He rolled after pulling the trigger in hope of turning his back on the blast—if he could even hit the thing—but didn’t quite roll over in time. The grenade exploded an instant after leaving the tube, an obvious sign he’d hit something close by, perhaps the dinosaur or maybe just the incline. Hornet stings of pain struck his right leg. Something sliced across the back of his neck, and he couldn’t help but roar in agony. Other things struck him as well—wet things, and then something large fell on his legs, pinning him down.
Failure. In his mind, no word better summed up his life, his career, and his quest to find his family’s killers. I’ve failed and I’m sorry.
Only the patter of light rain on vegetation remained.
Several seconds later, after realizing that he hadn’t died, he tried to roll onto his back, but the heavy object on his legs forbade it. He slid from underneath it easily enough, then turned and sat on his butt.
The huge and formerly menacing head of the dinosaur had pinned him down. Now he stared in awe at golden eyes losing their shine, bloody teeth that would never feast again. It lay on its side, its stomach opened from the outside by one of the luckiest shots Max had ever made. Its spilled, scorched entrails steamed in the open air, and it pleased him to learn that burned dino flesh smelled like roasted pork.
Just like human flesh.
Blood leaked from his right calf to soak his trousers, and he felt more of the red stuff running down his back. Neither of the shrapnel wounds were life threatening, provided he didn’t lose too much blood...
You gotta move. They heard that grenade.
Max would have to patch himself up when he reached cover in the jungle ahead, far from this scene. With not a moment to waste, he crashed through the brush and saplings around the cliff’s base, headed for deeper woods and the bunker where Boswell awaited rescue. Max only hoped his sniper scout could survive another couple of hours in captivity.
He turned, rifle pointed at the incline, upon hearing a scraping sound from behind. His reflex sight found a man quickly descending, grabbing saplings as he went to keep from falling.
“What are you doing here?” Max asked Flint.
“Long story. Wait for me or you don’t get to hear it.” He slid deftly down a patch of scree, halted at the base of the incline, and then dropped over the low cliff.
“I thought they captured you,” Max said when Flint joined him.
“No, but I ran into some patrols and got a bit sidetracked. They’re searching hard. Unfortunately, we’re not the only ones dumb enough to infiltrate... or try to. Ugh, I see Leseur didn’t make it. What a way to go.”
Doomed from the start, but at least he died fighting. “He didn’t suffer long.” No man could have lived for more than a few seconds after taking such a wound.
The distant pounding of helicopter rotors found their ears.
Flint glared into the canopy. “We need to get out of here, pronto.”
“Yeah, we do. I need a place to patch up before hitting that bunker. Follow me. Cover our tracks.”
The shrapnel wound in Max’s calf didn’t slow his movement much—it just hurt like a motherfucker. The one on the back of his neck hurt even more and bled profusely, probably the next best thing to a scorpion sting.
Find somewhere fast. Flint can cover our tracks, but there’s no hiding the scent of blood from those dinosaurs.
About a quarter mile into the woods Max located a towering, primeval mahogany tree with a cavernous hollow in its bottom. He checked it for wildlife, particularly snakes, and found it empty. The hollow extended about three feet beneath the earth. Perfect. With a good deal of pain, he lowered himself into the hollow and got to work patching up his leg. He didn’t probe for the shrapnel or attempt to remove it, a job best left to an actual medic.
Flint arrived about fifteen minutes later. “Gave ’em the slip for now, but the chopper spotted that dinosaur you killed. We don’t have much time.”
“Gotcha. Mind taking care of this for me?” Max jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“Feels worse than it looks, I’ll bet,” Flint said after examining the wound. “In and out, right under the skin.” He got busy disinfecting.
Max gritted his teeth as Flint cleaned him up. He couldn’t allow the pain to distract him, however. They needed to talk strategy. “I saw two prisoners with sacks over their heads being unloaded at the bunker when I lensed it from up there.”
