© 2024 Copyright Frequency99, Inc.

Imprint: Frequency99, Ocala, Florida, USA

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

OTHER FICTION BY DAVID EDWARD

DIRK LASHER

Operation: Just Cause (6 Stories)

Panama Red

Drive Faster

Meat Market

Ground Game

Prayer Drum

Down Ballot

Operation: Falling Star (3 Stories)

Savage

Vulnerable (2024)

Brutal (2025)

NOAH KAYNE

Southern Style

Brotherhood of the Sun Dragon

Noah Kayne: The Whole Story (Combined 2 Books)

Book Description

In the heart of the Darién Gap, a rogue special ops unit threatens global security, forcing one man to confront the ghosts of his past and the danger of his present. "Savage" is a gripping tale of survival, deception, and the thin line between hero and villain.

Dive into "Savage," a relentless military thriller where the stakes couldn't be higher. As a rogue unit plots a coup that could change the world's balance of power, a man with a haunted past must navigate a deadly jungle and face unimaginable threats. Every choice is a test of loyalty, courage, and survival.

David Edward's "Savage" is a tour de force in military thrillers, setting a new standard for the genre. This explosive narrative thrusts readers into the chaos of the Darién Gap, where a deadly conspiracy threatens to topple global stability. With breathtaking action and complex characters, "Savage" explores the depths of human resilience and the costs of heroism. It's more than just a book; it's a visceral experience that keeps you on edge until the final page.

Back Cover Description:

In the shadowy depths of the Darién Gap, a covert mission spirals into chaos. As a rogue special ops unit plots a sinister coup, Dirk Lasher is thrust into a deadly game of cat and mouse. Faced with merciless enemies and a treacherous jungle, he must unravel a conspiracy that threatens to ignite a global crisis. "Savage" is a high-octane thriller that delves into the essence of bravery, loyalty, and the unforgiving realities of combat. In this jungle, trust is as elusive as survival.

Inside Flap Description:

Dirk Lasher, once a seasoned operative, now leads a quiet life until a desperate call for help drags him back into the shadows of his former world. In the hostile terrain of the Darién Gap, he faces a rogue unit hell-bent on altering the global order. With allies scarce and enemies lurking at every turn, Lasher must navigate both the jungle and the labyrinth of his own past. "Savage" is a gripping exploration of the lengths one man will go to protect those he loves and the values he holds dear. As the stakes rise, Lasher confronts not just a physical battle but a moral one, testing the very limits of his soul. In this relentless thriller, survival isn't just about making it out alive; it's about holding onto what makes us human.

Author's Note

Thank you so much for reading my new thriller series. A couple of years back, I took a break from writing military thrillers starring Dirk Lasher. I explored other genres, but my heart has always been with these intense, action-packed stories and these resilient characters.

In the first six Lasher stories, each one was a unique type of thriller. Panama Red was a military thriller that introduced us to the gritty, high-stakes world of Dirk Lasher. Drive Faster shifted gears to a chase thriller, keeping readers on the edge of their seats. Meat Market offered a quick read, packed with rapid-fire tension and suspense. Ground Game delved into the dark depths of revenge, while Prayer Drum showcased explosive non-military action. Finally, Down Ballot immersed us in the cutthroat world of political intrigue. Each book tested Dirk in different ways, pushing him to his limits.

By the end of those books, Dirk had been through the wringer. He faced countless challenges, and I felt it was time to give him a break—or so I thought. The fact that he, by and large, lived happily ever after never really quite felt like where he would stop. Dirk really isn’t a quitter, and he hates the status quo. He is trying to fill a hole inside himself that he does not understand.

This brings us to Savage, the first book in the new Dirk Lasher trilogy, Operation Falling Star. This new series takes place ten years after the first six stories, and it’s all about pushing Dirk to his absolute limits. He gets some time to enjoy his accomplishments, but then what? What happens when a good man loses everything important? Can he rebuild? Does he keep going? Does it change him? These are the questions that drive this new saga.

Writing Savage was a different experience. I didn’t need to establish Dirk’s backstory from scratch because we already know him well. But this book had to also be accessible to new readers. I believe I succeeded, but it was a lot more work than I realized it would be (which is fine; I like work). What did happen was that this strategy allowed me to focus on the ordeal ahead and dive deeper into his character. I wanted to strip everything away from him and learn what was at his core. Who is Dirk when he's lost it all? What can we learn about ourselves through him?

Expect plenty of action in Savage, even more than the first series, which held its own quite well in the genre. I wanted to ramp up the intensity and let the action scenes drive character development. My characters grow through what they do, not just what they say. I believe this approach makes the story more engaging and truer to the classic thriller genre of bygone days, before we started worrying all about feelings and whatnot. I’ve always enjoyed crafting tight, realistic action scenes, and this book is no exception. The action is relentless, serving as a crucible for Dirk's development.

There’s also a nod to Dirk’s complex family history, including his grandfather, Wade Clay, whose backstory is explored in my Noah Kayne series. This layered storytelling brings depth to the new narrative without requiring you to read the previous books, though they’re there if you want to dive in. Wade’s story, found in Noah Kayne: Southern Style and Noah Kayne: Brotherhood of the Sun Dragon, sets the stage for the complex dynamics that influenced Dirk and made him the man he became.

On the other hand, a Dirk Lasher thriller is a very specific piece of literature. The plotting is very tight; no character is safe, and everything happens within the constraints of everyday reality(ish). Dirk's not Superman. He operates within the bounds of his drive and foundational set of morals, pushing himself to the limit and achieving remarkable feats, often at remarkable costs.

Traditionally, thrillers, like many books, have multiple storylines: the A story, the B story, and sometimes even a C story. In the first series of Dirk Lasher books, Dirk's story was the A story. Characters like Kimberly Sharp had the B story, and C stories often involved other members of Dirk's team handling necessary tasks or figuring out Dirk's unpredictable actions. This multi-layered storytelling is common because it allows for different perspectives, builds tension, and honestly helps meet the publisher's word count requirements.

In the new series, Operation Falling Star, specifically in the first book, Savage, I've taken a different approach. There is only the A story. The B and C stories exist but are unseen, leaving us completely and only with Dirk's point of view. This means there's a lot going on that Dirk doesn't know or understand because he's not given that information. In traditional thrillers, the reader might have that information, but I didn't want to do that in Savage.

This change in approach aims to intensify the focus on Dirk's character arc. We're examining what happens when everything important is taken away from him. Dirk doesn't care about money, wealth, power, or influence, even though all of those things are available to him should he choose that path. He values the small group of people in his inner circle and will do anything to protect them. This book explores what happens when he fails continuously. By focusing solely on the A story, the action sequences drive the narrative forward, making them intense and meaningful. This is a departure from the typical structure where dialogue moves the story forward, and action scenes serve specific goals, pre-established in dialog. Here, the action scenes are organic and not pre-planned, and they advance the plot, offering a fresh dynamic to the thriller genre.

I believe Savage is the best book I've ever written, so if you don’t like this book, I have nothing to offer you. It's a deep and emotional story, though those elements are buried as subtext. On the surface, it's a traditional action romp with interesting characters in a pseudo-realistic setting. It can be read as a pulp dime store reader, or as a deep piece of philosophy. Underneath, it explores Dirk's struggle where, despite winning battles, he seems to be constantly losing the war. It’s all quicksand; the more he tries, the worse it gets. This juxtaposition of surface-level success and underlying failure was challenging to achieve, and it’s why I wanted to write Savage in the first place. While I am no Dirk Lasher, I do appreciate pushing myself into better ways of telling stories. My strength seems to be in creating dynamic action scenes, but I wanted to depict a narrative where moral progress is incredibly difficult. The heroic spirit in the context of failure and loss is much more interesting to me than in the context of success and gain, and that's the essence of Savage.

I'm never quite sure how much of my background I should include in these author introductions. One of the questions that I get asked a lot is if Dirk Lasher is a self-insert for me. The answer to that is a resounding no. I'm nowhere close in any way, shape, or form to Dirk Lasher. Instead, he is a composite character of four or five different people throughout my military service who really inspired me. What I found was that it was the quiet confidence and expertise, along with a single focus and intolerance for anything less than excellence, that defined them.

You meet all kinds of people in the military. Some might not do well in civilian life but excel in the military, and vice versa. Just a bit of my background: I joined in the 1980s and ended up as a 97B20 Counterintelligence Field Agent. I was part of the team that captured Noriega, and I later served as an in-country (Panama) DEA liaison, which inspired a part of the story because it's something I understand well. Over my tenure, I ran about 150 different cases, most of them rudimentary. One case, however, garnered executive-level interest. I was also fortunate to be the Special Agent in Charge of the 1990 Panama Canal Threat Assessment Report to the United States Congress.

I did a lot of fieldwork, went undercover, conducted investigations, and carried out interrogations. I helped invade Panama with the 470th MI; I was in on the briefing about five hours before the invasion where they unveiled the Stealth Fighter as the invasion was its first live-fire deployment. I was attached to the 11th Infantry when we hit the Comandancia the first night, and later, I spent six months at the Soto Cano Air Base in Honduras clearing backlogs and did the same in Cologne on the other side of the Panama Canal. I became known for my expertise in clearing overloaded cases. In addition to training at the US Army Intelligence School, I attended courses in intelligence analysis at the Defense Intelligence College and also attended the Jungle Warfare Operations training course in Panama and visited the Darién Gap on a week-long vacation, experiencing many situations like those in the stories with the locals. I also did the three-day ‘So you think you have what it takes to be a ranger’ course. This would be where Dirk and I diverge. The course was very effective in convincing me that no, in the end, I did not have what it takes. I was very physically fit, but I couldn’t turn the mental corner. I could run two, three, five, or even ten miles, but I had to know the distance up front to set my pace and tempo. If it were a ten-mile run, I would carbo-load the night before. It’s a different level for special forces, where they can run any of those distances, but they do not need to know which one it is upfront.

I also spent three months in the jungles where all these stories take place as part of a counter-narcotics team (hence the Panama Red storyline), and I rode a desk clearing counter-espionage intelligence reports attached to the 513th MI during Operation Desert Storm (much of the inspiration for Jack Williams).

The first book, Panama Red, fictitiously summarized several of the firefights and skirmishes I was involved in as a much more junior enlisted person than the main character in these stories. After leaving the military, I completed my education, ending up with three different doctorates. The one that has served me the best is in technology engineering. As an entrepreneur, I've started many companies and worked for Fortune 500 companies as an executive in sales, marketing, and technology. I was even the president of a university for a while, but that world was much more corrupt than anything I ever saw in the armed forces.

I mention this so you know there is some personal and firsthand experience associated with the action and events in the story. The first Dirk Lasher series, Operation Just Cause, was a way for me to get onto the page, in a fictitious way, all the places I went and the things I did while trying to keep it very grounded. In this new series, Operation Falling Star, I allow the world of Dirk to open up a bit and step toward traditional fictional thrillers with a little world-building; bigger things needed to happen to set this story up and move it forward.

The key to a Dirk Lasher book is a sense of momentum, confusion, and selfless effort, which I wanted to keep in Savage. But I also wanted there to be a lot of underlying subtext. My hope is that if you enjoy the book and read it a second time, the emotional impacts become clearer. I didn't want to beat the reader over the head with them or just tell them; I wanted to show them subtly and purposefully without calling attention to them. Not all values have to be signaled. I think it works great because you can choose how deep you want to go so the story will resonate differently for different people.

I had a blast writing Savage, and I honestly believe (and hope) that you will have a blast reading it. Returning to Dirk’s world and pushing his limits while simultaneously pushing my own was both challenging and rewarding. It was fun to put Dirk through the wringer so we could start to pull back the layers of his character and see what's inside. This series allows me to explore themes of resilience, loss, identity, friendship, purpose, and the essence of what it means to be a good person under extreme circumstances.

I hope you enjoy reading Savage as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you for joining me on this journey. There’s much more to come, with plans for two new Dirk Lasher books a year, promising a new trilogy every couple of years. This series, Operation Falling Star, should see book 2, Vulnerable, around Christmas 2024 and the final book, Brutal, around early summer 2025.

Stay tuned and thank you for your support!

-David Edward

Chapter 1

Dirk Lasher sat in his booth in the back of the Fox & Hound Pub.

It really was his booth. He owned the place and had for the past five years since he bought it in 1993 from the man who had been pretending to be his grandfather. The pub was in an old one-story flat-roof Florida building with no windows in the middle of nowhere near the South Florida Everglades. The only light during the day came from the open front door. There had been two swinging half doors, like a Wild West saloon, but they wore out and fell off years ago.

It was hot but not uncomfortable in the building; the lack of windows had the advantage of keeping the interior cooler—cooler, but not cool. The humid South Florida summer found its way inside everywhere, including the Fox & Hound. It was just before lunch, usually a bustling time. Today, however, the atmosphere was heavy, with more people than usual, but nothing was bustling at the moment; no one was talking, drinking, or doing much of anything.

Dirk sat in the back, facing the front door. His eyes were red, and he looked forward, his stare unfocused. Jack Williams sat in the booth on the other side. He was slumped over with his back against the wall. His eyes were red, too, and he just sat there, no more animated than Dirk was.

The afternoon passed like this: from time to time, one of the patrons would get up, walk over, say something softly to Dirk, and then leave. By sundown, after seven at night, it was just Dirk and Jack, who started to stir as it cooled off; Williams knew his role was to support Dirk.  They were both still wearing the white button-down dress shirts from the funeral, the ties and black jackets crumpled in the corner of the booth bench. Part of coping was holding to a basic routine. Williams worked his way out of the booth and almost asked Dirk if he wanted a ride home.

Almost; then he remembered. Dirk wouldn’t want to go back to his house. Not now. It was way too soon.

“You want to stay at my place tonight?” he asked Lasher once he was fully out of the booth. Williams was a big man, fit, to a degree, in that extra sandwich kind of way. Fit for a man of his size, some might suggest.

Suggest nicely, of course.

Dirk looked up and held Williams's eyes. His face was hard to read. There was a partial look of surprise like he hadn't realized Jack was still there. “What?” he asked.

“I figure it’s too early for you to go back to your house,” Williams said, then added, which he instantly regretted, “it now being empty, I mean.”

Lasher snorted and dropped his eyes, his voice barely audible. “I hadn't given it any thought,” he confessed, more to himself than Williams.

“You can’t stay here,” Williams said, looking to the front. “There’s no door.”

Dirk seemed confused. Then he looked at the front opening, focusing on it for the first time even though it had been in his eyeline for several hours. He smiled at the joke. “No,” he finally said, “there isn’t, is there.”

Because of Dirk’s status in the community, for lack of a better term, and some other reasons, the front door could stay open and no one from drunk teen to hardened made man would dare disturb the place.

It was dark, the sun had fully set. Neither Williams nor Lasher had bothered to turn on any of the meek interior lighting. They were both still looking at the front door when the silhouette of a man appeared in it. Given the dark interior and exterior, he was hard to make out. Whoever it was cut a sharp edge, giving the outline a military impression.

“Hello?” the voice of a younger man echoed in the darkness.

“We’re closed,” Lasher said back, his voice gruff and deep, cracking at the end.

“I’m looking for Chief Lasher,” the voice returned, presumably from the man in the doorway.

Lasher looked at Williams, who nodded and walked up to the front. “Sorry, son,” Williams stated, “today is not a good day for visitors.”

“Yes, sir,” the young man's voice had its own edge but was still very polite, “I can tell something is going on, but sir, I have orders.”

Williams reached the front and could see the kid, maybe twenty-five years old, wearing first lieutenant bars on an Army Class-A uniform. His insignia was for Military Intelligence; Williams recognized the unit patch as the intelligence corps at Fort Huachuca.

“How long have you been in, son?” Jack asked, stopping in front of the soldier, blocking the way into the building but not standing so close that it would be perceived as an aggressive move.

“Four years, sir,” the soldier said, looking Williams up and down.

“Four years and still a lieutenant?” Williams smiled when he said it. He wanted to test the kid's actual friendliness rather than just observing good manners. The kid's name tag said Blake, his apparent last name.

“No sir,” Blake tried to look past Williams into the dark interior. “That’s actually why I’m here. I’m heading down to Panama tomorrow for my new assignment. Captain, Bravo Company, 470th MI Brigade.”

Williams was taken by surprise; that was his and Lasher’s unit in Panama from a decade prior. His expression must have changed.

“Yes, sir,” Blake continued, “I know who you are too, Mr. Williams. I know that's your old unit.”

Williams recovered. “All well and good, Blake, but this is about the worst time possible for any kind of reunion or whatever the reason is for your stopover.”

Blake tried to look into the dark interior again to no avail. He looked back at Williams, and his expression changed.

“Sir,” Blake started, “Bravo is now a QRF.” - Quick Reaction Force - “I’ve got a rogue special ops unit that has gone dark. It’s a real-time situation, sir. I’m happy to explain, but I would prefer to save time and talk to both of you so I don’t have to do this twice.”

“Let him in, Jack,” Lasher's voice came from the dark behind Williams. A few moments later, a dim lamp was turned on. It wasn't very bright, but it was enough to turn the balance and allow Blake to see inside.

Williams looked Blake up and down, returning the gesture, and held eye contact with him for a long moment, making it clear that Blake should be on his best behavior, whatever that might mean. Then he stepped aside and led him back to Dirk's booth, where Williams slid into his side and offered Blake a chair at the end of the table.

Lasher watched them approach and get situated, but he didn’t say anything. Blake had put his hand out to shake Lasher's hand. It was an uncomfortable few moments as Lasher just watched until Blake retracted it and sat down.

“Sir,” Blake said, looking at Lasher. “I’m sorry if this is a bad time. I can see something happened. Was this a wake this afternoon?”

Lasher’s expression didn't change, but he did look over at Williams, then back to Blake.

“Why are you here, soldier?” Lasher asked instead of providing an answer to the question.

“Right, yes sir,” Blake nodded to himself. “Sir, we have a real-time situation. It’s devolved from a TIC” - Troops in Contact - “to heavy contact FUBAR.” – you can look this one up yourself – “We’ve lost two companies, including Bravo. I’m basically reforming it from scratch.”

Lasher was surprised that he felt interested. It was the first positive emotion he had in the past several weeks. “You said Bravo is now a QRF? I’m having a hard time following, who were the troops in contact with?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry sir. The 7th Special Forces out of Fort Bragg. X-Ray Company, 7th Battalion, counter-narcotics. They’ve had southern Panama as their AO” - Area of Operations - “for the past couple of years. They took over your mission as DEA liaison.”

“Wait,” Lasher reacted, “but who were our troops engaged with? Those are both US assets.”

“Yes, sir,” Blake nodded. “This is all within the family. As I mentioned, we have a rogue special ops unit.”

Lasher showed no emotions, but Williams did. “You’re still chasing that squirrel?” Williams said quickly, referring to the DEA liaison role. The conversation was getting confusing.

Blake turned to Williams. “Kind of, sir. The mission doesn’t have the same clear edges it did in your time. It’s mostly a SNAFU vacation. The real focus has been trying to get the southern region stable enough to finish Father Time…”

Lasher interrupted him, “Father Time?”

“The Torrijos-Carter Treaty. The end of 1999 is only 18 months away.”

Lasher looked at Williams.

“It’s confusing, I know,” Blake continued. “The current threat to Father Time is FARC. Do you know who they are?”

Neither Lasher nor Williams did. Lasher made a face showing his irritation at all the new jargon.

Blake nodded. “Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia. Basically, the military wing of the Colombian Communist Party. The Colombian government started negotiations with them late last year. They number over 10,000 soldiers. Colombian President Andrés Pastrana granted them a demilitarized zone as part of peace talks. The area is like 16,000 square miles and was intended to facilitate dialogue and build trust between them and the Colombian government.”

“Let me guess,” Williams said, sitting forward, “instead, they used the land as a training ground, and now they’re organized.”

Blake nodded. “Yes, but it's worse than that. The most out-of-the-way land in Columbia is in the northern jungles.”

“Which borders the Darién Gap,” Lasher said, wanting to move things along. “Which is in Panama.”

The Darién Gap is a wild and untamed region, a dense jungle stretching between Colombia and Panama. Towering trees and tangled underbrush dominate the landscape, where the air hangs heavy with humidity and the sounds of wildlife echo through the foliage. The terrain is rugged and challenging, with steep hills, fast-flowing rivers, and swamps that can swallow a person whole. The jungle is a riot of colors, from the deep greens of the leaves and vines to the bright reds and yellows of tropical flowers. This harsh environment remains largely untouched by modern civilization, serving as both a natural barrier and a refuge for those seeking to disappear from the world.

In this remote and dangerous landscape, travel is slow and perilous. The thick jungle canopy blocks out the sun, creating a dim, shadowy world beneath the leaves, where flashes of color from exotic birds and insects occasionally break through. Paths, when they exist, are often little more than muddy tracks winding through dense foliage, which includes everything from broad-leafed plants to towering ferns. The Darién Gap is known not only for its physical challenges but also for the presence of armed groups, wildlife, and the threat of disease.

“Ten thousand soldiers is a lot of soldiers,” Blake continued. “It looks like FARC might have some secret agreement with Pastrana. They seem to be training for urban assault. If we’ve truly got a US special forces company that's gone rogue and is helping them train, we could have a very dangerous new threat. Intelligence suggests the plan is to take Panama and the canal as soon as the US leaves, per the treaty. If these Narco-Communists can get control of the world's most lucrative shipping lanes, they will be able to hold any nation, but especially the US, hostage.”

Blake’s last statement hung in the air. No one said anything for a few moments, absorbing the information.

“Who was leading X-Ray?” Williams asked when he realized it might matter.

Blake nodded. “You both know him. Jim Cruz.”

Lasher shook his head as if to clear it. That name didn’t make any sense. “The same Jim Cruz who reported to me ten years ago as a warrant officer?” he asked, still trying to connect the dots.

