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  Before finishing his sentence, the pilot slipped into another of his violent coughing fits, holding his balled fist to his mouth. When the coughs ceased and the noise stopped echoing dully through the small room, he held his hand open and examined the fresh blood spatter under the dim light of the glow stick.

  "Bugger."

  Reaching a hand to touch his elbow, Olivia asked gently, "How long have you known?"

  Sighing and wiping the blood on his pant leg, the pilot looked into her eyes tiredly. He opened his mouth to speak, but reconsidered and looked away. He hadn't told anyone about his condition yet. Denver was the only one who knew, and only because she had surreptitiously accessed his medical history. He wanted to keep it that way.

  "Austin, it's okay," she reassured.

  He set his jaw. It didn't really matter who knew, anyway. It wasn't likely they'd even make it out of the jungle. "Diagnosed two weeks ago."

  "When do you start treatment?"

  Shaking his head, the Brit snorted.

  "Treatment? No. It’s terminal. The doctor said I might have a few months left if I quit smoking," he said, patting the pocket that held the last of his cigarettes. "You can see that I took that to heart. And you can imagine how bloody ironic it was for me to live through that plane crash—like the hand of the Lord himself guided me neatly through the windshield, not a scratch on me—only to have my crew smashed up and dead."

  Olivia looked at the floor. "I’m so sorry, Austin."

  "Oh, I’m sure you are, Doctor," Austin said, turning away as he automatically clutched at his cigarettes. "No doubt the world will take to the streets, the masses weeping the day they lose one more proletariat laborer." He tapped one out. "A heartbreaking story for you and your colleagues to exchange at the water cooler." Clearly worked up at the thought of the plane crash and his damning diagnosis, Austin slipped the smoke into his mouth. His eyes glittered with tears in the low light.

  Olivia crossed her arms. "That's not fair, Austin."

  "Be honest, Doctor. If it weren't for this expedition, you wouldn't even know I existed." He turned back to face her, plucking the cigarette from his mouth angrily before he could light it. "I saw the way you looked at me when we first met in the bar. With contempt. You and your posh friends couldn't care less whether a dogsbody like me lives or dies."

  "That's patently untrue."

  "Let's call it a difference of opinion, then."

  As he turned to walk away, Olivia reached for the only thing she knew would keep him from leaving. "You still haven't told me where you went that first night in the jungle."

  Turning on his heel, Austin tucked his unlit cigarette behind his ear, lifted his hat in one hand, and ran the other through his hair. "Because it wasn't, and still isn't, any of your business."

  "I just want to know what's going on. I care about your health and well-being, and that of every member of this expedition. If you're withholding information that could affect us somehow, I need to know. I think I deserve to know."

  "You pulling rank on me, Doctor? Suddenly you’re leading this expedition, and you deserve to know—for the welfare of the team? After all, it's not about me, I'm being selfish for expecting to have the slightest bit of privacy," he said sarcastically.

  "Please tell me, Austin," she said, changing her tone to one less argumentative and more sympathetic. "As your friend. You can tell me."

  He stared at her for a moment—his blue eyes shimmering turquoise in the light of the glow stick—before stepping close, his muddy leather boots touching the tips of her bare toes, the peaks of her breasts skimming his chest. He whispered, "First, when did we become friends? And second, you really don't want to know where we were last night. You won't like what you hear."

  "Try me," she said.

  He clenched his jaw, unwilling to back down from her defiant challenge. "We were meeting with a Colombian drug lord named Raul Alvarez."

  "Why?"

  "Because he's been wondering where his shipment went. The one that burned up in the plane crash last week."

  "The shipment? You two have been transporting illegal drugs alongside company cargo?" she said, her eyes losing their rebellious sharpness, instead opening wide in surprise.

  "See, Doctor? We live on a different tier than you do. You get a paycheck that you can live comfortably on. As for Jeremy and myself, we need to supplement our income by whatever means necessary to survive. Sometimes that means doing unsavory work for unsavory people. I wouldn't expect you to understand that." His last sentence sounded tired, defeated.

