“They’re already airborne,” Kat corrected. “Heading out in two helos.”

  “Still, maybe Tucker should wait for us,” Gray said. “We don’t even know if there is any real threat. He could be endangering himself and Dr. Whitaker for no reason.”

  Painter remained silent for a breath. “Tell them, Kat.”

  She shifted in her seat, clearly reading from a screen. She was in the communication nest at Sigma. “I’ve been monitoring chatter and intelligence across the breadth of Africa. A WHO field camp in Uganda, near the border with the DRC, has reported strange cases coming in from the jungle, of a baffling debilitating malaise. A score of afflicted have trickled in over the past two weeks. The WHO has been slow to spread the word as there’ve been no deaths. Then at a hospital in Burundi, farther to the south, they have a handful of similar cases, people suddenly growing leaden and mute. And maybe more cases in South Sudan, but verification is sketchy.”

  “So, it’s not only the U.N. camp that’s afflicted,” Lisa said. “Something must be spreading. But how?”

  Kat shifted and brought up a map on another window. It showed a swath of central Africa. The view was overlaid with arrows and spiky arcs.

  “This is a weather map,” she explained. She tapped a button and set those same arrows and arcs into motion, sweeping slowly to the northeast. “This shows the direction and force of the spring monsoon that led to all the recent flooding. The wet winds off the Atlantic sweep north and east, running into the hot dry winds flowing south off the Sahara.”

  Lisa straightened with a grimace. “Kat, you don’t think—”

  “All the reported cases lay in the path of those winds,” Kat warned grimly. “Uganda, Burundi, even South Sudan. Maybe it’s coincidental. But I’ve searched for any matching reports out of Angola and Zambia to the south.” She shook her head. “Nothing so far. It’s all quiet in that direction.”

  Gray stared from Lisa to Kat. “Are you suggesting that whatever is spreading is airborne, being seeded by those monsoon winds?”

  “At this point, it’s only conjecture,” Kat said.

  Lisa took off her reading glasses. “It’s theoretically possible for a viral contagion to spread that way. It’s already been documented that millions of viruses rain out of the sky every day, sweeping down out of the upper atmosphere.”

  Monk frowned. “That might be true. But it’s doubtful that the number of particles would be sufficient to be infectious. Sure, aerosolized transmission—from one person to another—happens, but viruses need a host. Few viruses live long in an environment outside of one, especially when exposed to sunlight and UV radiation.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” Lisa countered. “While flu viruses live only a day or so on open surfaces, cold viruses can be contagious for up to a week. And there are others that can survive longer. Still, like Kat said, this is all conjecture.”

  “That’s why we need more intel and data,” Painter said.

  “And as quickly as possible,” Gray added. “Something tells me I won’t be leaving Africa any time soon.”

  Painter agreed. “I need you to delay your vacation.”

  For all intents and purposes, Gray had just been hitching a ride on the jet. With everything so tentative out in Africa, his original objective had been to accompany Sigma’s medical team to the area, get everyone situated, then move on. His own studies with Sigma—after he had been court-martialed out of the Army Rangers—concentrated on an amalgam of physics and biology. So, he was far from a medical expert.

  His plan had been to continue on from Africa and join his girlfriend, Seichan, and their young son in Hong Kong. Seichan had taken Jack to visit her mother. She had left two weeks ago, intending to spend a month there. Gray had been heading to join them for the latter half of her visit.

  Now it looks like that won’t be happening.

  He wasn’t sure how he felt about this change. He was anxious to see Seichan and Jack, but he could not discount the harder beat of his heart. Of late, there had been a lull in activity at Sigma. During the pandemic, terrorism on a global scale had waned. Regional skirmishes persisted, but the lockdown had stymied any wider reach.

  But now . . .

  While he loved being a father and building a home life with Seichan, he remained a warrior at the core. His ears were forever piqued for the tiny sonic booms of a bullet passing close, of the Doppler of flying shrapnel. His blood ran with gun oil. He longed for the acrid whiff of rifle fire in the air, for those moments when time slowed, and adrenaline surged. He glanced over to Monk, noting the tightening of his fist.

