SNAFU: Black Ops

DEEPEST, DARKEST Hank Schwaeble

The most disturbing thought that crossed Hatcher’s mind as he scanned the team members lining the interior of the fuselage wasn’t that this may have been the first time an audit letter from the IRS was a pretext to coerce participation in a covert op, but rather that it likely wasn’t.

The C130 landed on a dirt strip in Malawi, seven miles from the Zambian border. The plane slowed to a bumpy roll, almost coming to a stop, and the pilot turned a tight radius using the right engines and left brakes. She goosed the engines and taxied the big bird back toward the other end.

Hatcher unbuckled from the nylon webbing of the jump seat and stood, hooking a hand on a support along the fuselage wall. A pale glow was spilling in from the front of the plane through the cockpit. The pilot eased the big transport into another turn, then began shutting down the engines, moving sets of controls protruding from a center console. Hatcher stepped toward the cockpit and leaned in.

“How long?”

The pilot tugged her headset down from her ears, let it hang around her neck. “Ten nautical miles out a minute ago. ETA in about five.”

Hatcher nodded. The inbound chopper would take them into Zambia just as the sun was breaking the horizon. It was a short hop to the LZ.

“You know him? The pilot, I mean.”

She gave him an enigmatic look, like she had to think about the phrasing of her answer. “Not really. He’s Army.”

Hatcher glanced at the co-pilot, who looked like he was about to graduate junior high. The kid smiled and shook his head.

“He sure seems interested in knowing her,” he said. “Or knowing her better. He’s been coming up with excuses to check in with her all day.” He pointed to a display on the console where there were two sets of numbers. He was indicating the second set. Five digits, the last one separated by a decimal point. Vacant frequency, Hatcher guessed.

“That’s quite enough, Lieutenant,” the captain said.

“How long are you in-country?”

“Twenty-four hours,” she said. “We’re flying back to Lilongwe, spending the night there. We’re supposed to wait for orders. I suppose those will be to pick you up?”

“Let’s hope.” He looked at the numbers on the radio again, thinking of the COMSEC limitations his team would be operating under. Zero Airwave Presence.

The whine of mechanisms grew slower and lower, whirring sounds, pinging sounds, ticking sounds. Hatcher stepped back into the main body of the transport and looked over his team, strung together some words in his head. He gave a nod to the one named Woodley, who gave one back. Woodley was some sort of contractor, had done this kind of thing before. Why that guy wasn’t team leader, Hatcher still couldn’t figure. He hated being in command.

“All right,” Hatcher said, projecting his voice. “You all know the mission and the plan. Time to suit up and go Tom Clancy. If you have any questions, they better be good ones, because the time to ask them was during the six hours of briefing, not now. Otherwise, get your weapon and lock and load.”

“I got one.” It was Garza. Sniper. Ex-Marine. Short and top heavy. Scar deforming the side of his upper lip. “Why aren’t we doing this under dark cover?”

It was a good question. One he’d asked himself, when the operational parameters had been explained to him. He was told not to volunteer the answer if it came up, to give some lame rationale about airspace and international treaties and technical distinctions between hostile incursions and minor violations. But he wasn’t going to keep anything from the team.

“The people we’re working with on the ground, including our contacts, are superstitious. I’m not sure how else to put it. They believe there are threats in the darkness, risks they aren’t willing to take. They insisted on daylight. That’s why we’re being dropped at the crack of dawn.”

Hatcher knew the locals were right. There were threats in the darkness. But he doubted what they were afraid of had anything to do with the kinds of things he knew to be true, the kinds of things he knew to be lurking in the dark. And he seriously doubted there was anything to the particular superstitions that caused many in the region to participate in a robust black market for albino body parts, prizing them for some sort of mystical qualities it was believed they possessed — a practice that apparently motivated the woman Hatcher and his team were tasked with rescuing to do volunteer work in dangerous territory, angering dangerous people — other than maybe the power that comes from a long history of folklore. Still, the thought bothered him.

The loadmaster was a small NCO. He stood near the rear and began a roll call of assigned numbers. The first guy to grab his M4 from the man chuckled. His name was Ivy, ex-SEAL. He tapped the magazine against his helmet. Ivy was medium height, medium build. Well proportioned. Very dark skin with high cheek bones.

“Superstitious,” Ivy said, chin swaying. “Never known a brother who wasn’t.”

Some laughs from the group. Zorn, an athletic looking guy with sandy brown hair in a neat flat top sat up stiff, making a show of concern. “Hold it, now, I was told you were the only black guy I’d have to put up with. And they promised you weren’t allowed to speak. They ain’t paying me enough.”

A few more laughs. Ivy made a comment about Zorn’s mama having plenty of quarters to spread around, last he’d heard, and Hatcher stepped in to shut everyone up. This, he figured, was why they didn’t want that kind of thing talked about. An off-color joke, a poorly-phrased comment — the slightest wrong note at a fragile moment could spell trouble. Cooperation could be cut-off instantly, especially when you were dealing with people who had it rough, people who had little else but their pride.

“Not a word of it. Not to our hosts, not to anyone from this point on. You all have the Ugly-American angle covered well enough with your looks.” He stared each of them down, one by one, before catching Woodley’s eye. “When the bird lands, you and I are out first. Ivy, Zorn, you’re next, but on signal. Garza, you follow them. And watch it with the jokes. Save ‘em for the flight back. Game-face time.”

Hatcher gestured Woodley near. He was the first in the group Hatcher’d been introduced to in that basement dungeon of offices, during the carrot portion of the pitch, right after the stick. Tall, athletic in a lean way. Smiled way too much, kept patting Hatcher on the back and talking about how glad he was Hatcher was on board. Hatcher had taken an instant dislike to him. The gung-ho attitude and Aryan features screamed poster-boy for the Hitler Youth. “You understand why we’re first, right?”

Woodley chewed on it, but not for long. He registered his comprehension with a pop of the eyebrows. “Got it.”

The muted rhythm of helicopter blades thumped against the aluminum skin of the plane. The rear cargo hatch lowered like a drawbridge. The loadmaster called out the remaining numbers, handing each man his rifle and five magazines. Hatcher went last. After the weapons and ammunition were distributed, the loadmaster unlocked a separate container and handed Woodley a silver metallic briefcase. The men exited single file, headed straight toward the chopper. Hatcher waited for everyone else to board, scanning the tree lines, before climbing on.

There was no preflight briefing. There were headsets, but none of the team reached for one and Hatcher decided not to, either. The right-seat pilot shut the sliding passenger door and climbed back in. The engine grew louder a moment later and the craft shifted, a sliding feeling, then it rose. The nose dipped before it got twenty feet off the ground and then they were accelerating forward.

The ride was smooth. It was Hatcher’s first time in a Lakota. Much nicer than the Hueys and Chinooks he was used to, but he reminded himself that had been over a decade ago. He watched the terrain roll by below, green concentrations of heavy vegetation, beige-yellow plains. They were barely ten minutes into the flight when the pilot gestured back, then pointed. The helicopter descended into a clearing.

Hatcher slid a hand to the small of his back, feigned like he was scratching. He touched the tiny metal cylinder tucked behind his belt, a tool he’d taken to carrying everywhere, ever since his last run-in with the police. Why the feel of it at a time like this gave him comfort, when he was armed to the teeth, he wasn’t sure. Maybe because he felt trapped, roped into an operation against his will, and the reason he always carried it was to make traps seem less hopeless. The idea made him feel silly.

Two automobiles emerged from beyond the tree line, approaching. One was an olive-green Land Rover with an open rear and a large metal frame instead of a roof, what looked like a podium extending over the hood surrounded by a railing. Safari observation platform, Hatcher supposed. The other was a bleached-out tan Humvee. Both were beat up, with numerous dents and bond-o blotches and mud-caked rugged tires that were worn long past their replacement date. The Land Rover had a driver but no one else in it. The Hummer had a driver and a passenger.

Woodley opened the door and glanced at Hatcher. The others were all in various states of lean, ready to go, but Hatcher held up a fist. He picked a headset off a hook, made sure it was plugged in, and spoke into the mouthpiece.

“There’s always a chance they may pull weapons. At the first sign of anything that I or the team member with me can’t handle, you get these men out of here and abort.”

The pilot nodded. Per the mission rules, there would be no radio traffic. Extraction was set by time and coordinates, with a contingency meeting point set two hours later. There was no host government involvement, so risk of a communication capture was to be avoided with extreme priority. While nobody liked those kinds of orders, Hatcher grudgingly understood. The entire mission was a gross violation of national sovereignty. The ramifications could be far reaching and threaten myriad pacts and alliances, formal and informal. There was no escaping politics.

Woodley hopped out and Hatcher followed. They double-timed it in a slight crouch until they reached the Hummer.

The driver opened the door and put one foot on the ground, standing, but didn’t get all the way out. He was wearing mirrored sunglasses that reflected the glowing sky to the east. A khaki shirt, pockets but no sleeves. To Hatcher’s surprise, he didn’t appear to be armed.

The man slapped the outside of the open door — pop pop — then held out his hand at an expectant angle. His dark skin was wrapped tight around a lean, corded arm, a bump for a bicep, a knob for an elbow. He snapped his fingers, fanned his hand toward his body.

Hatcher shifted his eyes to Woodley and gestured with his chin. Woodley stepped forward with the briefcase. The man grabbed the handle and tossed the case into the jeep behind him without so much as a pause to glance at it.

Woodley stepped back. The man leaned on the vehicle door, hiding behind his mirrored lenses. He seemed to be waiting for something else.

