She sat up and spit out some dirt. “Thanks for the help, jerk,” she muttered.

  The guard grinned and took his pistol out. Annja frowned. This was not good. The guard thumbed the hammer back.

  “Stop.”

  The guard and Annja both turned toward the veranda of the hut she’d just left. The man standing there lit a cigarette. He exhaled a thin stream of smoke into the dense jungle air and regarded Annja.

  “Are you scared about dying?” he asked her.

  Annja got to her knees and stared at him. “I’ve faced death before.”

  The man nodded. “I can tell. You have that look about you. My friend here doesn’t intimidate you much, does he?”

  Annja smiled. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Agamemnon.”

  “You’re joking, right?” Annja said.

  Agamemnon grinned. “My parents. What can you do? They grew up with this fixation on MountOlympus. They named us all after the gods and goddesses of mythology. My brother was named Midas.”

  “Was?” Annja asked.

  “Government troops killed him while he slept. Him and his young bride. They were but twenty years old.”

  Annja flexed her wrists. The cuffs still held her tight. “I’m sorry for your loss. Really.”

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  “Is this really necessary?” Annja asked, hoping she could talk her way out of her predicament.

  Agamemnon shrugged. “Is anything we do ever really necessary?”

  “You tell me—you’re the one in control right now.”

  “Yes.” Agamemnon nodded. “I am indeed. And unfortunately, your death will help to convince the government we are truly serious.”

  “Since when have you had trouble with the government thinking you aren’t serious?” Annja asked.

  Agamemnon came down the steps. Annja could see he looked to be in his late thirties. His close-cropped hair was still jet-black. His eyebrows hung over his dark eyes like heavy velvet drapes. The way he walked reminded Annja of some of the more ferocious fighters she’d met in her lifetime. Agamemnon was thin, but he resonated with strength and cunning.

  He stopped just short of coming into range if Annja had decided to try to kick him. “Ever since the American troops started hunting us, the government has considered us a has-been organization,” he explained.

  “I didn’t realize the U.S. forces had done so much damage to your organization,” she said.

  Agamemnon stepped on his cigarette butt and ground it under his foot. “They hunt us when they can find us. Their special-operations troops are quite skilled at navigating the jungle. Even though we know it like the back of our hand, they are quick to adapt and learn our tactics. I have lost many soldiers since they started combing the islands for us.”

  “And so now you’ve taken to kidnapping?”

  Agamemnon shrugged. “We kidnap high-profile targets in the hope that our cause gets publicity, drives more recruits to us, and that the ransoms get paid. That money helps fund our operations in Manila and other places.”

  “I see.” Annja saw that several other members of the impromptu village had come out of their huts. Agamemnon certainly seemed to hold sway over them; they seemed to be hanging on his every word.

  “These are my people,” he said spreading his arms as if about to hug them all. “I’ve led them through some harrowing incidents. They trust me completely and I do believe they would follow me straight into the depths of hell itself if need be.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Annja said. “And I have no doubt they trust you completely. But I still don’t see why you need to kill me.”

  “Because our intended target was not picked up. The plan cannot be canceled just because of that one simple flaw,” he said.

  “I won’t get you any type of respect. I’m a nobody,” Annja said.

  Agamemnon shook his head. “Nonsense. You said it yourself—you’re a television personality. I’m sure a woman as lovely as yourself has thousands of devoted fans.”

  “I don’t think the number’s that high. It’s just an offbeat history show on cable.”

  Agamemnon frowned. “I don’t follow.”

  Annja shook her head. “The show is a bit of a joke. No one takes it seriously,” she said.

  “We will videotape your beheading and then broadcast it all over the world. Your death will help us reestablish ties to our friends in other regions. It will also serve as a call for others to join us and help overthrow the government.”

  “Beheading?” Annja asked, horrified.

  Agamemnon unsheathed a large knife hanging at his side. “Unfortunately, the world has grown desensitized to shootings. People see thousands of them on TV and in the movies. Simply shooting someone has no impact. But decapitation, well, that is something else again.”

  Annja swallowed hard. Having her head sliced off wasn’t what she’d imagined coming to the Philippines would entail. And the thought of that knife cutting into her neck sent adrenaline flooding into her veins.

  I have to get out of here, she thought. She closed her eyes and saw the sword hanging where it always did when not in use. If she could just get it and get free of her cuffs, she could cut these butchers down and then disappear into the jungle.

  But where would she go?

  She frowned. It didn’t matter. Anything was better than staying here and waiting for her head to be lopped off.

  “Annja?”

  She opened her eyes. Agamemnon was staring at her intently. Annja coughed and cleared her throat. “I wasn’t expecting to be killed in that fashion. You don’t strike me as being that barbaric,” she said angrily.

  Agamemnon laughed. “Oh, but I am. Trust me.”

  Annja flexed her wrists. There was no give in the cuffs. If she didn’t get them off, she was as good as dead. And by the sound of it, beheading wasn’t exactly a quick and painless event unless done by guillotine. Being hacked off with a knife sounded extremely painful and messy.

  “I need to pray,” she blurted.

