“Find her,” he said. “When you find her, you will kill her. And until then, you will double the guard in the valley.”
Manuel nodded with an ashen face, sweat now running in small rivulets down his cheeks. He turned to leave.
Abdullah stopped him. “And if you think they are alone, you are an idiot.”
Manuel nodded again, turned, and left the room.
“Have you heard from Jamal?” Abdullah asked Ramón.
“No, sir.”
“Leave.”
PARLIER LIFTED his hand and peered over the rim with the night-vision goggles sticking from his eyes like Coke bottles. The valley dipped below him several miles before breaking abruptly at a formation he thought might be the cliffs they had been warned about. But in the jungle night, the formation was difficult to make out clearly.
Graham dropped to his belly next to him. “You see it?” he asked in a hushed voice.
“Not sure. I think so. We got us a valley and some kind of rock formation halfway down there.” He pulled away the glasses and swiveled to Phil. “What do we have on the GPS, Phil?”
“That's gotta be it. We're 5.2 clicks north, northeast of the compound.”
Parlier twisted back on his elbows. The others joined him along the rock outcropping. He peered through the glasses again. “Then that has to be it. We have, say, a couple miles to the cliff and then another couple to the bottom of the valley. There must be a clearing in there somewhere, but I'm not seeing it with these things. Anyone else see a clearing?”
They peered ahead, some through goggles, others dumbly into the night. A mile behind them Beta and Gamma teams waited for their first intel report before taking up their positions. By the look of things, the airdrop had put them on the money.
“Nothing,” Phil said. Someone slapped an insect from his skin.
“So our man is supposed to come out of this valley?” Graham asked. “He'll have to cross those cliffs. That's where we nail him.”
Phil grunted. “And we're supposed to sit and wait for this guy up here? I say we cover the top of the cliffs.”
“Can't,” Parlier said. “We have orders to stay back. Graham, get on the horn and tell Beta to make for a position one mile due east. And Gamma one mile west. I want twenty-four-hour surveillance on that cliff, starting now.” He turned to his sniper. “Giblet, you think you could put a round where it needs to go from this distance?”
Ben Giblet studied the jungle below them. “It would be tight. Yeah.”
Graham looked at Parlier with skepticism. “We gotta get down there, Rick, and you know it. What's the big deal? We got us a compound with a bunch of druggies down in the valley. I don't see the danger in taking the cliffs.”
“That's not the point. We have our orders.”
Parlier peered into the dim light below. Graham was right, of course. But the orders had been to stay away from the cliffs. Meaning what? Meaning the
face
of the cliffs or the
lip
of the cliffs? If it came down to it, he might do some interpreting of his own on this one, he thought.
THE PRINCESS cruise ship rested in the green harbor waters under a black sky. The ship bustled with passengers who scurried up and down her planks like ants to and from their nest. Yuri Harsanyi boarded the luxury cruiser bound north for San Juan and headed quickly for his cabin. The short-notice fare had cost him three thousand dollars and he had barely made the ship before its scheduled departure at 10 P.M. But he was safe. And the suitcase was with him.
He glanced nervously down the narrow hall before opening the door to his assigned cabin on the third level: #303. There was no way anyone would find him here. He fumbled with his key, unlocked the cabin door, picked up the heavy bag, and entered his room. He boosted the case onto one of the double beds and walked across the cabin to the small bathroom. He looked in the mirror and stretched his neck, thinking he should shower, shave, and then go for dinner. He stepped from the cramped room and removed his shirt.
He shed his slacks and eyed the black case. It contained enough power to vaporize the ship in less than two-thousandths of a second. One minute here, the nextâ
poof
âgone. Six inches of steel hull disintegrated like the sides of a soap bubble. That man had ever discovered how to harness this incredible power was a miracle. He wondered briefly if any damage had come to the devices during the trip out of the jungle. But the suitcase hadn't left his side.
Yuri reached into the shower and turned the hot water on. His dirty clothes lay strewn on the floor. After testing the water, he stepped into the shower.