Williams jumped in, talking more to Dirk than Blake, “I thought Cruz ran off and was killed by Bill Barber's men. How does he show up ten years later as a Captain in the 7th Special Forces Group?”

They both turned to Blake.

“You don’t know?” Blake said. Now, everyone was even more confused. “I would have thought you were involved. He basically followed the same career path you did. About a year after you got out, Cruz was recruited by the DIA. He ran Central America for a couple of years, then ended up with a full commission and heading up the military tactical side of the operations.”

“No, that’s not possible,” Williams interjected with some authority. “Near the end after the election, there was still the fog of war, but we’ve pieced a lot together, and we’re pretty sure Cruz called in Storm Fire then hightailed it north to Costa Rica, where Barber’s men caught up with him. That guy, Dirk? Brick. The Russian guy. He told us.”

Dirk nodded along with William's explanation until Brick was mentioned. “Of course, they suspected Brick had turned, and they fed him false information to see. It makes sense. I can vouch for Brick; a number of things went down where he unquestioningly did the right thing; the story about Cruz always seemed extra gruesome and out of place. Now we know why,” he said to Williams.

“Ah,” Blake said, “so you really don’t know. What about Kimberly Sharp? Do you know about her?”

Lasher’s expression changed to one of anger. “Son,” he said to Blake, using a soft, kind voice with a lot of powerful undertones in it, “you might want to get to the ask here because I’m in no mood for a trip down memory lane, today of all days.”

“Yes sir,” Blake said but didn’t change the topic. “Sir, I don’t know what happened, and I’m sorry for your loss, but you will need this information to help us with the mission outline.”

“Lieutenant,” Dirk started, then calmed himself and kept his voice soft even though Blake could feel the rage underneath it. “Captain Blake,” Dirk corrected himself, “Both Jack and I are a decade removed from this world you are describing. We left it behind for a reason. While it may be true that you have orders, I can promise you one hundred percent that it doesn't have any bearing on Jack or me.”

“Yes, sir,” Blake was unfazed. “When you transferred to the DIA in 1988, you signed a contract with a ten-year reserve status,” he finished, staying very neutral and watching Lasher closely.

“It’s been ten years, and it feels like twice that,” Lasher scoffed, more to himself than Blake, doing some quick math in his head.

“It’s been nine years and three hundred twenty-eight days, sir,” Blake said.

Lasher stared at Blake for a very long time. Williams thought about interjecting, but it didn’t feel right saying anything. Dirk was working things out in his head, and Williams didn’t know what to expect.

“What’s your first name,” Dirk finally asked, breaking the silence. He was intently focused on Blake, so much so that Blake couldn’t meet his intense stare.

“Benjamin, sir,” Blake said.

“Ben,” Dirk did everything he could to present a calm and helpful exterior, “I appreciate the situation you are heading into. I know you think it's important, but to me, what’s important just left me. I know two things to be true; the first is that I am going to spend the next little bit in mourning. The second is that, because of the first, I know for a fact that I am not getting on any plane with you tonight or tomorrow and that I will never set foot in Panama ever again.”

Blake's young face showed his conundrum as Lasher finished. He didn’t know how to move forward. “Sir…” he started, but Williams jumped in.

“Captain Blake,” Williams said, “what is it you needed from us?”

Blake nodded, realizing that he didn’t get to finish his story. “I’m going to be heading into the AO blind, and we’ve lost all in-country MI field assets, as I mentioned. It’s a terrible situation. General Hampton recommended we reach out to you. Based upon this SNAFU, you two are the ranking military experts on the Darién Gap.”

Williams looked to Lasher, who made a dismissive gesture, then turned back to Blake, “Son, get specific; don’t make me guess,” Williams said.

Blake nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m in an accelerated readiness posture. We need to move in now, but without some basic training and planning, we’d just be more fodder for the canons. I need someone with tactical knowledge of the terrain, someone who has fought in those jungles before. It’s going to be a dog fight. We need every advantage we can muster.”

Lasher started to reiterate his objections when Williams spoke first.

“I’ll go,” Williams said.

Blake looked relieved.

Lasher looked confused.

Williams continued. “It’s fine, Dirk. I don’t have any of the emotional ties you do to any of this. But I do know the area, and I’ve been in combat in the Gap, just like you. I’ve got a decade of tactical planning and real AO field experience.”

Blake looked from Williams to Lasher, then back. “Mr. Williams, I appreciate the offer, but you are not obligated under contract like Chief Lasher is…”

Williams cut him off, “It ain't all written down, son, “ he said. An unspoken moment passed between him and Lasher.

Lasher nodded a thank you to Williams, then said, “This is the best you are going to get, Captain.”

Blake could sense the truth in Lasher’s statement. “Yes sir,” he stood up from his chair. “Mr. Williams, sir, I will send a car to pick you up at oh-four-thirty.”

Williams rolled his eyes at the early time.

“What have I gotten myself back into,” he said with a hesitant smile as he and Blake shook hands.

Chapter 2

Williams and Blake worked out the rest of the logistics for about another ten minutes. Once they were finished, Blake pulled away in his rented compact car, and Williams took Dirk back to his house in his old beat-up Ford pickup truck.

After maybe five minutes of silence on the ride, Dirk spoke first. “Jack, I appreciate you running interference for me, but I don’t think getting back involved in all that violence and bureaucracy is a good idea. For me, or honestly, for you either. They are reduced to fighting each other now. The snake is fully eating its own tail. What a mess.”

“I thought we were unwavering servants of the public good?” Williams said, looking over, making a mild joke.

“Jack, I’m serious. This isn’t our fight anymore. It’s a circle-jerk. The whole system is corrupt; they just use up willing idiots like us who have red, white, and blue colored glasses on.”

Williams allowed some melancholy back into his voice. “I don’t think you’re that far gone, Dirk. He seemed like a nice enough kid. He’s heading into a meat grinder. Blind. It’s not really some huge inconvenience for me to fly down and spend a couple of days giving him the lay of the land.”

They rode in silence for a while longer, then Williams had to ask even though he knew the timing was terrible. “Do you want me to check on anyone down there?”

Lasher had a very complicated relationship with one of the Wargandi tribes that lived about twenty miles into the interior of the Gap. He understood the reference.

“No worries, Jack. It’s been years since any of them sent me a letter. They’re well taken care of, I assume some stayed, but the connection isn’t current.”

Williams nodded. They finished the short trip in comfortable silence. By now, they had known each other for over two decades, with the last year having seen Jack Williams move from Texas to Florida to help with the illness. Between that and the decade of shared military service, there wasn't much left unsaid between the two friends.

Lasher went straight to the sofa and kind of fell into it. Williams didn’t disturb him; he walked back to the main bedroom. Both big men were asleep within minutes. Lasher was awoken about three in the morning when Williams was up and making himself breakfast.

When he saw Lasher stir, he asked, “Want anything?”

Dirk rolled over so his face was away from the kitchen light. “I have a terrible headache. I’m going to sleep for as long as I can, then head out and deal with Wade.”

Williams nodded; he knew this had been on the agenda. “You gonna stop at Howard Johnsons on the way? Good place for breakfast.”

“The landmark for hungry Americans,” Lasher repeated the current marketing slogan. “Probably.”

“Good, get something to eat and take your time,” Williams said as he made a green mixture in a blender, which had Dirk fully awake now from the noise. “I should be back by the end of the week. Do me a favor, okay Dirk?” Williams looked up from his task to gauge Lasher's reaction.

“What?”

“Just take it easy. Stay here, you can use my truck. When I get back, we can go over together to start dealing with everything.”

“I was going to have the county bring a dumpster by,” Dirk said, more to himself than Williams.

“Sure, we’ll need one. But wait until I get back, okay?”

“Ya, that’s fine. It’s going to take everything I have to tell Wade what’s happened.”

“You don’t owe that guy anything,” Williams said, returning his focus to his breakfast.

“He took me in. The fact he made up his relationship with me, in the end, he had to, or else he couldn’t have gotten legal guardianship.”

“I’m not sure that would have been worse, Dirk,” Williams finished whatever was in the glass and started cleaning up.

“I’m going back to sleep. Have an uneventful trip,” Dirk said, putting a sofa cushion over his head and then taking it off. “And good luck,” he said, returning the cushion and forcing himself back to sleep.

Chapter 3

Dirk drove Williams's truck out to Wade Clay's property. It was even farther west than the pub, close to the Everglades proper, where the housing lots were parceled out farmland. Wade had a big piece of property with two nearly identical homes on it—both about 800 square feet, built in the typical Florida style of the 1970s. Dirk did end up stopping for breakfast, he ended up at Denny’s, which was about the same to him as Howard Johnsons. He didn’t have much of an appetite and found himself just sitting and drinking coffee for a couple of hours, his food cold and uneaten.

He was having trouble focusing or being in the moment. By the time he got to Wade’s house, it was around ten in the morning. At the sound of the truck, two Dachshunds started barking from behind the short three-foot high chain-link fence that bordered the entire ten acres. They looked identical, about a foot and a half long and low to the ground, the classic German Weiner dog.

Dirk parked the truck, got out, and walked around to the outside of the fence, where the two dogs were barking and wagging their tails. They knew Dirk, and he never disappointed in showing up with a treat. Today was no different; he had saved a few pieces of sausage from his uneaten breakfast; he bent down and gave each dog a piece through the fence.

“Dietrich,” an older man emerged from one of the houses. While not related to Dirk, the older man did look a lot like an older version of him. It would not be unreasonable to accept a family resemblance. “How is everything?” Wade asked, walking the long fifty foot driveway to the fence gate to open it.

Dirk stood up and walked over, shaking Wade's hand when offered. “Lisa passed. We had the service yesterday,” he said during the handshake, wanting to get this out of the way.

Wade’s face changed a little, sadness and something else he let go of; it was a physical, willful effort. “I would have liked to attend, but I understand,” he said when the handshake ended. “Where’s your car?”

Dirk looked back at William's pickup truck. “It’s parked at the house. Jack was driving me around, and he let me borrow his truck today instead of having to go get my car.”

Wade motioned for Dirk to come through the open gate as he held off the two little dogs. “I’m working an imu earth oven; come on back. I’ve got a pitcher of lemonade. Head around; I’ll go through the house and meet you back there.”

Dirk nodded and went through the gate, closing it behind him. The two little dogs jumped up and were wagging their tails. He gave each some attention, then they followed him on the long walk around the side of the house. Lasher had been here at least monthly for the past five years, so everything was comfortable.

The front of Wade Clay's house faced a sandy dirt road. On the other side of the road was the start of the Everglades, just weeds and marshes, no buildings or constructions. It very much gave a sense of isolation. The house was situated on the west side of the property. The east side was just a huge, flat, grassy field. A good way off, maybe several hundred yards, was the fence that ran around the whole property. On the other side of the fence was a herd of cows, well off in the distance.

Wade emerged from the sliding glass door with an extra folding chair for Dirk. Then he went back in and brought out a small table, a pitcher of lemonade, and a couple of well-worn plastic glasses. Dirk poured himself a glass and sat in the folding chair. The two small dogs kept an eye on him and sniffed the air, hoping for more treats. Since Dirk came by so often, this was a common routine. Also, whatever was wrong with Wade (and there was plenty), he made some of the best lemonade around.

Dirk sat facing the big open area. Maybe ten feet farther out from the house, from the concrete slab that served as the patio was a half-dug hole. Next to the hole were maybe fifteen huge banana plant leaves; next to those were six bags of charcoal.

“You want a hand with the pit?” Dirk asked. He didn’t feel at all like digging a hole, but he was about thirty-five years younger than Wade, so as a good guest, he offered.

“Thanks, no,” Wade said, walking past Dirk and picking the shovel back up. “This is about the only exercise I get out here. Well, between this and digging all the tunnels in this lowland.”

Dirk smiled; he had heard the joke before but never got it. Wade had some memory problems. From Dirk's understanding, they were very pronounced in the years leading up to Wade adopting Dirk, and Wade was under constant medical oversight and on some type of medication that meant he could function fine by himself and was just a hair more forgetful than the average seventy-five-year-old. From Dirk’s standpoint, it meant that he didn’t yet have to worry about Wade living by himself, although that time was coming. However, he did have to react to the same stories over and over.

“How’s Lisa?” Wade asked after a moment, then made a face. “No, you told me. I remember.”

Dirk nodded. Some people might get frustrated; Dirk wasn’t one of them. It wasn’t that he was some kind of saint; it was just that of all the things, for some reason, he was able to repeat himself and not care, much like his biographer.

“She passed in her sleep, if that helps,” Dirk said, looking past Wade Clay to the fence line several hundred feet away.

Wade nodded as though it did, then resumed digging. He moved slowly, using strength, not speed, to force the shovel into the dirt. Whatever was wrong with his memory, he made up for it with physical power.

“Do you need any help cleaning the house out? I remember you said you would put it up for sale when,” Wade stumbled for the right words, “when we got to this point,” he settled on.

Dirk nodded and put the lemonade glass down. “I’ll take it. Jack got called out of town. He’s supposed to be back near the end of the week. I’ve got a dumpster coming from the county. I’d welcome the help if you wanted.”

Since Dirk’s time growing up believing that Wade Clay was his Grandpa Jim Lasher, he had a tenuous relationship with the man. Wade had gone out of his way, changed his entire life around, to adopt Dirk, even using an alias he had used years prior when he had been confronted with his own struggles in the mid-1970s. As Dirk was growing up, Wade ended up taking over some shady business operations, and as Dirk grew into his teens, Wade did the best he could, given his own worldview, of making sure Dirk knew how to both run the business side and be the muscle need for that type of business model to succeed.

“I’d appreciate it, Wade,” Dirk followed up. It was a true statement. He wanted to reconcile with Wade, and having Wade help with this would be a good start.

They didn’t say much else for hours. Wade wore out on the pit after a bit, so Dirk finished it for him. He agreed to stay over. He often stayed over, and the second little house, which Wade used for storage, had a small cot and, more importantly, a window banger A/C unit that made all the difference.

The next morning, they went to a farmers’ market that Wade apparently went to most days for something to do to get himself out of the house. He had prepaid for a full-bodied pig carcass that was already split and prepared. They spent a lot more time at the market than they needed to, but ultimately, Dirk helped get the pig into the back of Williams's truck.

They spent the afternoon back in the yard, sitting by the pit as smoke puffed out here and there, drinking lemonade and not really talking about anything important.

The pork was delicious for dinner. The two little dogs did very well, and they fell asleep full-belly up near the sliding door to the house.

Dirk hung around the next couple of days to do some work that needed to be done but that Wade kept putting off. Dirk ended up mowing the huge lot and re-sinking a few fence posts, re-caulking the plumbing in the second little house, and fixing several places on the exterior of both houses where the wood had rotted away. These were all the little things you had to do over time in Florida to keep a property in repair.

The week rolled on; it was good therapy for Dirk, except for worrying about Williams. He kept calling his home phone number to check for messages. Each time, it was hard to listen to the answering machine, as he had to sit through the message to enter the code, so he listened to Lisa’s warm and happy voice, which just made everything that much harder.

By Friday, Williams was overdue.

A storm front had come through in the morning. It increased the humidity but kept the temperature in the mid-eighties. Between that and the breeze, it was a blustery but nice South Florida day. Dirk and Wade were sitting in their chairs, looking east. Dirk had just started to try and process a plan when a small speck on the horizon became a big spec on the horizon.

“That looks like a military helicopter,” Wade said.

Both he and Dirk leaned forward, squinting. The cloud cover made it easier.

“Think it’s a White Hawk,” Dirk said, looking intently.

“Don’t you mean Black Hawk?” Wade asked, looking at Dirk, then quickly back to the approaching helicopter.

“The VH-60N has the same body style, yes, but its deployment is defensive in posture, not offensive. They use it to transport dignitaries and high-ranking officers, so they call it a White Hawk.” Dirk stood and took a few steps forward.

The helicopter seemed to be heading right at them.

Wade stood up to the sound of the engine and blades as it started washing over them. It was definitely heading right at them.

The scene became a little unnerving.

Lasher turned to Wade, “You haven’t done something stupid I need to know about, have you?”

Wade looked at him innocently.

“Seriously,” Dirk said, his senses rising, “tell me now so I’m not in the dark.”

“Seriously,” Wade gave his best guiltless expression. “I’ve just been sitting here taking care of the dogs. Nothing else.”

The bird was close enough to make out completely. It circled once and then landed about a hundred feet away from the houses in the middle of the large property. The huge machine made powerful sounds, and the wind from the blades dominated everything. It had US military markings. As soon as it touched down, two soldiers shot out and opened the rear door to the interior of the craft. A short-ish older man stepped out. Dirk recognized him instantly; it was General Hampton in combat fatigues.

“I know him,” Dirk said to Wade. “This might be bad news about Jack,” he started to feel trepidation in his stomach.

Lasher dealt with General Hampton ten years ago when he was with the DIA. Through a complex series of events, General Hampton was the post commander of the Soto-Cano air base in Honduras when Dirk delivered a captured Soviet helicopter. This saved Dirk and made Hampton’s career.

The two little dogs were losing their minds, barking at the giant machine and advancing soldiers.

“Wade, maybe you should take the dogs into the house,” Dirk said.

Wade nodded and collected the dogs. Dirk stepped forward while he did, around the still warm roasting pit, in the direction of the approaching General Hampton and escort. When Hampton was about fifty feet away, Dirk raised his hand in a wave.

The General made a motion to acknowledge it. Neither action was a salute, but the greeting served about the same purpose.

“Tell me Jack is OK,” Lasher yelled over the noise.

Hampton nodded yes, holding his hat on his head as he moved out of the wind and stopped in front of Lasher.

“Yes, we think Williams is alive,” Hampton confirmed, shaking Lasher’s hand. “He’s a captive, but they are all still alive for the moment.”

“Thank God,” Lasher said. “It’s good to see you, General, but I have to admit I am surprised at your entrance.”

General Hampton nodded, then gestured to his two military escorts, who saluted and stepped back several feet—enough to be out of earshot but not out of range for any other type of shot, just in case.

Once they were repositioned, Hampton started. “This is a private conversation, Dirk.”

Lasher nodded.

“We’ve lost over three hundred soldiers,” Hampton said gravely. He looked mad. “The fact we’ve been able to keep this out of the papers is nothing short of incredible. The military isn’t what you remember. In only ten years, we’ve gotten a lot softer. Apparently, the whole DoD has gone soft, including the media that cover it, who have gotten as lazy as we have become incompetent.”

“What happened?” Lasher asked. “I listened to Blake's request, so I’m up to speed until a couple of days ago when Jack headed down.”

Hampton nodded. “Williams did his best; they all did. It was a gamble, sending a bunch of untested new units in. It was the right call, but it went balls-up right away. It’s my fault; I just didn’t believe an entire company of special forces soldiers had turned on us. I ignored the intelligence and believed completely that we just needed to make contact; we just needed to provide an out so they could be the loyal fighting men I believed they were. The change has been slow over time, but I missed it. For me, I just woke up this morning to a whole new and entirely disappointing world.”

Dirk listened and nodded. He didn’t need to interject.

“We’re sending in Delta Force. One of a few units not wholly full of,” Hampton paused, ready to use one word for a cat, then remembering Lasher had a thing with bad language, said instead, “sissies. It’s a high-stakes gamble. We know where Williams and the company are. We believe we have a window of about 72 hours while they are tortured for intel. After that, well,” Hampton’s voice went gruff, “if we move fast, our operating plan is to reform the fighting force with Delta in the lead in real-time after rescue and then assess the situation. We’re staging Rangers from the 75th, but even with rapid deployment, they won’t be there for a couple of days. Delta is en route now. I’m also wary about sending the Rangers in. I’m more inclined to start carpet-bombing the place. We can’t lose any more soldiers to this fiasco.”

General Hampton stopped talking and looked at Lasher.

Lasher understood, and only because of his friendship with Jack Williams did he even consider the request. “General, even on my best day, I wasn’t special forces, much less Delta Force,” getting in front of what he knew the ask was going to be.

“I’ve read your on-docket and off-docket files, Dirk. Now isn’t the time for modesty.”

Dirk felt a wave of anger. He had been struggling since the funeral with his sadness slowly transforming into rage at the situation. All Lasher wanted to do was nothing. Even standing up and walking was hard. Breathing was hard. He was exhausted and depressed to a very high degree.

Anyone would be.

“Maybe ten years ago when I did this every day,” Dirk said truthfully. “Maybe then, but I’ve been working in a bar now forever. I don’t even run anymore. My bouncer skills are in top form, everything else? Not so much.”

The General's face hardened. “You’ve got three minutes to say your goodbyes. After that, we can do this easy or hard, but Dirk, my friend, we need you, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

Chapter 4

Dirk was in good shape for a forty-year-old bar bouncer.

He was in absolutely abysmally terrible shape for a forty-year-old special forces adviser, and there was no strategy or exercise he could do in the next 24 hours to change any of that. After his quick goodbye to Wade, Dirk found himself sitting in the back of the VH-60N “White Hawk” helicopter across from General Hampton and a Captain Ethan “Ghost” Taylor, the team leader of the Delta Force squad. Taylor, as Dirk expected, seemed to be doing everything he could not to show his disgust at being forced, probably even more so than Lasher was, to accept Dirk as an element of the mission.

“Captain Taylor,” Hampton was still in his introduction, “led both the Basra extraction and solved the Sarajevo hostage situation a couple of years ago. He has an extensive history of success with high-stakes missions like this one.”

Lasher didn’t know what else to do, so he nodded at Taylor, who seemed to find that interaction about the most disappointing thing he had ever seen. Rage filled Dirk at the slight. This was going to be a problem. He couldn’t help being annoyed, but getting angry at the lead Delta Force operative served no productive purpose, especially since he and Dirk wanted the same thing. He did everything he could to push his feelings aside.

