Another avian shriek. This time much closer. Perhaps the raptor was circling the clearing and waiting for its opportunity to pick at the gnarled remains.
His bloody hand grew slick on the rifle's grip. He had to pause to inspect the mass of gauze, which was so thoroughly saturated that he was forced to peel it off and hurl it into the underbrush. The wound had started to scab over, but not well enough to staunch the flow of blood or hide the angled bone chips. He cursed and fumbled another roll of gauze out of his pocket, then wrapped his hand as tightly as he could bear. It didn't take long for the blood to soak through the fresh bandage.
"Goddamn savages," he grumbled.
The forest around him was so silent that even his stealthily placed footsteps made the detritus crackle far too loudly for comfort. Shadows claimed the trees and shrubs around him, and choked visibility down to a few feet to either side. A mosquito whined in his ear, but he resisted the urge to slap it until he felt the stinger poke his skin, then quietly squished it on his cheek.
A heliconia bush swayed ahead. The orange blossom, shaped like a roadrunner's head, nodded back and forth.
He felt no wind.
His finger tightened the trigger into the sweet spot. The slightest application of pressure would fire a fusillade of bullets at the rate of ten rounds per second.
The movement slowly stilled, and the flower resumed its former position, a wary bird peering out from behind the bush on a long, slender neck.
He raised the rifle into firing position and advanced in increments of inches.
A cold bead of sweat rolled down his temple from his forehead and dripped onto the stock.
Another step forward and he was directly beside the heliconia.
A low clicking sound came from the tangled vegetation to his left.
The moment he turned in that direction, he realized his mistake.
Leaves rustled and he smelled rotten flesh.
Something sharp impaled his side.
He was cleaved from his feet and pinned to the ground beneath a heavy weight.
Searing pain in his neck.
A flood of warmth over his face and chest.
Damp tearing sounds.
Darkness descended on the buzzing wings of black flies.
XI
11:58 p.m.
Tasker would have had a harder time tracking a herd of stampeding elephants for as cautious as his prey had been. Perhaps the appearance of the natives had thrown them off his scent. They had known they were being followed, but he didn't think they suspected they were being tailed by two separate factions. And now they had their hands full with the Indians, as he imagined he soon would as well. Their trackers had been trailing his men and him, too. He rarely saw them, but their presence was impossible to miss. Now, he could either wait for them to spring their trap, or he could go on the offensive. He reveled in the prospect of the latter. Only time would tell.
The expedition party's trail had led directly to the stone fortification. There had been no signs to suggest they had veered off in either direction, which could only mean one thing. They had passed through the wall and into whatever was on the other side, and they wouldn't have been allowed to do so without an escort. He didn't feel like calling out for the natives to show themselves in order to chaperone them through the city walls, so they were just going to have to go around.
His men were staggered a quarter mile apart and concealed in the jungle so they could study the fortress and the lay of the land. Based on the way the mountains rose steeply to the northwest beyond the walls, he could only assume they would be better served by taking the southernmost route around, but in this game, there was no room for assumptions.
Torches surrounded the fortress in iron chimneys built onto the tops of tall stone columns. They burned so brightly that they had to be fueled by something more than mere wood. A chemical of some kind perhaps? The fierce flames turned night to day in a fifteen-foot-wide stretch that allowed them to clearly reconnoiter the perimeter, but would expose them too soon if they attempted to approach from the jungle.
Another fifteen minutes had passed. It was time for his men to report in. They had watched the fortifications long enough. It was time to make their move.
"Northern front, all clear," McMasters whispered through his earpiece.
"No sign of movement here, either," Reubens said. He was positioned at the northwestern edge of the fortress, where the monolithic manmade wall met with the chiseled limestone mountainside. Earlier he had reported that there was no way around on that side, and none of them had been able to identify the entrance to what they assumed to be a village from the distance. The wall appeared impassable, yet somehow the others had crossed through it at the point where their tracks ended. Surely he and his men would be able to pick up their trail again wherever they exited on the other side. If they had even been allowed to leave.
Tasker waited for Jones to call in his status.
The far cry of a circling hawk broke the silence.
A minute passed.
"Jones," he whispered into his microphone.
He peeled apart the layers of static, but gleaned nothing.
Jones had been dispatched along the southern bank of the wall to the left of where Tasker now crouched behind a termite-infested log, from which an abundance of epiphytes bloomed. He had yet to miss a check-in. Something was wrong. A dozen different scenarios played through Tasker's mind, the most likely of which was that Jones had stumbled upon the natives and had been forced to bed down in radio silence. Then again, he could always have come under attack now that they were separated.
Tasker hadn't heard the chatter of gunfire, though, and no Marine could be so easily ambushed. Not without getting off at least a single shot in his defense.
"Jones," he whispered one last time. Still no reply. This wasn't good. He gave the command. "Close rank."
Tasker held perfectly still while he waited, listening for any sound to betray the approach of hostiles and watching the vine-draped stone wall for the slightest movement. Again, the only thing he heard was that same avian skree, farther away this time. Another bird answered from higher up in the mountains beyond the fortress.
