Melding with the dark, bodies lay in the sand, still resting where they had the previous afternoon. But no heads turned at their approach. Several lacked heads altogether. King felt himself descending back into the hell he drifted by as Atahualpa carried him from his desert tomb. It wasn't a nightmare. It was real. How many bodies lay scattered across the hillside was impossible to tell. Body parts and organs splayed across the scene held in place like sick sculptures by congealed and sun-dried blood. The sand was thick with the stuff. It crunched beneath his feet, chipping away like maroon crackers.
King held his shirt over his mouth and nose as the slightest breeze brought the rising stench down around them. He'd smelled death before, but this — bodies and organs exposed to the blistering heat of the day, cooked and bleached — he was reminded again; this had been no battle. These people were slaughtered.
He found the woman he'd startled and knelt down beside her body. What was left of it. A leg was missing. Following a trail of blood he saw it had been used to bludgeon a man's head. Her arm, still attached, was missing large chunks from shoulder to elbow, as though an ogre had mistaken it for a corn cob. He lifted the dry arm, stiff and heavy and inspected the missing flesh. The bite marks were unmistakable.
Human.
King tried to imagine a tribe of cannibals descending on the group of workers. It was the only thing that made sense. But it lacked any kind of logic. There were no cannibals in Peru, and they certainly couldn't run around the desert eating people without drying up and withering. Plus, he had an eyewitness.
"How did this happen?"
"The woman. Molly."
King shook his head. "Not possible."
Atahualpa made a stabbing motion over his chest. "They shot her. Dead. Injected her with something. She came back. They were gone when she woke up. I offered her water. Like you. She said she was hungry. Tried to bite me. I ran through.." He motioned through the dead bodies. "She stopped at the first man." Shaking his head, rubbing out the images, he pointed to what little remained of the first man. Bones and bits of flesh. A large stain. And next to it what looked like a pile of vomit.
King found several piles throughout the scene. If his story was true, she was eating her victims, vomiting them up, and moving on to the next. One after another, the zip-tied crew had no chance of escape. "You could have cut them free."
Atahualpa looked down. "I am not a brave man."
King finished searching the bodies for familiar faces and found none. McCabe was missing, which corroborated his story. But Pierce was missing, too.
"They took my friend?"
"Yes."
"Alive?"
He nodded.
"How did they leave?"
"Truck," he said, pointing north. "That way."
King rushed away from the blood-soaked hillside and entered the camp. Atahualpa stayed behind him, urging quiet, but King ignored him, rummaging through tents and personal belongings of the deceased. He found a flashlight and turned it on. His search sped more quickly and he found what he'd been looking for — a satellite phone. He turned it on and basked in the green glow of its digits. Help was a phone call away. Then he noticed a photo on the floor of the tent. It sucked the breath from his lungs. He placed the phone down and trained the light on the photo. Julie and George. Smiling. Happy. Streamers in the background revealed a party. The sparkle on her finger reflected the promise of what was to come. A life never lived. He picked up the photo, put it in his pocket, and dialed the phone.
After a few clicks, the connection was made and the phone on the other end began to ring. A digital female voice answered. "Hello, I'm sorry, but we cannot come to the phone right now. If you leave your name, number, and the time of your call, we'll get back to you as soon as possible." With the recording finished, the line beeped.
"King," he said.
"Voice print confirmed."
The line beeped three times, then clicked. "That you, King?" King felt his body relax. Deep Blue. "I need some help down here." "You need company?" Deep Blue's voice became serious. King didn't ask for help unless people were dead and someone had to pay for it.
TWELVE
The thick foliage covering the forest floor crunched beneath the feet of the approaching men. Each held their weapon nervously in front of them, twitching back and forth, looking for a target. Looking for him. Rook.
He took a slow deep breath, inhaling the scent of wet earth and decaying leaves. The smell of home. Growing up in the woods of New Hampshire, Rook felt more at home here than anywhere else. A twig snapped just feet from his face and brought him back to his current situation.
Fifteen combatants had been whittled down to three. These two and one more in hiding. Their plan wasn't half bad. These two were bait. The third would take him out with a barrage from the overgrown rhododendron. Of course, if they'd known they were standing two feet in front of Rook, buried beneath the thick foliage, they might have rethought the plan.
"What do you see?" came a whispered voice from the rhododendron. Amateurs.
"Nothing, man. Shut up," the closest of the three replied. "I don't get it," the third said. "This guy is old. Should have been a cakewalk."
Rook did his best not to laugh. These pipsqueaks just guaranteed themselves a no-holds-barred ass kicking. No pain, no gain, girls. He took aim and squeezed his weapon's trigger twice, unleashing two consecutive three-round bursts. Both men dropped to the forest floor, writhing in the wet earthy leaves, holding their red-stained crotches. They hollered in pain.
The kid in the bush began shouting. "Where is he? Where is he!"
"We're dead, man. And I sure as hell didn't see him."
A shrill ring cut through the air. Damn, Rook thought as he rose from his concealed position to answer his emergency line. The thing was a social nightmare. He couldn't turn it off in theaters, at a game, or while kicking some University of New Hampshire kids' asses at paintball. He had to be available at all times and that meant the damn phone had to be on at all times…exceptduring a mission… and this little outing was not being funded by the U.S. government.
The two kids on the ground shuffled away from him, fear in their eyes as he rose looking like an evil Sigmund the Sea Monster. He pulled off his head gear, revealing his dirty blond hair, long goatee, and blazing blue eyes. He lowered his DYE DM8 paintball gun to the ground and held a palm up toward the third kid now rushing out with his rifle aimed. Looking like some Norse god ready for battle, Rook's hard gaze and outstretched hand stopped the kid in his tracks.
"Time out. Need to answer the phone," Rook said.
"Dude, shoot him!" one of the dead kids yelled.
Rook opened the phone and placed it against his ear. "I'm here." He kept his eye on the kid with the itchy trigger finger and listened. "On my way." He closed the phone, pocketed it, and turned his full attention to the lone survivor.
"There's no freakin time-outs in paintball!" one of the grounded kids shouted.
"And dead people don't talk," Rook said, then looked at the last man standing. "Time in."
The kid cocked his head. "Huh?"
Rook pulled his side arm and fired from the hip. A red blotch exploded on the kid's facemask, blocking his view and effectively killing him. He picked up his gear and started his trek out of the four-acre paintball course known locally as GLOP. One kid started whining. "Cheap bastard!"
Rook raised his paintball gun and pulled the trigger, peppering the kid from head to toe with paintball pellets, each stinging like a bee. The kid danced and shouted in pain, looking for cover, but found none.