Destruction: The Dogs of War, a Lost and Found Series

by J. M. Madden

  “Do you see any identifying marks,” Fontana asked from below.

  “No,” Jordyn told him, appreciating the calmness of his voice. Her heart was racing from shock and fear. “It doesn’t even look like he was clothed. No dogtags. He does seem tall, though. Taller than a native Venezuelan.”

  She looked at the other poles with similar shapes shrouded in green. Several men had been strung up.

  Movement drew her attention, and she thought she caught a glimpse of someone walking through the trees from the direction they’d come. Then they were gone.

  Kenny lowered her to the ground, making sure she was secure before letting her go. She forced a smile and a nod before stepping away.

  The thought that there were three men strung up on poles was disgusting to her, and seemed to confirm what information the Dogs of War had supplied. There was no way to know for sure how long those skeletons had been hanging there, but it was a pretty good bet that this had been one of the camps they’d been looking for.

  She glanced at Fontana. There was a glower on his face, and his hands were planted on his hips as he looked at the poles. Anger seemed to radiate from him.

  “What do you want to do?” she asked.

  “I want to take them home.”

  Heart in her throat, she looked around, trying to see beneath all the vegetation. Curves and bumps she now feared were skulls or rib cages. How could they ever know what was under everything?

  Movement drew her attention again. There was a lone native man walking toward them, a little stooped with age, holding a staff. He wore a red loincloth and there was a colorful cloth around his forehead. Red paint was swirled on his cheeks, with a line up between his brows and out across his forehead.

  Jordyn didn’t startle, but Fontana did. Before she could say anything he had his HK to his shoulder, pointed at the man. The other men joined him and there was suddenly a cacophony of sound as Fontana tried to yell at the man to stop where he was. Jordyn held a hand out and pressed down on the muzzle.

  “He’s indigenous. Just wait. He’s not attacking. It’s obvious he wants to talk. He might know what happened here.”

  Fontana lowered his weapon slowly, scowling as the man continued toward them. He hadn’t even hesitated.

  Jordyn faced the older man and gave him a respectful nod, praying she would understand his language. There were so many variations of the Spanish language, and the natives of the country spoke even more derivations.

  He greeted her with a variation that she could understand, though. Jordyn returned it, along with a smile. She didn’t reach out to shake his hand. Some of the tribes considered it an offense, especially from a woman to a man, and she didn’t want to do that. Fontana had already put them in an awkward position.

  The older man propped his hands on his staff and cocked a leg out. Though he moved like a youth, lines tracked his face with age.

  “You may call me Grandfather.”

  “Jordyn Madeira.”

  “The dead have been undisturbed here for many years,” he told her, voice raspy.

  “Do you know how many, Grandfather?” Jordyn hoped that the question wouldn’t insult the man.

  He nodded his head at her and made a motion with his hand. “When the Army men came, they cleared this whole valley with machines. They built stone buildings and killed our game. But,” he grinned at her, “Mother has a way of taking back. Within a few seasons you couldn’t see the dirt, even though there were many men here. And they had men in cages and on chains like dogs.”

  Jordyn sighed, knowing that that was what they’d been needing to know. “Where did they go?”

  “Most sleep over the hill.” He pointed in a direction that they hadn’t explored yet. “They should go home.”

  Tears flooded her eyes. “Can you show us?”

  He nodded and walked past her. The older man didn’t even look at Fontana as he padded by, sandaled feet finding a quiet path through the foliage.

  Jordyn stopped in front of the tense man. “He says the dead have been here many years. They are sleeping over the hill and need to be taken home. He’s taking us there now.”

  Fontana looked down at her, jagged emotion filling his eyes. “They’re all dead?”

  “It sounds like it. He didn’t say how many.”

  Something vibrated out of Fontana, and Jordyn had to brace herself. He felt angry, and frustrated, and he didn’t have any way to expel that emotion. She was glad she didn’t have a light over her head again.

  Daring to reach out, she rested a hand on his arm, but he pulled away. Without a word, he followed the old man through the jungle.

  Chapter Seven

  Fontana dreaded whatever they were about to find, but he had to keep walking. The native didn’t have to come out of the jungle to tell them what had been here, but he had, and Fontana appreciated that, but he acknowledged the fear in his heart.

  They crested a rise and the trees thinned out a little. He could hear Payne snapping pictures, both forward and backward. Finally, the old man stopped at a tree stump and he looked at Madeira. He spoke quietly to her, then waited as she translated what he said to the men.

  “They brought them here. Some were young, not many seasons old, but they were bones. They hadn’t been given food for a long time. Some had bruises and other marks on them.” She paused as she listened to the old man. “When they passed on, the men in uniforms brought them here. The Grandfather’s village is not far away and they tried to watch, because this is Caraño territory.”

  Fontana looked at the ground, knowing what they were about to find. “Shane, do you have that shovel?”

  The young man moved forward, swinging his pack around, and rummaged on the exterior. He unfastened a couple of strips of Velcro and removed a folded spade. Snapping it open he began to dig.

