FaceOff

The Devil’s Bones

Commander Gray Pierce stood on the balcony of his suite aboard the luxury riverboat and took stock of his surroundings.

Time to get this show on the road.

He was two days upriver from Belém, the Brazilian port city that served as the gateway to the Amazon — one hour from the boat’s last stop at a bustling river village. The ship was headed for Manaus, a township deep in the rain forest, where the target was supposed to meet his buyers.

Which Pierce could not allow to happen.

The long riverboat, the MV Fawcett, glided along the black waterway, its surface mirroring the surrounding jungle. From the forest howler monkeys screamed at its passage. Scarlet and gold flashes fluttering through shadowy branches marked the flight of parrots and macaws. Twilight in the jungle was approaching, and fishing bats were already hunting under the overhanging bowers, diving and darting among a tangle of black roots, forcing frogs from their roosts, the soft plops of their bodies into the water announcing a strategic retreat.

He wondered what Seichan was doing. He’d left her in Rio de Janeiro, his last sight of her as she donned a pair of khaki shorts and a black T-shirt, not bothering with a bra. Fine by him. Less the better on her. He’d watched as she tugged on her boots, how the cascade of dark hair brushed against her cheeks and shrouded her emerald eyes. He’d found himself thinking about her more and more of late.

Which was both good and bad.

A ringing echoed throughout the boat.

Dinner bell.

He checked his watch. The meal would begin in ten minutes and usually lasted an hour. He’d have to be in and out of the room before his target finished eating. He checked the knot on the rope he’d tied to the rail and tossed the line over the side. He’d cut just enough length to reach the balcony directly below, which led into the suite belonging to his target.

Edward Trask. An ethnobotanist from Oxford University.

Pierce had been provided a full dossier. The thirty-two-year-old researcher disappeared into the Brazilian jungle three years ago, only to return five months back — sunburnt and gaunt, with a tale of adventures, deprivation, lost tribes, and enlightenment. He became an instant celebrity, his rugged face gracing the pages of Time and Rolling Stone. His British accent and charming self-deprecation seemed crafted for television and he’d appeared on a slew of national programs, from Good Morning America to The Daily Show. He quickly sold his story to a New York publisher for seven figures. But one aspect of Trask’s story would never see print, a detail uncovered a week ago.

Trask was a fraud.

And a dangerous one at that.

Pierce gripped the rope and quickly shimmied down. He found the balcony below and climbed on, seizing a position to one side of the glass doors.

He peered through the parted curtain and tested the door.

Unlocked.

He eased the panel open and slipped inside the cabin. The layout was identical to his suite above. Except Trask seemed a slob. Discarded clothes were piled all over the floor. Wet towels lay scattered on an unmade bed. The remains of some meal cluttered the table. The one saving grace? It wouldn’t be hard to hide his search.

First, he’d check the obvious. The room safe. But he had to be quiet, so as not to alert the guard posted outside. That security measure had necessitated his improvised point of entry.

He found the safe in the bedroom closet and slipped a keycard, wired to an electronic decoder, into the release mechanism. He’d already calibrated the unit on the safe in his cabin. The combination was found and the lock opened. But the safe contained only Trask’s wallet, some cash, and a passport.

None of which he was after.

He closed the safe and began a systematic examination of the room’s hidden corners and cubbies, keeping his movements slow and silent. He’d already reconnoitered his own suite in search of any place that might hide something small.

And there were many possibilities.

In the bathroom he checked the hollows beneath the sink, the underside of drawers, the service hatch beneath the whirlpool tub.

Nothing.

He lingered a moment and surveyed the tight space, making sure he didn’t miss anything. The bathroom’s marble vanity top seemed a collage of dried toothpaste, balled-up wet tissues, and assorted creams and gels. From his observations over the past three days he knew Trask only allowed the maid and butler into the room once a day and, even then, they were accompanied by the guard, a burly fellow with a shaved scalp and a perpetual scowl.

He left the bathroom.

The bedroom was next.

A loud oomph reverberated from the cabin door, which startled him.

He froze.

Was Trask back? So soon?

