Free Redeemer by Chris Ryan

the air swell with oxygen, prising open his lungs. Vine thickets shut out the light. His palms sweated, he could feel fear rising in him. The fear of a tight, dark space.
    At last he emerged into a dome of secondary jungle. He wiped grime away from his eyes and, taking a look over his left shoulder, got his bearings. He’d entered the jungle at the north-west tip of Barbosa favela. When he’d inserted into the slum, he recalled, the jungle tapered north-west up a steep mountain to a summit several hundred metres above sea level. Six hundred metres to the south lay Corcovado mountain, its hunchback shape jutting against the skyline. If he adjusted his route westward and carried on for a couple of hundred metres, he’d be in line with the coded coordinates Bald had given him.
    Fuck, Gardner thought. That phone call seemed like a year ago.
    His stomach echoed like a cave. He hadn’t touched a morsel of grub since the previous night, but, juiced up with the knowledge he was nearly upon Bald, he got a second wind. He turned down the volume on the hunger, forgot about the aches and pains in his calves, and pounded on through the understory of the jungle.
    He didn’t make as much progress as he would have liked, his pace hindered by the fact that the jungle floor was a dense mess of overgrown weeds, thorns, ferns, canes and shrubs. In primary jungle and deciduous forest, where tall canopies cut out much of the sunlight, the undergrowth is limited. But in this secondary jungle, where the canopies had been chopped down, sunlight had a clear run to the ground, and the vegetation flourished into a greasy tangle, as if the plants were knotted at the roots, forcing Gardner to concentrate on his every step. He wished he had a knife to hack through the overhanging vines and thickets. He just had to use the stock of his Colt to push aside spiky bushes.
    In a way, Falcon had done Gardner a favour with his disappearing act. He’d served his purpose in leading him to the edge of the jungle. Still, something ate at him. Why the hell was Falcon so desperate to avoid his BOPE muckers?
    Another thought scratched at the base of his skull: who kitted out the Messengers with hi-tech PP-2000s? The Russian-manufactured sub-machine-gun was the darling of elite forces and special police units, not the kind of firearm that was easy to buy on the black market – and he doubted they came cheap whatever the source.
    Gardner stopped. He’d managed to get himself hooked up on the edges of a rattan bush, known in the Regiment as the ‘wait-a-while’ bush, on account of how long it took to free yourself from one. All I fucking need, he thought, as he began to work loose the needles from his clothing. Millions of the fuckers, it seemed.
    No sooner had he untangled himself than his ears pricked. He paused.
    A campfire crackled. Thirty metres ahead, the thick vegetation retreated, giving way to a small clearing. A sweet smell greeted him, fruity and toasted. He instantly recognized that smell as belonging to the Cohiba cigars Bald was so fond of smoking.
    I’ve found him!
    Gardner stared ahead at the camp, and saw that, although he’d come out to Rio to help the mucker who’d once saved his life, this had also been a personal mission. About proving a point to the pen-pushers in Whitehall: that he still had the skills and the balls to be a Blade. They’d given him the boot because of his injuries. Flying here, negotiating the favela, rescuing his mate: he could still cut it.
    His bowels roiled. He approached the clearing, listening and looking out for any signs of human habitation. John might be there, he reasoned, but a Messenger might have trailed him and could be lying in wait.
    Ten metres from the clearing, he planted a boot in front of him and felt something squelch underneath and hiss like a deflating car tyre. His eyes shot down – and he jumped back. Boa constrictor. The snake’s head shot forward, mouth wide open, teeth snapping at his ankle.