“You got your money,” Hatcher said. “Now, where are we heading? Distance and direction.”

The man stared at Hatcher. His upper lip and the side of his mouth curled enough to show teeth, but he said nothing.

“You’re either the leader of whatever gang or outfit or tribal clan you belong to, or the guy sent by the leader. That means you speak English.”

Woodley started to say something, but Hatcher threw up a palm without looking at him.

“Well?”

“I am thinking,” the man said. He took a long minute eyeing Hatcher, head tilting up and down. “About what I am being paid to do. It is not easy to betray someone.”

The whine of the helicopter hummed in their ears. Hatcher felt Woodley tense, sensed him shifting his weight forward. He stuck out his arm like a road block.

He didn’t like any of this. Didn’t want to be there, didn’t like being in charge, and sure as hell didn’t like having been blackmailed into the whole thing. But even if he’d signed up willingly, he would have hated this plan. This was supposed to be a hostage rescue, but they were paying for the location. Half rescue, half ransom. That meant dealing with shifting allegiances and incomplete information of unknown reliability. His objections had been overruled. The plan was put in place at too high a level to change it, he’d been told. And that plan was to pay the money, get the location, and extract the young doctor with the powerful parent back home who’d made the possibly fatal mistake of doing her volunteer work in the wrong country at the wrong time.

“Then don’t,” Hatcher said. “Stick with the deal as planned. The one you made with the people who sent us. What you’re doing will free an innocent woman. That’s not a betrayal. That’s doing the right thing. No need to complicate things.” A moment later, he added, “any more than they already are.”

The man ran his long fingers down the side of his face. His knuckles were cracked and chalky from callouses and scabbing.

“That is a good way to think of it. I will take heed of your words.” The man seemed to shift his attention to Woodley for a moment, then back to Hatcher. It was hard for Hatcher to tell with those glasses. “The camp is nine kilometers northwest. We will take you and your men to a location a little less than one kilometer from it. From there, I will escort you and one other to the perimeter. Exactly as agreed. Then, my men and I will take our leave.”

Hatcher nodded once. He turned to the helicopter and held up an arm, pointed his index finger to the sky and swirled it. His team egressed one at a time, moving swiftly, heads low, weapons in a ready position across their chests.

Leaning in toward Woodley, Hatcher said, “Keep your eye on him.” He gestured with his eyes back to the driver. “He’s hiding something.”

Woodley swallowed. The exchange had clearly rattled him; a greasy film of sweat slicked his forehead.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

Hatcher’d openly wondered at the first briefing why they hadn’t just put Woodley in charge, since he seemed to be the only one in the group with current military ties — though his actual status had been vaguely referenced as classified — and knew more about the situation than any of them. One reason had become obvious. He was jittery, uncertain. Maybe the powers-that-be weren’t as oblivious as Hatcher had assumed.

“Well, aside from the fact I can tell… the only people who don’t count money from strangers are ones who are doing it for something other than the cash. And I don’t know what that something is. Do you?”

Another swallow, followed by a deep breath. Woodley looked over his shoulder at the driver, thoughts swimming behind his eyes. He dropped his gaze to the ground, his body stiffening, as if gathering resolve.

“I don’t know why anyone does anything, anymore,” he said. “So I sure as hell don’t know what motivates these guys.”

The drive through the jungle was only about five miles, but the indirect route carved out of the terrain made it seem closer to twenty. The road was more of a trail, the destination a location chosen for its remoteness and lack of accessibility. Branches and fronds draped themselves over the path, rubbery, leafy shapes swatting off the windscreen of the lead vehicle, the wilds of an untamed land trying to reclaim its own.

Far from the chopper, the sound of the vehicles was not enough to drown out the fluty call of birds, the piercing ululations of… what? Monkeys? Hatcher couldn’t be sure. He just knew that at each tight curve, as the engines slowed to idle, the hue of wildlife was like a background track. Whistles and whoops and trills.

The lead vehicle pulled to a stop where the path took a sharp turn. The other vehicle stopped behind it.

“This is as far as I can take everyone but two of you. I will show you the camp. But your men will have to stay back. I do not want to get caught in the middle of a firefight.”

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“Mbuyi.”

“No offense, Mbuyi, but this sounds an awful lot like a trap.”

The man shrugged. “One of me, two of you. I will take you to where I can show you the path to the camp. But no farther. I have one pistol. You have automatic weapons.” He shifted his gaze to Woodley, looking him up and down with what seemed to Hatcher like a palpable disdain. He wondered if it was the blond hair. “I am in no position to control what happens after that. I will do exactly as was agreed.”

“How far is it?” Hatcher asked.

“Half a kilometer, perhaps.”

Woodley looked at Hatcher. “Your call. We can tell the rest of the team to be ready for a rapid response.”

Nothing to like about it, but they needed eyes on the camp to decide the specifics. That was always the weakest part of the plan, which was saying a lot. But they hadn’t given him much of a say in the matter. They hadn’t given him much of a say in anything.

“Do it. But get us back here in thirty.”

Woodley signaled to the others to stand ready in place, threw up three fingers then a circled palm, fingertip touching thumb. This had been part of the brief. If they weren’t back at thirty-one minutes, the team was to treat every non-team member as a hostile.

Mbuyi tossed a wave over his head to his associates and started driving again. The path was narrower now, used infrequently, barely two ruts through the trees, whose branches clawed at the windshield and scraped the metal above their heads.

After maybe three or four hundred yards, Mbuyi braked and put the vehicle into park. He stepped out and gestured to Woodley, pointing into the back. Woodley looked down, then handed him a machete that was on the floor. Mbuyi dipped his head toward the heavy brush past him.

“This way. One hundred meters or thereabouts. There is a clearing.”

The machete hissed and thwacked its way through branches and stems and vines, fans of green, nets of hairy ropes. The route Mbuyi forged had been cut before and the jungle had all but reclaimed it, leaving Hatcher to wonder if that sort of reclaiming had taken weeks, or only days. The going was slow but steady, within a few minutes, the growth became less dense. An area opened; a small spread of field. It was littered with the skeletal remains of animals. At least, Hatcher hoped they were all animals. Ribs and spines and giant drumsticks. Straight ones, curved ones, broken ones; jagged and smooth and bleached and yellowing. Large and small.

A light breeze puffed their faces. The stench it carried was unbearable.

“This place is called the Garden of Bones. You will find such gardens throughout the nearby valley. And the areas that surround it.”

Hatcher glanced at Woodley, tightened his grip on his M4, raising it slightly. Woodley wrinkled his nose and hitched a shoulder, frowning with one side of his mouth.

“Why are we in the ‘Garden of Bones,’ Mbuyi? Where’s the camp?”

“I’m afraid you will find out soon enough.”

Movement along the far treeline. Hatcher dropped to one knee and raised his rifle to a ready-fire position.

“Hostiles. Woodley, cover left.”

“Unfortunately,” Woodley said. “I’m too busy covering you.”

Hatcher turned his head. The barrel of Woodley’s rifle was pointed straight at him. Its bearer was staring down the sight, weapon securely in firing position.

Six men emerged from the brush. Most had AKs. One had an Uzi. All were pointed with varying degrees of apparent know-how in his direction. No uniforms, just jeans and sweats and t-shirts and a few caps. A woman was with them. Her wrists were pulled behind her and a dirty pillow case covered her head. Her bare arms were pale beneath smears of grime.

Hatcher eased the grip on his rifle, letting it sag in his arms. “I don’t even have any live rounds, do I?”

Woodley gave his head a shake. “Dummies. Had to make sure the weight and balance was just right. Knew you’d check.”

The approaching men drew closer, their steps slow and cautious. Hatcher set his rifle down and stood.

“So, what’s the play? Me for the girl?”

“That’s the general idea.”

Hatcher looked at Mbuyi, then back to Woodley. “What could possibly make me so valuable?”

“You’ll have to ask them,” Woodley said. “I’m sorry about this, Hatcher. I really am.”

“I bet.”

“Believe what you want, but it’s true. They had me by the short hairs. Worse than you, a lot worse. I’m just following orders. Nothing personal, man. It’s all part of the plan. Remember how you kept saying, trust in the plan?”

Hatcher never remembered saying any such thing, but saw no use in arguing. One of the men eyed Hatcher as he addressed Mbuyi. Whatever he said was in a tongue Hatcher couldn’t identify, let alone understand.

“He says he thought you would be bigger.”

“I’ve never had any complaints.”

Mbuyi paused, considering the words. Then his mouth spread into a toothy grin. He said something to the other man, who laughed. The man gestured in the direction of the woman, and one of the others grabbed her above the elbow and led her to Woodley. She stumbled along, almost losing her footing as her head darted. Hatcher guessed her mouth had a gag in it and her ears were plugged, since she seemed to have no idea what was going on around her.

Woodley took the woman’s arm, a bit more gently than the guy handing her off, and started to lead her back in the direction they’d come. He stopped after a few steps, guiding her past him, and looked back at Hatcher.

“For what it’s worth, they would have killed her. Doing it this way not only saved her, but prevented any other potential casualties on the team. Like I said, all part of the plan. And it sort of makes you a hero.”

“In that case,” Hatcher said as two of the men neared, weapons raised and shoving toward him while another produced a pair of handcuffs. “What does that make you?”

Woodley raised his brows high, gave a tilt of his head. “Underestimated.”

He winked before taking a step back.