“Not a lot of sand dunes in the Darién Gap,” Lasher decided to say; it was a very specifically calculated response. His skin was crawling having to do all this. All he wanted to do was go to sleep and let the world do its own thing for a while. The military macho hierarchy required a nuanced blend of submission and very light insubordination in snarky comebacks only, never concerning the mission.

Taylor got serious. “We’re meeting the rest of the team at the Homestead Reserve Airbase. It’s got a runway big enough,” Taylor was staring so intently at Dirk when he spoke that he wasn’t blinking. “We’ll have about two hours in transit. I think that’s enough time for you to enlighten all of us with whatever this earthly wisdom is the General believes you have. Then I’ll make sure they fly you back. You’ll be asleep in your own bed by nightfall.”

“Let’s make that call after the briefing,” General Hampton said. Dirk watched Taylor process the order. He was a good soldier, and like good soldiers, he simply said yes, sir, back to the General. But in watching him, Dirk knew that he didn't mean it.

Taylor took just the smallest moment to recenter himself, “We’re a six-unit squad. Jason Jones is my TOP. He’s a Master Sergeant; he knows his stuff. If he tells you to do something, it’s me telling you to do it. You can even feel free to salute him if you want. I’m being dead serious.”

Dirk didn’t care at all about military hierarchy anymore, so he just nodded in the affirmative.

Taylor watched him suspiciously, then continued. “Sergeant First Class Thompson is our weapons expert and sniper; Staff Sergeant Mitchell is our demolitions expert.”

Lasher nodded that Taylor had paused talking.

“The rest of the team is Sergeant Carter, our medic, and Specialist Bonnington, who carries the radio. She’s one of the first female Delta and she has a chip on her shoulder, so mind yourself.”

The helicopter bounced on some turbulence. It caught Lasher by surprise, and he must have made a face because Taylor, watching him, rolled his eyes and looked to the interior ceiling of the compartment.

“Captain,” General Hampton said, “Mr. Lasher here lived in your missions AO for almost a year, twenty miles in. He fought multiple engagements in the gap, including Colombian Special Forces. He even took out a tribe of headhunters. He will be an intelligence asset if you use him correctly.”

Taylor’s demeanor softened a little on hearing Dirk had lived in those jungles for that long. “I assume you didn’t spend the whole time crying salty tears, wandering lost, trying to find your way out?” he asked Lasher with enough of a non-aggressive inflection to suggest he was acknowledging the feat and that he was not now completely unimpressed.

Lasher took the opening. “It was a long time ago, Captain. I know I’m a physical liability for you. We’ll just have to trust our good friend General Hampton that what I know about the area, including the locals, outweighs this inconvenience.”

Taylor did not look impressed, then turned to the General. “It’s all well and good, sir,” he said, “but I doubt he’s going to make it very far wearing that.”

Dirk looked down, having forgotten he was wearing boxer shorts, a T-shirt, and plastic pink flip-flops. They were only pink because the sun had bleached them over the years from their original red color. He had bought them for ten cents at a flea market a few years ago.

“Christ,” Taylor rolled his eyes, pulled open the top pocket on his combat fatigues, and took out a small flip notebook and a stubby pencil. “What size do you wear? I'll get some tactical gear that fits you ready for when we land.”

Lasher told him, and he wrote it down, then made a radio call and repeated the information.

The helicopter landed about eight minutes later. Dirk was met by an airman with clothes still wrapped in plastic. He took the bundle and changed right on the tarmac, using his current boxers as underwear. While he changed, Taylor and Hampton walked up to the massive plane being prepped by the reservists. When Lasher was finished dressing, he turned and headed over.

The MC-130 Combat Talon stood on the runway in front of him, its matte-black fuselage gleaming under the late afternoon sun. The aircraft featured four powerful turboprop engines with large, scimitar-shaped propellers, a bulbous nose housing terrain-following radar, and a rear ramp for loading troops and equipment. As Dirk approached the rear ramp, he felt his stomach drop when he realized what the configuration was for.

Lasher approached General Hampton and Captain Taylor, who were both now talking to two men who looked to be the pilots. He stood a few feet back and waited for the conversation to end. Pretty quickly, the two pilots saluted, turned, and headed into the back of the huge plane.

“I’ve never been rated for HALO,” Lasher said, walking up the ramp, looking strong in the tight-fitting black tactical gear.

Captain Taylor rolled his eyes.

“You were airborne-certified,” Hampton said dismissively.

“Sure,” Dirk was getting irritated again at the casualness of the comment. “Stand up, hook up, shuffle to the door. That is a world away from a high altitude low opening jump.”

“It ain’t all good, but it’s what we’ve got,” Hampton said, then softened. “I appreciate it, Dirk. I owe you a favor. Cash it in any time you want.”

The two men stood on the ramp for a few more moments, then shook hands. Hampton slapped Lasher on the back as he headed down the ramp, away from the plane.

“Don’t let me down. The whole world is counting on you and they don’t even know it,” Hampton said as he turned, and left.

Chapter 5

It took another couple hours for the plane to finish fueling, and whatever it was pilots did to plan their flight plan and fill in their checklists. Four members of the Delta Force squad were present. They were sleeping in hammock-like strapping rigs on the interior walls designed for this exact purpose. It was actually a good sign. General Hampton suggested elements of the armed forces had drifted away from center, but special forces were a different animal, and good soldiers knew to sleep as much as they could whenever they could, as sleep might be hard to find later in a mission.

Dirk sat opposite the sleeping crew. Captain Taylor was nowhere to be seen. After a good while, a big, tough-looking man wearing Master Sergeant stripes on his sleeve approached Lasher after coming up the back ramp of the plane.

His nametag said Jones.

Dirk put the name and rank alongside the explanation he had been given for Taylor’s TOP. TOP was military slang for the highest-ranking enlisted member in a unit who was responsible for the welfare, training, and discipline of the unit's enlisted personnel.

Jones was an intimidating man. His face was red, and his eyes were big, white, angry circles. He seemed outraged.

“You're in my seat, Leg,” Jones stopped in front of Lasher, who had his legs crossed. Jones kicked Lasher's leg hard, forcing it to uncross. “Forgot how to stand for your betters? Move now, or I'll move you and teach you to respect a real man.”

Dirk knew what this was—typical hazing 101. He didn't miss the macho military mindset one bit, and he hadn’t forgotten everything about this world. He knew what he did next would set the tone for how much, or little, respect he would get over the rest of the mission. He shifted his weight as though he was about to stand. He wasn't; he instead needed to be repositioned in the bench seat for what he was about to do to work.

“Cat got your tongue, boy?” One of the now awake sleeping soldiers said. The four of them waking up, rolling over, poking their heads up like little prairie dogs who finally had something interesting wander into their territory.

“He looks scared, Top!” Someone else yelled.

Dirk smiled a thin smile and put his hands up to either side, acquiescing.

Master Sergeant Jones smiled big, believing he had found a sheep masquerading as a fox. “I guess we’re doing this the easy way, boys!” Jones said loudly, getting ready to make a show of doing something. Dirk didn't know what, but he knew this situation.

Moving quickly, Lasher kicked up into Jones’s groin with everything he had. It landed; Jones bent forward in recoil from the blow. As he did, Lasher smashed his forehead as hard as he could into Jones’s nose. It made an audible loud crack, and a little bit of blood splattered out in all directions. Immediately after the headbutt, Lasher swung with his right hand, impacting hard into Jones’s jaw, knocking him out cold.

Dirk pulled the punch right at the end. He saw red but knew he was over the line; this was way too much of a violent response to the hazing.  He was right on the edge and struggling. Rage flashed through his system. He was so angry, so sad, so disappointed in everything. The physical outlet felt like scratching an itch he hadn't been able to reach for years. His first instinct was to roll forward, grab the 9MM sidearm off Jones’s belt, and fire into the four other soldiers who he desperately wanted to identify as threats.

But he didn’t.

He pulled himself back from the edge, which took everything he had. The four Delta soldiers were confused as well. There was a beat where nothing happened, with either side unsure how to categorize the other. Before anyone reacted, Captain Taylor was standing there. No one saw him enter or knew where he had come from.

“Stand down! Everyone! This is not how we handle things in Delta!”

The in-between moment lasted another few beats; then Dirk could physically feel the military discipline reenter the cabin. Captain Taylor was beet red in the face and furious.

Dirk was still outside himself and being run by his anger. He half wanted to escalate the situation to force the Delta operatives to end him or give himself an excuse to continue the violence.

“General Hampton said you clowns had gone soft,” Lasher said, seated, still angry.

Taylor fumed at Dirk. He had his hand resting on his sidearm. Dirk could see the hand twitching. Taylor was fighting the impulse to draw on him.

Dirk saw it, and his anger swelled again. “You want me to salute your man now or wait for him to get out of the hospital?” Lasher wanted Taylor to do anything he could claim was an aggressive move.

Taylor’s hand twitched. Lasher was ready to move; he had it all planned out.

But Taylor didn’t draw the weapon.

“Dust this clown, Cap!” it was a female voice; that would be Specialist Bonnington.

The two men stared at each other. Taylor calmed down enough to straighten and drop his hand. His gaze shifted from Lasher to the downed and unmoving Master Sergeant Jones.

“We’re a man down,” Taylor glared at Lasher. “Mr. Lasher, whatever else you were thinking, you have jeopardized this mission because you cannot manage your own temper.”

Dirk was in no mood to play the good soldier. “No, Cap.” Using the shortened term that was just called out to emphasize his point. “You and your undisciplined soldiers jeopardized this mission. If you had instilled basic military discipline, real discipline, none of this would have happened. Instead, you’re trying to be a tough guy, yet I have to watch you crying like a four-year-old to the general about your mission parameters.” Dirk looked around; he had everyone's attention.

He had been an investigator, and he knew military personnel like the back of his hand. He held Taylor’s angry gaze. “You send your man in here” – indicating the downed Jones –“you made a tactical error. You didn’t listen to General Hampton. You just assumed you were the toughest hombre in the room. None of these are the signs of someone I would follow to the outhouse, much less as the leader of a Delta team. Have they stopped teaching what happens when you assume? You make an ass out of both you and me. Con-frigging-gratulations.”

Lasher let his old military inflections enter the dressing down.

Captain Taylor had a choice. He made the right one.

“Ok,” he said to Lasher. Then again, “Ok,” with more force, he seemed to be speaking to himself. Then he looked at the rest of the squad. “Okay. Everyone. Let's take a few minutes to get our heads back together. Carter, get Jones cleaned up and awake. Bonnington, give him a hand. And Bonnington, you may address me as Captain or Sir, or if you like, Captain Sir. No slang; get yourself squared away.”

“Yes, sir,” she returned.

“Thompson?” Taylor said formally.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re my new top until Jones is field-ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lasher?” Taylor returned his focus, but he was now calm and in control.

“Ya?” Lasher couldn’t help it.

“Don’t make me regret not dusting you here on the spot.”

“Ditto,” Dirk returned with no joy in it.

Chapter 6

Two hours later, they were flying over the Gulf of Mexico, nearing Panama. Master Sergeant Jones sat in a fixed metal chair. He was awake, angry at Lasher but angrier at himself for botching the situation and underestimating his opponent. He had a small metal splint on his nose held in place by white medical tape. Both his eyes were starting to get black rings, and his left ear was swollen and a little more cauliflowered than before. He also had an ice pack between his legs.

Captain Taylor stood in front of the group, with everyone else seated on a long bench. This part of the interior was designed as a briefing area. Behind Taylor was a display monitor on which he currently had an aerial map of the Darién Gap, which had several graphic overlays. The border between Colombia and Panama was some of the least hospitable terrain anywhere on the planet. It was highlighted as a winding bright white line that stood out against the dark green satellite image of the jungle.

In the southern and western part of the line was an area where the Columbian border extended in a peninsula-like way deep into Panama. It was the Atrato River basin on the Chocoan side of Urabá. This was all landlocked, imagine an upside-down Florida-type shape where Miami is at the northernmost point.

There were many red squares on the Colombian side of the map. This represented the ten thousand strong FARC units—narco-communists with good funding and good weapons supply. On the Panamanian side were several very small red circles. Outposts in an organized-looking formation, running along the Atrato River, which winds its way north for almost 40 miles, not quite connecting with the Rio Tuira, which offered passage out of Panama and into the Pacific Ocean near La Cantina.

Near the smaller red circles were three slightly larger orange circles. This represented the defectors from US special forces, three squads of twenty five soldiers each. In one area surrounded by both small red circles and the larger orange circles was a bright yellow/amber-colored circle. This represented where Williams, Blake, and the remaining 470th operators were being held.

“We’re dropping here,” Taylor said, indicating a flat ridge about two miles south of the amber circles and subsequent rogue US forces and FARC forward deployments. “It’s a night drop, about twenty-thousand feet. Low for HALO but we’ve trained for this. Should be an easy insertion; this area is nearly impossible to get up to but has an easy trail down in the direction we need to go. We’ll form up here” - he indicated the northern edge of the flat ridge - “then head down here. The goal is a complete stealth insertion. Then, we free the hostages and reform. A classic tactical extract and reinforcement. Delta will assume command of the freed companies and make the call.”

“Then what?” Staff Sergeant Mitchell asked. He was the weapons expert; he looked the part. Fresh high and tight haircut, big muscular arms that could carry even the heaviest of infantry gear. And a square jaw that looked almost cartoonish in its sharp edges.

Captain Taylor nodded; it was the next logical question. “Then we’ll assess the situation and either mount a retreat or a frontal assault per their original orders.”

They covered a few other basic items, boilerplate really, noise and light discipline, ammo conservation, that type of thing. Then Taylor stepped to the side and motioned for Lasher.

Dirk stood up and moved to the front. Whatever hostilities that were present earlier were gone now. Everyone involved was a professional. Lasher started; he had given this briefing many times, many years ago.

“As we move through the Darién Gap, it's crucial to understand that dense jungles like this present unique challenges. I know you’re all tough; we just proved that.” - Lasher nodded to Jones, and Jones nodded back - “You have the mission; I’m here to help you manage the environment. And folks, just like earlier, this AO is ten times more dangerous than it appears. The thick vegetation reduces visibility and mobility. That’s a problem when engaging other soldiers, but it's also going to be a problem with predators. This place is built for them, not us. The dense foliage makes it easier for predators to ambush and harder for us to navigate.

“As soon as you touch the ground, you lose your position as the apex predator.

“The canopy density in the Darién Gap is so thick that sunlight barely penetrates to the forest floor, making it even more challenging than extreme places like the Amazon Rainforest. This environment requires heightened awareness and strict adherence to protocols to ensure our safety and the success of our mission.

“To succeed, you'll need to be aware of several significant threats.

“First, and I know this one first hand, large cats like jaguars and panthers. These are the apex predators in the gap, not you. They’re ambush predators and will stalk you for hours. If you encounter a large cat, do not run. Maintain eye contact, back away slowly, and make yourself appear larger. Only fire if the cat charges. Use suppressed weapons to minimize noise. If close enough, a knife to the eyes or throat can be effective. Surviving the ambush and demonstrating you are difficult prey usually makes them back off if you can get some distance between you and them, and they don’t get a taste of human blood first.

“Next, American crocodiles. These reptiles inhabit rivers and swamps. Stay at least ten feet from the water's edge because crocodiles can launch themselves out of the water with tremendous surprise, moving extremely fast on land for short bursts. They often lie in wait near water sources. Cross water bodies quickly and avoid lingering near the banks. If a crocodile approaches aggressively, prioritize evasion. They generally do not pursue far from water. Use firearms if necessary, and in close quarters, aim for the eyes with a knife.

“Boa constrictors can be found in trees or on the ground. They are ambush predators also, typically lying in wait for their prey. Always watch your step and look up when moving through dense foliage. You’re going to forget. Force yourself to scan up as well as right and left. If you encounter one, back away slowly. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary to avoid detection. If a constrictor gets a hold of you, use a knife to cut it off quickly, aiming for the head.

“Bushmaster and fer-de-lance snakes are small but highly venomous and aggressive. They also use ambush tactics, often hiding in tall grass or underbrush. Always watch where you step and avoid these areas. If bitten, remain calm. Apply a pressure bandage above the bite to slow venom spread. Keep the bitten limb immobilized and at heart level. The medic will monitor vital signs.” - he nodded to Sergeant Carter, who nodded back - “Realistically, survival depends on immediate care and luck; there’s no extraction, so exercise extreme caution.

“Those are the big ones. Don’t touch bright frogs; keep an eye out for scorpions and other crawlies. Oh, Bull Ants. If you want to experience true agony, get bit by one of them.

“As I said, the dense jungle terrain will hinder our movement and visibility, making it easier for predators to ambush. Stick to solid ground as much as possible and move deliberately through the terrain. Maintain noise discipline and minimize disturbance to avoid attracting attention.” Lasher paused, thinking.

“Let’s see, what else? Insect-borne illnesses like malaria and dengue fever are prevalent if we end up being there for more than about a week. Use your insect repellent in your field supplies and keep your arms and legs covered. It's going to be hot, but do not trade comfort for safety. Keep an eye on each other for signs of illness. The medic has basic supplies for treating symptoms, but prevention is critical.

“Stay vigilant, follow the protocols, and watch out for one another. Engage threats only when absolutely necessary, prioritizing stealth and survival. If you don’t know what to do in a situation, ask me. I’ll know, and I just might save your life. With caution and awareness, we can navigate these dangers safely.”

He finished. Captain Taylor looked like he was going to object to the idea that Lasher would be there when the plane jerked to one side, followed by the sound of countermeasure rockets being fired from its wings.

The pilot's voice came blaring through the internal intercom system. “It looks like some Soviet tech! The carrier feed suggests an SA-2 lock from the ridge at our nine o'clock. They were up high, over six thousand feet. Limited warning. We deployed countermeasures — prepare for evasive maneuvers!"

The plane jerked right, then left again. Lasher could feel it start to climb, then turn, and drop several thousand feet all at once. He grabbed onto the table next to the video monitor. It was secured to the floor with strong metal bolts. Captain Taylor wasn’t as lucky. He flew up with the drop, then slammed down as the plane maneuvered here and there.

The pilot's panicked voice filled the compartment again.

Lasher strained and managed to pull himself into a safety harness on one of the secured benches. He fought the g-forces and buckled the harness around his waist and secured it with a separate strap over his shoulders.

"The first batch worked, but we've got two more lock-ons. The second wave's adapting to our countermeasures—probably using radar frequency hopping. Yep, it's the S-75 Dvina. The Soviets knew how to build them, that’s for sure. Hold on, we’re going to try… nope. Mayday, mayday. Impact imminent. Urgent, this is callsign..."

Chapter 7

Time passed.

Dirk Lasher felt pain.

His head hurt in a way that was more than a headache. Deeper. It was a more aggressive, meaner pain than he had ever known.

He lost focus.

Time passed.

Chapter 8

It was raining.

Dirk awoke coughing, choking on water.

His head was in a puddle that was filling up.

He rolled over.

He could breathe.

Chapter 9

There was light in his eyes.

He opened them.

An errant sunray had found its way across his face.

He went to lift his hand to shade his eyes. His shoulder screamed at the movement.

“Okay, okay,” Lasher mumbled to himself.

He opened his eyes and tried to focus. It looked like morning, and it had been raining for a while. The rain had stopped, but being so far under the jungle canopy meant that water would drip down from the foliage for hours.

Dirk carefully tried to lift his arm again. He could, but his shoulder told him not to do anything sudden. He moved his hands up and down his torso. Everything hurt when he touched it, but nothing was sticking in or out of him.

He lay there for a good while longer, then carefully pushed himself up to his elbows. His stomach constricted and hurt. He laid back flat. There was pain on his left side—broken ribs.

The bench straps were still around him, but they weren’t attached to anything anymore.

He took a deep breath and could feel the twinge and pull on his left side—definitely a couple of broken ribs.

“Not the end of the world,” he said. “Yet.”

After a while, he tried to sit up again and could hold himself enough to look around. He pulled the straps off and let them fall into the ground mud.

The tops of some of the trees way up, a hundred feet or so, had been sheared off.

“That’s how the light is making its way down,” he said to himself. “Ok, Dirk, old buddy. Survival basics one-oh-one.”

He looked up and followed the trail of displaced treetops. Now, he could see smoke through the jungle in one direction.

“We were coming from the northeast,” he said, following the trail back with his eyes as he looked up.

In the old days, he carried a hunting knife with a compass built into the handle. No such luck now. He tried to angle his eyeline some from northeast to north so he would have a basic understanding of which way was which.

He heard a faint moaning. It was coming from the direction of the wreckage, maybe a hundred or two hundred feet off in that direction.

“If I can hear it this far away, others will too.”

He pushed with all his might and got himself to a full sitting position. He could smell the fire and fuel in the air.

His ribs hurt; he was starting to feel them with each inhale.

He heard the moaning again.

It took another several minutes of trying to get to his feet, but he eventually did.

Dirk carried his left arm tucked into his side, which helped the ribs, and made his way south to the beginning of the wreckage field. He followed the sound of the distressed person. As he made his way south, he could see parts of the plane and interior debris.

Then he had a thought. He stopped and looked down at himself. He was still wearing the tactical gear from the plane. He didn’t have any weapons or any supplies, but he had on good, thick leather jungle boots, tactical pants, and a thin, long-sleeved black shirt. Both the shirt and pants were made of synthetics with rip-stop technology.

Very lucky, he thought to himself.

He started moving again. He saw a male body twisted badly, half stuck to a tree trunk. It looked like Captain Taylor.

There were parts of the briefing display on the ground.

He kept slowly walking.

The fire smell intensified. As he progressed, the volume of wreckage became more prominent; he had to step over and walk around twisted pieces of metal and smoking objects like torn-out seats.