What sounded like something heavy slid down the door and thumped to the floor outside.

The dead bolt released and the doorknob turned.

Crap.

He had company.

Cotton Malone crouched over the slumped guard. He held a finger to the man’s thick neck and ensured the presence of a pulse. Faint, but there. He’d managed to surprise the sentry in a choke hold that took far longer than he had expected. Now that the big man was down he needed to get him out of the hallway. He’d just arrived on the boat an hour ago at its last stop, so everything was being improvised. Which was fine. He was good at making things up.

He opened the door to Trask’s cabin and hauled the limp body by the armpits. He noted a shoulder holster under the guard’s jacket and quickly relieved the man of his weapon. He’d not had time to secure a sidearm due to the foreshortened nature of this mission. Yesterday, he’d been attending an antiquities auction in Buenos Aires, on the hunt for some rare first editions for his Danish bookshop. Cassiopeia Vitt was with him. It was supposed to be a fun trip. Some time together in Argentina. Sun and beaches. But a call from Stephanie Nelle, his old employer at the Magellan Billet, had changed those plans.

Five months ago, Dr. Edward Trask had returned from the Brazilian rain forest, after three years missing, toting an armful of rare botanical specimens — roots, flowers, leaves, and bark — all for the pharmaceutical company that had funded his journey. He claimed his discoveries held great potential, hope for the next cancer drug, cardiac medicine, or impotency pill. He’d also returned with anecdotal stories for each of his samples, tales supposedly told to him by remote shamans and local tribespeople. Over the intervening months, though, word had seeped from the company that the samples were worthless. Most were nothing new. A researcher for the pharmaceutical firm had privately described the much publicized bounty best. It was like the bastard just grabbed whatever he could find. To both save face and protect the price of its stock, the company clamped a gag order on its employees and hoped the matter would just go away.

But it hadn’t.

In fact, darker tales reached the U.S. government, as it seemed Trask had not come out of the forest entirely empty-handed. Folded amid his specimens — like a single wheat kernel amid much chaff — lay the real botanical jackpot. A rare flower, still unclassified, of the orchid family, that held an organic neurotoxin a hundredfold deadlier than sarin.

Talk about a jackpot.

Trask had been smart enough to both recognize and appreciate the value of his discovery. He’d analyzed and purified the toxin at a private lab, paid for out of his own pocket, his book deal and television appearances lucrative enough to fund the project. Part P. T. Barnum, part monster, last week Trask had secretly offered his discovery for auction, posting its chemical analysis, its potential, and a demonstration video of a roomful of caged chimpanzees, all bleeding from eyes and noses, gasping, then falling dead, the air clogged with a yellow vapor. The infomercial had gained the full attention of terrorist organizations around the world, along with U.S. intelligence services. Malone’s old haunt, the Magellan Billet, had been tasked by the White House to stop the sale and retrieve the sample. His mistake had come when he’d mentioned to Stephanie Nelle last week, during a casual conversation between old friends, that he and Cassiopeia were headed to Argentina.

“The sale will happen in Manaus,” Stephanie told him yesterday on the phone.

He knew the place.

“Trask is there with a video crew from the Discovery Channel, aboard a luxury riverboat. They’re touring the neighboring rain forest and preparing for a television special about his lost years in the jungle. His real purpose for being there, though, is to sell his purified sample. We have to get it from him, and you’re the closest asset there.”

“I’m retired.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“How will I know if I found it?” he asked.

“It’s stored in a small metal case, in vials, about the size of a deck of cards.”

“I assume you want me to do this alone?”

“Preferably. This is highly classified. Tell Cassiopeia you’ll only be gone a few days.”

Cassiopeia did not like it, but she’d understood Stephanie’s condition. Call, if you need me, had been her last words as he left for the airport.

He hauled the guard over the cabin threshold, closed the door, and secured the dead bolt.

Time to find those vials.

Movement disturbed the silence.

He whirled and saw a form in the dim light, raising a weapon. Trask was gone. In the dining room. He’d made sure of that before his assault on the sentry.

So who was this?

