Of course, the man’s not a traitor.

  Seeing Ndaye here, Tucker was relieved that his team hadn’t set off directly for the Gazelle after all. They would have been stranded in the jungle, if not eventually captured.

  De Coster’s forces must have discovered the FARDC helicopter in the forest after they had all escaped. Tucker felt a twinge of guilt, guessing what had happened. Nolan must have extended a search parameter around the island, suspecting Tucker had come from somewhere in the jungle. Once captured, Ndaye had clearly been brutally interrogated. That beating explained why the eco-guard still lived. De Coster must’ve wanted to learn what the man knew and who had sent him.

  Still, Ndaye’s reprieve would not last for long.

  Tucker turned to the others. He quickly adjusted their plan to accommodate this new variable. “Frank and I’ll go for Ndaye, then Draper. Afterward, we’ll deal with that gunship.”

  Tucker recalled De Coster’s earlier threat, to destroy the outpost using Hellfire missiles. Six rockets—three to a side—graced the stubby wings of the helicopter’s launch airframe. Draper must have restocked his gunship. It was enough firepower to turn the island into a smoking cinder.

  He faced Monk and Charlotte. “You two take Kane as planned. Secure the medical ward. If necessary, move the patients into the forest. Get them as far from the compound as possible if the bombing starts.”

  Monk shifted closer. He pointed to an outbuilding between the church and guesthouse. “That’s the armory.”

  Tucker nodded. It was another goal. Before swimming here, Monk had sketched a rough map of the place in the mud. While a prisoner, Monk had identified the island’s weapons depot. For the assault to come, their team would need more than two rifles, a trio of pistols, and a handful of flash-bangs and grenades still secured to Kane’s bandolier. Unfortunately, there was no way of telling if the armory been cleared out or not.

  Setting that concern aside, Tucker studied their ultimate target.

  On the far side of the square from the guesthouse stood a squat cement-block building. Its roof sprouted with antennas and satellite dishes, marking the outpost’s communication shack. Still, commandeering the radio would do no good. He pictured the small thumb drive in Draper’s possession. It held the code to break through the jamming across this region.

  We need that first.

  Tucker shifted a few steps forward and swept his gaze around the square, searching closely with his goggles’ binoculars. He failed to spot Draper. Tucker’s survey ended at the guesthouse.

  If he’s anywhere, he’s in there.

  Tucker sidled back to the others. He firmed his lips, asking a silent question. We ready? He got nods all around. He then leaned down to Kane, touching noses with his partner in a tradition that went back years.

  “Who’s the best boy,” he whispered.

  Kane licked his chin.

  That’s right.

  Tucker pointed to Monk and Charlotte. “CLOSE GUARD,” he ordered.

  Ever the soldier, Kane shifted over to them, but his eyes glowed back at Tucker. Tucker felt a stab of misgiving, an uneasy premonition. Maybe it was the strange cast to the light, maybe it was simply the PTSD that haunted them both. Still, in that moment, a shiver passed through him.

  Kane took a step toward him, then back again.

  As if he felt it, too.

  With time ticking down, Tucker shook it off. They both had a mission to do. He motioned to the right, and Monk and Charlotte headed off. The pair would circle through the woods to reach the back of the medical ward’s Quonset hut.

  Kane lingered a moment longer, his eyes bright—then he turned and vanished.

  “C’mon,” Frank said, drawing his attention, and set off in the opposite direction.

  Tucker followed. They would circle to the left and try to reach the armory first. Still, he glanced back toward where the others had vanished. At the corner of this goggles, the jostling view from Kane’s camera feed stuttered, blacking out for several long seconds before continuing again.

  Another twinge of dread rankled through Tucker.

  Be careful, buddy.

  8:32 A.M.

  Charlotte kept close to Monk as they headed through the forest. She clutched her pistol in an iron grip. She searched every shadow and shift of leaf. The air reeked and stung her eyes. Her head pounded.