He stopped and listened. He heard the noise again; he was close. He saw a pair of legs sticking out from under what looked like one of the interior doors. He worked for a couple of minutes to find the leverage point to move the door without lighting his ribs on fire. Eventually, he did.

He turned and dry heaved a couple of times at the sight. The act nearly caused him to pass out from the pain in his side.

It was just the legs under the door, the top half of whoever it was ended up somewhere else.

He heard the moaning again.

He slowly turned in a circle and saw her.

It was Specialist Bonnington.

He followed the imprint in the mud where she had landed and slid a good way, now pressed up against a large section of the plane's exterior. Her right shoulder was too low, and her right arm hung off to the side at a funny angle. She was unconscious but moaning out loud in pain. Dirk could see she was taking shallow breaths.

He knelt to check her pulse. It was faint but steady. When he knelt, his knees made all kinds of popping sounds, realigning because of the movement. Convinced she was stable, he tried to stand back up but instead slipped awkwardly onto one knee. His ribs lit up. He waited for everything to settle, then forced himself up using the plane exterior as a counterbalance.

“Hold on, soldier,” Lasher said, looking down at Specialist Bonnington. He scanned as far as he could see, looking for any other signs of any other people. He didn’t see any. His internal clock started ticking. He began to get that sense of being watched; it felt like pressure on the back of his neck.

“We’ve got to get away from the wreckage,” he said, looking back down at Bonnington. “But you’re not going to wake up any time soon, and I can’t carry you very far with my ribs screaming like they are.”

He stood and scanned everything again.

“Think, Dirk!” he scolded himself.

Out of the clearing to his left, East, he saw red-looking small growths on a green leafy plant that was low to the ground. He slowly walked over, pulled one of the leaves off, and held it up to the morning sky. He then rubbed the leaf between his hands to smash it up. He brought the smashed leaf up to his nose and took a deep inhale.

“Thank God,” Dirk looked relieved. He quickly started stripping the thin branches and vines of their leaves, stuffing as many as he could into two of the secure pockets on his tactical pants. When the pockets were full, he pulled off about ten more leaves, folded five of them into his mouth, and turned to head back to Specialist Bonnington.

He pushed the folded leaves to the side of his mouth and bit down on the edge of them to release the liquid juice inside them. He felt a wall of relief immediately. It was almost a physical event like he had passed into the cool air conditioning at the grocery store after entering the sliding doors.

After another moment, he felt the pain relief move through his body. Since he hurt everywhere, he could easily follow the plant's soothing effect.

“Be careful; don’t chew too much at a time,” he told himself. If he chewed too much, he would lose the mental sharpness a moderate dose brought.

The Coca plant could be refined into narcotics, but in its natural form, when used in small, moderate doses, it was the equivalent of a handful of aspirin and maybe four or five cups of coffee. It brought you right up to the jittery line without crossing it, instead giving you energy and mental clarity. Too much, and the effects transformed into jitters and a loss of focus.

Dirk felt the pain subside everywhere. He could still feel his ribs, but the sharp, jarring pain was gone.

Suddenly, he heard the sound of a helicopter. Then he saw it, back maybe a hundred feet - where he had woken up, where the tops of the trees had been sheared off. He couldn’t make out the markings, but it clearly wasn’t a US asset.

Four thick black ropes dropped down from the craft.

He only had moments.

He moved as quickly as he could, not fast, but with purpose. He hobbled back to Specialist Bonnington.

“I hope you survive this, but we’ve got to put some distance between here and us.”

He picked her up in a fireman's carry, favoring his right side, and fast-walked into the jungle as quickly as he could.

Chapter 10

Lasher carried Bonnington several hundred yards into the inhospitable jungle. He found a spot that looked safe enough, even though he knew no place was truly safe in the Darién Gap. His hope was that the crash and fire had scared away enough of the wildlife, who would slowly return later once the smoke and fuel smell subsided.

He put Bonnington down and backtracked. He wanted to see who had repelled down and to watch what they did. Were they gathering intelligence from the wreckage or actively hunting for survivors? He needed to know.

As Dirk carefully walked back, he bit into the coca leaf, juicing his system and flooding it with the equivalent of a caffeine rush. He needed to be on full alert.

He found a vantage point well back into the jungle where he could see most of the wreckage site. It was much more extensive than he had realized when he was standing in it.

There were four soldiers in total. They wore black combat tactical gear and carried AKM assault rifles. The AKM was the cheap third-world version of the Soviet military rifle AK-47. It provided about the same stopping power and accuracy, but it was a little lighter and made with fewer parts, giving it a heck of a kick but making it mass-producible at a significantly lower manufacturing cost.

Dirk’s prior training, field experiences, and the coca plant all had him itching to do something. He wasn’t a duck-and-cover kind of field operative, but he couldn’t formulate any approach that led to success. Even if these four ops were completely incompetent, which he had no reason to suspect they were, even if they were, one wounded forty-year-old bar bouncer didn't stand a chance against four well-armed men in combat gear – no matter how much coca he chewed.

He watched the men move around. They found some of the remains he had, and they seemed to be surveying the damaged wreckage when one of them knelt down near where Bonnington had been. He looked at the ground and seemed to pick up on Dirk's footprints. After studying for a bit, he stood up and walked over to the coca plant. The man stood there for a good while, then walked back, now completely focused on the ground, and followed the footprints with his eyes, ultimately looking up and staring directly at Lasher’s location.

Dirk felt a rush of fear. He couldn’t tell if the man saw him or if he was just following the visible trail into the jungle.

The enemy soldier kept his gaze on the jungle in Dirk's direction. He called out to his companions, pointed to the tracks, then pointed to the jungle. Dirk couldn’t tell, but it felt like the guy was pointing directly at him.

They formed up into a modified chevron formation and started to walk in Dirk's direction. The man who had found the trail was in the lead, with one soldier to his right and two staggered to his left.

Lasher started chewing the coca leaves as fast as he could. This was probably the end.

Suddenly, one of the men went down, immediately followed by the report of what sounded like an M16.

Then another, then the other two. The reports from a second rifle rang out in concert with the first. Then Dirk felt a rush of relief so unexpectedly it surprised him. Jack Williams and Benjamin Blake came into view. They looked beat up. Both men approached with their weapons still at the ready, barrel up, eyes on the sites, elbows in, slightly crouched as they advanced.

They both wore jungle combat fatigues and carried a rifle configuration Lasher didn’t recognize.

Williams issued a hand signal, Blake nodded, and they split up, still on the alert and surveying the area.

“Jack! Don’t shoot; it's Dirk!” Lasher yelled.

Both Williams and Blake snapped their view around to Dirk’s direction. They both stopped and crouched down.

“Jack!” Dirk yelled again.

“Come forward with your hands raised!” Williams shouted back.

Lasher stood out from his cover, raised both hands high, and slowly walked out into the clearing. There was just the moment when Dirk felt like they should have recognized him. Then they did, both lowering their weapons and Jack Williams walking to Dirk, looking ready to give him a hug.

“Ribs are broken,” Lasher said to avoid the embrace. Williams smiled and hugged him anyway.

“Okay,” Lasher said after a moment.

Blake walked up with a big smile on his face. “Fashionably late?” he said, extending a hand that, this time, Lasher took.

“I thought I was here to save you two, but you just ended up saving me,” Dirk said.

“All we’ve done is clear the way for you to jump into the pools deep end with us,” Williams said, stepping away from Dirk after their hug.

“How did you two end up here?” Lasher asked. “Where are we?”

Blake continued smiling. “You made the LZ,” – landing zone – “Chief. A bit of an exaggerated entrance, but still.”

“So, we’re on the large plateau we were targeting? Not much of a stealth insertion,” Lasher said.

“Cruz is pretty squared away,” Williams informed Lasher. “They have the best intelligence I’ve seen. I think there are clearly still assets inside that they’re working against. My point is that this was never a clandestine mission. We were fooling ourselves, and they have been one step ahead of us at every turn.”

All three stood in silence for a moment.

“What are those rifles?” Lasher finally asked, curious.

Blake answered. “M4 Carbine’s. They still fire 556 but have a lower profile.”

“Interesting,” Dirk said. “So, what are you two doing running around out here?”

“Yes, sir,” Blake said. “I knew this area was an emergency landing zone in case we went belly up. Jack and I managed to avoid being captured, so we headed up here. We watched the crash last night. It was a fireworks show that lit up the whole sky for miles. We were halfway here and decided to see if we could find anything, like a radio, in the wreckage.”

“I’ve got a survivor back this way, one of the Delta operatives,” Dirk pointed back behind him.

“Okay,” Blake said. “Let Jack and me look through the wreckage then we’ll meet you back there in ten or less.”

Lasher nodded. He and Williams exchanged a look, then Dirk turned and headed back to where he had left Specialist Bonnington while Blake and Williams did their search. When Lasher got back to her she was partially lucid. He knelt down beside her.

“Take it easy, Bonnington,” Dirk said to her, trying to make eye contact, but her eyes were rolling around unfocused.

“What happened?” she asked, confused.

“We were shot down. We crashed here in the landing zone, and I’ve made contact with a couple of soldiers from the 470th,” he put his hand on her good shoulder, the left one.

“Tell Cap I can make it,” she said. She clearly wasn't going anywhere, but this was probably part of the mental work she did to be successful in the special forces unit.

“It’s just you and me who made it, kid,” Lasher said, finally making eye contact.

Her expression was hard to read. Then she said, “Call me Bonsai please, sir. I’m going to get mad if you keep calling me kid, and I can’t stand Bonnington; it sounds like Mary Poppins.” She coughed; blood came out of her mouth. “That can’t be good,” she tried to joke.

Lasher quickly reached over and motioned for her to tip her head back, which she did. He angled her head so he could see into her mouth. “I think you just bit the heck out of your inside cheeks,” he said looking in and seeing the scarring.

Bonsai moved her tongue around and after a moment she nodded in the affirmative. “How did we survive?”

Lasher grimaced, it was the question of the day. “I was trying to figure that out too,” he pointed up and to the north and east where the tops of the trees had been sheared off. “I think the pilots were pretty good. They angled for this plateau, and I think they were able to greatly reduce the speed, somehow. The wreckage is not over that large an area suggesting to me a slower deceleration. Between that, the sturdy structure of the MC-130 probably helped. I remember there was a similar crash when I was in the service about ten years ago in 1988 in Alaska. Just like us, several of the crew survived the crash, under about these same conditions and altitude.”

Bonsai coughed when she tried to talk, then, “Alaska sounds wonderful compared to this humid swamp in hell,” she tried to move her arm to indicate the local surroundings but her hand just kind of twitched and she made a face of pain.

“Ya,” Dirk watched and then looked at her right shoulder, “we’re going to need to deal with your shoulder and arm.” The angle of the shoulder was clearly a problem.

She tried to look over at it but whatever was wrong prevented her from moving her head very far to her right.

Lasher reached into his pocket and produced five of the coca leaves he had grabbed earlier. He organized them and folded them in half, then made sure he had her attention. “Put these in your mouth, like you’re chewing tobacco. Bite down on the edges of the leaf; you’ll feel it when you do. It will take some practice to get a steady dose of the right amount. Try not to chew too much at once as you’ll get a headache and the jitters, which you absolutely do not need with that shoulder.

Bonsai looked at him unsure, then nodded.

“It’s bitter,” Dirk said as he watched her push them into the side of the mouth and then bite down. She made a face at the taste, then almost instantly her face relaxed and some of the tension left her cheeks and neck.

“Oh,” she said.

Dirk could see her physically relaxing.

“Give it a minute out two,” he said, putting his hand very gently on her right shoulder to gauge her reaction.

There was blood on her clothing, but there was blood everywhere from all the scrapes and scratches on both of them. Lasher didn’t see an excessive amount near her shoulder, he hoped it was a structural wound instead of a puncture or break.

“We need to get your outer fatigue off so I can see how bad the shoulder is,” he said, running his hand from her neck to arm to feel for anything compound or obvious. He didn’t find anything.

“I can’t move it,” she said. Just the start of tears were in the corners of her eyes.

“There’s a good chance it's just out of socket. I don’t feel anything that suggests it’s broken.”

“A miracle,” she tried to smile but her lips were quivering a little out of frustration.

“I think it might be. Let me get a look at it; I can put it back in its socket if it's out, which will give you a lot of your mobility back outside of the bruising and swelling.”

She chewed a few more times on the coca leaf. “I can’t believe this stuff is legal,” she joked.

“Na,” Dirk smiled. “You’ll fail your Army drug tests for the next ninety days.”

She nodded. “Okay. In for a penny. Let's take a look.”

Bonsai looked better, some color back in her face. Dirk nodded and helped her lean forward. He undid the big buttons and slid the shirt off her right shoulder. Her black undershirt showed more blood than had soaked through to the fatigue, but still not enough to worry Lasher.

Lasher ran his hands along the base of her neck down the outside of her shoulder and down to her tricep. “I can feel the ball joint. I don’t feel anything broken. The cartilage will require surgery, but I can pop it back into place and you will get maybe 65% usage, which could be the difference out here.”

She visibly hardened. “Give me something to bite down on,” she looked around for a stick.

“Roll up your fatigue sleeve. It’s probably best not to put random bark and sticks into our mouth here in the gap,” Lasher rolled the half removed fatigue top and put it in her mouth for her. She got it positioned, then nodded.

The best way to reseat a shoulder would be through what they called reduction; basically gently using light weights and gravity to encourage the skeletal frame to return to its base state. Of course, the option here at the crash site would be a little more direct. Instead of waiting Dirk lifted her arm, pulling out to allow the ball around the socket it had slipped out of, then pushing the arm above the shoulder.

He felt it slide back in.

Bonsai clearly felt it also, she went beet red in the face and had an expression of intense pain. But she didn’t make a sound. When it was over she was physically crying, but not mentally crying. She was a tough soldier. No sobbing or anything, just the unavoidable physical reaction of the body to pain.

Dirk supported her arm until she regained her composure, then he helped her slowly lower it back down to her side.

“We need to immobilize your arm for the next little bit,” Lasher said as they went through getting her arm down. “It’s going to swell up a lot. The coca will help with the swelling too. It’s going to be a dull throbbing pain now. If it gets too much for the coca to handle let me know, there are other options out there, but they’ll screw with your head, so it's a last resort.”

She nodded then, looking behind Lasher, suddenly recoiled as though she had spotted an approaching threat. Lasher turned quickly. It was Williams and Blake.

“They’re friendlies. I know them both,” Lasher said to her to calm her.

He then turned, without standing, to face the two approaching men. “Gentlemen, I would like to introduce Specialist Bonsai. She’s the Delta team RTO.” - Radio Telephone Operator. He turned back to Bonsai. “This is Captain Blake,” he indicated Blake, “and my friend, the iron marshmallow, Jack Williams.”

Williams smiled at the name, it was a standard military term for a fat guy who could hang with the best of them. A true backhanded compliment.

Bonsai saluted Blake with her left hand.

“Check the field salutes, Specialist,” Blake said.

Lasher turned to face her with his back to Blake and Williams. He rolled his eyes and smiled. Her face lit up and she did everything she could not to let a smile crack her lips as Blake was still looking right at her.

“Yes, sir,” she said to Blake instead. As an enlisted soldier you picked up the fact pretty quickly that saying yes, sir got you out of almost any possible situation.

“We’ve got to get moving, Dirk,” Williams said. “There’s nothing salvageable in the wreckage, but it's just a matter of time before more helicopters show up. They’re also probably sending in several squads from the south; the Colombia border is only a couple miles that way. The only thing saving us right now is that the climb up here is nearly impossible. From any side.”

Chapter 11

It was mid-afternoon. The jungle was humid. Lasher, Williams, and Blake were all drenched in sweat. They had been moving since morning, maybe eight or nine hours ago, taking turns carrying the two-man stretcher Bonsai was on.

“I’m feeling a lot better,” she said when they stopped for a break. “I think I can walk.”

Dirk looked down at her. He had been carrying the rear of the long, narrow construction, which he had expertly made using local tree branches and vines. He extended a hand; she took it with her left hand, and he pulled her up to her feet.

“Whoa,” she said, her head spinning.

“Take it easy,” Lasher said, steadying her while watching closely.

“Head rush,” she said. It seemed to be clearing.

Bonsai was a fit twenty-six-year-old. She was tall for a female, about average height for a male, still the shortest of the four. Her face was narrow and her chin came to almost a point. Her hair was cut short; it would be a regulation haircut for either gender.

“Can you walk, Specialist?” Blake said, coming over, interrupting.

Lasher looked at him with his head tilted just a little.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Good. Better to be an asset than a liability,” he turned and walked a few feet in the direction they were heading, looking into the jungle at their path.

Dirk turned to Williams, who made a specific gesture, one that said something along the lines of Ya, I know, but there's more, be patient; it’s not all bad.

Dirk nodded and stepped over, walking up to Blake.

“Captain,” Lasher said as he approached. “We might as well use this opportunity to put a plan in place.”

Blake turned his head. “I’ve been trying to decide on the best course of action.”

Lasher stood by him, looking at the dense jungle ahead. “The plan we came in with was to initiate a rescue of the fighting force and to reform here and continue on with the mission.”

Blake nodded. “That’s what I’m struggling with.”

“Struggling?”

“Williams and I had eyes on the compound. It’s not even really a compound but I don’t know how else to describe it. They’ve beaten down the jungle foliage in an area east of here near these odd impressions in the jungle floor. They’re using the terrain to hold them.”

“How was it that you and your men got separated?” Lasher asked.

Blake’s features went dark. “I wouldn't have done them any good being rounded up too. At least now I can work on a plan.”

Dirk was going to press the issue, but Williams came sprinting up with Bonsai right behind him. “We’ve got a tail. We need to get moving now!” Williams kept going past them, not waiting for a response.

Lasher looked up the ridge behind them. He could see what they saw, four armed men, exactly like the four from the helicopter, were working their way down the hillside. They were considerably behind them, maybe a good ten to fifteen minutes. But they were moving fast, allowing gravity to help their descent.

“We left an easy trail to follow,” Blake said with a hint of an accusatory tone. He was looking at Bonsai when he said it.

“Jack, do you remember the spike traps the Wargandi made?” Dirk said as the three of them started moving and caught up to Williams.

Jack looked at Lasher. “No.”

“Right. I was with Kimberly when all that went down. Nuts. Okay. We need to eliminate this threat. I know how to make spike traps that will solve this, but they will take about ten minutes to make.”

“Do you want to run ahead of us to buy some time?” Williams asked.

“No, that's the problem. You three would just walk right into them, they’re near impossible to see if you aren’t looking for them.”

Blake was close by and overheard the conversation.

“Chief Lasher,” Blake was using his Captain's voice as they continued moving quickly (running would not be the correct term given the jungle density), “I’ll ask you to please propose tactical options to me for consideration. We need clean command and control, and this is still my mission.”

While a Warrant Officer in the Army, Lasher always had a boss but rarely oversight in the field. He was not used to the micro-management style. He was also still very angry right under the surface, and he was in no mood to suffer fools.

“Thank you, Captain,” Lasher stated, “We don’t have time now to merge these two commands, but I am still attached to Delta Force, and until we rescue the hostages, your company, my chain of command starts and stops with General Hampton. Now, that said, we both, of course, understand the importance of the military chain of command, so I am completely open to your acting as a liaison and us collaborating when there is time.”

Blake’s back straightened, and he looked ready to give a speech when Williams stepped between the two as they continued to move through the jungle.

“Girls, we do not have time for this,” he said to both of them. “We’re deep in enemy territory, we have an armed tactical squad no more than fifteen minutes behind us, and, if they don’t overtake us and gun us down from behind in cold blood, there are just the four of us, banged up badly, against seventy-five US Special Forces, and who knows how many of these FARC geniuses patrolling the area.”

Dirk relaxed. Williams could frustrate him, but he could also calm him as the two were starting to see the world basically the same way.

“It’s worse than that,” Lasher said. “General Hampton told me he was torn between sending in the Rangers or just carpet bombing this whole place to avoid any more tactical losses.”

“Jesus,” Blake said.

Williams nodded along, looking just as surprised.

“But first things first,” Dirk stepped in the front and merged onto a game trail, which would make movement a lot easier. “Captain Blake, do you have a tactical approach to our current pursuers?”

Blake’s face showed several emotions, then finally. “I’m open to suggestions.”

Lasher rolled his eyes without trying to hide the look from Blake. He looked back at Specialist Bonsai. “Specialist, can you fastwalk? Even for a short way, maybe fifteen minutes?”

She was red in the face; moving at their fast-paced pace was taking a toll.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

Lasher knew she really meant, “I’ll try.” But this was life or death, so he took it.

“Good,” he turned back to Blake and Williams. “Here’s the plan. We need to move on this game trail to try and get some separation from them. It’s a good trail. They won't know we’ve accelerated, and even if they did, they can’t just start running as fast as they can blind, so we’ll get the time. Then, we can set up an ambush. I can make some spike traps, and we can position you two in a split configuration on either side of the path.”

Blake looked like he wanted to complain, but he didn’t as Lasher quickly stepped back to Specialist Bonsai and helped her move faster, now running past Blake and Williams down the game trail.

The trail was flat and well-traveled, so they made good time. Bonsai moved at an accelerated pace for almost 40 minutes, which was an amazing feat, given that she had dropped out of a transport plane less than 24 hours ago. Lasher was even just starting to notice the exertion when she called out that she had reached her limit.

“Bite into the leaf; it will help,” he told her as they slowed.

Dirk looked around. There were Balsa trees everywhere. “I need a utility knife,” he said to Williams, who unsnapped a blade from his belt and handed it to Dirk. Lasher looked at it, it was sharp enough, but the handle quality had a cheap feel to it. He weighed it in his hand for a moment. “Is this standard issue?” he asked, turning to Blake.

Blake didn’t really understand the question. “The knife? Sure, why?”

