Something that flickered.
“What is that?” he whispered, a breath no louder than silk on a breeze.
“Is it a ghost?” Alicia peered hard.
Crouch parted a lattice of branches. “Oh, hell. I never expected that. Oh no.”
Alicia took a step back in surprise. “Am I seeing things, or is that—”
“It is,” Crouch said, still staring. “It is.”
Flickering for as far as the eye could see were dozens and dozens, possibly hundreds, of virtually smokeless campfires. They were all under the dense tree line, and the trees ran more than halfway up the grassy hill that formed the bulk of the island; their lurid flames painting the sides of tents crimson, the trees with blood, and large pavilions with their big stretched canvases in orange. Flames sputtered everywhere, attesting to the presence of a large group of men.
Crouch backed away very carefully. Close to the lapping waves he gathered the team around. “I don’t know what to think. Surely Jensen can’t have gathered so large a force.”
Alicia shifted. “We can always take a closer look.”
“Go among them? Do you think you can pull it off? One bad move and all hell would be unleashed. I think we’re talking over a hundred men out there.”
“I could do it,” Alicia said. “Alone. No Sasquatch or inseparable twins beside me.”
They all glared, but said nothing. The truth was, Alicia was right and Crouch and the others all knew it. Crouch sent a glance toward the top of the large hill, the center of the island, which nobody could see from here.
“I’m wondering what is going on. In my experience a large crew like this means an awful lot more than a random treasure hunt. I hope we anchored the boat far enough offshore.”
“We did,” Caitlyn assured him. “Unless they sail that way.”
Crouch nodded silently, wondering too about the fate of Jensen. Was the ex-SAS madman already here? Surely this force wasn’t his. Crouch had to believe that Jensen was in hiding somewhere, pondering options.
“Alicia can do it,” he said unnecessarily. “And we need the Intel. I have to say though — it’s a dangerous, lethal mission. If you’re noticed, you won’t get out of there alive and we’re unlikely to be able to come in after you.” He shook his head. “It’s suicide.”
Alicia laughed. “Seriously? It’s any day of the week, then. I’ll see you soon, guys. Don’t wait up.”
She turned away.
Crouch watched her walk into the lion’s den, remembering the years and the missions and finding it hard to think of a person he admired or cared for more. The worst of it was — he had let her down. The explanation was hard, and clear, but hardly flattering. Leaders were often forced to make the difficult decisions, ones they later may have made differently, and Beau’s inside Intel had paid off at least half a dozen times, foiling entire plots.
Still, Alicia had suffered and Crouch hated himself for it. He spoke to her retreating back as she walked away.
“Be safe.”
She never heard it. Or maybe she chose to ignore it. Either way, the message was the same.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
Flames flickered and spat at the darkness; lurid, dancing light in one place revealing the dangers, deep playful shadow in the other, concealing them. Campfires stretched across an area hundreds of feet wide and on up the steady slope of the huge hill at the end. Tents stood around the fires, some dangerously and uncaringly close to the flames. Pavilions stood dotted and tied between trees. Alicia knew this was a permanent camp, a home of sorts. But the identity of those that lived here so far remained a mystery.
Without a sound she advanced to within throwing distance of the perimeter, taking time to pause, listen and become attuned to the camp’s general ambiance. The faint music. The raucous laughter. Other sounds came from behind canvas. Chiefly, she looked for guards and wanderers, those that might stumble upon her. Of the latter there were a few, but of the former there were none. At least, not so close to the camp.
Perhaps they were positioned nearer the shore. After all, the only danger to these people would come from the seas.
Alicia stood with her back pressed up against a tree, blending with the dark and the leafery as best she could. Her eyes swept the camp, flicked off every pit of fire and noted every loose piece of canvas. A man with long, matted hair and a bare chest staggered between rows, belched and then disappeared into a tent. Another came out for a fast smoke before discarding the remnants into a fire and ducking back inside his makeshift home once again.
This man carried an old-style machine gun. The barrel dangled at his side, pointing at the ground.
Alicia thought she might know what kind of men these were. And the knowledge was incredibly ironic.
She felt she’d adapted to her environment enough, and stepped out into the camp.
Wearing black, wandering from point to point, blending as well as she was able, Alicia walked the campfire gauntlet. A dark sky looked down upon her, interspersed by drifting clouds tinged around the edges by the silver moon. Branches crackled underfoot, but that was fine because they crackled and spat in every small fire. The first obstacle she encountered in her path was a large, prone figure, snoring loudly. Passed out from the liquor, he held a machine gun in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. His face was dirty, his clothes old and tattered. Almost like his features, which Alicia guessed were old before their time. Seen too much and done too much. There was no redemption for men like these.
Picking her way past the figure, she moved on. Heat from a campfire washed her face from the right. A movement against a tent wall to the left sent her to the floor, waiting patiently. It appeared to be a man falling over. She waited a minute for the snoring to start and then rose carefully and crept on. The tents themselves afforded some cover, but the dancing fires sent her shadow flitting in all directions.
Past the tent she moved to another and another, listening hard at every step and keeping a careful eye to every perimeter. At first she worried that a woman’s figure might single her out in the camp, but she soon saw other females that were part of the crew, wandering between tents, armed to the teeth. No figures hung around the edges of the camp and she had to assume it wasn’t closely guarded. Deductions? These people had been here a while, saw no obvious danger to their settlement, and didn’t particularly care what happened during the night. They were too comatose to notice, no doubt just like Henry Morgan’s men hundreds of years before them.
Still evaluating and listening, Alicia pressed deeper into the camp. A tent flap rattled near her left knee but nobody emerged. The sound of a rifle cocking behind her made her spin, weapon ready, but all was clear. Another undercover episode. Still composed, she picked her way among the flames.
A head popped out of a tent opening to her right.
“Hey girl, where you goin’?”
Alicia thought: Girl? Really? but moved and leaned in close to the filthy individual that had spotted her. “You alone in there?”
“Oh yeah, for now.”
Her face hovered before his, sending an unwashed stench into her nostrils. “So what are you waiting for?”
The man backed away inside his tent, double-time, and Alicia followed. It was a small space, taken up by a hard mattress and a backpack. Two rifles leaned against the back canvas.
“Mattress?” the man asked. “Or floor?”
Alicia glared. “Oh, you’re such a charmer.”
“Been said before, girl. By man and woman.” The man was already unzipping.