Kowalski settled back to his seat. “Well, at least I get to keep my left nut.”

  Benjie stared out at the jungle. “Where do we go from here? Where do we even start?”

  Gray got the ATV moving again. “We’ll head to the closest spot on the map—then search each site after that.”

  Benjie leaned back. “We could be out here for weeks. Do we have provisions for that long?”

  “No,” Gray admitted.

  Still, with no other guidance, they had to continue. He aimed the ATV up the next ridge and set off across the jungle. The forest thickened with every mile, and the terrain grew ever steeper and more treacherous. Their pace became slower than a man could walk.

  Gray became convinced that Benjie’s judgment of their timetable was a vast underestimate. It could take months, rather than weeks, to search all eighteen sites.

  He grunted in exasperation as he reached a challenging ridge. The tires slipped, and dug, then slipped again. Their passage left a deep scar behind them. Still, considering how quickly the jungle filled in any open space, he knew their path would vanish in mere days.

  That thought only unnerved him.

  As he rattled and rolled deeper into this maze of rock and forest, he remembered the story told by Father Bailey, how back in the twelfth century, the personal physician of Pope Alexander III had vanished into this jungle, searching for the lost kingdom of Prester John, never to be seen again.

  No wonder.

  Gray glanced at the rearview mirror. He swore he could see the path closing up behind them. Maybe it was a trick of the vehicle’s jostling light, but it looked as if vines had snaked across the ruts and tears. On either side, ferns draped their fronds across their trail. He rubbed at his eyes and squinted, but he was focused the wrong way.

  “Look out!” Benjie yelled.

  He shifted his attention forward—then braked hard.

  Kowalski was thrown against his seat restraints. “What the hell?”

  Something shot through the open windshield and imbedded into the seatback between Gray and Kowalski. It was a spear. The shaft vibrated in place next to them.

  Swearing loudly, Kowalski snapped off his seat belt and raised his Shuriken, shouldering it at his cheek.

  Gray reached over and pushed the muzzle down. “Hold on.”

  Ahead of them, lit by the headlights’ beams, stood a cluster of small figures. They were naked, except for loincloths, and armed with spears and bows. Gray was certain there were more hunters hidden in the forest, too.

  He flashed to the stick figures sketched on the second-to-last photo in Sheppard’s collection. It had depicted a similar scenario.

  Pygmies.

  He held up his palms and shoved his arms out the windshield. He suspected the impaled spear next to him was a warning shot, encouraging them to turn back. But he also hoped for more than peace. He needed this local tribe’s cooperation. If anyone knew this area, it would be this group who had hunted these lands for millennia.

  Was that the message sketched on the back of Sheppard’s photo?

  To seek the tribe’s help.

  For now, the hunters showed no further aggression, yet they also didn’t move out of the way.

  “What do we do?” Kowalski asked.

  “We need to end this stalemate.” Gray kept his hands up but glanced behind him. “We need an ambassador.”

  5:20 A.M.

  Benjie hung back with Gray and Kowalski. The three of them stood next to the ATV. Benjie cringed with worry. Across the way, illuminated by the glow of the headlights, Faraji closed upon the group of pygmies. The boy kept his arms high and his palms empty.

  As he reached the group of hunters, spears were lowered toward his chest. Bows were drawn tighter.

  “Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea,” Benjie murmured.

  Gray looked worried, too, but he acknowledged the obvious. “Faraji is the only one who might speak their language. We need to find out if they’d be willing to help us.”

  Benjie swallowed down his nervousness. He hoped Faraji could get the hunters to understand, to earn their trust.

  It would not be easy.

  Before traveling here, Benjie had read up on the pygmy tribes who inhabited the Congo. Many of them were Bantu-speaking, like Faraji, but other tribes spoke their own dialects. Long ago, pygmies had once been a cohesive people, sharing the same ancestral population—until three thousand years ago, when farmers had swept through the area and divided their tribes. Today, many tribes didn’t even know others existed.