Five more minutes ticked interminably past.
Crunching in the underbrush to his right.
Tasker spun and leveled his assault rifle at the shadow of a man as it emerged from the forest. His finger tightened on the trigger. He was a breath away from firing when McMasters's features resolved from the darkness. Reubens stepped out from the trees a moment later. Even with their night vision goggles and the infrared flashlight beams affixed to the apparatuses, they flinched when Tasker rose from beneath the drape of moss and vines.
He nodded to them, then inclined his head in the direction he had sent Jones.
They followed the face of the wall from the anonymity of the jungle until they reached the corner, then paralleled the southwestern fortification toward the point where it met with the sheer cliff that served as the western aspect of the fortress. So far there had been no sign of passage, and nothing to indicate a struggle.
He held up his fist and they paused. Minus the crackle of the detritus underfoot, he could faintly discern screams coming from somewhere ahead. Not human screams, but deeper, shriller, almost equine.
As they listened, the cries abated, and they were again swaddled in silence.
"Jones," he whispered. "State your position."
The only response was the unnerving buzz of static.
Tasker was getting angry now. If Jones had turned yellow and decided to make a break for it, he would hunt him down like a dog and teach him a lesson about desertion. The coward's death would be slow and excruciating.
He appraised the remaining men, who showed no outward signs of derision. Good.
Lowering his fist, they continued through the forest until the buzz of static intensified. Tasker lowered the volume, but the noise persevered from somewhere ahead.
Black flie
s. He had grown intimately familiar with their telltale noise. He would have recognized it anywhere.
The sound grew louder as they skirted a trunk the size of an overpass pylon and slipped through a thicket of spear-leafed saplings. He smelled the focus of the insects' attention and raised his rifle. Easing forward in his shooter's stance, he passed from the trees into a cluster of knee-high ferns growing in the lee of a Brazil nut tree. Moisture from the bushes soaked into his pants, still lukewarm despite the fact that it had been hours since the last rainfall. The swarm of flies swirled like snow in front of him and crawled in shades of green over the leaves and groundcover. A drop of fluid pattered his shoulder. He looked up in time to see another fall from the corner of his eye.
"Jones?" he whispered. His own voice echoed back at him from the ground to his right.
Another drop fell onto the back of his trigger hand. He brought it to his lips and dabbed it with his tongue.
Blood.
"Fan out," he whispered.
Tasker glanced from the canopy to the tree trunks and then to the shrubs as he inched forward, shoving the ferns aside with his feet so he could see the ground. The cracked lens of an infrared light was partially buried in the dirt. Two steps later, he found the remainder of Jones's helmet, turtle-shelled from a sharp impact.
"Jesus Christ," Reubens whispered.
Tasker was about to ask what the man had found when his question was answered. A broken section of skull rested at his feet, still shimmering with fresh blood. The scalp and hair were still attached, alive with crawling black bodies.
They had been separated for less than an hour and Jones had last checked in no more than twenty-five minutes ago. What could have done this in that amount of time? More importantly, what could have overwhelmed the soldier so suddenly that he hadn't had time to squeeze the trigger?
There was no doubt in his mind that Jones had been attacked by the same animals that had ripped apart the three men they had found earlier. A lone individual couldn't massacre and consume a human being so quickly. There had to be several of them out here in the jungle with them, lurking somewhere in the shadows.
He turned toward a clattering sound to his left. McMasters lifted Jones's rifle from the bushes.
The soldier pressed the barrel to his bare cheek and shook his head to confirm what Tasker already knew.
It was cold.
Tasker resumed his search. His left foot met resistance. He knelt, one eye on the forest, the other on the ground as he shoved aside a mess of wet branches. His hand closed around what felt like a sharply broken branch the thickness of the grip of a baseball bat. He evaluated it in shades of green and black. Bifid spinous processes, segments of bone interspersed with cartilaginous discs. A cervical spine. He flung it aside and stood, wiping his hands on his pants.
"God. Is that a hand?" Reubens whispered. "No amount of money is worth...this."
"Your share has already nearly doubled," Tasker said. "We're talking about several million dollars here."
Reubens didn't respond. He simply nudged the severed hand with the toe of his boot.
"You could always turn back," Tasker said. Reubens glanced up. Tasker read the look of hope on the man's face. "Sure. No hard feelings. McMasters and I would be happy to absorb your share. I just don't know if I would want to be wandering around alone in this jungle right now, do you?"
Reubens hesitated before he replied, appearing to reach a firm decision. He jut forth his chin. "No, sir."
Tasker made no attempt to hide his smug expression. He owned these men.
There was nothing they could do for Jones now.
"Let's get the hell out of here," he whispered.
"What could have done this?" McMasters asked.
"The fuck if I know," Tasker said. "But from here on out, we stay together. If anything moves, blast it to kingdom come."
Chapter Six
I
Andes Mountains, Peru
October 30th
1:09 a.m. PET
Colton awakened with a start. Hands clasped his shoulders and shook him sharply. A shadowed face loomed over his, unidentifiable. He drew his pistol from his side and shoved it into his assailant's gut.
