new voice.

Peter rolled over and opened his eyes. He had to see. He had to be sure.

"He's awake!" shouted Rios, and suddenly, there were four guns pointed at him.

Peter slowly got to his feet, and took stock of his opponents. There were five of them, though he could only see four hardened faces. All of them had jungle gear, and large weapons. They were clearly fighters by nature. Of the four of them in view, Peter knew that these people were dangerous.

"Toni is right!" declared the leader's voice from behind him.

Peter turned, shock numbing his features.  No…it couldn't be…

"We can't trust him." The voice had a hard, chilling edge.

Peter completed the turn, and looked square into the eyes of their leader, the one they called Montana. The eyes were cold as steel, and the silver gun in his hand was enormous. But Peter almost did not notice. For the leader of the small band was none other than...

Stephen Cranston!

"I say kill him." There was not a shred of recognition in Stephen's eyes as he sinisterly pronounced sentence. "Now."

***

Through an act of sheer willpower Peter kept himself on his feet. He stared hard at his partner as if that would make the answer appear. His friend was rough around the edges, his face covered with stubble, and his eyes looked tired, but it was undeniably Stephen Cranston, his partner, his friend, the man he trusted with his life.

Who was, at this moment, ordering his execution…?

Antonio didn't hesitate; he grabbed Peter by the throat and pulled out a long hunting knife.

Stephen…Montana?...looked hard at Peter, then back to the knife, then back to Peter with his eyes.

Peter's hope soared.  Stephen was telling him where the knife was! And there was only one reason for that!

In an instant, Peter had reached back behind him, found the knife hand, and flipped Antonio over his shoulder. He put his foot on the knife-wielder's chest, and used it as a springboard. Before anyone could get a gun pointed, Peter was in motion.

Rios had the gun pointed first.  Peter knocked him aside with a kick to the head.

Quinn was next; the man had his gun pointed, his finger tightening on the trigger.  Peter kicked his gun aside, and jabbed his fist upward into Quinn's face, feeling the nose shatter beneath his palm.

Peter was careful to rein in his powers, because he wanted no link between his spider-powers and Peter Parker.  Besides, something inside his head told him not to.

Suddenly, he realized that there was a way out. He bolted for the foliage.

He was within reach of the trees when a tackle brought him down. Peter was up instantly, and was about to throw another punch, when he recognized the man who had caught him.

It was Stephen.

Peter hesitated for just an instant. What was Stephen doing?

In that moment of indecision, Stephen pounded his jaw. "Sleep."

Peter fell to the ground, and felt the darkness close in. "No fair," he muttered as he passed out.

***

The gang circled the unconscious man with new respect.

Antonio pulled his knife and raised it to jam it into the man's back.

Alejandro caught his arm before he hurled the knife.

Antonio wrestled with him.  "Hey, lemme go! We got to kill this unspeakable thing before he wakes up!"    

"He's strong!" countered Alejandro. "We could use him."

"Look!" Montana interrupted. "This isn't the time to make this decision. Tempers are high, we've just been through a real struggle, and we need to take a step back and cool down. Antonio, Quinn, come with me so I can get you cleaned up. Alejandro, Rios, take this guy, give him a tranquilizer, and chain him up in the back of the truck. We still have to get all this stuff out of here; if he could find us, there's no telling who else can.  We'll make the decision tonight. In the meantime, I want someone watching him at all times. We'll rotate in 2 hour shifts."

Rios and Alejandro picked up Peter and dragged him away. Quinn and Antonio followed Montana to a large tent in the foliage.

***

"The little thug got the drop on me," grumbled Antonio. "We have to kill him!"

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were scared," teased Montana.

Antonio felt his blood rise. "Scared? Never! I'm just not stupid."

Montana laughed. "Yes, kill the man while he's asleep and chained before he gets loose and comes after you."

Antonio went red. "NEVER! You think I'm scared of that shrimp? I'll show you how scared I am. I'm going to take my time with this one. That'll make the kill so much more enjoyable."

"I'll bet," Montana chuckled as he began wrapping the bandage tight around Antonio's sprained arm. "But he probably won't be around long enough for that. The gang will want him dead."

"So do I. But I want to do it myself, and I want to do it slowly."

"So you think we should let him live?"

"I thought the vote wasn't till tonight."

"It isn't. Just telling you what I think it'll be."

"Well, he's not going to the next life without me sending him there. Anyone who disagrees can go through me."

Montana laughed and secured the bandage. "I think I'll see how the other patient is doing. Get to work while you still have one good arm."

Antonio grumbled and left the tent as Montana headed over to Quinn.

"You ask me," Quinn said through the icepack over his face, "he's overreacting. If we took out every newcomer who was a good fighter, none of us would be here. Including you."

Montana let the implication of that blow past him. "So you think we should let him live?"

Quinn moved the icepack as Montana clipped short lengths of gauze. "Hell no. But he's not some kind of demon is all I'm saying. You sound like the scared one now."

Montana smiled. "Well, let's just say that I don't want my nose looking like yours."

Quinn snarled. "So he's fast. So are you. We can take him. Let's just keep an eye on him. Alejandro wants a pack mule, let's give him one."

Montana nodded, and finished the rough bandage. "I'm going to see how our prisoner is doing."

***

Alejandro was struggling under the weight of a huge crate when Montana found him. He took the other end of the crate, and dragged it over to the truck.

"Thanks," panted Alejandro.

"Well," commented Montana, "at least you won't have to do this again."

"What do you mean?"

"We've got you a pack mule now."

Alejandro went white. "What? That maniac?"

"Why not? He's strong."

"He's too strong! We can't let him into the ranks."

Montana raised an eyebrow. "You don't think we can handle him?"

"Well, we could take him, sure, but how many of us would he kill first?"

"True. We have to kill him at the first chance. Do you think we can use the same hiding place again?"

"Hiding place?"

"For the body. Can we hide this one in the same place as the rest?

"I suppose so. Why?"

 "Well, see, I'm worried about Angelo's gang."

Alejandro raised an eyebrow. "What about them?"

"We both know that they've got the police firmly in their pocket. All he needs is to connect us to a corpse. And then where would we be?"

Alejandro thought that over. "You think so?"

Montana shrugged.

Alejandro thought about it for a long moment. "These boxes are awfully heavy."

Montana laughed, and headed off.

***

After the late meal, their prisoner still had not woken, and Montana called for silence.  "O.K., people, we have a decision to make. I want to hear everyone's opinion."

"I think we should kill him now!" declared Rios.

There arose a loud cry of disagreement from everyone but Montana and Rios.

"I want to take my time killing this one. I owe him a sprained arm. And if ANYONE tries to take him first, they'll have to answer to me!" yelled Antonio.

"I agree!" Quinn declared.  "We have to clean up the mess, but let him do the heavy lifting first. If he's got a crate in his arms it'll be that much easier to shoot him!"

"Besides, he's not that much of a threat!" yelled Alejandro. "And if Angelo's gang find another body, then they'll call their corrupt police pals, and we'll all be against the wall."

"This guy could be a policeman!" countered Rios.

"Then we kill him," yelled Montana over the din. "But we do it later. When things have calmed down."

This statement seemed acceptable to the room. But Rios still looked angry. "I still say we can't take the risk. We know nothing about this man!"

Montana stood. "Then let's find out. I'll go ask a few…polite questions. In the meantime, we continue as usual." To Rios he gave a quieter comment. "Sorry Rios, I share your worries, but we took a vote. They agree. Let him live. For now."

Rios nodded, and Montana headed over to the truck where his prisoner was kept. Nobody noticed the slight smile on his lips.

***

Peter felt himself come out of the deep sleep he'd been in for God-only-knew-how-long and groaned.  His back hurt, and one flex of his wrists told him he was bound in chains, arms behind his back, propped up against a wooden crate of some sort.  The tranquilizer itself hadn't been so bad.  Heck, when your whole body structure was the byproduct of metabolizing a mutagenic combination of radiation and spider venom, a simple sedative wasn't going to keep you out for very long.  But every time he'd been about to come out of his deep sleep, he'd feel something surround his brain again and hear voices whispering "sleep", and he'd go right back out again.

Something?  Who was he kidding?  He was hearing the subconscious commands of a powerful hypnotic telepath.  Commands from a voice he knew all too well.  Commands from a man he once trusted…no, still trusted with his life.

The Shadow.

Except now he was awake.  Which meant he wasn't being hypnotized now.  But surely The Shadow wouldn't have just ignored him and let his attention slip, would he?  Not when he'd been so diligent before.  So where was he?  Peter kept his eyes closed and tried to let his spider-sense give him the answer, but wasn't feeling a thing.  Was that because he still couldn't digest the notion that Stephen had become a threat to him, or was it because maybe he was still being hypnotized in a way he hadn't yet digested, or…

"You're awake," an all-too-familiar voice said in Spanish.  "Good.  Open your eyes."

Nailed.  Peter opened his eyes and looked for the voice.

Out of the shadows emerged Stephen.  Or Montana.  Or whatever he was calling himself in this obviously deep cover situation.  Or was it something more?  Peter still wasn't sure.  He eyed Stephen warily.

"You're American," Montana continued, this time in English.  It wasn't a question, it was a statement tinged with coldness.