  Still, pygmies had been living in central Africa for over ninety thousand years. Their origins remained a mystery, which intrigued Benjie.

  Even the reason for their short stature was unknown. Some believed it due to a vitamin D deficiency from living under a shaded canopy all their lives, leading to poor calcium uptake. Others claimed it was from a lack of protein and a limited diet. There were other theories, too. But no matter the reason, it ultimately changed their genetics. While their children developed at a normal rate, the last growth spurt of adolescence was suppressed, keeping them forever short.

  Benjie found this genetic uniqueness fascinating, as it dovetailed into his own studies on stress-induced inheritable traits.

  Unfortunately, such knowledge did not help them.

  Across the way, Faraji gestured with his arms. Snatches of conversation in Bantu reached them. A few of the hunters clearly spoke this language. Not that it seemed to do any good. Heads shook and spears continued to threaten.

  Benjie could guess the reason for such wariness. A little over a decade ago, rebel forces in the DRC had started a pogrom of genocide, targeting the indigenous pygmy tribes. The operational name was Effacer le tableau, French for “erasing the board.” In a matter of a year, the rebels slaughtered over seventy thousand pygmies.

  It’s no wonder they look upon us as a threat.

  Spears stabbed toward Faraji’s chest, driving him back. He stumbled away, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

  “Don’t look like diplomacy’s gonna work,” Kowalski noted.

  Benjie refused to give up. He considered their options, running them through his head, testing them against what he knew about these tribal people. He had read how the pygmies maintained a lengthy oral history, one shared in song and stories.

  Could they have retained knowledge from a century ago?

  Benjie turned to Gray. “Show them Sheppard’s photos. We know he passed through here. Maybe they’ll recognize him.”

  Gray considered this for a breath, then nodded. “Why not? It’s worth a shot.”

  As Gray returned to the cabin to collect the black-and-white photos, Benjie hurried to the tailgate. He popped it open and shifted through their gear until he found Faraji’s backpack. He fingered it open and slipped out the shaman’s ngedi nu ntey, the tribe’s precious Kuba Box. He removed its wooden cover and grabbed another object that might jog the hunters’ memories. He lifted out the ndop figurine, a detailed totem carved in the likeness of William Sheppard.

  He quickly joined Gray. “We should take everything. Hope they understand.”

  Gray pointed to Kowalski. “Stay with the ATV.”

  Kowalski shrugged, looking happy to stand guard. Though Benjie suspected Gray’s order had less to do with protecting their vehicle and more about avoiding any impolitic outbursts by the big man.

  Gray and Benjie headed over to join Faraji. Their approach did not go unnoticed. More hunters shed from the forest’s shadows, flanking and closing behind them.

  Faraji turned as they arrived. He looked aghast at what Gray and Benjie carried, maybe fearing his precious artifacts were about to be bartered away as gifts.

  Benjie explained. “We want to check if these hunters know anything about the Reverend Sheppard. We know he came through—”

  One of the pygmies stepped forward. He was clearly old, with gray hair and sagging skin over wiry muscles. Still, he looked vital, his eyes bright.

  “Shep. Perd,” he said, pronouncing the name as if it were two words.

  Still, it appeared the man recognized the reverend.

  Benjie looked to Gray, who stepped forward and fanned out the photos. He held them toward the elder. His efforts only earned a scowl. A spear knocked the pictures from Gray’s hand. They fluttered to the ground.

  Faraji gasped and ducked to gather them up.

  The elder shifted his spearpoint toward Benjie. He indicated the carving clutched in Benjie’s hands. With a nervous gulp, Benjie lifted it higher.

  The elder stepped forward and snatched it away. The old hunter studied the figurine, even sniffing at it. A finger traced from the colonial hat down to the face under it, the delicate features carved of an ebony veined in silver. He finally handed it back with great reverence. The pygmy planted the butt of his spear and stared over at them expectantly.