He still held the gun just retrieved from the guard, which he aimed at the threat.

“I wouldn’t do that,” a gruff voice flavored with a slight Texas twang said.

He knew that voice.

“Gray friggin’ Pierce.”

Pierce kept his pistol firmly aimed and recognized the southern drawl. “Cotton Malone. How about that? A blast from the past.”

He took stock of the former agent in the dim light. Mid-forties. Still fit. Light-brown hair with not all that much gray. He knew Malone was retired, living in Copenhagen, owning a rare bookshop. He’d even visited him there once a couple of years ago. There were stories that Malone occasionally moonlighted for his former boss Stephanie Nelle. Malone had been one of her original twelve agents at the Magellan Billet, until he opted out early. Pierce knew the unit. Highly specialized. Worked out of the Justice Department. Reported only to the attorney general and the president.

He lowered his gun. “Just what we need, a damn lawyer.”

“About as bad as having Mr. Wizard on the job,” Malone said, lowering his gun, too.

Pierce got the connection. Sigma Force, his employer, was part of DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. Sigma comprised a clandestine group of former Special Forces soldiers, retrained in scientific disciplines, who served as field operatives. Where Sigma dealt with lots of science and a little history, the Magellan Billet handled global threats that delved more into history and little science.

“Let me guess,” he said to Malone. “You know about Trask’s neurotoxin?”

“That’s what I’m here to get.”

“Seems we have an interagency failure to communicate. The coaches sent two quarterbacks onto the field.”

“Nothing new. How about I go back to Buenos Aires and you handle this?”

Pierce caught the real meaning. “Got a girl there?”

“That I do.”

An explosion rocked the boat — from the stern, heaving the hull high, tossing them both against the wall. He tangled with Malone, hitting something solid, but managed to keep hold of his gun. The blast faded and screams filled the air, echoing throughout the ship.

The riverboat listed to starboard.

“That ain’t good,” Malone said as they both regained their balance.

“You think?”

The boat continued to list, tilting farther starboard, confirming the hull was taking on water. A glance past the balcony revealed a pall of black smoke wafting skyward.

Something was on fire.

A pounding of boots sounded from beyond the cabin door. A shotgun blast tore through the dead bolt and the door crashed open. Both he and Malone swung their guns toward the smoky threshold. Two men barged inside, dressed in paramilitary uniforms, their faces obscured by black scarves. One carried a shotgun, the other an assault rifle. Pierce shot the man with the double-barrel, while Malone took down the other.

“This is interesting,” Malone muttered, as Pierce quickly checked the hallway and confirmed only the two gunmen. “Seems we’re not the only ones looking for Trask’s poison. Were you able to find it?”

He shook his head. “I only had a chance to search half the suite. But it shouldn’t take long to—”

Gun blasts popped in the distance.

Pierce cocked an ear. “That came from the dining hall.”

“Our visitors must be going after Trask,” Malone said. “He could have it on him.”

Which was a real possibility. He’d already considered that option, which was why he’d gone to great lengths to keep his search of the cabin under the radar. If the effort proved futile, he didn’t want to alert Trask and make him extra guarded.

“Finish your search here,” Malone said. “I’ll get Trask.”

He had no choice. Things were happening fast and off script. Lawyer or no lawyer, he needed the help.

“Do it.”

Malone raced down the canted passageway, a hand on the wall to keep his balance. He’d not seen Gray Pierce since that day in his bookshop a couple of years ago. He actually liked the guy. There were a lot of similarities between them. Both were former soldiers. Both recruited into intelligence services. Each seemed to have taken care of themselves physically. The big difference came with age; Pierce was at least ten years younger and that made a difference. Particularly in this business. The other contrast was that Pierce was still in the game, while Malone was merely an occasional player.

And he wasn’t foolish enough not to realize that mattered.

He skidded to a stop as he approached the stairs that led down to the riverboat’s dining hall. Take it slow from here in. Through a window he surveyed the river outside. The boat sat askew, foundering in the swift current. Past a roil of smoke he spotted a gunmetal-gray craft prowling into view. A uniformed man, whose features were obscured by a wrap of black cloth, stood at its stern, the long tube of a rocket-propelled grenade launcher resting on his shoulder.

