perimeter sweep of the camp. The jungle was making all its usual chirps, whistles and squeaks, and small creatures scuttled from his path as he pushed through the damp foliage. Though the constant noise made it difficult to detect an intruder, Sam didn’t mind — it was somehow comforting. Silence in a jungle was unnatural and unwelcome, usually heralding predation.
Only a few dozen feet out from the camp, the light was completely swallowed by the jungle. That, the cloud cover and an intermittent rain meant Sam moved more by feel and instinct than sight. He used his flashlight for rapid observations only, and not at all if he could help it. He stopped and stood silently, a hulking figure in tiger- stripe camouflage, just as invisible as other creatures of the forest.
He turned back to the camp for a few hours’ downtime; he needed it. He trod cautiously to minimise noise, but instead of the regular spongy green carpet underfoot, he felt something hard and flat — too flat to be natural. ‘Hello.’ He bent and retrieved the object: an ancient-looking leather-bound book with what seemed to be a faded gilt crucifix carved into the front.
He opened it and flicked on his slim flashlight for second. The pages were handwritten … in a combination of Spanish and Latin, he thought, and also contained some detailed illustrations.
He tucked it under his arm, looking forward to pitting his formidable language skills against its contents.
‘You’re quiet tonight, big guy,’ Franks said, popping her gum.
‘This is not a good place.’ Mak stared into the dark jungle.
‘It’s just a fucking jungle, Mak. Jeez, be a big boy now.’ She raised her eyebrows briefly. ‘Let’s do another perimeter sweep. Rendezvous back here in twenty.’
Mak ignored the jibe. ‘It is not the jungle. It is what I feel
Casey watched him go. Every now and then, he’d stand stock-still for a few moments and listen to the sounds of the dense green around him. She shook her head and said softly to herself, ‘For fuck’s sake, stop doing that — you’re freaking me out.’
She turned her back and started off in the opposite direction. The camp clearing was fairly large, designed to accommodate over a hundred men, their equipment, a few cabins and assorted makeshift offices. It was like a mini-town carved out of the jungle. Without their constant attention, it would only take about two seasons for the jungle to totally reclaim it.
Casey scanned the jungle — listening and looking for anything out of the ordinary. She breathed in heavily through her nose, searching out smells too. She was good, she knew it; she never missed anything. Like all HAWCs, Casey Franks was completely focused at her job; and when that job became combat — armed or unarmed — she revelled in the physical challenge.
She couldn’t see Mak anymore; he was shielded by a row of cabins. She expected him to reappear in a few moments. The skin on her neck crawled and she looked over her shoulder … there was something … She stood still and waited, not even breathing. There was nothing. She frowned —
She pressed her ear stud. ‘Hey, Mak, you takin’ a leak? Where are you?’ She waited in annoyed silence. ‘Mak, come in. Over.’
The line opened, signalling a response, but instead of Mak’s voice she heard a grunt and gurgle.
‘Fuck!’ Casey sprinted across the clearing.
Alex sat upright in his bunk as though jolted by electricity. That sensation of dark desolation he had felt before blacking out had returned.
There were faint sounds of a skirmish taking place on the far side of the camp.
He pressed the stud at his ear. ‘Uncle, we got contact.’ Before he had finished the last words, he was out the door.
Casey saw Mak struggling with a single combatant. She pulled her sidearm and a blade and rushed to support him. At forty feet, she saw Mak get smashed to his knees; even in the dark she could see his face was battered and bloody. She could hardly believe anyone could take down the big man so easily — Mak was a HAWC, and a good one.
The Iraqi attempted to raise his gauntleted arm and bring it around into his attacker’s face. With impossible speed, the assailant grabbed his arm and twisted, fast and hard. The crack of bone and tendon echoed across the quiet camp. A spray of needle-sharp ice projectiles raked the ground beside Casey and she had to swerve to avoid being shredded by the deadly thorns. The spray stopped abruptly as Mak’s attacker ripped the gaunt-let free and threw it away.
Twenty feet out and still moving, she lifted her gun arm — just as the man brought his fist down onto Mak’s face. The front of the HAWC’s skull crumpled as if he’d been hit by a sledgehammer. The man pulled his hand free from the broken flesh and watched as the Iraqi’s large body fell to one side.
‘Motherfucker!’ Casey fired three times, with three strikes to the upper torso — at such close range she was never going to miss.
The man didn’t fall.
She stopped and planted her short, muscular legs wide apart in a shooter’s stance, preparing to put another volley into the man — this one targeting his head. Instead, the last ten feet separating them became one in the blink of an eye. The man moved up into Casey’s face almost supernaturally and tore the gun from her grip as easily as an adult would take an annoying toy from an infant. A large hand closed around her neck.
Her eyes went wide in alarm.
She brought the Ka-Bar blade around and embedded it in his torso — and got as much reaction as if she’d stabbed a hanging side of beef. The hand at her neck tightened and she felt her eyes start to bulge as the blood flow to her brain was cut off.
The man smiled at her. Or, rather, his mouth split unnaturally wide into a shark-like grin. A black hole ringed with needles leaned in towards her. She mouthed the word
As her misty vision started to turn from red to black, something hit the priest. Hit him hard.
Alex raced across the clearing so quickly, those trying to follow him must have wondered whether his feet even touched the ground. He took in the scene with a single glance: Mak was down, dead, and Franks was under attack by a single powerful assailant. He knew who it was — the priest. Gonzalez had Franks by the neck, crushing her throat, as he leaned in towards her.
Alex’s great strength was usually more than an adversary’s physical frame could withstand, and he’d learned to pull his punches. Not this time. He wanted this man dead, destroyed.
The blow knocked Gonzalez’s head sideways.
But the priest didn’t go down, as Alex had expected. Instead, he dropped Franks and turned to stare at Alex. From the angle of the man’s head where it flopped against his shoulder, Alex could tell his neck was broken. The mouth dropped open and a roar emanated from its black hole — a howl from the depths of hell itself. Alex had heard the sound before: on the recording of Captain Michaels’ last transmission.
Gonzalez moved far quicker than Alex anticipated, striking him in the centre of the chest with such force that Alex felt the impact deep in his ribs. He was thrown back ten feet to land on the dried fronds that Tomas and the men had been spreading over the mud.