  Agamemnon frowned. “What?”

  Annja looked at him. “I need to pray. Surely you wouldn’t begrudge me a final chance to make amends with my god before you kill me?”

  Agamemnon lit a fresh cigarette. “Forgive me for saying so, Miss Creed, but you don’t exactly strike me as the religious type. I’ve killed missionaries before. They walked with much more an air of God than you do.”

  “And you’ve never heard of people finding religion right before they die?” Annja said.

  “I have.”

  “Then you should have enough respect for me—if only for what my death will represent to your cause—to grant me a few final moments of inner peace.”

  Agamemnon sighed. “Very well. I will give you five minutes to pray. I suggest you use it well.”

  Annja turned herself slightly. “I need the cuffs removed, please.”

  “Why?”

  “My religion dictates that my hands be free when I pray. In order to make the proper signs of my god, I must have both hands free.”

  “What religion is this? I’ve never heard of such a need before.”

  “I’m not exactly orthodox in my religion,” Annja said. “I belong to a new church that incorporates the teachings of many religions into its values,” she said.

  Agamemnon took a deep drag on his cigarette. He gestured to the guard. “All right, you may have your hands free. But I warn you not to try anything. My friend there will have his gun trained on you at all times. And he will shoot you if need be.”

  Annja bowed her head. “Thank you for the consideration.”

  The guard knelt behind her and Annja heard the key slip into the lock. In another moment, the pressure on her wrists vanished. Annja took a deep breath and rubbed them, trying to flush some blood and feeling back into them.

  “All right. Your time starts now,” Agamemnon said.

  Annja brought her hands together in front of her. I have to make this look good, she thought. They’ll expect me to make a move immediately if I’m going to try anything at all. So let’s give them a show when they least expect it.

  Annja raised her hands overhead and opened her mouth. She called out in an imaginary dialect and mixed it with a bit of Swahili slang she knew. As she did so, she moved her hands around her, gesturing first to the sky and the sun and then to the ground and the trees.

  She let her head loll around as if she was possessed. She got off her knees and squatted, drawing a circle on the ground and then dancing in the center of it.

  Her words grew louder. Annja felt her body responding to the sense of freedom for the first time in days. Adrenaline pumped through her veins. She felt energized and alive.

  With her eyes closed, she saw the sword.

  She reached for it with her hands.

  Felt the hilt of the sword slide into her hands.

  She instantly dropped to the ground and pivoted, slicing as she opened her eyes.

  A gunshot rang out, but Annja knew that the guard would have fired above her head. She heard the bullet ricochet but then felt her sword cut into something even as she continued to spin.

  The guard grunted as the blade bit into his midsection, slicing him open.

  Annja yanked her sword free and rushed toward Agamemnon. He looked utterly unfazed by the sudden appearance of the sword in Annja’s hands.

  She was just thirty feet from the hut. Agamemnon disappeared inside.

  A volley of gunfire exploded across the camp. Annja felt hot lead zipping past her head. She ducked and zigzagged across the compound. Agamemnon’s people must have had their weapons closer than she realized.

  I have to get out of here!

  Annja took a hard right and ran between two huts, the sword leading the way. A young man stepped in her path and aimed his AK-47 at her. Annja leaped into the air and screamed as she came down, swinging the sword.

  The man dropped dead and Annja ran on.

  Ahead of her, she could see the thick jungle. She ran for the twisted vines and warped tree trunks as if the devil himself was on her tail.

  She entered the foliage.

  Under the dense canopy, the air grew even thicker. Annja didn’t think the terrorists behind her would stop. She needed to put some real distance between them.

  Annja pressed on, using the sword to cut a swath through the dense jungle.

  Suddenly she stopped. They’ll track me if I keep doing this, she thought.

  She sighed. As much as she hated doing it, she closed her eyes and returned the sword to the otherwhere.

  Annja opened her eyes again and took a deep breath. From here on out, it gets tough, she thought. I’ll have to take my time and creep through this jungle if I have any hope of getting out of here alive. The more I fight it, the quicker it will win.

  Annja parted a blanket of vines in front of her, carefully moving them out of the way just enough for her to get past. Once she did so, she turned and slid them back into position.

  She hoped her pursuers would think she had magically disappeared.

  Annja looked overhead and all around. The color was the same anywhere she turned. Green.

  How in the world am I going to get out of this mess?

  3

  Agamemnon watched as his men scampered about the camp collecting themselves and their weapons. The carcass of his man lay in the dirt, staining the ground with dark blood and gore. The air stunk of his death and it only made the rage growing in Agamemnon’s chest swell even further. Already hundreds of tiny flies and mosquitoes fed upon the corpse.

  One of his men noticed the sudden invasion of bugs and came over. “Shall we dispose of Jojo’s body?”

  Agamemnon watched as the flies seemed to form one undulating mass as they crawled over Jojo’s body, eagerly feeding. He watched for another full minute and then finally shook his head.

  “Leave it.”

  “Sir?”

  Agamemnon faced him. “I want him left where he died. Let the bugs eat him for all I care. His death is an object lesson to you all. You can never, ever let your guard down. Not for one instant. If you do, the same will happen to you.”