Which was apparently how they’d scuttled the boat.

He rounded the landing and double doors appeared below. A body lay at the threshold in a pool of blood, the man dressed as a maître d’. He slowed his pace and negotiated the steps with care, approaching the door from one side, and snuck a quick peek into the room.

More bodies lay strewn among overturned tables and chairs.

At least two dozen.

A large clutch of passengers huddled to one side of the spacious room, held at gunpoint by a pair of men. Another two men stalked through bodies, searching. One held a photograph, likely looking for someone who matched Trask’s face. Amid the captives Malone spotted the good doctor. Stephanie had provided him an image by e-mail. Trask kept his back to the gunmen, hunching into his dinner jacket, a hand half covering his face, trying to be one among many.

That ruse wouldn’t last long.

Trask was strikingly handsome in a roguish way, with unruly auburn hair and sharp planes defining his face. Easy to see how he became a media darling. But those distinct looks should get him flushed out of the crowd and into the assault force’s custody in no time.

Malone couldn’t let that happen.

So he bent down and patted his palm into the maître d’s blood. Not the most hygienic thing in the world, but it had to be done. He painted his face with the bloody palm, then slipped the pistol into the waistband of his pants, at the small of his back, and tugged the edge of his shirt over it.

Why he did stuff like this he’d never know.

He stumbled into view, limping, holding a bloody hand to his fouled face.

“Help me,” he called out in a plaintive tone, as he wove a path deeper into the room — only to be accosted by one of the gunmen holding the passengers at bay.

Orders in Portuguese were barked at him.

He feigned surprise and confusion though he understood every word — a benefit of the eidetic memory that made languages easy for him. He allowed the man to drive him toward the clutch of passengers. He was shoved into the crowd, bouncing off a matronly woman who was held close by her husband. He shifted deeper into the mass, bobbling his way through until he reached Trask’s side. Once there, he slipped the pistol out and jabbed it into the botanist’s side.

“Stay nice and still,” he whispered. “I’m here to save your sorry ass.”

Trask flinched and it looked like he was about to speak.

“Don’t talk,” he breathed. “I’m your only hope of getting out of here alive. So don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Trask stood still and asked, his lips not moving, “What do you want me to do?”

“Where’s the biotoxin?”

“Get me out of here, and I’ll bloody well make it worth your while.”

Typical opportunist, quickly adapting.

“I’m not telling you a thing,” Trask said, “until you have me somewhere safe.”

Clearly the guy sensed a momentary advantage.

“I could just identify you to these gentlemen,” Malone made clear.

“I have the vials on me. If even a single one breaks, it’ll kill anything and everything within a hundred yards. Trust me, there’s no stopping it, short of incineration.” Trask threw him a glorious smile of victory. “So I suggest you hurry.”

He took stock of the four gunmen. The two searchers had about completed their path through the corpses. To better the odds of success he needed them all grouped together. As he waited for that to happen, he decided to press his own advantage.

“Where did you find the orchid?”

The doctor gently shook his head.

“You’ll tell me that much, or I’ll shoot my way out of here and leave you to them — making sure I’m a hundred yards away fast.”

Trask clenched his jaw and seemed to get the point.

They both continued to stare out at the macabre scene.

“Six months into the jungle I heard a rumor of a plant called Huesos del Diablo,” Trask said, keeping his lips still.

Malone silently translated.

The devil’s bones.

“It took another year to find a tribe that knew about it. I embedded myself in their village, apprenticed myself to the shaman. Eventually he took me to a set of ruins buried in the upper Amazon basin, revealing a vast complex of temple foundations that stretched for miles. The shaman told me that tens of thousands of people had once lived there. A vast unrecorded civilization.”

Malone had heard of similar ruins, identified via satellite imaging, found deep in the hinterlands of the Amazon, where people thought no one lived. Each discovery defied the conventional wisdom that deemed the rain forest incapable of supporting civilization. Estimates put the number living there at over sixty thousand. The fate of those people remained unknown, though it was theorized starvation and disease were the main culprits of their demise.