Damn, this was good cover.  Stephen could give the chills like no one Peter had ever met before.  "The sun is shining," he finally said aloud.

Montana snorted.  "What, you never learned to tell time in America?  It's midnight."

So he wasn't responding to the code phrase.  Because he was determined to hold onto his cover no matter what?  Or had he slipped so deep into the Cranston inner lake of darkness that he no longer acknowledged that part of himself?  After all, Lamont Cranston, the original Shadow, had been a ruthless opium lord in his youth.  And Stephen often spoke of his deep admiration for his grandfather, of his own aspirations to be even half the powerful psychic and master of darkness that the first one was.  "I can't see my watch," he wisecracked, somewhat nervous.

"This one?"  Montana pulled something out of his pocket--the expensive chronometer Stephen had given him for Christmas last year.  "Very nice.  You must have money somewhere.  Didn't find any on you, but still…"

Peter held his temper.  "It was a gift."

"Nice gift.  Girlfriend?  Wife?  Someone who might be looking for you?  Or someone you might be looking for?"

A veiled question.  Hm-m.  Stephen had worked the conversation around to asking Peter why he was there, perhaps, trying to disguise a conversation from someone who might be listening?  Peter carefully considered his words.  "An old friend.  Six foot, black hair, intense blue eyes.  Seen him?"

That got a derisive laugh.  "Ah, him.  I've seen him.  Looked into his 'intense' blue eyes.  And killed him."

Peter hoped the shock in his heart wasn't reflected in his eyes.

But it was, and Montana spotted it instantly.  "Killed him.  With his own gun.  Then burned his body and lit one of his cigars with his own lighter…the same lighter I used to light the funeral pyre. Strange guy. Laughed like a lunatic the entire time."

Peter's eyes narrowed.  "You're a liar."

Montana laughed heartily.  "Willing to bet your life on that one?"

This had to be a joke.  It had to be.  "Why?  You didn't like the way he looked at you?"

"Because he was a smart-aleck who talked too much.  Kind of like you."

Peter was mad now.  If Stephen was going to take this opportunity to snark at him, he was definitely going to snark back.  "Montana…that's Spanish for 'mountain', right?"

"I suppose it is."

"So you're named after a pile of rocks, then?  I think the French word for that is 'Lamont'."

"Ah, a man of the world.  Speak any other languages?"

"Probably more than a pile of rocks does."

Montana smirked.  "Rock."  Then he flicked Peter's driver's license out of nowhere, like a magician producing a coin.  "Isn't that what 'Peter' means in Greek?"

This was some kind of test.  It had to be.  A test to see if Peter would divulge information crucial to his or Stephen's identities by confirming or denying anything he'd been carrying on his person.  And he was going to pass it if it was the last thing he did.  "Dunno.  Don't speak Greek."

"So what do you speak?"

"Wisecrack.  Common English variant."

"So I gathered.  What's your name in Wisecrackese, then?"

"They call me 'La Arana'."

"'The Spider'."  Montana looked him over head to toe.  "You're missing a few legs."

"I hide them well."

"I'll bet."  Montana paced around him.  "You're a determined little hunter for a spider.  My men are none too happy that some American with photojournalist credentials and an expensive wristwatch sniffed out our location.  Some of them wanted to kill you.  Others wanted to torture you first.  We finally decided to work you to death.  We can always use a good pack mule."  He chuckled menacingly.  "That is, if you're strong enough."

Peter was getting tired of this.  It was time to snap Stephen out of this charade one way or another.  With a flex of his spider-enhanced muscles, he snapped the shackles holding his wrists and sprang to his feet, grabbing Stephen by his shirt and yanking him close.  "Does that answer your question?"

Suddenly, something swirled into Peter's head, and he dropped Stephen and fell to the floor, overcome by a wave of vertigo so strong he could barely see straight.  Damn, he'd played right into Stephen's hands on that one.  Pulled him close, even looked right into his eyes.  He might as well have said "Hypnotize me now".

Montana bent over and grabbed Peter's chin, forcing him to look him face-on once more.  "I cast the deciding vote in your favor," he hissed.  "Don't make me regret it."  The blue-green eyes turned dark with power.  "Now sleep."

Ugh, this is so not fair, Peter thought to himself as he passed out cold.

***

Peter felt his consciousness return, and dragged his eyes open.

"Hey you, with the face," Montana said.

Peter looked up, and saw his partner's face, and once more realized there must be something wrong here. This couldn't be right. Stephen working for a drug ring? No. It had to be an operation. So what was he waiting for? He had the whole gang; he could take them all. So what was he waiting for? Peter felt chilled by the sudden thought that struck him. He wouldn't be the first Cranston to be lured away from the straight and narrow path…

No. Couldn't be.

A sharp kick reminded him not to take too long with his thinking.  "Get UP!" ordered Montana.

Peter got to his feet and quickly found they too had been tied up with rope, so he hopped toward his…toward Montana.

The cold man cut away most of the rope, and left his hands tied.  This time, Peter noted mentally, Stephen--or rather, Montana--had sometime during the night retied his hands in front of him, not behind him.  Interesting.  "You're wasting perfectly good rope," Peter mock-complained.

"Don't worry," Montana said coolly. "If you try anything, I'll still have enough rope to hang you with."  He pointed outside with the tip of his knife.

Peter laughed nervously and obeyed Montana's gesture. Heading out into the light, Peter saw instantly what he was meant to do. There was a stack of boxes, and next to it, an open truck. A hard poke in the back made it clear that he was to move them.

"What's in the boxes?" Peter asked as innocently as he could while picking up one of the heavy crates.

"Money, power, influence, about 35 years in the states, 25 here."

Peter gulped and took great care as he carried the box over to the truck. He had no desire to break it open and become an instant addict.

***

Slowly the day wore on, and Peter noticed something.

Montana was the only one guarding him.

Peter understood this move. Stephen was the only one there that could handle a motivated arachno-human, and Stephen knew that Peter wouldn't attack him. But why? What was all this for? The way it always went was that Stephen and Peter would track down bad guys, then knock them all out, and put them away. So why this?

Another chilling thought passed through his brain and got stuck there. If Stephen had turned…then Peter would be an uncomfortable reminder of the past. In which case Stephen would do exactly what he was doing now. He would use Peter as muscle, but be the only one to guard him, because he was the only one that could handle Peter, and because Peter wouldn't attack him.

So once again it was back to the same question. Had Stephen turned?

"So…," Peter tried again, searching Montana's face for hints. "What did you do with my friend when you killed him?"

Montana chuckled.  "So you don't believe I really set a funeral pyre blazing?"

O.K., so Montana's story was at least staying consistent, but he'd dropped yet another hint that things weren't what they seemed.  "Those things attract attention.  You strike me as the more subtle type."

Montana almost looked pleased.  "Buried him. Sort of."

"Sort of?" Peter asked.

"We have better things to do. Besides, the ants and the worms would be looking for that much meat. Why should we make it harder for them? He's jaguar food by now, and let me tell you, those things aren't picky when it comes to food. Those cats don't mess around."

Peter felt himself turn slightly green. "I think you're bluffing. See, my friend, he can-"

"Do you always talk this much?" Montana said wearily, fiddling with the giant ring.

"Usually."

"No wonder that other guy came down here. Your ID says you're a New Yorker. What? Did you talk so much that he needed a continent between you?"

Peter gave Montana an annoyed look. "Are you always so charming?"

"Only to guys that ask too many questions about dead guys. Who was he anyway?"

"A millionaire," Peter taunted.

Montana stopped fiddling with his ring and jumped up.  "How many millions?"

"Enough to be considered a rich man in New York."

Montana looked thoughtful.  "Should have kept him alive for ransom. How many people knew he was here?"

"Just me."

"Good."

Peter kicked himself. He had just made himself expendable.

"Keep working!" Montana snapped.

"I need a break!" Peter shouted.

"You'll get one when you're finished."

And so Peter kept working. But he knew he was getting under Montana's skin somehow.  So it was worth continuing to probe.  "Nice ring. Why do you keep toying with it?"

"It's new. Got it off your friend. Pretty good fit, don't you think?"

Peter seethed at this. He was almost willing to attack, when Montana read the look and made the enormous gun all too obvious. Peter could dodge a shot with some help from his spider-sense, but not at this range, and not with his hands tied.

Finally, all the boxes were loaded. Montana gestured for Peter to move, and Peter started to head back toward the tent.

"Not there!" Montana ordered, and pointed Peter toward a large truck.

Peter nodded, and jumped easily up into the back of the truck. Montana handed him a bottle. Peter gratefully drank.

Montana gestured for Peter to sit down, and the tired man did so.

In a surprisingly swift move, Montana had flashed forward and handcuffed him to one of the rods in the framework.  "Pleasant dreams," Montana mocked.

Peter had half a second to be angry before he felt the darkness closing in on his mind.

***

Montana jumped into the cab of one of the trucks and started the motor, Alejandro in the passenger seat.

"All right people, let's go," Montana ordered into the radio, and the trucks slowly rumbled away into the jungle, leaving no evidence of what had been done there earlier.

"Hey, Quinn?" Montana called into the radio after a while.

