Eduardo began to dig through some scattered pottery, looking for something else of value, when he heard Olmec trip and fall. He was about to ask if Olmec was all right when what he saw caused him to stumble back and fall himself. Olmec had dropped the sack and was thrashing around as if hooked to an electrical generator. His head was growing lumpy and distorted and his breathing sounded as if he were drawing air through a swizzle stick. As his metamorphosis continued, he began to froth at the mouth, gasping for air. All of his exposed skin appeared to be rippling, as if a band of cockroaches were running through his veins. Before Eduardo could recover from his initial shock, Olmec’s eyes bulged obscenely, his mouth cranked open farther than any human’s should, and he ceased to move. Eduardo screamed, finding that deep in his soul he was still a Mayan, and ran out of the temple.
He sprinted about fifty feet and stopped, torn between helping his friend and getting the hell out of there. He decided that his friend was beyond help.
The professor asked the shaman if he could speak to the men as a group, intent on overcoming their superstition with gold, like an age-old explorer from Spain. As the men gathered around they heard an awful shriek to the north of their position, then a desperate thrashing sound. They began to rumble, looking at each other as if their neighbor could explain the noise.
The racket grew in strength until it appeared to be just outside the camp itself. The men began backing up, moving away from the sound, like a herd of antelope one step removed from full-scale panic, tenuously waiting to see who would be the first to start the stampede.
Exasperated, the professor advanced to the edge of the camp, convinced the noise was man-made.
He saw the boy and shouted, “It’s Eduardo! Someone get the first aid kit!”
Eduardo broke into the clearing of the camp, torn and bleeding from his pell-mell run through the jungle gloom. He fell to his knees, gasping for air. The men gathered around him, all shouting questions at once. The professor noticed that Eduardo was clutching his GPS in a bloody hand.
He snatched it away, shouting above the cacophony, “Where’d you get this, you little thief! Where’d you go?”
Eduardo looked up at the panic-stricken faces around him, eyes wild, showing more white than iris, and blurted out in Mayan, “The curse is real! It has consumed Olmec! He’s been taken!”
That was enough to penetrate the thin veneer of modern logical thought, the words lancing the ancient suspicions hidden deep within each man. The tripwire broke. The men began to flee in all directions like a pile of leaves caught in a hurricane gale.
Within seconds the professor was alone. He slowly moved in a circle, dumbfounded by the turn of events. Listening to the stampede grow fainter and fainter, he mumbled, “What did Eduardo say?”
The question was swallowed by the vast expanse of jungle.
15
Eighteen hundred miles away, inside Taskforce Headquarters, Knuckles zipped up his kit bag in preparation for his upcoming deployment. Unlike his last deployment, this trip was going according to plan, with no mad rush or changes in the mission. Now a team leader, his team had finished their culmination exercise this morning and was due to leave the next day.
He looked at the empty locker to his right, the dusty space bringing back memories of the last time he had done this, with Pike packing next to him. Knuckles couldn’t help but smile. That mission had been pure Pike.
Pike had taken the loss of his family harder than anyone Knuckles had ever seen. He seemed to blame himself from the moment he found out. Knuckles had hoped that he would go through the grieving process and rebound, and had even told Kurt Hale that he would remain a 2IC in order to let Pike keep the team, hoping that would help him recover. Kurt had agreed, but it hadn’t worked. Pike had just grown increasingly bitter, with anger being his primary emotion. His judgment as team leader had begun to falter, with him lashing out at any small mistake and constantly fighting with his superiors. It had come to a head when Pike irrationally took the initiative on a simple exercise and subdued a Rabbit through force, shattering his face in full view of a group of tourists at the Country Club Plaza in Kansas City, Missouri.
Knuckles felt like kicking himself every time he thought about it. He had known Pike was acting strangely. The final radio calls had been a clear warning that Pike was on the edge. He should have seen it. Should have stopped it.
The consequences of Pike’s actions could have been severe. Besides the simple fact that he had harmed someone who had been recruited to help them train, the incident put the cover of the Taskforce in jeopardy. The Taskforce managed to prevent that, but Kurt pulled Pike from the team. Knuckles fought the decision, purely on loyalty grounds. The transfer only caused Pike to sink lower. Three months later he had demanded to be cut free from the military, and Kurt had granted his request.
After Pike left, Knuckles had called him twice a month just to check up, but two months ago the cell phone number had come back disconnected. Knuckles now had no idea where Pike had gone or how to contact him.
He finished packing and left the locker room, going down to the Ops Center on the second floor. He saw Kurt Hale and George Wolffe across the room gathering up data and talking with analysts. He knew they were leaving shortly to give the quarterly update to the Oversight Council. He was glad someone did it, or he wouldn’t have a job, but he didn’t think he could put up with the bullshit. Kurt waved him over.
“You guys ready? Any issues?” Kurt said.
“Nope. We’re good to go. Hopefully we can get to Omega on this go-around. Don’t worry about us. You should be worrying about the Oversight Council.”
“No problems there,” Kurt said. “They know we’re doing the right thing. All I need to do is keep them up to speed. You do the work and I’ll get the Omega authority. Lord knows we’ve chased this guy enough.”
“I know. I can’t wait to take this fucker out. This should be Pike’s target. He’s the one that found him years ago. I’m thinking of tattooing Pike’s name on his ass before I turn him over to the support team.”
Kurt laughed. “I was thinking that exact thing this morning. Not the tattooing, the fact that Pike’s the one that got us here. You still talk to him? How’s he doing?”
“I have no idea. His cell phone’s disconnected and I don’t know what he’s doing now. I keep hoping he’ll give me a call. I’m afraid that one day I’m going to see him on the news, peeking out the window of a house surrounded by SWAT guys.”
“Come on. That shit won’t happen. Pike’s still Pike. Don’t worry about him. He’ll turn up. He just needs some time. Focus on the mission.”
“I know, I know. I’m on the mission. One hundred percent.”
“Good to hear. Look, I’ve got to go. The Oversight Council won’t wait. I probably won’t see you before you deploy.” He stuck out his hand. “Good luck.”
Kurt Hale and George Wolffe crossed the Potomac River, entering into the District of Columbia. George was driving, giving Kurt time to reflect on what Knuckles had said. He had put on a brave face and told Knuckles not to worry, but the truth was that Kurt was very concerned. He wished there were something he could do to bring Pike back into the fold, but he had tried everything at his disposal, from simple downtime to in-depth therapy. Nothing had worked. Kurt knew Pike’s days as an operator were over but didn’t think there was any way he would end up like Knuckles had said. Pike just wasn’t made that way, no matter how bad it got.