“The handle is plastic,” Dirk said, expertly flipping the knife over in his hand so the handle was at eye level with him and Blake.

“So?” Blake asked.

Lasher shook his head. “Captain Blake, work with Jack and figure out an ambush configuration. I’m going to set these three trees up maybe twenty feet back” – he indicated two on one side of the trail and one on the other. They were all youngish trees with branches extending onto the path, above where the local animals moved by. “Specialist, work with me on the trees and pay close attention. If we have to do this again you will need to know how to do it on your own.”

She nodded, was unsure if she should check with Blake first, then decided to simply follow Lasher.

The noise of Blake and Williams talking low was audible but unintelligible, given the soft tones. Lasher spoke in the same manner.

Dirk explained what he was doing and then quickly began working. It wasn’t super complicated, but parts did have to be done a certain way. He held the knife backward, facing him, and ran it along some of the thicker tree branches, stripping away the little offshoots and two and three-inch leaves shaped like elongated hearts.

As he worked, he wanted to hear Bonsai’s thoughts on Captain Blake. He started with Captain Taylor, her commanding officer, until the crash.

“Captain Taylor seemed squared away,” Dirk said to get the conversation started.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Call me Dirk; I’m not a sir anymore,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” it wasn't a joke; it was hard for younger squared away enlisted to switch to first names with superiors having just learned all the discipline to not use first names. Then, “Okay, Mr. Dirk.”

He smiled while he held some vines in his teeth as he started to pull the branches back to create the necessary tension. “What do you think of Captain Blake,” he asked when he tied off the vines.

She looked at him for a few moments. “I don’t have opinions about officers, sir,” she said.

“You’re a good soldier, Bonsai. I can tell. But we’re going to have to make some decisions out here in the bush.”

“Yes, s.., mister,” she said, struggling.

“Sir is fine,” Lasher said.

She looked relieved.

“Yes, sir.”

Dirk nodded. “Let me ask this another way,” he said, finishing and moving over to another tree. He had to pull Bonsai back as she almost stepped near the trigger. He pointed, and she nodded. “Can you follow my instructions even if Blake tells you to do something different?”

“Yes, sir,” she didn’t hesitate. “We covered all that in basic. I was on guard duty, and some General started banging on the door, ordering me to let them in. I’m a private at the time still wet behind the ears. Our Drill Instructors were very clear; I could only be relieved by them. So, I didn’t let the General in. He was screaming and losing his mind.”

Dirk smiled; they had done the same thing twenty years ago when he went through basic.

“Good, then you understand. I’m friends with Williams, but you and I are still Delta Squad, and our orders are our orders. With Captain Taylor gone, I’m next up in the chain of command as long as we’re in the field or until another Delta officer shows up.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, sounding a little relieved.

He finished the second spike trap and walked across the game trail to a third tree. Then he had a thought.

“Specialist, why don’t you make this one? You watched me do it twice.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Should I take my arm out of this sling?”

He shook his head. “No, but feel free to use what you can of it in the sling as long as you don’t feel any pressure in your shoulder or any shooting pain.”

She nodded. He handed her the hunting knife and stepped back.

Bonsai went to work. Dirk had to help her with a few things; the hardest part was configuring the trigger without having one of the branches come loose and stab you in the gut.

It took her about three times as long as it took Dirk to make the other two traps, but when she finished, it was functional.

“Good job,” Dirk put his fist out, and Bonsai gave him a fist bump. “Be careful. Let's go see what our dynamic duo has worked out. We probably have another ten minutes.”

He took a few steps straight backward, as did she, and then they turned and walked forward on the trail for maybe twenty feet.

“Blake, I can see the top of your head,” Lasher slowed still on the trail.

Blake stood up.

Williams stood up from the other side of the trail.

“Damit, Sergeant,” Blake looked at Williams's location. “I told you to go farther down, then we’d have them in a crossfire.”

Dirk looked at the angle Blake was proposing. He immediately understood. He didn’t say anything but knew he would need to back Williams if Blake was too stupid to listen.

“Captain,” Williams said, it didn’t come out soft. “I’m not going to position us so that we’re in each other's line of fire.”

Blake got irritated. “I told you; you fire at an upward angle; I’ll fire at a down angle. We’ll miss each other and have them in a multi-level crossfire.”

Dirk looked at Jack. “What was that idiot sergeant's name we both reported to in Germany?”

Blake lost it. “Chief, I need you to maintain military discipline! Speak when spoken to. Do not interrupt me when I am teaching an enlisted man!”

Both Lasher and Williams ignored him.

“I can see his face,” Williams said to Dirk. “Buford?”

“No, not Dwaine. The other one, with the big lips.”

“I just remember we called him spaz...”

Blake was beside himself. He started to say something; Lasher snapped at him, stepping to within a foot from him and getting right in his face.

“This is basic infantry one-oh-one,” Lasher was being very aggressive. “You have made the most basic of mistakes. We’ve seen it before.”

“Chief Lasher, stand down,” Blake was trying to match Dirk's energy.

“That’s another mistake. I can’t get into your head, but for a twenty-five-year-old kid five days into being a Captain who received and lost his command within a span of 72 hours, you seem to have lost touch with reality. Jack is no more an enlisted sergeant than I am still a W3. If we’re stuck with our last grade, I was a GS-15 in the DIA, and with General Hampton reactivating me, that makes me a damn Colonel standing here arguing with a green wet behind the ears Captain four minutes before an engagement that could get us all killed!”

“I see them!” Bonsai whispered very loudly, her voice raspy.

Lasher made a hand gesture for Bonsai to move near Williams and disappear, then he pushed Blake hard onto the ground and took the M4 off his shoulder on the way down. Blake was beside himself; Lasher leaned into him in the low position and put his face centimeters away.

“Don’t give our position away, and don’t do anything,” he said, pushing Blake into the mud and putting his knee into his chest to hold him down, quickly sighting the rifle and aiming it down the path in the direction the four enemy soldiers were approaching from.

The soldiers were well-trained and well-disciplined. They were advancing carefully; by this time, they should have noticed the tracks they were following were running, not walking, and they would have the same sense of how much time was needed, equating to how far down the game trail the ambush might be.

They had a point man working his way down the left edge of the trail. He crouched low, his weapon sighted and primed. He advanced a dozen feet and stopped, and then the three behind him, in a spread formation, advanced to the prior person's last location. This was a solid cover and concealment strategy when on a straight lane.

Lasher immediately realized that the point man would trip the first spike trap, but the others were so far behind him that the trap would serve the exact opposite as an ambush; it would alert the others, only taking out a quarter of the fighting force and giving away the advantage. They needed to change their strategy. Dirk tried to signal to Williams, but the combination of dense jungle and Williams's single focus on the approaching soldiers made it impossible.

Dirk looked down at Captain Blake, who was fuming but was at least smart enough not to be making any noise or any distractions.

Lasher took the M4 strap off his shoulder and pushed the weapon into Blake’s chest sideways.

In a low but intense whisper, “Captain Blake, the ambush is about to go FUBAR. I’ll fix it. Count to twenty and then open up on them. I’ll get behind them. They look squared away. Their training will tell them to charge the ambush. That’s actually what we need.”

Blake was processing. Lasher grabbed his face and made him look him in the eye.

“Got it?” he said very forcefully.

“I got it,” Blake was going sideways; it happened; after several days in the harsh conditions of the Gap, even a hardened soldier could hit a wall. It’s a different set of skills and adaptability required out here. Some people had it, others didn’t, and it was less a measure of toughness and more a function of adaptability.

Instead of a reply, Lasher simply disappeared into the bush, adapting to the situation while Blake’s head spun.

Chapter 12

Lasher moved about twenty feet off the trail and headed back the way they had come. He had to be careful with noise discipline; twenty feet was a world away from a sightline in the dense mess, but still very close for noise.

The jungle plants rubbed against his face and neck; he couldn’t risk clearing a pathway. He could smell the pursuers, sweat, fear, garlic, and BO. When he got past them, he started to angle back to the trail. Blake should be opening up with the M4 at any moment.

Then Lasher froze; more fear ran up his spine. There was a fifth man just off to this side of the trail. He was down low in a hasty hide with a sniper rifle aiming up the trail.

Instinct took over. Lasher moved quickly, Jack’s hunting knife in his right hand. He bit into the coca leaves, but they were chewed out. He quickly spit them out, slammed a handful from his pocket into his mouth, and bit down. He felt the rush and moved.

Finding the sniper was lucky on a couple of different levels. Lasher’s plan had been to use the hunting knife from behind the group as Blake and Williams fired at them from up the path. It was dangerous being down-range with the live fire, but this way, he could make sure they didn’t scatter and get away, or worse, not charge the ambush and instead reform into a tactical advantage. But if he could get the sniper rifle, it would be much easier.

Dirk was on the kneeling sniper quickly; before the man could react, he ran the blade across his throat and held his hand over the man's mouth to prevent any noise. It was a gruesome kill, very close and very personal. Dirk had to take just a moment to push the emotions away. He wanted to break down in frustration at having to commit the act while, at the same time, he was fighting off the satisfied rage that was trying to trick him into being even more savage.

It should not have felt as satisfying as it did to feel the life fade out of a stranger.

Then, the emotional rush passed, and he felt the familiar wave of sadness and despair. He didn’t know how long it would take to get over the bereavement and feelings of loss, but he did know it would take more than the short week it had been so far.

He wiped tears of rage from his eyes and hurriedly searched the downed sniper. His first surprise was the man had a radio headset. His second surprise was that he could see another sniper about fifteen feet up the trail on the other side, ready to take a shot at Blake, whose head Lasher could see over the bush line and who so far had failed to open fire at the approaching men.

Dirk pushed air out his nose and sprinted forward, moving swiftly in a low crouch. There was a moment of danger when he had to cross over the path, but none of the advancing soldiers were looking back this way. He employed the same tactics to the second sniper with the same results, including the emotional rush and problem with the wrong kind of feelings.

SWOOSH!!! SMACK!!!

One of the advancing soldiers hit the spike trap trigger. It was a brutal kill, the tree branches coming loose, snapping around, and embedding six-inch sharpened spiked branches into the chest and stomach. It could go worse; Dirk remembered one of the Jivaroan headhunters taking a spike to the groin. Yuck.

Dirk checked the sniper rifle; it was primed and ready. He had a perfect shot at the back of the farthest man, but he didn’t want to take the first shot so as not to confuse the enemy as to which way the ambush was coming from. He needed the soldiers to charge forward into the other two traps.

But neither Blake nor Williams had fired yet.

Then they did. It was way too late, and Lasher was frustrated, but there was still time. Just as he had opined, the black-clad soldiers were well-trained. They didn’t let themselves get pinned down, and they correctly assessed the direction of the ambush, so they sprinted forward, almost instantly tripping the two remaining traps on each side of the trail. Lasher’s trap sprung and took out the man on that side. Bonsai’s trap spun low and ran a spike through a man's ankle. He dropped and started screaming.

Somehow, neither Williams nor Blake were hitting anything. Williams was firing in successive three-round bursts, but he had a bad angle. Blake had the kill shots, but he was shooting sparsely in short single-round volleys.

Dirk blew air out his nose again, steadied himself, and squeezed the trigger. He had the scope lined up, but the shot missed.

“Nuts,” he said with no time to go through a formal process of re-zeroing the scope, instead trying to calculate an offset, but he didn’t see where the first round landed. He fired a second shot to the same effect. He couldn’t be firing blindly back up into his team, so he dropped the sniper rifle and broke into a fast sprint, hunting knife low in his right hand, his run slightly crouched.

One of the soldiers had closed on Blake and was firing a massive volley at his position. Dirk stabbed the screaming man with the spike through his ankle in the back as he ran by. The screams went quiet. There were two more, Dirk had lost track of the second to last man, all his focus on the one emptying magazine after magazine at Blake. He closed as the man dropped a spent magazine out of his AKM just as Lasher leaped in the air and landed on his back. There wasn't a struggle; the knife went into the side of his neck on the way down. Dirk rolled forward out of the landing and turned just as the final soldier completed a roundhouse kick directly to his broken ribs.

He slid to the ground with the blow, his head spinning, clutching the impact spot out of primal instinct. He partially blacked out; the pain was magically intense. He saw the man reach for a Kukri on his belt (basically a slightly shorter version of a machete with a thicker blade at the end for easier chopping in a jungle setting).

There wasn't anything Dirk could do, still clutching his ribs.

The soldier swung back with his Kukri, looking for all the world like he was going to try to behead Dirk on the spot while he was down.

Then suddenly BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM. Williams opened up on him from across the path, and Bonsai, having grabbed the M4 off Blake, fired into him from just a few feet away.

Lasher passed out.

Chapter 13

Dirk and Lisa were sitting on a dock overlooking the ocean near Miami Beach. The sun was rising; the morning had a cool edge to it, which would turn into a comfortable Florida day.

“You got a little unlucky with where your ribs got busted,” Lisa said.

She looked amazing to Dirk, almost glowing in the morning light.

She continued, “You just refuse to use the defensive stance. We went over this ten years ago. Kokutsu-dachi, you’ve got to shift to it because when you're leaning forward in your attack stance, you always have your left arm up too high. It opened that spot. What would Matsu say?”

Matsu was their instructor in the Dragon Dojo in Panama City a decade ago.

Dirk smiled at the memory. “He would say, ‘Dim flower, you still love this flying donkeyman? How many blows to the head did you take in training?’”

She smiled. “That sounds close, but it doesn’t have the same bite.”

They both smiled; she reached out and took his hand. Dirk was happy for the first time in a long time.

“You also should have gotten the equipment off the first group of soldiers that Jack and that Blake guy shot at the crash site,” she said.

“I know,” Dirk returned, drinking a hot cup of coffee that was the exact right temperature. “I’m rusty, and I’m forgetting some obvious stuff. I won’t make the same mistake; we’ve got six FARC soldiers here with all kinds of gear.”

Lisa nodded. “What about Captain Blake? It didn’t look good, that guy firing nearly point blank into him.”

Dirk was surprised he didn’t feel anything negative. The man had just been murdered right in front of him. He started to feel guilty at the happiness given the situation. But what situation? They were sitting here on their dock, having the perfect morning. This was what was real; the other stuff was a bad fever dream. Lisa was fine. Everything was fine. He shouldn’t feel bad about feeling good.

“No, Sweetie,” Lisa said.

She started to continue but Dirk spoke over her.

“I know,” he said. It sounded forced. “It’s not fair,” he finally said for lack of anything better to say.

When he looked over again, she was gone. His feelings of joy turned to melancholy, then sadness, then depression.

“Come on!” he called out, frustrated. “If this is my imagination and my dream, why not let her stay?”

Chapter 14

“Come on, Dirk, we have to get moving,” Jack Williams said.

He was kneeling by Lasher's downed form. Specialist Bonsai was on the other side in about the same position.

“It’s not fair,” Dirk said, still unconscious but working to come around. “Why can’t she stay?” he seemed sad.

Bonsai looked at Williams quizzically.

“He just lost his wife,” Williams answered the unspoken question. “The funeral was less than a week ago, about six days.”

Bonsai seemed sincerely upset by the news. “No wonder he seemed so pissed off when Top hazed him.”

Now Williams had a quizzical look.

“It’s a thing,” Bonsai said. “Usually, Top puts them in their place. It's calculated, Captain Taylor explained it to us. He said there isn’t time to waste on outsiders when on a mission. Better to teach them their place up front than have a problem in the field.”

“Sure,” Williams said, “I take it that your Top was the one who got the lesson?”

She seemed kind of proud like Lasher was her father or something. It was a shift from her earlier loyalties but logical given he had saved her life, and now she had helped to save his. “First person I ever saw best Top. Even Cap wouldn’t mess with Top in a fair fight. Cap don’t fight fair, of course, but you get the idea.”

A look washed over her. “Didn’t fight fair, I guess I mean. Past tense.”

Williams had seen this dozens of times, if not more. He knew Lasher, too. Dirk had a few screws loose, as did anyone who had succeeded in this line of work. Lasher could tolerate a lot, but he absolutely lost his mind when it came to macho posturing.

“What is this a second wake in a week?” Lasher was awake and listening.

Everyone looked relieved.

“Can you stand?” Williams asked.

Dirk tried to sit up. He flinched and didn’t move much.

“Oh my,” he said. “They hurt much worse than when I woke up last time, and last time, it was the worst pain I had ever felt.”

“We were moving pretty good through the jungle, can we make another stretcher?” Bonsai asked.

“Specialist,” Williams said, very grounded. “We’re not in the jungle yet, not the thick stuff. This is all still the rocky downslope from the plateau. We’ve got another three or four clicks; then we’ll be in the brutal terrain.”

Bonsai allowed her face to show surprise.

“How much jungle training do you have?” Lasher asked from his incline position.

“Yes, sir. I've been through extensive jungle training as part of my Special Forces Qualification Course and Ranger School. We did a lot of work in dense forest environments, learning navigation, survival skills, and combat tactics. I also completed the Jungle Operations Training Course in Hawaii, which covered advanced techniques for moving through and fighting in jungle terrain. As the RTO, my primary expertise is in communications, ensuring our team stays connected even in the toughest conditions. While I've got solid training in jungle warfare, I have to admit, the conditions so far are unlike anything I've faced before. It’s pushing my skills to the limit. If this isn’t the thick of it, I don’t know…” she trailed off.

“Okay, good,” Lasher said. “So you know the basics. You’ll do fine,” he paused, then, “The big difference between your training in Hawaii and the jungles here is the predators, and the density of the bush we’re heading into. You heard my speech on the plane. Just don’t be stupid, don’t lose focus, and don’t stand too close to the edge of the water. Everything else is the same. Stay dry, be aware of your environment, watch out for predators, keep your equipment secure, maintain communication at all times, keep sight line whenever possible, stay hydrated, use camouflage and practice noise discipline.”

“Is that all?” she smiled back.

There was silence for a few moments.

Dirk tried to sit up again but still couldn’t. “Someone is going to have to help me,” he said to Williams. “We can’t stay here; all this blood and carnage is going to attract predators once they return from being scared off by all the shooting noise.”

“How long before dark?” Bonsai asked.

Williams looked up at the tree canopy. There was no clear view of the sky and no way to see the sun. “A couple hours, maybe a little more,” he guessed.

Dirk reached into one of his camo pants pockets and pulled out a handful of coca leaves. He arranged five of them, folded them, and put them in his mouth.

“I’m going to need a while. The coca will help, but this is more than just pain management; I can feel at least one of the ribs pushing into my chest.”

“Can you breathe OK?” Williams asked.

Dirk took a few deep breaths. He winced, but completed the exercise.

“Ya, nothing punctured, but it hurts like hell. I need to keep it that way and not make things worse.”

They waited a good thirty minutes. Everyone, including Dirk, started to feel the pressure to get moving.

They got Dirk up to his feet; Williams helped support him as he walked on his right side, avoiding the broken ribs on his left side.

“It’s going to be what it is,” Dirk said as he stood. “We need to inventory all these downed men, collect everything that might be useful that we can carry. Jack, drop the M4, you too Bonsai. Collect three of the AKMs and all the ammo they have. Look for field tools too, folding knives, and iodine tablets. Field rations. I think they each have a Kukri which is a godsend if there ever was one. They look well-equipped. The first sniper I encountered had a radio” - Bonsai’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas - “Bring it all here, and we’ll sort it out. Killing them might have been the best chance for survival we could have gotten.”

Standing up actually helped with the rib pain as Jack and Bonsai collected everything; they brought it back and laid it out in front of Dirk. He could carefully bend over and move stuff around. Each downed soldier seemed to have the equivalent of a seventy-two-hour bag, all the gear needed that could be carried into the jungle to survive for three days.

Luckily, there were food rations, and each man had a full canteen, basic survival gear, and a lot of ammunition. They even carried four grenades each, signal flares, and corded rope in tight wraps.

Once everything was collected and Dirk had sorted it, the three were standing in a close circle.

“Jack, you need to tell us where we’re going,” Lasher asked.

“It’s another four clicks east by northeast. Not terribly far from where you and Kimberly first encountered the Jivaroan,” Williams said, collecting a utility belt and resizing it for his larger waist.

“What’s a Jivaroan?” Bonsai asked. “And who’s Kimberly? Was that your wife's name?”

“Specialist,” Lasher pointed to the pile of communication equipment they had collected and sorted, “go through their radio equipment. Let me know if it's just local intra-squad or if there is anything powerful enough to make it out of the jungle and maybe reach a US asset.”

“Yes, sir,” she said and started arranging the pile.

“And to answer your question.” he continued, “The Jivaroan are a headhunting tribe in Peru. We had a faction of them, led by an outsider they considered a god, attack the Wargandi in a battle for a religious artifact. They ended up decimating a Wargandi village and killing all the men and half of the women and children.”

Williams watched Lasher as he explained, trying to gauge Dirk’s mental state given all his recent losses.

Bonsai had a very positive reaction to something she found in the pile of equipment. “They have a Codan 8525B!” she exclaimed, excited, holding up what looked like a brick-sized device with buttons and a few knobs on the front near the handle.

“Shouldn’t there be a handset?” Williams asked.

“You’re right, sir,” Bonsai said, looking back down to the pile and looking for the other piece necessary to make the device operational. Then she looked back up to Lasher, “Can you finish your story while I look for it?” she asked nicely, almost sounding like a little kid.

Dirk wasn’t thrilled about the other half of the question, but it felt like Bonsai had earned the rest of the story.

“Kimberly Sharp was a Mexican Air Force pilot who left the military and headed up,” he paused and looked at Williams. “How would you describe it?”

“The global mafia?” Williams said. It had always been difficult to frame the organization as it had no name and only existed as an idea and a collective group of people, with nothing ever put into writing or anything formal.

