Burial Ground

X

11:40 p.m.

The changing of the guards had occurred promptly at eleven o'clock. They were rotating in two hour shifts to stay sharp until they broke camp at five a.m. and struck off for the highlands under the blessings of dawn. The coming day would be physically demanding as somehow, according to their maps, they were expected to ascend roughly twenty-six hundred nearly vertical feet to reach their destination high in the Andes beneath the unmoving shroud of clouds. Rippeth was certain it would take more than a single day to surmount that task, but he wasn't about to contradict the men who signed his paycheck. After all, the sooner they were away from this lake, the better.

The stench from the clearing of death, as he had come to think of it, had somehow lodged in his sinuses. It was all he could smell, and the coppery residue lingered on his tongue. He was no stranger to death. After two tours through Iraq and an eye-opening black op in Serbia, he figured he had seen about every atrocity imaginable. Bodies blown to bits in markets and mosques, rotted carcasses barely covered in mass graves, men tortured for weeks at a time until they finally broke with what would prove to be their last breaths. Granted, the clearing had been filled with only alpaca parts, but the savagery with which they'd been slaughtered surpassed even the genocidal rampages of the Serbs. This was a different beast entirely. Men could be monsters, but they always maintained an element of predictability. Here they were dealing with the unknown, and, as such, unpredictability was inherent to the situation. The first rule of engagement was to know the enemy, and here they didn't understand a blasted thing about what might be out there in the jungle at this very moment.

Although they hadn't come right out and discussed it, he and his men were spooked. To survive under the hostile conditions of war, both declared and undeclared, a soldier had to develop a sixth sense for danger. Being caught unprepared was a mortal mistake. All of them felt it. He could see it in their eyes, in the way their nervous tendencies surfaced, and in the way they reverted to their rigid military training.

And on top of everything else, his goddamn hand was killing him. The gauze had long since soaked through and the injections of lidocaine were about as effective as the two acetaminophen he popped every four hours. Those rotten savages would pay if it was the last thing he did.

Fortunately, they had packed for every contingency. Maybe they had no idea what lurked out of sight, or what the natives might be willing to do if they found themselves cornered, but they had definitely brought enough firepower to muddle their way through any mess.

Colton had instructed them to stay out of the heavy artillery until the point it was deemed necessary. Rippeth didn't care what the man thought. As far as he was concerned, the time to break out the big guns was upon them.

He lingered near the camp, watching the tents to ensure that no shadows stirred behind the canvas. The fire had dwindled. All was silent and still as he had hoped. He waited until Webber reached the southernmost point of his circuit, an eighth of a mile into the dense forestation, before sprinting soundlessly toward the pile of supplies. His backpack was beside the wooden crate where he had left it. He unclasped the main flap and opened it. As quickly and quietly as possible, he slid back the bolts that sealed the crate and threw open the lid. The ground penetrating radar and magnetometer units were disassembled and packed in molded foam. He carefully extracted the pieces and went straight for the secret padded inserts hidden beneath, which had been machined precisely to fit the six FN-SCAR-L/Mk. 16 assault rifles, and the dozen round M67 hand grenades and AN-M14 TH3 incendiary grenade canisters.

Rippeth loaded one of each of the grenades into his backpack, and removed one of the SCARs. He placed the sensing device parts back into the crate, closed the lid, and latched it. Slinging his pack over his shoulders, he darted back out of camp with his pistol tucked under his waistband and the assault rifle across his chest in both hands. It was just small enough to fit into his rucksack for the coming day's trek if he sacrificed a few sets of clothes. As long as no one searched the crate, they would never know he had raided it. At least not until he had to use the weapons, and at that point they'd all be thankful that he'd had the foresight to secure them.

And right now his sixth sense was telling him that he was going to need them soon.

The cry of a distant bird of prey pierced the night.

He trudged deeper into the jungle and resumed his watch. The smell of death clung to the entire area. He was going to have to swing farther away from camp if he hoped not to have to cross through that vile clearing. The stench alone was more than enough to keep him on his toes. Add to that the droning buzz of the black flies and he had to be especially vigilant to make sure he could hear even the faint snap of a twig under the ruckus. Didn't those filthy flies ever have to sleep?

Another avian shriek. This time much closer. Perhaps the raptor was circling the clearing and waiting for its opportunity to pick at the gnarled remains.

His bloody hand grew slick on the rifle's grip. He had to pause to inspect the mass of gauze, which was so thoroughly saturated that he was forced to peel it off and hurl it into the underbrush. The wound had started to scab over, but not well enough to staunch the flow of blood or hide the angled bone chips. He cursed and fumbled another roll of gauze out of his pocket, then wrapped his hand as tightly as he could bear. It didn't take long for the blood to soak through the fresh bandage.

"Goddamn savages," he grumbled.

The forest around him was so silent that even his stealthily placed footsteps made the detritus crackle far too loudly for comfort. Shadows claimed the trees and shrubs around him, and choked visibility down to a few feet to either side. A mosquito whined in his ear, but he resisted the urge to slap it until he felt the stinger poke his skin, then quietly squished it on his cheek.

A heliconia bush swayed ahead. The orange blossom, shaped like a roadrunner's head, nodded back and forth.

He felt no wind.

His finger tightened the trigger into the sweet spot. The slightest application of pressure would fire a fusillade of bullets at the rate of ten rounds per second.

The movement slowly stilled, and the flower resumed its former position, a wary bird peering out from behind the bush on a long, slender neck.

He raised the rifle into firing position and advanced in increments of inches.

A cold bead of sweat rolled down his temple from his forehead and dripped onto the stock.

Another step forward and he was directly beside the heliconia.

A low clicking sound came from the tangled vegetation to his left.

The moment he turned in that direction, he realized his mistake.

Leaves rustled and he smelled rotten flesh.

Something sharp impaled his side.

He was cleaved from his feet and pinned to the ground beneath a heavy weight.

Searing pain in his neck.

A flood of warmth over his face and chest.

Damp tearing sounds.

Darkness descended on the buzzing wings of black flies.