Otherwise, the forest climbed two hundred feet overhead, a towering colonnade of palms, rubber and mahogany trees, even small copses of red cedar. Beneath the canopy, the jungle was a damp emerald cathedral. Orchids and lilies offered bursts of nearly luminescent colors. Iridescent butterflies seemed to hover in the air, as if hung there ages ago.

  Humbled and awed, he found himself holding his breath for long stretches. Even the centuries of decaying leaf litter muffled his footfalls. The silence was profound. He had expected a constant whir of insects, a cacophony of birdsong, a chattering chorus of monkeys. Instead, the place was deathly quiet, as if a great intelligence were studying him. He felt like a trespasser, an interloper who had no right to traipse this forest.

  This did not apply to his companion.

  Kane ran ahead, his fur blending into and out of the dappled shadows. He moved without a sound, as much a part of the forest as any living creature. His tail flagged behind him, his ears piqued. His breathing was only a whisper in Tucker’s ear.

  As the pair continued, the air grew more humid, fecund and heavy. The sodden smell of rot and dampness filled his nostrils, along with the occasional sweeter brume from flowing vines. With each inhalation, it felt as if the jungle were trying to seed into his lungs. He found himself quickly growing winded, despite the steady pace. He could normally run a 10K in under an hour and barely break a sweat. With only half that distance covered, his brow already ran and dripped. His jungle camo shirt clung to his chest and back. His backpack had become a boulder over his shoulders.

  Still, he kept a wary watch on the forest. He dared not let his guard down. Not just due to the unknown enemy ahead, but also from what hid in this green cathedral. Leopards and cheetahs prowled here, along with jackals and hyenas. And that only accounted for the larger denizens. Snakes of all sizes slithered about this forest, many of them poisonous: puff adders, tree cobras, mambas. Then there were the untold numbers of scorpions, spiders, and biting centipedes.

  With each stride, he appreciated his waterproof hiking boots and the thickness of his khaki pants and sleeves. Still, tension built into a knot between his shoulder blades.

  A scream burst through the jungle and made him jump.

  A burst of color overhead revealed the angry flight of a long-beaked toucan, likely roused from its nest by his passage. He both apologized to and cursed the creature.

  As he continued onward, time stretched strangely. The clock inside his goggles offered the only true assessment of his progress. He watched the blips on his live map slowly be eaten away. It took him over ninety minutes to reach the last one.

  When he did, he whistled softly for Kane to stop. His partner obeyed, loping in a circle to join his side. Kane panted, his eyes bright in the shadows, as if lit by fires inside the dog. Tucker stared ahead as he offered Kane some water from his canteen. The transponder’s signal had been roughly following the neighboring river. Though the trail ended here, he had to assume it continued alongside this waterway.

  It must lead somewhere.

  Tucker pointed ahead. “SCOUT,” he whispered again to Kane. He also gripped his wrist and pulled his hand to this chest, silently adding the command STAY CLOSE.

  They set off again, paralleling the river, heading downstream. Kane led the way, but only by a handful of yards. Tucker was glad he had taken the wary precaution. The jungle grew steadily thicker, less a cathedral and more like a crowded church. Visibility dropped in all directions. Even the branches lowered, threatening to brush the field hat off his head. The humidity also increased, as if the air was being crushed by the press of vegetation.

  The reason for the thickening forest glinted in the distance.

  Another river crossed the path ahead, likely draining into the other waterway. He slowed their pace—or rather the jungle did. With the river ahead carving a rut through the forest, the raw sunlight fueled the riotous growth at the water’s edge. Vines and bushes grew into a thorny, shrouded barrier. Rotted deadfalls of tree trunks, covered in emerald moss and fronds of fungi, had to be climbed over.

  Tucker noted another problem. The wireless feed from Kane’s camera had begun to stutter inside his goggle, the image fritzing with pixelating dropouts. Tucker licked his lips. He could guess the reason. He glanced back along their trail, remembering where Monk’s transponder had faded out.

