Gray read the concern, knowing Tucker and Frank were friends going back to the Gulf War. Gray held up a palm as he listened to Painter’s answer.

  “That’s the only good news I have,” the director said.

  “How is that good?”

  “Lisa believes—and I concur—that Monk rushed over during the attack with little hope of rescuing Frank and more with the intent to be snatched along with the virologist.”

  Gray nodded. Of course . . . “And have you been able to pick up Monk’s transponder?”

  “Trust me. Kat is not about to lose track of her husband. The GPS unit built into his prosthesis remains active. Presently it continues to move in a northeasterly direction across the Congo.”

  Gray let out a soft sigh of relief. Monk’s prosthetic hand—a marvel of engineering—was nearly indistinguishable from the real thing. At least from a cursory glance. He did not doubt that the enemy would have searched Monk, but in their haste to depart, they had clearly overlooked what was hidden in plain sight.

  But how long would that last?

  Suspicion rankled through him. He glanced over to Ndaye, remembering the eco-guard’s own warning about some of his fellow soldiers’ lack of loyalty to their uniforms. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “We should keep this knowledge to ourselves,” he warned. “As much as I’d like to take advantage of the military’s support, someone knew we were at that university. The best hope of securing Monk and Frank will be through stealth rather than a show of force. At least, for now.”

  Gray glanced across the ruins of the camp. They had to hope that Monk and Frank would be transported to the location where the kidnapped doctors had been taken. If so, his team would have only one chance to pull off a successful rescue. But if word again reached the wrong ears . . .

  “So what’s your plan?” Painter asked.

  “Let me discuss it with the others, and I’ll get back with you.”

  “Understood.”

  Gray signed off and lowered the phone. He appreciated Painter giving him the leeway to strategize further rather than issuing a command. Sometimes it took someone with boots on the ground to best assess a situation. Gray also trusted his gut, and thankfully the director did, too.

  He waved the group into a tighter cluster, including Benjie and Faraji. He quickly related all that had happened at the university. Grim expressions met this account. No one spoke except for Kowalski, who swore under his breath, exhaling a stream of smoke from the cigar clamped between his molars.

  Gray continued once the news had sunk in, “I hate to abandon the search along the trail left behind by the Reverend Sheppard. If there’s a source of the contagion somewhere out in the jungle—and a possible cure—we need to find it ASAP.”

  A few nods acknowledged this. One only had to look at the devastation wrought here—not just from the assault by the enemy, but also from the debilitating illness that had struck the camp prior to the attack—to recognize how time was running out. Gray innately knew the entire Congo was at a tipping point. Something malevolent and ancient was smoldering out in that jungle, and it had to be stopped before it blew into a firestorm.

  Tucker leaned closer. Gray could guess the ranger’s next words. “Kane and I’ll go after Frank and hopefully the others. You all continue into the jungle, following those clues. Just have the director keep me abreast of the tracker’s signal. I’ll let him know what I find.”

  Gray nodded his thanks. He hated to leave Monk’s fate to another, but Tucker’s expertise during the war—especially paired with Kane—was in search and rescue, especially exfiltration of high-value targets from behind enemy lines. If anyone could secure the others, it was this pair.

  Gray turned to Ndaye. The ICCN guard had piloted the helicopter that had ferried them all here. “Would you be willing to airlift Tucker, to get him over to that trail? I want to keep this operation limited to our group alone. I don’t trust anyone else.”

  “Certainement,” Ndaye answered. “I understand.”

  “And perhaps en route you could drop Benjie back in Kisangani with his samples.”

  Benjie straightened and shook his head. “No. That makes no bloody sense.”

  Gray fixed his gaze on the biologist.

  “I wish to go with you, Commander Pierce.” The student’s voice was firm, but he had to swallow twice to get those words out. He also blinked rapidly, as if his body was trying to send a fearful SOS in Morse code. Still, Benjie pressed the matter further. “With cases of the afflicted already at the Kisangani hospital, I see little value in transporting my samples there. I could be of more use in the forest.”

