Book Description
BLOOD AND GOLD! Deep in the heart of the Amazon jungle, far from the constraints of civilization, the wild and lawless town of Helldorado attracts only the most daring of visitors -- and the most foolhardy. When Travis, the son of an underworld kingpin, disappears in the Amazon in search of a priceless artifact, Beck, the Kingpin's retrieval expert, is sent to get him. Despite their hostility -- and their love for the same woman -- the two must eventually join forces to fight the evil head of a gold-mining corporation who is after the same treasure. But the jungle holds many dangers, as does the greed of Helldorado's ruthless inhabitants. Will Beck find treasure at the end of his perilous quest -- or only a swift and brutal death?


Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One Beck turned his pickup truck onto the long, palm-lined boulevard. Expensive cars lined the curbs for blocks, signaling to anyone driving on the four-lane Los Angeles street that there was something nearby that was important to the rich and trendy. In this case, it was a nightclub, the place to be this week for the in-crowd of Hollywood and the rest of the Southern California area. Next week, Beck was sure, it would be a different club, on a different street. It always was. For him, the names of the clubs blended together into a blur, and he hadn't bothered to learn the name of this place any more than the others. Couples and small groups of people stood along the sidewalk, sometimes leaning against their cars, as if being close to the club was enough. More than likely none of them had the clout, or the money, to get in. To Beck, there was nothing more pathetic than a wanna-be trendy. The high palm trees and the orange streetlights gave the entire area along the boulevard the feeling of being on a stage, and the low night haze and smog blocked out any chance of seeing the night sky, creating even more of a closed-in feeling. Hundreds of life dramas played out on this street, in this club, and along the sidewalks. Tonight Beck was going to be a player in one of those acts, even though the main actor named Knappmiller didn't yet know Beck was even coming. And more than likely Knappmiller wasn't going to like having the starring role. The area around the front door of the club looked a lot like a mob scene jammed into the middle of a stage. This wasn't a normal mob with its high-fashion clothes and trendy looks. This mob didn't rebel against any police, only the guards at the doors as the flashes of paparazzi cameras cut the night air like faint bursts of lightning, freezing moments in time in bright, white light. Beck knew the club well, including the layout, the main man at the door, and the owner. It wasn't a place he would ever go on his own time, but tonight wasn't his own time. Tonight he had a job to do. Beck's older-model pickup looked clearly out of place driving past the rows of Porsches, Jags, and Mercedes. And he had counted on that. No one in this crowd would even dare to give him a second look as he went by, his driver's window open, letting in the thick evening air. On the pickup's radio, Beck had been listening to a cooking show as he worked his way across town, and he half-wanted to stop and park and wait on the job until the show was over, but he knew that wasn't a good idea. Not now, not this close to the club, and not with Rudy waiting. "Welcome back to Food Radio," the radio host said as the ad for an impotency drug ended. "We're talking with Chef Gilberto Oso about his famous ricotta ravioli." Beck snorted. He could make better ravioli than Gilberto, but somehow this guy had made a name for himself. Beck had tried the man's ravioli twice and couldn't put his finger on the trick to his recipe. It clearly had a strange aftertaste to it that Beck wasn't sure he liked. As the chef rambled on, Beck quickly scanned the crowd at the club entrance as he drove past, seeing no one that worried him. Rudy, one of the waiters in the club, had called him when Knappmiller showed up, and Beck knew he didn't even need to hurry to get there. Knapp-miller was known for his late-night partying. The target of this job wasn't going anywhere. Beck swung the pickup down a side street and then into an alley that lead to the area behind the club. He paid close attention to the garbage cans and closed doors of buildings with one part of his mind while listening to the radio with the other. The sour smell of rotted food and spoiled booze cut through the cab, but Beck ignored it. "A good recipe," the chef said, "you know, comes down to something, shall we say, unexpected." Ahead