But maybe there was another explanation.

The searchers across the dining hall checked the last of the bodies. The two armed men closest to them alternated their attention from their colleagues to their captives.

“Among the ruins I found piles of bones, many of them burned. Other bodies looked like they died where they dropped. The shaman told me the story of a great plague that killed in seconds and wilted flesh from bones. He showed me an unusual dark orchid growing nearby. I didn’t know then if the orchid was the source of the plague, but the shaman claimed the plant was death itself. Even to touch it could kill. The shaman taught me how to gather it safely and how to wring the poison from its petals.”

“And once you learned how to gather this toxin?”

Trask finally glanced at him. “I had to test it, of course. First on the shaman. Then, on his village.”

Malone’s blood went cold at the matter-of-fact admission of mass murder.

Trask turned back. “Afterward, to ensure I had the only source, I burned all pockets of the orchids I could find. So you see, my rescuer, I hold the key to it all.”

He’d heard enough.

“Stick to my side,” he mouthed.

He eased toward the edge of the crowd, towing Trask in his wake. Once there, he knew he had to incapacitate the four armed men as quickly as possible. There’d only be a few seconds of indecision. The men were finally gathered in a group. Seven rounds remained in his gun’s magazine. Not much room for error. He eyed an overturned table with a marble top that should offer decent cover. But he needed to be away from the civilians before the shooting started.

He gripped Trask by the elbow and motioned to the table. “Come with me. On my mark.”

He did a fast three count, then sprinted toward the table, swinging his gun into view — only to have the floor beneath his feet jolt, throwing him high. He flew past the table, crashing hard, losing his grip on the gun, which skittered across the floor out of reach. He rolled to see the front of the dining hall tear away, glass exploding, the walls splintering open.

Dark jungle burst inside.

Then he realized.

The boat had hit shore and run aground.

Everybody had been knocked off their feet, even the gunmen. He searched for Trask, but the botanist had been tossed into the assault team. Trask straightened up and even the blood gushing from a broken nose failed to hide his features. Surprised voices erupted from the four gunmen. Rifles were pointed and Trask lifted his arms in surrender.

Malone searched for the pistol, but it was gone.

Trask glanced in his direction, the fear and plea plain on his face. The man’s thoughts clear. Help me. Or else. Malone shook his head and brought a finger to his lips, signaling silence, the hope being that the doctor would realize selling him out was not a good idea.

One of them had to be free to act.

Trask hesitated, was jerked to his feet, but said nothing.

A parrot screamed across the ruins of the dining hall, cawing, seemingly voicing Malone’s frustration.

And he could only stare as Trask and his captors vanished into the dark bower of the jungle.

Pierce stared across the ruins of the dining hall, studying what lay beyond a gash in the walls. “So you lost him.”

“Not much I could do,” Malone said, on his knees, searching among a tumble of chairs and tossed tables. “Especially after the boat ran aground.”

Trask’s cabin had come up empty. But Pierce now knew that the doctor had the sample hidden on him. He’d also listened as Malone reported everything else Trask had said.

Malone reached under a tablecloth and came up with the pistol he’d lost earlier. “Lot of good it does me now. What’s our next move?”

“You don’t have to stay on this. You’re retired. Go back to your lady in Buenos Aires.”

“I wish I could. But Stephanie Nelle would have my ass. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. I’ll try, though, not to get in the way.”

He caught the sarcasm.

So far, this brief partnership between Justice and Defense had proved fruitless. But with Trask on the run and captured by a guerrilla force, as much as he hated to admit it Pierce could use the help.

Malone picked his way across the dining hall to the demolished wall of the ship. Pierce watched as the former agent bent down and examined something. All of the other passengers were gone, being offloaded to other boats.

“Got a blood trail here that leads outside.”

He hustled over.

“Has to be Trask,” Malone said. “He broke his nose when the ship crashed. It was bleeding badly.”

“Then we follow it.”

“I saw a patrol boat earlier. They could have offloaded him by the river.”

