Willem hesitated, but Frank encouraged his cooperation with the muzzle of his huge pistol. “Tell us,” he demanded.

  Willem swallowed and nodded. He quickly recounted the events of the past few hours, ending with De Coster’s contingency. “The bomber will strike the coordinates in”—the tech glanced to a timer counting down—“eighteen minutes.”

  On the screen, the tiny plane icon had begun to move.

  Frank checked his watch. “That’s roughly nine forty-five.”

  Tucker pictured the smoking crater back at the mine. He shoved Willem toward the equipment. “Shut down all the jamming towers in the area.”

  “I can’t. Not from here.”

  Tucker scowled with frustration. “Then power off the one on the island.”

  Maybe it would be enough.

  Willem turned to the console and hit a toggle. “It’s done.”

  Tucker tugged out his sat-phone. Gray needed to be warned. He lifted his phone, searching for a signal. He shifted the stubby antenna in all directions, but he couldn’t get even a single blip of satellite contact.

  Tucker swore loudly.

  “Wait.” Frank leaned toward the monitor. He pointed a finger at the red plane icon as it slowly moved across the glowing map. “That’s a real-time feed, isn’t it? Same with the countdown.”

  Willem nodded.

  Frank pointed the pistol at the tech’s face. “Which means you have an outside line. You have the decryption to break through this jam.”

  Willem seemed surprised this was even a question. “Natuurlijk. I’m the head engineer.”

  Frank turned to Tucker with wide eyes. “That means we can radio out.”

  Tucker froze in place—but not because of Frank’s revelation. He steadied his goggles with the edge of his phone. When the local jamming had dropped, the feed from Kane’s camera had stopped its erratic frazzling and long dropouts. The video had turned crisp and clear. His heart clenched at the sight revealed.

  Oh, god . . .

  “Tucker?” Frank stepped closer. “What’s—”

  Tucker punched the speed dial for Sigma command and shoved the sat-phone at Frank. “This number. Director Crowe. Tell him everything.” He turned toward the door. “Get the FARDC military out here. Get him to warn Gray.”

  “Tucker!” Frank called after him.

  He had no time to explain.

  He tossed his rifle aside and grabbed the tech’s shotgun—a Mossberg 930 tactical. The 12-gauge semiautomatic carried eight shotshells.

  Better be enough.

  Limping on his leg, panic numbing the pain, he dashed out the door—straight into a firefight.

  He ducked low from a barrage that erupted outside, cutting across his path. A trio of soldiers, likely the last still around, strafed the woods. Return fire came from the forest. One soldier dropped, hit in the face. The other two turned tail and ran.

  From the woods, a pair of figures emerged.

  Monk and Ndaye . . .

  Tucker rushed toward them. “Over here!” He reached the pair and passed them. He waved back at the communication shack. “Protect Frank!”

  “Where are you going?” Monk yelled after him.

  No time . . .

  9:25 A.M.

  Kane runs through the woods. He dares not stop. Gunfire pursues him, shredding through leaves, and shattering bark. An order continues to blaze behind his eyes, burned into his will.

  Protect.

  He intends to do that.

  The others, huddled and weak, are far behind him by now. Earlier, he had heard the telltale whir and muffled clank, caught the scent of gun oil and lightning strike. He recognized that danger. To draw it away, he had set off into the forest.

  Even now, he uses his body, his heat, his growls to keep the hunters on his trail. They are everywhere. And many. He has zigged and zagged, backtracked and circled, gathering all in his wake, luring the threat away.

  Now he is trapped in his own snare.

  They close all around, coming from every direction.

  He finally clears the gunfire, races into deeper shadows, skids on his paws. He searches, extending his senses. He smells spoor and wet loam, damp leaf and rotted wood. Still, over all wafts the scent of burning oil. It hangs everywhere. The whirring fills the world around him.

  He is a seasoned soldier.

  He recognizes the truth.

  To run again is death.