in the alley Beck could see the scrawny shape of Rudy step forward from the club's service entrance. He was dressed in his black waiter's uniform, and he clutched a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. Rudy got paid by the same people that paid Beck, and never once had Beck not seen the kid look nervous. Right now, even in the dim alley light, Rudy looked like he might shake apart. "For me," the chef said, his phony Italian accent filling the cab of the pickup, "it was just a sprinkle of nutmeg. Like-a magic dust-a." Beck shook his head and pulled the truck into a spot across from the club's back door and out of the way. No wonder Beck liked his own ravioli better than this phony clown of a chef. "Basil, pine nuts, and nutmeg," the chef said before Beck could switch off the radio in disgust. Pine nuts and nutmeg in ravioli? What would they come up with next? As Beck cut the engine, Rudy stuck his head in the open window. "Knappmiller's on his third round." Beck rolled up the window and pushed the door open, forcing Rudy to step back. "What's he drinking?" "Jägermeisters and tequila," Rudy said while looking nervously up and down the alley. Beck shook his head. One nasty combination of drinks. He straightened his tailor-made suit, and brushed a wrinkle out of the silk. Then he faced the nervous waiter. "Any security?" "No," Rudy said, turning and heading for the back door of the club, "but there's a slight problem." Beck didn't ask. At this point it was just better to check out the problem for himself. Rudy held the door open for Beck, then led him through the back area between the cartons of empty liquor bottles and the service storage areas. They then pushed through a heavy fire door, and went down a hallway to the club's VIP room. The music in the club was loud, but not enough to block decent talking, and even though the no-smoking ban for bars and restaurants had been in place in California for a while, the VIP room seemed to have a smoke haze to it. The top of this particular food chain seemed to think that no law actually applied to them, and were always startled when one did. A dozen tables, all linen-covered and large, filled the room, with a one-way glass wall between the room and the main part of the club so that people in the VIP room could feel superior to the poor souls who could only get into the main area. And those in the main area felt that they were above the hopefuls on the sidewalk outside. A food chain that actually had no meaning in any real world outside the made-up one these people lived in. And very soon one of these people named Knappmiller was going to discover there was a different food chain that he didn't rank on. Beck studied the crowd in the main area through the one-way window, scanning for any trouble. Beck had no doubt that all those people on the other side of that glass hated looking at their own images, knowing the truly favored were behind the big mirror. Nothing caught Beck's attention in the large crowd, so he turned his focus back to the task at hand. Knappmiller, his target, sat at a table on the far side of the VIP room. Beck could see the problem that Rudy mentioned Brian Knappmiller, star quarterback for the Miami Dolphins, was surrounded by four of his teammates and a half dozen large-breasted women, more than likely expensive call girls. "Guy on the left is Jalil Johnson," Rudy said. "I think he's left tackle or something." Beck glanced at the small waiter standing beside him. "Jamil Johnson, six-time All Pro and future Hall of Famer." Rudy just shrugged. "Jamil, Jalil, Jalopy, whatever." Beck shook his head. "The guy next to him is Kambui Womble. He ran for two thousand yards last year and beat the toughest D in the league." "Not to mention a murder charge," Rudy said. "Ice pick in the face, right?" Beck ignored the comment and went on. "The other two guys are Jimmy Coggeshall and Davey Mulaire, first-round picks from USC and Ohio State, respectively." Rudy just shrugged. "And last but not least, Brian Knappmiller. Throws like Joe Namath, bets like Pete Rose. Ladies and gentlemen, the Super Bowl Champions." Rudy made a motion that made it clear that he didn't care at all what they had done. Then he turned and headed toward the bar to go back to work. Beck cared. He had watched the game they won, and had been impressed. But he didn't dare let that show too much. He had a job to do. He took a deep breath and started across the room around the tables, taking careful inventory of the details along the way. He spotted the second exit door. He noted the empty table next to the players, with two