  "You don't know me as well as you think," she said quietly, staring into his eyes. She felt conflicted: irritated by Austin's unapologetic admittance of his criminal behavior and hostility toward her, sympathetic of his cancer diagnosis, and unaccountably excited by the closeness of his body.

  Before she could stop herself, she wrapped her hands around his neck and kissed him.

  Though momentarily taken aback, Austin returned the kiss, moving his arms around her and pulling his body tightly to hers. Allowing her lips to linger on his for just a moment, she pushed away from his embrace sharply and began redressing. "You should go check on the others," she said coldly.

  Austin stepped backward, looking at Olivia with an expression crossed between bewilderment and insult. But he listened, and without another word, left the room.

  Olivia slumped against the wall.

  Kissing Austin had been an obvious mistake, a compulsion to give in to strong, but ultimately superficial, emotions. The attraction she felt for him was nothing more than the recycled feelings she once had for her husband. Austin was crass and unkempt, a rough adventurer and enigmatic bad boy, the likes of which teenage girls the world over naïvely fell for time and again. But Olivia wasn't a child, and she knew better. Austin was as bad a match for her as Terry had been.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Three years earlier

  Caracas, Venezuela

  Each morning since arriving in Venezuela, Clayton would set out to see a landmark or tourist attraction. He'd already ridden the eight-mile Mérida Cable Car—the world's highest-reaching—and eaten lunch within sight of Angel Falls, the tallest waterfall in the world. Today's objective was the zoo at Caracas.

  Gripping a glass bottle of Frescolita soda, condensating in the afternoon heat, Clayton leaned over the guiderail overlooking the jaguar's den. The animal strode back and forth along the length of a concrete slope shaped to resemble a half-buried boulder. Clayton had been watching the animal for close to an hour.

  A woman's voice interrupted the quiet.

  "You've been looking at that cat a long time."

  Without turning to look at the stranger, Clayton replied, "Look at the way it moves. Each step is so purposeful, so intentional. There's confidence in its purpose."

  "You're admiring its confidence?"

  "A trait more people should respect, I think," he said, looking over as she leaned against the rail beside him. She was pretty. A young tourist. American like him. Her blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail, large plastic sunglasses covering her eyes, the bottom of her safari shirt wrapped into a knot that stopped just above her navel.

  "I've never really given it much thought. But now that you mention it, I see it. And I can see why you're drawn to this animal in particular."

  "Why's that?" he asked, taking a sip of his drink.

  "There's more than confidence about it. It's as though it knows it's imprisoned and is just waiting for an opportunity to escape. It's outwardly reserved, but inside, it's kept its carnal wildness. I bet it could instantly change between the docile animal you see and one with unchecked ferocity."

  He looked at her and smirked.

  She let her head drop to her chest as she grinned. "I'm sorry. I get a little romantic about these things."

  He reached an open hand toward her.

  "Clayton."

  "Mariah."

  "It's a pleasure. You here alone?"

  "No, my
boyfriend…"

  "Mariah," a male voice called out from behind them. "Who the hell's this? I left you alone for five minutes, and you're already flirting with some other guy?"

  Turning around slowly, still leaning against the railing, Clayton sized him up quickly. Big guy. Six-feet-tall, about 230 pounds, with the looks of a Midwestern college wrestler: barrel chested, with close-cropped black hair that didn't quite reach the deformed cartilage of his cauliflower ears. He held a beer in each hand.

  "No flirting happening here, man. We're just looking at the jaguar. You're welcome to join us."

  "No thanks," he scoffed as he handed Mariah her beer and grabbed her wrist forcefully. "We're out of here."

  "Alan …" she protested.

  "Hey man, no need to be that way. Be gentle with her," Clayton called after them.

  "I'm sorry, who the fuck are you to tell me what to do? This is my girlfriend. You're just some creep hanging out alone at the zoo. Fuck off." As if to accentuate his point, Alan gave Mariah a sharp tug in the opposite direction.

  "Let go of her wrist." Clayton pushed himself away from the railing.