One of the men took Hatcher’s helmet while another patted him down and removed the tactical knife from its sheath. Woodley took the helmet and yanked the microphone off. He pulled out some of the internal wiring near the earpiece and threw it into the nearby brush, then tossed the helmet back near Woodley’s feet. The woman flinched when he took her by the arm again.

Mbuyi started to follow Woodley and the woman, then stopped to look at Hatcher. Woodley paused at the mouth of the trail, an impatient set to his stance.

“It is not betrayal if you free an innocent woman. I was having second thoughts until you told me that.”

Hatcher held the man’s gaze. “In that case, just make sure she actually gets out.”

The words seemed to catch him off guard. The man pinched his lips tight and dipped his head. “The joy of life is to be continually surprised. That is also its burden.”

The muzzle of a rifle poked Hatcher in the rib, hard enough to make him wince. The leader made a gesture, and his captors started moving. One of them shoved him hard enough to make him stumble.

Mbuyi remained where he was, watching. Hatcher looked back over his shoulder as he crossed through the array of bones, the serpentine weave of vertebrates, the curled fingers of ribs. Mbuyi nodded to Hatcher one final time, then turned and walked away. Woodley guided the woman between the trees, Mbuyi a few steps behind. Within seconds, the jungle had swallowed all three of them.

The camp was a collection of huts. Some thatch weaves over cobbled scrap wood, some sheets of corrugated tin nailed to trees. In the middle of the camp was a shot-up armored vehicle without any wheels, collapsed on one side, like it had been driven across an IED and then abandoned where it lay.

They sat Hatcher on a stump at the mangled rear end of the vehicle and ran a dense chain between his arms behind his back, over the links between his wrists, and passed the shackle of a heavy duty padlock through both ends where they sandwiched a large metal loop. The loop was connected to the frame of the vehicle, welded solid.

One of the men tugged on the chain, testing it. Two others stood nearby and nodded their approval.

“Do any of you speak English?”

The three men stared at him, glancing occasionally at each other.

“I speak English.”

The voice came from behind one of the men, who stepped aside and looked back. The man it belonged to was seated in front of one of the huts, fashioning something out of a piece of wood with a small knife.

“Mind telling me what you guys want with me?”

“We do not want anything with you.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Kongamoto.”

The men near Hatcher seemed to grow uneasy at the sound of the word. Their eyes darted, casting nervous glances from one to the other.

“What the hell is a Kongamoto?”

The man in the knit cap who had seemed to be their leader when talking to Mbuyi — Hatcher hadn’t caught his name — barked out a few angry words, slashing a hand through the air for emphasis. The man with the knife sat up straight and kept his eyes down, returning his attention to whittling. The other two hurried away in opposite directions, chastened.

Knit Cap stopped in front of Hatcher, ran his eyes in an arc from one end of his body to the other and back. He was wearing an open military-style green blouse with the sleeves cut off over a faded yellow t-shirt with a worn out soft drink logo on it. His rifle was slung over his shoulder and he was holding a walkie-talkie in one hand. He raised it to his mouth and spoke words Hatcher couldn’t understand. It squawked, a crackly voice responding in ways equally unintelligible. Then he walked away.

Hatcher kept his eyes on the whittling guy. The man seemed to be forcing himself not to look, which was good. Slowly, Hatcher worked his fingers into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. He scissored his index and middle finger around a three-inch rod, fishing it out. It was titanium, with a tooth on one end and the other, sheathed end sharpened to an edge you could shave with. Slow, slow, slow. Careful not to move his upper arm or shoulder, working entirely with his forearm, fingers and wrist. The small tube slid up and over the lip of his belt and dropped, landing in the curl of his fingers.

He squeezed his fingers closed as he heard the sound of a car or truck, something with a big engine, rumbling closer until it stopped somewhere to his rear. The motor cut off, a door opened and shut. Voices. Footfalls.

Knit Cap strode into view, rifle across his chest, stock cradled in the crook of his arm. Another person joined him. A woman.

She was tall, as tall as her escort. Her skin was dark and smooth, a sheen to it that gave it an onyx glow. Her lips were full and pouty. Her kinky hair was teased out and pulled back on each side with a clip, a frizzy puff in the back. She wore an unbuttoned tan shirt over a stretchy white tank top, with khaki safari pants.

Even if she hadn’t been physically attractive to the point of it seeming absurd, Hatcher would have known by the way her presence made him anxious, that tingly, aroused feeling that her scent caused. She was a Carnate. No doubt about it. A physically perfect half-human, half-demon woman with sexual charms that were all but irresistible. They lived for seven generations and never seemed to age. All they lacked were souls.

“Jake Hatcher,” the woman said.

“Small world,” Hatcher said. “That’s my name, too.”

“That famous wit. I am Aleena. You know, some of my sisters in America have talked so much about you, I feel like I’ve known you for years.”

She spoke with a lilt, her voice polished and smooth. There was an accent, but he had no idea what kind.

“In that case, how about you let me go. Just this once. For old time’s sake.”

“Alas, that I cannot do. My most sincere apologies. I went through a lot of trouble to get you here.”

“And why would you go and do a thing like that?”

“I’m afraid that is a bit too complicated to explain at the moment. My friends here have been vexed by an entity you are well acquainted with. Or shall we say, is well acquainted with you. They have been desperately seeking a way to, shall we say, get him off their backs and to stop interfering with their lucrative business interests. They have sought out the aid of every sorcerer within a thousand miles, created a demand for the body parts of people unfortunate enough to have been born albino in a part of the world where such a condition is believed to carry mystical properties.”

“And how do I fit in to all this?”

“Oh, don’t you worry, Mr Hatcher. You will find out soon enough. Tonight, in fact.”

Hatcher shook his head, frowning. “Ooh, tonight… you know, that just doesn’t work for me. Maybe we can reschedule?”

“I have heard the stories, been told how charming others have found you. Your manly directness, your facetious banter in the face of perils sure to break the composure of those with lesser mettle. Mostly, they seem amused by your belief you can talk your way out of things, when we both know that has never happened.”

“There’s always a first time.”

“Yes. This will be one of those. Just not for that.”

She dipped her head to Knit Cap guy, then turned to walk away.

“What happens tonight?” Hatcher called after her. “So I know what to wear, what to bring. Not going to make me buy two bottles of wine, just to be safe, are you?”

Aleena pivoted on the heel of her boot, turning herself just enough to look back at him. Her lips spread to show a set of perfect white teeth.

“Red, Mr Hatcher. The color for tonight is most definitely red.”

Hatcher spent the next few hours evaluating his situation. He could unlock his cuffs — courtesy not only of the escape rod resting in the fold of his curled fingers, but also the failure of his captors in not turning his hands palms out before cuffing him. But what good would that do? It was broad daylight, miles into jungle terrain, which was the worst of all worlds. His absence would draw immediate attention, which told him these guys were smart for putting him in the middle of the camp instead of stuffing him into some hut. And even if he found an opportunity, some distraction or diversion, he’d need a firearm. Accomplishing that would draw its own attention. If they had any lying around, waiting to be grabbed, he hadn’t noticed.

So he waited.

At least one question had been answered. This was the real point of the whole production all along, not that garbage they’d BSed him with. Get him to the federal building under the guise of an audit, have him met by Secret Service agents who led him to a sub-basement more secure than a Bond villain’s lair, then acquaint him with the velvet hammer. A guy named Keegan, someone high up in the Administration, but exactly how high, or exactly who he was, was never made clear. What was made clear was the offer. He could either cooperate, or face all manner of trumped-up tax problems, including civil forfeiture of every dime he had. Criminal prosecution was all but promised, and more than a few not-so-subtle hints were dropped that certain matters involving dead cops may be looked into again with a good deal more scrutiny. Or… he could take what’s behind door number two. Help rescue a young doctor doing volunteer work helping to stop the mutilation and occasional slaughter of albinos whose body parts were believed to be powerful objects for magic. A young woman who just happened to warrant all this attention because she was the Vice-President’s secret and illegitimate daughter, that last bit being more implied than stated, neither confirmed nor denied.

The more he thought about it, the stupider he felt. Why hadn’t he just told them to go fuck themselves, like his gut wanted him to? It wasn’t a real question, because he knew the answer, and had from the beginning. Amy. The threats weren’t just to him. They were more than willing to go after her, just to prove a point. And they’d clearly done enough homework for the threat to be credible.

Less than four days later, here he was.

Heat flowed through the camp like a current, like something that could be touched and scooped and bottled. Perspiration soaked through Hatcher’s clothes, drenching him with a salty, stinging slickness.

Men moved about slowly, finding shade, playing cards, cleaning their weapons. Hatcher could sense some tension, the buzz of anticipation, but the heat seemed to keep everyone subdued. He could tell they wanted to move, wanted to pace and burn off nervous energy, but they were forced to fidget instead, trying to keep cool.

People came and went. Everyone seemed to stop and look at him more than once. Some of the men from the Garden of Bones, some who were at the camp when he got there, others who arrived later. Most would stand directly in front of him with appraising eyes, some made comments to others Hatcher couldn’t understand, some tilted their heads one way or the other, quietly assessing him. A handful smiled. Most didn’t.

Around two in the afternoon, there was activity. A vehicle arrived, followed shortly by another. Knit Cap walked up, grunted some words to a few others. Two rushed over to Hatcher and unlocked the chain. One clamped a hand on his elbow and half pushed, half dragged him toward an old extended cab pickup truck. There was some sort of mechanical device in the back, taking up most of the bed. Hatcher couldn’t quite tell what it was for, but it had the familiar shape of a weapon and what looked like a grappling hook on the end, pointed like an arrowhead.