"What?" crackled the reply.

"What does the boss give us for this?"

"Carlos pays us 15% of the total," answered Rios helpfully. "Why?"

"15%? That's an outrage!" shouted Montana angrily. "Our new friend La Arana in the back says that in the states most of the guys who do the work get at least 25%. We're risking our necks for this?"

"You trust him?" Quinn asked in disbelief.

"I trust money and greed," Montana answered. "We're getting cheated! I hate the jungle but we're risking our necks with wildcards like him, Angelo and his gang, and the cops, to get less than guys who only have to brave corrupt overweight badge wearers. Why the Hell do we do this for chicken feed?"

There was a long, angry silence.  "25%?" Quinn asked finally.

"25%," confirmed Montana.

"I'd call that a better job offer," Rios chimed in.

"O.K.," countered Toni. "So who's going to tell Carlos?"

The silence this time was not broken.

***

Waking up slowly, Peter became aware of a strange rumbling. A harder bump woke him completely. Opening his eyes, Peter looked around. He was alone in the back of the truck, and the truck was moving.

He looked around the back of the truck and saw that there were half a dozen crates. They had wooden lids on top, and they were labeled with names: Rios. Alejandro. Toni. Quinn.

Montana.

Biting his lip, Peter sighed, and made his decision.  He put his hands underneath him, balanced on a piece of the framework using just the tips of his fingers, then twisted as far as he could and fully extended himself while lying on his back. Taking a breath, he stretched his feet toward the crate labeled with Montana's name.

He stretched and reached, finally catching the crate with his feet, using the same superhuman grip that allowed him to climb walls to hold the crate with his feet and drag it closer to his hands.

The box close now, Peter twisted again, so that he could reach the lid, with his hands still bound together.

The wooden lid felt flimsy under his fingertips.  He could shatter it easily, but that would leave a mark and let Montana know someone had been through his things.  He'd have to be subtle.

Looking back toward the cab, Peter took a deep breath to calm his nerves and carefully opened the box.

Inside, there was a folder, a stack of money in various currencies, a passport, half a dozen clips, some camping gear, a couple of bottles of booze, all of Peter's stuff…

…and a black cloak and slouch hat.

"Yes!" Peter hissed. Stephen was on a mission. The hat and cloak confirmed that. Stephen had come prepared to be the Shadow! Stephen had some plan. The vacation had been a ruse to get Stephen down here. But what was Stephen up to? Why couldn't Peter be let in on it?

He thought for a moment more, then made a decision.  His fingers felt along the handcuff chain for a weak link.  Once he found one, he used his spider strength to break the link and free his hands.  He reached forward to open the file folder inside the box.

The folder was full of pictures. Pictures of Peter.

Peter gasped and felt his optimism dwindle rapidly.  The photos were of Peter after he had arrived at the airport. Everywhere he had gone. To all the bars, to all the roads and other stops he had made. Peter felt chilled. Stephen had been following him since he had arrived.

But the really chilling point was that on several of the pictures, Stephen had drawn crosshairs over his photographed face.

Peter thought that over. If Stephen had turned…then finding out about Peter arriving would have been a matter of security for Stephen, and preparing for a fight would have been a sensible precaution. Kill Peter, and nobody else would come looking.

Notes were drawn onto the photos: "He's arrived. He's come here. He's looking for me. He's asking questions.  He'll ruin everything. I have to stop him before he gets me killed."

Suddenly the truck stopped moving.

Peter jumped at the sudden silence, and closed the folder, shut the lid, and used his feet to shove it back where it was.  He put his hands back behind him and bent the broken link shut again to lock himself back into place.  Then he closed his eyes and pretended to still be asleep.

For the first time, he realized his life truly might be in danger.

***

Another long day, another gross of boxes to be lifted.  Or at least it seemed that way.

Hours after their most recent stop, Peter lifted the last box onto the truck and collapsed. The work had been long, demanding, and awkward due to the physical restraints around his wrists.  He took a look around, trying to get his bearings.

Montana was off to the side, talking to another man whom Peter had not seen before.  It took a moment for him to realize that the man must have been from the other truck that had come into the clearing.  After they'd arrived a few hours ago, the convoy had held position for several minutes, when another truck had crept into the clearing. Montana had spoken with the driver, then unlocked Peter's hands and held a knife to his throat while another of Montana's less charming companions retied Peter's hands in front of him.  Then he'd been pushed toward the truck, which was his cue to get busy, and the cargo of boxes had been transferred to the new vehicle.

Montana finished his conversation with the man, then came over and dragged the prisoner back toward his mobile cage. "You did good work today. And you almost managed to keep your mouth shut."

Peter was annoyed at being dragged around.  "Hey, the guy had it coming! I refuse to believe I'm the first man to mention it."

"Still, the man does his job. The size of his nose, or whatever that was on his face, doesn't change that."

"I don't think mentioning that he had a banana with make-up under his eyes was such a big deal."

Montana laughed.

Peter joined in, but the moment he did, Montana stopped laughing and pointed his gun at Peter. "Shut up!"

Peter did immediately and gulped.  It was getting increasingly difficult to tell where Montana ended and Stephen began.  Assuming that they were the same person in the first place.  But they had to be, didn't they?  The hypnotic telepathy, the dark and swirling voice, the strange control he seemed to have over the others…or was Peter just imagining all that, putting pieces of truths he thought he knew into the mix with other things that could be more rationally explained?  "Um...," Peter said nervously, "have you ever heard of doppelgangers?"

Montana nodded. "Yeah. The theory that two totally unrelated people are physically identical. What about it?"

Peter chose his next words carefully. "Well, it just occurred to me that you and the guy I came looking for are somewhat alike. In fact, spitting images of each other."

Montana was about to respond when his radio crackled. "Incoming!" Toni's voice hissed.

Montana reacted as if shot. Without a word, he broke open the lock on one of the crates remaining in the truck, and pulled out a heavy mesh camouflage net. Attached at the end was a long rope with a weight tied to it. Montana pointed the gun at Peter. "How good are you at climbing?"

Peter almost swallowed his tongue. "Climbing? I do climbing pretty well."

Montana cut the bonds around his hands and handed him the rope. He pointed at the overhead branches that followed them everywhere in the jungle. "Get up here and throw this rope over a branch back down to me. And don't get any ideas about escaping. I'm a pretty good marksman."

Peter nodded and took the rope. Running over to the tree, he started scaling it. He moved quicker than most people would, but still made a point of reaching for branches, to make it less obvious that he only needed his fingertips.

Once up the tree, he looked out over the dense jungle canopy, and started moving along the edge of the clearing, pulling the rope behind him as hard as he could. As the net began to follow the rope it was attached too, Peter saw the brilliance of this plan. The net was being drawn up to the canopy, and was cloaking the truck behind it, the edge of the clearing was extended outward about three meters, but with the density of the jungle, it was impossible to tell.

Hurling the weighted end of the rope down to the ground, Peter moved back into the denser branches and tried to make himself invisible as he climbed back down.

Montana had grabbed the weighted rope and dragged it behind the net. It wasn't perfect, but anyone driving past wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between the jungle and the nets hiding the truck.

Peter had just made it to the ground when Montana grabbed him by the shoulder, shoved the gun under his chin and pressed them both up against the side of the truck. "Not one word," he warned.

As the trucks passed, Peter felt that this warning was superfluous. The trucks passing made such a racket that the jungle was almost drowned out.

All the same, Peter was suddenly fed up. Here was a man who was supposed to be his partner, and was treating him like dirt. Now maybe it was true that Stephen had turned, and maybe the fact was that Stephen was planning something, or maybe this man was not Stephen, and the cloak, hat, guns and ring were truly souvenirs after all.

In any case, Peter was tired of being hauled around like so much rubbish. Stephen had once told him that when life goes completely surreal, the best way to deal with it was to eliminate all context and start from scratch. So Peter forgot about the fact that he was here looking for Stephen, he forgot the argument about whether or not Stephen had turned bad, and even forgot about the fact that The Shadow could be here too, in a way.

He managed to forget about it for almost three seconds.

But in those three seconds, he knew what he had to do.

I've been taken prisoner, Peter thought. If this guy had looked like any other guy pointing a gun at me, I would have been long gone ages ago. So that's what I do. Tonight I go over the wire. Tonight I escape, then come back discreetly, don't let anyone see, and I find out what the Hell is going on.

***

The night was crisp and clear.  A little too clear for Peter's taste--there was a little too much moonlight--but it would have to do.  It was either now or never.  Peter wasn't sure how much longer Montana intended to keep him alive, even if he had managed to convince the others that "La Arana" was a good pack mule, which they were taking great advantage of lately.  Whether his captor was really Stephen or just an incredibly convincing lookalike, the man was dangerous, and Peter above all else understood how to respond to something dangerous.

Mainly by getting the Hell out of there.

One flex of his wrists snapped the handcuffs binding him, and now Peter's arms were free.  He quietly opened the crate marked "Montana" and removed the backpack holding his personal effects, then closed the lid just as silently.  He fastened the pack to his back and stealthily reached the edge of the supply tent where he'd been imprisoned, then carefully lifted the flap to peer out into the night.

