Tucker followed, keeping under its cover.
He dared wait no longer, especially after hearing a loud blast come from the guesthouse.
What had happened?
As he headed out of the forest, he kept watch on Kane’s progress. Upon his earlier command, his partner had fled a zigzag pattern through the jungle on the compound’s far side. Tucker had needed Kane to draw attention in that direction, while he attempted to reach the guesthouse. To aid in that endeavor, Tucker had secured a series of flash-bangs and grenades into Kane’s bandolier. The crossbody Kevlar satchel could carry a dozen explosive eggs, each individually hung along the harness, which was wirelessly connected to the device in Tucker’s hand. With each press of a button, Tucker could drop one of those charges in Kane’s wake. They were set on a fifteen-second delay, allowing enough time for the dog to flee before they exploded.
Kane continued through the forest on that side, spreading chaos. The bobbling view of his camera was dizzying, but Tucker trusted Kane to keep out of sight. When the dog wanted, he could become a shadow. And the patrols out there were surely searching for guerrillas or other armed men—not a fleet-footed ghost.
Tucker edged along a row of small outbuildings, keeping ensconced in the roll of smoke. The thermal imaging of his goggles revealed the bright glow of the bonfire in the square. He paused to allow a pair of gunmen to flee past his position, running toward the dockside half of the island.
Once clear, he crossed the last of the distance to the guesthouse. He kept his Desert Eagle pointed ahead, cradled in both hands. By the time he reached the guesthouse, the smoke had dissipated into a haze. Still, he was close. He ducked lower and ran the last of the distance to the steps that led up to the building’s raised porch.
A shout and a spate of gunfire stopped him.
The doors burst open ahead of him. A figure—a soldier in jungle khaki—came flying backward across the porch, pummeled by a spurt of rifle fire. He tumbled down the steps and sprawled dead at Tucker’s toes.
Tucker retreated as a familiar group in blue scrubs rushed out the same door.
“Frank, Monk,” Tucker hissed at them before they mistook him for one of the patrols.
Monk clattered down the steps to meet him. He searched all around, clearly hoping for more than just the lone rescuer. Still, the man immediately accepted the situation at hand. “Tucker, what’s the plan?”
“Get our asses out of here.”
“Works for me.”
Tucker turned and waved them toward the church. “This way.”
8:39 P.M.
Charlotte fought her pounding heart and pushed through a threatening paralysis that had nothing to do with a viral infection. She knew she had to keep moving.
She paused long enough to grab the pistol knocked from the dead soldier at the foot of the stairs. She knew guns, going back to her earlier years here, when her family lived in the neighboring Republic of the Congo. No one traveled these jungles without protection.
Monk noted her collection of the weapons with an approving nod.
They set off after the man—Tucker—who had come to rescue them. Clearly from the explosions and shouts in the forest, he had come with others. Hopefully enough of a force to get them safely out of here.
They circled behind the tall church, sticking to shadows. Tucker tossed a strategic series of smoke bombs to help hide their path. The muffled pops and wafting pall failed to draw attention in the night. The smoke only thickened the darkness around them. Still, she felt like a leaf blown in a whirlwind. The continuing sporadic blasts out in the forest made her jump each time.
Still, they safely reached the research huts. No one was about. The scientific staff was likely hiding from the attack.
Tucker raised an arm, and the group stopped. “Stay here,” he hissed and shifted forward on his own.
As she huddled with the others, she stared across at the medical ward. She pictured Disanka and her baby. She remembered her promise to the woman.
She nudged Monk and pointed. “The patients. We can’t leave them here.”
“No time,” he answered with a pained expression. “Most of them can’t even move.”
She knew this to be true. By now, a majority of the patients were bedridden, lost in a viral-induced somnolence. But not all of them . . .
“If they’re sick,” Monk continued, “there’s at least medical care here. And ultimately, their best hope is for us to reach outside help as quickly as possible.”
Charlotte recognized this to be true. Still, guilt panged her. She could not stomach abandoning Disanka and her child.
Tucker returned to them. Even with the goggles covering most of his face, it was easy to read the worried set to his jaw. He nodded toward the shouts and spatter of gunfire echoing across the forest ahead of them.
“Something’s wrong,” he warned. “Kane should have lured the patrols to the south by now, clearing the way for us.”
Frank faced the opposite direction. “And we’ve got company closing in behind us.”
Barked orders echoed from the central square. Boots clattered on planked walkways, all aiming toward their position.
Tucker swore, but his attention seemed focused elsewhere. He lifted a handheld device higher. “C’mon, Kane.”
Charlotte frowned, staring toward the jungle.
Who all is out there?
8:41 P.M.
Kane crouches as danger closes in from three directions.
On both flanks and ahead.
Retreat is cut off by a chatter of voices, by a wall of sweat and filth. He has led those behind him, luring them in his wake. An order blazes behind his eyes, to take them farther astray.
But other hunters have noticed his trespass and block him from following that order. He holds back a growl of fury and challenge.
He can only wait.
His ears stand tall, picking out the pneumatic whir and clank of metal. Branches break, coming ever closer. His haunches tremor in readiness.
He knows his packmate is blind to the threat that comes. The other does not have his keen nose or sharp ears. It will take sight for the danger to become clear. But Kane trusts his partner with all his heart and bone.
And waits.
Finally, the first of the three stalks into view ahead. It stinks of oil and lightning. Gears hum. Gun mounts swivel for a target. Its senses are muted, dull compared to his own. But he knows that it is also deadly and swift.
Rifle fire from such hunters had chased him twice before.
Then another appears to the right, followed a breath later by a third to the left.
He stays still. He’s learned movement draws their attention. Still, soon they will sense his heat, pick out his form. While he had successfully fled a few encounters, three were too many to simply run from.
So, he waits, trusting another.
Then a telltale snap bumps his sternum. A silvery object drops to the ground beneath him. His packmate has finally recognized the threat and seeks to help him.
Kane understands. He has been trained in this maneuver. He also knows he should already be running.
A command reinforces this.
MOVE. DOUBLE TIME!
He disobeys. He has learned the number of beats of his heart it takes before such objects erupt with a flash, a bang, or the shred of burning metal. He waits, trusting himself as much as the other.
The three hunters close a snare around him. One gun mount snaps in his direction, then another, and another.
Now spotted, he leaps back and away.
Gunfire tears around him, but he is gone. He jackrabbits off his hind legs and races away. The three hunters converge where he had been hidden—as an explosion brightens the forest with flame. He is too close. The blast shoves at him, driving him deeper into the forest.
A broken shape crashes through the underbrush.
Kane races onward, beyond the blast, into the embrace of shadow and concealing leaf. Free of the trap, he runs into the dark, ready at last to complete his mission, to lead more hunters astray.
Words reach him.
He hears the pride shining in them and knows them to be true.
GOOD BOY, KANE. GOOD BOY.
8:43 P.M.