Burial Ground

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 was thrown backward into the trees under a crimson rainbow of his own blood.

Tasker swung the barrel to the right, firing the whole time. Another black figure dove for cover. The bullets were faster. They chewed through the man's knee and sent his lower leg flopping end over end in the opposite direction.

Screams erupted from the bedlam.

Tasker launched himself forward at a crouch, and raced toward where the wailing native had fallen. An arrow sang from behind him. Its song was cut short as searing pain blossomed in his right shoulder. He whirled and fired. Bullets tore apart the shrubs and climbed up the painted man as he notched another arrow, lifting him from his feet and tossing him into the underbrush in a wash of blood.

Warmth flowed down Tasker's upper arm. He was peripherally aware of the sharp arrowhead poking out from the meat of his shoulder. The rifle grew exponentially heavier in his grasp as he staggered through the waist-high shrubs until he encountered the severed lower leg. He followed the trail of blood and matted ferns to where the man struggled to crawl deeper into the jungle.

From behind him, he heard the whispered puffs of gunfire begin to slow.

The rifle fell from his hand and clattered to the ground. Spurred by the sound behind him, the wounded man clawed at the loam, gouging his fingers into the mud to gain any sort of traction. Tasker unsheathed his knife, grabbed the man by the braid, and jerked his head back. In one swift motion, he leaned around and plunged the blade into the man's throat. A rush of blood flooded over Tasker's hand. The arterial spray painted the forest in pulsing arcs. He jerked the knife to the side and tore through the tendons and trachea, nearly decapitating the man were it not for his spine.

Tasker rose and swiped the blade on his pants before returning it to its scabbard. Turning, he found his rifle and hefted it in his left hand. His right arm hung limply at his side. Blood dripped from his fingertips and pattered on the ground.

All was quiet now.

Tasker shuffled back to the path, passing the crumpled carcass of another native before reaching the leader's remains. The man gurgled and wheezed through the foam of blood bubbling past his lips. Tasker stood over him and surveyed the area. McMasters tromped through the weeds on the far side of the path, kicking aside branches and vines. Three arrows stood at angles from his backpack, the broken shaft of another from his left thigh. He looked up and met Tasker's stare.

"All clear," he said, "but I don't think Reubens is going to make it."

Reubens was sprawled facedown in the middle of the path, arms pinned beneath him. The feathered ends of arrow shafts protruded from his backpack and shoulders like the quills of a porcupine. His rifle lay abandoned at his side.

Tasker walked closer and noticed the arrowhead poking from the side of Reubens's neck beneath his ear. He nudged the body with his toe. A rasping sound came from under the man. Tasker rolled Reubens over. The man's eyes were wide with fright, his cheeks stained with mud and tears. The broken shaft of an arrow stood from the left corner of his mouth, where it had torn away his lips. He bit down on it with a clicking sound as he tried to swallow back the blood. He looked up at Tasker like a beaten dog pleading for its master's forgiveness.

Tasker lowered his smoldering barrel to the soldier's forehead. A tendril of smoke spiraled up from the sizzling union. With a single squeeze of the trigger, he put Reubens out of his misery.

"Seven bodies," McMasters said. He reached the path, stood beside Tasker, and glanced down. "Make that eight."

One of the savages must have managed to escape.

Tasker nodded and returned to the leader of the natives, who gazed up at him through glassy eyes narrowed by agony.

The man's lips twitched and blood dribbled over his cheeks.

After several attempts, the man finally forced an epithet through the burbling blood.

"Kuntur..."

The muscles in his face relaxed and the last hiss of air escaped through one of the bullet wounds in his chest.

"What's that supposed to mean?" McMasters asked.

"Does it matter?" Tasker raised his boot and drove it down onto the man's face with a crack, then set about prying the arrow out of his deltoid muscle.

A bellow of rage and pain echoed through the still rainforest.