Tyende nodded forward. “You merely approach. She will let you know her answer.”
Gray stared at the writhing roots snaking across the bare rock. Spines rose and fell as their lengths wound around and through each other. He suspected those razored spikes could shred him to ribbons, strip the muscle off his bones, before he could take more than a few steps.
Still, I have to try.
He took a deep breath, prayed for some manner of mercy—not just for himself, but the world. He headed across the rock toward the churning threat. Each step, he expected to be bashed away or impaled by a hundred spikes. The writhing grew more furious, reacting to his approach.
He stopped at the edge of the barrier.
Apparently, he was still too close.
A root lashed out, quicker than his eye could follow. It struck him across the chest. It felt like being hit by a truck. He flew backward, landed hard. He sat back up, gasping, the breath knocked out of him. He rubbed at his ribs.
At least, I wasn’t stabbed.
Still, the truth was worse. He glanced back to Tyende, whose expression was easy to read.
I’ve been rejected.
Gray coughed and rolled to his feet. “It might just be me. You’ll all have to try. We have no other choice.”
With clear misgivings, Benjie headed over next—only to meet the same fate, rolling back to them. Faraji fared no better.
“To hell with this.” Kowalski swung the Shuriken from his shoulder to his hands. He stalked forward, pointing its muzzle at the mass of roots. “I have my own way of knocking.”
Gray lunged after him. “Don’t—”
Before Kowalski could take another two steps, a root cracked out and whacked the weapon from his grip. The impact bent the steel and sent the rifle flying into the spiked barrier behind them.
“Hey!” Kowalski yelped out.
But it wasn’t being disarmed that had so alarmed him. Another root had whipped out and latched to the man’s wrist. Before he could move, a third shot between his legs and wrapped around his upper thigh.
Kowalski was yanked forward toward the churning mass of spikes. He lifted an arm to protect his face. His legs stumbled and fought against that pull, but this was one battle he could not win.
Gray ran to help him.
“No!” Tyende shouted. “Do not interfere!”
Gray respected the old man, but he could not abandon his partner. Still, he paused a fraction too long. Kowalski was lifted off his feet and jerked forward. The big man shouted as he hit the coil of roots—only to have them part and pull him inside. His huge form vanished into the twisting mass.
Gray skidded to a stop.
Too late . . .
He expected screams of agony, but only a stream of frustrated curses echoed out. Gray backed a few steps and lifted to his toes. Kowalski reappeared on the other side. Roots still shrouded him, but he was alive.
Kowalski struggled to free himself.
Tyende drew alongside Gray. “He has been chosen. Found worthy.”
He stared at Tyende in dismay. “Kowalski?”
Tyende frowned at him. “Does he not have a good heart?”
Gray stammered, unsure how to answer that.
“Then is he perhaps ill?” Tyende offered.
The question so surprised Gray that it took him a breath to answer. As tough and hardheaded as Kowalski was, it was easy to forget that he was fighting malignant myeloma, another battle he might not win.
“Y . . . yes,” Gray admitted. “He has cancer.”
“Ah.” Tyende stared back at the barrier of black roots behind them, at the barbed tunnel that they had all crawled through. “She must have sensed it.”
Gray stiffened with the realization. He pictured those spines and spikes, cutting and poking. He had worried back then about them inflicting poison—when, in fact, the thorns must have been sampling them, drawing blood purposefully, to better understand who approached.
He again recalled Benjie’s assertion about the highly attuned nature of plants. He also remembered Tyende’s words: You’ve already been tested.
Again, he meant that literally.
“She does Her best to heal,” Tyende explained. “Though She is a hard Mother, merciless in Her anger, She is also kind in many ways.”
Gray stepped forward. No matter the reason, they had to take advantage of the situation. He cupped his mouth to yell. “Kowalski! Don’t fight. Let the tree do what it needs to do. Just make sure you fill your canteen with some of that water!”
Kowalski continued to struggle, while yelling back, “Why am I always the goddamn guinea pig?”
His body was hauled inexorably toward the tree, passed from root to root. His boots skidded and kicked. It did no good. A new set of roots snaked out from inside the hollow trunk and snagged him, running tendrils across his face, through his clothes.
He hollered, wriggling, clearly outraged, “Poke up there again, and I’ll burn you to the ground!”
Despite his protests, he got dragged across the threshold. He passed through the crack and into the heart of the tree. The roots pulled him to the water’s edge—then gently drew him into the glowing pool.
As Gray watched, he considered Tyende’s inquiry a moment ago.
Does he not have a good heart?
Gray remembered when Kowalski took another swim, through a radioactive pond, risking all to save others. It was why he got sick, how he acquired bone marrow cancer. Had the mother tree somehow sensed this sacrifice, too? Was it more than just his cancer? Was that why he had truly been chosen?
Across the way, Kowalski was pulled fully underwater, as if partaking of some vernal baptism. Gray prayed that this ritual might help—but a larger concern weighed.
Even if the cure could be secured, they still needed to get it out of here—and quickly. Recognizing that urgency, Gray didn’t intend to stand idle. He shifted his pack and pulled out his sat-phone, ready to break radio silence one last time.
I must reach Painter.
And hopefully no one else.
26
April 25, 9:00 A.M. CAT
Belka Island, Democratic Republic of the Congo
This definitely wasn’t the plan.
Tucker knelt at the base of the porch steps. He had his fingers folded atop his head, gripping tightly, his heart pounding. The muzzle of a rifle stabbed his back. His Desert Eagle had been stripped from him by the guard behind him and shoved into the soldier’s belt.
Frank fared even worse. He shared the mud next to Tucker, on his knees, but sporting a split lip and a swollen eye. Another soldier held a handgun to the back of Frank’s head. His friend, at least, had put up a decent fight.
Tucker’s sternum still throbbed. Draper had proven his skill, catching Tucker square in the chest. The Kevlar body armor was the only reason he wasn’t already dead.
Not that such a fate isn’t far off.
Draper lorded over his victory from atop the porch of the guesthouse. He had a radio at his lips, coordinating the final evacuation. All the while, he glared down at them, refusing to lower his guard.
The door opened behind him. Two figures strode out: a Congolese doctor in a lab coat and a taller man, early sixties, wearing a crisp linen suit and black tie, his dark-blond hair oiled and neatly combed.
Tucker guessed the first had to be the head of the compound’s research team. The sneer on Frank’s face confirmed this. The second was clearly Nolan De Coster. Frank had described him, but the man’s identification was evident enough from the deference that the doctor and the soldier showed him.
De Coster had clearly come out to gloat, perhaps summoned by Draper on the radio. The CEO’s gaze settled on Tucker. “So, this is the fellow who caused us so much trouble. But no matter, we’ll soon find out how he came to be here.”
Tucker lifted a hand slowly from the top of his head, as if to ask a question. Instead, he raised a middle finger toward the man.
De Coster rolled his eyes and turned to Draper, who leaned in closer.
Good enough . . .
With the captain momentarily distracted, Tucker slapped his raised hand down to his hip pocket. He might be unarmed, but that didn’t mean he had come unprepared. His palm struck the button on the tiny transceiver in his pocket.