  She swallowed down a threatening surge of bile—or tried to. She rubbed her throat. The back of her tongue was numb. Her fingers felt cold. It was why she held so tight to her weapon. She struggled with a truth that had been building throughout the night.

  I’m getting sick.

  She had told no one, fearing they would force her to stay behind. She couldn’t let that happen. She would defend her patients with her last breath. She remembered her promise to Disanka. She pictured the baby boy’s delicate features, the pink purse of his mouth.

  “Almost there,” Monk said. “Anything from Kane?”

  She lifted the dog’s transceiver. Armed with his pistol, Monk had no free hand to carry it. The tiny screen showed a view between two palms, obscured by the fronds of a fern. “Kane’s stopped. So far, the back of the medical ward looks clear.”

  “Then let’s go.” Monk hurried the last of the distance to the forest’s edge.

  They found Kane nestled under bushes. His gaze remained on the windowless rear of the Quonset hut. The entrance lay on the far side.

  She and Monk crouched next to the dog. An open stretch of ten yards separated them from their goal. Trash and piles of debris, including red bags of medical waste, covered the ground. She and Monk shared a look, both ready to move closer.

  Before Charlotte could step out of hiding, a shout rose from beyond the hut. She recognized the curt, irritated voice of Ngoy.

  “Get moving, you imbéciles! We have no more time!”

  A moment later, a cluster of lab-coated figures hurried into view. Two of them pushed gurneys, with stacks of CPUs and file boxes precariously piled on top. As the wheels rattled along the wooden plankways, one of the boxes tumbled off and hit the ground hard, spilling papers.

  “Be careful!” Ngoy yelled. “That’s all my hard work!”

  Charlotte silently cursed the bastard. Even now, it was all about him. One of the techs hastily gathered the papers back into the box and set off after the others.

  “We’re running out of time,” Monk said.

  She nodded. Still, they waited until Ngoy’s group had vanished out of view. Once all was quiet again, they set off through the trash piles. Kane kept alongside them. They reached the hut and circled the side that was farthest from the bustling central square.

  Once around, Charlotte stopped at the corner and studied the entrance, lit by a single caged bulb. They waited for three breaths. No one else exited the medical ward. Across the way stood the dark Quonset hut that served as a morgue and pathology lab. She pictured the dead bodies stacked inside there.

  With a small shudder, she returned her focus to the medical ward.

  Is anyone still alive in there? Or had it been turned into another morgue?

  Her ears strained to hear beyond the hum of the generators. The small windows on this side glowed, but she spotted no movement inside.

  Monk set off again, drawing her and Kane onward. They ran low along the wall, keeping clear of the windows. Steps from the entrance, the sharp crack of a gunshot froze them all in place. It came from inside the ward. Then a moment again, another blast.

  Charlotte knew there could be only one reason for the gunfire.

  Now that the researchers had fled . . .

  Someone’s slaughtering the patients.

  8:34 A.M.

  Frank shook his head with despair. He gripped the barred gate of the armory. The place had been ransacked. Except for a handful of loose rounds scattered across the concrete floor, the weapons cache had been emptied.

  “No wonder they left it unguarded,” he mumbled. He turned to Tucker, who kept his face low, his weapon slung loosely at his shoulder. “What now?”

  Tucker nodded toward the neighboring stone church. They retreated as discreetly as possible amidst the tumult of the square. They were still in the combat gear obtained at the mine, both the Kevlar body armor and the gray-green helmets. While not exactly the outfit worn by Draper’s forces, it was close enough, especially amidst the chaos of the evacuation.

  In the deeper shadows alongside the church, Tucker pointed to Ndaye. The eco-guard still knelt between the two helicopters. His hands had been zip-tied behind his back. His head hung low, blood dripping off his chin and from a broken nose.

  “We need to free him,” Tucker said. “Get him out of harm’s way. Plus, I need to get a closer look at that gunship. Make sure Draper isn’t aboard there.”

  They had yet to spot the captain. Frank scowled at the helicopter. Its rumbling could be felt in his chest. Compared to the tinier Gazelle, it looked like a massive lion sitting on its haunches, waiting to attack. Frank identified the craft as an older Russian Mi-24 Hind, what the Soviets called a flying tank. Gear continued to be loaded inside.

