He leaned by a greasy window in the abandoned barracks. Charlotte stood guard with him, one hand resting atop Kane’s head. Jameson sat well away from the window, with his splinted arm cradled to his chest. The man rocked in place, his eyes glassy with pain and terror.

  Outside, four bodies lay strewn along the street, lit by the sheen of their own lights. They were members of the patrol that had nearly caught Monk’s team in the jungle earlier. He had spied their approach through the deserted corner of the mine. They had spread out with flashlights affixed to their rifles. They kicked in door after door, searching each shack.

  Then the sky had fallen upon them. It looked like shredded bits of shadow raining out of the clouds. It took several breaths for Monk to even recognize them as bats. They appeared drawn by the patrol’s lights. The panicked gunfire only exasperated matters. Monk hadn’t expected the bats to be more than a nuisance, but he took their arrival as a blessing. He prayed for the swarm to batter the patrol out of the area.

  Then the screaming had started.

  One of the soldiers had run past the window, a bat clinging to his cheek. Another was latched to his wrist. He fell only steps away from their door. His body flopped and writhed in plain agony. He clawed at his face and throat. When he finally lay still—which took considerable time—his neck and the side of his face were blistered with boils, torn by his clawing.

  Out on the deserted streets now, bats had settled all around the barracks: under eaves, scrabbling along rooftops, scaling walls. A few still winged through the air. The scraping of their claws on the tin roof overhead set his teeth on edge. Most eerie of all was the winking glow that flowed through the bats, as if they were silently communicating to one another.

  “Stay put,” Tucker radioed. “We’ll come to you. With the local jamming down, I can follow Kane’s homing beacon. Just be ready to go. We need to be out of here in fifteen.”

  Monk was happy for the extraction, especially considering the circumstances, but he didn’t understand the urgency. “Why fifteen?”

  Tucker’s answer set his heart to thudding harder. “There’s a massive bomb set to detonate at midnight.”

  Monk closed his eyes.

  Of course there is. Because poisonous bats aren’t enough.

  But Tucker wasn’t done with the bad news. “The blast radius could extend a mile out from ground zero.”

  Monk shook his head. “No way we can clear that in time.”

  “We’re gonna try.”

  Monk stared at the horde outside. “How?”

  “Just be ready.”

  11:47 P.M.

  Tucker paced the small communication nest as he signed off with Monk. He turned to Frank. “Any luck?”

  Frank still guarded over the tech with his rifle. In his other hand, he clutched Tucker’s sat-phone, trying to reach Ndaye at the helicopter. “Still nothing but dead air. I can’t get any connection.”

  Tucker glared at the tech, wanting to blame him, but he suspected the small local tower on the roof only locked down radio communication across the mine itself. De Coster must have a whole network of more sophisticated blockers dampening longer-range communication.

  Tucker stepped toward the array of radios. “You were able to connect to De Coster before. Employing some jam-breaking code, I’m guessing.”

  “Yes, but I don’t have it. I swear. It’s on a drive that only Captain Draper carries.”

  Tucker grimaced, remembering the thumb drive the bastard had given the tech. He glanced to the window, knowing there was no time to commandeer it. The helicopter had begun to roar out in the square, readying for liftoff.

  “We can’t wait any longer,” Tucker decided.

  “What do we do?”

  “We’re getting out of here.”

  Frank frowned. They both knew Ndaye could not fly here in time to evacuate them. The eco-guard would only get himself blown up, too. The intent of the failed call had been to alert the world of Nolan De Coster’s involvement, to get Sigma command focused on the man. But neither was happening now.

  Which means we’re on our own.

  Tucker turned to the tech. “I saw trucks patrolling earlier. Where’s your motor pool? Your garage?”

  The soldier stood and pointed out the window to a neighboring building. “In the basement.”

  “Keys?”

  “Kept in the vehicles.”

  Tucker waved to Frank and pointed to the tech. “Shoot him and c’mon.”

  The man stumbled back into his console, lifting his palms.