  When Faraji rejoined them with the photos, Gray placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Tell them of the danger in the forest. Of how we’re seeking where Sheppard went. To a lost city hidden in these jungles.”

  Faraji waved an arm. “I told them. Not about the Reverend Sheppard. But the rest, yes.”

  Gray frowned in frustration. “If there’s some cure hidden out here, we need to find it.”

  Benjie noted how the elder had followed this brief exchange, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he understood. The man’s attention then settled again on the ndop figurine, his expression softening into sorrow, maybe disappointment.

  Before Faraji could press further, the old hunter turned away. He lifted an arm and whistled a haunting note, ordering his people to leave, clearly done with these trespassers.

  Gray feared the same and stepped forward. “Wait.”

  But Benjie was mistaken. The elder wasn’t whistling for the hunters to leave—he was summoning others.

  From the jungle, shadows broke free and stalked into the glow of the headlights. They closed in all around. The beasts approached with heads low, their blunted muzzles bristled with long whiskers. Ears stood stiff and tall, tufted at their tips. A shivering line of hackles rode across short, arched necks, looking more like spines than fur. Dark amber eyes reflected the lights.

  Once stopped, the beasts’ backs stood as high as the hunters’ shoulders.

  Despite their large size, Benjie recognized the species.

  Or at least, what they once were.

  He studied them closer to hold back his fear. He focused on picking out other identifying features.

  The striped fur helped firm his classification. Only these beasts’ coats shimmered in a way that challenged the eye, as if those markings sought to blend the animals back into their surroundings. It was no wonder the pack’s presence had gone unnoticed until now. In the jungle, they would be more shadow than substance.

  “Fisi ndogo,” Faraji whispered, also identifying the animals, even in their altered state, using the Bantu word.

  Gray glanced over to Faraji, then to Benjie.

  “Proteles cristata,” Benjie explained. “Aardwolves.”

  Gray frowned his lack of recognition. “Those are wolves?”

  “Actually, the species is more related to hyenas than wolves,” Benjie said. “But these are massive.”

  Benjie never took his gaze from those normally reclusive creatures. They typically subsisted on termites and other insects. But that was their smaller selves, not these two-hundred-pound brutes. Lips snarled, showing teeth meant for more than chewing on bugs.

  All the while, the pack remained eerily silent.

  The elder faced the largest of the group, a huge male. He offered a palm. The aardwolf edged forward and bumped a nose into that hand; then it shifted closer to brush a greeting. A thick bushy tail swept back and forth—but those unblinking eyes never left Benjie and the others.

  The elder leaned to the beast. His lips moved silently. It reminded Benjie of Tucker with Kane, but he sensed something more intimate here, a bond far deeper and older. The beast bobbed its head once, gave a final graze of cheek to shoulder, then swung away. In a single bound, it vanished into the forest.

  The old hunter followed after the aardwolf, drawing the rest of the party with him, both beasts and men. Benjie and the others remained standing in place—until the elder frowned back at them, clearly scolding them to keep up.

  “He wants us to go with him,” Benjie realized.

  Gray turned and waved Kowalski over. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  Benjie briefly matched gazes with the elder. The small hairs on his neck shivered under the intensity of those dark eyes. In that moment, Benjie felt as if the entire jungle were staring back at him.

  Worst of all, he suspected the truth.

  Maybe it was.

  6:04 A.M.

  Gray hiked behind the hunters. Despite their diminutive size, the tribesmen moved swiftly through the forest, following a path known only to them. After a half hour, Gray was thoroughly lost.

  Before abandoning the ATV, he had taken the precaution of pinging their location to mark the spot on his digital map. Still, as he searched behind them, he was uncertain if he could find his way back.

  Benjie and Faraji—both sweating heavily—followed at his heels.