“Sure,” Dirk looked back at Bonsai as she looked for the handset, “that's close enough. It’s a global mafia known as the organization. They control everything behind the scenes. It’s probably true that how we see the world, governments and nations, that's probably just a front, a facade, hiding the real power structure. At least that’s what Kimberly did. She took interest in people and companies, and then used her connections in markets and regions to help, or hurt, based upon the organizations' interests.”

Bonsai looked up at Lasher. “What was she doing out here in the gap with you? This seems like a pretty inhospitable place for a politician.”

Dirk smiled. “You are clever, aren’t you,” he said. “Yes, I guess that's all she really was. In any case, for a while, she helped finance our security work in Panama as a way of advancing her other interests. Things went south pretty quickly. At the time, she was looking for an artifact that the Wargandi were guardians of. It was supposed to be a vacation of sorts.”

“But the headhunters made it more exciting?” Bonsai asked, starting to feel comfortable with Lasher, at least enough to rib him a little.

“They did,” Dirk’s expression soured. These were not pleasant memories, and they were not welcome memories, given his grieving status. “We need to get moving,” his voice hardened. The moment was over. “Do we have a functioning radio or not?”

Bonsai held up the hand unit in victory. “Yes, sir! So who should we call first?”

“Good job, Specialist!” Both Lasher and Williams said at the same time.

She had a big smile on her face; there was some pride showing through.

Dirk gave her a thumbs up. “Let's gear up and get some distance away from this mess. We’ll wait until after sunset to get the most out of the range as we can.”

Everyone agreed. They loaded up with about twice the gear as each of the single soldiers they had just downed. There were six casualties, and three of them, so, Lasher, Williams, and Bonsai carried two canteens, eight grenades, and three hundred rounds of AKM ammo each, as well as a couple of days worth of rations and other helpful odds and ends.

As they started to get ready to leave, Bonsai asked, while looking at Blake's mangled bullet-ridden corpse, “Should we bury him?” she asked.

Dirk looked at the mess. “What would we bury? The jungle will clean all this up. By this time tomorrow, you won't be able to tell if anything special happened here or not. Let's get moving before the same can be said of us.”

Chapter 15

The density of the plants and foliage started to increase as the terrain flattened out and they were fully off the rise that led to the plateau. So far, including their time jogging, they had moved six or seven kilometers from the crash site. That pace would now slow. They would need to use the Kukri when not on a game trail. Two clicks a day would be a good pace until they reached the northern jungles nearing the old Wargandi village, where the jungle lightened, and there were many more game trails and pathways made by people.

It got darker after several hours. Full daylight was dark, and nighttime was near pitch black as the starlight did not penetrate the dense hundred-foot-high jungle canopy.

They eventually stopped in a small circular area, maybe twenty feet across. It was as good a place as any, and there were no ant piles or high grass clumps that something might be calling home. They had the plastic ponchos from the downed FARC soldiers, water, and something to eat in the field rations that had been taken from the downed men. It was too dark to see, but there was the sound of a running waterway in the distance.

They got everything settled. Each person used one poncho to make a small low tent and the other as the floor to keep them off the wet ground. They pitched each little structure close to the other. There wouldn’t be a fire, but the configuration made it obvious where the fire would have gone. They each sat on the ground with their backs to their individual tents; each fiddling with the unfamiliar field rations. These were not MRE’s, Meals Ready to Eat. They were close to C-Rations from a long time ago. All the instructions were in Spanish, which everyone but Bonsai could read. Dirk helped her and explained what the different packages said as she came across them.

“I think we’re turned around,” Lasher said after a while of everyone eating in silence.

Williams stopped chewing and looked at him. “Why?”

“Do you hear that river in the background?” Lasher said between mouthfuls of something that smelled like a fish stew.

Both Williams and Bonsai stopped chewing and listened.

“I hear it,” Bonsai said.

“Blake and I didn’t cross a river to get to the crash site,” Williams admitted.

Lasher nodded. “That’s because there is no river east of the plateau, not within the distance we’ve traveled. There is one west of the plateau, though, about four kilometers west, to be exact.”

“You’re kidding,” Williams said.

“Rio Balsas,” Lasher said.

“The Rio Ballsack?” Bonsai joked. It was a perfectly natural military joke that would have been thought of by nearly every soldier who ever made it out of basic. The problem was, while Lasher wasn’t bothered by much, he was very much against bad language, stemming from a childhood incident as Wade tried to toughen him up.

“Check the language,” Williams said a little harshly, then softened. He tried to smile and seem reassuring. “It’s kind of a sign of being in the club,” he rationalized, explaining to her. “Dirk doesn't like bad language. We like Dirk, and life is much easier when Dirk isn't riding your butt, if you follow.”

She looked amazed and switched her gaze to Lasher, who shrugged his shoulders and nodded in the affirmative, suggesting it was true and there was nothing he could do about it.

“You two are very strange,” Bonsai said in a good-spirited tone.

“Happens when you get older,” Williams smiled. “So Dirk, if we're on the wrong side of the Plateau, what do we do?”

Dirk tilted his head to indicate Specialist Bonsai. “Bonsai calls it in on the radio, and we do whatever the radio tells us to do.”

“What are we waiting for?” Williams asked, fine with the plan.

Dirk looked up at the canopy above them. “Maybe another half hour, and then we’ll be in the gray line.”

Bonsai looked impressed. “How do you know that sir?” she said, legitimately curious.

“We’re old,” Lasher indicated himself and Williams. “We know everything.”

She laughed.

“How’d we get turned around,” Williams asked.

Dirk swallowed and nodded, “I assumed the wreckage was in a straight line based on our original bearing. It must have been that the pilots circled the craft to make the LZ, so by the time they hit the tops of the trees, they were heading the other way around.”

“I didn't realize how hard navigating could be when you don’t have a view of the sky or the sun for days,” Bonsai said.

Dirk nodded again. “It’ll start to wear on you, so be ready for it. I think that's what happened to Captain Blake. He kind of lost it there at the end. Out here, it's not about how tough you can be; it’s about how well you can adapt to what the jungle throws at you.”

They waited a little while. Since no one had a watch, everything was a guess. Finally, Lasher nodded; Bonsai fired up the radio, switching to the standard US military command frequency.

Bonsai started, "Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is Delta 3-6, repeat, Delta 3-6. Any station, any station, come in, over."

The radio squawked and then fed them static.

She repeated the call several more times: "Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is Delta 3-6. Repeat, Delta 3-6. Any station, any station, come in, over."

Finally the radio clicked a few times, then, “Delta 3-6, this is Bravo 1-4, 11th Infantry. We read you, but your signal is faint. What is your status? Over.”

"Bravo 1-4, this is Delta 3-6. Switching to secure, over.” She flipped a switch near the receiver.

“Secure,” echoed back through the small speaker.

“Situation critical. Delta team down, I repeat, Delta team down. Only myself and two civilians, Dirk Lasher and Jack Williams remain. Bravo Company Charley Oscar, Captain Blake, Kilo India Alpha by FARC special ops. We are lost, headed west instead of east. Requesting instructions. Grid coordinates unknown, but currently near a river four clicks west of the Lima Zulu. Enemy presence in the vicinity. How copy? Over."

"Delta 3-6, Bravo 1-4. Solid copy on your situation. Stand by, relaying messages to higher command. Secure your position. Over."

"Bravo 1-4, Delta 3-6. Roger, securing position. Standing by. Out."

“One, four,” Bonsai said, looking at Lasher, “we’re probably talking to a Lieutenant or Staff Sergeant in charge of a squad in the 11th.”

He nodded. “Let’s hope it’s a Staff Sergeant,” he joked.

They all waited. The noise from the radio startled them when it came through after a good while.

"Delta 3-6, this is Bravo 1-4. Be advised, mission parameters have changed. US forces in the area have been executed. The area will be carpet bombed. Command instructs you to pop smoke in the valley near the river at first light for extraction. Immediate pursuit into Colombia is underway, and you, Lasher, and Williams are urgently needed. Over."

“No way,” Lasher said. “We need to confirm that before they carpet bomb the place.”

Bonsai nodded, "Bravo 1-4, Delta 3-6. Requesting time and directions to visually confirm US forces' status before carpet bombing. Over."

There was another very long pause, the time it took for their contact to relay the request and receive the response.

"Delta 3-6, Bravo 1-4. Negative on confirmation. Command orders immediate extraction. Pop smoke in the valley near the river at first light. Acknowledge. Over."

Bonsai looked to Lasher, who shrugged.

"Bravo 1-4, Delta 3-6. Roger, popping smoke in the valley near the river at first light for extraction. Will maintain secure position. Standing by. Out."

Chapter 16

The night dragged on.

Even though they were exhausted, neither Dirk nor Bonsai could sleep; there was too much residual coca in their systems. It was probably nine or ten o’clock, and they had two or three more hours before sleep would be possible. Williams, on the other hand, was sound asleep in his little half-tent.

“So, what’s the deal with you two?” Bonsai asked Lasher to pass the time, her voice low, not quite a whisper, but close.

Dirk was in his own head and didn’t hear the question.

“Sir?” Bonsai said slightly louder.

Dirk came back and said, “Yes?”

“What’s the deal with you and Mr. Williams?”

“The Deal?” Lasher tried to understand the question. He had been in a different headspace, remembering the last couple of weeks.

“Ya,” she smiled, “you know, the deal? Like, what’s your story?”

Dirk’s brow crinkled at something else to think about. “Jack and I enlisted at the same time. I think even on the same day. He grew up in Texas; I grew up near Miami. We met in basic and ended up stationed at the same assignments for the first five or six years. We weren’t friends. We weren’t anything, but he became a familiar face. I went to night school and applied for a Warrant. He and I discussed it. I tried to get him to follow the same path, but he was comfortable just riding the wave.”

Dirk looked off into the darkness, then continued.

“It wasn't until 1988, about ten years ago, that we became friends. I chased a bunch of kidnapped kids into these very same jungles. He had to come and get me out. After that, it gets complicated, but we’ve been working together ever since. This last year, he moved to Miami to help with Lisa…” The memory seemed to surprise Dirk, and his darkness returned.

“Was Lisa your wife's name?”

“Yes. You remind me a lot of her.”

Bonsai was impossible to read at the statement, but it was likely she blushed a little. Dirk didn’t notice.

“Do I look like her or something?”

He laughed and really looked at Bonsai for the first time. His eyes were adjusted to the darkness. She looked nothing like Lisa, who had broad shoulders and was full-figured. Their faces were nothing alike either; Lisa’s was rounder and more attractive, while Bonsai had narrow features and just the slightest figure. Bonsai also had more olive-colored skin, maybe some significant Greek mixed in with American Southeast. It could even be Mongolian or some East Indian blend, it was impossible to tell.

She turned a little redder when she noticed him looking at her.

But that wasn't what Lasher meant at all.

“No, I don’t mean you look like her. I mean, you have that same spark, that same spirit. It’s hard to find, honestly, in people.”

They were having two different conversations. Dirk was trying to manage his grieving, and Bonsai was discovering she had an interest in Lasher.

She reached over and took his hand. He accepted it as an offer of sympathy; she read more into it. After a good while, he released her hand.

“Thanks. It’s been tough,” he said.

“How long were you married?” she asked, “If you’re comfortable talking about it?”

He reached back and took her hand again. “No, not yet. It was a tough year and a hard last couple of weeks. I appreciate it, though,” he said and released her hand again. “What about you? How do you become a squared-away twenty-six-year-old Delta Force RTO? One of the first females, too, I understand.”

He thought that would be a compliment, but now her mood had turned dark.

“What?” he asked.

He could see her try and visibly push feelings away. “I earned my spot,” she said; it seemed as much to herself as Lasher.

“Of course,” Dirk said, surprised. “I know there is a push to get females into combat roles, but I don’t think anyone is going to put a soldier on a Delta Force squad who can’t cut it.”

She looked up at him, her eyes watery; she was having some deep emotions. “I’ve never known anyone who died before. Now, everyone I know is dead!”

“You don’t have family back in the world?” he asked.

Tears were now flowing down her cheeks. Just like her wounds before, she was physically crying but not emotionally crying. She wasn’t sobby or anything.

“No, I’m completely alone. I came up through the foster system. In the best home I had, I had to put up with my foster father showing up in the middle of the night in the dark in my room. I was thirteen,” her mood grew even darker. “Well, I wasn’t thirteen very long. I went from thirteen to thirty because of those nights. I learned after a while that there were things I could do to satisfy him that kept him from climbing on top of me. I’m not sure it made it better…” she trailed off.

“I’m sorry,” Lasher said. He meant it. It reminded him that he didn’t have a monopoly on a tough childhood. Dirk also had a couple of flaws, flaws in the sense that they often caused him to take extreme positions. One such flaw was he had an overdeveloped sense of assuming the role of the protector, especially to younger women who had been abused.

She laughed through the tears. “I’ve never told anyone that. And I’ve only known you for a day.”

“What was his name?” Dirk asked. It wasn’t a compassionate question; it was a revenge question.

“I don’t want to say his name. I never want to think about the man again.”

“I need to hear it. Someone else needs to carry this burden with you. It will halve the weight.”

She wiped her eyes and looked at him hard, almost like she was seeing him again for the first time.

“Bonnington. Robert Bonnington, from Thomasville, Georgia.”

“Is he still alive?”

Her expression changed yet again.

“Yes,” her voice smaller with a quiver in it.

“We get out of here; I’ll fix that for you,” he said.

It sounded cold and mean.

She believed him, though, and it was terrifying. Thrilling, and terrifying.

Bonsai had her own flaws that led to her own extreme behavior. Currently, she wanted to tell Dirk how she felt, but she knew that was impossible. There was no way her head was on straight; the past day had been too extreme. She knew her emotions were on fire and were untrustworthy; a lesson learned many times over as she grew into adulthood. It was just that Lasher seemed to represent everything a father should be, everything she had wanted her entire life and never had. He was strong and patient and scary and thoughtful. Her whole life people had always used her and taken from her. This was the first time she could remember someone giving her anything, caring enough, and asking nothing in return.

Suddenly, every repressed emotion from the past five years came flooding to the front. She had pushed herself so hard, harder than was possible. It felt like a release from her past. It was completely unexpected and wholly so engulfing that she couldn’t hold back the wave of emotion, some combination of the release of frustration, pent-up anger, relief, small amounts of joy, and huge amounts of regret for every tough choice she had ever been forced to make in her life.

She moved over to him, now fully weeping, with huge physical sobs and mental pain. She put her good arm around him and pushed her face into his strong chest, using it to try and suppress some of the sobbing.

Lasher was overwhelmed at the display. He allowed her sadness to accentuate his own. He wasn’t crying, but tears flowed, and he held on, returning the embrace.

They sat like this for a very long time. Eventually, Bonsai’s sobbing woke Williams up. When he came out of the tent, he saw Dirk and Bonsai sitting with each other, both crying in their own way.

“Jeez,” he said, pretty much having no clue what was going on, “I must have missed one heck of a party.”

Chapter 17

Lasher and Bonsai fell asleep probably around one or two in the morning. Williams stayed awake and got them up just before sunup. It wasn’t a lot of sleep, but when in the field in a situation like this, three hours of sleep allowed the body to reset on its normal schedule, which made things a whole lot easier than if it hadn’t.

As they were breaking down their little camp, Lasher felt he needed to tell Williams some things after last night’s emotional outpouring.

“Jack, thanks for being here. I know you only came originally to keep me from having to do it, so I had time for the grieving process. I feel bad it got you into this mess.”

Williams smiled. “What are friends for?”

Dirk got a little serious, remembering the conversation from last night with Bonsai and how lucky he was. “No, seriously, Jack. You’re my only family now. I’ve lost everyone else and everything important to me. Bonsai reminded me of that last night. She just lost everyone she knew in that plane crash.”

“What about Wade,” Williams knew that relationship was complicated.

“I’m working on it, but I still can’t trust him. Maybe someday. When General Hampton flew out to get me at his place, my first thought was that he was into some trouble again. I have a way to go on that front,” Dirk looked down and then continued. “But seriously, Jack. You moving to help with Lisa, coordinating the funeral and everything. I couldn’t have made it without you. Thank you.”

“Sure, buddy,” Williams said. He hadn’t had the emotional session the night before, so his head wasn't where Lasher’s was.

Lasher made his point. “Once we’re on the helicopter out of here, I’m done with all this danger. We never should have come back. We didn’t make a difference anyway. If the radio is to be believed, everyone was killed just like they would have been had we stayed home. This isn’t our fight. We’ve done our bit for king and country. I’m relieved that we’re going to make it out of here. There is no reason why we should. This was a cluster, and we’ve gotten very, very lucky.”

Williams nodded along. He had never been one for field work, enjoying his desk job as an Army investigator. “Works for me. We can take your boat out for a week and drink beer and do nothing.”

“As long as you two girls don’t take up knitting and making clothes for your fifteen cats,” Bonsai interjected, returning from the needs of the morning. She looked a world of difference better. Her right arm was still in the sling, but she had an air of relief and lightness about her that was new. “But seriously, you have a boat?” it came out just the smallest flirtatious, which felt fun and bright given the events of the prior day.

Williams answered for Dirk, a mischievous smile on his face. “You didn’t tell her last night in your therapy session?”

Lasher rolled his eyes. “Jack…”

Now Bonsai was interested. “What? You two old hens just got mysterious. What didn’t you tell me?”

“All things in time,” Dirk tried to reground the mood. “Let's stay squared away for the next hour or two until the extraction. Specialist, why don’t you fire up the radio and provide a sitrep and an ETA for the extraction team.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. Everyone switched back to soldier mode.

She made the call, and they were told to pop smoke in thirty mikes, a half hour. The area was going to get hot by noon, as a large group of FARC soldiers were moving in from the coast to the west as reinforcements.

They worked their way west to the river, following the noise. They got to within twenty yards of the riverbank and stopped.

“Nuts,” Williams said.

There was no easy approach, and the tree canopy grew out over the quickly flowing water.

Dirk looked around. “The river is flowing south to north. I know where it comes out, way north near the Humedal Laguna de Matusagaratí peninsula. But there is a modern village called Sambu Darién about thirty miles from here. We could follow the river there and find it.”

“I’ll take the helicopter extraction, please,” Jack Williams joked.

“We should make our way downstream and see if there is an area where the river widens enough to clear some of the canopy so the helicopter can get in,” Bonsai provided.

“Stay clear of the edge of the water also, at least ten feet. This is exactly the type of terrain that crocodiles love, where an animal goes down to drink on an inclined bank,” Lasher warned.

“It would suck to get eaten by a crocodile twenty minutes before the helicopter showed up,” Bonsai smiled.

Everyone was in a good mood, feeling the end of the ordeal close at hand.

They moved north. It was slow going, the river water providing season-round hydration for the plants and foliage near it. The sun came up, and it moved on to early morning, maybe an hour after sunrise when they found a wider, slower-moving section of the river where the tree canopy was separated enough to see the sky.

“This is probably as good as anywhere. Be careful, though; deeper, slower-moving water will be a hunting ground,” Lasher said, pointing to clear marks in the nearby mud that showed large animals had recently been in the area.

The river widened considerably. On the opposite bank was a lot of open ground. Behind it was a ridge line with little ground covering, then at the top of the ridge, the jungle started again.

Williams looked around. “Let’s do it; I can’t wait to get out of this awful place,” he said as he reached onto his belt for one of the flairs they had taken off the downed soldiers the day before. The tree canopy on this side of the slow-moving river extended to the river's edge.

Bonsai leaned up against a tree, tired from just an hour of movement in the thicker jungle.

Lasher watched the water suspiciously. “Jack, be careful. This is a terrible place to interact with the river.”

Williams nodded and carefully approached the shoreline, watching the sky to where he could get an angle where the smoke would rise above the tree line. He found one, leaning out over the water. He pulled the activator cord on the bottom of the flair and extended his arm high into the air. The green smoke shot out, making a loud, burning hissing noise. He held it for maybe twenty seconds, then had to drop it near his feet. He took a few steps back.

“They get hot,” he said, wiping his hand on his pants.

The flair spewed smoke for about another minute. Some made it above the tree line, but not as much as the first twenty seconds when Williams was holding it out over the water.

They waited a good ten minutes.

“Jack, be careful, but let's pop another one,” Lasher suggested. “Bonsai, fire up the radio and let them know what we’re doing.”

“Sure, Dirk,” Williams said.

“Yes, sir,” Specialist Bonsai said.

Williams walked back to the edge of the river, pulled the cord on the flare, held it over the water, beyond the tree canopy for maybe twenty seconds, then tossed it to the ground next to the first one. He took a couple of steps back and turned to Dirk and Bonsai, watching the smoke mingling into the trees.

"Bravo 1-4, this is Delta 3-6. Do you copy? Over."

After a few seconds, "Delta 3-6, this is Bravo 1-4. I read you loud and clear. Go ahead. Over."

"Bravo 1-4, we've popped smoke at our location. Do you have a visual? Over."

"Stand by, Delta 3-6. Relaying. Over."

“They’re looking,” she said, looking up from the radio to Dirk.

The sound of an engine filtered in faintly.

“I hear something!” Jack said, a true look of relief on his face. “I can't believe we’re getting out of here!” His look of relief turned to a cautious smile.

Bonsai nodded and checked the radio. "Bravo 1-4, we've popped smoke at our location. Do you have a visual? Over."

"Delta 3-6, negative on visual. Repeat negative on visual. Pop another smoke. Over."

"Roger that, Bravo 1-4. Popping another smoke now. Stand by. Over."

She looked up to Lasher, who nodded to Williams to do another one.

Williams walked to his same spot, got his second-to-last flair off his belt, pulled the cord, held it for about twenty seconds, and then lowered his arm to drop it with the other two. Only this time, as his arm lowered, a series of horrifying events transpired in slow motion.

Williams was turning, a smile on his face. He lowered his arm, and the flair was tossed out. From behind him, the water changed. It started to crest from about two feet off the bank. A huge crocodile emerged, head first, its mouth opening. It slowly went airborne, angling up to Williams's arm about four feet off the ground.