But his shaving kit was still in the suitcase.
Yuri stepped from the shower and walked quickly over to the suitcase. He hesitated, watching water drip from his wet face onto the hard case. Then he reached down, released the straps, sprung the latches, and opened it.
For a brief moment Yuri's eyebrows scrunched at the sight within. The two spheres he had placed in the case were gone. Instead a square box rested among the clothes. And then his eyes sprang wide. Abdullah had found him out! Taken his bombs and put this . . .
In that moment, two tungsten contacts fell together, sending a surge of DC current into a detonator that ignited C-4 explosive. An explosion shredded the room precisely three seconds after Yuri opened his case. No nuclear explosionâjust plastic explosive that had been substituted for Yuri's bombs.
Even then the explosion was no laughing matter. Ten pounds of high explosive incinerated the cabin in a single white-hot flash. The explosion rocked the port side of the ship. Fire, smoke, and debris spewed out of the porthole that had erupted under the impact of the blast. Amazingly the flame-resistant mattresses, although gutted of their stuffing, did not burn.
But then Yuri Harsanyi could not be aware of these small details. His life had already ended.
SHERRY KEPT to the painted man's heels, depending on his movements to guide her through the brush. What sight they did have in the dark seemed more instinctive than a function of sensory perception. An instinct the man had obviously developed. An instinct that neither she nor Petrus had. The father was strong and he kept up, but at this pace, he was hardly better than she.
She was a medical intern from Denver, Colorado, who should be following a doctor on his rounds through whitewashed halls right now. Not running through a nightmare, behind some crazed lunatic. Maybe it was just thatâ another nightmare grabbing at her boots and slapping at her face instead of real tree roots and leaves clawing at her. She prayed she would bolt up in bed soon.
Actually the dream idea made some sense. She couldn't remember waking, which could mean she still slept. She'd gone to her room to retire; she remembered that. And then the gunshots and the images of killing and now this man leading her like a rabbit through the jungle. The thoughts careened through her skull as she struggled to keep him in sight.
Hadn't he said something about going south on the river? She had no idea where they headed, but this was no river. An image of Father Petrus popped into her mind.
Living is about dying.
His words echoed in her mind.
We all live to die.
“So do you think I have been brought to the jungle to die?” she'd asked, barely serious.
“Are you ready to die, Sherry?” The words suddenly struck her with clarity. Was she ready to die? No, she wasn't. Right now all she felt was a strong urgency to survive.
God, save us. Please save us.
Casius had killed with the ease of a man shooting pool, she thought. Which made him what?
On the other hand, he had saved them. Without Casius she would be back in that yard now, lying in her own blood. Which made him her angel in the night. But could an angel kill the way this man had killed?
She suddenly slipped hard to her seat and grunted. Mud oozed through her denim shorts. She scrambled to her feet before Petrus reached her. She ran forward, realizing that Casius hadn't even paused to see if she was okay. He was there, not ten feet ahead, his back still rising and falling like a shadow. A branch smacked her face and she threw an arm against it, tempted to rip it off the tree and stomp it underfoot. She swallowed the frustration growing like a knot in her throat and pushed forward.
Sherry followed relentlessly, stumbling quite regularly, several times to her seat. Twice she lost Casius and was forced to call out. Each time Petrus ran into her and muttered apologies. When it happened, the man had been no more than five yards from them. If he made more noise, it would have been much easier, but he seemed to glide like a ghost. Tracking both him and the ground proved nearly impossible.
She explained the problem to him defensively the second time. He stared at her through the dark for a few seconds, as if trying to comprehend. Then he turned and continued, but this time awkwardly brushing his hands against the foliage to make some noise as he passed. That helped her. But then the rain came, and what had seemed nearly impossible became downright ridiculous.
Sherry let the tears come to her eyes again, wiping constantly to clear her vision. But she would not let the man hear her silent sobs as she pushed on.
Oh, God, please let me wake up
.
