He shoved Jameson toward the rear of the cell. Frank must have heard the urgency and shepherded Charlotte with him. The French doctor looked aghast at Monk’s disembodied hand, likely having failed to note it was a prosthetic.

  Oh, it’s much more than that.

  Monk tapped a code into the titanium magnetic link that normally locked his prosthetic in place. He pressed the last contact point, then waved everyone toward the floor. “Down! Now!”

  The C4 pellet buried under the prosthetic’s palm exploded. The blast deafened them all. The flash blinded. The concussion knocked everyone to the floor.

  Except for Monk.

  Anticipating the blast, he had braced his legs. He shoved back through the hot smoke and toward the door. The explosion had shattered the lock and knocked the gate off one of its hinges.

  Ekon lay sprawled in the hallway, caught by the blast, possibly also struck by the door. But he proved to be a tough bastard and already stirred, struggling to his hands and knees.

  Monk met his raised head with a boot heel to his nose. Bone crunched in a most satisfying way. The man went down again—this time out cold.

  “Hurry!” Monk hollered to the others.

  The doctors remained stunned, but Frank got them moving.

  Monk retrieved the soldier’s assault rifle and tossed it to Frank. It was a weapon best used by someone with two hands. Instead, he relieved Ekon of his holstered sidearm, a black-and-chrome Browning HP. He gripped it, appreciating its heft and weight.

  That’ll do.

  Frank checked the rifle and nodded to Monk.

  Monk turned to the two doctors. “Stay close. At our heels. Understood?”

  Jameson simply gawked, his eyes huge. He had lost his eyeglasses during the tumult. Charlotte looked ashen, but she nodded.

  They all set off down the hall.

  Monk led the way.

  Let’s go see who came to visit.

  8:37 P.M.

  Under the cover of the dark forest, Tucker tossed a pair of smoke charges toward the colonial outpost. After a five-second delay, they exploded with muffled whomps. Clouds of smoke welled under the canopy. The breeze flowing downriver rolled the pall into the compound.

  Tucker followed, keeping under its cover.

  He dared wait no longer, especially after hearing a loud blast come from the guesthouse.

  What had happened?

  As he headed out of the forest, he kept watch on Kane’s progress. Upon his earlier command, his partner had fled a zigzag pattern through the jungle on the compound’s far side. Tucker had needed Kane to draw attention in that direction, while he attempted to reach the guesthouse. To aid in that endeavor, Tucker had secured a series of flash-bangs and grenades into Kane’s bandolier. The crossbody Kevlar satchel could carry a dozen explosive eggs, each individually hung along the harness, which was wirelessly connected to the device in Tucker’s hand. With each press of a button, Tucker could drop one of those charges in Kane’s wake. They were set on a fifteen-second delay, allowing enough time for the dog to flee before they exploded.

  Kane continued through the forest on that side, spreading chaos. The bobbling view of his camera was dizzying, but Tucker trusted Kane to keep out of sight. When the dog wanted, he could become a shadow. And the patrols out there were surely searching for guerrillas or other armed men—not a fleet-footed ghost.

  Tucker edged along a row of small outbuildings, keeping ensconced in the roll of smoke. The thermal imaging of his goggles revealed the bright glow of the bonfire in the square. He paused to allow a pair of gunmen to flee past his position, running toward the dockside half of the island.

  Once clear, he crossed the last of the distance to the guesthouse. He kept his Desert Eagle pointed ahead, cradled in both hands. By the time he reached the guesthouse, the smoke had dissipated into a haze. Still, he was close. He ducked lower and ran the last of the distance to the steps that led up to the building’s raised porch.

  A shout and a spate of gunfire stopped him.

  The doors burst open ahead of him. A figure—a soldier in jungle khaki—came flying backward across the porch, pummeled by a spurt of rifle fire. He tumbled down the steps and sprawled dead at Tucker’s toes.

  Tucker retreated as a familiar group in blue scrubs rushed out the same door.

