Chapter 187: ~ 187
Chapter 187
~ Franklin ~
The movement didn’t stop. It hovered there, a shadow among shadows, just beyond the ragged perimeter of the tree line. It was watching—measuring our weakness with the patient, cold intelligence of a natural-born killer. My vision struggled to hold the image steady; the world was still tilting on a sickening axis, the fever humming in my ears like a hive of angry bees. But I knew what I was looking at.
This wasn’t a small scavenger. This wasn’t harmless.
"Raquel..." My voice was a dry rasp, barely a ghost of a sound.
She didn’t answer immediately. She had seen it, too. I could feel the change in her—the way her spine went rigid, the way her hands froze mid-motion over the open first aid kit. She stopped breathing, as if the very sound of air in her lungs might invite the darkness closer.
"What is that?" she whispered, the words trembling.
The shape shifted, detaching itself from the heavy foliage. It stepped into a sliver of damp, gray light, and my heart hammered against my ribs with a sudden, violent force. It was a jaguar. Massive, sleek, and terrifyingly beautiful. Its coat glistened under the drizzle, muscles rolling like liquid beneath its skin with every slow, deliberate paw-print it left in the mud. Its eyes—golden, unblinking, and ancient—locked onto us.
We weren’t just survivors in its territory anymore. We were prey.
"Don’t...move," I breathed.
"I wasn’t planning to," Raquel replied, her voice barely audible.
The jaguar tilted its head, studying the wreckage, the smoke, and the two broken humans before it. It was being calculative, weighing the risk of the fire against the reward of the meat. I shifted my weight, trying to find some leverage, but a white-hot scream of agony erupted from my leg. The bandage held, but I could feel the warmth of fresh blood seeping through. I was in no condition to fight. If it lunged, I was a dead man.
The predator took a step forward. Then another.
Raquel’s hand moved with agonizing slowness. She reached toward the pile of debris we had lit earlier, which was still smoldering and puffing out greasy gray smoke.
"Fire...we need the fire," she whispered.
"Yeah," I managed. It was our only card.
Her fingers wrapped around a thick, half-burnt piece of structural wood, the end still glowing with a faint, angry orange ember.
She rose to her feet, her every movement measured and cautious, like a high-wire artist.
The jaguar’s gaze tracked her instantly, its tail twitching with predatory interest.
"Hey! You don’t want this!" Raquel shouted softly. Her voice was steadier than I expected, infused with a raw, survivalist grit.
The beast didn’t understand her words, but it understood the threat. She lifted the burning wood, waving it in a slow arc. The embers flared brighter in the wind. The jaguar paused, its ears flicking back. A low, guttural growl rumbled from deep within its chest—a sound that vibrated in my own marrow.
"Easy," I muttered.
Raquel stepped to the side, deliberately positioning her body between me and the beast. Even through the haze of my fever, the realization hit me like a physical blow. She was shielding me.
"Back up! Go!" she hissed.
The jaguar didn’t retreat. Instead, it crouched, its haunches tensing. My breath caught. It was preparing to strike.
"Raquel—"
I didn’t finish. The jaguar lunged—a blur of spotted fur and lethal intent. Raquel swung the burning wood instinctively, the embers flaring into a shower of sparks as the charred end connected squarely with the animal’s face.
A sharp, pained snarl tore through the air. The jaguar recoiled, landing hard several feet away, shaking its head to clear the heat.
"Go! Move!" she screamed at me.
I pushed off the ground, desperate to crawl toward the fuselage, but the moment I put pressure on my right side, my leg buckled. Pain exploded behind my eyes, stealing the very air from my lungs. I collapsed back into the mud, a strangled groan escaping me.
"Mr. Flemington!"
The jaguar was circling now, its movements erratic and angry. The fire had startled it, but it hadn’t broken its spirit. It was more dangerous now—a wounded pride added to its hunger.
Raquel grabbed another piece of burning debris, holding both like torches, waving them in a defensive arc.
"Stay back!" she yelled, her voice breaking.
The jaguar growled again, lower this time, more threatening. It advanced, paws kneading the soft earth, eyes fixed on Raquel’s throat. I dragged myself backward, inch by agonizing inch, trying to put some distance between us. My vision blurred again. Damn it, not now.
"Mr. Flemington, stay awake!" Raquel snapped.
"I am..." I slurred.
Suddenly, the jaguar stopped. It went completely still, its head tilting to the side. It wasn’t looking at us anymore. It was listening. Raquel froze, too, her torches trembling in her hands.
"What is it?" she whispered.
I strained to hear it over the blood pounding in my temples. It wasn’t the wind, and it wasn’t the rain. It was a rhythm. Shouting. The snapping of branches under heavy boots. Human voices.
The jaguar’s ears twitched. Its focus shifted entirely toward the dense treeline behind us. My heart leaped into my throat.
"No fucking way," I breathed.
Raquel’s eyes widened. "You hear that?"
Before I could answer, the jaguar backed away. It retreated into the shadows, step by deliberate step, never breaking eye contact until the darkness finally swallowed it whole. It was gone.
The tension snapped like a dry twig. Raquel staggered, dropping the burnt wood as the adrenaline began to drain from her system.
"Oh my god," she sobbed, a single, broken laugh escaping her.
We were alive.
The voices grew clearer, closer. Raquel turned toward the sound, her face alight with a desperate hope. "Hello? HELLO! OVER HERE!" she screamed.
There was no verbal response, only the sound of heavy movement through the undergrowth. I forced myself to sit up straighter, gripping a piece of metal to keep from falling over. This was it. The rescue.
But then, a strange, heavy silence fell over the clearing. The shouting stopped. The footsteps slowed.
"Why did they stop?" Raquel whispered, her hand drifting back toward the medical kit.
I scanned the perimeter, a cold, sinking feeling settling in my gut. The air felt different. It didn’t feel like a rescue; it felt like an ambush.
A figure emerged from the trees. He moved slowly, deliberately, but he wasn’t wearing a uniform. There was no Red Cross on his shoulder, no search-and-rescue gear. He was dressed in rugged, sweat-stained fatigues, and he was carrying an assault rifle.
He stopped ten feet away, his cold, dark gaze sweeping over the wreckage, then landing on us with a chilling lack of empathy. Behind him, more shapes emerged—four, five, six men, all armed, all surrounding the clearing.
"Raquel..." I said, my voice dropping to a low warning.
"I see them," she whispered, her voice trembling.
The lead man stepped closer, his boots crunching on the debris. He looked at my expensive, torn clothes, then at the wreckage of the private jet. He spoke, but it wasn’t English, and it wasn’t the Spanish I recognized from Raquel. It was a local dialect, sharp and demanding.
"Who are they?" Raquel asked.
They didn’t look like soldiers, and they certainly didn’t look like friends. They looked like the kind of men who thrived in places where the law didn’t reach. As the lead man raised his rifle and gestured for us to get up, a terrifying realization washed over me.
The jaguar was no longer the biggest threat in this jungle.
