32
Fenton Hardy stood at the bow of the lead boat, his sharp eyes scanning the dark waters ahead as dawn began to break over the rainforest canopy. The convoy of boats—nearly a dozen in total—moved steadily northward along the winding river, their engines kept at a moderate hum to avoid unnecessary noise. The Brazilian Federal Police had spread out among the vessels, their men armed and prepared for whatever lay ahead. The jungle on either side of the river loomed like a dark wall, thick with mist and the eerie sounds of waking wildlife.
Inspector Raul Menendez stood beside Fenton, his expression grim. "We should be approaching the first major bend in the river soon," he said. "This is where we'll be at our most vulnerable. If Renaldo and his men want to slow us down, they'll do it in the next few kilometers."
Fenton nodded. He wasn't naive enough to believe they would reach Reese's compound without encountering some form of resistance. Renaldo might not have the manpower to stop them outright, but he certainly had the resources to stall them.
"Eyes sharp," Fenton called out to the men behind him. "We're not alone out here."
The river narrowed suddenly, the waters becoming slightly more turbulent. Menendez raised a hand, signaling for the convoy to slow down. The lead boat—Fenton's—took the bend cautiously, revealing a chaotic tangle of floating debris blocking the channel. Large logs, chunks of broken boats, and other refuse had been intentionally arranged to form an obstacle. The mess spanned the width of the river, making passage impossible without clearing a path.
"Damn it," Menendez muttered. "Renaldo's handiwork."
"They must have set this up last night," one of the officers remarked. "A floating barricade. If we try to go through at full speed, we risk damaging the boats."
Fenton clenched his jaw. "Then we clear it."
The men sprang into action, grabbing long poles and ropes, working quickly to shove the logs aside or tow them out of the way. Some dove into the water, pushing aside the lighter debris, while others kept a wary eye on the jungle banks. They knew this was more than just a physical obstacle—it was an opportunity for an ambush.
A few tense minutes passed. Just as they were making progress, a sharp crack echoed through the air.
Gunfire.
Bullets splintered the wooden debris, sending fragments flying as the men ducked for cover. From the dense jungle on the right bank, muzzle flashes lit up the undergrowth as Renaldo's men—hidden within the foliage—began firing.
"Return fire!" Menendez barked.
The boats erupted with gunfire, officers taking aim at the muzzle flashes in the trees. The sharp crack of rifles and the heavier thuds of automatic weapons echoed through the jungle. Fenton crouched behind the edge of the boat, his own sidearm drawn as he surveyed the attack.
"This isn't about killing us," he said over the chaos. "They're trying to keep us pinned down!"
And he was right. The attackers weren't pressing forward or trying to pick off targets—they were firing to suppress movement, buying time for something else.
"Move the logs faster!" Menendez ordered.
A Brazilian officer went down with a bullet to the shoulder, but his comrades pulled him to safety and returned fire. After several more minutes of intense gunfire, one of the federal officers tossed a grenade into the jungle, the explosion sending a shockwave through the trees. The gunfire faltered, and then silence. The enemy had retreated.
"They're not sticking around to fight," Fenton observed. "Renaldo's just setting up obstacles to keep us delayed."
"Then we need to push forward," Menendez agreed.
The last of the logs were cleared, and the convoy picked up speed once more, leaving behind the smoldering remnants of the first skirmish.
Not twenty minutes later, as the boats entered a wider stretch of the river, the men on board noticed something odd. Floating barrels bobbed in the water, scattered in no particular pattern—yet something about them seemed too deliberate, too placed.
"Slow down," Menendez called out warily.
Fenton was already scanning them through his binoculars. "Those aren't just barrels," he said. "They're filled with something."
As if on cue, a spark shot from the trees on the left bank.
The barrels exploded.
Flames erupted across the river, sending columns of thick black smoke into the sky. The fire spread rapidly, the oil from the barrels coating the surface of the water, creating a blazing inferno that blocked their path forward.
"Renaldo must have filled the barrels in crude oil and gasoline," one officer said, coughing from the smoke.
Fenton shielded his face, looking for a way around. The fire was spreading fast, but there was an opening near the left side, where the current was pushing some of the flames downstream.
"There!" he pointed. "We can make it through, but we'll have to move fast before the fire spreads!"
The boats gunned their engines, making a break for the opening. Heat scorched the air, the scent of burning fuel thick in their nostrils. Sparks leaped from the flames, landing dangerously close, but they pressed forward.
