Especially now.
He couldn’t let another party get the upper hand. He didn’t know if that single word—cure—was as important as it sounded, but Nolan never took chances, not when he could hedge his bet.
“Sir, what should I do?” Willem asked.
“Send me the coordinates of that signal.”
“Right away.”
A moment later the latitude and longitude designations appeared on his screen.
“Thank you, Willem. Hold pat until I get confirmation.”
“Understood.”
With grim satisfaction, Nolan tapped rapidly at his keyboard. After Willem’s earlier alert, Nolan had set up a contingency plan, in case it was needed. He had a large drone—a Russian S-70 Okhotnik—prepped and waiting on a camouflaged airstrip. Two years ago, he had it stripped of its armaments, all to serve as the delivery platform for a single bomb.
In the past, Nolan had secured seven MOABs, but he only buried six. The seventh he had built into that drone. Nolan had wanted the leeway to be able to deliver destruction whenever and wherever it was best needed.
Like now.
He passed the coordinates to the drone operators at the airstrip. Once finished, he had to wait. His finger tapped impatiently on the desk.
Willem had been monitoring Nolan’s communication with the on-site team. In fact, the engineer had helped coordinate this contingency. Now that it was happening, the man’s face grew stoic, his lips drawn tighter. But he was young, not as hardened by necessity as Nolan. With time, that would change. Willem would be a strong asset to the corporation.
Finally, a new screen bloomed with the confirmation from the airstrip. It also came with a projected schedule, an estimation of launch and travel time. In the corner of the screen, a countdown began running.
Content, Nolan shifted his attention to the other screen. “Thank you, Willem. Now get yourself to safety. Try to make it to my yacht.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
After the video call ended, Nolan watched the timer wind down.
Twenty-two more minutes.
Then that unknown variable would be eliminated from the equation.
9:22 A.M.
Tucker hunched to the right of the steel door to the communication shack. Smoke choked the area but also helped hide them. A few soldiers still threatened, but all the fighting had stopped for the moment.
Tucker leaned a shoulder against the wall, trying to keep his weight off of his broken ankle. Earlier, using an entire roll of duct tape from Tucker’s pack, Frank had fashioned a relatively stiff splint.
Frank now huddled with his rifle on the other side of the locked door.
A narrow window had allowed them to peek inside. A single tech—a young man in a radio helmet—manned the bank of equipment. While they couldn’t enter, they were able to eavesdrop on snatches of the conversation. It involved something about an encrypted communication from the deep jungle and maybe a possible cure.
Tucker whispered across to Frank. “That’s gotta be Gray and the others.”
De Coster was clearly plotting some recourse.
“Get back,” Frank warned.
Through the window, Tucker spotted the tech rushing toward the door. The man carried a duffel and had grabbed a combat shotgun from beside the console.
Frank flattened to the side. Tucker did the same. A bolt scraped, and the door pulled open. The tech poked his head out. Tucker slammed the butt of his rifle into the man’s face, knocking him back inside. Frank followed with the Desert Eagle at the tech’s chest. The man dropped his duffel and weapon and lifted both arms.
“Niet schieten . . .” he pleaded.
Limping on his splinted leg, Tucker forced the tech back with his rifle, while Frank secured the door.
“Do you speak English?” Tucker asked.
The man nodded vigorously. “Ja . . . yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“Willem . . . Jan Willem.”
Tucker pointed to the monitors which still glowed. In the tech’s haste to leave, he had left everything running, maybe to keep the jamming going. One monitor showed a screen with a digital map, a set of crosshairs, and a small blinking dot in the shape of a tiny plane.
“Your communication with De Coster,” Tucker demanded. “What’s being planned?”
Willem hesitated, but Frank encouraged his cooperation with the muzzle of his huge pistol. “Tell us,” he demanded.
Willem swallowed and nodded. He quickly recounted the events of the past few hours, ending with De Coster’s contingency. “The bomber will strike the coordinates in”—the tech glanced to a timer counting down—“eighteen minutes.”
On the screen, the tiny plane icon had begun to move.
Frank checked his watch. “That’s roughly nine forty-five.”
Tucker pictured the smoking crater back at the mine. He shoved Willem toward the equipment. “Shut down all the jamming towers in the area.”
“I can’t. Not from here.”
Tucker scowled with frustration. “Then power off the one on the island.”
Maybe it would be enough.
Willem turned to the console and hit a toggle. “It’s done.”
Tucker tugged out his sat-phone. Gray needed to be warned. He lifted his phone, searching for a signal. He shifted the stubby antenna in all directions, but he couldn’t get even a single blip of satellite contact.
Tucker swore loudly.
“Wait.” Frank leaned toward the monitor. He pointed a finger at the red plane icon as it slowly moved across the glowing map. “That’s a real-time feed, isn’t it? Same with the countdown.”
Willem nodded.
Frank pointed the pistol at the tech’s face. “Which means you have an outside line. You have the decryption to break through this jam.”
Willem seemed surprised this was even a question. “Natuurlijk. I’m the head engineer.”
Frank turned to Tucker with wide eyes. “That means we can radio out.”
Tucker froze in place—but not because of Frank’s revelation. He steadied his goggles with the edge of his phone. When the local jamming had dropped, the feed from Kane’s camera had stopped its erratic frazzling and long dropouts. The video had turned crisp and clear. His heart clenched at the sight revealed.
Oh, god . . .
“Tucker?” Frank stepped closer. “What’s—”
Tucker punched the speed dial for Sigma command and shoved the sat-phone at Frank. “This number. Director Crowe. Tell him everything.” He turned toward the door. “Get the FARDC military out here. Get him to warn Gray.”
“Tucker!” Frank called after him.
He had no time to explain.
He tossed his rifle aside and grabbed the tech’s shotgun—a Mossberg 930 tactical. The 12-gauge semiautomatic carried eight shotshells.
Better be enough.
Limping on his leg, panic numbing the pain, he dashed out the door—straight into a firefight.
He ducked low from a barrage that erupted outside, cutting across his path. A trio of soldiers, likely the last still around, strafed the woods. Return fire came from the forest. One soldier dropped, hit in the face. The other two turned tail and ran.
From the woods, a pair of figures emerged.
Monk and Ndaye . . .
Tucker rushed toward them. “Over here!” He reached the pair and passed them. He waved back at the communication shack. “Protect Frank!”
“Where are you going?” Monk yelled after him.
No time . . .
9:25 A.M.
Kane runs through the woods. He dares not stop. Gunfire pursues him, shredding through leaves, and shattering bark. An order continues to blaze behind his eyes, burned into his will.
Protect.
He intends to do that.
The others, huddled and weak, are far behind him by now. Earlier, he had heard the telltale whir and muffled clank, caught the scent of gun oil and lightning strike. He recognized that danger. To draw it away, he had set off into the forest.
Even now, he uses his body, his heat, his growls to keep the hunters on his trail. They are everywhere. And many. He has zigged and zagged, backtracked and circled, gathering all in his wake, luring the threat away.
Now he is trapped in his own snare.