  Kowalski hung farther off. He rested his Shuriken on his shoulder as he climbed through the jungle. The pygmies had not objected to them bringing their weapons or their packs. Then again, the tribespeople had plenty of protection. The wolves flanked to either side, invisible in the forest, only revealing themselves for the briefest snatches.

  Despite the threat of those beasts, Gray took cold comfort in their presence. If the tribe worked alongside those altered wolves—especially a species so radically altered—they must have a history tied to the source of the virus.

  Gray was counting on that.

  They continued through a forest crowded by cliffs on all sides. Pinnacles of rock rose high enough to pierce the canopy. Boulders had to be vaulted over. What little of the skies could be seen had begun to brighten. The sun had yet to rise, but dawn approached.

  As they hiked deeper, the forest remained hushed. There was no piping or screaming at their passage. Even the whine of mosquitoes had died away. The silence weighed on him. Each footfall felt like a trespass. He found himself holding his breath, afraid to further disturb the solitude.

  Finally, they followed a dry stream bed that ran along the bottom of a deep ravine. Bluffs rose to either side, their sheer faces enshrouded by jungle. The bed of polished stone led them toward a towering cliff, one draped in wet ferns. It was only then that Gray realized the rock underfoot was not a dry stream, but the remains of an old road, broken by the passing centuries into a tumbled trail.

  It ended at a huge crack in the rock face. The small hunters stopped and gathered between two familiar stone pillars that framed the entrance.

  Benjie gasped at the sight, relief shining on his face as he stumbled forward. “We made it.”

  Faraji’s features remained dour, turning a name into a curse. “Mfupa Ufalme.”

  “This had better be worth all the blisters on my feet,” Kowalski griped.

  Before they could approach closer, a dark shape burst out of the shadowy ravine. It was the huge aardwolf who had fled earlier. The beast rushed to the tribal elder and circled his form once, brushing close in greeting. There was no servility or deference to this gesture, only cold acknowledgment of the man’s return.

  All eyes turned toward the entrance.

  The aardwolf had not come alone. Drawn in his wake, another appeared. Taller by a foot, shaggy with age. The beast’s fur was gray, striped in darker shades, its muzzle snow-white. It padded from the shadows and stood guard.

  A tall man appeared next, his skin dark, his cropped hair graying in age like the aardwolf. He carried a staff of polished white wood. He was Congolese, though Gray suspected the man bore no nationality or allegiances to borders or governments. Despite his age, his eyes shone clear as he gazed over the hunters to the newcomers.

  He stepped past the aardwolf, thumping forward with his staff. He wore sandals and a simple brown robe embroidered in black, in a pattern of diamonds encased in arrows. Gray recognized the design. Faraji had called it mbul bwiin, a pattern limited to Kuba royalty. Across the man’s chest, an embroidered double knot folded in on itself, so intricate that it threatened to capture one’s gaze. Its curves and convolutions seemed to move on their own as the man shifted out of the shadows and stepped into the first light of a new day.

  Gray knew this symbol, too, taught to them by Faraji. An imbol. It marked the presence of a king. This was reinforced by the circlet of gold atop the man’s head.

  The hunters bowed, showing respect, but Gray sensed no subservience.

  The king lifted an arm in greeting, his voice firm. Surprisingly, he spoke English with a slight British accent. “If you seek answers, follow me.” He turned around, but not before adding an admonition. “Yet, know this. You may be refused. She is angry—and most merciless.”

  He headed off.

  Gray glanced at the others. He had a thousand questions, but one burned the brightest now.

  Who the hell is he talking about?

  Fifth

  23

  April 25, 6:28 A.M. CAT

  Ituri Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo

  Gray followed behind the tall figure bearing the gold circlet, trying to comprehend who led them. The man’s bearing was regal, even when leaning on his staff. His gray curls formed a nimbus that supported his simple crown. The pattern on his robe shifted with each step, looking more like a dappling of shadows than embroidered thread.

  As they continued along the chasm that cut between high cliffs, the king conversed softly with the older pygmy who had guided Gray’s group here.