People were climbing into vehicles. One opened a rear door to the truck and Hatcher was shoved toward it, then prodded in with the barrel of an AK. The whittling guy slid in next to him and another jumped in the passenger seat up front. Knit Cap behind the wheel.

Hatcher was in the second vehicle in a four-car caravan. They drove through tapestries of tangled wilderness and stretches of simmering plains. They crossed a narrow river over white water rocks. They passed through a small village of tiny buildings with women in colorful garb and children practically naked. A few minutes later, they were in forest again. Jungle. Vegetation so dense it was like a wild wall, a collective beast that would swallow you whole. Leaving only a Garden of Bones.

“What is that contraption?” Hatcher said, gesturing to the rear with a twitch of his head. He figured asking where they were heading would be pointless.

“That is Chigi’s invention.” The man jutted a chin toward the driver, whose eyes caught Hatcher’s in the rearview mirror. “His father drowned when his truck was swept away crossing a river.”

Hatcher turned to look at it. Calling it an invention was a stretch, but it was definitely homemade. He could now tell it was a catapult. Crossbow design, compound, augmented with what looked like axle springs. He tried to imagine ways it could come in handy. Other than during a flashflood, or while teetering on a cliff, he couldn’t think of any.

“What’s Kongamoto?”

Whittling guy opened his mouth to speak, but then the brush thinned and Hatcher saw the first vehicle start to brake and finally stop. They were near the steep embankment of a sizable hill, visible beyond a layer of forest.

The guy in the passenger seat got out and opened Hatcher’s door. He tugged Hatcher’s arm, pulling him out and shoving him through a narrow gap in the growth toward the hill. Whittling guy followed, pointing his rifle, a contrite smile on his face.

The side of the hill was rocky, almost a cliff. Vines weaved down its face, fingers and hairs spreading out from ropey trunks to cling, finding purchase in cracks and protrusions. Hatcher expected to see a cave or tunnel entrance, something that would signal why he was being led this way, but the jagged wall of earth and stone looked solid.

He stopped a few feet from the hillside and turned to face the men behind him. Five rifles, all pointed at him, varying states of readiness. He scanned their faces. It seemed like a long way to drive just to have a firing squad.

Two of the men stepped aside to let Knit Cap walk through.

The man stopped a few feet away. His face was grim despite a grin that displayed a good amount of teeth. His rifle hung from a frayed sling around his neck and over one shoulder, the opposite arm holding it steady across his body. He raised the other hand and pointed toward the escarpment. When he spoke, Hatcher had no idea what he was saying.

Two impatient snaps of his fingers, and Whittling Guy hustled forward, followed by another in the group. Skinny, face slick with sweat. The other guy slung his AK over his shoulder and hurried to the wall, the two of them working together, pushing aside some of the vines, grabbing others. Whittling Guy yanked and ripped until he was able to separate the ones he wanted from some overgrowth. Hatcher saw that the vines he’d pulled free had been tied together to form a rope ladder, rungs fashioned out of cable and wire, scavenged material, secured by a variety of screws and nails and even twine, here and there.

More words Hatcher didn’t understand. Apparently sensing this, Knit Cap paused. He pointed a finger at Hatcher, then raised it toward the top of the precipice.

“Up.”

They expect me to climb. He looked at the one holding the vines. The guy gestured back and another joined him as he took hold of one of the makeshift rungs above his head, tugging it. Looked to Hatcher like someone about to start pulling himself up. Hatcher took a quiet breath, let it out halfway. There were two ways to play this. One was to keep going along. A climb meant parsing out their numbers, and that meant at the top he’d have an opportunity to improve his odds. The problem was, if they expected him to scale a steep wall, they were going to uncuff him. That meant however they handled it, however many they sent with him, before or after, they’d be more attentive, more cautious. Probably have rifles from the ground trained on him the whole way up. He’d lose most, if not all, of the element of surprise.

That left the other way.

Hatcher nodded, lowered his head. He had already positioned the escape key in his fingertips. He slipped it into the left cuff and gave it twist. The teeth disengaged and he felt the strand practically drop open, careful to keep his hand pressed against his back so the metal didn’t make any noise.

Knit Cap reached into a lower front pocket of his Army-surplus blouse and retrieved a key. He held it up and Hatcher worried for a moment he was going to keep his distance and toss it toward him, make Hatcher kneel down and fumble to pick it up off the ground to open the cuffs himself, which would have been the smart thing to do, but instead he took a step forward. That was all it took.

Hatcher took a step himself, a much quicker one, slamming full frontal into the man, wedging the AK between them. He threw one arm around the man’s neck, clenching him tight, hooking his chin from behind and giving it a hard yank. He swung his hand up to grab the stock of the AK between them at the same time, clamping a hold of it to keep it steady, and braced for the sting.

The rifle erupted in a rapid tattoo of shots, bap-bap-bap-bap-bap-bap-bap. The sound jackhammered his ears, more distinct and a bit louder than an AR. The barrel swept in a tight arc as Hatcher spun the man by his jaw, the burst of rounds taking out the four men in front of them before they could return fire, their boss being in the way causing all kinds of confusion. A stream of scalding brass bounced off his chest, a few singeing his neck and face.

The firing stopped. No surprise there. Full auto only lasts a few seconds

Other than the guy he had wrapped up, there were two left, the ones prepping to climb the vines. Hatcher gave another violent torque to the man’s neck. The guy was trying to resist, most of his efforts directed at regaining his balance, but the laws of kinesiology were governing him for the moment. Where the head went, the body had to follow.

A complete circle, the man stumbling around Hatcher’s radial until Hatcher stuck a leg out and threw himself backwards, dropping the man on top of him as he let go of the rifle and stabbed a hand at the man’s sidearm. He jerked it free of its holster, aimed at the one of the remaining two who had gotten his weapon the highest, and squeezed the trigger.

The hammer pulled back on the double action, then punched forward with a click. Son of a bitch. Hatcher bit his lip in disgust, but didn’t have time to curse his luck. Rather than relinquish his grip on his shield’s neck, which would have taken more time anyway, he rotated the pistol sideways and slammed it against the man’s head, digging the rear sight into his temple as hard and as deep as he could, and in one continuous motion shoved the handle forward. The man screamed as Hatcher racked a round into the chamber.

One of the gunmen let off three rounds, apparently writing his boss off for dead. Two of them hit the man, jolting his body, the other sizzling past Hatcher’s skull. Hatcher fired one shot at center of mass that knocked the shooter back just as another round, this one from Whittling Guy, took a chunk of Knit Cap’s head and splattered blood across Hatcher’s face. Hatcher fired another shot, this one missing, but far worse than that was the sight of the slide open, stuck halfway back, the end of a protruding shell visible in the ejection port. A jam. Hatcher knew before he’d even glanced at it, knew without even thinking about it. Cheap loads, limp wrist. To clear it, he’d have to slap his palm against the bottom of the magazine and rack the slide again. But that would mean tossing off his shield. And there wasn’t enough skull left on the body lying on top of him, now dead weight, for him to try another forced rack. He looked to be out of options. To make matters worse, the first gunman he’d shot wasn’t even down, he was pressing his hand against a wound in his abdomen, intent on rejoining the fray, a bit hunched over, but looking directly at Hatcher and managing to point his rifle using his other arm. The second one, Whittling Guy, seeing the malfunction, stepped forward, focused on not wasting any more rounds, the set of his jaw dead serious, moving in for the kill shot.

He’d have to risk it. The chances of him not taking hits seemed about zero, but there really wasn’t any choice.

Hatcher rocked to the side, ready to throw the body off him, hopefully have enough momentum to roll over it, pop onto a knee on the other side, tap-rack-fire. The closest rifleman snapped his AK higher, sighting it in, just as Hatcher flung the body over.

The eruption of rifle fire hammered his ears. His back seemed to be exposed for dozens of bursts. He braced himself for the burn, tensing in anticipation, figuring at least the pain would let him know he was alive.

He bounced up, one knee down, just as planned. He was already slapping his hand against the bottom of the pistol, jacking the slide back, thrusting the barrel out.

No one was there. No one standing.

Whittling Guy was on his back, body arched and slowly sagging to ground as his neck went limp. The other rifleman was facedown, several wounds in the top of skull leaking thick streams of blood.

A voice projected from the jungle a few yards away.

“Hold fire!”

Hatcher remained still for a moment, then lowered his weapon. Woodley emerged, gesturing above his head. Others appeared from different points, rifles trained on the bodies, barrels snapping from one to another to another. No one appeared to be taking any chances. Only Woodley seemed confident the threat had been neutralized.

Half of Woodley’s face tightened into a smirk. “Didn’t really think we were going to leave you in the hands of a bunch of guerrillas, did you?”

Hatcher narrowed his eyes at the man before bouncing glances at the others. They were too engrossed in the task at hand, checking the bodies, alert for undetected hostiles, to make eye contact. He let himself exhale fully for what felt like the first time in minutes. His body suddenly felt heavy, his limbs weighted down. He stared at the ground and gathered enough strength to push to his feet.

“Why?” Hatcher said, running his gaze over the bodies.

“I know you’ve got lots of questions. First, let Ivy take a look at you, make sure you’re not carrying any unwanted metal or losing any tomato juice anywhere.”

“Why,” he repeated, less a question this time than a command.

“You’re angry. I get it. I would be, too. But you know how it works. Orders.”