  Someone’s jamming radio frequencies in this area.

  It was also interfering with Kane’s gear.

  Tucker grimaced, but at least it confirmed he was on the right path after all. The bigger worry was that it meant he would have a hard time radioing back to Ndaye. If he was successful in freeing the others and sneaking away, he would have to get the group beyond the suppressive reach of the jammer before he could summon the helicopter. It made matters all the more difficult.

  But it’s not like I have much choice.

  He continued forward, worming and half-crawling to the riverbank. The brighter sunlight stung his eyes, reflecting harshly off the water’s flat black mirror. Blinded, he heard the warning before he saw it. A sonorous thump-thumping. The noise echoed across the water. He traced the source of the noise to a large island in the middle of the confluence of the two rivers. A silver glint rose from the forests there. As Tucker blinked away the glare, he recognized a helicopter lifting off from the island.

  Fearing he had already been spotted, he retreated away from the river. He buried himself farther in the jungle, but he kept watch on the aircraft. Was it the same one that had attacked the university? The chopper cleared the trees and turned in the opposite direction. It headed downriver. Tucker watched its path. It eventually swung away from the bow of the river and aimed inland. Tucker noted several columns of smoke in the distance. If he strained, he could make out a distant grinding echo. A sharp whistle also blew from that direction.

  It must be a mining town. The Congo was riddled with them. He stared toward the distant plumes of smoke. Had the others been taken there? Or had they been dropped off on the island? He studied the forested silhouette in the river. He could just make out the tip of a long pier jutting downriver. Several boats were moored there. He also took into account the radio jamming of this area.

  Someone’s definitely set up shop there. Even if I’m wrong, I’ll have to do a recon.

  Which meant a swim.

  He stared at the black mirror, wondering what dangers lurked below. Still, he had no choice but to risk it. With a sigh, he studied the sun, which sat low on the horizon. If there were eyes watching any approach from the river, it would be best to wait until nightfall.

  With sunset only half an hour away, he settled back to wait, already strategizing in his head.

  Kane did not seem happy with this plan. The dog growled deep in his throat, less a noise as a shaking of his body against Tucker’s crouched form. Tucker glanced over. Kane was facing in the opposite direction—toward the shrouded forest—which looked even darker after the bright sunlight.

  Kane growled again, signaling his partner.

  Something’s out there.

  Tucker trusted Kane’s instincts. He stared into the jungle. He needed eyes on whatever the dog sensed. He signaled his partner by lowering a palm before Kane’s nose, then pointing a finger toward the jungle: STAY LOW, TAKE POINT.

  Upon this command, Kane slunk off into the forest, slipping from shadow to shadow. As Tucker tracked him via the camera feed, he added a second silent command: Be careful, buddy.

  Kane inhales the forest as he trails back into the trees. He takes in the scents to build what his eyes can’t see.

  Coming here, he has already memorized the spoor in the area: the bright tang of urine on a trunk, the darker musk of dung, the ammonia spatter of guano. Etched over all lingers the rot of leaf and buried bones, the ripeness of fallen fruit and maggoty decay.

  On the back of his tongue, he tastes the dankness of this damp world, the sweet drifts of pollen in the air, the redolent loam stirred underfoot.

  As he continues, he keeps his belly low and his ears high, tracing the unusual noise that had drawn his attention. It does not belong here. A growl of challenge builds in his throat, fueled by a hormonal fire to dominate. But he fights his own blood and holds back.

  He pads forward, careful with each step. Thorns comb his ruff, but he shifts to keep those same barbs from scratching against his coarse vest and giving his position away. He is rewarded as the noise grows louder ahead.

  —a squelching crunch of wet leaf, heavy, too rhythmic.

  —a sharp whirring that sets his hackles high.

  —a ticking, tanging of metal.

  Then his nose picks up its scent, unique and separate from the forest world. It is lightning in the air, accompanied by a whiff of gun oil (of which he knows well). He also tastes burning plastic on his tongue.

  The foreignness spikes his blood even hotter.

