Fresh gunfire erupted outside as the skirmish renewed once again.

  Inside, a double blast of a pistol answered two questions. Draper was still inside—and he was a damned good shot. Frank gasped and rolled. A round had grazed the meat of his thigh, burning a fiery line across it.

  If not for the smoke, Frank knew he would’ve suffered far worse than a graze.

  He rolled behind a mahogany credenza near the door. More rounds chipped the thick wood. The shots had come from the upper landing at the top of the stairs ahead of him. He lifted Tucker’s Desert Eagle and fired blindly through the smoke—which was rapidly thinning.

  He peeked enough to see the shadowy form of Draper running low along the railing of the upper arcade, holding the higher ground. The man kept tucked into his Kevlar, turning himself into an armored turtle.

  Frank squeezed off two more rounds. Both missed, but one struck the entrance to De Coster’s office. It rang loudly enough to suggest the door was reinforced with steel. Draper must have already secured Ngoy and Nolan inside.

  Another pistol blast forced Frank down. Splinters stung his face.

  Guy’s good . . .

  Frank weighed his options, his thigh burning like a motherfucker. He only had to keep Draper pinned down, keep him from leaving. Once Tucker secured the front of the guesthouse, they could both go after him, flank him, and get that damned key.

  Already it sounded like the firefight outside had ended.

  Just need to hold out a little longer.

  He willed Draper to stay up there, to keep guarding De Coster.

  The creak of a wooden stair warned Frank that the captain was not so agreeable to this plan. Draper intended to bring the fight down here.

  Why is he giving up the high ground, exposing himself?

  Frank lifted his Desert Eagle, ready to drive the man back up. He tilted out and spotted Draper edging down the top stairs, going for a better vantage on Frank’s hiding spot. The man carried a black ballistic shield in front of him. Frank grimaced. He knew such shields could stop even armor-piercing rounds.

  Once Draper secured his position, a weapon appeared. The captain had abandoned his pistol and rearmed himself with a bullpup rifle. A larger barrel sat below its usual muzzle.

  Grenade launcher.

  Crap . . .

  Sensing the inevitable, Frank dove out of hiding and rolled across the room—and not a moment too soon. A loud blast was followed by an explosive boom. The massive mahogany credenza shattered apart behind him. Shards pelted his armor and impaled any exposed flesh. The concussion of the blast shoved him even farther.

  With his head ringing, he rolled onto his back, skidding to a stop. He had managed to keep his pistol and aimed it past his legs toward the top of the stairs.

  He fired wildly.

  The rounds ricocheted off of Draper’s shield. The captain braced against the assault and brought his bullpup around, centering his shot.

  Frank was exposed on the open floor.

  Then glass shattered from a window on the opposite end of the landing. A form came hurdling through, firing a rifle.

  Tucker . . .

  His partner must’ve heard the ongoing battle inside the guesthouse, after his own skirmish had ended, and sought to outflank Draper by scaling the building. Unfortunately, the captain had heard the tinkling of glass in time to swing his shield around and block Tucker’s assault.

  Still, in turning aside, Draper left himself momentarily exposed. Frank aimed for that damned turtle’s soft spot—and fired twice. The first round hit the meat of the captain’s thigh, payback for Frank’s own injury. The other shattered the man’s knee.

  The leg collapsed under Draper, sending him tumbling down the staircase. His shield clattered from his arm.

  Tucker chased after him, rifle at his shoulder.

  Frank gained his feet and came at the man from the other side.

  Draper crashed to the floor between them, sprawled facedown. As Tucker and Frank reached him, the man rolled over with a groan. Blood poured from his leg, pumping out in a strong jet. Frank’s first shot must have severed a femoral artery.

  “Back!” Tucker hollered.

  Focused on the leg, it took Frank a fraction too long to react, to see the grenade roll from Draper’s fingers and land in the spreading pool of blood.

  Frank shoved around and ran for the door.

