Kaufman gestured unsteadily toward the dead mercenary. “On him.”
Hawker searched the man and pulled a set of keys from his breast pocket, testing the small key on Verhoven’s remaining handcuff. It released and fell to the ground.
Hawker turned to go. “Kill the lights,” he said.
Verhoven flicked the switch and the metal-halide bulbs faded to a dull orange and then went black. The artificial daylight vanished and the darkness rushed in again, swallowing them whole.
Hawker moved across the clearing quickly, traveling with the distinct impression that he was being watched — a feeling that had come and gone several times in the past few hours. He’d had a similar feeling at the Wall of Skulls. And he now wondered if Kaufman had additional men out there somewhere, if that was the basis for the man’s arrogant boast. He stopped, taking cover in one of the foxholes and scanning the area with the night-vision scope. He didn’t see anything.
Left behind at the command center, Verhoven moved to a position where he could better see his two prisoners. He waved the gun at Devers, instructing him to move closer to Kaufman.
Devers slid over, his good arm putting pressure on his injury, which was a through-and-through bullet hole in the fleshy part of his shoulder. “You could at least give me something to stop the blood,” he said.
Verhoven looked at him with scorn. “I could,” he said. “You’re right about that.”
Kaufman turned to Verhoven and began to plead his case. “Your friend won’t listen but maybe you will,” he said. “I can help you. But if you let him shoot me you’ll never get out of—”
Verhoven bore into the man with his eyes. “Good men you’ve killed,” he said, with a voice like gravel. “Mates of mine for twenty years. So you’d better hope he shoots you, because if he doesn’t, I’ll stake you to the ground, cut off your hands and leave you for the animals.”
“You don’t understand,” Kaufman replied, slowly. “We’re all in danger. Not just me. You, your friends, all of us. If you don’t—”
A soft electronic beeping interrupted him. It came from the Perimeter Warning System. Something had set off one of the sensors.
Out in the clearing Hawker’s radio squawked. “Hawk, you listening? There was a target on the west side. It’s gone now, but it was confirmed. Cut east before you go down toward the tree, that’ll give you some distance from it.”
Hawker looked through the night-vision scope again, still wondering about Kaufman’s men and remembering they had been shooting into the forest long after his charade had ended. Could the Chollokwan really be closing in? He clicked the talk switch on his radio. “What kind of target? How far back?”
“Target was a single. At the limit of the sensors. About fifty yards into the trees.”
Hawker acknowledged and, after a quick glance to the west, did as Verhoven suggested, moving east in quick bursts, before stopping cold at a strange sound: the barely audible whine of a crying dog.
Back at the defense console, Kaufman’s face seemed to contort. “Your friend’s in danger,” he said. “You should call him back.”
“The screen’s clear now,” Verhoven replied.
“I don’t think it matters,” Kaufman said, quickly. “There are animals out there. Animals the natives use to hunt people like us, foreigners, infidels. The same animal that attacked my people in the cave.”
Verhoven glared at him. When Kaufman had told them of Susan’s death, he’d called it an accident, a collapse in the cave’s roof. At the time, all Verhoven really cared about was escape, and he’d been privately pleased that Kaufman had lost five of his people in exchange for the young woman.
“Not a cave-in, then, ay?”
“I know,” Kaufman said. “I lied. But you have to listen. They were mauled.”
Verhoven recalled the looks on some of the soldiers’ faces after the incident. He’d seen fear — not the kind of fear an accident brings but the unease of an ethereal danger, one that cannot be completely controlled. It had struck him as odd at the time, and now Kaufman’s words had him wondering. He guessed that was Kaufman’s goal. “Shut up,” he said. “I’m tired of your mouth.”
Hawker’s voice came over the radio. Verhoven could hear the dogs whining in the background. They were fearful, pathetic sounds, nothing like the sound the dogs had made when the Chollokwan arrived.
“I need the lights,” Hawker said.
Verhoven checked his watch. “Can’t do it.”
“Call him back,” Kaufman said. “Our only chance is to hole up here with the rest of the guns.”
“Shut up.”
“Bring up the damn lights.”
“Five minutes,” Verhoven said, reminding Hawker of the cool-down period. The lights burned so hot that they needed five minutes to cool off before re-lighting, otherwise the hot filaments would blow out with the power surge.
“Forget the others,” Kaufman said. “They’re as good as dead.”
“Shut your damn mouth!” Verhoven shouted. From seventy yards away, he could hear the dogs’ cries drifting through the still night air. And then a sharp call echoed across the clearing, similar to the Chollokwan wail, but more powerful, more resonant.
Inhuman.
“They’re coming,” Kaufman insisted. “They’ll kill him and then us. Call him back!”
Verhoven swung the pistol toward Kaufman. “One more word and I’ll blow your goddamned head off.”
Staring at the black pistol, Kaufman complied, but even as he did the perimeter alarm began chirping again. A new target had appeared. This one directly across from where Hawker stood.
Hawker had come across the section of camp where the dogs were kept. They called it the kennel, but it was nothing more than a heavy post driven into the ground, to which the animals were tied. The dogs had grown agitated during the battle, barking angrily at the gunfire, but they’d settled down in the minutes after. Something new was bothering them. Something they could sense and smell but not understand.
They sniffed the air with flared nostrils, their eyes darting around. They seemed confused and afraid. Hawker’s approach startled them, but they recognized his scent and then turned back toward the trees. One lowered its head, growling and baring its teeth, but the rest of the pack began retreating, backing away from the trees and whatever they smelled. When they reached the limit of the leashes, they began straining against the lines, pulling and stretching them. One of them began to panic, yelping and crying and whipping its head around, trying desperately to slip its lead.
What the hell is out there? Hawker wondered. He’d never seen a pack of dogs act like this.
Verhoven’s voice came over the radio. “Target straight across from you. Two of them now.”
A loud screech echoed from somewhere back in the woods and Hawker put the night-vision goggles to his eyes. He saw nothing.
One of the dogs howled.
“It’s right in front of you,” Verhoven insisted.
“Shoot it,” It was Kaufman’s voice, tinny and hollow from somewhere behind Verhoven. “Shoot the damn thi—”
Verhoven cut the line and, to Hawker’s right, a twig cracked.
The dogs shot forward, charging at something still hidden within the trees. Hawker spun and fired blindly, shooting into the tree line. Whatever had been there was racing south, away from Hawker and the dogs and directly toward the prisoners, still chained to the tree.
Hawker cut across the camp, sprinting with everything he had. He’d covered only half the distance when the shadow in the forest reached the prison tree.
Hideous screams rang out, the voices of his friends shouting in terror and the sound of a horrendous struggle. Two flares rocketed into the sky behind him, fired by Verhoven. The phosphorous canisters burst into light and something lunged at Hawker’s face, stretching out toward him like a cobra trying to strike. Hawker dove to the side and the jaws snapped shut on nothing but air. He rolled and came up firing, blasting the thing as it raced away and disappeared into the trees.