“Hate to break it to you, but one of them was a woman covered in tats.”
“Goddammit, Heat.” Max had no trouble believing it. Like a willful child, she was the sort who would eagerly and purposefully do anything she’d been forbidden. No matter how stupid. “Time just got a bit more critical.”
“I don’t know, Max. As my father used to say, ‘You shit the bed, now lay in it.’ She’s not our problem; we have other objectives here.”
“Normally I would agree with you, but I promised her a story I intend to deliver. Her rescue is now an objective.”
Flint remained silent for several moments before saying, “If that’s how you want to play it.”
“It is. And that’s the end of it.”
“Very well. How do you want to proceed? I figured out the guard detail around the bunker, but that’s probably changed now that the mission has gone loud.”
“True, but I think I saw a weakness in their defenses. I need you to find Otto and Swift, relay the intel we have and bring them forward.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going in alone.”
“You’re out of your goddamn mind, Max. That place is guarded by at least two platoons. You’ll never pull it off.”
“And you should never underestimate me.”
“I don’t. Just trying to keep this real.”
“Yeah? Well real doesn’t need your help. I know what I’m getting into. You done back there yet?”
“Yep, good as new. But I think there’s another piece of shrapnel in your brain.”
“Let me worry about that. Head back and grab the others, then come find me.”
Flint breathed a resigned sigh. “As you command. But you better make it out of that bunker.”
“Worry about yourself, pal. I’ll catch you soon.”
16
Though he’d noticed a few patrolling guards when viewing the bunker from afar, Max had actually lied to Flint—he hadn’t noticed any particular weakness in the defenses. This portion of the mission had taken on a suicidal quality, and thus demanded that he go it alone for the time being. Attempting to infiltrate a bunker beneath so many watchful eyes could well result in his capture. He dreaded the idea of Swift—who would crown himself de facto commander in Max’s absence—coming to bail him out, but it could certainly come to that.
Shouldn’t have brought him along if you don’t like it.
He refused to ponder further his possible capture or death, even though he got the impression he was walking into a trap. After parting with Flint he come upon the twenty-foot clearing for the electric fence that bisected the island. To observe the bunker, he shimmied twenty feet up a tree. Nestled in the crotch where a thick limb met the trunk, he wondered if the fence were still live. It was definitely electrified here, judging by the wires and insulators. Roughly forty feet of empty yard separated the thick, windowless concrete bunker from the surrounding fence.
With as much damage as the fence had taken, the sucker had probably shorted out or blown a fuse, but Max wasn’t taking any chances. He spotted a splintered tree, likely snapped by a grenade, perched against the top rail—hopefully it made a better conductor than Max.
While the open area surrounding the fence gave him a fine view, traversing the space undetected would be impossible. Motion-activated security cameras perched atop the fence every sixty feet, with even more installed along the edges of the bunker’s roof to monit
or the yard. Flint’s three-sixty recon of the bunker revealed only one entrance, a downward-sloping asphalt driveway leading to a closed overhead door in the center of the west wall. A massive air conditioning unit working double time on the roof would provide access to ductwork, another possible entrance, though Max doubted the ducts were large enough for him to squeeze through. Two black combat vehicles—French-built Humvee knockoffs—parked near the driveway provided the only cover in the yard.
Two guards flanked the outer gate, with another pair walking patrol in the yard. Wilde obviously preferred the passive security of cameras up close to the bunker, for he’d deployed the majority of his guards in the jungle. They worked in teams of two and wore jungle camouflage as opposed to basic black. One of the teams passed beneath Max. They moved slowly through the foliage and practiced excellent noise discipline, he gave them that much, but they hadn’t spotted him. Might not be so lucky next time. He would have to wait and see. He needed to know the intervals of their patrols before he made his move.
