Chapter 1

Taz Keaton, muscular, tanned and shirtless, tried to get more speed out of the outboard, but it was already wide open and screaming like James Brown as it blasted his narrow fiberglass boat up the Central American river. He squinted for signs of the crashed jet in the muddy water or thick jungle canopy, but didn't see a clue as to where he would earn his three million dollars.
"Not looking good," he yelled to his partner, bouncing along in the bow.
Gordon Windsor looked back. "Yeah, but other than our lucky break last year in Cambodia, not looking good is about as good as it ever looks."
"That's a point. Keep an eye out for survivors, maybe a pilot or crew member who's been busted up but is still alive."
"Will do. Not likely though."
Taz glanced at the river's overgrown banks for anyone sitting in a clearing, maybe waiting in pain to be rescued, even though the speed and angle at which the corporate jet went down made it unlikely that anyone could have survived. Then he held his GPS in front of his face and took a quick check of his position as he steered around the stumps and debris of the Changuinola River, bleeding brown into the Bocas Del Toro archipelago off Panama's Caribbean Coast. The river was legendary for keeping her secrets, with her inaccessibility, the snakes and crocodiles, and the thick rain forest all contributing. If the jet wasn't visible now, it might never be, completely shrouded in a matter of days by strangler vines and banana leaves.
"Gordie," Taz shouted as he stood up with a surfer's practiced balance. "We're approaching the crash site coordinates. Is that twisted thing sticking out of the mud over there a tail section?"
Gordie looked where Taz pointed and then glanced behind them. "I think so. I also think our competition's going to catch us. Couldn't you have gotten a faster boat?"
"It was slim pickings in Empalme."
"Next time let me get the boat."
"It's a deal. Do you think those guys back there have guns?"