Nothing.  The campfire was smoldering, everyone had retreated to their own tents, and the coast was clear.  Even his spider-sense was quiet.  He eased out of the tent and stayed in the shadows until he reached the treeline.  Then, he leapt up into the jungle canopy, safely out of view.

But now what? he asked himself as he perched in a tree over the top of the campsite.  Now what?  I can't just go back to New York and say, "Sorry, Victor, Stephen's nowhere to be found.  But there's this guy running around the jungles down there who looks an awful lot like Stephen, who's wearing Stephen's ring, who's smoking Stephen's cigars…oh, yeah, and he drew bulls-eyes all over pictures of me."  Yeah, that'll go over real big with Victor.  Cranstons are not the type to forgive and forget.  Gotta find out what really happened to Stephen.  He sighed mentally.  Even if it does mean I have to go back down there into that nest of vipers.  He shook his head.  Montana's goons don't scare me.  But Montana…he's either Stephen in really deep cover or a damned good lookalike.  And think-alike.  Either way, he's the only one I'm worried about.  So maybe I'd better take out his buddies first.

He remembered how little he'd packed.  No web shooters.  No mask.  No costume.  Nothing but the bare minimums he'd needed to travel.  But he'd faced street toughs in Manhattan with less than that.  Some of them were even better armed.  So he'd better get down to business.

***

Toni was having trouble sleeping.  On previous assignments, the men had occasionally sampled the wares when their nerves hit, but so far Montana had kept a tight watch on the cargo.  Not to mention that he'd imprisoned La Arana in the supply tent, which meant that anyone who wanted to get to their stuff--or anybody else's, for that matter--had to go deal with that unspeakable thing.  Not that he didn't want one more round with that thing.  Kills were much more satisfying when you had to work for them.

But first things first.  Toni slipped his knife into its sheath and slipped out of the tent.

Almost to the back of the truck, Toni looked around.  Wow, the air felt weird.  It almost felt like someone was watching him.  Yes, the jungles had eyes, but this was too weird for words.  The night should have been so much brighter, but the darkness was almost swirling around him, almost suffocating him…

Suddenly a hand reached out and grabbed him.

Toni whirled and whipped his knife out.

Montana seemed to appear out of the darkness, silver .45 pistol in his grip.  "Going somewhere?" he asked with a sinister smile.

Toni eyed Montana carefully as he sheathed his blade.  "Couldn't sleep."

"And you thought you'd take a drive?" Montana replied.

"I thought I'd get a sleep aid," Toni retorted.

Montana eyed the truck, then smiled mysteriously.  "Cocaine is a stimulant."

"Get off my back.  You know what I mean.  It's not like Carlos will miss any of it."

"How do you know?  I'd bet Carlos weighs every gram of this stuff.  I know I would."

"You don't know nothing," Toni taunted.

"And neither do you, if you think he's not going to notice merchandise missing."  Montana made a point of popping out the ammo cartridge and slapping it back in again.  "Now get back to your tent.  You need a sleep aid, go find some of that tequila in the supply tent.  Unless you're afraid of spiders."

Toni sneered.  "I'm not afraid of nothing."

Montana laughed, low and sinister.  "You're a liar."

That was it.  Toni drew his knife and stuck it under Montana's chin.

Montana did the same with his .45.  "Just try it," he said, pressing the metal a little harder to Toni's skin.

Toni wanted so badly to just slit this man's throat.  But he knew that the alternative was a power struggle with the other cutthroats in this band, and he wasn't interested in that.  He backed off and resheathed his knife.  God, he needed a drink.

Montana kept an eye on Toni the whole way across the camp until he disappeared into the supply tent.  He wanted to put a slug between that goon's eyes so badly, but like it or not, he needed the entire team's help if he was going to pull this little stunt off.  So he put a rein on his temper and turned back toward his own tent.

"Escape!" Toni suddenly shouted.

Montana raced over to the supply tent.  "What?"

Toni pointed at the broken handcuffs.  "Look!  That little spider somehow broke the cuffs and got away!"

Montana picked up the cuffs.  "Defective link," he grumbled.  "Whose cuffs were these, anyway?"

"Does it matter?  He's gotten away!  He's going straight to the authorities!"

The remaining men had been summoned by the commotion.  "What's going on?" Rios asked.

Alejandro spotted the broken cuffs in Montana's hand.  "He escaped!"

Quinn quickly drew his gun.  "We should have killed him when we had the chance!"

"I'll do him myself when we find him!" Toni declared.

"If we find him," Montana warned.

Toni flashed his blade once more.  "Now who's afraid?"

Montana drew his gun.  To Hell with needing these bastards' help…

Rios quickly got between them.  "Later!" he snapped to both men.  "We have to find this guy now and squash him like the bug he is."  He drew his own gun.  "Let's go."

Four men quickly dispersed into the night.

The fifth--Montana--hung back for a moment.  Something wasn't right.  He scanned the trees, looking for anything unusual.

And quickly found it when he heard a rustling and then a scream from Quinn.  He rushed into the jungle, straight for one of the taller trees.

There, he found Quinn, dangling upside down, tied up in vines.  "Get me down!" Quinn declared angrily.

Montana grumbled, then whipped out a knife and cut the main vine holding Quinn in place.

The man fell to the ground and was knocked unconscious.

"Sorry," Montana muttered before scanning the trees again.  He had to find his quarry fast, before everything went to Hell.

***

Peter paused from tying off yet another of Montana's goons to look around again, to make sure he wasn't being set up.  So far, so good.  He'd taken out two of the goons and had managed to stay out of Montana's sight range.  That was, presuming Montana didn't have the ability to see in the dark like Stephen did.  But even then, Peter was making sure he was for the most part staying in the tree canopy, up in the deep shadows, and even Stephen couldn't see through leaves, right?

His spider-sense gave a tingle, and he could hear rustling on the ground below.  He scampered higher into the trees and looked around.

Another tingle, more rustling.  Peter looked around frantically.  Dammit, someone or something was up there with him.  But where?

Suddenly, something flashed in the corner of his eye, and he drew back instinctively.

A big tree snake barely missed striking him.

Yeesh, these snakes were bad things.  And they were freaking everywhere in this country.  He'd be very glad to get back to the city, where all the snakes had two legs…

…and suddenly his head swam and his sense of up-and-down got completely disrupted.  He grabbed the tree branch and held on for dear life.

Someone pounced onto the branch next to him and the cold shaft of a silver .45 pressed into his temple.  "Not smart," Montana hissed in his ear.

Peter tried to get enough equilibrium back under himself to push Montana away.

Montana grabbed his right arm before he could, and suddenly the two men were eye-to-eye.  "Blow my cover, Peter, and I really will kill you."

Peter's jaw dropped and he looked right at Montana.

The recognition in Stephen Cranston's blue-green eyes was unmistakable.

Then the disorienting sensation fell away as Stephen holstered his weapon and reached around Peter's shoulders to secure a handhold.  "Drop us to the ground and make it look like a struggle."

Now that Peter could do.  He quickly shifted Stephen's position on his back, then flipped off the tree branch and landed on the ground, rolling the two of them around for a moment.

In a flash, Stephen had his gun drawn and pointed at Peter again.  "Play dead."

For a brief second, Peter thought he had been betrayed until he realized his spider-sense was again going bonkers and the rest of Montana's--Stephen's--gang were closing in fast.  He dropped to the ground and pretended to be unconscious.

The four remaining henchmen--one holding his head, another still tangled in vines--quickly arrived in the clearing where Montana was standing over Peter.  "Die, La Arana," Rios said, drawing his pistol.

"Back off!" Montana shouted.

Now that was the Stephen Cranston Peter was used to.  The power of that hypnotic command was so strong that it took everything Peter had in him not to involuntarily spring to higher ground.  He lay perfectly still, knowing that his life now depended on his partner's persuasive abilities.

Rios wasn't sure why he suddenly felt compelled to drop his aim, but he did so.  But he was angry and confused.  "We have to kill him!" he snapped.

"Rios is right!" Alejandro declared, puzzled as well over why he couldn't muster the willpower to pull the trigger.  "What are we waiting for?  This thing is dangerous.  Look what he did to Toni and Quinn!"  He gestured over to his injured companions.

"You can't kill him!" Montana insisted.  "He's Carlos' cousin!"

That made everyone stop and go rigid.  "What?" Quinn finally asked.  "How do you know?"

"I've been tracking him for days now," Montana said angrily.  "He's been following us.  Looking for a way in.  I didn't know why until I interrogated him that first night.  If we kill him, Carlos will kill us."  He looked at all four men.  "I didn't tell you because I knew you cutthroats would want a piece of his hide if you knew.  We've got to keep him alive, because if Carlos finds out we killed his cousin, we are all dead!"

"Why would Carlos want to put a man in our midst?" Toni argued.  "We've worked for him for years…"

"…and stolen from him regularly," Montana reminded him.  "Like I told you when I caught you at the truck, do you really think he doesn't weigh every gram of his merchandise?  He knows you're skimming from him.  You all are.  That's why he's been trying to get a man into your midst."  He paused.  "That's why I'm here.  I was supposed to be that man.  But I hate Carlos.  I've been trying to figure out a way to break through his stronghold on the coke market.  So I played along when he told me he was going to someone removed, and then Marco got killed. Bad luck for him."