  His man blanched. “I understand, sir.”

  “Do you think that is cruel of me?”

  The man’s eyes never met Agamemnon’s. He was far too scared to look his boss in the eyes. “I understand your intentions, sir.”

  “Further,” Agamemnon continued, “if your search parties do not come back with the woman, then all who failed will meet the same fate as Jojo. Am I making myself perfectly clear? I will not tolerate failure.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man jerked his hand up in salute and then excused himself.

  Agamemnon watched him run away, corralling the other men who would assist him in the search. He could hear the hushed tones they used as they discussed the urgency of the mission before them. Of course, Agamemnon wouldn’t kill them all. That would be foolish of him. There was little sense killing his own troops. But with the image of Jojo’s body still so fresh in their heads, he knew the threat of another death would make his men work harder. It would drive them to turn the jungle upside down.

  And then they would find Annja Creed and bring her back to the camp, where Agamemnon could dispose of her properly. After all, her death would play a key role in the events that were about to unfold in Manila.

  Agamemnon smiled and turned away from the corpse. He wandered over to his hut. At the steps leading inside, he paused and watched the various search parties fanning out to enter the jungle.

  Good luck, he thought to himself.

  Inside, he sat down at the small radio console and opened up the channel. A screech of static punctured the humid air, and then he heard the voice he wanted on the other end.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Agamemnon leaned into the microphone. “Is everything ready, Luis?”

  “The package has been delivered as promised. We are in the final stages of preparing it for delivery now.”

  “Excellent. And how long do you anticipate it taking?”

  “Perhaps the rest of the night. If all goes well, we will leave with it tomorrow morning and have it in position the following day.”

  Agamemnon smiled. Luis was his most trusted man. If he set a task before him, he knew Luis would always get it done. Unlike Jojo, Luis would not have let himself be taken so easily.

  He leaned back and took a breath. Who would have ever expected that the son of a beggar could have risen so far as Agamemnon had? Certainly not the worthless souls who called themselves his family. They’d forsaken him years ago when he’d revealed his plans to them. The idiots—they were content to stay in the slums he’d grown up in, scavenging a meager existence while the wealthy aristocrats and new entrepreneurs drove past them, oblivious to the children running barefoot in the late night traffic hoping to beg a few coins off of them.

  The inequity of the classes had drawn Agamemnon to the promise of change that a revolution offered. And Abu Sayyaf seemed just the organization to grant this chance at making things better.

  The problem, as it always seemed to be, was that no one in the upper class would listen to rhetoric. All the protests and words would never make them open their eyes and see the hell that the majority of the population lived in on a daily basis.

  Something bigger had to be done. And Abu Sayyaf made the people listen with its bombings and violence. A body count guaranteed news coverage. And it made the people in power pay attention.

  Now Agamemnon stood poised on the brink of his biggest accomplishment to date. There was just one final little bump to deal with—the American woman.

  Once that was done, everything else would fall right in line and Abu Sayyaf would bring the government of the Philippines to its knees. When it was over, a new power paradigm would rule in its place.

  And Agamemnon would be the grand architect of the entire operation.

  “You’re a good man, Luis. I know we will enjoy success soon,” he said.

  “Inshallah.”

  God willing indeed. Agamemnon smiled. In order to gain influence over the men of Abu Sayyaf, Agamemnon had, of course, played on their religious fervor. He knew how it remained one of the most potent methods for controlling the masses. Men stirred into a religious zealotry would do anything if they thought their god demanded it. And radical Islamic fundamentalism seemed a perfect way to accomplish his goals. There were already plenty of examples throughout the Middle East that helped Agamemnon justify certain violent tendencies.

  And while he knew true Islam was a religion of peace, Agamemnon had found that any religion could be twisted to the machinations of a man in charge. After all, born-again Christians and fundamentalist Baptists were given to extremes as horrifying as anything al Qaeda had engaged in.

  Agamemnon took a breath and then keyed the microphone again. “I have just sent half of my force into the jungle.”

  “What for?” Luis asked.

  “We had an escape.”

  “The American girl?”

  “Yes. She was something more than we expected. Jojo is dead.”

  There was a pause over the air. Luis had always viewed Jojo as something of a student to be mentored. Agamemnon worried he might take his death hard.

  “How?”

  “She cut him in half with a sword.”

  “A sword?”

  “I have no idea where she was able to obtain it. One minute she was praying, and the next, she’d cut Jojo in half,” Agamemnon said.

  “I don’t understand where she could have gotten a sword.”

  “I don’t, either. But rest assured when we find her—and the men will find her—I will make her tell me everything.”

  The radio squawked again. “Agamemnon?”

  “Yes?”

  “When it is time to kill her, I want to be the one to do it,” Luis said.

  Agamemnon smiled. Revenge was something that Luis always took as a matter of personal pride. He keyed the microphone. “She will be yours, my friend.”

  “Excellent. I will inform my men to post additional sentries around our camp, in the event that she happens to wander right into our welcoming arms.”