  Exhausted, he pants heavily. Blood seeps hot from a graze to his flank. He settles to a wary crouch. He must stand his ground, keep the danger drawn here, away from those he must protect.

  The hunters close upon him, bringing lightning and firepower.

  His hackles rise against that threat.

  But he will not be moved.

  9:27 A.M.

  In a haze of agony, Tucker sprinted through the forest, carrying the shotgun in both hands. He limped on his bad leg and propelled himself forward with the other. Pain flared with each step, like a fiery heartbeat matching his own pounding heart.

  He bashed through low branches and bounced off of tree trunks. He kept one focus on the path and the other on the spinning needle of Kane’s homing beacon. A moment ago, he had watched Kane come to a halt after a mad flight through the trees, pursued and shot at the entire way. The thermal mode of his partner’s camera had showed a score of overheated Q-UGVs pursuing Kane. It was difficult to determine the exact number. They were everywhere around the dog, coming from every direction.

  So many . . .

  During the evacuation, the soldiers must have gathered all of the robotic dogs in one place, readying them to leave. Once the firefight had started, they had clearly released that entire pack into the forest, maybe to help cover their own escape.

  Tucker watched the dark orange glows closing on Kane’s position.

  I’ll never make it in time.

  Still, Tucker had to help. He fumbled out his transceiver and found the series of buttons that controlled Kane’s bandolier. He found and pressed the proper button and released a frag grenade. He prayed it would be enough to give Kane the advantage to escape that noose.

  Like last time.

  Kane notes the jolt under his sternum. His ears pick out the snap of the release. The tumble of the silvery charge brushes his inner leg and lands in the wet leaves under him.

  It assures Kane that his partner is with him. The thought calms him, reminding him of a life shared. He tastes the scrap of meat tossed from a plate. Feels the huddle of a warm body next to him. Sees the toss of a red ball through bright sunshine. Smells the sweaty musk that is as familiar as his own.

  At the back of his skull, he notes the passing of each heartbeat, marking time until the fire and blast.

  He knows what he must do.

  The order still blazes bright.

  Protect.

  He can’t let a single hunter drift away, to return and threaten the others. He must hold his post. Knowing this, he settles atop that silvery egg.

  He accepts what’s coming. Off in the distance, he hears the deep blast of a large gun. Still, he does not move.

  He’s a good soldier.

  And more important . . .

  He’s a good boy.

  Through his goggle’s thermal scopes, Tucker spotted the boxy orange glow to his right. He aimed his Mossberg and fired. The Q-UGV shattered into pieces. Tucker didn’t slow. As he charged through the woods, a countdown ran in his head.

  Ten seconds . . .

  Other glows lit the forest, marking more of the robotic Q-UGVs. They were everywhere. Easily a dozen or more. And he was down to six rounds.

  Nine seconds . . .

  Tucker radioed through his Molar Mic. “Move, Kane. Now!”

  But like before, the dog remained in position, refusing the order, clearly still adhering to another command. Kane had been taught to prioritize, to trust his own instincts, not to follow blindly.

  The dog could also be damned stubborn.

  Eight . . .

  Tucker limped and hopped, refusing to give up on Kane. A blast of gunfire ripped through the woods. Rounds slammed into his body armor. He twisted and aimed as one of the Q-UGVs appeared.

  Tucker fired the Mossberg. The slug shattered the leg off of the robotic dog. The impact sent it crashing away. Its gun turret continued to fire blindly, shredding the canopy overhead.

  Seven . . .

  He hobbled fast, his body now a torch of pain. Leaves slapped his face; branches tore at his bare skin. He kept going.

  Six . . .

  He fired again, blasting another Q-UGV aside, clearing a path in front of him.

  Five . . .

  “Kane, buddy, move it. Please . . .”

  Four . . .

  Out of the smoky gloom, a new glow rose ahead, softer edged. He knew that shape. It meant home, like a lamp in the night.

  Three . . .

  Other shapes closed to the right and left. Rounds fired at him, chugging from the automatons’ turrets. But he ducked lower, not bothering to return fire. He didn’t have time.

