Burial Ground

found. And the alpacas that had been tied to that tree. Whatever they were being fed to killed Rippeth and consumed him. Maybe an eighth of a mile from where the rest of us were asleep in our tents.'

'He obviously armed himself beforehand. For Christ's sake, he had an automatic rifle and a pair of grenades.'

'But he never got the chance to use them. The rifle was just laying there on the ground.'

'We need to decide exactly how we intend to handle---'

Footsteps crunched on the other side of the tangle of roots. Leo fell silent.

Galen appeared down the trail, swatting at the branches in his way. His look of determination under the hood of his poncho was almost comical. Lines of water poured from the plastic. He hitched his pants when he saw them and climbed over the roots.

'We need to talk,' he said as he dropped down between them. He slipped in the mud and somehow managed to catch himself before he fell.

'Now isn't the best time, Dr. Russell,' Colton said.

'This can't wait.'

Leo again met Colton's stare and gave a single nod. They would continue their conversation later. The portly ornithologist had his panties in a bunch. And knowing Galen, it had probably taken him several hours to work up the courage to confront them with such conviction.

'Is there a problem?' Leo asked.

'I know what killed those alpacas back by the camp,' Galen blurted. 'And if I'm correct, we need to head back to safety right now.'

Leo caught Colton's glance.

Galen held up two feathers, one in each hand.

'Do you remember that golden skull back in the burial chamber?'

IX

1:08 p.m.

The Indians were growing more brazen by the minute. Unlike during the previous night, when they had remained indistinguishable from the darkness, they now openly stalked his group from the cover of the forest. Tasker saw only black streaks knifing from behind one tree to the next from the corner of his eye. Once he had glimpsed one of their painted black faces, sharpened teeth bared, for only a split-second before the man vanished again. They were on all sides of them now, and the net was closing fast.

He and his men had rounded the far side of the lake and picked up their prey's trail where it led up toward the steep mountain to the west. He had thought that once they left the fortified village behind, their escort would recede. The opposite had proven true.

Tasker slowed his pace to allow McMasters to catch up with him. They had formalized a contingency plan for the eventuality that the natives might attack. Now that the painted men were showing themselves with increasing frequency, Tasker could sense that the moment would soon be at hand.

He raised an eyebrow to McMasters, who replied to his unvoiced question in a whisper.

'At least five. Two in the jungle to the north. One, maybe two, to the south. One ahead of us on the path, and another about fifty yards back.'

'Are you certain?'

'They're ghosts. For all I know, there could be a hundred.'

'Suppressor?'

McMasters held up his Colt Marine Infantry Automatic Rifle. The YHM Phantom .223 Quick Detach Sound Suppressor had been affixed to the barrel. They didn't want to alert their prey. At least, not yet.

A shadow sped across the furthest extent of his peripheral vision.

Closer this time.

He glanced back at Reubens, who met his gaze and nodded his understanding.

'On my mark,' Tasker said, and again took the lead.

The path ahead veered sharply to the right and vanished into the jungle. A blind bend. The perfect spot for an ambush.

Silence closed in around them. No birds called or monkeys screeched. No wind rustled through the canopy. The only sounds were the soft crunch of detritus underfoot and their hushed, controlled exhalations.

Tasker steadied his grip on the Colt IAR as he rounded the corner in the path and found himself staring straight down the barrel at a man slightly taller and wirier than him, naked were it not for the short skirt of clumpy gray wool. He was painted black from head to toe with some sort of substance that shimmered on his shoulders and pectorals, even in the deep shadows. Scars covered his body like slender leeches. The man bared his filed teeth and Tasker squeezed the trigger into the sweet spot. He felt McMasters ease into position at his right shoulder, while Reubens fell into formation behind and to his left to create a triangle with their backs to one another. The sounds of their breathing grew harsher, more rapid.

The man blocking the trail stood his ground, that wicked grin affixed to his face. Against the black, the whites of his eyes stood out like beacons.

From the corners of his vision, Tasker watched the specters that had been hiding in the jungle materialize from the foliage and close in on them with arrows notched, bows drawn. They were all similarly painted and scarred, and all showcased their sharpened teeth as they approached. He counted at least two converging on them from either side, but refused to divert his attention from the man who stood before him long enough to check their rear. He had to trust that his men would do their jobs.

Tasker locked stares with the native, whose bow still hung from his shoulder. He was obviously the leader of this pack, and the only one wearing feathers braided into his long hair.

'Eight,' McMasters whispered.

The armed indians halted their advance fifteen feet from the path. If they were even remotely familiar with their weapons, there was no way they could miss from that range.

Tasker felt the butt of the rifle snugged comfortably against his shoulder. The man in his sights appeared unimpressed.

The silent standoff stretched on. Seconds became minutes, and still no one moved.

Tasker listened intently for even the slightest sound to betray the presence of any natives still hiding out of sight.

The leader remained where he was, unflinching, yet to draw his bow. His confidence bordered on arrogance.

After several more tense minutes passed, the man in front of him raised his arms slowly, turned his palms down, and mimed for them to lower their rifles.

Tasker made no reply. Neither he nor his men budged an inch.

The native made a snarling sound that could have been a word, and again motioned for them to lower their guns. He bared his teeth and narrowed his eyes.

Tasker leaned back into McMasters and Reubens, and made just enough contact to initiate the silent count.

Three.

As one, the trio of soldiers slowly lowered their rifles from their shoulders.

Two.

Tasker never looked away from the leader's eyes. He tried to read any recognition of their deception within his stare.

One.

With the IAR at his hip, Tasker pulled the trigger and a fusillade of bullets exploded from the suppressor. The native bucked as though conducting electricity. Tasker was rolling before the man even fell. A blur of movement drew his fire. An arrow shrieked past his ear and hit behind him with a thuck that was barely audible over the pfoot-pfoot-pfoot of his weapon. The native who had shot at him