us. If you don’t—”
A soft electronic beeping interrupted him. It came from the Perimeter Warning System. Something had set off one of the sensors.
Out in the clearing Hawker’s radio squawked.
Hawker looked through the night-vision scope again, still wondering about Kaufman’s men and remembering they had been shooting into the forest long after his charade had ended. Could the Chollokwan really be closing in? He clicked the talk switch on his radio. “What kind of target? How far back?”
Hawker acknowledged and, after a quick glance to the west, did as Verhoven suggested, moving east in quick bursts, before stopping cold at a strange sound: the barely audible whine of a crying dog.
Back at the defense console, Kaufman’s face seemed to contort. “Your friend’s in danger,” he said. “You should call him back.”
“The screen’s clear now,” Verhoven replied.
“I don’t think it matters,” Kaufman said, quickly. “There are animals out there. Animals the natives use to hunt people like us, foreigners, infidels. The same animal that attacked my people in the cave.”
Verhoven glared at him. When Kaufman had told them of Susan’s death, he’d called it an accident, a collapse in the cave’s roof. At the time, all Verhoven really cared about was escape, and he’d been privately pleased that Kaufman had lost five of his people in exchange for the young woman.
“Not a cave-in, then, ay?”
“I know,” Kaufman said. “I lied. But you have to listen. They were mauled.”
Verhoven recalled the looks on some of the soldiers’ faces after the incident. He’d seen fear—not the kind of fear an accident brings but the unease of an ethereal danger, one that cannot be completely controlled. It had struck him as odd at the time, and now Kaufman’s words had him wondering. He guessed that was Kaufman’s goal. “Shut up,” he said. “I’m tired of your mouth.”
Hawker’s voice came over the radio. Verhoven could hear the dogs whining in the background. They were fearful, pathetic sounds, nothing like the sound the dogs had made when the Chollokwan arrived.
Verhoven checked his watch. “Can’t do it.”
“Call him back,” Kaufman said. “Our only chance is to hole up here with the rest of the guns.”
“Shut up.”
“Five minutes,” Verhoven said, reminding Hawker of the cool-down period. The lights burned so hot that they needed five minutes to cool off before re-lighting, otherwise the hot filaments would blow out with the power surge.
“Forget the others,” Kaufman said. “They’re as good as dead.”
“Shut your damn mouth!” Verhoven shouted. From seventy yards away, he could hear the dogs’ cries drifting through the still night air. And then a sharp call echoed across the clearing, similar to the Chollokwan wail, but more powerful, more resonant.
Inhuman.
“They’re coming,” Kaufman insisted. “They’ll kill him and then us. Call him back!”
Verhoven swung the pistol toward Kaufman. “One more word and I’ll blow your goddamned head off.”
Staring at the black pistol, Kaufman complied, but even as he did the perimeter alarm began chirping again. A new target had appeared. This one directly across from where Hawker stood.
Hawker had come across the section of camp where the dogs were kept. They called it the kennel, but it was nothing more than a heavy post driven into the ground, to which the animals were tied. The dogs had grown agitated during the battle, barking angrily at the gunfire, but they’d settled down in the minutes after. Something new was bothering them. Something they could sense and smell but not understand.
They sniffed the air with flared nostrils, their eyes darting around. They seemed confused and afraid. Hawker’s approach startled them, but they recognized his scent and then turned back toward the trees. One lowered its head, growling and baring its teeth, but the rest of the pack began retreating, backing away from the trees and whatever they smelled. When they reached the limit of the leashes, they began straining against the lines, pulling and stretching them. One of them began to panic, yelping and crying and whipping its head around, trying desperately to slip its lead.
Verhoven’s voice came over the radio. “Target straight across from you. Two of them now.”
A loud screech echoed from somewhere back in the woods and Hawker put the night-vision goggles to his eyes. He saw nothing.
One of the dogs howled.
“It’s right in front of you,” Verhoven insisted.
“Shoot it,” It was Kaufman’s voice, tinny and hollow from somewhere behind Verhoven. “Shoot the damn thi—”
Verhoven cut the line and, to Hawker’s right, a twig cracked.
The dogs shot forward, charging at something still hidden within the trees. Hawker spun and fired blindly, shooting into the tree line. Whatever had been there was racing south, away from Hawker and the dogs and directly toward the prisoners, still chained to the tree.
Hawker cut across the camp, sprinting with everything he had. He’d covered only half the distance when the shadow in the forest reached the prison tree.
Hideous screams rang out, the voices of his friends shouting in terror and the sound of a horrendous struggle. Two flares rocketed into the sky behind him, fired by Verhoven. The phosphorous canisters burst into light and something lunged at Hawker’s face, stretching out toward him like a cobra trying to strike. Hawker dove to the side and the jaws snapped shut on nothing but air. He rolled and came up firing, blasting the thing as it raced away and disappeared into the trees.
He whipped around toward his screaming friends, just in time to see another shape fleeing from the space. It was bulky and black and dragging something with it. Hawker aimed and fired, lacing shells into the trees, trying to track the thing by the sounds of its movement, trying to lead it, but it was gone, vanished into the jungle and gone.
Danielle shouted to him. “Hawker!”
He ran over, dropping down beside her and unlocking her cuffs. Handing her the key, he stood guard while she freed the others. He lit a flare of his own and flung it out into the forest, hoping to light up anything that might come their way. The shadows flickered and jumped, but the jungle itself was still.
He glanced at the prisoners. Danielle and McCarter appeared unharmed. Brazos, the last of the porters, was alive but injured and struggling to stand. Roemer, Verhoven’s right-hand man, was gone. His cuffs lay on the jungle floor, bands of bloody skin shaved off and clinging to their edges. Something had ripped him from their hold.
In the far distance, they heard him scream.
“It dragged him right out,” Brazos said. “It bent my leg, my knee.”
McCarter helped Brazos to steady himself, as he could put no weight on the leg.
“What the hell was that?” Hawker asked. “A jaguar?”
“Not a cat,” Brazos said. “It stank, dank and rotten.”
Danielle agreed. “Whatever the hell it was, we need to get out of here before it comes back,”
Brazos hobbled and leaned on McCarter, his knee swelling where the animal had trampled him as it pulled Roemer from the cuffs.
“Get to the command center,” Hawker said. “Verhoven’s there.”