  Gray wanted to argue against the young man’s help, but so much remained unknown. Like how the contagion seemed to have a strange effect on jungle life. Gray dared not discount the assistance of a biologist. Still, he gave Benjie one last out.

  “If you’re absolutely sure,” he offered. “It’ll just be us, along with Kowalski and hopefully Faraji.” He glanced over to the shaman’s apprentice and addressed the boy. “That is, if you’re still willing to help. We need someone local who might be able to interpret the clues hidden in Sheppard’s old photographs.”

  Both Faraji and Benjie nodded their willingness to continue.

  “Then it’s settled,” Gray said.

  Kowalski heaved out another cloud of cigar smoke. “Great. We’re splitting up. That always ends well.”

  Third

  13

  April 24, 3:02 P.M. CAT

  Belka Island, Democratic Republic of the Congo

  This is not good . . .

  Charlotte continued her physical examination of Disanka inside the makeshift medical ward. The Lubu woman sat up on her cot. She must have read the worry in Charlotte’s face. The patient’s wide eyes reflected that same growing fear. Disanka’s gaze flicked to her son. The boy was swaddled and asleep in a bedside cradle, but even in slumber, there remained a distinct lassitude. The child was not curled on his side, sucking on a thumb as he dreamed. Instead, his head was lolled backward, his tiny limbs laying slack around him, looking boneless.

  The mother was not the only one concerned for the boy.

  “He’s getting worse,” Jameson said. The American pediatrician had just completed his own examination of the baby. “His pulse ox has fallen below ninety. Likely due to his breathing growing shallower and shallower.”

  “We should get him on an oxygen mask.”

  “I’ll see to it. Finish your exam on his mother. If she’s also getting sick . . .” Jameson left the rest unsaid.

  As Jameson departed, Charlotte cast a worried look across to a neighboring bed where a form lay sealed in a black body bag. An older patient had died, and they were readying to transport his remains to the pathology lab in the next Quonset hut over. According to his chart, the old man had arrived four days ago, already deep into the strange malaise. Whatever encephalitic condition resulted in that lassitude had progressed, slowly paralyzing the victim over time. Or maybe the sluggishness had simply become so severe that the man simply forgot how to breathe, or his heart lost its will to beat. That was a mystery for the pathologists. Not that she expected any answers to be shared with them.

  She glanced to the suite of equipment at the back of the ward. She had tried repeatedly to get further information from Dr. Ngoy, who led the team of clinicians working there, only to be rebuffed again and again.

  Not exactly a cooperative bunch.

  Still, Charlotte had a more immediate concern. She returned her attention to Disanka. The woman had started running a low-grade fever and, with some prodding, admitted to a growing headache. It would be easy to blame all of this on fatigue and fear for her boy, but a late lunch of stew and fried bread had left Disanka nearly choking.

  Charlotte picked up a tongue depressor and requested in French, “Disanka, could you please open your mouth?” She pantomimed the same by sticking out her own tongue.

  As Disanka obeyed, Charlotte leaned forward. She used the tongue depressor to examine the back of the woman’s mouth. The tonsils appeared slightly inflamed. Otherwise, there appeared to be no other lesions or sores. Charlotte held a breath and reached to the left tonsillar bed with her tongue depressor and brushed its wooden edge against the inflamed tissue. Normally, a patient would’ve jerked back and gagged. Instead, Disanka showed no acknowledgment of the violation.

  Charlotte sat back and tossed the depressor into a red hazardous waste bin. She motioned Disanka to relax and patted her shoulder in reassurance. Her efforts failed to diminish the worry in the woman’s eyes, but the fear was not for her own health. They both turned toward the swaddled baby in the crib.

  Disanka reached over and took Charlotte’s hand, reminding Charlotte of her earlier promise. To keep the child safe at any cost.

  Charlotte squeezed her reassurance.

  I’ll do everything I can.

  The fear in Disanka’s eyes had dimmed, smothered by a renewed determination. They matched gazes in that moment, the meaning clear.