  Not going to make it.

  The blast deafened and caught him. He was lifted off his legs and slammed into the door, cracking its frame. Dazed, addled, he twisted back around, shocked to be alive and not shredded by shrapnel.

  He turned to see Tucker come tumbling down through the smoke, clutching hard to the ballistic shield. He must’ve grabbed the armored buffer from the foot of the steps and smothered it over Draper and the grenade.

  Tucker crashed back to the floor at the side of the blast crater. He bounced and rolled farther away.

  Frank rushed over and helped him up. They hobbled away together. Frank supported Tucker under an arm. Tucker limped on one leg, his ankle clearly broken, his face bleeding profusely.

  Tucker mumbled, but Frank was still deaf and only shook his head as they reached the door.

  Tucker coughed and tried again, gasping louder to be heard. He waved weakly toward the smoky ruins behind them, at the bone and gore blasted across the space.

  “Don’t think we’re gonna get that thumb drive now.”

  9:12 A.M.

  Charlotte slumped down the trunk of a palm. She shivered, chilled, despite the exertion and the growing morning heat. She gratefully sank to her seat, leaning her back against the tree, and positioned her rifle across her knees.

  Monk remained on his feet and gently lowered an older woman, a patient of fifty or sixty, to the ground. The woman’s head lolled back. She then slipped onto her side, unable to hold herself up on her own.

  Monk looked on with concern, then faced the forest. “We should be deep enough in the woods by now.”

  Good. It’s not like we can go any farther.

  Disanka had collapsed nearby when the stop was called. Her legs had been trembling; her arms could barely hold the limp boy in her lap. She sat now, hunched over him, sheltering him with her entire body. The baby was nonresponsive, barely breathing. He did not have long to live.

  Charlotte leaned her head back. It pounded, and she had difficulty swallowing. She wiped at her lips, which felt fat and numb, like after a novocaine injection.

  I’ve failed him, failed them all.

  Ndaye settled his own patient to the forest floor, a gangly young man of twenty or so. He shivered like Charlotte. He sat with his head hanging between his knees. Snot ran from his nose, but he made no effort to wipe it away.

  The eco-guard shifted over and offered a water bottle to a pair of adolescents, a boy and girl. They shied from him, maybe fearful of his swollen, beaten face. From the way they clung to each other, supporting one another, she wondered if they might be brother and sister, or maybe simply two frightened children who needed a measure of closeness to hold back their terror.

  Monk crouched next to her, but his eyes looked off toward the outpost. They had all heard the explosions a few moments ago. “Someone’s still engaging De Coster’s forces.”

  “Tucker and Frank . . .” she mumbled.

  Who else could it be?

  Monk nodded and glanced around the group, all slumped under the canopy. He gripped his pistol higher. “We’re as hidden as we can be.”

  She understood what he was hesitant to ask. “Go help them. Take Ndaye.” She lifted her rifle and nodded to Kane. “We’ll keep watch here.”

  He nodded his thanks, then quickly spoke to Ndaye. A spatter of gunfire echoed through the forest. Monk glanced one last time toward her, clearly checking if she wanted to change her mind.

  She waved them away. “Go.”

  They took off.

  Charlotte listened until she could no longer hear the soft crunch of their boots. She rubbed at her sore eyes and shifted higher against the trunk. It took more effort than she had imagined. She steadied the rifle on her knees, but her hands trembled on the weapon’s stock.

  She didn’t know if it was the disease or simply exhaustion. At this point, she couldn’t remember the last time she had slept.

  The others all settled into various degrees of slumber or lassitude.

  As she kept guard over them, she fought against the drooping of her eyelids. Despite her terror, she caught herself drifting off, her chin hitting her sternum. She bobbed her head back up, which set her skull to pounding again. She stared at her hands. They were empty. The rifle sat at her toes. Her numb fingers had dropped it.

  She collected the weapon back up.

  Maybe I should’ve had Ndaye stay with us.