“I spotted that craft, too, from the cabin. But it took off shortly after we went aground. The attack, the fire, the crash — it’s drawn lots of river traffic.”

“You think the ground team and the boat are planning a rendezvous farther along the Amazon? Where there are fewer eyes to see them?”

“It makes sense. And that gives us a window of opportunity.”

“A small one, which is shrinking fast.” Malone pointed to the drops of blood, scuffed by the boot of one of the guerrillas. “Once in the jungle, it’ll be hard to track in the dark.”

“But they’re in a hurry,” Pierce said. “Not expecting anyone to follow. And they’ll have to stay close to the riverbank, waiting for their ride. With four men and a prisoner in tow, they should leave an easy trail.”

Which proved true.

Minutes later, slogging across the muddy bank, Pierce saw that it wasn’t difficult to spot where the guerrillas had pushed into the forest. He glanced back at the beached riverboat, its bulk angled in the river, the stern still billowing black smoke into the twilight sky. Other watercraft had now come to its rescue. Passengers were being ferried away as the fires aboard spread.

He turned from the smoking ruins of the MV Fawcett.

The boat had surely been named after the doomed British explorer Percy Fawcett, who vanished in the Amazon searching for a mythical lost city. Pierce faced the jungle, hoping the same fate didn’t await them.

“Let’s go,” he said, leading the way.

Less than ten feet into the dense vegetation the forest snuffed what little light remained. Night shrouded them. He limited any illumination to a single penlight, which he shone ahead, picking out boot prints in the muddy mulch and broken stems on the bushes. The trail was easy to track but hard to traverse. Every vine was armed with thorns. Branches hung low. Thickets were as convoluted as woven steel.

They forged onward, moving as quietly as possible. A growing ruckus from the night helped mask their advance. All around them were screams, buzzes, howls, and croaking. The shine of his tiny light also caught eyes staring back at them. Monkeys huddled in trees. Parrots nesting atop branches. A pair of larger pupils — like yellow marbles with black dots — glowed.

Maybe a jaguar or a panther.

After forty minutes of careful advancing, Malone whispered, “To the left. Is that a fire?”

Pierce stopped and shaded his penlight with his palm. In the blackness, he spotted a flickering crimson glow through the trees.

“They made camp?” Malone whispered.

“Maybe waiting for full night before making a break for the river and their boat.”

“If it’s them at all.”

Only one way to find out.

He flicked his flashlight off and continued toward the glow, noting that the path they were following led in that direction, too. Twenty minutes of careful plodding were needed to close the distance. They halted in a copse of vine-laden trees that offered cover and a vantage point to spy upon the camp.

Pierce surveyed the clearing.

Mud-and-thatch huts indicated a native village. He spotted a clutch of children and a handful of men and women, including a wizened elder who cradled an injured arm. All were held at gunpoint by one of the guerrillas from the boat. The campfire must have attracted their attention, too.

He spotted Trask, on his knees, by the flames. One of the guerrillas leaned over him, clearly shouting, but the words could not be heard. Trask shook his head, then was backhanded for his stubbornness, sending the doctor sprawling across the ground. Another of the assailants came forward, balancing a small metal case on his open palm. His captors must have searched Trask and found the vials. The faint glow of LED lights could be seen on the case.

“Locked with an electronic code,” Malone said.

He agreed. “Which they’re trying to learn from Trask.”

“And I can tell you, from our little bit of conversation, he’s going to drive a hard bargain.”

Pierce counted four guerrillas, each heavily armed. The odds weren’t good. Two to one. And any firefight risked harming or killing the villagers.

A new group of guerrillas appeared at the village’s western edge, filing out of a worn trail that likely led to the river. They numbered another six, along with a seventh who stood taller than the others and unwrapped the black cloth from his face. A deep scar ran down his left cheek, splitting his chin. He barked out orders that were instantly obeyed.

This one was in charge.

Two-to-one odds just became five to one.

The newcomers were also heavily armed with assault rifles, grenade launchers, and shotguns.

Pierce realized the futility of their situation.