  “Frank, Monk,” Tucker hissed at them before they mistook him for one of the patrols.

  Monk clattered down the steps to meet him. He searched all around, clearly hoping for more than just the lone rescuer. Still, the man immediately accepted the situation at hand. “Tucker, what’s the plan?”

  “Get our asses out of here.”

  “Works for me.”

  Tucker turned and waved them toward the church. “This way.”

  8:39 P.M.

  Charlotte fought her pounding heart and pushed through a threatening paralysis that had nothing to do with a viral infection. She knew she had to keep moving.

  She paused long enough to grab the pistol knocked from the dead soldier at the foot of the stairs. She knew guns, going back to her earlier years here, when her family lived in the neighboring Republic of the Congo. No one traveled these jungles without protection.

  Monk noted her collection of the weapons with an approving nod.

  They set off after the man—Tucker—who had come to rescue them. Clearly from the explosions and shouts in the forest, he had come with others. Hopefully enough of a force to get them safely out of here.

  They circled behind the tall church, sticking to shadows. Tucker tossed a strategic series of smoke bombs to help hide their path. The muffled pops and wafting pall failed to draw attention in the night. The smoke only thickened the darkness around them. Still, she felt like a leaf blown in a whirlwind. The continuing sporadic blasts out in the forest made her jump each time.

  Still, they safely reached the research huts. No one was about. The scientific staff was likely hiding from the attack.

  Tucker raised an arm, and the group stopped. “Stay here,” he hissed and shifted forward on his own.

  As she huddled with the others, she stared across at the medical ward. She pictured Disanka and her baby. She remembered her promise to the woman.

  She nudged Monk and pointed. “The patients. We can’t leave them here.”

  “No time,” he answered with a pained expression. “Most of them can’t even move.”

  She knew this to be true. By now, a majority of the patients were bedridden, lost in a viral-induced somnolence. But not all of them . . .

  “If they’re sick,” Monk continued, “there’s at least medical care here. And ultimately, their best hope is for us to reach outside help as quickly as possible.”

  Charlotte recognized this to be true. Still, guilt panged her. She could not stomach abandoning Disanka and her child.

  Tucker returned to them. Even with the goggles covering most of his face, it was easy to read the worried set to his jaw. He nodded toward the shouts and spatter of gunfire echoing across the forest ahead of them.

  “Something’s wrong,” he warned. “Kane should have lured the patrols to the south by now, clearing the way for us.”

  Frank faced the opposite direction. “And we’ve got company closing in behind us.”

  Barked orders echoed from the central square. Boots clattered on planked walkways, all aiming toward their position.

  Tucker swore, but his attention seemed focused elsewhere. He lifted a handheld device higher. “C’mon, Kane.”

  Charlotte frowned, staring toward the jungle.

  Who all is out there?

  8:41 P.M.

  Kane crouches as danger closes in from three directions.

  On both flanks and ahead.

  Retreat is cut off by a chatter of voices, by a wall of sweat and filth. He has led those behind him, luring them in his wake. An order blazes behind his eyes, to take them farther astray.

  But other hunters have noticed his trespass and block him from following that order. He holds back a growl of fury and challenge.

  He can only wait.

  His ears stand tall, picking out the pneumatic whir and clank of metal. Branches break, coming ever closer. His haunches tremor in readiness.

  He knows his packmate is blind to the threat that comes. The other does not have his keen nose or sharp ears. It will take sight for the danger to become clear. But Kane trusts his partner with all his heart and bone.

  And waits.

  Finally, the first of the three stalks into view ahead. It stinks of oil and lightning. Gears hum. Gun mounts swivel for a target. Its senses are muted, dull compared to his own. But he knows that it is also deadly and swift.

  Rifle fire from such hunters had chased him twice before.

  Then another appears to the right, followed a breath later by a third to the left.