  The men took turns digging. Finally, when the hole was arm-length deep, something white flashed in the dirt. It was an arm bone. From then on they dug with their hands until the dirt was level with the bones of the first body.

  Fontana wanted to scream in protest or break something. For the first time in years he wanted to cry, but he refused to let the tears fall. These men had died with honor at the hands of those without any honor, and they deserved to be respected. Pulling the satellite phone from his pack he took a couple of photos and sent them to Aiden.

  We need a forensic team, he typed.

  Drop a pin on your location and we’ll get one there. Somehow.

  Fontana wished that Aiden and Wulfe were there. They knew how to calm him, how to direct the impotent anger coursing through him. Looking away from the gravesite, he found Madeira staring at him. She seemed to understand what he was feeling, because she nodded her head. Just that small acknowledgement eased something in him, and he could refocus on what needed done.

  “Is this the only gravesite?” He asked her.

  She looked at the old man and rattled off some words. He nodded a couple of times, then pointed toward the north.

  Madeira turned back to him. “He says that this is the only gravesite that he knows of, and that when the men left they headed toward the north, toward the big cities. There were at least twenty men that left, and a woman with hair as dark as his own, but no color in her skin.”

  Priscilla Mattingly, he thought with a snarl.

  “I am aware that this is his territory. Can he bear with us as we bring more men in to try to find out what happened?”

  Madeira turned and talked to the old man. It was obvious she was trying to explain something scientific to him because he shook his head and motioned for her to continue. It took the two of them several minutes to come to an apparent understanding.

  “Grandfather says that is okay, but he will send some of his men to protect you.”

  “We don’t,” he started, but Madeira forestalled him.

  “I know we don’t need protection, but he needs peace of mind that we aren’t moving in to take over his territory.”

&n
bsp; Fontana gave her a single nod. “Tell him within a few days we’ll do our very best to be out of here.”

  The old man didn’t seem to like that answer, but eventually nodded. Turning, he walked into the jungle.

  They set up camp at the base of one of the buildings. They cleared the foliage away and found enough dry wood to start a fire. They didn’t especially need the heat but maybe the smoke from the fire would scatter some of the insects.

  Fontana swatted at a mosquito and looked out over the area. They’d gotten the three men down from the poles and had secured them, their bones, rather, in sheets. He didn’t know what else to do with them. They’d documented everything they could but he’d known that he couldn’t leave the men there until the forensic team arrived. He’d had Payne photograph everything before they’d cut them down. Now he stared out at them, wondering who they’d been. There’d been no dog tags or identifying marks on them that they’d seen, and they weren’t even sure why they’d been hung up that way.

  Madeira had suggested that it was a warning to the natives, and he tended to believe that. Maybe it had been a warning to everyone. For the five million and thirty-second time, he wished Priscilla Mattingly was still alive so that he could kill her all over again. Or at least have a part in it. Angela Holloway had actually shoved the knife into her heart, but Fontana liked to think that he’d had at least a small part in weakening her to the point that Angela could kill her.

  Swatting at a mosquito, he leaned a little heavier against the wall at his back.

  Madeira walked toward him through the smoke and squatted down beside him. She held out a green bottle. “This will help with the mosquitos. I’m surprised you can’t, like, push them away with your mind.”

  Fontana cocked a brow at her. “Become my own bug zapper, you mean? I guess I hadn’t thought about it. The Jungle Juice might be an easier option. Thank you.”

  He took the bottle from her hand, making sure not to touch her. The Jungle Juice had a high concentration of Deet and would repel squads of mosquitos. If he’d had more time he would have had a bottle in his own pack, but they’d been a bit rushed to get out of the states.

  Fontana spritzed himself, then handed the bottle back to her. “They don’t bother me much. If you need it again let me know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re very welcome.” She moved to get up.

  Fontana scrambled for something to say. He didn’t want her to leave yet. Zero was on patrol, otherwise the two of them would be hanging out together. They were a bit of a pair and getting either one without the other didn’t happen often. “Hey, I wanted to thank you, too, for translating with the old man. We would have been lost.”

  She shrugged, dropping to her bottom beside him against the wall. “That’s what I’m here for. I’m just glad he showed himself and told us. He didn’t have to.”

  “No, he didn’t. Will your chopper be okay?”

  She nodded. “They won’t mess with it. It’s how Grandfather knew that he needed to come check us out.”

  “I don’t know where Aiden is going to get the forensic team. I hope I spoke correctly when I told him just a few days.”

  She tipped her head back to look up at the stars. “I think he would understand. The natives know that the dead are important to us.”

  Her voice drifted off and she sighed. Fontana felt her heat just barely brushing against him and watched as her eyelids lowered. The smooth side of her profile was to him, and he allowed himself to trace her features by the light of the stars. She’d been a beautiful woman. Still was, actually. At least, to him. And he’d seen other men looking at her as well. Zero loomed around her like a protective big brother, though, and probably turned off a lot of guys. Not that she couldn’t turn them off herself, he thought with a bit of a smile.

