bounced.
Viva turned away, covering her ears, wincing with each blast. Then strong hands were on her, dragging her up the stream’s bank onto higher ground.
The figure moved through the jungle, soundless, eyes bright with awareness. Above the treetops daylight shone, yet the thick Thai jungle trapped the moisture and air in a vise. Sweat trailed her temples, down between her breasts, yet she kept moving, leaping dead logs and pausing only to slip through a thin outcropping of bushes. They’d been cut, then trampled. The path had already led her to the traitor, then to the tho thahan. Her body shivered with the memory of killing the mafia soldier, a warm heat brewing low in her belly. He’d betrayed the silence.
Now, the path to her master was wiped clean, the only evidence tucked inside a skin pouch dangling at her hip. None could be trusted, and she was the only one to see it so.
She followed the sound of gunfire.
Project Silent Fire
US–UK Command Post
Major General Al Gerardo rarely showed his emotions. It’s what made him the consummate professional and well respected from the president down to the corporal who answered his phones. Gerardo never did anything halfway and for him, there was always a better solution, some tiny point that could be improved. It drove his staff crazy, but to work with him on this project, they’d learn to accept and respect it. His small idiosyncrasies had often foiled disaster.
Even in the most desperate moments of the nation’s defense, he showed unquestionable authority and control. Only those who’d known him for years could recognize his anxiety.
Lt. Colonel Mitch Callahan was one of them. Gerardo rolled a quarter over his knuckles without looking, as if it was a part of him. All while he watched the video feed, the camera mounted on a Marine’s helmet, the U.S. team backing up British Royal Marines.
“Be advised, the target is our only source right now.”
The night vision lens glowed green as the feed went smooth for a moment, then staggered as it focused. Royal Marines had been posted around the small house and though there’d been no movement for over an hour, they knew who occupied the home.
“Execute,” the general said. The team moved in, Royal and U.S. Marines covering the small house like a blanket. Gas went in first, masks down, then a Royal Marine broke through the front door, just as another team came in through the rear.
“Clear,” echoed through the head mikes and to Gerardo’s console. They watched the mission unfold. Each room was swept, floors checked for traps before the men moved to the last door, the bedroom where Hassan was hiding. All exits were covered, the second floor spotted with the red dots of laser scopes.
A U.S. Marine kicked in the door, men quickly sweeping the room. Several suddenly gasped and groaned. “Room secure, Jesus, it stinks in here.”
They turned to the source. “Mother of God.”
Gerardo leaned forward as his man got close. “Damn.” He dropped the quarter on the console.
Mitch leaned for a better look.
Hassan was strapped to a chair, every inch of his clothing stained with blood already turned black. There were so many cuts on the man’s body it was hard to tell what was a wound or a blood trail. Blood congealed on the floor beneath him. Dead for days.
A warning came, men lifted NVG goggles and the lights came on. The glare of light focused on just the victim.
The room was sparse, a bed behind the chair.
Gerardo said, “Those wounds aren’t fatal.” Each near a vein but not an artery. Enough to slowly bleed him dry.
“Yes, sir, I noticed,” a Royal Marine said. “But these are.” He tipped the helmet, the video relay showing that the man was missing his toes.
“The back of his knees are cut,” one Marine observed. “What’s the point of that? He’s strapped to the chair.”
But Gerardo knew. In many cultures, it was a final disgrace that the victim would never walk in the next life with his ancestors. Whether it meant anything to the victim was inconsequential. It meant something to his killer. But the lead, the most viable one they had, was lost.
“Secure and let MI-6 techs in there.” Gerardo pushed away from the monitor and stood. He picked up the quarter again.
“Maybe we’ll get something from the house,” Callahan suggested.
Gerardo waved that off, rolling the quarter. “Perhaps, but they’re thorough.”
Whoever had the weapons schematics was long gone by now. Gerardo looked at the surveillance printouts. Their people had gone over the photos of Hassan and any associate several times, trying to digitize the shots and pull something for identification. Hassan led a small, lonely life. A janitor with a security clearance, for the love of Mike. The man had no idea what he’d done, the danger he’d let loose when he stole the plans. Gerardo looked back at the monitor, video frozen on the victim’s tattered face.
Perhaps he did.
Hassan was betrayed by his contact, obviously, and it hadn’t been difficult to locate the man. That kept Gerardo up late. Someone knew the Standard Operating Procedure, the SOP of how reactionary forces worked. And that meant they had help—from the inside.
He looked at Mitch. “Wake everyone up.”
“Sir?”
“Get every watchdog we have out there. I want visuals on the worst.”
“Counter intelligence is already working on this, sir.” They had visuals of several known terrorists.
“Not good enough. Get them in the trenches. We need photos, movement, associates, and if we have to dig into the gutters, we will.”
“That’s usually where they are, sir.” Mitch reached for the phone, and dialed.
“Not this time. This group, they have financing, and damn good intel. Or they wouldn’t have made it past the door.” He looked back at the still video on the screen. “They’re cleaning up their trails.”
The jungle opened up, sunlight pouring down. With good reason. It ended.
Viva skidded to a sharp stop, slipped and flailed to keep from going over the cliff. Sam’s arm snapped around her waist, drawing her back.
She clung to him. “We’re trapped.”
Max rushed to a stop beside them. “We missed some.” He inclined his head the way they’d come, reloading.
“And the river is in front of us,” she said, peering over the edge. “It’s a forty-foot drop to the water and no way down.”
“I have one.” Sam pulled his whip from the lashings and cracked it. It looped around a branch extended over the water.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding.” Even as she spoke, Sam pressed the handle into her palms, then drew her far back from the edge. “Ya know, I’m as adventurous as the next woman,