“Bullshit. That doesn’t answer the question, and it sure as hell doesn’t let you off the hook.”

“Whoa, now. I’m the guy who just saved your ass, remember? Yes, it was a shitty thing to do. The world’s a shitty place.”

“I’m only going to ask one more time. Why?”

“I can only tell you what I know, which is what they told me. The PMU that had her, that was their price. They asked for you — demanded you — by name. A swap.”

Hatcher straightened up. “They asked for me, by name.”

“That’s what I was told. My orders were to accomplish the exchange, clear the hostage, then track and retrieve you.” Woodley took his eyes off Hatcher, snapped his fingers. “Ivy, check him out, will you?”

Ivy slung his rifle behind his back and approached Hatcher, removing a pack from his belt.

Hatcher barely glanced at the man, keeping his eyes on Woodley. “You have no fucking idea what you’ve done.”

“Hey, it’s not like I was the one who came up with the plan, or even had a vote. And, in case you’re wondering, the others didn’t know. Ivy here didn’t know. I briefed them once we were clear.”

Hatcher flinched as Ivy reached toward his face with a swab.

“There’s a lot of blood.” The man’s expression was apologetic. His lips were pulled tight in a flat smile that was more of a sympathetic frown. “Just let me clean it off and make sure none of it’s yours.”

The swab felt cool, even as it stung. The smell of alcohol scraped his nostrils. It perked him up a bit. A slant of sunlight stabbed through a net of leaves and fronds, flashing in his eyes. It was almost dusk.

Almost dusk meant almost dark.

There was too much information to process and not enough information to process it with.

“That looks better. Lemme give you a quick exam and we can get out of here.”

Hatcher locked his eyes on Ivy’s, then fixed his attention back on Woodley. One piece clunked into place.

“That’s not the plan, though, is it?”

Woodley said nothing.

Ivy paused. “What do you mean?”

“Tell him the truth, Woodley. Tell them all what we’re really here for. Because I’d like to hear it myself.”

“Hold on, now. I haven’t lied. I told them after we rescued you, Phase One of the mission would be complete. That’s the truth.”

“But you didn’t tell them extraction wasn’t until Phase Three, did you?”

“No,” Ivy said. “He didn’t.”

“He sure as hell didn’t,” Garza said. “Next thing up was supposed to be evacuation.”

“Guys, I’m just following instructions, same as you.”

“That’s a load of horseshit and you know it. You may be an ass, but you’re not a dumb one. If the mission was to rescue a captive, trading me, you could have staged an assault right after the exchange. You could have attacked the camp. You could have done it a dozen different ways that would make a hell of a lot more sense than this. And you would have told them that, so Keegan or whoever was calling the shots had to give you more.”

Woodley tilted his head to the side and rolled his eyes. But his embarrassed smirk gave it away.

Another piece clicked into place. “You put a tracker on me. Where? My boot?”

“Yes.” Woodley nodded, letting out a weary sigh. “Good call. In the heel.”

“And you couldn’t let me in on it because they knew I’d refuse, because the plan was stupid and risky and unnecessary. And because I would know if they asked for me by name, there were factors in play that make this whole operation a very, very bad idea. And you couldn’t tell the others because they would also point out there was no need to delay the rescue and would have to be let in on the real mission.”

Ivy turned his head back and forth between the two men a few times. “What’s the real mission?”

“They needed the people who took me to lead them to something,” Hatcher said. “Isn’t that right?”

“Well, golly gee fucking willickers, Hatcher…” Woodley tossed a hand up and let it drop, slapping his thigh. “You might as well give the whole briefing, if you know so much.”

“No, that’s about all I got. I have no idea what they were wanting these guys to lead them to. But I can tell you that whatever it is, we don’t want to be anywhere near it.”

Garza stepped closer. “It was bad enough we find out about Hatcher after the fact, Woodley. You didn’t tell us about any other mission, you son of a bitch.”

“Yeah,” Zorn said. He was the biggest of the group, with pale skin and a corn-fed look that at the moment was turning a shade of red beneath his crew cut. “Why don’t you fill us in before you’re grabbing your ankles and yelling BOHICA?”

“Everybody just calm the fuck down, okay? Jesus. Now that we’ve liberated our asset, the next phase is supposed to be the easy part. All we have to do is kill some animal. A big dumb thing the locals are afraid of.”

Hatcher took a breath. “Animal. What kind of animal?”

“Natives call it Kongamoto. Some sort of giant bird. They’re very superstitious about it, scares them to death. They practically worship it, like some demon god or something. If things are still going according to plan — and there is no reason to think they aren’t — they’ve led us to where it nests. All we do now is perforate it with a few hundred rounds and we can get the hell out of Dodge.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Scout’s honor. Look, as much as it pisses you off to hear it, I really am just following orders. We’re supposed to kill the bird and get our asses out.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why? For fuck’s sake, Woodley, the ‘why’ is always what matters. So, why the hell does the US government, or even just some rogue bureaucrat, want us to kill this thing?”

“What can I say? It’s all political. You know, do a favor for this leader, have a chit to call in later… Who knows? I’m just a worker bee, here.”

“Political? That’s—” A piercing screech ripped through the air before Hatcher could finish. The trees shuddered silently as every other sound seemed to disappear. The echo throbbed several times before fading away.

The ensuing silence was finally broken by Garza. “What in the name of Jesus tap-dancing Christ was that?”

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say it was Kongamoto, whatever the hell that is.” Hatcher turned to Woodley. “We need to get these men outta here. Right now, like this damn minute.”

“Let’s just get a grip, okay? Whatever it is, I doubt it’s fucking bullet-proof. I mean, show some sack, all of you. We’ve got enough firepower to cause an extinction event. What the hell do we have to be afraid of?”

“What did they tell you?”

“About this thing? It’s supposed to fly. Maybe like a pterodactyl or something similar. Possibly related to a bat. But it should be an easy target. It’s big. Should be hard to miss.”

“How big?”

“They weren’t sure. Size of a small plane, they guessed.”

“A plane?” Garza threw his head back and did a half-pirouette. “You’re talking about a dinosaur, for Christ sake!”

“They assured me it’s just an animal,” Woodley said, snapping the words. “All we have to do is put some rounds in it. What the hell, people? Going up against armed militia, you don’t bat an eye, but shooting some animal that can’t fire back makes you piss your pants?”

Hatcher looked through the trees, eyed the dappled golden glow starting to recede. “Woodley, I’m not going to say it again. We need to get everyone out of here. Now.”

“In case you hadn’t guessed by now, you aren’t actually in command here, Hatcher. I know you’re pissed, but everything really is going according to plan. Except that, maybe, you forced our hand a bit earlier than I’d have liked.”

Hatcher struggled to control his anger, most of it at himself. Of course, he hadn’t actually been in command. But they needed him to think he was, so that he wouldn’t have the luxury of sitting back and analyzing Woodley for tells, so that he’d be too wrapped up in the feeling of responsibility for the team to look for the indicators he’d otherwise so easily have spotted.

“Now, Woodley. It’s getting dark. I don’t have time to argue with you about it.”

“Darkness is what we’re supposed to be counting on. The thing won’t show itself in full daylight. We have state-of-the-art NVDs and FLIR. It should be like shooting ducks at a carnival.”

“Listen to me. You don’t understand dick about what’s going on. If they wanted me, and specifically me, this isn’t just some animal we’re dealing with. This has nothing to do with being gutless. This is about being an idiot. A soon-to-be dead idiot, at that, if you don’t shake the shit out of your head and start listening.”

Woodley held Hatcher’s gaze for a long moment. There was a cloud of doubt in those eyes. Hatcher could see the man thinking, weighing his options, working through how it would play out. Wondering if maybe he’d misread the situation.

He started to speak, but before a complete word escaped his mouth, another screech erupted.

This one was much closer. It stabbed Hatcher’s ears, caused him to flinch. He looked up just in time to see a creature diving straight down, ballistic, traveling at something close to terminal velocity.

Garza raised his head just as the thing smashed into him, the sound of bones snapping and crunching clearly audible even in Hatcher’s ringing ears. The man’s body compressed into a misshapen sack, numerous splintered pieces held together by skin and cloth.

The thing screeched again, a full-throated scream. It was a shimmering shade of black, almost glossy. It stood over Garza’s mangled body, stomping a taloned foot onto his chest and spreading its wings. The first thing that struck Hatcher was its size. Enormous, at least eight-feet tall, a wingspan that had to be more than twice that. It had an elongated head, something almost bat-like, but round and protruding downward, shaped like a mule’s. Its wings were leathery and it had four clawed fingers curving out at the apex of each. It looked straight at Hatcher, eyes ablaze with a crimson glow.

Zorn had been the closest. The creature’s dive had caught him by surprise and he dove to the side, rolling a few times to gain distance, and was now popping off rounds. Ivy was doing the same, having dropped his first-aid kit and swung his weapon off his shoulder.

The thing hissed and raised its wing, using the upper part as a shield, then seemed to collapse into itself, forming a tight ball over Garza’s body. Hatcher could almost feel it coming, sense the tension coiling, ready to explode.

“Get down!”

Hatcher dove at Ivy, tackling him just as the creature spun out of its curl, the thing spiraling so fast it was barely more than a blur. Garza’s skull rocketed past, smashing Woodley in the shoulder and knocking him to the ground.

The creature dropped back onto its feet, grabbed what remained of Garza’s corpse in its talons, and leaped into the air. Hatcher felt two powerful flaps of its wings, the gusts forcing him to blink, and when he looked it had cleared the trees and soared into open sky.