"You killed Marco?" Rios asked incredulously.

"Of course not.  I've been waiting for an opportunity to get in this team for ages. So I hinted to a small group where you could be found, on Carlos's orders, and made sure I was there to quietly back you up.  That little firefight you got in with that rival was a setup on Carlos' orders, so there was an opening for a new man."  Montana spat on the ground next to Peter.  "I had no clue he was sending a man to watch over me.  What a brave man, Carlos.  Willing to sacrifice his own flesh and blood to catch thieves."

"All the more reason we should kill him now!" Alejandro insisted.

"No, because Carlos is expecting a report from him tomorrow!  If that report doesn't go through, there will truly be Hell to pay."  Montana looked disgusted.  "So we have to keep him alive.  For now."  He holstered his gun.  "Now, somebody help me carry this heavy thing back to camp."

Everyone hesitated, but no one could think of a reason not to help.  Finally, Alejandro and Rios helped Montana lift the unconscious La Arana off the ground and carry him back toward camp.

But Montana saw the betrayed, suspicious glares toward him, now that they knew he was playing both sides.  They only work for me because they're more scared of crossing Carlos than crossing me, thought Montana. I have to finish this fast.

***

Montana retied Peter's wrists and shoved him back against the supply tent wall.  "I hate spiders," he grumbled.

"We could do him now," Rios reminded him.

"Tomorrow," Montana promised.  "After he radios his 'good report' to Carlos.  Then we can take care of business."  He sighed.  "I need a drink.  Anyone else want one?"

Everyone called out their assent.

Montana fished around in his own crate.  "I had these put away for a special occasion…aha!"  He pulled out two bottles of high-grade tequila.

Whistles of pleasure went up from everyone.

"Get some cups," Montana said.

Alejandro fetched tin cups from the food supply crate.

Montana poured for his friends, then looked in disgust at the empty bottle.  "Good thing I bought two of these things," he said, putting the empty bottle aside.  He poured his own drink.  "To tomorrow," he suggested as a toast.

"To tomorrow!" Alejandro agreed.  "When everybody gets what's coming to them--especially La Arana!"

A cheer went up, and everyone swigged away at their cups.

"Build a fire," Montana suggested, "and we'll drink the night away."

More cheers, and everyone retreated from the tent.

***

"Wake up."

Peter opened one eye to take a cautious look around.

The tent was empty.

Then he felt Stephen's hands untying the rope around his wrists.  "Hold still.  I can't have you breaking out of your ropes again; it'll look too suspicious."  The ropes fell away, and Peter saw Stephen move in front of him and offer him a hand.

Peter accepted the helping hand and got to his feet.

Stephen pushed back the tent flap and peeked out.  Peter followed his gaze.

All the remaining men were sound asleep around the fire.

Stephen gestured with his head toward the jungle.  "Let's go."

They quietly snuck away.

Peter held his tongue until they were fairly deep into the glade.  "All right, you want to tell me what's really going on?" he finally said aloud.

He never saw the psychic blow coming as Stephen's mind shoved him hard against a tree.  He quickly grabbed the trunk to steady himself, then sprang upward to get out of the angry telepath's way.  "Hey!  What gives?"

"I should kill you," Stephen retorted.  "Do you know how close you came to blowing my cover?"

"So why didn't you just implant 'Peter, I'm undercover' in my brain, for crying out loud?"

"What, and then have you just pretending not to know me and everybody wondering why that fireball La Arana was suddenly so calm and sedate?  My God, Peter, you've been showing my picture and giving my name to every Tomas, Ricardo, and Haroldo in this country!  It's a wonder nobody here has found out yet!"

"I had no choice!  Your uncle was worried about you!"

Another burst of psychic energy shook the tree branch Peter was perched on, and Peter pounced across to another tree.

"Liar!" Stephen spat.  "Uncle Victor knows I do this occasionally.  He's the one who taught me how!"

"That doesn't mean he wasn't worried!  For God's sake, Stephen, I know you consider yourself a one-man army in the war on drugs, but don't you ever stop to consider that you already have an army ready and willing to back you up on a moment's notice?  This martyr complex you've developed over the past few months is really annoying.  What in the Hell has gotten into you?"

Stephen glared up at him, and again the branch gave a warning shake.

Peter broke off a smaller leaf-filled branch from the canopy above him, grabbed his perch with the tips of his fingers, then swung down and swatted the leafy branch at Stephen.  "Stop that!  I am not the bad guy here!  Those creeps are!"

Stephen ducked back from the swinging branch.  "You're right.  They are bad news.  But they're not who I'm after."

Peter swung back upward and settled onto his branch cautiously.  "But they'll be coming after us any second now."

"Doubt it.  One bottle of tequila mixed with sleeping powder and enhanced with hypnotic suggestions make most men sleep very deeply."

Parts of the puzzle began to come together in Peter's head.  "So that's why you had two bottles--so you could taint one."

"I try to be prepared for any contingency."

Peter laughed despite himself.  "And to think I was almost convinced you were some sort of doppelganger."

"And you are damn lucky nobody else has figured out any different."  Stephen cast a withering look back toward the campsite.  "Idiots.  Good thing they're not worth my time, or I'd have their entrails strung through the trees.  I try not to waste my time with packmules when taking out the farm owner is so much more satisfying."

"And I've already figured out that this guy Carlos is said farm owner.  Want to tell me his story?"

Stephen took a quick look around, then leaned against the tree that Peter had climbed.  "Carlos Valdarama.  I got his name from a minor player in New York.  He's the local cocaine lord who's been routing this extremely high-grade coke into the states."

"Where's he get the coke from?"

"There's a valley not far from here that has truly primo soil.  Farmed legitimately, it could feed all of Central America.  So, of course, it's being used to grow coca plants."  He chuckled sardonically.  "Never underestimate what a determined drug lord will do with prime agricultural regions."

"Remembering your family history?"

Stephen threw a glare upward, and the leaves on Peter's branch rustled.

"Wow, you're in a bad mood," Peter observed.

"I'm venting! I haven't given my psyche a really good workout in almost two weeks.  So don't give me an excuse to do it now."

"Promises, promises."

Stephen looked up again, but this time kept his psyche reined in.  "I'll let that one go.  For now."  He pulled out a cigar and lit it.  "So I got here not quite a month ago looking for Carlos.  But he is a tough man to find.  It's literally like the man doesn't exist."

"But that's never been a problem for you."

"No, but Carlos has been particularly elusive.  I finally found a way in when someone told me about one of his lieutenants…a man named Marco."

Peter raised an eyebrow.  "The same Marco who was killed in that firefight?"

"One and the same.  I found him swigging one too many tequilas in a two-bit dive and got inside his head.  And that enabled me to get inside his gang…once they 'ran across' a rival pack working for Angelo Aquino--Carlos' chief competitor--who were looking for a quick hit."

"How long did it take you to plan that one?"

"Not long.  Amazing how quickly fights break out when two groups end up arriving at the same time to pick up the same batch of cocaine."

Peter shook his head.  "Damn, you're good."

"I try."  Stephen took a long, satisfying draw off his cigar.  "In any event, it worked.  Two weeks ago, Marco got caught in the crossfire, suddenly the group had an opening, and I was able to convince them I was the man for the job.  I spent the next week planting memories and pictures and careful images of a ruthless but trustworthy pack leader named Montana Carril."

Peter smiled knowingly.  "Carril.  Spanish for 'Lane'.  Lamont Lane.  Very clever."

Stephen shrugged.  "It's worth adding to my alias list.  And things were going very well.  Until you showed up.  See Peter, in their business, these people are the most paranoid people on the face of the earth. When one guy comes out of nowhere and asks to join up, you can roll with the punches, but two? People were starting to look at us as conspirators! That's the reason I couldn't let on. You're damn good at keeping secrets, but this isn't about making up a convenient cover; just one relieved look, one smothered smile, one look toward me asking for help, and we were both dead. Since then, I've been walking a very precarious tightrope, trying to hold everyone at bay until I can get to the biggest snake in this nest of vipers…Carlos."

Peter nodded, realizing just how necessary the ruse had been.  "Pretty clever cover story you came up with back there."

"Thank you.  The best part of it is it's true."

Peter now looked confused.  "I'm not following."

"Oh, the part about Carlos suspecting his mules of stealing?  That's true.  The part about him trying to get a man into their midst?  That's true.  The part about him sending his cousin?  That's true.  The part about him waiting on a message from his cousin?  That's true…mostly."

"But the part about me being Carlos's cousin isn't, obviously."

"Correct.  Nor is the part about Carlos sending a man to watch his man.  No, the man he put in their midst and his cousin are one and the same."

"Marco," Peter realized.

"Exactly.  And Carlos is indeed waiting on a message from Marco.  But Marco was due to have sent it two days ago.  That caravan that came by here yesterday?  That was one of Carlos' gangs of enforcers, trying to find us."

"So you've been trying to stall for time until Carlos himself comes out here, looking for his cousin."

"Which should be just about any time now. And you are damn lucky Carlos is so paranoid. I had to tell them that I've been playing both sides, and I would have killed any one of them to get in this group. They never really trusted me, but now it's just a matter of time until they snap and come after us. And that's why we move now."  Stephen chuckled sinisterly.