  He rolled his head back to look around their makeshift camp. They’d eaten a light dinner of rations then settled around the fire. He’d instructed Zero to take first watch. Shane would relieve him in four hours. Then Kenny. They’d all worked hard today and they needed to catch up. With a final glance at Madeira, Fontana closed his eyes.

  Chapter Eight

  Aiden looked at the sat phone in his hand. There was a spinning dial and he could tell there was a picture coming through. He counted breaths as he waited.

  When it finally did come though, it was as bad as he’d feared. Without a word, he handed the phone to Wulfe, who cursed, low and vicious. The text message said, I had hope, Will.

  Yeah, he had too, but they were dashed now. Aiden’s mind spun. Duncan was in his office. Pushing up from the table, he headed in that direction.

  I might have a forensic team.

  Aiden paused to look at Wulfe, curious why he was contacting him telepathically. There was no one around. Really?

  Wulfe scowled, working his mouth like he’d eaten something sour. Maybe. Give me some minutes. I need to call Virginia.

  Aiden glanced at the clock on the wall in the office beside him. How long do you need?

  I will call now. Just need an office for privacy.

  Pointing down the hallway to the interview room, Aiden leaned back against the hallway.

  “Send me that picture,” Wulfe growled.

  Punching in a few buttons, Aiden did. Once Wulfe received the picture he headed down the hall to the dark office at the end.

  Aiden cooled his heels in the hallway. He sent Angela a text, asking her if she had time to meet for lunch.

  Of course I do. For you!

  Grinning, Aiden basked in the words. Thank you, Angel. I love you. And miss you. See you at 12 at your place?

  I’ll be there! Love you!

  Even as recently as a month ago, he never in his wildest dreams would have expected to receive a text like that, from anyone. A lot had changed recently.

  He glanced down the hallway at the office on the left. That was his brother’s office. Again, a string of words he never even considered using before. Brother. Abandoned at a church when John was no more than four or five, the same way he’d been. The chances of them both being scattered to the winds, then finding each other again were so minuscule that he doubted anyone could figure it.

  His life had changed drastically in the past month, and he would fight to protect his new normal. When they’d fought Priscilla and her mercenaries a few days ago, he’d known that the shit was about to hit the fan. So far, though, it had been quiet. The company appeared to be regrouping, deciding what to do. Priscilla had been an integral part of their daily operations. Her funeral, as well as several others for the more minor employees were scheduled over the next few days. Aiden, Fontana and Wulfe had a limited amount of time to work before the Collaborative would move.

  His eyes drifted to the door. Wulfe needed to hurry up.

  “Good morning, Officer Rose.”

  The other man didn’t respond for several long seconds. “How the hell did you get this number?”

  Wulfe could almost see the foul expression on Operations Officer Rose’s face. “No matter. I have a gift for you.”

  Rose was silent on the other end of the line, as Wulfe expected him to be. They hadn’t met under the best of circumstances, and Rose would always hold that against him.

  Wulfe let the silence draw out, but Rose was good. He didn’t rush to fill it.

  “No? Not interested?” Wulfe taunted. “I’ll have to call one of my other CIA contacts then. Tell them about the violations we’ve uncovered in South America by members of your government.”

  The officer sighed heavily. “What violations? I don’t have time to play these games. I actually have a job to do.”

  “Hm. Yes. What is Damon Wilkes doing right now?”

  The silence stretched again, a little sharper this time. “He appears to be grieving a lost employee.”

  “How soon can you have a forensic team in the air to South America?”

  “A couple hours. Why?”

  “I thought you might want to investigate t
he mass grave part of my team just found.”

  “Why would I want to do that?” Rose asked. “It’s not my country.”

  “No, but some of the men in it are American servicemen who had taken part in a shared government testing program with the Silverstone Collaborative.”

  Wulfe let that sink in.

  “Are you being legit with me?” Officer Rose’s voice lowered to a growl. “If I dispatch a team to another country, I damn well better have proof. How do you know that it’s American servicemen in there?”

  “Because I have a roster of names that were sent there, and even what branch. Some will be from other countries, yes, but there will be American bones there.”

  “I can’t do this without some kind of proof. What ‘team’ are you working with?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I will send you a picture.”

  “This better be legit, Wulfe, or you can just lose my number forever. You get me?”

  “I get you, Officer Rose. But there are conditions to this gift.”

  “What conditions. What are you talking about?”

  “This needs investigation, but you need to sit on the information until I tell you. If you do, I will give you two more locations.”

  “You know for a fact there are three locations?”

  Wulfe grimaced and hoped the bluff worked. “Yes. Maybe more. We have boots on the ground confirming now.”

  Wulfe let Rose think, not saying anything. If the officer didn’t take the bait they were stuck. No other options.

  “Send me the picture.”

  And he hung up. Wulfe sent the photo to the same number and waited. He could see when the text was read. Exactly one minute later the phone rang in his hand and he answered it.

  “Okay. Send me the location and how to get there. I will sit on what we find as long as possible. But I have to answer for the forensic team to my boss.”

  “The longer you wait,” Wulfe responded, “the more information you will have to convict Wilkes. You’ve been investigating him for months. Another week or three will not make much of a difference.”