big, empty chairs pushed into it. He studied for a few steps the big gold cross and heavy chain around Jamil's neck. And made special note of the bulge beneath Knappmiller's jacket. More than likely Jamil was armed as well, but Beck doubted the two rookies were. Too green, too fresh in town to be carrying. Beck stopped in front of Knappmiller and took a moment to just stare at one of the best quarterbacks to ever play the game. Then keeping his voice level and polite, he said, "Excuse me, sorry to bother you, but -- " Knappmiller glanced up, clearly annoyed and studied Beck for a long moment. Then he said, "I got no pull at tryouts, man. Just show up at camp like everyone else." Beck smiled at the assumption. It was good that Knappmiller sized him up to be someone who was big enough to play professional football. "Actually, that's not what I -- " "Oh, I get it," Knappmiller said, now clearly annoyed. He grabbed a pen from the inside of his jacket, slid a drink napkin over and looked up. "Who do I make it for?" "Well, Beck would be fine." Knappmiller slashed out the autograph and handed it up to Beck. "Best wishes, pal." Beck studied the autograph for a moment. He was very pleased that he had it. It would make a nice addition to his collection. He hadn't expected to get it, considering what he was here to do. He folded the napkin carefully, and put it in his pocket, then he turned and pulled up an empty chair, sliding it close to Knappmiller. "Hey, what the -- " "A few months ago," Beck said, not giving the quarterback a chance to say anything more, "you made some wagers with an associate of mine." Beck noticed that most of the talking around the table suddenly stopped, leaving only the music and the background noise from the other tables. Knappmiller seemed actually shaken for a moment. "Yo, whassup, Knappy?" Jamil asked, glaring at Beck. Beck kept his gaze level and focused on Knappmiller. "Nothin', nothin'." "Actually," Beck said, "it was fifty thousand dollars that seems to be a little past due." Beck watched as Knappmiller stared at him, trying to get Beck to back down. A lot rougher and stronger men had tried the same trick. Some of them were still not feeling well. Around them the table was totally silent. The call girls seemed to fade back and shift out of the way, letting the big football players deal with the intruder. Clearly they were real pros who could spot trouble when they saw it, and to them Beck was trouble. Suddenly Knappmiller started to laugh, at first forced, then sounding more natural. He broke the stare with Beck and dug out a fat roll of cash, peeling off a large part of it. "Okay, I got you, dude," Knappmiller said, counting as he went. "You're just a hardworking schmuck trying to do the right thing. I understand." Beck didn't allow himself to move or even nod. It wasn't that he was doing the right thing; the key was if Knappmiller was going to do the right thing or not. "Here's five grand to get you started." Knappmiller shoved the money at Beck. It was clear from the size of the roll of cash left that Knappmiller didn't have anywhere near the fifty thousand on him, and from what Billy had said, the quarterback was short in his accounts as well. Beck took the money and stashed it in his inside jacket pocket. "The thing is, I've been told to get some collateral from you as well for the rest." Knappmiller actually seemed puzzled for a moment, as if he didn't really know the meaning of the word. "Collateral?" Beck lowered his gaze until he was staring at the Super Bowl ring on Knappmiller's finger. It was a big one, looking out of proportion even on the quarterback's large hand. The ring was a combination of silver, gold, and diamonds, with the Super Bowl number and logo on it. Beck always thought the Super Bowl rings were the perfect combination of gaudy and beautiful. And Knappmiller had earned that one. It took a moment for Knappmiller to realize what Beck meant by the look. But when he did, Beck could sense an anger come up over the quarterback that wasn't going to be easy to contain. He had fought hard for that ring, and no one was going to take it easily. "Get the hell outta here," Knappmiller said, his voice low and cold. "Just give me the ring and you can go on with your party," Beck said. "No harm, no foul, as it were." Before Beck could even duck aside, Jamil flipped a glass of Jäger into his face. The liqueur was room temperature and the smell almost made Beck gag since some of it went up his nose. Beck stood his ground, but it took every bit of his self-control to not tear Jamil apart. He first would have to clean up, then he would