But before his imagination took root a shriek in the distance snapped him up into a sitting position. He waited, breath held, for the sound to repeat. The shriek came again, like a B-movie actress letting loose. King drew his pistol. He thought the sound had grown closer, but the acoustics in the jungle were impossible to gauge. The air was thick with humidity. The canopy reflected sound at odd angles. And the density of trees, foliage, and other physical barriers was so random that sound became fluid. Full of life. Unpredictable. The sound could have come from fifty feet away or a mile. He would never know. What he did know was that the rest of the jungle had fallen silent.
King stoked the campfire into a raging inferno that would last the night and crawled into his tent, taking the Sig Sauer handgun and M1 Garand rifle with him.
Predators were hunting.
Despite the danger lurking in the rain forest, sleep came surprisingly easy that night. But his dreams were filled with the dead — past, present, and soon to be. His subconscious concocted several horrible ways for Pierce to meet his fate. In each dream, King would run to help but found his body slow to respond, as though weighted down by some invisible force. At one point he reached for his weapon and found only a TV antenna. The surreal dreams left him feeling groggy in the morning, even after a full night's sleep, but they conveyed a crystal clear message — deep down, King didn't think he could save his friend.
At the first hint of light, King unzipped his tent, doused the fire's remaining embers with sand, and repacked his bag. He looked at his watch. Five-thirty. He doubted the men he was after would wake so early. This was his chance to gain some ground. King took the GPS unit from his backpack and checked the battery. Its small screen glowed strong. The battery indicator showed it still held a three-quarter charge. More than enough. He repacked it and placed the bag in the boat.
King lifted his leg to climb into the boat, but froze midstep. Smoke. Just a hint carried on the breeze. His campfire had obscured the smell before, but this was no campfire. He knew the difference between burning wood and the chemical smell of a modern structure in flames. King looked at the dark blue sky, just now shedding its stars. A brown haze drifted lazily in the breeze, rising from perhaps a mile away.
He was close.
He climbed into the boat, took an oar, and began pushing out into deeper water where he could start the engine. Before the front of the long boat pulled free of the damp sand beach, the boat rocked from a sudden impact. Off balance from pushing with the oar, King spilled over the side and into the water. Pushing off the muddy bottom, he launched to the surface expecting a giant fish or snake to try swallowing him whole. He fumbled for his sheathed KA-BAR knife as he kicked for shore.
But no attack came.
He climbed on shore, caught his breath, and searched for what had struck the boat. He began thinking it must have been a free-floating log, but a splotch of yellow next to the side of the boat told him otherwise. King stepped back into the boat, moving toward the object lodged against it. From the yellow and white fur covered in black spots, King could see the animal was a jaguar. Clearly dead. But what had killed it?
After pushing the body away from the boat with the oar, King inspected the body. The big cat would have been a prime specimen when alive, but now.. The lower half of its body had been torn away. Water-logged entrails floated free in the water's currents, but no blood stained the water. The cat had been dead for hours, perhaps all night. His first thought was that a caiman had caught the cat off guard in the water, but a series of straight, two-inch-long puncture wounds didn't look like croc bites. Something else had killed the jaguar — the Amazon's top predator.
As the body drifted downstream, carried by the river, King followed it with his eyes. He nearly fell out of the boat again. Carcasses littered the river, some intact, some in pieces. Monkeys, birds, cats, crocs, and rodents. Nothing had been spared. A slaughter had taken place while he'd slept. It was probably only his raging fire that kept him safe. King yanked the engine cord and launched the boat as fast as it could go. He kept his .45 in one hand and steered with the other, ever vigilant.
There was something much worse than the average predator lurking in the jungle. Something that made a meal out of jaguars and crocodiles… and it wasn't human.
FIFTEEN
A sudden brilliant light turned the insides of Pierce's closed eyelids bright red. He woke with a start, launched into a standing position, and then just as quickly fell down. He felt a hand take his arm and help guide his fall so that he landed on the same padded bench he'd been sitting on.
"Easy now," came a deep voice. "The drugs are still wearing off."
"Where am I?" Pierce asked, rubbing his eyes.
"With friends," said a second voice. "Take these."
Pierce felt two pills placed in his hand. "What are they?" His world was spinning and his mind was only half with it, but he wasn't going to take a drug without knowing what it would do to him.
"Caffeine pills. They'll help counteract the sedative you were given… which should never have been given to you in the first place."
Pierce sensed that the man speaking really was irritated about his being sedated and decided to trust him. "Water?"
A bottle was placed in his other hand. He opened his eyes a crack and looked at his hands. Two small blue pills in one. A bottle of Poland
Spring water in the other. He popped the pills in his mouth and swigged the water. It was cool and refreshing. The pills dissolved quickly and took effect within seconds. A tingle ran up his spine and when it reached his skull it was as though a switch had been thrown and his mind came rushing back to him.
Pierce looked up and saw two men looking down at him. One was tall and bald, wearing an expensive-looking suit jacket. The other wore dress slacks, a perfectly pressed shirt, and a red tie that complimented his groomed face, hair, and hands. Both wore kind smiles and had intelligent eyes. Assuming they were some kind of authority, he asked, "Did you catch the men who kidnapped me?"
The tall, bald man's crows feet crinkled around his blue eyes as he held out his hand to be shook. Pierce took it with apprehension. As they shook hands, the man said, "Richard Ridley. Happy to make your acquaintance, Dr. Pierce. I am the man who kidnapped you." Ridley smiled wide.
Pierce looked at the other man, who now wore a frown. He pushed away from the men and found he had nowhere to go. Glancing around quickly he noticed the small white room was actually a cell.
"Well, not me," Ridley said. "But men who work for me."
"What do you want?"
"The Hydra."
Pierce felt like he'd been punched. The man's statement was so self-assured, so plain and blunt. Was he serious? Pierce decided he was, and realized that lying would do no good. "Why?"
"I believe you were given an example of what we can do?"
Pierce remembered the three bullet wounds in McCabe's chest. How quickly they healed. How her life returned. "Regeneration." Pierce glared at the man. "You could have just asked."
The man crossed his arms and gave Pierce a skeptical look. "You and I both know that as soon as the Hydra head's authenticity was proven, no one would be allowed near it until whatever government agency claimed it was finished with it. In other words, never. You and McCabe would have no doubt disappeared along with the relic."
Pierce didn't argue. He'd had the same fears as well. But he couldn't forget the savagery of the attack on the camp. "My friend, Jack Sigler. What happened to him?"
"Your 'security,' yes." Ridley flashed a smile and chuckled. "He came a day early. An unfortunate turn of events. I'm sorry for what happened.