TWENTY-FOUR

Annamite Mountains—Vietnam

THOUGH ALL OF his instincts told him to rush in, guns blazing, King held back. Jumping into a fight half cocked always got someone killed. With odds stacked to alpine heights against them, success would come only with a solid plan. Communicating through their throat microphones, Queen and King split up and encircled the VPLA camp they’d found.

Twenty large, olive green tents arranged in a squared formation revealed a sizable force, yet few were present in the camp. The VPLA had cleared the area of brush and scrub but had left the tall trees unscathed. Far from being environmentalists, they were well aware that the trees’ thick canopy provided cover from prying eyes in orbit. They were invisible to the world here in the jungle, free to do whatever they pleased, without consequence.

Not today, King thought as he crouched behind the exposed roots of a moss-covered tree, watching the men in the camp and assessing the situation. The two Death Volunteers carrying Sara set her down in the center of the camp and were greeted by three others. None seemed to carry any kind of authority or rank, which was strange, but he could not hear or see another living thing inside the camp. Unguarded and lax, the site would make easy picking. Even the men who’d taken Sara seemed at ease—like they knew he and Queen had been killed in the tunnel.

“Queen,” King whispered into his throat mic. “What’s your take?”

Queen looked down from the canopy. She’d shimmied up a tree far from camp and then made her way through the twisting branches of the canopy. It was like another world in the canopy, like a second layer of jungle through which movement was almost as easy as it was on the ground. Concealed by overlapping layers of large leaves, Queen watched without fear of being spotted.

“I count five,” Queen said. “Nobody else is home. Might be our best chance.”

King knew she was right, but couldn’t shake the feeling that something looked off. The men were too relaxed, too sure of themselves. The VPLA might be special forces, but they weren’t Delta, and you’d never find a Delta operator looking so relaxed when enemies were on their doorstep.

“King . . .” Queen’s voice sounded hesitant. Distracted.

“What?”

“Your watch.”

King looked at the outbreak meter on his wrist. He’d all but forgotten the thing. It demanded his attention now. Three of five bars were full. The third was orange. Something in the world had changed. Something bad.

Time was running out.

The five VPLA men laughed, snapping King’s attention back to them. Though he couldn’t understand a word, he could tell the men were telling jokes. All the while, Sara’s unconscious form lay still at their feet. One of the men rolled her onto her back with his boot. She lay propped up on her backpack looking as though she’d fallen asleep tanning by the pool. The man who pushed her over knelt down next to her. His hand gestures and laughs told King all he needed to know about what would take place next.

“I’m moving now, Queen,” King said. “Cover my ass, but only fire if you need to.”

King moved toward the camp, crouching low behind the brush that clung to the outer fringe of the site. He came in low behind one of the long green tents. The men standing had their backs to him, blocking the view of the man kneeling down next to Sara. As the man undid Sara’s backpack straps and protective vest, all eyes were on her.

As King came within twenty feet of the men, Queen’s voice filled his ear. “King, I don’t like this. It’s too damn fishy. Shred them, grab her, and get the hell out.”

King agreed, but wanted to get as close to his targets as possible. He didn’t want to risk hitting Sara and wanted to scoop her onto his shoulder before the last Death Volunteer hit the ground. This speed would only come with being close. Any VPLA in the area would hear the gunshots and rush to inspect. The time between firing at least five shots, grabbing Sara, and exiting the camp had to be minuscule. Efficiency was key. Fifteen feet would have to be close enough. He raised his M4 and took aim.

The soldier on the ground next to Sara rolled her over and began tugging off her backpack. Sara’s eyes popped open and locked on King’s. She’d been awake the whole time. He read her lips as she mouthed a single word to him. “Run.”

But it was too late. Four fifteen-foot-long hatches sprang open in front of each row of tents. From each leaped ten VPLA soldiers, their weapons trained on King. None fired.

Queen’s barely discernable whisper entered King’s ear. “Clear your throat if you want me to hold off.”

King cleared his throat and lowered his M4 to the forest floor. He raised his hands and looked in the eyes of the men surrounding them, turning slowly. He saw anger in the eyes of each and every one of the men. Except one. He was shorter than the others, yet carried more confidence . . . and no weapon. A single yellow star adorned the right shoulder of the man’s black and brown tiger-striped camouflage uniform.

“Major General,” King said with a nod.

Trung grinned and glanced at the gold star. “Major General Trung.” He walked around King, looking him up and down. Then he leaned in close, removing King’s KA-BAR knife and holstered pistol. He shouted an order to the five men still standing over Sara. They yanked her up, all of their casual aura vanished. An act.

Sara shrieked as she was pulled up. Her arms were twisted back by one man while a second pulled her up by her hair. With wide eyes, she began to whimper as the general approached. He held the razor-sharp KA-BAR knife up to her face and allowed Sara to see her own horrified expression in the blade’s reflection.

He drew the blade slowly across her cheek.

It felt like little more than a pen being dragged over her skin, cool and hard. But when the intense sting set in, Sara realized he’d actually cut her! Warm blood seeped from the four-inch slice and ran down her cheek. Sara’s chin shook as tears filled her eyes.

Trung moved the knife from Sara’s cheek to her neck.

“Please,” Sara said, as the first of her tears mixed with the blood on her cheek, burning in the open wound. “Don’t . . .”

King’s fists were clenched tight. His breath lodged in his chest. His eyes locked on the knife approaching Sara’s throat. He believed the VPLA general was testing his nerve. They wouldn’t kill Sara. She might have answers. It would be a strategic blunder, and from what he’d experienced this day, the VPLA had their shit together. They wouldn’t screw up something as elementary as killing their most useful captive.

Blood began to drip from Sara’s neck. He looked in her eyes, which were trusting him to keep her alive at all costs. That was the mission.

The knife stopped moving, though its blade remained buried in a few layers of skin. Blood ran down the gleaming metal and gathered around the hilt before dripping and slapping onto the dried leaves below. The general looked back at King. “Your female partner. She has thirty seconds to show herself.”

King’s jaw muscles bulged as he bit down in frustration. This backwater major general and his squad of men who’d never seen action outside their own country had them pegged. Trung’s perfect English was icing on the cake. His few spoken words, lacking any kind of accent, said, “I know you better than you know me.”

And that was the truth.

King shook his head. “Queen.”

Several of the VPLA soldiers jerked their weapons up as the canopy shook. They knew she was hiding. They didn’t know where. Bark shredded from the tree as Queen slid down to the forest floor. She turned her UMP around and handed it to the nearest soldier. She raised her arms as the man took her knife and sidearm. The man shoved her from behind, pushing her toward King.

“Watch it, buddy,” she said with a growl. They might have taken her firearms but she still possessed her most lethal weapons. To remove those would require several amputations.

The knife came away from Sara’s throat and the men dropped her to the ground. She held her hands to her wounds and found the blood flow to be minor. They were superficial cuts.

Trung spoke to the men in rapid-fire Vietnamese. They sprang into action. King, Queen, and Sara were bound, hands behind backs with zip-tie handcuffs, then shoved into the largest of the tents.

King’s eyes widened upon entering the tent. The odd collection of devices, tools, and tables told him more about the tent’s purpose than he wanted to know.

Trung walked in front of his three prisoners and grinned upon seeing the expressions on their faces.

King’s concern.

Queen’s rage.

Sara’s fear.

He stepped in front of King and spoke quietly. “Today you will learn to speak your first Vietnamese word, su? ‘tra tâń.”

King didn’t need a translator to understand the word. It would be one he remembered for the rest of his life.

Torture.