  Frank leveled his weapon. “Or do you want to live?”

  “Anything. What? Tell me.”

  Tucker had approved this plan already. Neither he nor Frank wanted to leave without giving the mine workers a fighting chance to escape.

  Frank jabbed the bayonet at the tech’s chest. “The siren earlier. It sounded a lockdown, yes?”

  The man nodded vigorously.

  “There must be another that signals an evacuation,” Frank said.

  “Yes, in case of an emergency.”

  “I think this situation counts.” Tucker pointed to the communication array. “Sound it or die.”

  The tech whipped around and popped open a protective case over a toggle. He flipped it. An alarm immediately rose from above their heads and spread outward, growing into a deafening klaxon roar.

  Tucker could only hope that as many workers as possible would flee, chancing the bats to reach the jungle. Otherwise, it was certain death to stay. Everyone in the room also knew that. The tech’s eyes were huge with terror—more so when the helicopter rose from the square, likely driven off by the alarm. Draper must’ve suspected something was amiss when the siren blew and had ordered his team to flee.

  Tucker sneered at the tech. “Your ride’s leaving, bub. Looks like we’re all in the same boat now.” He pushed Frank toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  The two turned and fled out of the radio room.

  Confident of his own internal clock, Tucker still double-checked his diver’s watch. Eleven minutes to go.

  “We’re cutting this close,” Frank said, grinning hard at him. “Just like the old days.”

  “Old. As in the past. Where they belong.”

  They rushed down the steps and out the front door. The square was deserted and windswept by the departed helicopter. Even the bats had mostly gone, maybe in pursuit of the gunship.

  Still, Tucker ran low, trying to shield as much of his exposed flesh behind armor. Frank kept at his side and pointed toward the building that the tech had indicated. An open garage door led to a ramp heading down, hopefully to the promised motor pool.

  They dashed for it—when an ear-piercing whistle, followed by an abrupt explosion, knocked them both to their knees. Tucker initially thought the bomb had prematurely blown, but he craned his neck back. A rocket had struck the roof of the communication nest, silencing the siren. Shattered bricks and glass cascaded down, falling through smoke and fire to pelt the square.

  A chopper sped high above the carnage and swept away.

  Tucker scowled at it. A parting shot from Captain Draper. De Coster’s man must have clearly been suspicious of that sudden klaxon, guessing something was wrong.

  They regained their feet and sprinted the last of the distance.

  Tucker reached the sheltering darkness, glad to be out of sight, and rushed down the ramp. They slowed at the foot of it. A few bare bulbs lit the garage ahead. The scatter of light did little to cast back the shadows. The motor pool looked ransacked. The space was large enough to garage a dozen trucks, but there was only one left, sitting sullenly in a pool of light at the back: an old Land Rover that looked more rust than truck and was missing its front bumper.

  But beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  Tucker led the way toward it, when Frank grabbed his arm and pulled him lower. He pointed up. Tucker suspected what he was going to see and wasn’t disappointed. The roof of the garage stirred with shadows and flapping wings. A mass of bats crawled and hung there, turning the motor pool into its personal cave. Amidst the darkness, flickering glows and phosphorescent streaks flashed down at the trespassers.

  Tucker remembered Frank’s earlier ruminations, how the display was likely a warning, the visual equivalent of the shake of a rattler’s tail.

  “Move slow,” Frank whispered to him. “We gotta make it to that Rover.”

  Tucker knew he was right. All instinct told Tucker to turn and run, but the bats weren’t the only danger here.

  A shout rose behind them, coming from the top of the ramp. “We’re taking that truck!”

  Tucker dropped even lower, leaning a hand on the floor. He recognized the voice of the radio tech, proving no good deed goes unpunished.

  Should’ve shot him after all.

  Especially as the bastard hadn’t come alone. A crowd of armed men backed him up. He must’ve gathered them on his way out and led them here, knowing that commandeering a vehicle was the best chance to escape the blast zone.

  The men headed down the ramp.