THE JOURNEY had been an easy one until the rains began. And even that wouldn't have been such a problem if it hadn't come as they began a sharp descent into a valley. The dark, steep jungle, now wet, proved to be the limit. Their pace slowed to a crawl. Casius stopped frequently and waited for the woman to catch up, slipping and sliding her way down the mountain.
He pitied her, after a fashion. Poor woman had come to the jungle probably thrilled to visit, and now she had been thrust into this impossible world. And led by him of all people. He was no ladies' man. If she didn't already know it, she would soon enough.
Her strength surprised him. She might not have developed the skills to navigate through the foliage with ease, but she had the will of a jaguar.
Midpoint down the descent, Casius admitted bitterly that reaching the plantation before dawn would not be possible with the two. Fortunately, the rain would wash most of their tracks away, which was good considering the jungle would certainly be searched at first light. The attack had been no random pillaging. On his own he would press on, night or day, search or no search. But not with this woman and priest crashing through the brush behind him. They would be spotted from the sky, smashing into trees and shaking their limbs.
Which meant they would have to hide out during the day. With a woman. And a priest.
“All right, mister,” the woman suddenly snapped through the darkness. “
This
is too much. We're cut, we're bruised, and we're exhausted. Will you stop for just a minute and let me rest?”
He spun. “Why don't you hoist a flag above the trees while you're at it? Just in case they missed your voice.” She peered at him angrily through the darkness. “We will rest soon,” he said and turned back down the hill.
They had traveled seven or eight miles from the mission when Casius found the cave. Overgrown vines coated with moss covered its mouth but the lay of the rock clearly suggested a break. He walked past it twice before pulling the matted brush aside enough to make out a small cavern. He pried the covering aside to create a hole for them to crawl through. “Crawl in,” he said, waving them forward.
The woman came close, her mouth wide, gazing into the damp darkness. “In there?” she asked.
“You wanted to rest. You can't just flop on the ground and fall asleep. They'd find you for sure. We'll be safe in there.” He jabbed a finger into the blackness.
“It'll be safe? What if something else is in there?” Her voice came ragged and breathy; her cold was worsening.
“Just don't threaten it. Go in slow,” he said.
She pulled back and shifted her hazel eyes to his.
Father Petrus stepped up, looked up at him, and slid into the cave without a word.
“You go,” Sherry said. “I'll hold this for you.” She slid behind him and grabbed the tangle of vines at his hand, gripping his forefinger with them.
He pulled himself free and shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he returned and slipped through the opening. The cave immediately opened up to a small enclave, perhaps seven feet square. A damp moss blanketed the ground, providing for a fairly comfortable bed. The sound of critters scurrying confirmed that they were not aloneâspiders by their light ticking. But most spiders would scatter, not attack. They would be safe enough. He could barely see her outline against the dark sky as she entered haltingly.
“As long as we're stopped, we should sleep,” he said matter-of-factly. “In the morning I'll try to get you something to eat. As soon as we're sure the jungle is clear, we'll leave.”
“I want to thank you for what you did back there,” Father Petrus said.
“I wouldn't thank me just yet, Father. We're not exactly in the Hilton yet.”
“Actually, I'm not thinking of my own comfort. But Godâ”
“This has nothing to do with God.”
That shut the man up. Casius found himself wishing he'd left the priest in his bungalow.
“Get some sleep,” he said.
Sherry sat cross-legged, quiet for a moment, peering around in the darkness. “I'm not sure I can sleep,” she finally rasped. “I said I was tired and bruised, not sleepy. I'm not sure if you happened to notice with all of that testosterone floating through your veins, but we've been just a bit traumatized here.”
No, not soft-souled at all. Not this one. “Suit yourself,” he said as calmly as possible. He patted the moss with his open palm and turned his back to her, as though she were already the furthest thing from his mind. He dropped to his side and closed his eyes without the slightest interest in sleep now.
The priest followed his example, whispering encouragement to the woman. For several minutes the cave remained quiet behind him. And then the woman lay down, but by her ragged breathing, he knew she was not acclimating well. In fact, she now seemed at her worst. Surely, at some point exhaustion would take her.