finish this job. "Maybe you didn't hear the man?" Jamil said. Rudy suddenly appeared at Beck's side, but Beck held up a hand for the nervous waiter to stop. He took a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and patted the liquid from his face, then he slowly stood. All of the football players stood with him as the partyers in the entire VIP room went silent, watching. "What?" Coggeshall demanded, staring at Beck. "You wanna jump? C'mon, bitch!" Beck shook his head and turned his back on the men. He needed to clean up and calm down before he took these men on, or he would hurt one of them, and damage their careers, and that wasn't what he was here to do. It wasn't their fault that their quarterback didn't have the sense to pay his gambling bills. Rudy moved away from the table with him as the football players laughed and threw breadsticks. "That's right, keep walking, big boy," Knapp-miller shouted, then laughed. Beck ignored him. He was only walking away to get his control back. Those idiots didn't know it, but he was doing them a favor. Rudy scampered ahead of Beck out of the room and down the hall to the men's room, quickly checking to make sure they were alone. Beck pulled out his cell phone and his boss's number, then with the phone against his ear, he wet a paper towel and dabbed at the brown liqueur that had soaked into his jacket. "Leave it alone," Rudy said. "You'll set the stain." "It's just prune juice," Beck said. "What?" Rudy said, giving him a look as the phone rang on the other end. "Didn't you know Jäger was -- " "Yeah!" Billy's deep, rough voice answered the phone. "It's me," Beck said. "There's a little problem bringing it out. They're being somewhat truculent." "They?" Billy asked. "Yeah, they," Beck said, finishing the dabbing at his jacket and tossing the wet towel into the trash. "Who the hell are they?" "Actually, it's the heart of the offense." "Screw the offense," Billy said. "Do what you have to do." "But they have a legitimate chance to repeat this year," Beck said, hoping he could sway his boss just a touch. "I'd really hate to hurt their -- " "Get the damn ring," Billy said. "Do what you have to do." "I understand," Beck said. He snapped the phone closed, adjusted his suit, and then turned slowly to Rudy. Rudy only smiled and moved to open the door. Ten strides later he was down the hall and back in the VIP room. "Check it out!" Jamil said, his voice carrying over the entire room. "The bitch is back." Beck just strode right at the table of Super Bowl Champion football players. These guys knew how to play ball, but they had no idea how to defend themselves. And just because they were big and strong, they thought they didn't need to learn. It was going to be a lesson Beck wasn't going to enjoy teaching them. "Why, you mother -- " Knappmiller grabbed a beer bottle off the table and threw it at Beck with the arm that had thrown for more yards last year than any other quarterback's arm had. The throw was high and just a little wide. Beck, without missing a stride, reached out and grabbed the bottle out of the air, then sat it on a table as he passed, not missing a step. The bottle had stung his hand when he grabbed it, but he wasn't going to let these bozos know that. The catch froze the four players for a moment, leaving them standing wide-eyed, and giving Beck one last opening at settling this without a problem. "I don't want to fight, so I'll ask you for the last time, give me the ring." He spaced out the last four words slow and clear so that even a drunk football player would understand them. Knappmiller started to move slightly, so Beck went on talking. "And leave the .38 snub nose in your ankle holster. You don't have a permit and I hate guns. They bring out the worst in everyone." As Beck had figured, his words did no good. Knappmiller was still standing, stunned that Beck had caught his throw as the other three charged. The two rookie linemen were lumbering, half-drunk, mountains of flesh, while Jamil was quick and strong. Yet as any good running back, he stayed behind his front line until there was an opening. Still hoping to not hurt any of them, Beck took the Ohio State grad by the arm as he swung, spun the big man around like a little girl at a dance, and held him with two fingers, showing him to his knees in a shout of extreme pain. A simple twist more and the kid would have trouble with the arm the rest of his life, but Beck made sure that didn't happen. The other lineman went down a fraction of a second later as Beck took a roundhouse swing and did the same thing to him, sending him to the floor beside his