groundcover. A drop of fluid pattered his shoulder. He looked up in time to see another fall from the corner of his eye.
'Jones?' he whispered. His own voice echoed back at him from the ground to his right.
Another drop fell onto the back of his trigger hand. He brought it to his lips and dabbed it with his tongue.
Blood.
'Fan out,' he whispered.
Tasker glanced from the canopy to the tree trunks and then to the shrubs as he inched forward, shoving the ferns aside with his feet so he could see the ground. The cracked lens of an infrared light was partially buried in the dirt. Two steps later, he found the remainder of Jones's helmet, turtle-shelled from a sharp impact.
'Jesus Christ,' Reubens whispered.
Tasker was about to ask what the man had found when his question was answered. A broken section of skull rested at his feet, still shimmering with fresh blood. The scalp and hair were still attached, alive with crawling black bodies.
They had been separated for less than an hour and Jones had last checked in no more than twenty-five minutes ago. What could have done this in that amount of time? More importantly, what could have overwhelmed the soldier so suddenly that he hadn't had time to squeeze the trigger?
There was no doubt in his mind that Jones had been attacked by the same animals that had ripped apart the three men they had found earlier. A lone individual couldn't massacre and consume a human being so quickly. There had to be several of them out here in the jungle with them, lurking somewhere in the shadows.
He turned toward a clattering sound to his left. McMasters lifted Jones's rifle from the bushes.
The soldier pressed the barrel to his bare cheek and shook his head to confirm what Tasker already knew.
It was cold.
Tasker resumed his search. His left foot met resistance. He knelt, one eye on the forest, the other on the ground as he shoved aside a mess of wet branches. His hand closed around what felt like a sharply broken branch the thickness of the grip of a baseball bat. He evaluated it in shades of green and black. Bifid spinous processes, segments of bone interspersed with cartilaginous discs. A cervical spine. He flung it aside and stood, wiping his hands on his pants.
'God. Is that a hand?' Reubens whispered. 'No amount of money is worth...this.'
'Your share has already nearly doubled,' Tasker said. 'We're talking about several million dollars here.'
Reubens didn't respond. He simply nudged the severed hand with the toe of his boot.
'You could always turn back,' Tasker said. Reubens glanced up. Tasker read the look of hope on the man's face. 'Sure. No hard feelings. McMasters and I would be happy to absorb your share. I just don't know if I would want to be wandering around alone in this jungle right now, do you?'
Reubens hesitated before he replied, appearing to reach a firm decision. He jut forth his chin. 'No, sir.'
Tasker made no attempt to hide his smug expression. He owned these men.
There was nothing they could do for Jones now.
'Let's get the hell out of here,' he whispered.
'What could have done this?' McMasters asked.
'The fuck if I know,' Tasker said. 'But from here on out, we stay together. If anything moves, blast it to kingdom come.'
Chapter Six
I
Colton awakened with a start. Hands clasped his shoulders and shook him sharply. A shadowed face loomed over his, unidentifiable. He drew his pistol from his side and shoved it into his assailant's gut.
'It's me. Sorenson,' the shadow whispered. 'We have a problem.'
The man's Scandinavian features slowly came into focus as the lingering residue of sleep dissipated.
'What---?'
'Shh,' Sorenson hissed. He tilted his head toward the open tent flaps. 'Outside.'
Colton slid out of his sleeping bag fully dressed, shoved his feet into his boots, and crawled out of the mosquito netting. Something must have happened. They wouldn't have roused him otherwise.
He checked his watch. 1:10 a.m. Ten minutes past the changing of the guards. A tingle passed through his abdominal viscera. Something had gone seriously wrong. The humid air was electric with tension.
With a glance back to confirm Leo was still asleep, Colton crawled out of the tent behind Sorenson. Morton and Webber stood beside the fire, whispering animatedly. The light cast shadows of worry on their faces. Where was Rippeth? Colton was still looking for the man when they joined the others. Sorenson spoke in a hushed tone.
'Rippeth's gone.'
'What do you mean, 'gone'?'
'He didn't return from his patrol detail at the scheduled rendezvous time,' Morton whispered. 'There was no answer on his com-link, so we initiated a search of the camp. The first thing we noticed was that his backpack was gone. The second thing we discovered was this...'
Morton walked over to the pile of supplies and pointed down to the wooden crate attached to the carrying poles. A smear of blood covered the edge of the lid on the right side near the latch, where someone would have grabbed it in the process of opening it. Someone with a bleeding right hand.
'Damn it,' Colton whispered. 'Has anyone inventoried the contents yet?'
'All of the sensing equipment appears to be accounted for,' Webber said. 'However, we're missing several items from the private stock underneath.'
Colton felt a sinking sensation. He raised his eyebrows to encourage Webber to continue. The man looked away when he spoke.
'One each of the fragmentary and incendiary grenades, and one of the SCARs.'
'He deserted us.' Colton fumed. This was entirely unacceptable. The man had been paid an inordinate amount of money in advance. Even with the remaining half due upon successful completion of their mission, it was still more than enough to live comfortably for several years.
'No,' Sorenson snapped. He lowered his tone again. 'Rippeth was no coward. He would have seen the expedition to the end or died trying. There's no way he would slink off in the middle of the night.'
'Minus the tent you men shared, all of his personal belongings are gone, in addition to close to twenty thousand dollars worth of military-grade firepower.'
'I'm telling you,' Sorenson said through bared teeth, 'he
Colton studied the other two men from the corner of his eye. They appeared considerably less convinced.
'Then if you're right, he can't be far from here,' Colton whispered. 'And there had better be a damn good reason as to why he's not here right now.'
Colton forced down the images of the slaughtered jaguar and the terrified alpacas in their fully-enclosed stone pen. They held no province here. Already three men had absconded with supplies under the cover of darkness. Regardless of what Sorenson thought, he was certain that Rippeth was the fourth. But he couldn't afford a mutiny right now. The former soldiers pledged allegiance to their bank accounts, but every man had his personal loyalties, which was obvious in Sorenson's case. He was going to have to indulge them an all-out search of the surrounding jungle if he hoped to keep them on his side.