  She turned to the other guard on duty. Kane kept close, still standing, with his ears tall. She reached and patted him.

  We’ve got this.

  As she touched him, she felt his sides vibrating. A low growl flowed. His hackles rose under her palms. His gaze was fixed to the darker woods, away from the compound. His growl became a low snarl of warning.

  Someone’s out there.

  She firmed her hold on the rifle, but her fingers refused to obey. The weapon slipped and slid, feeling oily in her numb grip. She tried to stand, only to discover any effort left her limbs trembling.

  She turned to the only weapon she could trust.

  “Kane . . .”

  He glanced once to her—then back out to the woods.

  She lifted an arm, which took all her effort, and pointed. She used the command that Tucker had taught them in case of emergency.

  “PROTECT.”

  27

  April 25, 9:15 A.M. CAT

  Belka Island, Democratic Republic of the Congo

  Ensconced in his barricaded office, Nolan studied the bank of security monitors. He leaned on his fists, his face so heated it felt sunburned. He surveyed the status of the compound. Only a few cameras still operated, offering him a sketchy view of the camp.

  The feed from the top of the church steeple showed the smoldering wreckage of the two helicopters, his planned exit from the island. Spatters of gunfire still reached him, mostly centered around the square, but the two earlier grenade blasts also echoed in his head. The explosions had shaken the entire guesthouse.

  Afterward, Nolan had been unable to raise Draper.

  “What are we going to do?” a nasally voice begged behind him.

  He glanced over to Ngoy. The researcher paced before the steel shutters across the balcony. His eyes shone with fear as he hugged his arms around his belly.

  “We’re getting out of here,” Nolan said.

  “How?”

  Nolan turned to a monitor running feed from an active camera. It showed a shimmer of the river, a long dock, and his armored personal yacht. The ship’s sixty-foot length was plated in steel, all of its windows bulletproof. He had ferried dignitaries aboard it, even a U.S. president. In such a volatile region, the yacht’s fortifications were a necessity. He had once survived a rocket attack by rebel forces aboard that craft while piloting the vessel himself.

  And now it will keep me safe yet again.

  He hit a button on the monitoring station. A panel of steel-reinforced zebrawood slid aside behind his desk, revealing a secret stair. The steps led down to a camouflaged garage at the back of the building, where an electric ATV was parked. It would whisk them to the dock, avoiding the battle around the main square.

  Ngoy rushed over, his eyes huge, his face hopeful.

  Only a handful of people knew about the secret exit. Like the armor on the yacht, securing a covert escape was an equally smart precaution.

  Nolan intended to survive, to right this listing ship. He could still turn this plague to his advantage. He hadn’t become CEO because of needless panic. He adhered to Baron Rothschild’s adage: Buy when there’s blood on the street.

  He glanced to the wreckage in the square, the broken bodies around it. Though the equation had become more difficult, he was determined to solve it.

  He straightened, ready to head off.

  As he stepped away, his computer chimed behind him. Both surprised and curious, he crossed to his desk to answer the video call. He tapped the keyboard, and the familiar face of Corporal Willem, the Belgian military engineer, appeared on the screen. The young man hunched low, his face running with sweat, but he hadn’t abandoned his post. Then again, the communication shack was built of concrete blocks, practically its own fortress.

  “What is it, Corporal?”

  “Sir,” Willem gasped out. “You instructed me to inform you if I detected another aberrant transmission.”

  It took Nolan a full breath to remember. “That satellite communication from the jungle.”

  “It was picked up again. Farther to the east. I ran it through the decryption program. The one the Chinese hackers sold to us.”

  “And?”

  “It failed.”

  Nolan wasn’t surprised. The Chinese couldn’t be trusted.

  “But that initial decryption broke it enough for my own hack to discern a single word.”

  “And what was that?”

  “The word was ‘cure.’”