Hatcher pulled himself off of Ivy. The man sat up, peered up into the gloaming and dusted himself off.

“Ho. Lee. Shit.”

Pushing himself to his feet, Hatcher looked back at Woodley. The man was holding his shoulder, rolling his arm forward and back. He shook his head and waved Hatcher off. Garza’s head lay wedged against a clump of grass a few feet away, mouth open, eyes dead slits.

“Little help!”

Zorn was cradling his abdomen. Hatcher glanced at Ivy, who nodded and picked up his first aid kit. He was a few steps behind when Hatcher reached the man.

“Wouldn’t you know it,” Zorn said, coughing. He pulled his arm away from his stomach. “Boned by a teammate.”

Ivy sucked in a loud breath through his teeth. Hatcher felt himself wince.

Three bones, what looked like ribs, protruded from Zorn’s midsection. Flesh and muscle and connective tissue still hung in clumps from each. They seemed joined at a piece of breast bone.

“Can you remove them?”

“Not without a risk of him bleeding out.”

Zorn coughed again. “Right here, guys.”

Ivy turned to set down the first-aid kit and retrieve dressing material from it. Under his breath he said, “He needs an OR, Hatcher.”

Hatcher gave a curt nod. “Want to prove what a tough son of a bitch you are, soldier?”

“Not especially,” Zorn said, his voice rough, rasping. “Is there a pussy option?”

“We need to get you out of here. Not to mention, us. Think you can move without slicing any vital organs?”

“Maybe. If you got some good junk for me to shoot up. Hurts like a bitch, man.”

Hatcher glanced at Ivy. “What about it?”

“I might be able to dose him enough to help without knocking him out.”

Hatcher tipped his head back, searching the sky. Then he cut his gaze to Woodley.

“How far’s the extraction point?”

“Thirty clicks or so west. But not for another twelve hours.”

“Failsafe?”

“No. Complete disavowal, remember? No radio contact, no homing. We show up. Or not. Failing that, same as you were told. The embassy.”

“Yeah, in Zambia. How far is that? Fifty miles? A hundred?”

“What do you want me to say? I’m in the same boat you are. Our only known contact was Mbuyi. And he took off to drive the hostage across the border. We just have to make it through the night.”

“Yeah, but in order to do that, we have to get as far away from here as possible. So, we need to get to the vehicles and not waste any more time arguing about it.”

“Look, Hatcher, I know you’re pissed. I don’t blame you. Really, I don’t. But don’t you think our best bet is to do what we came here to do and kill that thing?”

“You mean, what you came here to do. I came here to rescue a hostage, remember?”

“Still, it caught us by surprise, that’s all. We have RPGs in the floor of the Hummer, for crying out loud. If we just prepared—”

“The answer is no. We have one KIA — our sniper, at that — and another down in need of urgent medical attention. And I have no doubt whatever it was could have taken us all out right then if it had really wanted to.”

Woodley gave him a skeptical look, brows cinched. “Then why didn’t it?”

Hatcher didn’t respond. He looked down at Zorn, who gave him a weak thumbs up as Ivy administered a syringe, slowly depressing the plunger.

“What do we have for transportation? Same as before?”

“Yes. Plus what they brought you in.”

The words seemed to echo in Hatcher’s head for a moment. Something shifted in his head, revealing a new question.

“You never answered my question. Why?”

Woodley shook his head, frowning. “I told you. The brass figured they’d take you to where it nests or hangs out or whatever.”

“No, I mean, why do they want us to kill this thing? Please don’t expect me to believe they care about the plight of some third-world poverty hole, because they don’t.”

“What can I say?” Woodley said, shrugging. “Above my pay grade.”

“You’re lying. I can see it in the direction your eyes moved before you answered, in the timing of the shrug as you spoke, in the way your lids hooded as the words passed your lips, and in the way you curled those same lips back over your teeth, as if to bite them closed and stop more lies from coming out.”

Woodley shook his head, grunting an exasperated puff of air as he tossed his arms up.

“And despite being a fucking idiot, you’re not stupid. You would have asked these same questions, demanded answers. And you did. So quit holding back and tell me everything.”

The man sucked in a deep breath, held it as he searched the ground, then let it out, his body deflating some.

“Cliché as it sounds, it’s classified.”

“Is it vital enough to national security that you’re willing to endure broken arms and missing teeth? Because I wouldn’t bank on me being above all that if I were you.”

Ivy stood, took a step closer. “Answer the damn question, Woodley.”

Seconds passed as the man’s gaze volleyed back and forth, Hatcher to Ivy to Hatcher. His eyes lingered on Hatcher for a long moment, then he lowered them, thinking.

“Helium,” he said.

Zorn let out a laugh, a rummy, drug-induced chuckle.

“What does that even mean?” Hatcher said.

“Apparently, the world only has a finite supply. Who fucking knew, right? All kinds of high-tech shit uses tons of the stuff. But it doesn’t exist everywhere, and supplies have been starting to run low, low enough some places have banned party balloons and that kind of crap. Then they recently found a huge cache of it in Tanzania, enough to supply everyone for a few more years. But not forever. The shortage got a lot of people spooked.”

“Keep going.”

“Seems there’s another valley like it, same rock formations and satellite indicators or whatever it is, and they suspect this field is even bigger. Maybe two or three times as big. Enough of the stuff to last twenty years. Only when they’ve tried to drill core samples…”

Hatcher glanced around the jungle, then tilted his head to search the sky. “Their engineers have disappeared.”

“Something like that.”

“That’s just great.”

“Hey, it wasn’t my goddamn idea. The way they explained it, this was important stuff. Medical devices, lab equipment, all kinds of crap that requires it to function. The world needs an ample supply. Without one, people all over the globe will be fucked.”

“By ‘they’, you mean, Keegan. And you believed him. Still believe him.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“How about because if this were actually about saving the world, you think he’d send a team of five contractors? Guys he had to blackmail? For Christ’s sake, wake the hell up. Did he ever show you credentials? I never saw any. Nothing with his name on it. Nothing with anyone’s name on it. Just clandestine meetings in government basements. Off the books. No paper trail. Jesus, Woodley, this is the same asshole who made up some BS story about the vice-president’s daughter to explain all the secrecy, why it all had to be off the books, untraceable, when you have to know by now it was just some poor aid worker in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just some good woman trying to help albinos, or whatever. But who do you think orchestrated that? Hell, who do you think arranged for her to be taken in the first place? This was planned from the beginning, right down to the tiniest detail. It had to look real. Real people, real news stories.”

“I don’t understand…” Woodley blinked. “You’re saying there’s no helium?”

“No, I’m sure there is. I’m sure there are a gazillion metric shit-tons of the stuff, or however they measure it, just like he said. And I’m also sure the rights to it are worth a few metric shit-tons of money.”

“Money? Wait, you’re telling me…”

“Yes. That guy cut a deal. Whoever the hell he is. A big, fat gild-your-toilet deal that will make him millions. Maybe hundreds of millions. No wonder he told me he was retiring, that this was his last gig. Jesus.”

“But, he must have thought we could do it, then, right?”

“No. He probably thought all of you would die.” All except me, Hatcher thought. Me, he needed to keep alive. He didn’t know how he knew, just that he did. “Open your eyes, Woodley. Why the hell do you think they asked for me… by name?”

“He said there was a vendetta of some sort. Didn’t get into the details. All I was told was, they’d take you somewhere, and we were supposed to retrieve you and terminate the target.”

“There’s a vendetta, all right. But not with some guerrilla clan.” Hatcher turned to look at Zorn. “Think he can move now?”

Ivy hitched a shoulder. “I guess we’re gonna find out.”

The two of them helped Zorn to his feet. His eyes were glazed, lids half closed. He had a dreamy smile on his face, even as he winced a few times.

“Keep your eyes on the sky,” Hatcher said, looking at Woodley. “You have those NVDs?”

Woodley nodded, reaching into a pack.

“You see it, let us know. If it sees us, open fire on it. Three round bursts. How’re you set on ammo?”

He detached the curved magazine from his rifle and replaced it. “Four mags. A couple dozen more in the Hummer.”

Zorn had a few magazines of the same caliber, so did Ivy. But it didn’t matter. If they needed more cover than that to make it to the vehicles, they never were going to reach them, anyway.

“It’ll have to do. Let’s move.” Hatcher picked up Zorn’s rifle and replaced the magazine before shouldering it. He looked through the trees. Little diamond-shaped sparkles between the leaves. “The sun will be completely gone in a few minutes.”

He let Ivy point the way, each of them with one of Zorn’s arms around their necks and over their shoulders. Zorn, for his part, helped more than Hatcher expected, so it wasn’t quite dead weight. He alternated between laughing and grunting. Like he could feel the pain, but would have a hard time caring less.

“How is it looking back there, Woodley?”

“Nothing, and lots of it.”

The jungle was thick. The path they were following was recently slashed, broken stems of rubbery plants dangled in places on each side, partially sliced, other parts lay flat from being pressed with boots, various leafy shapes of deep green and purplish red padded the ground underfoot. An occasional caw from what Hatcher supposed was a bird, the call of what may have been a monkey. The trill of insects rose and fell in waves.

To Hatcher’s left, those jeweled twinkles of light flashed and then disappeared. Hatcher looked up. Darkness was creeping across the twilight like a weeping wound.

Hatcher tapped Ivy and stopped. “Now might be a good time to break out those NVDs.”

