“Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on? What’s the story with this mask? And what about Faceless Fritz?”

  Mara was clearly nonplussed. “My father died today, O’Neil. Don’t belittle his life’s work.” O’Neil nodded once and his companion took a deep breath, composing herself. Afterward, all traces of emotion receded from her speech. She was ready to get down to business.

  “Hitler has found some of the toughest mercenaries on the planet, conscripted them into his service and tasked them with finding arcane artifacts from all over the world. The Spear of Destiny. The Ark of the Covenant. The Resurrection Mask of Woot.”

  “And Hitler believes in this? This native mythology?” He tried to keep the skepticism from his voice.

  She nodded vigorously. “He’s a believer, all right. Besides, he’s well read. He studied my father’s work.” She gestured toward the journal and he handed it to her.

  She flipped past the map, through page after page of drawings and text. “My father was meticulous. He interviewed dozens of natives, all up and down the Congo River. He heard stories that were passed down from generation to generation in song and story.”

  “That’s all it is, a story.”

  “I once thought so, too. For years I thought my father’s obsession with this legend was nothing more than an unhealthy fixation meant to give him some hope of bringing back my mother.” At this, her businesslike façade slipped for just a moment, but she swallowed once and pressed on. “That is, until I heard about the ‘house within the house.’”

  Before she could continue, Edgar interrupted.

  “You two can get some rest if you want to. I’ve prepared separate bunks for you below. It’s not much, but I’m sure you’ll need your strength.”

  Mara was already shaking her head, but O’Neil spoke before she could. “You can finish telling me later. He’s right. We’ll need our rest. Besides, with Edgar at the helm, we’ll arrive well ahead of our enemies, and when we do, we’ll be ready.”

  She nodded once and followed the captain.

  “Besides,” the jovial man said as he went below decks. “It should be a smooth journey from here.

  He was, of course, quite wrong about that.

  Chapter Six

  “O’Neil!”

  The shout cut through his haze of sleep. The Irishman sat bolt upright as the small African came bounding down the steps toward his makeshift bunk.

  “The Nazis!” Edgar cried breathlessly. By now, Mara was awake. She started to speak but O’Neil held up his hook and she bit her tongue.

  “Are they boarding?” O’Neil asked.

  “No, sir,” Edgar shook his head just as an enormous boom sounded above decks. “They’re shelling us,” he added unnecessarily.

  The threesome sprinted up the stairs and, in the earliest rays of the morning sun, saw precisely how the Nazis had been keeping curious adventurers away from their prize. Significant wreckage blocked the middle of the river and there was no guarantee Edgar’s small boat would make it past the debris in one piece.

  Apparently, the Nazis had been protecting their interests by destroying every ship that came close to their prescribed route.

  It was like a graveyard of sunken boats. Twisted metal jutted from the depths of the riverbed, the fast moving current swirling past the wreckage, slowly eating away at the debris, taking chunks of the former vehicles on a wild journey deep into the heart of Africa.

  One could only imagine that any bodies not obliterated by Nazi explosives had met the same fate.

  They were far enough downstream that no one in the city would have heard the mortar fire nor seen the bursts. The Nazis had planned their trap well.

  Once again, the sky boomed and the water burst just yards away from their boat. The shots were getting closer.

  Without hesitation, O’Neil grabbed Mara by the waist. She let out a small cry but did not resist.

  The Irishman shouted at Edgar and gestured with his hook toward the small raft tied to the side of the boat. The African nodded and began to work on the knots.

  But O’Neil shoved him away and, after two swift slashes from his hook, the raft was in the water.

  “I hope you can swim,” he said to Mara, not waiting for an answer. Then, still gripping her firmly with his right arm, he leapt over the side.

  With a splash, O’Neil and Mara landed more or less on the raft. Edgar was not so lucky. The African was loaded down with a satchel he’d retrieved from his cabin in the midst of the chaos, one that presumably carried what likely amounted to all his material wealth in the world, aside from his doomed boat of course. He severely undershot the raft and landed smack in the turbulent current of the Congo River.