friend. Jamil seemed to come right at Beck, head on, a fraction of a second behind the two linemen, just like he did in the games when they blocked for him. Beck stepped sideways, not letting go of the two linemen, and upended the running back with a simple kick. Then, as Jamil hit the floor hard, square on his back, Beck stepped on his right leg, holding just enough pressure on the leg to cause Jamil a lot of sharp pain, but not enough to break it or do any long-term damage. With a shout of pain, the running back started to reach for Beck's foot, but Beck pushed down a little harder, forcing Jamil to lie out flat in agony. Around the quick fight, the VIP room was deadly silent. Only the curses and cries of pain broke the thick air. Beck held his three captives and looked at the quarterback. The guy was standing beside his table, staring in disbelief. Actually, Beck hadn't really done anything unusual. The linemen had given him enough time, and Jamil had come in late. Controlling a drunk football player was never a problem if you knew what you were doing. "I've got a choice of four different bones I can break," Beck said, indicating the three men who were in pain, and making the smart decision to not struggle. "So ask yourself, how many times is Ray Lewis going to smash your head into the turf this year without the best part of your offensive line and no running game to keep him honest?" "I'm gonna -- " Jamil started to say something and reach for Beck's leg, but again a slight bit more pressure on his leg made him cut his sentence short and gasp in pain. Knappmiller stared at Beck for a moment, then did exactly what Beck had told him not to do. He reached for his gun and pulled it out. For Beck, pulling a gun was the worst thing the stupid quarterback could have done. Suddenly Beck no longer cared about the next season for these idiots. Suddenly he didn't care what he broke or why. Beck had been able to control his anger about the Jägermeister in the face, but pulling a gun on him was like taking the pin out of a grenade. With two quick twists, and a shove with his foot, he sent his three captives into screaming pain, then let them go like they were so much dirty garbage. The next movement they would all make would be on a stretcher. Before Knappmiller could get the gun up and pointed, Beck was on him, slapping the gun out of Knappmiller's hand. Then, with all the built-up anger, Beck smashed his fist right into the center of the quarterback's face. Beck could feel the guy's nose break as the force of his blow sent the quarterback off his feet and flying backward. With a long stride Beck was over the quarterback, pulling him off the floor by his shirt and pounding him again and again in the face. It was like punching a bag of clothes. "I told you not to do that!" Beck shouted into the man's bloody face. "Didn't I tell you not to do that?!" Beck was about to hit the man again, then managed to regain control of himself. Hitting this idiot again would only splatter more blood on his suit, and it was going to be hard enough to clean as it was with all the prune liqueur on it. Beck dropped the quarterback and straightened up, making sure his jacket was smooth, and the money still in his pocket. The only noises in the large roomful of people were the moaning and low swearing of the three players, combined with the whimpering of the best quarterback in the world. "The ring, please," Beck said to Knappmiller. As the shaking hands of the quarterback managed to pull the ring from his finger, the other players took their rings and tossed them at Beck as well. Beck took Knappmiller's ring, then turned and headed for the exit. The others could keep their rings. His boss didn't need them for collateral from them. And besides, after what he had just done to them, it was going to be some time, if ever, that they would be getting another, which was too bad for them that they had decided to hang around with a stupid quarterback. Copyright © 2003 by Universal Studios Publishing Rights, a division of Universal Studios Licensing, LLLP.

FROM THE PUBLISHER

Deep in the heart of the Amazon jungle, far from the constraints of civilization, the wild and lawless town of Helldorado attracts only the most daring of visitors -- and the most foolhardy.

When Travis, the son of an underworld kingpin, disappears in the Amazon in search of a priceless artifact, Beck, the Kingpin's retrieval expert, is sent to get him. Despite their hostility -- and their love for the same woman -- the two must eventually join forces to fight the evil head of a gold-mining corporation who is after the same treasure.