  They both would do everything they could for the child.

  By now Jameson had returned with a tiny pediatric mask and hooked an oxygen line to it. “Well?” he asked brusquely.

  Charlotte released Disanka’s hand. “It definitely appears her struggles during lunch were due to dysphagia. I don’t know if it’s just a lack of feeling in the back of her throat or if there’s muscular paralysis, too.”

  “Could this be an early sign of the disease?”

  She shrugged. “The fever, headaches, they could all be the signs of the onset of a viral encephalitis. But this degree of dysphagia, that’s an unusual sequela.”

  “Not always.” He glanced significantly at her.

  She understood. “You’re thinking of rabies.”

  The zoonotic disease was one she had been well versed on before coming here as part of Doctors Without Borders. The characteristic hydrophobia—or fear of water—along with the foaming at the mouth and drooling, was due to pharyngeal dysfunction as rabies triggered a deadly encephalitis.

  “But this is clearly not rabies,” Jameson said.

  No, it’s definitely not.

  She found herself rubbing her own throat, trying to judge if she was experiencing such a symptom. The ant bites on her hands were still red. She had a persistent headache and felt overheated and sweaty. She wanted to blame it all on stress and being suited up from head to toe. Still, she could not escape the worry that she was infected, too.

  Jameson nodded toward the back of the ward. “Maybe we should inform Dr. Ngoy about our observation.”

  She turned and frowned at the head researcher and his team. The clinicians remained clustered among the serology and histology equipment at the back of the hut. To that group, she and Jameson were merely glorified interns and phlebotomists, not worthy of their time.

  “Let’s hold off for now,” she said.

  “Are you sure?”

  Before she could respond, the entire Quonset hut shook as a helicopter swept over it. The rotorwash pounded the metal roof. Already on edge, she found herself ducking and staring upward. Whoever had arrived had done so with some urgency.

  Curiosity drew her to a narrow window beside Disanka’s bed. It sounded like the helicopter had landed close by, rather than over at the riverside helipad. Jameson shadowed her to the window.

  The angle of the hut allowed her to spot the aircraft settling to its skids in the central square of the old colonial outpost. Hatches popped open on either side, and men in black armor piled out. They were more of Nolan De Coster’s personal army. She spotted the tall form of Lieutenant Ekon. He led two men in civilian gear at the point of a rifle toward the guesthouse where Nolan kept his office.

  Jameson stiffened next to her. “Impossible,” he muttered.

  She turned to him. “What is it?”

  He nodded back toward the men being led away. “The one in front. That’s Dr. Whitaker.”

  It took Charlotte another breath to recognize the name. “The virologist? The one you had tried to summon to the camp?”

  “The same. But what is he doing here? How is he here?”

  Charlotte noted the rifle threatening the pair of newcomers. “Clearly he didn’t volunteer.” She pointed to the stocky, bald man beside the virologist. “Do you recognize the other one with him?”

  “No. But it doesn’t matter. They’re as trapped as we are. They won’t be able to help us.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We need an experienced virologist.”

  She glanced over to Ngoy as the clinician bent over a microscope.

  Especially one we can trust.

  3:42 P.M.

  Tucker knelt in shadows and readied his partner for the trek ahead.

  Behind him, Ndaye remained with the helicopter as its motor cooled with metallic tinks and pings in the small clearing not far from a small river. The aircraft was the same Aérospatiale Gazelle that Tucker had ridden last night, when he had rescued Ndaye and the others from the flooded Tshopo River.

  Let’s pray the aircraft is up for one more high-stakes rescue.

  For the past hour, Ndaye and Tucker had been tracking the GPS transponder in Monk’s prosthetic. They had kept a wary distance until the moving target finally stopped—or rather the signal went dead. They’d lost the transmission about five minutes ago, requiring a swift search and landing in the clearing. The last signal had been broadcast about ten kilometers off. It was impossible to tell if the transponder had been discovered and disabled. If so, they dared approach no closer by air. They would have to continue on foot.