Ivy nodded. Hatcher took Zorn’s weight and pivoted to look at Woodley, who was a few yards behind. Woodley’s rifle dropped from its sling as he got the message and fit the goggles over his head. He made some adjustments along the sides, staring first at the ground, then the sky, then leveling his gaze at Hatcher.

Something wasn’t right.

“Listen,” Ivy said, pausing, goggles near his face, ready to be slipped over his head gear. “You hear that?”

Woodley shrugged his rifle higher and leaned his head back, scanning the heavens. “I don’t hear anything. Don’t see anything, either.”

“That’s what he means,” Hatcher said. “Everything’s gone quiet.”

Darkness seemed to fall like a blanket. The surrounding jungle became a jumble of strange shadows with shapes suddenly both closer and farther than before. Woodley was still visible, but hard to see. It was gray beyond him, a dark background populated by deep shadows. Something even darker moved. Fast.

“Look out!”

Woodley started to turn, but there was no time to act. Hatcher felt a buffet of air against his face as he raised his weapon, could make out the ink-black shape as it swooped through. The slashing sound of movement whipping through the air, a wet, popping crunch. Something loose bounced off Hatcher’s M4 a split second before a large curve of hair and skin and bone slapped his abdomen. In the dying light, he could make out a nose and eyeless lid as the piece of skull slid like a broken saucer off his boot. By the time he raised his eyes, he couldn’t make out anything else but shades of ebony beneath a slate sky.

Ivy scrambled to take aim. The air swirled and something cut and fanned just feet above them.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Ivy said. “It’s like, it’s like… Hatcher! You gotta see this thing! Oh my God!”

Hatcher wasn’t sure what the man could be seeing that they hadn’t already got an eyeful of, but he didn’t have time to ponder it. He could make out Woodley’s NVDs on the ground in front of him from the glow and picked them up. A dull, greenish light shone in the view side of the lens. He pulled them over his head, groping the sides with his fingers and fiddling with the sliding controls until the area around him seemed in focus. These were high quality. Not the best he’d ever tried, but good enough.

He panned the sky, then swept his head around. Nothing.

“Gone,” Ivy said. “It just pointed itself up and shot like a missile! Never seen anything like it. I mean, damn.”

Hatcher looked at Woodley’s body. He lowered his head to see the piece of Woodley’s face on the ground.

“How far to the vehicles from here?”

“Click, click and a half. We were just behind your convoy. This should take us right to them, more or less.”

“Not us. I’m going to draw it away,” Hatcher said, heading to where Woodley lay.

“What? No. We should stick together. I can’t handle him myself.”

Zorn laughed, then gagged for a few seconds. “Too much man for you,” he mumbled.

“You can if you’re not being attacked. Look, I think it’s me it wants. I also think it’s going to pick everyone else off one at a time until it gets me. Unless I can draw it away and it thinks I’m alone.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t. Don’t ask me to explain. There’s no time, and I really don’t have much of an explanation to offer. I want you take him back to where you found me. Just stay there. Hunker down for about an hour. And do what you can to keep him alive in the process. If I’m the only one headed for the vehicles, it may think I’m trying to escape and come after me.”

“What if it doesn’t follow you?”

Hatcher inhaled deeply, surveyed the sky for a moment. “If I’m wrong, we’re probably all dead anyway. That thing can pick us off whenever it wants. But I’m pretty sure I’m the one it’s really after.”

“And if you’re right? What are you supposed to do if it does come after you? If you don’t make it to the Hummer?”

“What I was brought here to do, whatever that is. Don’t try to understand, just go.”

Ivy shook his head, then nodded. He hooked Zorn’s arm over his neck and started to move back the way they’d come, sidestepping past Woodley’s corpse. Hatcher watched for a moment, then checked Woodley’s pocket’s for magazines. He rolled the body over and could see Woodley’s face in the greenish monochrome, part of it missing, the face of someone unmasked while straining an organ in the catacombs of an opera house.

A quick calculation of rounds told him he had a hundred and twenty. But part of him was certain for any of them to do any good, he’d have to be up close, practically shoving the barrel in the thing’s mouth. It had already absorbed a couple of dozen hits, at least. Its leathery hide must have been as thick as an elephant’s. There wasn’t much doubt its wings were strong enough to handle high velocity rounds. It left him wondering if there was anything they couldn’t handle.

He stared down the makeshift trail until Ivy and Zorn were out of sight.

“All right,” he said, his voice loud but not overly so. Anything louder than necessary would come across as baiting. At least, that was what his gut told him. “Here’s your chance.”

He let out a breath and broke into a run. The NVDs kept the terrain visible, and he was able to move at a double-time pace. He kept his rifle up, stopping every few dozen yards to sweep the sky to his rear with the barrel, controlling his breathing, listening, watching, watching, listening.

Minutes passed. He had to have traveled over a kilometer. Run stop sweep, run stop sweep. Nothing but eerie glowing jungle with a pitch background to all sides. No choice but to keep moving.

A break in the foliage seemed to jump in front of him. Dirt road. Nothing visible in either direction. He headed to the right, more of a sprint now. Nothing. He was about to turn around when something came into view, a bright monochromatic outline around a curve.

The back of a truck. He recognized it as he drew closer. The one he’d arrived in, with the grappling hook launcher in the rear. He should have turned left. He’d practically come full circle.

He stopped and scanned the sky, swept the dense cluster of forest to each side. His thoughts turned to Ivy, Zorn. For all he knew, they were already dead, or in the process of being dismembered. There was no way to be sure.

But he didn’t believe it. He had to be the target.

He jumped in the truck, placing the rifle across his lap. Keys were in the ignition. He closed his eyes and breathed a grateful sigh.

What if you’re wrong?

No. He shook the thought from his head. He’d been through too much, seen too much, not to know. He was the one it wanted. It wouldn’t just let him go.

But what if you’re wrong?

The truck started on the third try. He pulled off his NVDs and turned on the headlights. He shifted into reverse, then drive, then reverse, using all of a seven-point turn to get it aimed in the opposite direction. He maneuvered past the other vehicles, then gunned the engine and bounced down the dirt road.

What if you’re wrong?

He made it a couple of hundred yards before the headlights reflected off more vehicles. The team’s, he realized. A Hummer and a safari truck. They were pulled slightly to the left, probably to hug the tree line. He could tell they had stopped here to follow him on foot, laying back far enough not to be noticed.

Hatcher slowed the truck, squeezed it by the two vehicles. The road was narrower at this spot. Branches drummed and scraped on the passenger side, a shriek of metal on metal erupted on the right as it side swiped the Hummer.

He was just past the second vehicle and starting to accelerate when something slammed into the roof of the truck, caving it halfway in. The truck swerved. He was barely able to correct it before there was a second hit, this one smashing the windshield and causing him to veer off into the bush. One wheel of the truck jumped a felled trunk and popped it onto its side.

Seconds passed. He braced himself for another impact. Nothing.

Goggles, weapon.

He turned off the headlights, then climbed out through the driver’s side window, jumping to the ground. He adjusted his NVDs, tilted and swiveled his head in every direction.

There it was. Circling overhead. It started to form a tighter and tighter gyre, centered on Hatcher, spiraling downward.

Holy shit.

Through the night vision, he could see what Ivy was talking about. The creature didn’t look like some giant bat anymore, not exactly. It seemed to have the same form at its core, but its skull was long and hooked, with enormous horns curving into sharp points. Surrounding its body was a burst of snake-like appendages, tentacling outwards and writhing like antennae.

We even have RPGs in floor of the Hummer.

Hatcher launched himself into a low sprint. He looked up as his fingers hooked the latch on the Hummer’s door to see the creature in a dive bomb, wings swept back, rocketing toward him. Before he could get the door open, it flared, slamming its feet into the vehicle, talons digging into the roof. Hatcher felt the latch rip from his hand as the Hummer jumped into the air. With two slaps of its wings the thing lifted the entire carriage off the ground, a feat Hatcher could barely believe he was witnessing. Another flap, then another, until the wheels were fifteen feet over Hatcher’s head.

Hatcher snapped the M4 up, let out three bursts, followed by three more. Aiming was difficult, but he tried, picking areas to target rather than spots. The creature let go and Hatcher flung himself out of the way as the vehicle slammed onto the patch of road, part of it crunching the back of the safari truck, causing the front wheels to pop up and jounce back down.

The thing soared higher, then started to spiral into a dive.

The wings. It didn’t like getting hit in the wings.

In the UV glow of NVDs, Hatcher could see a difference between the upper wings, which seemed to be stiff, flattened arms with joints, and the lower parts, which were flexible, like leather sails. He pictured the way it had curled itself into a ball, using its arms as shields. It wasn’t just protecting its body, it was protecting the soft parts of its wings.

He looked over to the pickup truck, still laying on its side. Maybe.

The thing was swooping toward him again. He fired two more bursts, held his ground until it seemed he could reach out and grab it, then dropped to his back and fired two more. It shot past him and rounded up, banking into a tight turn. Hatcher flipped onto his feet and bolted for the truck, making a show of ditching his rifle.

This better work.

He dove into the bed, felt the creature’s talons rake his back, claws ripping through his shirt and gashing his flesh but unable to grasp. Those feet punched against the cab of the truck, talons smashing the rear glass and puncturing the roof as it clamped down.

Bursts of wind on his back. He felt the truck shift, sensed it break loose from its traction on the ground. The rear of the bed started to hang.

He slid over to the grappling catapult, spinning it around and wedging himself between it and the tailgate. The truck swung beneath him and he felt gravity go negative for an instant, sensed everything below falling away, then the truck swung back and his own weight pressed him down, trying to pin him.