The second pair showed up about fifteen minutes after the first. They might have easily surprised him had he been on the ground, for they well utilized the thick cover, but again they weren’t looking upward. Max had come to believe these were Wilde’s elite troops, and he didn’t chalk up their inattention to the overhead canopy as laziness.
They’re on the menu. The dinosaurs don’t care if they’re Wilde’s men.
Since he’d blown the silencer on his rifle, Max had his pistol in hand. Unlike the first pair, who had been flanking one another with one man near the edge of the jungle and the other further in the brush, these two moved in a file, the first man probing about fifty feet ahead of the second, both very close to the tree line. They’ll damn near pass under me. He formulated a simple plan for immediate execution: shoot the man in back and hope the man in front needs a second to figure it out.
No more time to waste—they could be doing God knew what to Heat by this point.
Max split his attention between the two men, which proved a bit difficult. The man on point crept nearer Max’s tree, about ten feet from the trunk now, but the second ducked in and out of sight amongst the innumerable ferns and vines obscuring the jungle floor. Unfortunately, Max needed to take out the second man first.
Predict... Breathe... Wait for it...
The second guard ducked beneath a floppy frond and remained in a crouched position as he continued toward the next bit of shrubbery. Max had a crap shot, but he had no choice but to take it. He squeezed the trigger. The subtle pffftt of his silencer echoed through the canopy.
The guard crumpled in his tracks, a hole blown through his helmet.
With only a glimpse downward and the vaguest idea of the lead guard directly under him, Max dropped from the tree. He free fell for less than a second, yet that time stretched to minutes as the remaining guard snapped his weapon upward. Max had better timing. Knees bent to better absorb shock, he planted one boot on the guard’s head and another on his shoulder. The guard let out a shocked grunt as he collapsed beneath Max’s weight.
Crap. Other patrols might have heard that.
Max rolled as they hit the jungle floor in a pile of gear and flesh. He turned to find the man dazed yet operational, reaching for the submachine gun he’d dropped on impact. Max grasped the hilt of the Ka-Bar on his belt, pulled, and thrust in seamless motion. A gout of blood shot from the guard’s mouth when the knife impaled him through the throat. He gurgled and gagged, choking on his own blood, but fell silent within a matter of seconds.
With the guard before him unquestionably dead, Max jogged to the other man to make sure he was finished. During his career he’d witnessed several men survive head shots with minimal damage. But Max’s shot had penetrated the Kevlar and taken him out instantly, well and truly scrambling the man’s brain. Max searched him, found nothing remarkable, then dragged him deep into a copse of foliage. He didn’t have time to hide the body very well or to cover his tracks at all.
In addition to the usual gear, the second guard carried a handcuff key. That might prove quite useful within the bunker. Max shoved the small object into his back pocket, the most convenient spot for access in case of need. They might miss it in a search unless they wand me. He did a perfunctory job of hiding this body as well.
With no other guards in sight, he leapt onto the fence, then deftly scaled the twelve feet of chain link. At the top, glad for the rubber handles on his wire cutters, he gingerly snapped both strands of razor wire, which he presumed to be grounded. When he leapt free and dropped safely on the other side, he shuddered in relief. Not much worse than being grabbed by electricity, every muscle locked down as it sizzled through you.
He low crawled toward the bunker. One patrolling guard rounded the rear corner of the building. Shit. Max would have to wait for him to pass.
An engine rose over the jungle noise, and seconds later one of the covered combat trucks halted at the gate. The gate guards waved the vehicle through; it pulled up to the edge of the sloping driveway and stopped about twenty feet from the overhead door.
The guard patrolling Max’s side of the building must have heard the noise, for he quickened his pace and soon rounded the next corner, probably to help unload the prisoners in the truck. Max counted at least five civilians with burlap sacks over their heads, likely locals. The rolling overhead door started to ascend, and two more guards walked out to meet the truck.