  He feels it, too.

  Still, Gray also noted the winced crinkles at the corners of his friend’s eyes. Like Gray, Monk was a father. Did either of them have any right to put themselves in danger with young children at home? All soldiers struggled with this dichotomy; this pull in two different directions.

  Gray had another reason for discomfort. He pictured Seichan, her leonine curves, her wry smile, her deft skill with glade and gun. She was as much a warrior as he was.

  If things go south in Africa . . .

  She’s not going to be happy missing out.

  Another passenger also expressed displeasure with this change in plans.

  A groan rose behind Gray, coming from a sofa along the cabin’s starboard side. The cracking of joints sounded as the last member of the team woke and stretched his limbs. Gray glanced back. Joe Kowalski shoved his six-foot-four frame into a seated position. He ran a large palm across the dark stubble crowning his skull. He cast a heavy-browed glare at the assembly ahead of him.

  His graveled voice complained, “What’s all this about a delay?”

  Like Gray, Kowalski had no role in this mission. The former seaman was Sigma’s demolitions expert, but he was currently on medical leave. He had been diagnosed with cancer four months ago. Multiple myeloma, stage 3. A cancer of plasma cells. The prognosis was grim, though his symptoms, beyond a low-grade anemia, were presently mild. He was already on a regimen of dexamethasone and a protease inhibitor. Gray had heard that his oncologist was recommending a stem cell transplant, where the man’s bone marrow would be wiped out with chemotherapy, then replaced with healthy stem cells.

  Ever stubborn, Kowalski had refused such a radical course—at least, for now.

  Instead, Kowalski was headed to the Republic of the Congo, just north of the DRC. He was traveling to the Virunga National Park to visit his fiancée, Maria, who was checking on the pair’s foster son, Baako, a young gorilla hybrid who had been released at a sanctuary there. Painter had cautioned against Kowalski traveling to Africa, especially as myelomas weakened a sufferer’s immune system. Not that anyone would ever use the word weak in respect to the muscular brute. Still, Kowalski had insisted on coming along, pressing the matter, especially with word of some unknown threat spreading across the jungle, which could put both his fiancée and his furry son at risk. He intended to be there to protect them both.

  Painter had finally relented.

  How could he not?

  Kowalski was not one to waste away in a sickbed. He would fight for as long as he could. Plus, no one doubted how the man had acquired the cancer. During a prior mission, he had been exposed to a massive dose of radiation.

  So, we all owe him any accommodation he wants.

  Monk answered Kowalski’s query. “Looks like this trip into the jungle isn’t a wild-goose chase after all. Something’s definitely spreading across the jungle.”

  “Of course it is.” Kowalski glowered and settled back to a sprawl on the sofa. “Wake me when we get there.”

  Gray faced Painter on the screen. “Anything else we should know about?”

  “Not at the moment. I’ll give you a final update before you land. Until then, maybe you all should heed Kowalski’s example and get some rest. Something tells me you’ll need to move fast once you land.”

  Gray didn’t doubt this. He signed off and everyone returned to their own seats and thoughts. His heart pounded even harder now. He pictured a storm of contagion sweeping across the heart of Africa. He sensed their team was already behind the curve in getting a handle on this crisis and wished they were already landing.

  But it was not to be.

  That role belonged to another.

  11:16 P.M. CAT

  Kisangani, DRC

  With a pack over his shoulder and a holstered Desert Eagle at his hip, Tucker hurried across the dark rainswept tarmac of Bangoka International Airport, a small airfield east of the city of Kisangani. Their Cessna Grand Caravan had landed a few minutes ago, piloted by his friend Christopher Nkomo. He and his brother Matthew would offload the fifteen red plastic crates that comprised Frank’s mobile lab and transfer them to the University of Kisangani.

  In the meantime, the weather pressed their schedule.

  Tucker followed a FARDC soldier in khaki fatigues and a bright-orange vest.

