He turned blurry eyes on his men in the rear of the plane, wondering what Scotch would think of his current five-man team.
Hoss, a six-foot-six-inch cowboy, with shoulders as wide as an ax handle, a drooping moustache, and sun- and wind-leathered skin; Blade, a dangerous-looking black man with a scar on his cheek that turned parchment white when he smiled or grimaced. He carried no fewer than five knives of various designs and lengths, and he could play them like musical instruments. Fittingly, he was also totally devoid of compassion or conscience; Psycho, a thin, wiry man with bushy, wild hair and electric blue eyes that were always darting around in paranoia. He looked and acted so crazy that even his teammates were a little afraid of him, and these were men who would look Death himself in the face and spit in his eye; Babe, who was movie-star handsome and clean cut and innocent-looking and who got his name from his legendary successes with women of all stripes. A man who looked good enough to bring home to your mother, but if you did he’d probably end up raping her and cutting her throat for no reason at all; Jinx, also wiry and quick as a cobra and just as deadly, who was a master of all things that flew and all machines that shot bullets meant to kill.
Bear shook his head, feeling a little ashamed for the first time since he’d been court-martialed out of the Marines for using excessive force against civilians in Afghanistan, though he knew there were really no civilians in that godforsaken country, just combatants, either enemy or friend, and damn few of them were friendlies.
He realized the men he’d handpicked to be his team would never have been accepted by his old friend, Scotch. Walker would have shit-canned the entire group, knowing they were psychopaths and unworthy of his command.
Oh well, Bear thought, getting to his feet to gather his own equipment together. In the mercenary business, you took what was available and what would get the job done, no matter how flawed or unworthy. In fact, flawed and unworthy was synonymous with the term mercenary.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and put the sat-phone back on his belt. Time to get down to business and to get on the trail of the doctors and the Indian boy, he thought, wondering if he’d have the guts to pull the trigger on people he knew to be totally innocent of any wrongdoing.
In all his years as a merc he’d never before stooped to killing innocents. In fact, most of his victims had been men even worse than those he served with now. Oh well, he guessed he’d find out if he had the stomach for the job when the time came.
Mason’s knees were aching and his clothes were soaked through with sweat from trying to keep up with Guatemotzi, who moved through the jungle like a cat through fog and just as silently.
“Hey, Motzi,” he called, “slow down a little, will ya?
Guatemotzi grinned over his shoulder. “Sí, Señor Mason.”
“I thought you were in great shape from all your bicycling, Doctor boss man,” Lauren said playfully from behind him.
He half turned to give her an argument and his foot caught on a root and he went down, sprawling on his face in the thick humus on the jungle floor.
“Oh Jesus,” she said, rushing to kneel by his side. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you fall.”
His face flushing bright red, Mason said, “You didn’t make me fall. My own clumsiness made me fall.”
He stopped and stared at her flushed, sweaty face and then he grinned. “Aha, I see that you’re a bit out of shape, too, Doctor Sarcastic Lady.”
She smiled. “Yeah, I’ll admit it. I was just about to ask Motzi to take a break when you beat me to it.”
She wiped her brow with her shirtsleeve. “I can’t believe this heat and humidity. I thought Austin was bad, but this is ridiculous.”
Mason nodded and smirked. “Yeah, I keep expecting to see fish swimming in the air it’s so thick with moisture.”
He glanced at his watch and then at the sun sinking low over the treetops to the west. “In fact, I think that it is about time to make camp and see if we can get some food and some rest before we continue tomorrow.”
“If you’re asking for a vote, I vote yes,” Lauren said. “What about you, Motzi?”
Guatemotzi shrugged. “Is okay.”
Mason struggled to his feet and they moved off the trail until Guatemotzi found a small clearing in the jungle large enough for them to pitch their tents and build a fire.
While Lauren and Mason put the tents together, Guatemotzi gathered up dead-drop wood and made a small pile in the center of the clearing. Gathering rocks of assorted sizes, he built a circle around the fire and carefully scraped away the inches-thick humus down to bare earth so the fire wouldn’t spread and get out of control.
Thirty minutes later, beef stew was heating in a small pot over the fire and the three were lying nearby, sipping boiled coffee from tin mugs.
Lauren slapped at her neck, glanced at her palm to see a mosquito as big as a bumblebee, and said, “Ah, the great outdoors. I just love camping out in a prehistoric jungle.”
Mason glanced at her. “Hey girl, I thought you did this for a living.”
She shook her head. “Very few archaeological dig sites are in the middle of a jungle, and if they are, I’ve always had plenty of students to get the camp set up with tents and showers and civilized stuff like that before I got on-site.”
She pointed at him and said sternly, “Remember, in all of my previous digs I was the boss!”
Mason grunted and moved to spoon all of them some steaming stew onto tin plates. “Well, try this Mulligan Stew and see if it’s civilized enough for you, Professor Spoiled Girl.”
Lauren blew on it and then took a tentative bite. Her eyebrows went up and she grinned widely. “Hey Doc, this is the best thing I’ve eaten since I came to this godforsaken jungle.”
He laughed. “Now that is a testament to just how hungry you are.”
“No, really. It’s great. Don’t you think so, Motzi?”
With a full mouth, Guatemotzi nodded. “Is much better than MREs,” he said.
“Wow, what a glowing compliment,” Mason said. “My Mulligan Stew is better than months-old mass-produced army food.”
Lauren held out her empty plate. “Quit your grousing and spoon out some more of that wonderful stuff. About the only thing that’d make it better would be some nice hot cornbread slathered with butter.”
He shook his head as he handed her a plateful of stew. “Don’t push your luck, lady, or it’s back to MREs for you.”
After they’d finished eating, they cleaned up the campsite and put enough wood on the fire so it would last most of the night, both for warmth and to help keep the bugs at bay.
Guatemotzi yawned and said good night and crawled into his small pup tent, glancing around at the walls like it was the first time he’d ever used a tent while in the jungle.
Lauren wrapped her arms around her shoulders and shivered. “It still amazes me how the jungle that is so blazingly hot during the day can get so cold at night.”
Mason arched an eyebrow. “Uh, Lauren, if you’re really cold, you know these two sleeping bags can be zippered together into one large one?”
“Oh?”
He shrugged, he face flaming red with embarrassment. “I’m just saying, we could… um… keep each other warm.”
Lauren smiled and moved over toward him. “I’m flattered, Doc,” and she leaned in and kissed him gently on the cheek. “And any other time I would gladly accept your offer.”
He grimaced, “I sense a but in there.”
She nodded. “But tonight, after slogging in tropical heat all day, and without a handy shower to use to wash the sweat and grime off, I’m gonna have to decline.”
“But…” he started to say.
“No, Mason,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “If we ever do get to the point where I share your bed… or sleeping bag, I don’t want to do it smelling like a draft horse…,” and she lowered her voice to a whisper, “Or with a teenage boy sleeping ten feet away.”