  "Or what?" The man turned to face him.

  "Or I'll have to hurt you," Clayton said indifferently. He felt a familiar adrenaline rush building in his system, and his vision narrowed as he carefully placed his drink on the ground.

  Mariah, her glasses hanging crookedly from her nose following her boyfriend's rough handling, held up a hand and said, "Guys, it's okay. Calm down."

  Shoving Mariah away, Alan kneeled, smashed the bottom of his beer bottle on the concrete and gripped the bottle's neck as though it were the handle of a knife.

  "Come on, tough guy," Alan taunted.

  Clayton, unfazed by the jagged glass ring the man waved at his chest, said, "You're going to regret doing that." He straightened up as he moved toward his aggressor.

  The man lunged, and Mariah screamed.

  Clayton deftly sidestepped the attack, planted his right hand on Alan's wrist above the bottle, and drove his opposite elbow into the man's nose. Before he could recover, Clayton planted a foot behind his opponent's knee, bringing him to the ground. Simultaneously, Clayton bent his aggressor's wrist until the broken bottle paralleled the man's forearm. Clayton wrapped a burly arm around Alan's neck, his hand still controlling the bottle by his attacker's wrist, and he didn't say a word. With a quick, abbreviated shove, Clayton forced the pointed glass against the man's cheek, slicing deep.

  As Alan cried out, Clayton slammed his arm against the concrete, shattering the remains of the weapon.

  "Two lessons you've hopefully learned today, Alan," Clayton said, shoving him onto his back. Mariah ran to her boyfriend's side, stroking his hair gently. "First, you treat Mariah, and all women, with the same respect you'd treat your own mother." He stooped to pick up his bottle of Frescolita. Alan moaned and clutched at his face as Mariah stared up at Clayton, terrified. "Second, don't ever let the jaguar out of its cage."

  *******

  Clayton listened with eyes closed to the thrumming rotothrob of the helicopter as he and his team flew toward the Hygeia compound. Absently snapping open and closed the clasp holding his nine-millimeter Beretta pistol in the drop-leg holster on his thigh, he considered how many more times he'd be forced to accept these kinds of jobs before he could finally go straight.

  When he left the Marines, he'd been unable to get any kind of work back in the States. It didn't matter that he was clean-cut and articulate, his resume showed only one marketable skill: Killing. Rather than reenlist, he'd scraped up enough money for a one-way ticket to South America, bummed around until his money ran out, and was finally forced to acknowledge his need for gainful employment. He mucked horse stalls for a while, helped a local butcher process cattle, and even spent a few days on a fishing boat. But none of it felt right.

  That's when it struck him; those would-be employers had been right about him. War was his specialty, his calling. He was built for violence. Clayton's mind viewed every interaction, every movement, through the lens of a military strategist, and his temperament was such that he could tap into a carnal rage buried deep in his psyche on demand.

  But if that was all he had to rely on, what could he do?

  The answer came to him at a bar. Overhearing a local businessman complaining to a friend about his partner's unscrupulous spending habits, Clayton had waited until the man hung up the phone before sliding into the seat across from him.

  "Sounds like your partner's a real case. Why not push him out?"

  The man, though taken aback by Clayton's frankness, answered, "He has equal shares in the company. I can't."

  "But if something were to happen to him, a tragic accident were to befall him, that wouldn't be the case, would it?"

  "Well, his beneficiaries would receive his half."

  "But if they weren't looking to get into business, they'd be more than willing to sell out to you, wouldn't they? And they'd probably settle for less than the stocks' full worth, too."

  "I suppose that's true."

  "What would something like this be worth to you?"

  "Having him out of the picture?"

  "Yes."

  The man balked. Stuttered. Shook his head. "I don't want him dead, really. I just, he's going to bankrupt us if I don't do something."

  Writing his phone number on the back of a napkin, Clayton stood up and walked out without another word.

  He got a call an hour later.

  The hit was on. The price? Thirty grand.