  He stays still. He’s learned movement draws their attention. Still, soon they will sense his heat, pick out his form. While he had successfully fled a few encounters, three were too many to simply run from.

  So, he waits, trusting another.

  Then a telltale snap bumps his sternum. A silvery object drops to the ground beneath him. His packmate has finally recognized the threat and seeks to help him.

  Kane understands. He has been trained in this maneuver. He also knows he should already be running.

  A command reinforces this.

  MOVE. DOUBLE TIME!

  He disobeys. He has learned the number of beats of his heart it takes before such objects erupt with a flash, a bang, or the shred of burning metal. He waits, trusting himself as much as the other.

  The three hunters close a snare around him. One gun mount snaps in his direction, then another, and another.

  Now spotted, he leaps back and away.

  Gunfire tears around him, but he is gone. He jackrabbits off his hind legs and races away. The three hunters converge where he had been hidden—as an explosion brightens the forest with flame. He is too close. The blast shoves at him, driving him deeper into the forest.

  A broken shape crashes through the underbrush.

  Kane races onward, beyond the blast, into the embrace of shadow and concealing leaf. Free of the trap, he runs into the dark, ready at last to complete his mission, to lead more hunters astray.

  Words reach him.

  He hears the pride shining in them and knows them to be true.

  GOOD BOY, KANE. GOOD BOY.

  8:43 P.M.

  Tucker sighed his relief.

  That was too close.

  He turned to the others. “Kane’s off again. But he’ll need a few minutes to lead the patrols out of our way. After that, we should be able to make it to the dock.”

  “I don’t think we’ve got those extra minutes,” Frank warned and punctuated it with a few spats of rifle fire directed toward the square.

  Men shouted in surprise from that direction. Shadows danced out of view. But such discouragement would not last long.

  Frank knew it, too. “We’re outgunned and outmanned and too out in the open. We’re better off taking our chances in the forest.”

  “Hang on,” Monk said, stepping closer. “Tucker, do you have any more grenades?”

  He patted his belt. “Two frags, four flash-bangs.”

  Monk tucked his pistol into his waistband and held out a palm. “Good. I need to blow a hole in something.”

  Tucker unclipped one of the tiny explosive charges from his belt and passed it over. Monk frowned at its diminutive size.

  “They’re meant more for distraction,” Tucker explained. “But, in a pinch, they’ll do some damage.”

  Frank fired his rifle again.

  “I’d say we’re in that pinch,” Monk said. “What’s the delay after triggering it?”

  “Preset for fifteen seconds. But I—”

  “That’ll do.” Monk groaned as he swung away. “Still, we’ll have to haul ass.”

  Tucker watched the man sprint toward a stone-block building and kick through the door. An eruption of hoots, calls, and screams announced his trespass. Monk vanished for several breaths, then rushed back toward them, waving an arm.

  “Run!” he shouted. “Get into the forest.”

  The others immediately took off, as if they knew what Monk had done. Tucker didn’t have time to inquire and followed. Frank kept watch on the group’s six, sporadically firing wildly behind them. By the time they got under the jungle canopy, Frank had emptied his weapon and scowled at it in frustration.

  Then a sharp blast echoed from the cement-block structure.

  “Get deeper,” Monk urged.

  They obeyed, burying themselves farther into the forest.

  Tucker sidled up to Monk. “What did you do back there?”

  The man simply shrugged. “Enlisted an ally. As they say, the enemy of your enemy is your friend.”

  Tucker frowned—then heard a screech that iced his blood. It was savage, full of rage, and distinctly leonine. He glanced back.

  What the hell . . .

  Men began to scream, both in terror and in agonized bloody cries. Gunfire erupted into a panicked firefight. Whatever Monk had freed, it was clearly tearing into the forces back there.

  “I’d say that buys us some time,” Frank said.

  Monk pointed ahead. “Tucker, get us to the dock before our new enlistee catches our scent, too.”