  Frank tightened his jaw. “What’s the plan?”

  Tucker straightened and stepped toward where Ndaye was guarded over by a Congolese soldier with a rifle. “We pretend like we belong here.”

  Frank hurried after him, drawing alongside. “Then you’d better let me do the talking. I’ve got the right complexion.” He motioned to his face. “Plus, I heard you try to speak French. Just your pronunciation alone will expose us. And your grammar will get us killed.”

  “That’s exactly what my high school French teacher said.”

  Frank pushed forward to lead the way. “Keep that pale face of yours down.”

  They strode with a purposeful step. Tucker elbowed aside a soldier struggling with a handcart piled with crates. Frank tried to mimic Tucker’s confidence, but sweat ran down his back, and his fingers fidgeted with his rifle. They sidled and sidestepped through the flurry of activity and closed upon Ndaye and the guard. The soldier ignored their approach, more focused on dragging deeply on a cigarette.

  He didn’t give Frank or Tucker a second glance until Frank pointed at Ndaye. Frank cleared his throat, yelling to be heard over the helicopter’s engines. “Capitaine Draper sent us to take the prisoner. He’s done with the bâtard and wants him dispatched.”

  The guard finally stirred, slipping the cigarette from his lips and leaning closer so he could be heard. “I thought the captain wanted to take him with us, to finish the interrogatoire.”

  “The man . . . he is no longer important.”

  The guard must have heard the hesitation in his voice and squinted harder at Frank’s face, as if struggling to recognize him.

  Frank turned aside to make that more difficult. He gestured vaguely behind him. “Check with Capitaine Draper, but he is in a foul mood. More than usual.”

  The soldier rocked his head, acknowledging the universal truth held by subordinates for their superiors.

  Tucker pressed another truth. He kept his head low and held out a palm and motioned with his fingers. “Let me bum one of your cigarettes,” he managed in passable French. Luckily the rumbling engines and low whomping of the rotors masked his terrible accent.

  The soldier retreated a step, clearly not willing to forgo what was likely in limited supply. Tucker must have assumed it was a request that the man would refuse.

  The soldier obliged, waving them away. “Take the bâtard and be gone.”

  Before anyone interceded, Frank and Tucker grabbed Ndaye by the shoulders and pulled him up roughly. Throughout this exchange, the eco-guard hadn’t lifted his head, clearly resigned to his fate. Ndaye struggled for balance as they got him on his feet, dazed and bleary from his beating.

  Half-dragging Ndaye between them, they carried him away from the helicopters. Once clear, Tucker leaned to the eco-guard’s ear. “Thanks for saving my life back at the river. About time I returned the favor.”

  Ndaye stiffened and tilted his head toward Tucker. His body jolted with recognition. His footing grew more solid. Shock cleared the glaze from his eyes.

  “Tucker . . .”

  “Let’s get you out of here.” They carried him a few more yards, heading toward the shelter of the church. Before they reached it, Tucker pushed Ndaye toward Frank. “Send him after Monk and Charlotte. I’m going to make a fast canvass of the gunship. Make sure Draper isn’t aboard. I’ll meet you back at the church.”

  Tucker drew the brim of his helmet lower, further shadowing his features, and set off toward the tumult around the flying tank.

  Frank turned and hurried with Ndaye to the back of the church. Once there, Frank cut the zip ties off the man’s wrist and pointed through the trees toward the cluster of Quonset huts that constituted the compound’s research lab. He indicated the largest of them.

  “Monk and Charlotte—Dr. Girard—are trying to secure a group of patients over there.”

  Ndaye clearly struggled to follow his sudden change of circumstances, especially with the players involved. “Docteur Girard . . . comment cela est-il possible?”

  Frank didn’t have time to explain and pushed him toward the tree line. “We’ll rendezvous there. Get moving but be careful.”

  Ndaye stumbled off, but he quickly steadied and vanished into the woods.