Lasher and Bonsai saw it, but the initial jump happened too fast for them to recognize it. As their focus shifted from Williams's smiling face to the airborne croc, their expressions slowly changed.

The croc was massive, more than fifteen feet long. Its mouth was open and aimed perfectly at Williams's arm. It bit down while still in the air, jerking its head into Williams’s body to knock him off balance. As it clamped down on his arm, it jerked its head the other way, away from Williams's momentum. The arm severed at the impact point. The croc landed, the arm still in its mouth. As it landed, a second animal, a croc even bigger than the first, sprinted up out of the water at a full run.

Seeing the twenty-foot-long animal run at a full sprint was terrifying. It ran like a dog, much nimbler than you would ever expect from seeing the thing. The second croc grabbed Jack’s leg as he fell to the ground. His face still held its original smile, half transformed into pain and surprise. Blood shot out of the severed arm, flowing in a powerful stream out of the end of the arm just above where his bicep had been. A third croc appeared from the water, less than a foot away from where Williams had been standing. It grabbed his other leg, and between it and the giant one, they pulled in different directions.

Williams started making a loud gurgling sound, some combination of a scream and something else. He was on the ground now, and the first croc discarded his arm and made a terrible move, biting his shoulder near his neck. The two that had his legs were heading in opposite directions, pulling him apart from the middle. His wail turned wet sounding, it transitioned into a horrible noise, then abruptly stopped when he split into three parts, split at the belly, each animal ripping off their own piece.

Blood spilled out from his core and covered the mud.

Bonsai just sat with her mouth open.

Lasher recovered, raised his AKM, and started firing at the three huge animals. It was well too late, but he was on instinct. The rounds impacted; he wasn’t aiming as much as simply pulling the trigger as he tried to gain control of his wits.

Things were still in slow motion. The radio started to squeal.

"Delta 3-6, this is Bravo 1-4. Visual on your smoke confirmed. Extraction team en route. ETA 5 mikes. Over."

Suddenly, two A-10 Thunderbolts buzzed over the river clearing. They couldn't have been more than a couple hundred feet off the ground. The noise was both terrifying and deafening. The ground shook; the water rippled. The three crocodiles retreated into the river, each dragging a piece of Williams under the water with them.

"Delta 3-6, this is Bravo 1-4. Visual on your smoke confirmed. Extraction team en route. ETA 4 mikes. Please acknowledge. Over." The radio said again.

Lasher had fired all of his three hundred rounds. He stood in disbelief, still pulling the trigger of the AKM long after he had dropped the final magazine.

Bonsai started screaming. A delayed reaction. Both she and Lasher were still working to understand what they had just seen. Time was still slow, but it was starting to move again.

"Delta 3-6, this is Bravo 1-4. Visual on your smoke confirmed. Extraction team en route. ETA 3 mikes. Please acknowledge. Over." The radio squawked.

“JACK!” Lasher yelled. He took a step forward, then caught himself. Moving closer to the edge of the river wasn't the answer to anything at this point.

“Breaker one-nine; breaker one-nine. This here is the bandit. Is the snowman out there?” the radio echoed out, sounding very unmilitary.

At this point, neither Lasher nor Bonsai was listening, the blood-rushing sound in their ears blocking out all other noises. Suddenly, the sound of high-pitched smaller helicopter engine noise flooded the area so loudly it penetrated their inner noise.

Four Little Birds buzzed by. They were in the killer egg configuration; four fully armed soldiers in full jungle combat loadout sat half in, half out of the small machine, two on each side. It was a psychologically intimidating configuration.

Bonsai was still screaming.

Lasher was still just standing, pulling the trigger on his empty AKM.

It wasn't that they were frozen; very little time had actually gone by.

“Oh, come on,” the radio said. “Was that Jack? Oh, man. I did NOT see that coming.”

Bonsai heard the radio, but it was just noise. She stopped screaming and found she was hyperventilating, pushing herself back away from the river.

The Little Birds circled.

Dirk’s head was starting to clear. He saw the four helicopters and heard the accelerated, high-pitched scream of the A-10 engine, which was making some maneuvers he couldn’t see.

“Dirk,” Bonsai was starting to regain herself also, still on her hands and knees moving backward, moving but slower, more in control. “Move away from the damn water!”

Lasher stopped pulling the AKM trigger and seemed to hear her. He started to turn his head as she was behind him when the A-10 opened up with its 30mm rotary cannon. The sound was strange, short bursts of no more than a second or two, with what sounded like hundreds of rounds per burst.

He still couldn’t see the A-10, but the Little Birds started to pop as the 30mm rounds slammed into them, obliterating them in under a second. The helicopters kind of disintegrated and then exploded.

The radio started making noise again.

"Breaker, breaker, we got ourselves a convoy, ladies! Those little birdies think they can dance with the hog, but they're about to get a taste of the thunder! Y'all better hold onto your hats 'cause we're about to turn this rodeo into a fireworks show! Over."

Bonsai didn't register the content of the call, but she realized it didn't sound right.

“Dirk!” she yelled again, feeling real fear in her core. “Dirk! For God’s sake, man, please, step away from the water! Come this way to me, baby. Please!”

Lasher heard her. He hadn’t realized he had been approaching the spot where Williams had stood. He turned and made eye contact.

Bonsai looked panicked. She was over the edge. Her eyes were big, wide, red, and tearing. Her expression was pleading.

He started to walk back when the jungle exploded from the direction of the river. A watery explosion blew Lasher directly at her, followed by mud and sludge. The missile hit in the middle of the river, which was the only thing that saved them.

Lasher held his wits, the force from the blast pushing him to a forward stumble but not taking him off his feet.

Small arms fire started to pepper in. Bonsai, still facing the river and too far away for the blast to have affected her, saw dozens and dozens of FARC soldiers coming over the ridge on the other side of the river. They were shooting without aiming in her and Lasher's direction.

The A-10 strafed the ground where Lasher had been standing with the 30mm front machine gun.

Lasher was running now. He grabbed Bonsai by the arm as he closed. She grabbed the radio, and they both ran as fast as they could into the dense jungle. They had no plan or direction; this was instinct. They ran for as long as they could, the small arms fire slowly fading, and more explosions from the A-10 missiles and other machines faded into the background.

Whatever conflict had just broken out seemed to involve a lot of military hardware on both sides, and both sides appeared to contain a majority of US assets.

Chapter 18

Lasher and Bonsai moved as quickly as they could for hours. It was probably close to midday. They were bloodied from before the run and scratched and poked from the vegetation after. They were a grisly mess, and they had reached a point where they couldn’t go any farther. Both exhausted and in pain from their injuries. That, in combination with the scratches and irritation from the local plants, they needed to stop for a while.

Dense plants were everywhere. It was nearly impossible to see farther than a few feet, and it was even harder to see the ground. The place they had stopped at did provide a view in one direction for a bit.

“You weren’t kidding about the jungle getting denser,” Bonsai said when they both stopped.

Dirk nodded. He had a red patch from poison ivy or poison oak on the left side of his face, running down his neck into his shirt. A problem with the jungle plants is the ones that irritate the skin would touch an exposed section but then travel all over as you sweated, and the sweat moved down your body.

“This is exception stuff we managed to find. Most of this place is bad, but not this bad.”

They were both breathing heavily. Bonsai had to carry the radio in her left hand with her AKM strapped on the same shoulder. Her right arm was still in the sling.

“How are your ribs?” she asked Lasher.

He smiled. “How’s your shoulder?”

She laughed. “Aren’t we a pair,” then she gagged a little as grief came in over the laugh. “That image is going to haunt my dreams forever,” she pushed back a wave of tears. “And that noise he made at the end. They prepare you for so much in training, but there is no way to prepare for that.”

Dirk realized something. “This is your first deployment?”

Her face tightened. “Outside of training.”

“Well, there is a silver lining,” Lasher said with no humor. “It can only go uphill from here.”

She smiled and tried to laugh but didn’t get the joke.

“I don’t get it.”

Dirk pointed behind her. She turned, and in the distance, the start of a rise back up to the plateau they had crashed on was visible.

“What?” Bonsai said, not sure what she was seeing.

Dirk put his finger in the air and made a circular motion.

“We’ve spent half the day making a circle. We’re maybe a click from where we camped last night. The good news is I think we’re on the other side of the plateau.”

“Good news?”

“If that FARC force is moving to reinforce the original positions Taylor showed us on the map, they are going to move to our north and end up to our east.”

“I can’t believe we don’t have a compass,” Bonsai said.

“Didn’t they teach you to navigate without a compass?” He asked. In his training in Panama, they spent three days on alternate means of navigation.

She thought for a moment. “Well, in Hawaii, when we did the course, the canopy wasn’t this dense, so we could see enough of the sky to follow the sun during the day and see the stars at night.”

“I’ll show you a trick. It will come in handy, good for you to know. Do you think you have enough energy to move that way?” – indicating the beginning of the rise - “Maybe three hundred yards?”

“Sure,” she was tough; she had to be to make it through the training and selection process.

They both moved, the jungle aggravating their skin and scratching, but only for a short distance. The terrain became rockier, which lowered the density of all the stuff growing enough that they found a spot with no ant piles, no ground cover, and a thin sliver of sunlight shining through.

Lasher stopped and indicated the area. “This is base camp. We’re going to have to spend a couple of days here to recover. Then we’re heading east to finish the mission.”

He started taking his gear off, creating an organized pile with his AKM leaning barrel up on it. “We’re going to need to split the ammo up; I’ve shot all mine,” he said as he worked.

Bonsai did the same thing. She placed the radio to the side and created a kit layout pile nearly identical to Lashers'.

“So,” Bonsai seemed to want to start a conversation, but Lasher held up his hand to cut her off.

“Let’s get our bearings, inventory rations, and get the camp set up. We’ll be here for a few days. We have plenty of time to talk.”

She nodded, used to taking orders.

“This will be a fun distraction; let me show you,” he said, indicating with his arm for her to come over.

He knelt and cleared a spot on the ground by rubbing his flat hand over it quickly to brush everything away. The place he cleared was within the ray of light coming down through the canopy. He found a stick maybe four inches tall and put it in the ground, so it stood straight up and cast a shadow. He put a small pebble at the end of the shadow.

“That’s west. We’ll wait a half hour, and the end of the shadow will be east.”

Bonsai was close to him in her crouched position. Her good shoulder was pressing into Lasher’s shoulder as he explained everything.

Lasher stood, not noticing the contact. “Let's get our tent set up while we wait,” he said, indicating the flat ground behind the little sundial. “We can set them up side by side, here…”

Bonsai cut him off. He wasn’t responding to any of her hints, so she decided to take a more direct approach. “Dirk,” she seemed comfortable using his first name now, “The world is a million miles away. Given the events of the day, at a minimum, we’re only pitching one tent.”

His expression was impossible to read. He stood there thinking for long enough for Bonsai to start to get nervous that she had made some mistake.

He started nodding his head. “Ok. We should take turns standing watch, but it’s more important we get some real sleep. With no watch, yes, tactically, if we are in the same tent, it is safer than separate tents.”

She knew there was no way he was this dense, so she went along.

They got the tent set up and put two parkas on the ground for good separation. After that, they inventoried their supplies and rebalanced them. There were three canteens of water, two days each of the FARC rations, eighty rounds each for the AKMs, a good amount of medical supplies like antibiotic ointments, gauze pads, some pain relief tablets, and a full complement of grenades, four each.

After all that, it had been at least a half hour, so they went back to the little stick. The shadow had moved maybe an inch. Lasher put another little rock on the current location and then drew a line between the two points, extending the line out to his left, where he made an arrow and wrote WEST in the dirt.

Bonsai reached over and took the stick from his hand; she allowed her hand to linger on the contact, then took the stick, drew another arrow, and wrote NORTH in the dirt.

Lasher smiled and followed the arrow she had drawn, looking up.

“Holy cow, Bonsai,” Lasher stood up and pointed in the same direction as the arrow Bonsai had just drawn. “We pitched camp right on the edge of a bunch of Brugmansia flowers.”

She followed his eyeline.

“Are those like the coca plant? It helped with the pain, but I don’t really want to be sitting here spinning out of my skin when I should be resting.”

He seemed to be thinking deeply again, pondering some decision. He started looking around.

“What?” Bonsai asked.

Lasher looked back at her, his expression strained.

“I don’t think I can stay awake for two days straight,” he said. He looked just the slightest concerned around the edges.

“Dirk, you’re not making any sense,” she said, confused.

“Can you stay awake for two more days, straight?” he asked her.

“What? Not without going into some serious cognitive impairments,” she answered. One of the nice things about some of the military's extreme training programs was that they were designed to push you past your limits. Many civilians thought these were simply cruel or overly macho for its own sake. Of course, that wasn't the point at all; the end was so that you knew your limits, your real limits, in times like this.

“We’re about in the same place. My skin crawls at both of us being passed out asleep in this hell hole,” he said.

Bonsai looked at the plant he had indicated and called the Brugmansia flowers. It had large white bell-shaped flowers hanging down from bushy branches.

She looked at Lasher hard, trying to piece together what he was proposing. She really looked at him this time as a man, not anything else. The first thing she noticed was that Dirk was strong. Physically, but he also exuded a mental toughness that seemed to help her. She somehow trusted he was going to do the right thing no matter the consequences or the odds. He was forty, which she did consider old, but in looking at him, his age presented itself more as wisdom and experience than other people she had known who looked tired like life had beaten it out of them.

When she considered everything that had happened, including losing his wife just a week ago, something she understood intellectually but felt like she didn’t understand emotionally, he was tall but not too tall; he was athletic without being musclebound, and his face had sharp edges that gave the impression he was always deep in thought. He was clean-shaven a couple of days ago, a thick stubble now on his face. Most of all, she noticed his eyes. They had a spark in them; no matter how bad things got, he was always looking to the future.

She realized that she would do whatever he asked. The military situation was only a facade. This might be the man she had been searching for her whole life. She started to realize he seemed more like a father figure than a romantic interest, and she knew she was both physically and mentally exhausted, pushed past the breaking point even for a Delta Force soldier.

How was it that he still seemed so strong?

She wondered to herself in this moment as he waited for a reply. He lost his wife of a decade and his best friend of twenty years, yet he was still working to save her, not giving up.

Is he some kind of unfeeling sociopath?

She didn’t think so based on their emotional bonding from the night before.

Is he just a good guy? Have I really never encountered a simple man who is just trying to do the right thing?

Somehow, his simple strength was causing her to question her judgment. She realized she had lost track of the conversation.

“I can take the first watch,” she said.

He shook his head no. “We've passed want to. You’d be asleep an hour after sunset, just like I would. We’ve had three hours of sleep in the past seventy-two hours. We’re both badly injured, badly banged up, and my instincts are we’re going to start making bad decisions. We’re certainly not a fighting force that has a chance to do anything against what little we understand about what’s actually going on here.” He continued to look at the white flowers.

“What are those?” Bonsai asked. “You seem infatuated with them.”

“They’re Brugmansia flowers. It’s a dangerous plant, toxic if not prepared properly. It brings about really terrifying trips if you take too much or you don’t dilute it in water correctly,” he said.

“Then why would we mess with it?”

He looked at her intensely. “Because if you know what you are doing, it will knock you out and put the body into a serious healing and regenerative state.”

“And if you don’t know what you are doing?” she asked.

He smiled. “Oh, painful death after much suffering, confusion, a really terrifying set of hallucinations and night terrors, and sometimes the ever so exciting rectal bleeding.”

“Jesus,” she said.

“Wrong pantheon,” he continued to smile and think. “We’re in Ibeorgun land, the hero son of Paba and Nana Dummad.”

She made a confused face at the ancient-sounding names.

“Just like Jesus, Ibeorgun is the savior son—Paba and Nana Dummad, basically Dad and Mom of the world.”

“You do know a lot about this area,” she said, not seeing how any of this was important.

“I know enough to know we’re in a lot of trouble. We’re both going to collapse by sundown. Chewing more coca leaves might keep us awake, but it would be our downfall. There is a wall, and we’ve hit it. I’m marginally comfortable that we could build traps around this little site. It’s not near a game trail, not near water, I don’t see any track from anything. If we surround ourselves with spike traps and build a solid barrier over the tent…”

“So, you’re suggesting we should take that stuff?”

“The Wargandi used it on me ten years ago. It will help us recover some. There isn’t anything some flower can do for your shoulder or my ribs, but it can help get us rested and ready for the fight ahead.”

“I’m game. I trust you,” she said.

He made the decision. “Okay, get your canteen cup out and fill it with water. Find something we can put over it; sunlight, even the little bit here under the canopy, will prevent the fermentation.” – he stopped and thought – “how much do you weigh?”

“150, sir,” she smiled at the sir comment; it was a reflex to the question.

He did some math in his head, went to the bush, and returned with three flowers. He was holding them carefully by the stem, not touching the flower part. “Find something we can mash them up with,” he said, taking the canteen cup from her and placing the three flowers into it. She came back with an oddly shaped rock. It was a good find; it could be held and still reach the bottom of the cup to mash the flowers and mix them into the water.

When he was done, he put a long flat leaf that Bonsai handed him over the top, and carefully, so as not to let any spill and touch his hand, he put the cup down to one side of the tent opening, out of any walking paths.

“We’ve got about four or five hours before it will be ready.”

“What happens if you mix in too much?”

“We’ll both die horrible, agonizing deaths out here so confused we forget who we are and never be found or seen from again.”

She made a face. “And if you‘ve mixed it correctly?”

“We’ll sleep for two days straight and wake up feeling fantastic.”

“Ah,” she said, “this trip keeps getting better and better.”

Next, they worked to cover the tent, piling on several feet of vegetation, including some thicker branches here and there. They also created two ventilation holes wrapped with hollowed-out stems, angled up so nothing crawled or slithered into it from the ground.

“We’re going to need to wash these clothes to get all the blood smell off,” Bonsai said, looking at her dark undershirt, which had dozens of small rips and was covered in her blood.

“Make sure the tube of antiseptic is inside the tent, we'll apply it last,” Lasher pointed to the piles of gear they had laid out. “We’ve got maybe three more hours until the brew is ready. See if you can find some vines over that way, outside our little perimeter, that are fatter and white. Those will have drinking water without all the sugars. We can use it to rinse the blood off our clothes. We’ll need to have them dry; see if you can find someplace where the sunlight is shining through, even if it's just a little bit.”

“It’s going to suck if they don’t dry out by the time we need them again,” Bonsai said as she headed over, handing him a tube of something.

Lasher tossed the antiseptic tube into the interior of the tent along with two full canteens. They’d split the third canteen before heading in.

Once everything else was set up, Dirk walked over to the spot Bonsai had found. There were several candidate vines and a few rays of sunlight, and it was far enough away from their prepared area as was reasonable. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. There was a moment of awkwardness; Dirk decided to address it and get in front of it.

“Keep your sports bra and underwear on. Put your boots back on the instant you get your BDU bottoms off. Those boots are the most important piece of gear we have.”

“I’m going to need help with the shirt,” she said, taking the makeshift cloth sling that Dirk had made back at the crash site off her shoulder.

When she handed him the sling, he took it and looked at it. “This is also covered in blood. We’ll wash it,” he said, draping it over a low tree branch.

She untucked the shirt with her left hand. Dirk lifted the shirt over her left arm, which she could raise. Then he got it over her head, then off the right arm and shoulder without her having to move it, carefully running the sleeve from her shoulder to her hand.

Her upper body was lean and well-muscled. She was very fit. However, the right shoulder and top of her right arm were a swollen purple mess. The rest of her upper torso and back was covered in scratches; some scabbed over, some fresh enough to still be very slowly oozing blood.

“We’ll use the ointment on all these scratches when we get in the tent,” Lasher said, feeling empathy for her; she had hidden the extent of her wounds well—one tough cookie.

She undid the belt on her BDU pants. Dirk untied her boots and pulled them off while she stood using him for support. She stepped out of the pants and right back into her boots, which he re-tied for her. Her legs were just as scraped up as her torso; they were thick and muscled. Her rear stood out more, too, with just the underwear on; her lower half was very athletic.

Dirk put her clothes in a small pile and took his off as well, keeping his underwear and boots on. They both looked silly with the thick jungle boots and little else.

Lasher’s body was even more cut up than Bonsai’s, with some of the scrapes and scratches running very deep. His left side was a deep purple and green, not the near black purple of Bonsai’s shoulder, but still showing a lot of trauma. He was athletic and well-muscled, with more body fat than Bonsai: not an excessive amount, more just the right amount. His middle was trim but not the six-pack of abs from his youth.

They spent a good hour and a half or two hours washing everything. There was enough water from the vines; the trick was to avoid mixing the vine water that contained high levels of sugar, as that would just make a sticky mess. They hung everything up; there was a chance it would dry out and a chance it wouldn’t, especially if it rained again over the next two days, which was a real possibility. It was a risk and a gamble. There was no right or wrong answer; the goal was a reasonable balance between hygiene and trying to stay as dry as possible.

They had maybe another hour before the brew would be ready, so they put everything else they had: all the tactical gear, the radio, which Bonsai had turned off to save the battery, their remaining rations, and everything else into the tent's interior.

They still had about a half hour to kill. Dirk had them spray each other with some of the bug repellant the FARC soldiers carried, which was more painful magic as the alcohol in it mixed with all their scrapes and cuts. Once finished, they sat together outside the structure, waiting.

“I’m sorry about your friend, Mister Williams,” Bonsai said after they were settled. Dirk didn’t seem as upset about it as she thought he should be.

“Thanks,” he said. “But I’ll process that later. I’ve had to turn everything off or else I wouldn’t be any good out here, not now, given the situation.”

“Sure,” Bonsai said. “The combat mindset. They taught it to us. I’ll be honest, I didn’t think it was real.”