  Tucker led the way. Despite the threat behind them, he went slowly, making sure Kane had time to draw off as many patrols as possible. Once satisfied that the way was indeed clear, he set a faster pace.

  He also subvocalized to his partner. “DISENGAGE. RETURN SILENT TO ALPHA POINT.”

  They crossed the rest of the forest without incident. Lights glowed ahead, marking the riverside pier. Tucker had them hold back, while he scouted ahead. He reached the pillbox that guarded the dock. A body lay sprawled in a bloody ruin, proof that those tiny explosive charges still packed plenty of punch. Kane had planted that first egg just behind the man before running off and leading the patrols in a wild-goose chase.

  Tucker searched to make sure no one else was about, then slunk to the pillbox. He crossed to a glass-and-steel case that held a line of boat keys. He used a dagger to break the case’s lock, then gathered all of the fobs.

  Staying low, he whistled an all-clear to the others.

  They hurried out of the forest.

  As Frank joined him, his friend eyed the Kord machine gun with appreciation. He tossed aside his empty rifle and set about lifting the heavy weapon from its stanchion, dragging up its belt of large cartridges. “This is more like it.”

  Monk grinned. “I know a big lug who would be green with envy right now.”

  “What are we doing?” Charlotte asked, her eyes glassy under the sodium lamp.

  “Just waiting on one more,” Tucker muttered.

  As if summoned by his words, a form broke free of the forest and rushed to his side. “About time you got here, Kane.”

  The dog huffed and bumped him.

  Charlotte looked aghast. “That’s Kane? I thought you brought an army with you.”

  He patted his partner’s flank. “I did.”

  Jameson swallowed and pointed. “Which boat do we take?”

  Tucker had already picked one out. “C’mon.”

  He led the group to the far end of the dock, where a sleek black-and-red cigarette boat was moored. The carbon-fiber racing shell looked like a dagger floating in the dark water. Tucker wanted something swift enough to clear the jamming radius around the island as quickly as possible.

  This ought to do it.

  He got the two doctors aboard and followed behind them. As Monk and Frank freed the mooring lines, he rushed to the helm and fished out the proper fob, a matching black and red to the boat. He keyed the engine, earning a deafening growl from its beast of an engine.

  The challenge, unfortunately, was answered from the forest.

  A scream of fury drew all eyes to the foot of the dock. From the forest, a wall of shadows pushed into view. The cat was massive, all muscle and bristling fur. It howled at them, revealing a pair of scimitars for fangs.

  Dear god . . .

  Monk and Frank threw themselves aboard. Frank struggled to get the stolen machine gun turned toward the beast.

  Kane remained on the dock, facing the cat. The shepherd lowered his front end, lips snarling with threat. His hackles were a trembling mane around his throat.

  “TO ME,” Tucker ordered.

  Kane ignored him, never taking his eyes off the cat, likely reacting to instincts buried in his bones.

  “NOW!” Tucker commanded with a firm shout.

  That’s not a battle you’ll win.

  Still, Kane remained planted, staring down the beast.

  “Just go,” Jameson urged.

  Tucker refused. He would not leave Kane under any circumstances.

  Luckily, the stalemate ended in a most explosive manner. A rocket-propelled grenade burst from the forest and struck the pillbox. The blast sent sandbags flying high into the air, amidst a whirlwind of smoke and flames.

  The cat leaped to the side. It dove headlong into the river with a huge splash and paddled heavily for the far bank.

  Unchallenged now, Kane turned with his tail high and hopped into the boat.

  With all aboard, Tucker swung around and shoved the throttle forward. The black-and-red dagger shot from the dock, throwing Tucker back against the helm’s seat.

  Christalmighty, this is fast.

  The boat sliced across the water, gaining speed. Tucker aimed downriver, using the current to propel them faster versus fighting it upstream. Once they were far enough away, he tossed the rest of the stolen key fobs overboard.

  Let’s see them try to follow us now.

  Monk joined him, yelling to be heard over the engine. “What’s next?”