  Nolan stiffened, clenching a fist. He had been convinced that the forces directed against him were far more sophisticated than mere mercenaries. Likewise, he suspected that aberrant signal coming from the deep jungle was tied to the attack here. That unknown variable needed to be eliminated.

  Especially now.

  He couldn’t let another party get the upper hand. He didn’t know if that single word—cure—was as important as it sounded, but Nolan never took chances, not when he could hedge his bet.

  “Sir, what should I do?” Willem asked.

  “Send me the coordinates of that signal.”

  “Right away.”

  A moment later the latitude and longitude designations appeared on his screen.

  “Thank you, Willem. Hold pat until I get confirmation.”

  “Understood.”

  With grim satisfaction, Nolan tapped rapidly at his keyboard. After Willem’s earlier alert, Nolan had set up a contingency plan, in case it was needed. He had a large drone—a Russian S-70 Okhotnik—prepped and waiting on a camouflaged airstrip. Two years ago, he had it stripped of its armaments, all to serve as the delivery platform for a single bomb.

  In the past, Nolan had secured seven MOABs, but he only buried six. The seventh he had built into that drone. Nolan had wanted the leeway to be able to deliver destruction whenever and wherever it was best needed.

  Like now.

  He passed the coordinates to the drone operators at the airstrip. Once finished, he had to wait. His finger tapped impatiently on the desk.

  Willem had been monitoring Nolan’s communication with the on-site team. In fact, the engineer had helped coordinate this contingency. Now that it was happening, the man’s face grew stoic, his lips drawn tighter. But he was young, not as hardened by necessity as Nolan. With time, that would change. Willem would be a strong asset to the corporation.

  Finally, a new screen bloomed with the confirmation from the airstrip. It also came with a projected schedule, an estimation of launch and travel time. In the corner of the screen, a countdown began running.

  Content, Nolan shifted his attention to the other screen. “Thank you, Willem. Now get yourself to safety. Try to make it to my yacht.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  After the video call ended, Nolan watched the timer wind down.

  Twenty-two more minutes.

  Then that unknown variable would be eliminated from the equation.

  9:22 A.M.

  Tucker hunched to the right of the steel door to the communication shack. Smoke choked the area but also helped hide them. A few soldiers still threatened, but all the fighting had stopped for the moment.

  Tucker leaned a shoulder against the wall, trying to keep his weight off of his broken ankle. Earlier, using an entire roll of duct tape from Tucker’s pack, Frank had fashioned a relatively stiff splint.

  Frank now huddled with his rifle on the other side of the locked door.

  A narrow window had allowed them to peek inside. A single tech—a young man in a radio helmet—manned the bank of equipment. While they couldn’t enter, they were able to eavesdrop on snatches of the conversation. It involved something about an encrypted communication from the deep jungle and maybe a possible cure.

  Tucker whispered across to Frank. “That’s gotta be Gray and the others.”

  De Coster was clearly plotting some recourse.

  “Get back,” Frank warned.

  Through the window, Tucker spotted the tech rushing toward the door. The man carried a duffel and had grabbed a combat shotgun from beside the console.

  Frank flattened to the side. Tucker did the same. A bolt scraped, and the door pulled open. The tech poked his head out. Tucker slammed the butt of his rifle into the man’s face, knocking him back inside. Frank followed with the Desert Eagle at the tech’s chest. The man dropped his duffel and weapon and lifted both arms.

  “Niet schieten . . .” he pleaded.

  Limping on his splinted leg, Tucker forced the tech back with his rifle, while Frank secured the door.

  “Do you speak English?” Tucker asked.

  The man nodded vigorously. “Ja . . . yes.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Willem . . . Jan Willem.”

  Tucker pointed to the monitors which still glowed. In the tech’s haste to leave, he had left everything running, maybe to keep the jamming going. One monitor showed a screen with a digital map, a set of crosshairs, and a small blinking dot in the shape of a tiny plane.

  “Your communication with De Coster,” Tucker demanded. “What’s being planned?”