  Releasing Mara, who was now firmly on the raft, O’Neil reached out, attempting to snag his old friend with his hook, but the man, unwilling to let go of the death grip he had on his satchel, flailed and sank.

  Cursing under his breath, O’Neil prepared to dive in after his old companion.

  Just then, the boat exploded.

  The sound ripped through the air, waves of heat blasting from the decks, jagged shards flying outward.

  Acting instinctively, O’Neil pulled back, once more grabbing hold of Mara as he dove off the edge of the raft, plunging into the warm waters of the Congo, seeking to escape the turmoil above.

  He hoped Mara had the sense to hold her breath. O’Neil knew he could stay underwater as long as necessary, as long the chaos rained down on them. They were safer—though perhaps only moderately so—beneath the surface.

  Edgar, unfortunately, was on his own.

  Especially when it came to the approaching crocodiles.

  Chapter Seven

  The natives were getting restless.

  Or, in this case, the indigenous wild animals were getting more than a little peeved that their habitat was being ripped apart by flaming vengeance from the sky (or something like that).

  And O’Neil knew firsthand just how dangerous an angry, confused crocodile could be.

  The beasts, known as Congo Dwarf Crocodiles, were small, barely more than a meter in length. Normally docile, especially during the day, the bony, black-plated creatures had been rousted from their silty habitat and were taking aim at the interloping humans far more aggressively than they pursued their usual diet of fish.

  A quartet of the beasts was making a beeline for O’Neil and Mara, their jaws glinting in the reflection of the smoldering wreckage of Edgar’s boat.

  The crocs snapped as they approached, and O’Neil struggled to take his gun from the pocket of his jacket. But the sodden thing was useless.

  He was going to have to rely on his strength and his wits.

  The first beast approached and O’Neil let out a roar, striking out with his hook.

  He gashed the creature on the snout, drawing blood and eliciting a hideous noise from the croc.

  This just served to anger the others.

  They swarmed at O’Neil as he swung his hook-hand back and forth, doing everything in his power to keep their jaws away from his flesh.

  But he wouldn’t last long.

  Just then, with a grunt and a splash, a flaming chunk of wood flew over his shoulder and landed in the midst of the crocs.

  They dispersed, and O’Neil felt a tug on his collar.

  Mara, who apparently had just saved his bacon by hurling a burning piece of wreckage between him and his attackers, was now pulling him toward shore.

  He brushed her hand away and, with a few powerful strokes, reached the riverbank.

  Mara flopped onto dry (or drier, at least) land beside him.

  He looked at her. She was wet and panting and flushed, but she had managed to hold herself together and aid him when he needed it most.

  “Thanks,” he said gruffly, getting to his feet. She nodded. “Now let’s get out of here. Whoever blew up our ride is a lot more dangerous than a pack of mini crocs.”

  And, together, they sped off into the jungle.

  Chapter Eight

  The book, thankfully, was intact, more or less protected in the pocket of Mara’s waterproof jacket.

  It was a little wet, but in one piece and, once dry, it would be legible. For now, though, O’Neil was confident enough to lead Mara on a path through the thickest part of the jungle, one that more or less followed the path of the river. They’d encounter no Nazis here, he was sure. Plus, he figured they’d assume O’Neil’s entire party had perished in the attack anyhow.

  Still, he wished he’d brought his machete.

  “Is that how you lost your hand?”

  O’Neil stopped and stared at her. “What?” he asked.

  “The crocodiles. I thought, maybe…”

  “We have to keep moving,” was his only reply, as he resumed his trek.

  She stepped up her pace and fell in beside him. For a woman who was clearly not accustomed to the terrain and climate conditions, she was certainly doing everything she could to avoid being a burden.

  “It’s just that Tommy talked about you often, and he always called you ‘Armless O’Neil.’ He never once mentioned your first name, nor did he say how you lost your arm in the first place.”

