Burial Ground

I

Andes Mountains, Peru

October 30^th

10:00 p.m. PET

After what felt like an eternity of planning and hunting, the magic hour had finally arrived. Tasker's heartbeat reached a fluttering crescendo, which he slowed to a calm, metered rhythm. He mentally centered himself, leaned away from the trunk of the tree, and balanced on the thick branch with his feet alone in true predatory fashion. Silently, he slung the rifle back over his shoulder and unsheathed his knife. He adjusted the grip in his fist until it felt natural, like a fluid extension of his right arm through which even his blood flowed. All that remained was to wait for his prey to walk within range, and then it was all over, except for the bleeding.

He imagined McMasters poised for the kill in exactly the same stance. Whose quarry would be the first to fall? Who would deliver the first killing stroke?

Perhaps he would try to glean that information from his partner before he dispatched him as well.

Everything had gone so smoothly, so easily, that it was as if the long forgotten gods who had once lorded over this land blessed him alone, favoring him with good fortune for the hunt. Of course, sacrificing his own men might have bought him a little extra help from the ravenous deities of yore.

Ears attuned to the slightest sound beneath the thunder and the patter of rainfall, he waited patiently. He closed his eyes and attempted to become one with the jungle. Flies droned and mosquitoes hummed. The far off waterfall rumbled, a sound he could feel more than hear, as though the tree upon which he crouched were a plucked bass string.

His eyes snapped open at the first hint of footsteps on the detritus. Thus far, their prey had made little effort to mask their passage. They made enough noise to wake even the skeletal dead littering the ground. How many men had died here through the centuries? And to think that only he would ever walk away from this burial ground.

Leaves crackled and branches snapped. Soft exhalations reached him. He even heard the shush of pants between thighs, the tap of raindrops on a poncho.

A shadow stepped into view, farther away than he would have liked, but still well within range.

He glanced up at the front entrance of the main structure. The guards were so far away that he could barely see them, but he could tell that they hadn't raised the alarm.

Focusing on his prey, he leapt from the branch, arms extended. He swatted aside smaller branches and dodged a wide limb.

The wiry man below him stopped and looked up at the commotion. Tasker saw the pale, freckled face of a Midwestern farmboy through the fanned fingers of his left hand as he raised the blade in his right.

The man's eyes widened and his shoulders rose in a futile attempt to draw enough breath to shout a warning. He barely had time to raise his arms in his defense before Tasker's weight slammed down onto him. He palmed the man's forehead and hammered his head against the ground. Ribs cracked and bushes rustled. He pressed harder, driving his prey's skull into the mud with such force that the man had no choice but to tip up his chin.

Fatal mistake.

Tasker slashed his knife across the exposed throat. A flash of reflected silver and warmth splashed across his cheek. There was a high-pitched shriek. He clapped his hand over the man's mouth and nose, but the noise originated from the severed trachea. The voiceless scream faded to a whistle, and finally to a gurgle.

The blood no longer spattered Tasker's face and torso, but poured out onto the wet earth.

He rode out the body's final spasms until it eventually stilled under him.

Tasker removed his hand from the lower half of the man's face and rose just high enough to see over the tangle of shrubs. The two sentries still stood in the blinding light to either side of the doorway. Neither of them so much as looked in his direction.

Perfect.

He swiped the blade on his pants, returned it to its sheath, and swung the rifle around until he cradled it in his bloody hands.

There was a crashing sound from the west. A man cried out.

Damn it.

Tasker ducked and sprinted toward the source of the commotion.

"Webber?" a voice called from across the clearing. "Morton?"

McMasters had spoiled their advantage. It would only be a matter of moments before the other guards split up to investigate. One would head out into the forest, weapon at the ready, while the other would hold his post.

He heard more thrashing in the bushes. The forest was playing tricks with the acoustics. It almost sounded like the noises originated behind him.

Bursting through the thicket, he nearly slammed into McMasters, who knelt over the bloody mess of what had once been a short Hispanic man.

McMasters looked up at him. The black paint on his face glistened with the fresh application of blood, and it appeared as though a large chunk of his ear had been cut off. No. It had been bitten off, just above the conch. He held his left arm tightly against his chest, a guarding posture that suggested either a broken rib or a dislocated shoulder.

Rage boiled inside of Tasker. He wanted to lash out at McMasters, but now was not the time.

Voices echoed through the forest. It wouldn't be long before they initiated the search for their unresponsive patrolmen.

The swift death he would have granted his subordinate was no longer in the offering. For his carelessness, Tasker promised himself that he would prolong McMasters's suffering and subject him to unendurable agony.

He shoved McMasters ahead of him into a wall of saplings and around the ruins of a hut.

Speed was of the essence.

Behind him, the forest came to life with threshing sounds, as though the trees themselves were being torn apart.