at him.
Her other arm clutched her stomach. It failed to act as a dam. Abdominal contents spilled from her split belly, pouring out in a flow of dark blood. She lifted her gun, arm trembling—her eyes met his, oddly surprised. Then the gun slipped from her fingers, and she toppled toward him.
Kowalski rolled out of the way in time.
She landed with a wet slap on the stone path.
The bell-beat of the helicopter wafted louder as the winds changed direction. The storm was rolling in fast. He saw the chopper circle the beach once, like a dog settling for a place to sleep, then lower toward the flat rocky expanse.
Kowalski returned to Gabriella Salazar’s body and hauled off her pack. He began to sprint for the beach. Then stopped, went back, and retrieved his VK rifle. He wasn’t leaving it behind.
As he ran, he realized two things.
One. The siren blast from the neighboring jungle had gone silent. And two. He had heard not a single word from Dr. Rosauro. He checked the taped receiver behind his ear. Still in place.
Why had she gone silent?
The helicopter—a Sikorsky S-76—touched down ahead of him. Sand swirled in the rotorwash. A gunman in military fatigues pointed a rifle at him and bellowed over the roar of the blades.
“Stand down! Now!”
Kowalski stopped. He lowered his rifle but lifted the pack. “I have the goddamn antidote.”
He searched the surrounding beach for Dr. Rosauro, but she was nowhere in sight.
“I’m Seaman Joe Kowalski! U.S. Navy! I’m helping Dr. Rosauro!”
After a moment of consultation with someone inside the chopper, the gunman waved him forward. Ducking under the rotors, Kowalski held out the satchel. A shadowy figure accepted the pack and searched inside. Something was exchanged by radio.
“Where’s Dr. Rosauro?” the stranger asked, clearly the one in charge here. Hard blue eyes studied him.
Kowalski shook his head.
“Commander Crowe,” the pilot called back. “We must leave now. The Brazilian navy had just ordered the bombardment.”
“Get inside,” the man ordered Kowalski, the tone unequivocal.
Kowalski stepped toward the open door.
A shrieking wail stopped him. A single short burst. It came from beyond the beach.
In the jungle.
Dr. Shay Rosauro clung to the tangle of branches halfway up the broad-leafed cocoa tree. Baboons gibbered below. She had sustained a deep bite to her calf, lost her radio and her pack.
Minutes ago, after being chased into the tree, she had found that her perch offered a bird’s-eye view of the hacienda, good enough to observe Kowalski being led out at gunpoint. Unable to help, she had used the only weapon still at hand—her sonic shrieker.
Unfortunately, the blast had panicked the baboons below her, their sudden flight jostling her branch. She’d lost her balance…and the shrieker. As she’d regained her balance, she’d heard two gunshots.
Hope died inside her.
Below, one of the baboons, the dominant male of the pack, had recovered her sonic device and discovered the siren button. The blast momentarily scattered the pack. But only momentarily. The deterrent was becoming progressively less effective—only making them angrier.
Shay hugged the tree trunk.
She checked her watch, then closed her eyes.
She pictured the children’s faces…her partner’s…
A noise drew her attention upward. The double whump of a passing helicopter. The leaves whipped around her. She lifted an arm—then lowered it.
Too late.
The chopper lifted away. The Brazilian assault would commence in a matter of seconds. Shay let her club, her only remaining weapon, drop from her fingers. What was the use? It tumbled below, doing nothing but drawing the attention of the baboons. The pack renewed its assault, climbing the lowest branches.
She could only watch.
Then a familiar voice intruded.
“Die, you dirty, rabid, motherfucking apes!”
A large figure appeared below, blazing out with a VK rifle.
Baboons screamed. Fur flew. Blood splattered.
Kowalski strode into the fray, back to nothing but his boxers.
And his weapon.
He strafed and fired, spinning, turning, twisting, dropping.
Baboons fled now.
Except for their leader. The male rose up and howled as loudly as Kowalski, baring long fangs. Kowalski matched his expression, showing as many teeth.
“Shut the hell up!”
Kowalski punctuated his declaration with a continuous burst of firepower, turning monkey into mulch. Once finished, he shouldered his rifle and strode forward. Leaning on the trunk, he stared up.
“Ready to come down, Doctor?”
Relieved, Shay half fell out of the tree. Kowalski caught her.
“The antidote…?” she asked.
“In safe hands,” he assured her. “On its way to the coast with Commander Crowe. He wanted me to come along, but well…I…I guess I owed you.”
He supported her under one shoulder. They hobbled quickly out of the jungle to the open beach.
“How are we going to get off—?”
“I’ve got that covered. Seems a nice lady left us a going-away present.” He pointed down the strand to a beached Jet Ski. “Lucky for us, Gabriella Salazar loved her husband enough to come out here.”
As they hurried to the watercraft’s side, he gently helped her on board, then climbed in front.
She circled her arms around his waist. She noted his bloody ear and weeping lacerations across his back. More scars to add to his collection. She closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against his bare back. Grateful and exhausted.
“And speaking of the love of one’s life,” he said, igniting the watercraft’s engine and throttling it up. He glanced back. “I may be falling in love, too…”
She lifted her head, startled, then leaned back down.
Relieved.
Kowalski was just staring at his shouldered rifle.
“Oh, yeah,”