  Tucker waved for Frank to keep going, then flicked his thumb toward the approaching group.

  Just need fifteen seconds.

  By now, the soldiers had entered the motor pool. Rifles bristled. One even hauled forward a machine gun.

  To distract them, Tucker pointed a hand up. “Don’t shoot,” he warned softly.

  Gazes flicked to the ceiling. Many of the men did double takes or dropped into wary squats. They all knew the danger above their heads. But that wasn’t what they should’ve been watching for. A tiny silver sphere—the one Tucker had flicked toward them a moment ago—bounced and rolled under their feet.

  Tucker counted in his head.

  . . . twelve, thirteen, fourteen . . .

  He shoved Frank forward, all but lifting the man off his legs. “Go!”

  They rushed the Rover when the count reached fifteen.

  The flash-bang exploded behind Tucker, blinding even with his back turned. The blast pounded his head. Still, Tucker didn’t slow. Screams rose from behind him as the bats crashed upon the noisome threat.

  He and Frank slammed into the Rover. Frank got the door open and slid across to the passenger seat. Tucker climbed in and dropped behind the wheel. He searched for the keys in the ignition.

  Not there.

  Frank reached over and flipped the visor above Tucker’s head. A fob dropped. Tucker caught it with a prayer of thanks. He keyed the engine, only to have it cough and die.

  Gunfire erupted across the garage. Rounds ricocheted and sparked in the dark. Men continued to bellow. Several ran for the ramp, only to fall under the onslaught of the bats.

  Tucker pumped the gas pedal, turned the key, and begged for the slightest bit of mercy. It was granted as the stubborn Rover coughed again, then growled to life. He popped into gear and jammed the accelerator to the floor. Though the Rover was mostly rust on the outside, its old diesel engine still had some life in her.

  The Rover barreled through the chaos, choking a cloud of oily smoke behind it. The grill knocked bodies aside. Tires pummeled over others.

  Both bats and men.

  Tucker aimed for the ramp, shot up it, and skidded across the square. He headed for the compound’s gates, which had been left open as others heeded the evacuation siren. He did not slow. He kept one eye on the road, the other on the tiny compass spinning at a corner of the goggles, guiding him back to Kane.

  He counted the seconds until they were reunited—while another timer ticked down in his head.

  Eight minutes to go.

  11:52 P.M.

  With the siren gone silent again, Charlotte watched the mass of bats settle and return to their wary perches. She felt like Tippi Hedren in Hitchcock’s The Birds, waiting for the winged flock to attack.

  Just keep calm, she warned both herself and the horde.

  During her vigil, a handful of men had furtively passed through the area, either singly or in small groups. They weren’t patrols, but miners in dirt-caked clothes. They edged through the deserted warren, moving silently, trying not to disturb the lurkers above them. Once free, they all sprinted for the forest and disappeared into its shelter.

  They must know what’s coming . . .

  “We’re running out of time,” Jameson said at her shoulder. “We should’ve followed those men into the jungle.”

  Charlotte stayed silent. Monk had explained the danger. The blast zone would be huge, stretching a mile from the bomb in all directions. If they’d wanted to escape on foot, they should’ve left long ago, especially with Jameson compromised by his broken arm.

  Her group’s only hope lay with Tucker and Frank.

  Still, how could we possibly clear such a blast in time?

  “Someone’s coming,” Monk hissed.

  Charlotte glanced over. Monk stood by the entrance to the barracks. He had cracked the door open enough to peek out and watch the rutted streets. He cupped his earpiece, then nodded at Charlotte and Jameson. “It’s them. They say they’ll be coming in fast.”

  They’d better be.

  “Tucker wants us at the door. He’ll pull in close.”

  Charlotte searched out her window. A short ways off, a truck’s headlights bounced toward them, careening through the shantytown. The vehicle bulldozed a corner off of one shack, leaving it in ruins behind them. The reason for such haste was not just the shrinking timetable. A dark cloud pursued and battered at the truck. Its rumbling engine and dancing lights had stirred and attracted the bats, drawing the colony in its wake.