  Kane trotted at Tucker’s side. Even so close, the Belgian Malinois’s dense black-and-brown coat made him look like Tucker’s shadow. The shepherd’s fur was soaked from the downpour, which frequent full-body shakes did little to disperse. Kane kept watch silently, not even panting, his ears tall and pointed.

  Dr. Frank Whitaker followed on Tucker’s other side, carrying a backpack of sample-collection gear. The veterinarian looked like he hadn’t aged a day since Tucker had left the service. Maybe a few curls of gray in his close-cropped hair. With the man’s clothes sodden to the skin, he looked to have kept in lean shape. Once upon a time, the three of them had jogged together, under a sun that baked, kicking up the perpetual red sands of the base outside Baghdad.

  Tucker had spent most of his service in Afghanistan, losing a partner there, Kane’s littermate Abel. Afterward, distraught and nearly inconsolable, Tucker had been shipped to Iraq, where more than anyone, Frank had helped him find his center again. He had even helped Tucker steal Kane. At that time, the war dog had not completed his full tour of duty, but after losing Abel, Tucker refused to leave Kane behind. The two of them had shed enough blood. So, under the cover of night and with papers falsified by Frank, Tucker had fled. Eventually the crime had been cleared up, courtesy of Tucker’s past help with Sigma. Still, he knew none of that would have been possible without his friend’s help.

  Tucker glanced sidelong to Frank.

  I owe this man everything.

  The Congolese escort led them toward a helicopter that sat atop a pad. The rotors slowly turned as the pilot kept the engine warm.

  Tucker wanted to hurry. He had already heard from Director Crowe about Sigma’s fear that the contagion was spreading beyond these borders. It had to be stopped. Tucker’s love for this continent ran deep. It had become his home and refuge. Its natural beauty ached his heart. A couple of years ago, he had invested with the Nkomo brothers—Christopher and Matthew—in a luxury safari camp at the Spitskop Nature Preserve in South Africa. A month ago, he had returned from the States, after a sojourn through the Southwest, and joined the brothers in scouting a second location for their growing enterprise.

  Until Sigma’s call.

  Frank sidled up closer. “Do you think we can fly in this weather?”

  Tucker shrugged. “Visibility will be strained by the rain, but as long as it doesn’t blow into a lightning storm, we should be able to make the forty-minute hop to the campsite.”

  “What do you think happened out there? Why would Dr. Jameson warn us away?”

  “I don’t know, but the Congolese forces should have the camp locked down before we get there. According to Crowe, a pair of military helicopters—a transport Puma and a small gunship—left a few minutes ago.”

  Tucker and the others finally reached the parked helicopter and ducked under the blades with their escort. The military chopper—an Aérospatiale Gazelle—was a single-engine, light utility craft, one nimble enough for quick flights in rough conditions. The escort popped the side hatch and poked his head inside, yelling over to the pilot.

  After a brief exchange, the escort faced them again. He spoke English with a French accent. “Storm comes fast. You go now or not go.”

  Tucker turned to Frank. “The weather forecast warned that thunderstorms will be raging throughout the night. We can always wait until the skies clear up in the morning.”

  Frank crossed his arms, clearly unsure what to do, vacillating between urgency and caution. “With something possibly spreading already, even a day could make a huge difference.” He glanced off to the dark forest. “And like you said, our Congolese friends are already en route. If we lift off now, we can follow behind them. If there’s any problem ahead, the military could radio us, and we could turn back. Right?”

  Tucker glanced to the escort for confirmation.

  The man merely shrugged.

  Frank unfolded his arms and pointed to the open hatch. “I say we go for it.”

  Tucker nodded and waved Frank inside. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  The veterinarian clambered up into the back. Tucker signaled Kane to hop in after him. The shepherd leaped atop the bench seat. Tucker followed as the pilot twisted to face them with a scowl.

  “No dog!” the man shouted from under his helmet.

  Tucker glared at the man. “You’re right. He’s no dog.” He pointed at Kane. “He’s a soldier.”