But Malone seemed unaffected. “We can do this.”

Malone watched as the assault force leader yanked trask to his feet and pointed west, toward the river, where the boat was likely waiting.

“We can’t let them get to the water,” he said. “Once they’ve cleared the village, we can use the jungle to our advantage.”

“Guerrilla warfare against guerrillas.” Pierce shrugged. “I like it. They teach you that in law school?”

“The navy.”

Pierce smiled. “With any luck, maybe in the confusion we can grab Trask and the vials.”

“I’ll settle for the vials.”

Their targets left the village.

They kept low, running parallel. Interesting how their quarry was making no effort to move quietly. Orders were barked in loud voices, the crunch of boots and snap of branches announcing a retreat toward the river. The entourage moved as if in total command of their surroundings — which, in a sense, they were. This was home field for them. But that didn’t mean the visiting team couldn’t score a few points every once in awhile.

They neared the village clearing and Malone noted two of the gunmen had remained behind, assault rifles still trained on villagers.

A problem.

It seemed they intended to leave no witnesses. He caught Pierce’s attention, pantomimed what they should do, and received a nod of acknowledgment. They closed the last of the distance at a run, bursting into the clearing, appearing in an instant behind the two gunmen.

A shot to the chest and he dropped one.

Pierce killed the other.

The pistol blasts were loud, echoing into the forest.

Malone skidded on his knees and caught the assault rifle as his target collapsed. Pointing it toward the sky he strafed a fierce blast at the stars. He hoped the initial pistol shots accompanied by the rifle fire would be taken by the retreating guerrillas as the village’s bloody cleanup.

Pierce motioned for the locals to stay calm and not spoil the ruse. The elder nodded, seeming to understand, and waved the others down, ensuring that mothers kept frightened children quiet, signaling the men to gather what they could in preparation to flee.

Pierce holstered his Sig Sauer and gripped one of the guerrilla’s rifles. Malone followed his example. He spotted a grenade launcher resting on the ground near one of the bodies. He considered taking it, too, but it would likely only burden him in the confines of the jungle. The rifle and his pistol would have to do.

They fled toward the trail taken by the guerrillas.

Thirty yards in, the shadowy form of a guerrilla blocked their path. Someone must have been sent back to make sure the village was secure. Before they could react, the man opened fire, shredding leaves and sending them diving into the vegetation.

Malone rolled behind the bole of a tree and twisted in time to see the muzzle flash of Pierce’s return fire.

Not bad. Fast response.

The guerrilla was thrown backward, his chest blown out as bullets tore into flesh.

The body thudded to the ground.

“Keep going,” Pierce said. “Let’s try to stay on their flanks.”

Malone bit back a groan of complaint from his sore knees. Jungle warfare was definitely a younger man’s game.

But he could handle it.

They plunged ahead.

Pierce kept track of Malone’s progress, matching the pace. What they needed was for any boat waiting for the group to be out of commission. Unfortunately, they were a little shorthanded and would have to handle the situation once there.

He continued through the forest, paralleling the path taken by the guerrilla force. He on one side of the trail, Malone on the other, out of sight. A slight wind coursed through the trees. Its direction appeared away from the river, inland. Shouts from ahead brought him to a stop. First in Portuguese, then English.

“Show yourself, or I kill your man.”

He edged forward and crouched low.

A deadfall opened ahead, where one of the canopy trees had recently fallen tearing a hole in the forest. Starlight bathed the open wound, revealing the guerrilla leader. He held aloft the small steel case, its LED display still glowing. Another of the guerrillas nestled the muzzle of an assault rifle to the back of Trask’s skull. Pierce cared nothing for the doctor’s life. Malone had shared what he’d learned as to how Trask had obtained his prize and at what cost. All that mattered was securing the toxin before it escaped to some foreign enemy’s manufacturing lab, where it could be mass-produced.

“Come out now, or I kill him,” the leader shouted.

From the edge of the deadfall, another pair of gunmen appeared.

Only then did Pierce realize his mistake.

Your man.

Prodded at gunpoint, a second prisoner was thrust into view, gagged, his face bloody.