  “Why would he?”

  She was about to reply, but could sense he did not wish to discuss this topic any further. They continued to walk in silence for several hours. Fortunately, O’Neil’s path kept them under the canopy and away from the blazing sun, and he knew where to find water.

  In fact, their journey was going quite smoothly when, suddenly, they heard a slapping and screeching noise approaching.

  Gorillas.

  Two Mountain Gorillas, a fairly rare sight in this part of the jungle, were barreling down on then, pounding their chests and screaming bloody murder.

  O’Neil checked his weapon, cursing himself for not taking the time to clean it properly. He had been in such a hurry to march on and beat the Faceless Nazi to the prize he hadn’t thought to attend to it. Cursing, he grabbed Mara by the arm.

  “Run.”

  They tore through the jungle, leaping over knots of foliage and dodging under tree limbs. Normally, gorillas are not aggressive unless provoked, and, since these particular gorillas were clearly on the warpath, then something—or someone—must have angered them

  O’Neil and Mara broke through the foliage and skidded to a halt on the banks of the Congo River. They were miles downstream from where they had left the wreckage of Edgar’s boat, far enough away that they saw not a trace of the smoldering aquatic graveyard they had left behind. The only tableau in front of them was the raging river, the sun blazing down on the thick jungle, and, of course, the gray-uniformed Nazis waiting for them, armed with rifles and smirks.

  “Armless O’Neil, I presume?”

  Chapter Nine

  The man’s voice was, perhaps thanks to the gleaming metal appendage that covered more than half of his face, tinny and gruff. Plus, O’Neil had always felt that a thick German accent made anyone sound angrier at the world. After growing up with the lilting Gaelic of his grandmother, the harsher German tongue grated on his nerves.

  “What’s it to ya?” the Irishman spat, waving his hook as if to emphasize the ridiculousness of the question. Who else would he be, Legless Lemond?

  The Nazi snorted and gestured for his goons to grab O’Neil and Mara who, to her credit, was once more a picture of stoicism. The thugs seized the pair and, after a quick and efficient search (for all the ire about the Nazis that seared through O’Neil’s veins, he had to admit that they were, to all appearances, ruthlessly efficient), they removed all weapons and paraphernalia from the captives.

  Including the Professor’s journal.

  “Guten,” said Fritz, stroking the journal as if it were his pet Schnauzer. “Just what I need. I thank you, sir, for pointing me in their direction.”

  This final comment was directed toward the jungle where O’Neil saw the battered and bruised form of his friend, Edgar, flanked by a pair of German thugs. But before O’Neil could say a word, he spotted, farther behind Edgar, another pair of Nazis prodding the two mountain gorillas into submission with objects that resembled long metal poles with jagged, claw-like arcs at the end. O’Neil was enraged.

  “It’s one thing to torture another human being,” he called, turning his fiery gaze back to the Nazi leader. “But it’s another thing entirely to force a couple of innocent animals to do your dirty work, pig.” He spat at the booted feet of the Faceless one.

  The Nazi’s face twisted into what could only be his own personal perversion of a smile. “We had to find some way to slow you down, O’Neil. After all, it took a while to break your friend here.”

  Fritz called out in German, and his cronies dragged both Mara and Edgar with them onto the gleaming deck of the newly arrived Nazi ship. O’Neil struggled, but could not budge from the grip of the men who held him.

  “Now, let’s see if Herr Doktor’s notes can lead us to that mask, and with it, to total domination of the Allies, shall we?”

  “What about O’Neil?” Mara asked, speaking for the first time.

  Once more, Faceless Fritz contorted his lips into his travesty of a smile. “We’ll just let the mountain gorillas see what other parts they can take off of him.”

  He let out a hideous laugh, and the boat moved away from the shore as O’Neil struggled uselessly in the grip of the Nazis who dragged him deeper into the jungle…

  Chapter Ten

  O’Neil was bigger and stronger than either of the German soldiers, but they had leverage on him and, after dragging him a few dozen yards, they tossed him to the ground, at the feet of the two gorillas.