"It's me. Sorenson," the shadow whispered. "We have a problem."
The man's Scandinavian features slowly came into focus as the lingering residue of sleep dissipated.
"What---?"
"Shh," Sorenson hissed. He tilted his head toward the open tent flaps. "Outside."
Colton slid out of his sleeping bag fully dressed, shoved his feet into his boots, and crawled out of the mosquito netting. Something must have happened. They wouldn't have roused him otherwise.
He checked his watch. 1:10 a.m. Ten minutes past the changing of the guards. A tingle passed through his abdominal viscera. Something had gone seriously wrong. The humid air was electric with tension.
With a glance back to confirm Leo was still asleep, Colton crawled out of the tent behind Sorenson. Morton and Webber stood beside the fire, whispering animatedly. The light cast shadows of worry on their faces. Where was Rippeth? Colton was still looking for the man when they joined the others. Sorenson spoke in a hushed tone.
"Rippeth's gone."
"What do you mean, 'gone'?"
"He didn't return from his patrol detail at the scheduled rendezvous time," Morton whispered. "There was no answer on his com-link, so we initiated a search of the camp. The first thing we noticed was that his backpack was gone. The second thing we discovered was this..."
Morton walked over to the pile of supplies and pointed down to the wooden crate attached to the carrying poles. A smear of blood covered the edge of the lid on the right side near the latch, where someone would have grabbed it in the process of opening it. Someone with a bleeding right hand.
"Damn it," Colton whispered. "Has anyone inventoried the contents yet?"
"All of the sensing equipment appears to be accounted for," Webber said. "However, we're missing several items from the private stock underneath."
Colton felt a sinking sensation. He raised his eyebrows to encourage Webber to continue. The man looked away when he spoke.
"One each of the fragmentary and incendiary grenades, and one of the SCARs."
"He deserted us." Colton fumed. This was entirely unacceptable. The man had been paid an inordinate amount of money in advance. Even with the remaining half due upon successful completion of their mission, it was still more than enough to live comfortably for several years.
"No," Sorenson snapped. He lowered his tone again. "Rippeth was no coward. He would have seen the expedition to the end or died trying. There's no way he would slink off in the middle of the night."
"Minus the tent you men shared, all of his personal belongings are gone, in addition to close to twenty thousand dollars worth of military-grade firepower."
"I'm telling you," Sorenson said through bared teeth, "he did not desert us."
Colton studied the other two men from the corner of his eye. They appeared considerably less convinced.
"Then if you're right, he can't be far from here," Colton whispered. "And there had better be a damn good reason as to why he's not here right now."
Colton forced down the images of the slaughtered jaguar and the terrified alpacas in their fully-enclosed stone pen. They held no province here. Already three men had absconded with supplies under the cover of darkness. Regardless of what Sorenson thought, he was certain that Rippeth was the fourth. But he couldn't afford a mutiny right now. The former soldiers pledged allegiance to their bank accounts, but every man had his personal loyalties, which was obvious in Sorenson's case. He was going to have to indulge them an all-out search of the surrounding jungle if he hoped to keep them on his side.
"Then we need to divide the area into quadrants," Colton whispered. "We can safely rule out the lake. Morton, you head southeast along the shoreline and work your way back into the forest. Webber, you and Sorenson strike off to the east and the
n split up. One of you go north, the other south. I'll follow the bank to the northwest and search the surrounding area. We meet back here in thirty minutes. Any questions?"
"Are we going to arm ourselves from the crate?" Webber asked.
"Not until it's absolutely necessary. We don't want to panic the civilians. We still need them focused to reach our goal." Colton paused to gauge their reactions. They seemed momentarily appeased by his plan. "All right then. You have your orders." He held up his wristwatch. "On my mark." The other three similarly raised their watches, and synchronized the time in unison.
Colton turned and strode through the camp and along the shoreline. He fished his communications gear out of his pocket and plugged the earpiece into his left ear. The rotten smell accosted him from the jungle to his right. He wasn't especially looking forward to revisiting the clearing filled with festering carcasses, but someone had to do it, and none of the other men had objected when he assigned it to himself. He didn't blame them in the slightest.
After another hundred yards, he ducked out of the moonlight and into the darkness beneath the canopy. He could barely see a thing, even with his penlight, which he held against the barrel of his pistol in a two-handed grip as he pressed back the shadows in slow sweeps. There was no reason to be leading with his weapon, but it provided a measure of comfort. He wasn't the kind of man prone to allowing himself to be spooked. After a decade as a SEAL, he had seen men die in just about every possible way, and he had survived with little more than cuts and contusions. Bosnia, Chechnya, Iraq. He had done things he chose not to remember and things he would never forget. And since then, he had handled more of these private expeditions than he could count. From the Nile basin and the deserts of Africa to the polar ice caps and the thousands of feet of water beneath the Seven Seas to the smallest of uncharted islands and war-torn Third World nations. And through them all, his gut had never felt like it did now.
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