One of the smaller boats lagged behind, and the flames nearly engulfed it before the driver sped up just in time.
Moments later, they were clear, passing through the smoke and leaving the fiery trap behind.
As they neared the final stretch before reaching their designated disembarkation point, the boats followed a sharp bend where the river ran beneath a steep hillside.
Fenton narrowed his eyes. "Something's not right."
Just then, the ground above them rumbled.
"Rockslide!" someone shouted.
Large boulders and dirt cascaded down from the ridge, crashing toward the river. The men gunned their engines, swerving to avoid the falling debris. One of the boats was struck, the impact sending two men overboard.
Fenton's boat rocked violently, nearly capsizing as a wave from the impact surged over them. Men grabbed onto the sides, struggling to hold on as the last of the rockslide tumbled into the water.
Menendez cursed under his breath. "They must have set explosives on the ridge to trigger that."
Fenton steadied himself. "They're throwing everything they have at us. But we're still moving forward."
Once they cleared the last trap, the group finally reached their planned docking point, well north of Anama.
Fenton took stock of the damage. They had lost one boat to the rockslide, with three injured officers in need of medical attention. Despite the delays, the majority of their force remained intact.
Menendez turned to Fenton. "Renaldo and his men did everything they could to slow us down, but we're still standing."
Fenton nodded grimly. "We're not out of the woods yet. If they're this desperate to stop us now, it means we're getting close. These men were not Reese's mercenaries. These men just wanted to slow us down. Reese's men are assassins."
"Yes, to be sure. We should expect more resistance on foot in any event," Menendez added.
Fenton sighed, running a hand through his hair. "We push on. No more delays. We reach Reese's compound as soon as we can."
With that, the men began unloading supplies, preparing for the long trek ahead.
Fenton adjusted his gear and turned to the assembled group. "Let's move. We don't have time to waste."
The men moved swiftly through the underbrush, making their way toward Reese's compound. Every step was measured, every movement calculated.
The going was rough, but made easier as many of the men were experienced in making their way through the dense vegetation.
Hours passed. The jungle fight they had anticipated never came, which was perplexing to both Fenton Hardy and Menendez. We are getting closer." Menendez observed after checking the GPS mapping on his phone. "It is interesting we have not yet been greeted."
"Yes," Fenton agreed. "If we do not see any opposition you may not have to call in the air strike."
Some time later, as they neared the perimeter, they expected to be met with more resistance. But the closer they got, the quieter it became.
Menendez halted the group with a raised fist. "Something's not right."
Fenton nodded grimly. The jungle should have been alive with movement, with guards patrolling Reese's outer defenses. Instead, it was eerily silent.
"Eyes up," Fenton murmured.
One of the scouts moved ahead, cautiously inspecting the compound's exterior. He signaled the all-clear, prompting the others to move in.
The gates were still locked, but there were no guards. No movement.
Menendez approached the steel-reinforced doors and motioned for the breaching team. "Blow it open."
Within seconds, a controlled detonation sent the heavy doors inward with a thunderous crash.
The first wave of men poured in, their weapons raised, their senses heightened for an ambush. But as they moved through the compound, their suspicions grew.
The place was deserted.
Fenton's jaw clenched as they swept through the grounds, finding only a handful of people—young women, concubines, and domestic workers who had been left behind.
Menendez grabbed one of the remaining women, his voice sharp. "Where is Reese?"
The girl trembled, shaking her head. "Gone."
Fenton exhaled slowly. It had been hours since Reese left.
They had arrived too late.
"Damn it," Menendez muttered.
Fenton turned to one of the concubines, his tone urgent but measured. "How did he leave?"
The woman hesitated before whispering, "He took them."
Fenton felt his blood run cold.
"The prisoners?"
She nodded.
Fenton took a step back, his mind racing. Reese had left—but he had taken Frank, Joe, Chet, Callie, Maddie, and Jaime with him.
Menendez kicked a chair over in frustration. "Son of a—! He played us!"
Fenton took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. "He planned this. He wanted us to find an empty compound."
One of the federal agents returned from a search. "All drugs and valuables have been removed. The place is stripped clean. It's like they packed up and vanished."
Fenton's hands clenched into fists. "Not vanished. Escaped."
Menendez exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. "So, where the hell did they go?"
Fenton's mind was already working. Reese wouldn't have just fled blindly. He had a plan.
"We find out," Fenton said, his voice tight with determination. "And we go after them."
Because if Reese had taken his sons, his friends…
He wasn't going to stop until he got them back.