Malone.

Malone kept his fingers folded atop his head. He’d been ambushed shortly after parting company with Pierce. A shadow had loomed behind him clamping a hand over his mouth, an arm around his throat. Then a second figure slammed the butt of a rifle into his gut, dropping him to the ground. Dazed, he’d been gagged with one of their face scarves and thrust forward at gunpoint. He now stared out at the dark forest, willing Pierce not to show himself.

Unfortunately his silent plea was not answered.

Twenty yards away Pierce appeared, rifle high over his head, surrendering.

One of his captors shoved Malone forward.

Pierce caught his gaze as he staggered near and mouthed, “Be ready to run.”

Pierce stepped past malone and shouted, “I surrender,” which gained the guerrilla leader’s full attention.

He tossed the assault rifle away. As expected, all eyes followed the weapon’s trajectory across the deadfall. He quickly dropped an arm to his waist, yanked out his Sig Sauer, and shot from the hip, taking out the two closest gunmen.

Now for the real prize.

He aimed at the leader and fired.

Instead of a clean kill, though, the round found the man’s outstretched hand, smacking into the steel case, then penetrating the chest. A yellowish mist burst instantly outward, swamping those nearby. He remembered Malone’s relating the botanist’s warning. If even a single vial breaks, it’ll kill anything within a hundred yards.

The danger spread.

Screaming began.

He backpedaled as the breeze caught the cloud and blew it toward him. Malone, still gagged, didn’t have to be told twice and bolted for the trailhead. Pierce turned to follow — only to see a figure emerge from the toxic cloud.

Trask.

His face appeared parboiled, eyes weeping and blind. Another few steps and a convulsion jackknifed through every muscle, throwing the body off balance and to the ground.

Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.

Pierce turned and sprinted after Malone. The windblown danger rolled after him. He glanced back at the spreading devastation. Monkeys fell from tree limbs. Birds took flight only to cartwheel to the ground. Anything that crawled, slithered, or flew seemed to instantly succumb. He caught up with Malone and together they fled down the last of the trail and burst into the village clearing.

Which unfortunately wasn’t empty.

The locals were still there, having not yet evacuated. Children darted behind mothers’ legs, frightened by their sudden reappearance, thinking perhaps the guerrillas had returned. Matters weren’t helped by the fact that Malone was bloody and gagged. Pierce drew to a halt and swung around to face the trail. Above the canopy, a flurry of bats spun and darted, beginning their nightly forage for insects. Then they began to drop from the sky — at first farther out, then closer in.

Death swept toward them, carried by the wind.

He turned to the villagers and saw frightened faces. None of them, himself included, would ever be able to run fast enough to escape the cloud.

His errant shot had doomed them all.

Malone searched for their only hope, again skidding to his knees and snatching up the RPG launcher.

A quick check confirmed the weapon was loaded.

Thank God.

“What are you doing?” Pierce yelled.

No time to explain.

He hoisted the tube to his shoulder, aimed for the trailhead, and fired. The weapon jolted against his face, spitting out smoke behind him. A grenade whistled in a tight arc then blasted down the throat of the trail.

A fiery explosion lit the night.

Trees erupted in a smoldering rain of limbs and leaves.

Heat washed over him. Was it enough?

Trask’s words echoed in his head. There’s no stopping it, short of incineration.

He tugged the gag free.

Fire spread outward from the blast site. Flames danced high into the night. Smoke billowed upward, masking the stars, consuming all of the air around it, which hopefully included the toxin. He held his breath, not that it would save him if the cloud reached here. Then, from the edge of the forest, a dark shape burst into view, a shred of a living shadow.

A panther.

Yellowed claws dug deep into the dirt. Dark eyes reflected the campfire’s glow. The big cat hissed, showing fangs — then burst to the side, diving back into the dark bower.

Alive.

A good omen.

He waited another minute. Then another.

Death never came.

Pierce joined him, patting his shoulder. “Nice tag team on that one. And damn quick thinking, old man.”

He lowered the weapon.

“Who you callin’ old?”