Now Jorge Prieto knew better. The truth had come to him instantly in the form of two men leaping from a slow-moving van, clubbing him, shackling him, dragging him into their metal lair.
Kurupi, yes—but with the faces of men.
He pushed into a sitting position, his legs dangling through the fork, his back hard against the massive tree trunk.
As much as he wanted to provide again for his family, he wanted more to tell them that he had not simply left them. What had his disappearance done to their hearts? It was a twisting knife in his own chest to ponder the question.
So he had watched for a chance to escape. This morning, it had come.
Movement in his peripheral vision.
A guard emerged from the darkness, stepping silently over the muscular roots of a mahogany tree. The man, clad in shades of green, carried an assault rifle, panning its barrel as his eyes scanned the forest before him. He did not look up. When he was directly underneath, Jorge Prieto leaped through the fork, aiming his legs on each side of the soldier's head. They crashed down together, the other man cushioning Prieto's fall. Still, Prieto rolled away in agony, every organ blazing with its own unique pain. He vomited, crimson streaked with oily black swirls. Dark mist moved through his brain, stripping away rational thought. But he knew he had to get away, as an animal knows when to hide, when to run, when to strike.
He pulled the weapon out from under the collapsed soldier, staggered away. Unsure of what made him look back, he did—in time to see the soldier on his knees, pulling a pistol from a holster at his hip. Prieto swung the automatic rifle around and squeezed the trigger.
The sound shattered the calm jungle. Birds of all sizes and colors burst through the leafy canopy, adding their own panicked squawking to the rustling of the countless plants they disturbed. Soldiers instantly hunched lower, pivoting in the direction of the machine-gun fire. Gregor von Papen, nearly invisible among the mottled greens and tans of the forest in his camo, considered drawing his sidearm, decided not to, and marched into the barrage's dying echo.
Gregor thought of this as his descabellar, the final kill offered a retiring matador. He wasn't retiring, of course; he would die commanding security forces. But Litt had proclaimed an end to his need for test subjects.
"We've arrived," he'd said. "Target practice is over. Let's get on with the war." He wanted all the prisoners gone immediately. "Managing them will put a strain on our resources during this critical time," he'd said.
So this morning, while loading the prisoners into a truck for
transportation into the jungle, where the others were buried, Gregor had arranged an opportunity for one of them to "escape."
Humid air carried an almost inhuman scream to him, wavering insanely until it formed into words: "Morir, Huicho! Bajar infierno! Bajar infierno!" Back to hell! Back to hell!
Near. More important, the reproach came after the gunfire, meaning their prey had armed himself. The few guards left in the compound started to converge on the sound. Gregor whispered quickly into his headset and they backed off. He didn't want to lose any more men.
Besides, these men respected a leader who exhibited the kind of bravery he demanded. Respect bred loyalty, so he always watched for ways to improve it.
Walking forward alone, he pulled his BlackBerry out of its holster and examined it. It monitored and controlled all of the compound's outside security systems. At the touch of an icon on the screen, he could turn electric fences on and off, lock and unlock gates, arm and disarm surface weapons, and access the lighting system. Gregor had read in a security publication that small transmitters could be added to cameras to relay their images to handheld devices like his. He hoped to convince Litt of his need for the upgrade.
He cut through the forest's shadows like a cat on the prowl. The BlackBerry confirmed that the compound's Deadeye system was inactive. Only recently developed by Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory, the device monitored an area for gunfire. When its infrared sensors detected a gunshot, its computer would calculate the projectile's point of origin and instruct its own weaponry to return fire. Regardless of how well the assailant hidden himself, two seconds after pulling the trigger, he'd be dead.
Designed to protect high-ranking officials in motorcades and at public appearances, and to combat sniper activity, the Deadeye was a perfect addition to the compound's perimeter security. Suspicious of the compound's guards, covert activities, and the steady disappearance of people from surrounding towns, some local rebels had taken to ambushing vehicles coming into the compound and shooting at guards from the cover of the jungle. Such assaults had stopped after the Deadeye system mowed down three of the guerrillas.
Private organizations were not supposed to possess military-grade weapons. However, Gregor had discovered long ago that nothing was out of his reach as long as Litt's band of merry scientists kept producing the germs dictators and terrorists desired. With its constant exchange of illegal merchandise, barter was the currency of choice on the black market. The Deadeyes had been a gift from the U.S. government to Israel to combat sniper activity on Route 1, between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. Several wound up in the possession of Hamas sympathizers, who preferred biological agents over anti-sniper weapons.
Gregor used his thumb to punch the button that activated the Deadeyes. The icon changed from "safe" green to "unsafe" red. Up ahead, he heard labored breathing and the crashing of a body breaking through heavy foliage.
He stepped behind a tree and yelled, "Jorge Prieto!"
The crashing sounds stopped.
"Jorge! There is no need for this! We want only to help you!" He spoke in the man's native tongue.
"Go away! Huicho!"
He nodded to himself. To the Guarani Indians, Huicbo was an ugly little demon, a chummy companion of Death. He had long, dirty hair, skin the pallor of a corpse, and a fetid odor. The creature caused repugnance and terror. Gregor wondered if Prieto had ever laid eyes on Litt. He bent around the tree and caught a flash of khaki.
Prieto was staggering at the edge of a pillar of sunlight at the far side of a small clearing, looking for his pursuers. He was hugging himself with one arm; the hand of the other arm gripped a Beretta AR-70 assault rifle. Blood covered his face from the nose down, giving him the appearance of wearing a harlequin's half mask. His eyes were wide and blinking continuously, whether from the sun or perspiration or troubled vision Gregor didn't know.
He felt a pang of pity for the man. What must it be like to feel your insides turning to jelly? To have no clue why? He doubted Prieto would appreciate his own sacrifice. Could such a simple man grasp the grandeur of being the last experimental host of a virus that billions would come to fear? Or of being one of the first to experience a new generation of manipulable "designer" viruses? Ignorance is not always bliss, for here was a man who knew nothing but pain and fear, and none of the reasons that would make him proud to endure them.
Better to end it quickly.
Gregor stepped out from behind the tree and into the clearing.
Prieto jumped at the movement. He squinted at Gregor, obviously unsure if he had spotted a man or a bush. Then he focused on Gregor's face, which Gregor had not bothered to cover with camo. The Indian hunched lower and leveled the machine gun. Its barrel wavered wildly.