Struggling against the schizophrenic g-forces, he leveled the sight of the catapult at the creature. The thing’s wings would not stay in one place, whipping back and forth, presenting a broad side for just a flash, then disappearing. There would be no perfect shot; at best, it was a Hail Mary. He pulled back the heavy spring on the charge bolt, and tugged the enormous trigger.

The mechanism snapped and the umbrella of hooks shot like a spear. Cable spun out behind it, the reel whirring. The tip tore through the lower part of the left wing, barely.

Barely was good enough.

The creature let out a high-pitched shriek. The sound cut through the ringing in Hatcher’s ears, stabbed at his brain. A second later, the thing dropped the truck. Hatcher tried to brace himself, his body light and swimming. He tucked his head, wrapping it with his arms, and forced all the breath out of his lungs. The truck crashed into the ground.

His next conscious thought was that he was still alive. He could tell by the competing pain, his hip screaming to be heard over the shouting of his ribs, his wrist hollering even louder when he went to move.

He was on the ground. Breathing was a challenge, as every expansion of his ribcage sent shockwaves through his torso. He managed to sit up. The night-vision goggles were askew on his head and he fought through the pain in his wrist to adjust them back over his eyes. The scene tumbled back into perspective when he saw the truck on exploded tires a few feet away. Through the buzzing in his ears he became aware of the whirring of the reel, the cable still letting out.

Then there was a clank, the groan of metal, followed by a vibrating twang, and the truck started to move. Across the ground in fits and starts at first, surging up and crunching down, until soon it wasn’t touching the road anymore, just swinging forward, rising into the night. Dipping, jerking up, dipping, jerking up, penduluming forward, then back.

There wasn’t much time to decide. There were only two choices; go back for Ivy and Zorn, or go after the creature. That thing was too smart, too strong, not to figure out a way to free itself. And if it managed to do that before they could all get to safety, it wouldn’t end well, he was certain of it. There was too much night left.

He scrambled to retrieve the M4. No choice. He had to go after the thing, find a way to kill it. He hurried back to the safari truck, checked the ignition, the visor, the seat, found the keys hanging from the rear-view mirror on a lanyard.

The vehicle started right away, sputtering until he revved it. The transmission clunked into drive and the truck lurched forward and was moving again, doffing the NVDs and using the headlights, and tried to keep the truck from fishtailing as he sped down the road at a far higher speed than he knew was wise.

Over a mile had passed before the truck came into view. Still following the road, still swinging in spasms. Never getting higher than fifteen or twenty feet. He closed the distance, studying the tree shadows of the jungle surrounding him.

It can’t clear the treeline. Or it’s scared to try. It wants an open path.

Hatcher gunned the engine. It whined and he saw the tachometer was practically redlined, but he only needed it to last a few more minutes. Seconds, if he caught a break.

There it was. Up ahead, a curve in the road. He held the accelerator down until the hood of the truck was almost touching the dangling end of the pickup. The front end of the pickup swayed over the hood then down over the road. Hatcher bumped it a few times as he tried to keep pace.

A blink before the turn in the curve Hatcher stomped on the gas, pressing the pedal to the floor as hard as he could. The truck slammed into the pickup. The safari railing smashed through the windshield, stabbing into the upholstery, hooking itself over the dashboard and steering column. Hatcher held the wheel straight, the pain in his wrist howling curses that burned their way up his arm. He felt the front wheels lift even as he held the accelerator down until he threw himself out the door the moment before the truck impacted a tree.

He separated his shoulder on impact and tumbled almost twenty feet over the rocky dirt road. He thought he could hear the cracking of several ribs, but whether he actually did or not didn’t matter, as he knew several were fractured whether he heard them crack or not. He had a hard time finding a part of his body that wasn’t on fire in some way.

No time for a survey of injuries. He struggled to his feet, favoring his left arm. A few of the lights from the safari truck were still on, visible a few yards into the jungle. He took a step and noticed a glint on the ground. The M4. He hefted it, gingerly minimizing the use of his left arm, felt its balance, reseated the magazine and racked another round into the chamber, just to be sure.

The walk to the truck was excruciating, each step a mix of sizzles and stabs. When he reached it, he saw it was still entangled with the pickup, both of them enmeshed in the foliage. He managed to reach through a broken window and retrieve the goggles. Only one lens still worked. It was cracked, but he was able to see through it after a few adjustments.

He followed the cable from the pickup, fighting his way through the webbed reach of plants and limbs. A couple of hundred feet later, he saw the creature. It was impaled in several spots. It had taken a long, thick bone through the stomach on its way down, and one wing was completely broken. Several other long shards of skeleton — ribs, from the look of them — had pierced it in various places. Hatcher could picture the fall, an accelerated arc swinging it down like a huge sledge hammer, pounding it through the growth. Down into a Garden of Bones.

Through the functioning NVD lens, Hatcher could see the parts of it up close, parts invisible to the naked eye. Tentacled appendages wriggling; a skull overlay that looked like a cadaverous vulture; a serpentine tail.

To his surprise, it moved, not without difficulty, but enough to cause Hatcher to take a step back. The thing looked at him with eyes that burned a strange shade in the monochrome. It opened its beak-like jaws and made a grating, squawking roar, like the death rattle of a thousand souls. Maybe more.

Hatcher leveled the M4 and squeezed the trigger.

No three-round bursts this time. He unloaded the magazine in barely a second, retrieved another, then unloaded that. He seated his final magazine and moved closer. The thing was no longer trying to move, but a series of hisses and snarls were still coming out of it. He positioned himself as close as he could, held his ground as a tentacle rose like it was going to strike, and shoved the barrel into the thing’s mouth.

The sound it made drowned out the shots. Hatcher’s head felt like it was collapsing in on itself. He managed to look through the NVD as he dropped to his knees, saw a glowing phantasm tear itself from the body and rear back, a shape of flame surrounding a creature even larger than the one it had occupied, an enormous crocodilian skull sandwiched between twin spirals of horns. Just as the thing seemed to be reaching for Hatcher, ready to consume him in some horrific embrace, it flashed out of existence, leaving swirls of tiny wisps flickering like embers before they, too, vanished completely.

He lay on the ground for the better part of an hour, drifting in and out of consciousness, not fighting it either way, finally pushing himself to his feet in response to some mental clock going off like an alarm. He winced at the aches and the burns and the stiffness setting in and forced himself to start walking. He followed the dirt road back toward where the encounter had started, walking for around fifteen minutes, every other step forcing him to bite his lip, suck in a shallow breath.

Headlights. One was a high beam, mismatched. He was too exhausted to worry about whose they were. He stood in the middle of the road, let the beams wash over him, barely able to raise an arm to shield his eyes.

The vehicle slowed to a stop, audibly shifted into park. A door opened.

“Hatcher?” Ivy’s voice came from behind the lights. Then his figure cut a shadow. Before Hatcher realized he was that close, he felt a firm but gentle hand take hold of his arm. “Jesus, you look like… what the hell happened?”

The feel of support abruptly caused his legs to give. Ivy helped him to the jeep. He vaguely recognized it as having been part of the caravan parked along the road.

With Ivy’s help, he eased himself into the passenger seat. Zorn was in the back, presumably asleep. Hatcher could make out ragged breathing.

“You’re still kicking, at least,” Ivy said, settling behind the wheel. “Does that mean that thing isn’t going to be a problem?”

“Not for us,” Hatcher said. He tried to adjust himself to find an elusive position of relative comfort. Wasn’t going to happen. “Not tonight.”

“I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

Hatcher wondered how much he could explain, how much he even understood himself. Whether he even dare try to tell Ivy about the Carnates, about demons, about his tainted soul, his battles with the ruling elite of Hell and the civil war that seemed to be raging below. Or whether any of it would make sense if he did. Whether he was even able to understand himself why he was growing increasingly certain this whole thing was part of an even more elaborate plan, a plan within a plan, designed to occupy him, to get him as far away from the States as possible. A giant distraction from something he had no conception of, for reasons he couldn’t begin to imagine.

“In the meantime,” Ivy continued, “I need to get us to the LZ. Extraction is supposed to be at dawn.”

“Don’t bother. There won’t be any.”

“You serious?”

Hatcher leaned back in the seat, closed his eyes. “As a heart attack. The only thing likely to be waiting for us at the extraction point is another group of paramilitary types, all promised a bounty for each kill.”

“So, what, then? Embassy?”

“Not if we can avoid it.” Hatcher opened his eyes, looked around the interior, grimacing with each twist. “There a radio in this thing?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Well, then, that’s our mission, for the moment. Just drive. I think there was a radio in one of the trucks. Two clicks or so ahead.”

Ivy shifted into drive, eased the jeep forward. “Who you gonna radio?”

Hatcher felt the breeze flow over his cheeks and scalp. It stung a bit, and he realized what a mess his face must be, but it was the closest thing to a pleasurable sensation he’d had in a while.

“I know a gal,” he said, inhaling as deeply as his ribs would allow. “Who maybe knows a guy.”

“Then what,” Ivy said.

“Then, we go home. And I track down a certain Fed who thinks he’s about to retire a wealthy man and put him through an interrogation he’ll wake up in cold sweats remembering decades from now. You’re welcome to join me, if you like. But you’d probably be wise to stay out of it and hope they leave you alone.”

Ivy shook his head. “You kidding? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Good man,” Hatcher said, feeling himself slip into a light doze. “Good man.”