No matter what it took.
The van rumbled steadily along the darkened road, heading northeast toward Manaus. The jungle had long since given way to sparse villages and small roadside stops, the city looming closer with every passing mile. Reese sat comfortably in the front passenger seat, occasionally glancing at the road ahead but mostly preoccupied with the satellite phone in his hand. Lila sat beside him, one leg tucked beneath the other as she idly toyed with a knife, spinning it between her fingers.
In the back, the prisoners were packed tightly together, the tension thick despite the steady hum of the road. Maddie sat between Jaime and Callie, her head resting lightly on Jaime's shoulder. She had been silent for some time, the explosive vest she wore weighing on her more than just physically. Every time she moved, the stiff material pressed against her ribs, a cruel reminder of their predicament.
Frank and Joe sat side by side, their expressions somber, but Reese knew they were thinking—strategizing. He had no doubt that the Hardy boys were trying to work out every possible scenario, every potential opening. Not that it would do them much good.
Chet, shifting uncomfortably, glanced toward the front where Reese sat. His stomach twisted at what he was about to do, but he didn't have much of a choice.
"You should probably call ahead now," Reese said, his voice smooth as he held the satellite phone toward Chet. "We'll be in Manaus soon, and I'd hate for us to arrive without the red carpet being rolled out."
Chet took a deep breath and nodded stiffly, reaching for the phone. Reese didn't let go immediately, his grip lingering just long enough to remind Chet of exactly who was in control.
"You remember how this works, don't you, Chet?" Reese mused. "You tell them to prepare the plane, tell them you'll be departing as soon as you arrive. No funny business, no cryptic messages. Just a man calling to ensure his aircraft is ready."
Chet swallowed, gripping the phone tightly. "And if I don't?"
Reese smirked. "Then Lila gets creative." He gestured toward Maddie with an infuriatingly casual wave. "And since we've already ensured compliance with our lovely little vest here, I doubt you'll be difficult."
Chet's gaze flickered toward his daughter, his stomach twisting further at the sight of her. Maddie's face was pale, her jaw tight as she stared straight ahead.
Lila, who had been silent, finally spoke. "You'll need a little help making sure the arrangements go smoothly," she said, stretching her arms with an exaggerated yawn. "Lucky for you, Chet, I speak excellent Portuguese."
She grinned as she pulled out a second phone and began dialing. "I know all the right people at Eduardo Gomes International Airport. We have friends there—friends who will make sure no one asks too many questions."
Chet clenched his jaw but forced himself to exhale slowly. He put the phone to his ear as it rang, glancing briefly at Callie beside him. Her eyes held his for a moment—steady, reassuring. She knew he had no choice, but he still felt sick about it.
A voice finally answered, and Chet cleared his throat. "Yes, this is Chet Morton. I called earlier about my aircraft… Yes, the Gulfstream G650." He took a steadying breath. "I need it fully prepped for immediate departure. Fuel topped off, everything cleared with flight control for takeoff as soon as I arrive."
Lila tapped her fingers impatiently against her thigh, waiting for Chet to hand the phone to her. When he finally did, she brought it to her ear, her demeanor shifting instantly to one of professionalism.
"Sim," she said smoothly, her Portuguese flawless. "Tudo precisa estar pronto antes da chegada do senhor Morton." She paused, listening to the response before nodding. "Ótimo. E os documentos de voo? Estão todos em ordem?"
There was a brief exchange, and then Lila's smirk widened. "Excelente. Nós esperamos passar pela segurança sem problemas. Você entende?"
Chet frowned, trying to piece together the few words he recognized. Lila was ensuring they wouldn't have trouble getting through security or customs.
When she hung up, she tossed the phone back onto Reese's lap. "It's all set," she said smugly. "The plane is fueled, the clearance is arranged, and security won't be an issue. We'll be able to take off as soon as we arrive."
Reese grinned. "See, Chet? That wasn't so hard, was it?"
Chet didn't answer, his hands clenching into fists.
Reese turned his attention back to the road, his mood light. "Just a little more patience, everyone," he said, his tone almost sing-song. "We'll be in Manaus soon, and after that… well, we'll be out of the country before you can even think about causing trouble."
In the back, Joe shifted slightly, his voice low. "Dad's coming," he muttered under his breath.
Frank, sitting beside him, nodded ever so slightly. "Yeah," he whispered. "But will he get there in time?"
Nobody had the answer.
The van continued along the road, the jungle thinning as the outskirts of Manaus came into view.
Time was running out.