  Outside, the nearby bats stirred from their roosts. Several took wing and headed toward the tumult, ready to aid their brethren in the assault.

  Monk lifted a flashlight and briefly flashed it through the opening in the door, signaling and confirming their location. He then turned to them.

  “Everyone gather up,” he warned. “As soon as they stop, we’re all piling in the back.”

  Charlotte swallowed her fear and nodded. She pushed Kane ahead of her. Jameson crowded in with them. He braced his splinted arm tight to his chest.

  Through the crack in the door, Charlotte caught fractured glimpses of the vehicle’s wild approach. Once in full view, it raced toward them. She stepped back, remembering the truck sideswiping one of the shacks. But the driver fishtailed at the last second, swinging the tailgate toward the door. The rear bumper came to a stop only a few feet from the threshold.

  “Now,” Monk whispered to them.

  He shouldered the door open and led the way. He rushed to the tailgate and yanked it open with a screech of old hinges.

  Charlotte followed, but there were bats everywhere. Something struck her head. Claws scrabbled, momentarily tangled in her knotted ponytail. Someone ripped the bat off of her. She turned, expecting Monk to have come to her aid, but he had only one hand—and it was still holding the door latch.

  Jameson clutched the bat with his good arm, looking as surprised as her by his action. The shocked moment was all it took for the bat to strike and dig fangs into the meat of his thumb. He gasped, tried to shake it off, but it had locked deep. In his panicked eyes, she saw the pain strike.

  She tried to help him, but he shoved her with his shoulder, knocking her into the back bumper.

  “Get the fuck in there!” he yelled, sounding angrier with himself than her.

  Before she could move on her own, hands grabbed her from behind. Frank yanked her into the rear.

  Jameson finally freed his hand by smacking the bat into the side of the Land Rover. Agony etched his face, but he knocked away another bat that flew at his head. He flung around, grabbed Monk with his bleeding hand, and pushed him after Charlotte.

  “Go already, goddamn it!”

  Next to him, Kane struggled with a bat riding his back and lashing at his vest. The dog snapped and tried to grab it. Jameson came to his rescue, too, and snatched the bat away. This earned him another bite, this time to his wrist.

  Jameson staggered back, either from pain or certain knowledge. As Kane leaped to safety, he slammed the tailgate behind them all and slapped his palm against the glass outside.

  “Go . . .” he gasped loudly.

  Charlotte strained to help him, but the driver—Tucker—was coldly practical. The engine revved, and the Rover took off. She stared out the window. Jameson remained stiff-backed, not even trying to run. Bats fell upon him. Still, he stood longer than she imagined was possible.

  Monk pulled her from the view. “The guy knew he was a goner.”

  “I know, but if I’d only—”

  “If onlys do no good. He gave us room to survive—and that’s what we need to do.”

  She struggled to accept that and swung toward the front. Tucker leaned over the wheel, racing the Rover across the last of the deserted warren. The jungle stretched ahead of them. It looked like a solid wall. Then Tucker yanked the vehicle into a hard turn, following the forest’s edge.

  She sat straighter.

  Where is he going?

  11:55 P.M.

  Tucker didn’t have time to explain.

  Only five minutes left.

  There was no way they could traverse a mile of jungle to escape the blast. He had recognized that from the start. Instead, they all needed to find a bunker, one far enough away and strong enough to protect them.

  Tucker clutched to one hope.

  A slim chance courtesy of that bastard De Coster.

  He reached the southern edge of the town and spotted a road heading off. It was deeply rutted from regular use. He turned and sped along it. The Rover leaped and bobbled, jerked and bounced, acting like a furious bronco trying to buck them off. Still, he kept the accelerator pressed to the floor.

  At least the bats had given up their pursuit. Perhaps because the harrying horde had accomplished its mission—to chase them off.

  The road ended faster than he had hoped. He would’ve preferred more distance from the mine. But the dark expanse of the river blocked the way forward. Their path ended at the working dock for the mine.