  They being Tucker and Kane.

  Ndaye would stay with the helicopter. The eco-guard needed to be ready to sweep over for an airlift if Tucker was successful in finding and securing the others. In the meantime, Tucker would maintain radio silence. He would only risk contacting Ndaye when absolutely necessary. After so many ambushes and apparent betrayals, paranoia was running high. Then again, he took heed of a quote from Catch-22: Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't after you.

  Either way, for now, that meant Tucker was on his own—though not entirely on his own. He stared into Kane’s dark caramel eyes, flecked with gold. It would be just the two of them from here.

  Just the way I like it.

  Tucker checked the shoulder and belly straps on Kane’s K9 Storm tactical vest, making sure it was snug but not chaffing. The Kevlar-reinforced vest was waterproof and, more important, bulletproof. Despite that protection, Tucker felt the old scars hidden under the black-and-tan ruff. Tucker shared the same scars, some easy to see, others just as well hidden.

  As he worked, he felt his partner’s heart pounding, the tremble of excitement in the dog’s muscles. Kane knew it was time to get to work, to transform from furry companion to stealthy soldier. Tucker scuffled and rubbed Kane’s ears, physically reinforcing their bond through touch. He then leaned closer, deepening that connection, smelling his partner’s musk, appreciating the hot breath heaving through black nostrils.

  In an age-old ritual, he touched noses with Kane, acknowledging what he was asking of the dog, to put himself in harm’s way to save others.

  “Who’s a good boy?” he whispered to his best friend.

  Kane licked his nose.

  That’s right, you are.

  Tucker reached to the webbing of the vest’s collar. He flipped up a camera hidden there and slipped a wireless radio plug into Kane’s left ear. The gear allowed the pair to be in constant visual and audio contact with one another. Tucker positioned the camera’s lens to peer over Kane’s shoulder and turned it on. He then seated a pair of DARPA-designed goggles across his own eyes. He tapped a button on the side of the goggles and a live feed from Kane’s camera appeared on the inside corner of the lens.

  Satisfied, he slipped a wireless radio transmitter into his own mouth, fitting it behind his last tooth. The tiny radio—nicknamed a Molar Mic—allowed Tucker to communicate to Kane in whispers, while incoming transmissions reached Tucker’s ear directly via bone induction through the jaw. Luckily the transmissions could be tamped down to make it less likely to be detected, though doing so limited the radio’s reach. Tucker would only broadcast louder if he needed to reach Ndaye.

  Testing the communication channel, Tucker mouthed breathlessly to his partner, “You ready, buddy?”

  Kane wagged his tail. His partner’s eyes glinted with suppressed excitement, knowing what was coming, anxious to get moving.

  Then let’s do this.

  He straightened and swung around. Ndaye stared back, plainly guessing Tucker was ready to set off. The eco-guard offered him a thumb’s up. Tucker returned it, then faced the thick jungle. The plan was to parallel the river and head toward where the signal was lost.

  Tucker pointed toward the forest. Even before he whispered the command “SCOUT,” Kane was already moving, anticipating the instruction.

  As the dog swept into the forest, Tucker followed in his wake. Kane quickly vanished into the deeper shadows. Tucker studied the terrain both through his eyes and through the image transmitted to his goggles from Kane’s camera. A bobbling view of leafy loam, bushes, and vines merged with his own. Though it was disorienting for several breaths, it quickly became second nature. Kane’s panting filled his skull, coming to match his own breathing. Even the tread of his boots settled into an easy harmony with the padding of Kane’s paws. In that timeless moment, the two became one, a perfect harmony of action and intent.

  In another corner of his goggles, a real-time map marked his progress along the path of Monk’s signal. Blip after blip vanished as he continued along that route. He kept the river on his left. He set a steady but fast pace. It was made easier by the shade-choked canopy that for long stretches reduced the undergrowth to occasional patches of thorny bushes and a scattering of bamboo thickets entwined with creepers and vines.