The prisoners’ misfortune provided the diversion Max needed. He leapt to his feet and sprinted for the left-side corner of the building. From what he’d seen of the guard rotation, the other man patrolling the inner yard would soon round that corner, provided he hadn’t gone to help unload prisoners. You’ll know soon enough.
As he ran, the shrapnel in his calf burned like a hot coal freshly pulled from a stove.
His back to the bunker, Max held his Ka-Bar at the ready. Soon he heard footsteps near the corner. He caught the guard totally by surprise, slammed him up against the building, and slashed his throat from behind.
After carefully lowering the dead man to the ground so he didn’t clatter, Max ran the length of the bunker and peered around the next corner. Two guards goaded the single file of prisoners down the driveway toward the raised overhead door. The other patrolling guard moved on toward the far side of the building to continue his rounds. He’s in for an unpleasant surprise. The combat truck that had delivered the prisoners turned around and drove out through the gate, which rolled closed behind it.
Now! Max ran to the two parked trucks, took cover behind one, and observed the gate sentries. Both guards watched the jungle and the road before them. A mere fifteen feet separated Max from the descending driveway into the bunker.
The overhead door had already begun its descent. Pistol in hand, Max sprinted down the driveway and dove for the ever-shrinking entrance to the bunker. He shot through the closing gap, hit a slippery cement floor, and slid for a couple of feet.
Max expected shouted alarms or even gunfire would greet his entrance, yet he heard nothing.
With no time to survey the area, Max scrambled between two combat vehicles, the closest cover. The guards were busy near the far end of the room, a spacious garage, kicking a hapless prisoner who had fallen. Max looked the place over, saw that he hid between two vehicles in a line of six. Across the room, two mechanics stood beneath a truck on a raised shop lift, completely oblivious to his presence.
Peering around a front tire, Max watched the two guards hoist the prisoner to his feet. One of them held the man’s arms behind his back while the other slugged him several times in the gut. With no knowledge of French, Max wasn’t sure what the guards ordered until one of them placed the wrist of the sagging, beaten man into the hand of another prisoner, the biggest man of the lot, who dragged the injured man behind him as the procession left the garage.
That’s how Joe Civilian gets treate
d. Imagine what they’re doing to Heat.
Not that Max cared to think about it. For that matter, Josh might be hanging by his thumbs in a cell getting the shit beaten out of him. Provided he still lived.
You won’t find out sitting here.
Max slid backward between the two trucks, then used the line of vehicles for cover to escape notice by the mechanics, who remained absorbed in their work. The door leading from the garage deeper into the facility was unlocked, just as he’d suspected.
He could practically smell the cheese baiting this trap.
17
Grutik, known to the world as Dr. Gideon Wilde, stood before a bank of security monitors located deep within the bunker, watching as the intruder cut two strands of razor wire atop the fence. He maneuvered a joystick on the panel before him, pushed a sliding switch to zoom the camera in on the man as he ran across the yard to take cover in the shade of the bunker. Of course, images of the four—perhaps even five—intruders had already been captured by several cameras and carefully analyzed; however, none had proven conclusive, not that Grutik needed much convincing.
While continuing to observe the intruder on one monitor, he replayed the run across the yard on another, stopping the video at several points to take screenshots of the intruder’s face head-on. In his mind, his suspicion was confirmed. But Grutik was a scientist and therefore needed confirmation via scientific method as opposed to naked-eye observations. While the intruder cut a guard’s throat, Grutik copied the facial photos into his mainframe computer. He then opened the Brotherhood’s facial telemetry database to check for a match.
“Confirmed,” he uttered in his native German. He growled a chuckle. “Max is back.”
He’d figured that Ahlgren was the man masquerading as the playboy on the yacht that had drifted too close to the island, but the photos from the helicopter’s camera were too grainy for positive identification. Ahlgren had failed to capture Grutik in Romania—Peter Banner had seen to that—and now the fool had the audacity to infiltrate his latest sanctum, by far his most fortified and technologically advanced to date.
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