  Two . . .

  He shoved aside the heavy leaves of a fern. There was Kane, half-buried in another bush. The dog’s dark eyes shone toward him. A tail wagged in a last greeting.

  One . . .

  Tucker leaped headlong. Time slowed to a standstill. He wished this moment could last forever. Still, he would take what he could.

  To be together—to the very end.

  Tucker hit Kane as the grenade exploded.

  9:29 A.M.

  Inside the com shack, Frank winced as the loud blast echoed out of the forest.

  What the hell?

  He and Monk had just finished the frantic call to Sigma command. They had kept it brief, giving Director Crowe as much time as possible to warn Gray of the coming threat. The director had also promised to alert the FARDC military and get them to dispatch helicopters to the island.

  Frank crossed to Ndaye, who guarded the door. Monk kept his weapon on Willem. They had all heard the earlier shotgun blasts. Frank pointed to a billowing curl of smoke to the southeast.

  It had to mark Tucker’s location.

  “Is that anywhere near where you left Charlotte and the others?” he asked Ndaye.

  Had Tucker gone to help them?

  “No.” The eco-guard waved due south. “We left them over that way.”

  Frank frowned.

  Then what was the meaning of that blast?

  9:27 A.M.

  Tucker heaved off of Kane but held tightly to his buddy. The world had become a pinched knot. His skull ached. His hearing had flatlined to a single tone. Blood ran down his face, down his throat. He tasted it, breathed it.

  He raised a palm to his face, felt the jagged bits of shrapnel imbedded there. A finger fell through a hole in his cheek.

  Still . . .

  I’m alive.

  He ran his palm over Kane’s Kevlar vest.

  Please . . .

  He reached a soft ear, felt a whiskered muzzle. Then a tongue licked the blood from his fingers.

  Thank god . . .

  He rolled to a seat, gasping, cradling Kane, who panted hard. A low whine from his buddy pierced the storm in his skull.

  I know . . . but we made it.

  Still, they weren’t out of danger. He searched the blast area. Leaves were shredded from trees and bushes; branches hung crookedly. He had managed to roll off of the grenade at the last moment. His body armor—shielded around Kane—had spared their lives.

  The four Q-UGVs that had been closing in on them had caught the brunt of the blast. They lay smoking and sparking. One had been tossed into the branches of a cedar and hung there.

  Tucker searched for any others, unsure if there were more, or if the explosion had overwhelmed their sensors.

  All he knew for sure—

  “We need to get out of here.”

  Kane whined again, sounding louder now that Tucker’s hearing had cleared a bit. Tucker shifted to help his buddy up, to start them moving. He couldn’t trust that those robotic dogs might not come sniffing around again.

  Tucker got to his knees, but Kane remained sprawled on his side, panting hard, tongue lolling. His eyes shone with pain, staring off into a glazed distance.

  “Kane . . .”

  Then Tucker’s heart clenched.

  Oh, god, no . . .

  Blood poured from the dog’s front leg, soaking the ground. Kane’s forearm was shattered, showing bone, hanging by only skin and tendon.

  Tucker clamped the dog’s elbow, squeezing off the flow, trying to hold Kane’s life in place by sheer will. He lifted his partner with his other arm, finding strength that he didn’t know he still possessed. He shambled away from the blast zone. Though he had lost his goggles, he knew the way back.

  He fought through the woods, trying to go faster. His ankle screamed, he bled from a thousand cuts, and shrapnel cut deeper into his thigh and shoulder with each step. He panted and choked. His vision tunneled to a point aimed toward the camp.

  His gait wobbled. He tripped, almost dropping Kane. He lost hold of the broken limb. Blood sprayed until he could resecure his hold. He cursed himself for not finding something better than his weakening grip to serve as a tourniquet, but he didn’t know if Kane had the time to spare.

  He stumbled on, the forest stretching endlessly before him.

  Did I get turned around?

