FORTY-TWO

Annamite Mountains—Vietnam

AS DARKNESS CLOSED in around her, Sara wondered how Weston could see his way. Had his vision changed? Did he have senses like hers that allowed him to navigate in the dark? She tried to pay attention to her twisted senses, but they seemed to be nullified by the tight, echoing cave.

A gentle hiss, like a receding wave on a sandy beach, slid through the cave as Weston held his hand against the rock wall. He knew the cave well, but with a captive in tow, didn’t want to risk losing his balance on one of the random outcrops where he often stubbed a toe.

The steady white noise of Weston’s hand on the wall gave Sara something to focus on. Over the years, white noise had become her ally. It drowned out the sounds of the city, the pops of a house expanding and contracting with weather changes, and allowed her to sleep. Like a filter, it weeded out the noise and muffled the deluge of sensory overflow drowning her synapses. Her nerves calmed. She took a deep breath through her nose, but regretted it right away. His body odor struck her like a kick to the head. She stifled a gag, but before her nose was free of the scent, she picked up on another odor mingled with Weston’s. Something fresh. She moved farther to the side, hoping to walk outside of Weston’s odorous wake. She sniffed again.

Weston’s odor, now barely perceptible, faded as a new smell filled her nose . . . like ionized air after a thunderstorm. Sweet, clean, and refreshing. The air grew cooler and the tunnel grade rose and fell as they moved forward.

Sara tried to focus on the invigorating air, but couldn’t help wondering what Weston had planned. He said there was something she needed to see. As a scientist, he believed she would understand what he was doing. Why it was so important. He had her pegged wrong, of course; she would do whatever it took to get the cure for Brugada back to the modern world, even if it meant exposing his tribe’s existence. Spock had it right—the needs of the many did outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one. Who, at the moment, was Weston.

A sudden jolt struck Sara’s left leg as she stubbed her foot hard against a rock jutting out from the wall. She stumbled, shouting in pain. She began to topple over, but was yanked up hard.

Weston’s stench returned, now coupled with the vulgar odor of his breath up close. “Walk behind me. Wouldn’t want you twisting an ankle, now, would we?”

Without reply, Sara continued behind Weston, breathing once again through her mouth and trying her best to ignore the throb of pain in her stubbed toe.

It seemed they had hiked a mile in the darkness, but it could have been a few hundred feet. Time and all sense of the world ceased to exist in the absolute subterranean gloom. What she did know was that they were headed toward the core of some mountain.

Or maybe not.

Faint light filtered into the tunnel from a source too far ahead to see clearly. Perhaps the size of a dime, the tunnel exit gleamed blue and green. The jungle? Had they passed through the mountain?

As they continued forward the light grew steadily brighter. She could see Weston now, his near-naked form loping in front of her, cast in green and blue. The walls of the cave emerged from the darkness. Sara was surprised to see that the rough natural cave had become a buffed, squared-out tunnel. She’d noticed the smooth footing earlier, but assumed it was a well-worn path through the caverns. But this wasn’t a natural cave. This was carved into the earth. A massive undertaking and marvel of engineering.

She took the tunnel for a modern mine shaft at first, believing the Vietnamese must have worked these mountains before the war and abandoned them when the region went to hell. Then she saw the symbols on the wall. They meant nothing to her, but they spoke of something ancient, something older than a mine shaft.

As the tunnel captured her attention she forgot about Weston and his intentions. She focused on the walls. The smooth surface sparkled with blue and green light. Quartz, she thought, reflecting the light ahead.

Weston stopped, and she ran into him. The tickle of his hairy back on her face snapped her to reality and sent a twist of nausea through her core.

He turned to her. “Sit.”

She complied. She wasn’t sure what would happen if she ran, but with King’s fate uncertain and the rest of the Chess Team missing, she didn’t want to press her luck.

Not yet.

Weston moved to the tunnel wall and pushed. A slab of stone slid in and then to the side. A five-foot-tall, three-foot-wide hole opened up. Weston stepped inside and disappeared into the dark.

When he didn’t immediately return, Sara considered escape. But where could she go? Back the way they came wasn’t an option. She would run into a village of Neanderthals. Or break her leg in the darkness. And forward . . . who knew what awaited her there? Maybe something worse? She bit her lip in frustration. King would go, she thought. Think like Delta. It would be better to go out trying—fighting—than to not try at all.

It wasn’t exactly an official motto, but she could picture any member of the Chess Team saying the words. It was enough to spur her into action. Sara pushed to her feet and ran toward the light. She willed her feet to take shorter, faster strides. A sense of freedom filled her muscles and she covered the distance in twenty seconds. Just feet from the tunnel exit, she found herself squinting from the brightness of the shimmering aqua light.

Then she was free of the tunnel, facing the horrific reality of her situation.

Weston calmly walked up next to her and stopped. He had a knife in his hand and a gun holstered on his hip. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Without another word he grabbed her wrist firmly and yanked her toward him so their faces were only inches apart. Only Sara’s bound hands on his chest kept them that way.

Weston grinned and glanced down. The tip of the knife poked her belly, threatening to slice through shirt and flesh all at once. Then, with a quick jerk, Weston lashed out with the knife.

A sickening tear sounded out as Sara screamed.