  Kane gave a low, menacing growl, confirming the same.

  Frank settled back and pointed a thumb at the shepherd. “Sir, maybe you best listen to our furry friend.”

  The pilot swore under his breath and faced back around.

  Tucker grinned at Frank. “Who knew you spoke canine?”

  Frank strapped in. “Not as fluently as you. I’ve seen you and Kane work.”

  “That’s more Kane than me.”

  Still, Tucker felt a flush of pride, both for himself and his partner. Kane had a command of a thousand words, a hundred hand signals, but that was not their truest bond. That had been forged during their years together. After all this time, the two were bound together tighter than with any leash, each capable of reading the other, a communication that went beyond any spoken word or hand signal.

  He patted Kane’s flank as the rotors sped up, sweeping through the rain. The engine growled into a roar. Tucker felt a tremble in his partner’s body. It was not fear, but excitement. Kane was readying himself for the challenge, ramping up, clearly anxious to be underway. From the seat, Kane glanced at Tucker. The shepherd’s dark brown eyes shone with flecks of gold in the cabin lights.

  You ready, buddy?

  Kane answered, nudging Tucker’s cheek with his nose.

  Of course you are.

  Satisfied, Tucker snapped into his seat. He didn’t know what lay ahead—only that he and Kane would face it together.

  Like always.

  5

  April 23, 11:17 P.M. CAT

  Tshopo Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo

  Charlotte recoiled as a rifle blasted outside the tent.

  The gunman appeared behind Benjie, herding the grad student farther into the tent. The shooter was one of the ICCN guards, likely the same one who had accompanied Ndaye in the search for the missing biologist. The uniformed man took up a post at the tent flap, his rifle pointing outward.

  Ndaye crossed to his teammate, shadowed by the shaman and his apprentice.

  Jameson closed in on Benjie. “What’s going on out there?”

  The student’s eyes blinked rapidly in wild fright. “They’re coming,” he panted out.

  Charlotte joined them. “Who—?”

  An ululating howl cut through the rumble of thunder. A chorus answered, sounding as if coming from everywhere. All the hairs on Charlotte’s body shivered in primal terror.

  “We need to go,” Benjie warned. “They’ll rip right through this tent.”

  Jameson grabbed the biologist’s arm. “What did you see?”

  Rifle fire drew their attention. The eco-guard clutched his weapon at his shoulder, his cheek to its stock. Then something large struck him in the back, hard enough to knock him out of view. The man screamed, his body thrashing into the side of the tent. He fought something that tore into him. Dark blood suddenly sprayed the fabric.

  Benjie fled, drawing them all back. Charlotte grabbed Disanka and her child and followed.

  At the flap, Ndaye dropped to a knee with his rifle raised. He squeezed off a shot, then another, aiming for the fighting, which had rolled away from the tent. The guard’s scream strangled to a gurgle, then went silent.

  Ndaye cursed and retreated, pushing the shaman and apprentice behind him.

  Woko stared past Ndaye’s shoulder. “Nyani . . .”

  Charlotte frowned. She knew that word, but it couldn’t be true.

  As if proving her wrong, a hulking form shoved through the flap. It stood shorter than her waist but had to weigh over fifty kilos. Its shaggy gray-green fur was soaked and matted with mud. It crouched on its back legs, balanced on one forearm. Huge eyes glowed with fury. It screamed at them, lips rippling back from its dog-like muzzle, baring pink gums and fangs as long as her fingers.

  Nyani meant baboon.

  As more savage cries echoed all around, Ndaye fired at the beast, striking its shoulder. It spun fully around from the impact—then leaped straight at him. Backpedaling, Ndaye managed another quick shot. The baboon’s head cracked backward, and its body crashed to the floor.

  Ndaye leaped over the bloody remains and yanked the tent’s zipper, sealing them in. Not that it would offer much protection. He knew it, too. “We can’t stay here.”

  “I . . . I tried to warn you,” Benjie gasped out.