  Then something shone ahead. He prayed it was a sign of the compound nearby. Instead, one of the robotic dogs clambered into view—then pounded swiftly toward them. Its turret swiveled for the kill.

  Tucker turned his back, still trying to protect Kane. The gunfire was deafening. He waited for the pummeling of rounds.

  It never came.

  He glanced over a shoulder and saw Frank and Monk come charging toward him, rifles smoking. The Q-UGV lay on its side, punched with holes, legs stirring the air.

  Tucker turned and rushed to meet the men. He slammed into Frank, passing him Kane.

  Tucker fell to his knees. “Save him . . .”

  Frank caught the dog in his arms. The army veterinarian immediately spotted the macerated limb and clamped hard to the leg. “He’s lost so much blood.”

  Not just him . . .

  Tucker slipped sideways, toppling in slow motion. The world darkened as he fell. Still, his gaze never left Kane. Only now did he recognize how slack the dog hung in Frank’s arms. Those dark eyes stared unblinking; a tongue draped too long, too blue.

  Kane . . .

  Frank’s last words followed him into oblivion.

  “He’s not breathing.”

  28

  April 25, 9:29 A.M. CAT

  Ituri Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo

  “Did that sodding tree drown your friend?” Benjie asked.

  Gray knew this was a reasonable question. Kowalski had not surfaced for over ten minutes. His partner had big lungs, but not that big. Gray tilted higher on his toes, trying to get a better view past the churning pale roots, the shivering thorns and spines.

  Across the way, the hollow of the mother tree glowed a shimmering silver. The pool’s water had settled to a flat mirror. Gray couldn’t tell if Kowalski had surfaced elsewhere in the pond and was allowed to take a breath. The pool’s sides stretched beyond his view, hidden by the curve of the tree’s trunk.

  He glanced to Tyende with concern. The Kuba tribesman simply leaned on his staff. Faraji kept him company. The elder’s eyelids hung at half-mast. Clearly the morning’s exertion had taxed the man, someone who claimed to be over a hundred years old.

  Still, Tyende noted Gray’s attention. “If She chose him, She will care for him.”

  As if summoned by his words, the glowing waters surged up into a shining fountain. Kowalski was carried along with it, thrust high by a tangle of roots. He struggled in their grip. He sputtered and coughed, choking out water. It poured from his nose and lips.

  The snare of roots carried him to the pool’s edge and deposited him at the entrance to the tree. Kowalski fell on his hands and knees and vomited more water.

  “She is done with him,” Tyende said.

  Clearly . . .

  Kowalski sat back, gasped a few more times, then swore loudly. He gained his feet. “I’m never doing that again.”

  Gray called over to him. “Are you okay?”

  Benjie shouted, too. “How do you feel?”

  Kowalski scowled. “Like a friggin’ drowned cat. How do you think I feel?” He grunted and spit. “Stuff tastes like antifreeze mixed with mildew. Stings my cuts like a mother, too.”

  Kowalski stumbled toward them.

  Gray lifted an arm and pointed back. “Your canteen! We need a sample of that water!”

  The big man heaved an exasperated sigh, looking none too happy to return to that pond. Still, he swung around, struggling to free his canteen from his belt.

  Unfortunately, another was done with this whole affair.

  As Kowalski attempted to reenter the tree, the roots inside reared up like angry cobras, flaring sharp thorns, blocking the way.

  Kowalski balked. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s happening.”

  “You have to try!” Gray shouted.

  Kowalski glared at him. “Then you come over and do it.”

  Gray turned to Tyende, ready to plead for the man’s help.

  Before Gray could speak, his sat-phone buzzed and rattled in his pocket. He slipped it out. He had left the battery in place after his last call with Painter. The director was coordinating a helicopter evac once they obtained the cure. The rally point was the bare ridge of rock overlooking the valley. It offered the only break in the forest for countless miles.

  Gray was relieved that the director was checking in. He glanced over at Kowalski, who still stood with his canteen in hand. It looked like that evac would have to be pushed back.