  And, if he thought the beasts were angry before, after a few more minutes at the hands—and sharpened poles—of the Nazis, they were ready to rip Armless O’Neil limb from limb.

  But he’d already lost one limb. He wasn’t about to lose another.

  With a roar, one of the great beasts lunged toward the Irishman, ready to obliterate his head with great, ham-sized fists.

  Grunting, O’Neil rolled to one side, barely escaping the creature’s mighty blows, but his motion put him in range of the second gorilla, which cried out and leapt at the prone adventurer.

  O’Neil kicked out with his legs and, using the beast’s momentum against it, flipped the one gorilla into the other.

  The cries were deafening.

  O’Neil popped to his feet and snagged the polearm of the nearest Nazi thug—startled as he was by the violent turn of events—with his hook.

  He ripped it from the goon’s grasp, spun it around, grabbing it with his right hand. He smacked the soldier in the head, knocking him cold. He dropped the weapon and turned his attention to the other men.

  A second Nazi brought his own polearm to bear, lashing out at O’Neil, who ducked and evaded, even as the two gorillas righted themselves and stalked toward the two guards who had transported O’Neil. The beasts had sized up these new threats and judged them to be dangerous.

  O’Neil, calling upon his great knowledge of the jungle and its inhabitants, stood stock-still. He knew that the huge, imposing beasts were gentle creatures by nature, so he would do nothing to agitate them.

  On the other hand, the Nazi with the polearm seemed completely out of his element. He was clearly frightened, quavering with uncertainty, gripping his weapon tightly as he slowly backed away from the scene.

  “Are you gonna stand there waving that thing or you gonna put these monsters in their place?” O’Neil growled.

  Seeing the massive forms of the gorillas, their backs up, slobbering and baring their teeth at his two frightened companions, the Nazi panicked.

  Screaming, he swung the polearm at the beasts, missing one and smashing the other square in the chest. The gorilla let out a massive yell and swatted the weapon away.

  The Nazi dropped the pole, turned and sped into the jungle. The two gorillas, angered and threatened, chased after him.

  Without hesitation, O’Neil snatched up the fallen polearm and, with two swift blows, knocked out the remaining Nazis before they knew what was happening.

  O’Neil spat at the ground, in the general direction of his three fallen foes. They were the lucky ones. The Nazi who had fled would likely not survive his ordeal, but it served him right. Having spent so much time in the wilds of Africa, O’Neil knew better than most the importance of treating the animals with respect. Otherwise, they would make you pay.

  And, since he did not want to pay himself, he took a few moments to lash the three Nazis to a nearby mahogany tree. He was happy to let them wake up in the jungle and try to survive. He could think of no more appropriate fate.

  His enemies vanquished, he turned his attention to the more pressing matter; he had to find Edgar and Mara—and that book. Then, after finding it—and this accursed mask—he would take his revenge on Faceless Fritz for the death of the professor and his disrespect for the forest, among other crimes.

  O’Neil stopped to relieve the soldiers of a machete, a luger and canteen. Then, with new resolve, he turned and walked into the jungle.

  Chapter Eleven

  For once, O’Neil wished he had the same sharp memory for detail as his old friend Tommy Huston. The young man—who, it seemed, had more in common with his uncle than O’Neil would have initially thought—would have been able to recall details from the map after only one quick glance.

  O’Neil, though not possessing a photographic memory, was no slouch himself. And he remembered just enough of the path to the Kuba Mask to make himself dangerous.

  And he was.

  Since O’Neil did have a near-encyclopedic knowledge of the local terrain and tribes, certain words and markings on the map had stood out to him. Specifically, the path to the legendary mask lay close to a village that O’Neil knew well.

  He just had to get there before the Nazis did. They had a boat, but he had a shortcut.