That laugh could send chills down a man's spine, and Peter's was no exception.  "You do know my position on killing, right?"

"I know."  Stephen puffed his cigar.  "But these bastards own the police.  Hell, between them and Angelo Aquino's gang, they ARE the police.  It's virtually martial law down here in the jungles.  This isn't Manhattan; webbing these people up and scaring them into confessing isn't going to work here.  Either we have to take them out or they have to take each other out, but they've got to be gone from the picture permanently.  Only then do we stand a chance of disrupting this trade route."  He looked up at Peter.  "So if you're not in this with me, tell me now and I'll let you get away safely and try to think of another way to handle this."

Peter took a steadying breath and sighed.  A frustrating situation, but it wasn't like he completely had a choice in the matter.  After all, the whole point of Peter coming down here was to find Stephen, rescue him if necessary, and back him up regardless.  "I'm your partner.  And your agent.  I owe you my life; that means it's yours.  I'm in."

Stephen smiled.  "O.K., then."

"Well, it isn't like I have a choice.  Victor will kill me if I come back without you."

Stephen laughed.  "Yeah, you're right, that's almost as scary as this."

"So, what's the plan?"

"Well, tomorrow, I'm going to kill you."

Peter looked taken aback.

Stephen pulled out his .45 and popped out the ammo cartridge.  "Blanks.  I'll give you the signal, you try to break away, we struggle, you make sure I at least look hurt, and then I shoot you."

"And hope none of the others get trigger-happy in the meantime."

"Indeed.  But that will be our cue to disappear.  By then, Carlos should have arrived, and then we will rain Hell down upon them all."

"I don't suppose you packed my spare costume?"

"No, but I do have a ski mask in my crate.  You can use that for cover."

"That'll do.  No web shooters, though.  I feel unarmed."

"You've got two arms.  That's more than enough."

Peter smiled.  "I like you a lot better than your doppelganger."

"Thanks."  Stephen finished his cigar.  "Let's get back to camp before either the tequila wears off or the snakes find us."

Peter hopped down out of the tree.  "Have I mentioned yet that I will be VERY happy to get back to New York?"

Stephen chuckled, and the two men moved quietly through the night.

***

The dawn came, and Peter could barely hold in the grins as the gang started treating him with elaborate courtesy, though it was clearly acting on their part. Stephen had told him this could happen, and was careful not to let anything slip.

With the usual operation still packed into the trucks, the work was low for Peter, mostly fetch and carry jobs. As it was, there were very few people to boss him around because almost everyone was nursing a hangover from the previous night.

All except Stephen.

"All right," he whispered as he shoved Peter out of sight of the other men, trying to make it look like everything was abuse-as-usual. "It's the second bullet in the gun. It's an automatic, so the shots could be pretty close together. The signal will be me screaming 'DIE!'"

"Lovely," Peter said grimly. "How do I kill you back?"

Stephen gave The Shadow's low and sinister laugh. "Something tells me you won't have to."

"Quinn?" Peter asked in understanding.

Stephen nodded.

That brought another question to Peter's mind. "I suppose you don't think anyone will check me for a pulse? Or a wound for that matter?"

"Which brings me to this," Stephen grinned, holding up a small pouch, like a magician's coin. He began pulling out assorted bits and pieces from his crate. "First, a squib. It's a pack of stage blood, the same stuff they use in the movies. You'll have the trigger in your shirt cuff, so be careful not to let it show. You get your cue, you hit the trigger, and 'blood' explodes from your chest."

Peter grinned. "What? You carry those everywhere? You're more of a ghoul than I thought."

"I've been called worse," Stephen allowed, and pulled out a thin wire mesh and a small jar of flesh-colored paste. "You remember the face masks? This one's for your neck." He began to paste the wire collar down around Peter's throat. "A little more support to the vein area, and your pulse gets blocked to the touch. This is just a precaution, because I intend to be the one to check. All you have to do is roll over and play dead."

"Ruff," Peter laughed.

"Montana?" called a pained voice from outside. "Where do we keep the aspirin?"

"Just a minute," Stephen called over his shoulder, then finished applying the neckpiece and got up quickly. "You're on in five."

"Wait!" Peter hissed. "What about you? Do you have this stuff for yourself?"

Stephen shrugged, and for the first time Peter realized things were not as carefully planned as Stephen normally liked them to be. "Unfortunately, I now have an extra death to fake. So I'm going to be improvising."

Peter groaned as Stephen hurried out.

***

It was late in the morning, but the gang gathered around the embers of the campfire, looking half-dead.

"Uh…," grunted Alejandro.

"What was that?" complained Antonio loudly.

"Stop YELLING!" Rios shouted, then grabbed his head and groaned. "Ooh…"

"Uh…," grunted Alejandro again, rubbing his temples.

"Good morning, everyone!" Montana shouted cheerfully, walking into the center of them.

The group moaned in a sudden spike of agony. "Is it morning?" Quinn asked.

Montana gestured upward. "You don't see the huge ball of fire?"

"No, but I feel it inside my head," muttered Rios.

There was a murmur of general agreement.

"Well, you better brighten up quick," Montana snapped.  "Our new friend has a call to make."

Everyone sat just a little bit straighter. "Bring him out," Quinn hissed.

Montana grinned and jumped into the back of the truck, then dragged Peter out by the ropes tied behind his back. As he pulled, he slipped a small radio into Peter's pocket. Then, he unceremoniously dumped Peter in the middle of the group.

"All right, tough guy," Montana snapped, making several of the gang wince. "The game's up. We know why you're here."

"Keep dreaming," Peter snapped.  "You're as dumb as a pile of rocks."

"Oh, yeah?  Then what's this?"  Montana produced the radio he'd placed in Peter's pocket a second ago.  "Planning on calling somebody?"

Peter said nothing.

Montana looked disgusted.  "What's the matter, Spider?  Cat got your tongue?"  He gave Peter a shove.  "Well, it hardly matters.  We know all about your little game.  Everyone does.  Now, it's time for you to phone home and tell your cousin what a great job we're all doing."

Peter looked back defiantly, remembering to keep playing his part to the hilt. "And if I don't?"

Montana pulled a gun. "Lead poisoning."

Peter shook his head. "Carlos is already hunting you. I'm not giving you a way out."

"We've been staying ahead of him pretty well so far," Montana snapped. "Don't think that this is a polite conversation--it's an order." Montana punctuated the statement by shooting at Peter's feet.

The spider-enhanced man jumped back from the small blast of dust.  Next one's the blank, Peter thought. Now to make it look good. "Drop dead!" he shouted aloud. And with that, he jumped straight up, not too high--just two feet--but while in the air, he swung his tied together wrists under him, so that his hands were in front of him again.

Before the hungover, barely-awake fighters could react, Peter had shoved Montana back into the ashes of the fire and punched Quinn in the gut.

As everyone finally woke up fully, though still not in a state to realize the amazing feats performed by their prisoner, Peter bolted for the underbrush.

"After him!" Montana roared in outrage, leading the charge, with Quinn on his heels.

***

The jungle always manages to get in your way and smother you like a heavy blanket, but when you were off the beaten trail, with no clear direction to go, it could be truly terrifying. Despite this, Peter's only fear was that Quinn would get to him before Stephen could.

"DIE!" screamed a voice, and a gunshot rang out.

***

Peter spun with a short grunt of pain, falling heavily to the ground.

Montana and Quinn were standing over him a moment later. Montana bent down and felt for a pulse. "He's dead."

The rest of the group caught up just in time to hear this statement.

Rios said it first. "What the Hell are we going to do now?"

His panic was infectious, and Toni was next to lose control. "We're already in trouble with Carlos, and now we've gone and killed his cousin! We are dead."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Quinn said in a dangerously low voice, turning a deadly glare at Montana. "All we have to do is take him the corpse of his watchdog, and tell him, honestly, that the man he sent has just murdered his cousin, and hid it from us, keeping us on the run."

There arose a loud, angry cry of agreement, and Montana ran for it himself, disappearing into the jungle.

"AFTER HIM!" roared Quinn, leading the new charge.

Montana dodged and jumped over roots, with bullets ricocheting around him. Cutting left, he jumped over a stream. His pursuers matched the move, except for Antonio who slipped in the mud and fell behind.

With a savage laugh, Montana dove left, and went left around a bolder, jumping over a log, and disappearing into the vines.

Hot on the trail, Quinn followed, gesturing for Rios and Alejandro to go the other way around the bolder.

Quinn made it to the vines, and found that Montana had vanished completely.

Spinning around, he saw Montana suddenly, pressed against the boulder, as Rios and Alejandro made their way around, jumping over the log…

…one end of which was in Montana's hand.

With a swift move, Montana had yanked the thin fallen tree upward, tripping Rios, and hitting Alejandro in the chest, knocking them both down painfully.

With a growl, Quinn attacked.

Montana blocked the first punch, and was caught with a knee to the stomach.

Doubling over, Montana punched Quinn, and started to run past him.

Quinn reached out and tripped Montana, who fell through a wall of thick vines, and out of sight.