  Still, he stifles any challenge.

  He slows instead, shifting one paw ahead, then another. He holds his tail low. He sticks to the darkest shadows. Then he sees his target, both of them. They move with clumsy synchronicity, stalking through the forest with a dread determination, whirring with each step.

  His hackles rise higher. A storm builds in his chest.

  Then a command reaches his ears, urgent and forceful.

  TAKE COVER!

  He obeys, not out of fear, only from a loyalty that burns bright in his heart. He slips back into the deeper shadows, dropping to his belly. His haunches remain hard and tense, readying him to flee or attack.

  Until then, he simply watches as the strangeness ambles closer.

  Tucker gawked at the sight revealed in Kane’s camera feed.

  What the f . . .

  A moment ago, two robotic figures had thumped into view, a matching pair of glossy black quadrupeds. They had clumped through the forest, moving in sync, like a deadly ballet of engineering and threat. He studied the closest one. It stood Kane’s height at the shoulders, but it was missing its head. It had been replaced instead with a ring of camera lenses surmounted by a stub-nosed rifle assembly.

  Tucker understood what he was seeing.

  Guard dogs.

  He had been following the development of these units for some time, having skin in the game when it came to military working dogs. They were called Quad-legged Unmanned Ground Vehicles, or Q-UGVs. They were intended to add a heightened level of security around military installations. But even the NYPD had briefly employed nonmilitary versions to assist in searching apartment complexes.

  Tucker gritted his teeth.

  Apparently, their deployment has expanded considerably—all the way to the Congo.

  He searched beyond the pair for any sign of a handler, but he knew the robotic dogs were semi-autonomous. They were designed to patrol remote areas of a base, leaving soldiers to monitor more vital areas. The units could be controlled by a virtual reality headset worn by an operator or sent out along preprogrammed paths and assigned to react according to a set of algorithms.

  He held his breath as the pair approached Kane’s hiding spot. According to their specs, their ring of fourteen sensors scanned a full 360-degrees around them. They could crouch, jump, sprint, even operate at temperatures well below zero or in the most scorching desert. Then there were those rifle mounts. He hadn’t heard of that addition to the robotic dogs, unless such weapons were unique to these jungle units.

  The pair of Q-UGVs reached Kane’s position. Tucker slipped his Desert Eagle out of its hip holster. But without missing a synchronized step, the pair stomped past Kane’s hiding spot. Tucker let out his breath. He watched them vanish into the forest as they continued their patrol. He didn’t know if the pair’s sensors had failed to detect Kane’s hiding spot, or if they had been programmed to fixate only on humans. With so much wildlife out here, it would be ineffectual for the guard dogs to be constantly shooting up the forest with every snap of a twig or flight of a bird.

  Still, to be cautious, Tucker waited another three minutes before whispering a command to Kane.

  “QUIET RETURN.”

  On the video feed, Kane swung around and slunk back. Upon his arrival, Tucker gave his partner an enthusiastic rubdown.

  “No one’s gonna replace you, buddy.”

  Kane agreed with a vigorous wag of his tail.

  With the greetings done, Tucker returned his attention to the river and the mysterious island at its center. If there were robotic guards patrolling here, then something was definitely wrong with that place. He was eager to get moving, but he checked the sun. It had already sunk halfway into the horizon. It wouldn’t be too long of a wait.

  Still, he stared across the water, knowing who was to blame for him being here.

  “Frank, what goddamned mess have you gotten us into?”

  14

  April 24, 5:45 P.M. CAT

  Belka Island, Democratic Republic of the Congo

  Frank shifted uncomfortably in the deeply cushioned leather chair. Shortly after arriving at the island encampment, he and Monk had been strip searched and examined by a doctor. Only afterward had they been given a matching set of blue scrubs to don.

  Monk shared the neighboring seat before a wide African mahogany desk. During the search, the captors had discovered Monk’s prosthesis. He fidgeted with it now on his lap. He had been allowed to keep it, especially after feigning it to be stiff-fingered and clumsy, despite its outwardly authentic appearance.