  Frank edged back around the corner of the church. He returned his attention to the square. He looked for Tucker among the rush of men but failed to spot him. Time stretched—or maybe it only seemed that way.

  Where are—

  A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind.

  He flinched and jerked around. Tucker stood there, his face sheened with sweat, his eyes bright. He must have circled the other side of the church and come up from behind.

  Tucker gave a shake of his head. “Not there.”

  Frank sighed.

  So, Draper is still MIA.

  Tucker turned and brought around what he had hidden behind his back. “But I did find this,” he said with a savage grin.

  He lifted up a rocket launcher, already fitted with an RPG. Frank knew exactly where Tucker planned to aim it. They both eyed the gunship.

  “You can’t take it out yet,” Frank warned. “Not until we find that bastard and secure the code key. At the moment, we have the advantage of surprise. Blow that gunship up, and they’ll lock this place up tighter than a duck’s ass in a cold lake.”

  “Not the plan.” Tucker nodded toward the guesthouse. “Draper has to be in there, likely finalizing the evacuation with the head honcho. We jump him, grab that thumb drive—then we’ll deal with that helicopter.”

  Tucker set off toward the guesthouse, circling behind the empty armory. Once they neared the steps leading up to the front porch, Tucker sidestepped to a cluster of bushes flanking the stairs. He hid the rocket launcher there, but not too deeply, making it an easy grab.

  Tucker straightened. “Backup,” he explained. “Just in case.”

  Frank nodded and herded Tucker toward the stairs. The quicker they were through the door and out of sight, all the better. Tucker must’ve thought the same, clattering up the steps.

  Before they could reach the porch, the door slammed open ahead of them.

  A familiar figure barged out of the guesthouse, flanked by two soldiers.

  Draper.

  The man’s gaze immediately noted their upturned faces. He recognized Frank in a flash. Without any hesitation, Draper snatched a pistol from his holster, his motion a blur.

  Tucker got his rifle up, but he was a touch too slow.

  Draper fired.

  Tucker was hit in the chest and flew backward from the impact. He crashed hard at the bottom of the stairs.

  Draper leveled his gun at Frank’s head. All Frank could do was lift his arms. The two soldiers pounded down the steps and centered their rifles on Tucker as he sat back up, gasping, the wind knocked out of him. His body armor had saved his life.

  Draper crossed to the edge of the porch and glared down at Frank. “Welcome back, Dr. Whitaker.”

  8:38 A.M.

  Another muffled gunshot cracked inside the medical ward.

  Monk cringed, fearing the worst.

  Goddamn it . . .

  He hurried to the entrance but stopped at the threshold long enough to raise a palm toward Charlotte. “Stay with Kane,” he quietly urged her.

  Fury shone in her eyes, along with determination. She crowded behind him and lifted her 9mm higher, clearly not intending to hang back.

  He hoped another was more obedient. “STAY AND GUARD,” he ordered Kane, reinforcing the command with a hand signal taught to him by Tucker.

  The Belgian Malinois settled forward, drawing closer to the wall.

  Satisfied, Monk slipped to the door and glanced back at Charlotte. “Stay low. Let me take the lead.”

  Another gunshot covered the creak of the door as Monk pulled it open. He rushed low into the sealed anteroom. He kept below the observation window that looked out into the ward. He nearly had to crawl to stay hidden. A quick glance around the enclosed anteroom showed that most of the protective gear—gowns and respirators—had already been cleared out. Not that it mattered. Isolation protocols had been abandoned. Even the door into the ward hung crookedly by one hinge.

  Charlotte scooted next to Monk, leaning a palm and cradling her weapon near her chin. The door clapped quietly closed behind her as the pistol blasted yet again.

  Monk edged up enough to peek over the window’s sill.

  The ward looked like a storm had blown through it. Carts lay toppled. Drawers had been pulled out of cabinets and dumped haphazardly. Glass pipettes and flasks littered the floor, broken and trampled over in the haste to evacuate.

  But not everything had been cleared out.