“This is your new home.”

CHAPTER 7

In the heart of the African village, Hawker stared coldly at Arnold Moore. He knew Moore from a mission he’d taken with the NRI two years earlier, the same expedition to the Amazon that had involved Danielle Laidlaw and Professor McCarter. Hawker had been promised a certain type of absolution for his efforts, but in the aftermath that followed, the deal had fallen through.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked.

“Looking for you,” Moore said.

“You’re not exactly dressed for the bush.”

“No,” Moore said in agreement. “Our intel had you in Kinshasa, drinking and spending money like you’d printed it yourself. But after three days of looking it became clear that you weren’t there. I almost went home. But then I heard about a firefight going on up here, where the bad guys were getting the worst of it for once.”

“Sometimes bad things happen to the right people,” Hawker said.

“And sometimes to the wrong ones,” Moore replied cryptically. “I need your help.”

Hawker studied Moore, acutely aware of their differences. Moore was an important piece for one side of the world. Not the white king, perhaps, but a bishop at the least. A mover of pawns and a shrewd one at that. Hawker had once been a part of that side, but no longer. In fact, he wasn’t part of any side at this point in his life. In some strange, surreal way he’d become a type of third player, a red knight on a board of black and white. He had no alliances, no one to answer to, and thus no real limits. Reaching out to him could mean only one thing. Moore had a job no white piece could do.

“The last time I worked for the NRI it didn’t turn out so well,” Hawker said. “In case you forgot, you guys never came through on your end. Though you seem to have set yourself up pretty good.”

“The CIA got involved,” Moore said. “They think you still owe them a few chits.”

“They must. They sent a couple of thugs out to try and collect.”

Moore nodded, grinning. “Yes, well … once you put those men in the hospital, I lost any say in the matter.”

“You also lost the right to ask me—”

“It’s Danielle,” Moore said, stopping Hawker mid-sentence and speaking bluntly, like a man running out of time. “She’s been abducted. I know who took her and where she is, but she’s out of my reach.”

Hawker stared at Moore as if he’d been punched. He and Danielle had initially clashed in Brazil. But as things had gone from bad to worse, he’d watched her change from a win-at-all-costs alpha female to a person who cared more about her team than she did about herself. At the darkest moment of their journey, she’d even been willing to sacrifice herself to give the others a chance at survival.

Going through that had created a bond he could still feel when he thought of her. Enough that not getting a chance to see her again had been the worst part of how things ended.

“I heard she’d quit,” Hawker said angrily.

“She did. But she came back to help a friend.”

“You?”

“No,” Moore told him. “McCarter.”

“McCarter?” Hawker’s mind reeled. Danielle returning to the NRI was one thing, but Professor McCarter? His gaze sharpened, focusing on Moore like a laser. He understood.

“You’re looking for more of what we found in Brazil.”

Moore nodded. “And who else could I possibly send?”

Of course, Hawker thought. Moore needed to keep his secrets. A theory called containment symmetry held that it was best to send agents who already knew those secrets, perhaps especially with what they’d found down there.

“McCarter is still missing,” Moore added. “He’s injured but he escaped and has gone into hiding. I have teams looking for him and we’ll find him, but Danielle is beyond my grasp. And she will die where she is, but not quickly.”

Hawker clenched his jaw. “Who took her?”

“A Chinese billionaire named Kang,” Moore said.

“And he’s untouchable?”

“So goes the order,” Moore said. “That’s why I’m here. That’s why I had to come in person. This is not an institute mission, it’s a private one, a deal between you and me, to help someone we both care for.”

Hawker studied Moore. If there was a redeeming quality to the man, it was that he cared for those who worked under him, especially Danielle. Coming to Africa to solicit help for her was a desperate act, one that could not only end his career but see him off to Leavenworth for the rest of his life. A pariah in the making. Hawker suddenly found new respect for the man.

“You should know, a big part of why she quit the NRI was our inability or unwillingness to help you,” Moore told him.

“You don’t have to sell me,” Hawker said.

“I’m not,” Moore insisted. “I just want you to know it was my decision not to press that fight, and she took issue, strongly.”

It was good to hear. Hawker couldn’t deny that.

“I’ve set up an account,” Moore said. “I’ve transferred all the money I could lay my hands on into it. Use it, go to Hong Kong, and get her back.”

“It won’t be that easy,” Hawker replied.

“It never is,” Moore said quickly. “You didn’t do this because it was easy. You did it because it needed to be done. Because no one else would do it. And somewhere deep inside, that pisses you off more than anything else. Danielle’s situation is the same. If you don’t help her, no one will.”

Voices could be heard in the distance, singing and joking. The villagers were coming back from the fields they’d spent the day planting. Hawker had already made up his mind, but he didn’t want to leave the village undefended. He hadn’t thought about it much beforehand, but now it seemed vital. One flower in the barren garden.

“You protect these people. I don’t care how you do it. You get word to the right men that they’re not to be touched.”

Moore nodded. “I can do that. Just find Danielle and get her away from Kang.”

Hawker would do what he could, but he wondered if it would be enough. “And if I’m too late?”

Moore did not blink. “Then you find that son of a bitch, Kang, and you kill him. Even if you have to burn down the whole damn island to do it.”

CHAPTER 8

Professor McCarter lay flat on his back staring at a ceiling made of thatch and sticks. He was a guest in Oco’s Chiapas Indian village, thirty miles from the base of Mount Pulimundo.

With Oco’s help he had made it back to the village but it had taken several days and his condition had grown worse each day. The bullet wound in his leg had become infected and neither the prayers of the local shaman nor his potions had helped.

Fearing such treatment might hasten his demise, McCarter had asked Oco to get him a proper doctor or at least a treatment of antibiotics. The young man had run off for the next town, but the village was so remote that it would take him two or three days to make the roundtrip. McCarter wondered if he would last that long. And when his hosts moved him to the shaman’s hut, he hoped it was not for last rites of some kind.

A wood fire crackled somewhere to the left of him, but he couldn’t turn toward it. Since the shooting and his collision with the tree, his body had grown stiff, as if a metal rod had been run up through his spine. Any attempts to twist or bend caused ripping pains and he found it best to lay still.

He stretched his left hand down to his thigh, where a swollen wound marked the entry point of the bullet that had hit him. But he was fortunate: The jacketed bullet had gone right through.

He’d doused the wound with antiseptic and bandaged it on the shore of the island, but the infection had taken hold anyway. Beneath the bandage, the swelling had grown and become heated. McCarter drew his hand back and remained still, blinking the sweat from his eyes.