  The two of them faced the man who had orchestrated their kidnapping. Nolan De Coster, CEO of a mining conglomerate. Sadly, Frank actually knew the bastard, not personally, but the man’s corporation—its philanthropic division—had partly funded Frank’s own research here in Africa.

  He struggled to come to terms with all that had been told to them, listening as the CEO eloquently recast his callousness and cruelty as economic necessity. Not that their attendance was voluntary. The tall Congolese soldier with the scarred face stood guard behind them.

  Nolan kept his attention focused on Frank. “Dr. Whitaker, I can appreciate the hard set to your lips. You can judge me as harshly as you like. But as they say, what I’ve done . . . it’s water under the bridge. It’s a wise man who addresses the matter at hand versus wishing things to be otherwise. The viral disease is here. People are dying. More will soon be. But with your help, we can accelerate our research here. To quickly put a stop to the spread.”

  “So you can play the white savior of the Black man,” Frank said darkly, noting the African gold crown hovering in a case behind the man’s head.

  The gall of this bastard.

  Nolan sighed and steepled his fingers at his lips. “I’ve read your dossier, Dr. Whitaker. Army veterinarian turned virologist. You strike me as an impassioned but practical man. You’ve surely seen the best and worst of your fellow man during your years in the service. You understand progress often only comes at the cost of blood. It’s more so here in the Congo. The history of Africa is written in misery and strife, measured in the number of bodies. I mean to ultimately change that for the Congo, to turn that bloody tide once and for all. And hopefully spread the same across the entire continent.”

  “In other words, the ends justify the means.”

  Nolan shrugged. “Sometimes it does. Especially if those ‘ends’ break the wheel of Africa’s constant and escalating cycle of violence, war, and death. Consider what is happening now to be merely the final birthing pangs of a new era for Africa.”

  Frank sat straighter and opened his mouth, but Monk cut him off.

  “What if we do help?” Monk said curtly, glancing apologetically toward Frank. Since their capture, Monk had continued playing the role of the deferential research assistant. He swallowed hard, looking nervous. “What’ll become of us?”

  Frank imagined a shallow grave in the jungle.

  “I can assure you that no harm will come to you. I’m a man of my word. You will both, of course, remain under guard. You will be well taken care of, every luxury afforded you, your every whim met.”

  “But not our freedom,” Frank said. “We’ll be ensconced in a gilded cage for the rest of our lives. That’s your offer?”

  “I’m afraid so. But what is the alternative, Dr. Whitaker? You served in the army. You know something of sacrifice. Is life in a gilded cage too high a price to pay if it means thousands—possibly hundreds of thousands—of lives are saved?”

  Frank sat back. He recognized the futility of trying to argue his way out of here. Maybe it was best to play along. If these assholes had a leg up on the viral disease, it would serve the world to cooperate. At least for now. Plus, Frank could not deny an aching curiosity. He wanted to know what these bastards knew, to learn what progress they had made.

  He pictured the spiky giant virus isolated from the Dorylus ants.

  “Can I count on your help?” Nolan asked with a note of finality.

  Frank met the man’s icy blue gaze. “Show me what you’ve learned, and then I’ll decide.”

  “Fair enough.” Nolan stood up. The shift of his suit jacket revealed a heavy shoulder holster and the butt of a black pistol. “I’ll take you to our lab. The day’s nearly over, but it’s best if we start on the same page as soon as possible.”

  The Congolese soldier stepped forward. “I can take them, sir,” he offered in French.

  Frank was fluent enough to understand, but he kept such knowledge secret.

  Nolan shook his head and came around the wide desk. “No, Lieutenant Ekon. I’ll go along, too. I’d rather get my daily briefing from Dr. Ngoy directly.”

  The lieutenant nodded smartly. “Oui, bien sûr.”

  Frank and Monk stood, sharing a look. Monk stared hard with a slight widening of his eyes. The silent message was easy to read.