Quinn ran to the vines after him, and then pulled himself back in horror. The ground ended suddenly and completely, with the trees growing thickly up the side of a ravine, until the dropping vines made the fall invisible.

Looking down, he saw what looked like a body. But he couldn't tell for certain.

Rios joined him. "You want to go down and look?"

Alejandro looked down. "We'd never find him. Even if we could get down there."

Antonio caught up at last. "Tell me he's not down there."

The collective silence said it all.

Antonio let out a small cry of horror. "We're dead. Carlos is gonna kill us. First his nephew, and then his watchdog. We can't put the blame on anyone now."

"He's right," Rios declared on the edge of panic. "Quinn, our plan when that guy 'La Arana' was killed was to give him Montana as the killer. What do we do now?"

Quinn looked back at the last of the gang. "We have to find a way. Put the blame on someone. Someone who won't be around to fight the claims."

Rios gripped his gun tighter. "Someone who won't tell tales."

Alejandro slowly eased his gun from the shoulder holster. "Someone dead."

"And we can't use Montana," Quinn added, pulling his gun, holding it to his side. "Unless you guys want to climb down there and bring back his body."

"And we can't put the blame on his cousin," Antonio finished, gesturing back the way they had run.

For a moment, everyone glared at each other, weapons drawn in an ominous four-way staring contest.

"Marco!" Quinn blurted suddenly.

Everyone shared a look, and burst out laughing. It was the perfect solution.

"We tell Carlos that Marco was an insider with another gang," suggested Rios.

"Angelo's gang!" suggested Quinn.

"Right!" Rios continued. "We tell him that Marco worked for Angelo, and when he found out that La Arana was his cousin, he decided to strike at Carlos by killing his cousin."

"Except we found out who did it," Antonio added, "And we tried to take him down, but he killed Montana before we could get him on the run."

"And now Marco's somewhere in the gorge," finished Rios.

"Perfect," declared Quinn. "Now let's get La Arana's body so that we can extend our condolences to Carlos."

Somewhat happier now that they had a plan, the men made their way back to the body.

***

Peter had played dead where he was long after the chase had vanished into the jungle, but time was of the essence, and so he started to move, climbing into the trees, making his way across the canopy to see if he could find Stephen.

Suddenly, his spider-sense buzzed, and he froze as the hunters returned to where he had lain minutes before.

***

"Where is he?" blurted Quinn. "This is the right place, right?"

"Blood on the ground," Alejandro noted.  "But I don't see him…it doesn't look like he could have crawled off anywhere…"

Antonio looked around. "THERE!" he shouted suddenly, looking straight up.

***

Peter froze, not even moving his eyes, praying that they had not seen him.

***

"That's him, all right," Rios agreed. "Wow. How'd he get up there?"

"Jaguar," Quinn said, looking around with foreboding. "Some of these big cats drag their meal up into the trees for safekeeping."

Everyone looked around them nervously, expecting predator cats from every corner.

"Do we go up after him?" Antonio asked finally.

Quinn laughed cynically. "You want to climb a tree to try and steal a kill away from a jaguar, for the sake of a corpse? Tell Carlos his cousin is kitty feed and call it a day; we'll take our chances with him. Come on, we have to hurry. Montana said that Carlos would come looking for his cousin soon. We have to prepare."

Everyone nodded and headed back to the clearing.

***

Peter allowed himself the slightest breath, and once his spider-sense had told him they weren't watching, he moved again, leaping from branch to branch to reach his partner, trying to remember the direction he'd heard the chase going toward.  No telling where Stephen had actually gone, or what condition he was in…

"Are you coming to get me, or what?"

Now THAT was the hint he'd been looking for.  He felt a kind of prodding inside his head that directed his swings, and followed that prodding's guidance through the jungle.

Soon he was perched atop a tree, looking straight down, unsure why the prodding had stopped.  "Where are you?" he whispered.

"Hanging from a vine below the ravine.  And climbing vines is not my forte."

"Coming."  Peter dropped to the ground, then used his spidery touch to steady his descent down the ravine.

Stephen shimmered into view next to him, hanging onto a thick vine as if his life depended on it.  Which it likely did.  "About time you showed up."

"You know, you could show a little gratitude," Peter groused.  "Besides, this ravine's not THAT deep."

"No, but the thorns on that underbrush down there are poisonous, and I don't have any of Granddaddy's magic potion on me right now.  Now, let's get out of here."

Peter offered Stephen a hand, and Stephen climbed onto Peter's shoulders.

Peter climbed up the side of the ravine.  "Boy, those guys were thrown off your trail pretty easily if they didn't think to climb down to look for you."

"That's because to them, this looked like a 40 or 50-foot drop, not a 20-foot one, and a sheer one at that."

Peter nodded.  "Impressive little visual trick."  He leapt into the trees.  "Where to?"

"Back to camp.  Unless I miss my guess, Carlos should be arriving very soon.  And we should be waiting for him, don't you think?"

"You're the boss."

"That's what I like to hear."  He tightened his grip on Peter's shoulders.  "Let's go."

Peter nodded, then sprang through the branches like a more civilized Tarzan.

***

Quinn recognized the convoy from the previous day. This time, however, it was not rumbling past harmlessly--it had seen them, and was pulling to a stop. Three large men with huge guns jumped out, and started to cover the last of the gang.

Only then did Carlos step out. He was not an old man, but had graying sideburns and deep lines on his face. Despite the climate, he did not even sweat, and wore an impeccable white three-piece suit, with polished black shoes that did not seem to even touch the mud.

***

Stephen and Peter crouched in nearby bushes, carefully out of sight.

"That must be him," Peter said quietly.

Stephen regarded the distant Carlos with the certainty of a predator watching his prey. "Yep. Let's…oh, Hell."

"What?"

"Well, first of all, it seems that Antonio has escaped notice," he said, pointing him out. "But most of all, the crate with all our gear in it--it's still in the damn truck! With the weapons, and the costumes, and all our personal effects from New York."  Stephen slapped his forehead.

Peter let out a moan. "If they find it…if they find us trying to get it…"

Stephen was already fading from view. "They won't. I'll be back."

***

"My cousin is dead?" Carlos whispered in horror. "Who did it? Who killed him? TELL ME!"

The gang shrank back from the sudden rage. Quinn stepped forward. "It was the man you sent to watch us. He worked for Angelo's gang."

"IMPOSSIBLE!" raged Carlos, his façade of calm shattering. "You did it! What are you hiding? TELL ME!"

His guards reacted to his mood, and raised their guns. By reflex, the gang raised their weapons too, in a standoff, almost unnoticed by Carlos, who stepped forward and shoved his gun under Quinn's nose. "TELL ME THE NAME OF THE MURDERER! WHO ARE YOU PROTECTING? WHAT ARE YOU HIDING? TELL ME HIS NAME!"

"It was…," Quinn said, hesitant.

"SPEAK THE NAME!"

"Marco. It was Marco."

The look of disbelief was so sudden it could not have been faked.

***

Stephen was invisible to all present other than as a sprawl of black slipping around the armed men.  But he heard everything.  Dammit, Stephen swore to himself, this whole situation is unraveling way too fast.

But still, Carlos was right there. He could just reach out…

No, he reminded himself. Get the equipment, disappear the evidence there, and then we can do our jobs. Looking back at the standoff from the truck, he considered that it might not be up to him. They may have done it to each other for him.

***

Antonio circled around the side of the truck. He quietly drew a bead on Carlos's gunman. If this was going to be a shootout, then Toni was planning to be the hidden ace.

A sudden slight sound from inside the truck next to him made him jump. Could it be? Did Carlos have an ace himself?

Antonio stealthily crawled forward to climb into the truck itself.

***

"What are you playing at?" demanded Carlos, suddenly quiet. "Are you saying Marco murdered my cousin?"

"Yes," Quinn said, slightly confused by Carlos' incredulity.

Carlos did something suddenly inexplicable. He laughed. But if anything, it seemed to make everyone tenser.  Then he sighed. "Quinn, you fool. You and your rat-bags have been stealing from my stock again, haven't you? Did Marco catch you? Threaten to turn you in?"

Quinn remained confused. "No, Marco worked for Angelo's gang, and he thought he could get at you by murdering your cousin."

Carlos turned furious again. "Quinn, Marco was my cousin."

Quinn's confusion turned to horror. "But…then…who was La Arana?"

Carlos wasn't listening. "You came up with a bad cover story."

Everyone pointed his guns, ready for someone to pull the trigger, looking for suitable cover.

***

Antonio crept further into the van. There was definitely something in here. There were sounds of someone or something moving. It was the familiar sounds of crates scraping on the floor of the truck. But the thing he couldn't tell was where the noises were coming from. Then suddenly, he recognized the feeling. It was the same feeling he had gotten the previous night. The feeling when Montana had caught him planning to swipe some coke.

"I know you're in here," he whispered aloud. "Is it…is that you, Montana?"

There was no response.

Antonio felt a cold sweat seeping down his back; his hand shook slightly. "Where are you?" he whispered. "Who's in here?"

***

Peter kept watching as the situation grew closer and closer to a massive gunfight. From where he was sitting, it seemed that they were going to wipe each other out, and he wouldn't have to move.