  Clayton soon learned that, though his prices were ten times what the seedy criminal element in the area would charge for the same work, clients still turned to him first. The reason was clear: Clayton came across as an absolute professional. He treated his patrons with respect and patience, guiding them through the process and ensuring every aspect of the hit would go through without a hitch. He spoke clearly, with authority. His clients liked that they could be seen in public with him without giving passersby a bad impression.

  And he was good at his work. Very good.

  That didn't mean he liked doing it.

  Dan, an ex-soldier with the hulking build of a football lineman and one of Clayton's go-to teammates, covered his headset's mike with his palm, leaned over, and yelled into Clayton's ear, "What's with this op? We’re supposed to whack a couple pilots, doctors, and an intern? The fuck’s with that, man?"

  As far as the mercenaries were aware, the pilots still had no idea why they were bringing the armed men into the jungle. Senske had undoubtedly paid handsomely to keep the pilots from asking the mercenaries uncomfortable questions, but Clayton had still ordered his men to keep all operation-related chatter out of earshot.

  "They learned something they shouldn’t have. That’s not our problem. You wanna get paid? Do your job and put ‘em down."

  Alex, a stocky, red-haired Marine, Clayton’s second-in-command, and old friend from his time in the service, jammed a drum magazine into his RPD light machine gun and racked the slide to accentuate the point. "Oorah."

  Clayton grinned. The man was just happy he got to use the beastly rifle for a change. Unlike the suppressed pistols they typically carried to do a job, going this deep into the Amazon gave them free reign to work with any noisemaker in their collections.

  "Quick and painless, gentlemen," Clayton said, his headset in his hand. "Fast-rope in, identify targets—pretending to be part of a rescue team—get within range, and do what needs to be done. Then, we’ll call up the chopper and exfil. Questions?"

  "You buying the beer when we get back?"

  "Fuck that noise, Zeke. You boys make as much on this as I do—if anything, you should buy me a beer for bringing you onboard."

  The helicopter's copilot leaned around his seat and pointed at Clayton's headset. Slipping it on, the mercenary heard him say, "You want us to drop you in the clearing up ahead? That's your destination, right?"

  The mercenary shook his head.

  "Dro
p us here. We'll approach on foot." Though fast-roping into the clearing would have been easier, he didn't need the pilots hovering overhead, watching the action. Senske had been explicit in her orders. No witnesses. As if the pilots couldn't figure out what four men armed to the teeth were up to.

  The copilot nodded his acknowledgement. "You boys are gonna have to jump carefully—heavy tree cover below."

  The helicopter stopped its forward motion and began hovering low over the treetops, branches swirling downward.

  Clayton nodded and stood, slinging his M1A rifle over his shoulder and kicked the rope from the chopper. Sliding a PVS 14 night vision monocular down over an eye, he grabbed firm hold of the rope, wrapping it under the sole of his left boot and using his right as a brake.

  Sliding from the helicopter's open door, he watched his feet break through the neon-green treetops as though he’d dived into an opaque swamp. Feeling small branches give way under his body weight, he navigated to the ground and immediately swung his rifle into his gloved hands.

  His men followed close behind.

  "Switch frequencies," he ordered. "Alex, let the pilot know we’re on the ground. Tell him to stay in the neighborhood—this shouldn’t take long," Clayton whispered through his radio headset as they moved forward.

  The rope slid through the trees and disappeared, branches rustling violently as it went. Looking upward through a small gap in the tree cover, Clayton halted his steps. The helicopter continued to hover at the same altitude.

  Was someone reeling in the fast rope onboard? Standard operating procedure had always been to cut the ropes free.

  Goddamn civilian pilots.

  "Alex, tell those sons of bitches in the chopper to…"

  The helicopter suddenly banked away hard, only to violently correct and snap back as though tethered in place. The rotors dipped into the tree line, shattering like brittle ice as they struck tree trunks and thick branches. Plunging through the emergent layer and burying itself in the thick of the jungle canopy, the chopper jerked to a stop, its tail rotor pinging slowly against the branches that held the craft suspended. The windshield was covered in a spider-web of cracks, spattered with the pilots’ blood.