There was a swirl of black less than a foot from his face, and a ski mask dropped into his hands. "Here. Don't attack unless you can do so without being seen. Carlos has smelled a rat. I have to get back into that truck. I think Toni has realized something about Montana's mysterious death."

"Be careful," Peter whispered, pulling on the mask.

"Always."

Peter decided to get a better view, and turned around to climb a tree.

He nearly tripped over the crate behind him.

***

Toni looked out the back of the truck. The feeling of being watched had faded a few minutes ago, and the situation had gotten still worse outside. Antonio had set himself up by a heavy crate and taken up a firing position.

Waiting anxiously for something to happen outside, he suddenly turned around as he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye.  Then he realized what he'd seen…or rather, no longer saw.

Montana's crate was missing!

The strange feeling of being watched returned with twice the intensity, and he turned with a small cry of fear.  "Who are you?" he hissed. "Montana? Is that you back from the dead?"

This time there was an answer.

A maniacal, sinister laugh of triumph.

Antonio screamed and started shooting into the van.

***

Quinn heard the gunshot and reacted, knocking Carlos's gun away and punching him in the stomach.

Carlos's guards reacted almost instantly, shooting hard.

The gang dove into the jungle.

Quinn dove behind a truck, and started shooting back at the guards, cutting down one with two quick shots.

Carlos also dove behind his own van, just as his driver and two more guards came out and started searching for targets.  "THEY"RE IN THE JUNGLE!" Carlos bellowed, gripping his gun tighter.

His guards responded at once, racing into the jungle.

***

Antonio immediately realized the result of his shots, but soon had something different on his mind.

The sinister laugh got louder, until Antonio became dizzy from the spinning noise.

All at once the laughter died off, and something pulled the gun from his hand.

Antonio drew his knife and started slashing at the air.

***

Peter slowly crawled headfirst down the tree trunk towards Rios below him. The man was frantically reloading his weapon after firing madly at one of the guards. Rios couldn't see what Peter could: The guard had been killed in the last salvo.

As Rios finally slapped the magazine into his gun, Peter reached down and grabbed Rios.

The man screamed as he was pulled off his feet.

***

The Shadow tried once again to circle around Antonio, and get out of the truck, but the man's hysteria had taken over, and he was slashing madly. The Shadow barely had enough room to move, and certainly not enough to fight back.

Finally, fed up with the man, The Shadow threw himself forward in a straight tackle.

***

Quinn crept around the side of the truck, trying to be as silent as possible, somewhere in this clearing, Carlos was hunting him.

Everyone else had taken off into the jungle, but there was someone still nearby, and it sounded like they were involved in a vicious fight. In fact, it sounded like they were right above…

R-I-I-I-P!

With an amazed horror, Quinn looked up, and saw the canvas wall of the truck he was hiding behind tear, and out tumbled Antonio, screaming in terror.

And becoming visible as the falling men knocked down Quinn was The Shadow, laughing insanely.

Rolling to their feet, all three of the combatants took stock of each other.

Quinn and Antonio stared disbelievingly at The Shadow, who rose to an impressive height.

With a laugh of victory, The Shadow struck.

***

Alejandro ducked back behind the bolder, as the two remaining guards started shooting. As the bullets pounded into the rock, Alejandro started feeding new rounds into his gun.

Just then, something swung down into Alejandro from the canopy, knocking him hard against the bolder.

Scrambling back up, Alejandro looked down, and gasped. It was Rios, bound, gagged, and hanging upside down by his feet from a vine.

Looking up in horror, he never noticed the guards catch up with him.

***

The Shadow smashed Quinn in the kneecap, and then bounced back to standing upright. As Quinn roared in pain, The Shadow turned to Antonio, who still had his knife drawn. Ducking under the knife, The Shadow caught the knife arm, and punched his broken nose.

Carlos came around the corner, guns blazing. The Shadow dove behind the truck again as the two villains tried desperately to crawl away, barely able to move from their wounds.

***

The two guards heard the gunshots from the clearing and ran back toward their leader.

One of them felt a hard hand grip his arm and throw him onto the trees.

The other turned, and saw only a shape vanishing into the trees. He immediately lifted his gun and started shooting.

His partner picked him up painfully, just as the strange attacker struck again.

Peter dropped from the trees, and landed directly between the two men, kicking the first back down, then spinning around to slam the second in the jaw, all within two seconds.

Leaping back into the trees, Peter made his way back to the clearing.

***

Carlos ducked behind the truck as The Shadow started pumping bullets toward him.

Pointing his gun in the general direction around the corner, Carlos started shooting back.

A sinister laugh answered him.

Carlos pulled out a knife, and cut a hole in the canvas wall of the truck, then climbed into the back, working his way around the crates.

The Shadow suddenly became visible out the back of the truck, and started shooting in.

Carlos ducked behind the crates, as several of them shattered, and white powder filled the interior like dust.

The cargo hold seemed to go into a dizzying spin as The Shadow's triumph laugh mocked him.

***

Peter landed in the clearing and spotted his partner, who was standing and staring cautiously into the back of the cargo truck.

Carlos was clearly in the truck, but for some reason he was giggling helplessly.

Peter threw his partner a confused look.

The Shadow's eyes were smiling mischievously. "I think I shot too many crates open. Don't inhale."

Peter laughed at this. "You mean he's…"

"High as a kite."

"And lovin' every minute of it!" Carlos screamed, coming forward, white powder all around his face. "You want my coke?" he screamed at them. "It's mine! MINE!"

"O.K.," Peter said soothingly. "You can have it."

"Thank you." Carlos said, suddenly calm again. He came out of the truck. "Oh, wow, look--clouds!"

Peter barely suppressed a laugh and eased the gun out of Carlos's hand.

Carlos looked at him drunkenly. "Oh boy, I'm in trouble now. I probably should have fired that thing at you, huh?" he giggled.

"Would you like me to fire it for you?" The Shadow said, as if speaking to a dangerous animal.

"No, no I can do it!" Carlos insisted. He reached out and grabbed Peter's arm, putting his face close to the gun. "YOU'RE FIRED!" he yelled at it, then burst into wild laughter again.

Peter looked at the Shadow. "So what do we do with him?"

The Shadow grinned. "We take him back to New York. I'm sure Interpol will be interested in him."

"Ya know…," Carlos said suddenly, looking around. "If this is what my clients get, I don't charge them nearly enough."

The Shadow pulled him gently toward the other truck.

Carlos piped up again. "Hey, you guys weren't talking about prison, were you? 'Cause I don't wanna go to jail in Mexico. NOBODY wants to go to jail in Mexico."

"We're in the Amazon," Peter replied gently.

"The Amazon?" Carlos shouted gleefully, tripping over his own feet. "Oh WOW!" he looked at The Shadow. "WOW! Who's your tailor? Cause that black and red ensemble? That's STUNNING!"

Carlos collapsed flat onto his face. And started to snore.

***

Peter settled into the front seat of the front of the truck. "Now this is the way to travel in these things."

"I know," Stephen answered. "Sorry about the previous rides."

"That's O.K.  You did what you had to." Peter looked in confusion at the collection of wires and metal in Stephen's fist. "What's that?"

"The starter motors out of every single truck but this one. I don't want anyone following us."

"I should tell you, there are still some sleeping goons somewhere in the jungle. What do we do about them?"

"We let them go. Maybe they make it back to civilization, maybe they don't."

Peter nodded as Stephen tossed the engine parts into the back of the truck with the crates.

They landed next to a large crate labeled "Fragile", "This Side Up", and "Perishable".

Coming from the crate was a snoring noise.

Stephen started the truck and drove off into the jungle.

***

Three days later, two tired reporters and vigilantes stepped off a plane at LaGuardia Airport.

Peter looked up and spotted Victor Cranston standing just past the security checkpoint.  "Look what I found," he told the elder man with a smile.

"So I noticed," Victor replied, also giving a knowing expression to the pair.  "Good afternoon, gentlemen.  Have a nice vacation?"

Stephen gave his uncle the same knowing look.  "It was…interesting."

"And fruitful."  Victor held up the front page of the New York Classic, with a Cranston/Parker story about the arrest in Mexico of drug lord Carlos Valdarama.  "Thought you needed to lie on the beach and clear your head."

"Oh, I cleared it."  Stephen smiled.

Victor nodded.  "Chasing demons again?"

"Only the ones who bring death and destruction into my territory."

Victor shook his head.  "You know, there's a reason The Shadow has so many agents."

"I know."

"I already gave him this lecture," Peter interjected.

Victor raised an eyebrow.  "How did he take it?"

"Let's put it this way.  I'm gaining appreciation for telekinesis."

Victor laughed.  "By the way, the parcel you sent by courier arrived yesterday."

Peter looked over at Stephen.  "The crate with lots of black fabric, chrome, and lead, right?"

Stephen nodded.  "Yeah, they're a little picky about that kind of stuff on airplanes nowadays."

"What I want to know is how you got them down there in the first place," Peter observed.

Stephen looked at his partner, his eyes mischievous.  "You really want to know?"

Peter rolled his eyes.  "Forget I asked."

Two generations of Cranstons laughed as the three of them headed off toward baggage claim.

THE END