Dirk nodded. “That’s just because you haven’t had enough field experience to apply it for real.”

“Haven’t?” she smiled, half turning to him to display the mess her torso was.

“Right,” Dirk said. “Hadn’t. But yes, you have now.”

She thought some. “I guess I did use the tactic; I’ve been working to push away emotions from losing my whole team.”

“Practice makes perfect,” he said grimly.

She looked back at the structure opening, changing the subject. “We’re going to be in there for two days?”

“Two or three,” he said casually.

“Won’t we have to get up and go to the bathroom?”

He laughed. “Not if I got the mixture right. We’ll kind of be in a mild coma. The plant does something that tells the body to go into repair mode. You are going to be surprised how good you feel when we wake up.”

“If I wake up,” she partially joked.

He looked at her. “When. I’m not losing another specialist to this awful place.”

A real look of confusion crossed Bonsai’s face. “Another one?”

Darkness fell over Lasher. “The last time Williams and I were in this place together; we had an intelligence analyst with us. Specialist Mariana. She was attacked by a Panther and didn’t make it.”

“I’m a bit more capable than an intelligence analyst,” she sounded just the smallest little bit indignant.

“More than a bit,” Dirk said, turning to her. “You are as squared away a soldier as I have ever met.”

This was high praise, but instead of showing any appreciation or pride, Bonsai went dark, too. This had happened a while ago when he tried to compliment her.

“What?” Lasher asked.

She dropped her head and shook it as if talking to herself.

“What?” Lasher asked again.

“I want to tell you,” she trailed off.

“Tell me what?”

She settled into a look of resolve.

“They rushed me through training. I kept getting selected even when I knew my time or performance wasn't the best. They wanted to fill a quota and I was the best candidate they had seen in a long time. I needed another six months, or honestly, a year. It wasn't that I couldn’t do it; I wanted to meet the actual standard. They dropped all the times and weights for me. It was maddening. And everyone knew it even though they all pretended.”

“You seem like you can carry your own weight,” Dirk said, a little unsure what to say, really.

“I’m still an E4. No one else on any Delta team is lower than an E5.”

Dirk realized that was true.

“Why didn’t they promote you?”

She looked at him, her beat-up torso a contrast to the fire in her eyes.

“Because they knew. No one in the actual unit was in on it. They hated me. Not because I’m a woman, but because they knew I didn’t have to meet the same standard they did. Don’t get me wrong, the grunts loved me when we took showers; they just hated me the rest of the time.”

Dirk thought about it. “I think you’re looking at it all wrong,” he finally said.

She reacted strongly. “Oh really?” some real indignation creeping in this time.

“Yep,” he got a little more confident as he figured out the angle. “You’re here in the field with a year less training. Yet, you’re the only one on the team still engaged with the mission.”

“Just luck,” she sounded like her hopes had just been dashed.

“You make your own luck. You thought to strap yourself in on the plane; your physical preparations made your body tough enough to survive your injuries, and you’ve covered maybe ten clicks in the most inhospitable place on the planet, while very badly injured. You survived a special ops team that was hunting us and whatever that was near the river, basically World War Three. And by the time this is over, between you and me, we’re going to rescue the troops and save the world.”

She laughed. “I’ve got to be honest; I appreciate the pep talk, but it's a little hard to take you seriously wearing that.”

He did look silly; they both did.

When it was time, they each drank the brew. They crawled into the structure, covered the opening, applied antibiotic ointments to all their wounds, drank some water, and quickly fell asleep. Lasher had tried positioning them back to back, but they ended up in an embrace due to Bonsai’s insistence.

Chapter 19

It was late when Dirk got home from tending bar.

Lisa was sitting in the kitchen; the only light on in the entire house was the small kitchen stove light, which provided minimal illumination.

Dirk tossed his keys into a small bowl by the door and headed into the kitchen. When he saw her he knew something was wrong; she was kind of slumped over. There was an open letter on the table in front of her.

Dirk reached over and picked it up. He went to the stove light and read it. The news was even worse than they had feared, worse than the worst case the Doctor had suggested.

“There is a phone number for a hospice,” Dirk said, trailing off.

“I feel fine,” she returned.

“Apparently, it’s spread everywhere,” he summarized the information.

“I want to stay here,” she said.

“Of course,” he returned.

Chapter 20

Lasher felt the car shift as Williams got into the passenger's seat. He put the car in gear and headed out of the airport parking lot.

“Thanks for coming all this way, Jack,” he said.

Williams smiled. “Lisa saved my hide a dozen times over. It’s the least I could do.”

They merged onto the highway.

“It’s tough going,” Lasher said once all the merging was over. “The most important thing is to stay confident around her; it’s important to her to keep her dignity.”

“She’s already outlasted what the quacks told her,” Williams said.

“Yes, she’s tough. No doubt about it. It gets harder for her every day, but she’s a fighter.”

“I cleared everything for the next month,” Williams said.

Dirk nodded. “That should be long enough. Thanks again for the help..”

Williams ended up staying for over a year.

Chapter 21

“This became a regular thing, didn’t it?” Lisa asked, sitting down with her own coffee cup.

Dirk looked out over the water at the horizon. It was growing lighter, the sunrise probably ten or fifteen minutes away.

“Every day,” he smiled. “I wasn't sure you were aware of what was going on at the end, but I wheeled you out here every day,” he paused, turning to her, “until, you know, we were at the hospice.”

“Sure, I remember. And so you know, I looked forward to every morning with you,” she was kind of glowing like last time.

They held hands for a while. Then Dirk changed the subject.

“Things are not going well in the Gap right now,” he said.

She nodded.

“I’m trying to figure out how long I need for the grieving process,” he said, looking to her for advice.

Her face took on a funny look, kind of serious and not serious at the same time.

“I know you’re under the effects of the Brugmansia flowers right now,” she said, holding her look and his gaze, “but if you’re asking me about that half-naked lady you are hunkered down with, I can tell you the damn grieving process lasts longer than a frigging week, pal.”

Dirk was briefly confused. “What? No, not you,” he stumbled with his words, “I mean not her,” he paused and regrouped. “I mean, I have to process what happened to Jack at some point. I locked my emotions down, but it’s gnawing at me. It’s going to devastate me. In a week, I’ve lost you and now him.”

She nodded, understanding. It made more sense given who Dirk was. “It’s hard for me, given I only know what you allow yourself to know. Since you’re purposefully repressing that memory, I keep forgetting he’s gone too.”

Dirk allowed the memories to flood in, including how Williams died.

Lisa was mortified. She gasped and said, “Okay, okay, I get it. Wow. Do not think about it. Oh my gosh…” then after she recovered, “I understand now. Yes, go back to thinking about the half-naked lady. I get it.”

Dirk tried again. “So, we’re probably not going to make it out of here. We’re at least twenty or thirty miles from the coast to the west and twice that to the northern edge and even farther to the eastern side where the Wargandi lived. When I saw her shoulder, there could be internal bleeding and other damage. When we wake up, she’s going to be probably sixty-five percent, and she still won’t be able to use a weapon except in her left hand even though she is right handed.”

“What about you?”

“With the ribs, I’ll be about ninety percent. But ninety percent of what? Ninety percent of a forty-year-old bar bouncer, not jungle fighter.”

“If it’s too far to make it out in your condition, what are you going to do?”

“That’s what I want your advice on,” he said, looking back out to sea, watching the sun crest over the water. “We’re basically back close to where we started yesterday. If we correctly go east this time, given the easier conditions of the jungle on these rocky inclines, we could make it to where the US forces are being held.”

“And then what?”

He shook his head with no answer.

“Dirk, you should probably wake up,” Lisa said, leaning forward, listening to something.

“We need at least forty-eight hours,” he started to dismiss the suggestion, not understanding.

“It’s been twice that,” Lisa said. “The naked lady is trying to get you up. There’s something digging its way into your little sleeping tent.”

“Oh,” Dirk tried to listen.

“Now she’s shooting the AKM into the top of the tent, and something heavy has fallen onto both of you.”

Dirk looked a little panicked. “I do need to wake up,” he said, and he did.

Chapter 22

Dirk awoke to the sound of rifle fire, which rang in his ears. Bonsai had emptied an entire clip into the top of the interior, which had collapsed onto her. Whatever had fallen wasn't moving but was very heavy.

The air smelled of fire and fuel, just like at the crash site several days ago. It was disorienting. But they were still inside their sleeping structure, so he got his bearings quickly.

Bonsai was screaming, “Get it off, get it off!” She was trapped under something and couldn’t move.

It took him just another moment to completely orientate himself. He pushed against the collapsed roof and slid out of the covered tent's rear.

The world outside the tent could not be any more different from what it had been the last time he saw it. He could see for miles. The sun was bright in the sky, smoke rising from what was the jungle floor, no more tree canopy. There was a big dead panther on the top of the tent. Half of it looked normal; the other half had been badly burned, its fur was gone, and its skin was blotchy with heat boils on the one side. It had apparently been trying to get at them, with Bonsai shooting it as it dug at the structure.

“It’s OK Bonsai. It’s a big cat. Let me try and pull it off so you can get up.”

“Hurry,” came the muffled reply. “This thing weighs a ton.”

Dirk walked around the animal. She had emptied the magazine into its ribs and chest. He looked and figured he could pull its back legs to move it enough. He did; it was surprisingly easy; his ribs didn’t hurt at all.

Bonsai rolled a few feet out of the now-collapsed structure and stood up, dusting herself off. She looked at the downed panther, then up to everything else. She spun in a circle, looking around. The devastation was complete; there was nothing but smoking burned jungle, just black stalks and tree trunks.

“What the…” her mouth hung open.

“Well, General Hampton wasn't kidding,” Dirk said. “They firebombed the heck out of this place.”

He looked back at Bonsai as she still surveyed the new environment. Her shoulder was now a much lighter purple in places but mostly the ugly yellow-green that a bruise turned after a couple of days when it was healing—actually, a very good sign.

“How’s the shoulder,” he asked her.

She stopped and seemed surprised at the question. She rotated the right shoulder some, then lifted her arm out to her side, making it about a third of the way, then stopping and lowering it quickly.

“It doesn’t hurt anywhere near as badly, but I can’t lift it very high.”

“Let's get it back in the sling,” he said, then paused, looking over to where they had hung up their clothes.

“They burned up our damn clothes!’ Bonsai yelled.

Dirk looked back down at the top of their structure. They were lucky they piled as many plants on top of it as they did, a good two feet had been burned away.

He looked up to the sky. It was late afternoon.

“I wonder how long we were out. This mess looks a couple of days old.”

Bonsai looked at Lasher, then around at the devastation again.

They both stood there for a while, it wasn’t clear what to do.

After maybe five minutes, Bonsai said, “You know, I feel pretty good.”

Dirk looked at her, then started nodding, “Me too. I guess I got the mixture right,” he smiled.

She started laughing.

He started laughing with her.

“I haven’t felt this good, maybe ever,” she said after the laughing slowed down. “We’re completely screwed, but I feel really good about it.”

Dirk knew the positive effect from the flower would last a while; that was one of its benefits.

After another few minutes of them standing and observing, the faint sound of a helicopter came within range. They both heard it. It was getting louder.

“Do we try and signal it?” Bonsai asked.

Lasher thought hard. “I don’t think so. We know we have both US forces and FARC soldiers in the area. Given what we saw at the river with US assets firing on each other, I don’t see how we can know if they are friendly in time for it to matter.”

The sound was getting louder and more distinct; it was more than one helicopter.

“Let’s get back under the tent,” he lifted up on the collapsed entrance and motioned for her to go in. “There’s no way it stands out in this landscape, even with the dead panther right on it.”

A few minutes after entering the tent, three military combat helicopters with unknown markings flew over. They were flying low, surveying the area. They were very loud and unnerving.

After they passed and their engine noise had completely faded, Dirk dug out the radio.

“Might as well,” he said. “I doubt they have any sophisticated triangulation tech, not for little old us.”

Bonsai nodded that she agreed. She flipped the battery switch, waiting about twenty seconds for the unit to cycle its boot-up, then flipped between a few frequencies she knew were standard. It was static everywhere.

“Nothing,” she said after trying all the different frequencies several times each.

“I’m not sure who we were really talking to last time,” Lasher said, “but let's do a mayday and see what happens.

Bonsai gave him a why not face and a shrug. They were both still lying down in the tent with just their heads sticking out, along with the radio antenna.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday. Any station, any station. This is Delta 3-6. Mayday mayday mayday. Over.”

A lot of time passed as she repeated the call every three or four minutes.

Then, finally, “Delta 3-6, this is the bandit. Over.”

It was an odd response that caught both Bonsai and Lasher off-guard.

“What?” Bonsai started to say when the radio squawked again.

“Rubber Duck, how in the HELL are you still around to make radio calls?”

It was a male voice. Something clicked for Lasher.

“Give me the mic,” he said.

She handed it to him.

“Is this that little weasel who used to report to me? Jim Cruz?” Lasher said into the radio handset, releasing the switch and waiting.

There was a short pause. “No fragging way! Dick Wacker is alive too?”

Bonsai smiled. “That’s awesome,” she said.

Dirk frowned. “Jim, what on God's green Earth are you doing?” Lasher asked.

“Oh, Dick,” the radio said. “I’m dealing sloppy seconds. They had to call in the real men after you screwed everything up. I’m even banging that hot chick you used to run with, Kimberly Sharp. Man, she is one twisted lady…”

Dirk looked at Bonsai, confused. “What is going on?”

“You mentioned her before, with Williams...” Bonsai trailed off.

He shook his head no, like he was trying to clear it.

“Hello?” the radio said.

Dirk reached around Bonsai and flipped the power switch off. It left his arm draped over her when he was done. He didn’t remove it as they lay there.

“This is insane,” he said. He stayed like that for a while, thinking. Bonsai didn’t move, enjoying the contact.

Finally, Dirk flipped the radio back on and brought his arm back to support his weight.

Cruz was still talking, blathering on about something.

“Jim,” Lasher said, breaking in.

“Dirk,” came back in the same soft tone.

Lasher didn’t want to give away how little he knew about current events. He was trying to think of an angle when the whole world changed.

“Man, she hated that lesbian,” the radio said.

Kimberly used to call Lisa that.

“Do you know how hard it is to stretch cancer out that long?” the radio said.

Dirk made eye contact with Bonsai, who was watching him change right before her eyes.

“You have to use just the smallest amount. You see, it was all quite simple, really. Over the course of months, Sharp had me add tiny amounts of radioactive material to her food. She ate all that health foodstuff; you ate Waffle House and Dennys.

“It was easy to just target her.

“I had to be careful, though; you know how Kimberly is about not following her timelines. Just enough to make her sick; not enough to kill her outright. I carefully balanced the doses to ensure the illness stretched out as long as possible, keeping her in a constant state of suffering.

“Each day, just a little bit more. The radiation slowly poisoned her body, weakening her bit by bit. The beauty of it was in the subtlety; no one would suspect a thing. She would have unexplained symptoms, go through endless tests, and face a gradual decline without any clear cause.

“It was a meticulous process, requiring patience and precision. I made sure the material was ingested in small, undetectable amounts so it wouldn't raise any alarms. Her body was slowly ravaged from the inside out, and every bit of her pain was a testament to my careful planning.

“I never had to even get close; I could send anyone, so she never noticed the same person twice. You were both so lazy with your automated grocery deliveries. There was nothing clever about it, just cold, calculated cruelty. Kimberly wanted her to suffer, and I wanted you to watch, helpless, as she wasted away. Payback for what you did to my family.”

“I never did anything to your family!” Lasher yelled, outraged and not processing very well any of this information.

“Good, keep denying it. You know they died because of you. You pulled me out of my house in the middle of the night to go to downtown Panama City. Because I was gone, Sharp had my family killed. I want you to feel what I felt for all these years! I want you to suffer like I suffered. To know that your loved ones are dead, and to know it’s because of me.”

After a moment, “Well, me and Kimberly Sharp. She runs so much more of the government now. Not just the Mexican government. She controls many US assets. Ready and waiting for her to call us up.”

Lasher dropped the radio mic. He slowly forced himself out from under the half-cover of the tent.

Bonsai watched him, unsure.

Cruz kept talking on the radio, but neither Lasher nor Bonsai was listening.

Lasher had his back to her so she couldn’t see his face. He stood there, unmoving. Somehow, though, he was changing. Without moving and with no difference, he became terrifying. Somehow, what had looked silly moments ago was a grown man standing in the middle of the burned-out jungle, covered in healing scratches and ash, wearing nothing but underwear and combat boots. Somehow, he was now the most terrifying man she had ever seen, and she had been around the best of them.

She reached down and turned the radio off. It didn’t feel like it mattered anymore.

With no clouds in the sky, it started to rain, turning the ash and charcoal from all the burned vegetation into a grey mush.

Lasher didn’t move.

After five minutes, the rain stopped.

“Sir,” Bonsai finally said, not sure what else to do.

He half turned his head without moving anything else. “Don’t worry about the radio or the AKMs or the ammo or anything. Get the Kukri’s. I’ll show you how to use it with just your left hand.”

It came across as the scariest thing she had ever heard.

“Who are all these people?” she asked.

“Old friends,” Lasher said.

“What are we going to do?”

“Remind them why we parted ways,” he said.

Chapter 23

They spent the next several hours with Lasher showing Bonsai different ways to attack and defend with the Kukri using just her left hand. She already knew basic thrusting and slashing attacks; they practiced those for about an hour, and she got so she could quickly attack and defend while keeping her balance because of the need to keep her right arm as immobile as possible. She was proficient, and as a trained Delta Force soldier, that in and of itself was a high standard.

“Now let me show you my favorite stance. It’s a combination of attack and defense,” he stood pressed up against her and moved her left arm out to her side a few inches from her normal stance.

“Stay there,” he said and came around where she could see him. She held the stance, and he took the same position, the Kukri in his left hand facing forward. Then he expertly spun the blade using only his wrist. It was a polished move. The handle slid around, and he was now holding the blade in a fist where it ran down the outside of his forearm.

“Try it,” he said.

She tried to spin the blade like he had and dropped it. Then picked it up and tried a couple more times until she had it.

“How does it feel?” he asked. They were both in a crouched stance with their left arm slightly raised, the Kukri held in a fist running down from their hand to their elbow.

“It feels like my arm is up too high,” she said, trying some defensive moves to practice blocking.

“I know. It’s not, though. My problem is I forget in my normal fighting stance to lower my arm for defense. But with the Kukri, you hold your arm a little bit higher, then block by moving your elbow, not your hand or forearm.”

He showed her. Once she got it, she smiled big. “Wow! It lets you fight like a boxer, more easily block incoming attacks, and unlike a fist fight, any blow you land is going to F someone up because you have almost a foot of blade following the contact.”

“That’s my girl,” Lasher smiled big.

By the time they finished, the sun was just starting to set. It would be light for about another ninety minutes.

“So, I feel good,” Bonsai said after a while, “but I still am not entirely sure I understand our plan of attack given we are in our underwear.”

Lasher nodded. “I’ve been putting this off, but it's time. Find puddles where the water has collected with a lot of ash and char near it. Mix it into a mud paste, then start applying it. Cover everything, then I’ll do your back, and you can do mine. We couldn’t ask for better camouflage. We just have to get in and get out tonight because it will be a lot less effective during daylight hours; given how much fire damage there is, the line of sight is a lot farther.”

Bonsai nodded, found the elements to mix to create the paste, and started spreading it on her just like Lasher did. She started making movie-esque drum sounds.

“What are you doing?” Lasher asked.

“Oh, come on, this is the part where they play the build-up montage. The preparation for the epic showdown!”

He rolled his eyes, but he still felt great, as did she, from the flower mixture. The upbeat attitude should last most of the night.

When they finished, they were a scary-looking pair, completely covered in dark gray and black mud, Lasher with a Kukri in each hand, Bonsai with one in her left hand. They went over the undergarments to maintain an unbroken surface. Their eyes and teeth stood out as white; the blades gleamed when they caught the afternoon sunlight; everything else blended in as the same colors as the burned foliage and devastation.

“We’re going to run a couple clicks east,” Lasher instructed. “Then we should start encountering guard posts. I have no idea if we’ll run into Cruz’s traitors or the FARC goons first, but we’re going in extremely simple.”

Bonsai was hanging on his every word with a mixture of excited energy and a moderate thrill at the chance to go in on instinct without a lot of complicated orders and instructions.

Lasher continued, “Anyone not a captive is an enemy. You simply stay close behind me. I’ll hack my way through, and you protect my rear and flanks. Just keep them off me, and I’ll do the heavy lifting. The goal is simple: I want to get in as far as we can undetected. I’ll try and figure out the layout of whatever their encampment looks like. We find their command and control; that’s where Cruz will be. I’m assuming General Hampton wasn’t sadistic enough to firebomb our own troops. If the situation is substantially different when we get there, we’ll reassess. If you see anything important, let me know, but otherwise, this is a silent op, no chatter.”

He was standing in front of her. For the last part, he held eye contact, and there was a fire in his eyes. “Cruz. Is. Mine. Otherwise, help me dispatch anyone else we find as quickly and quietly as possible. My plans tend to fall apart quickly, so just stay close to me and swing for the fences when you have to. Keep your hand on my back when we’re moving. Be sure to step back a couple of feet when we have encounters so I can swing my arms without hitting you; I’m going to assume you are paying attention and just react, so mind yourself. If I take someone down and move on, your job is to finish them. No survivors, no wounded, no negotiating, heck, no talking period. We’re going in simple. It’s going to be a bloodbath, so stay focused and squared away.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, sounding calm, but her heart was racing a mile a minute under the surface.

They waited another twenty minutes, then started their run as the sunset finished.

Chapter 24

Almost instantly, they picked up light sources a good way off. With much of the vegetation gone, the AO became a lot simpler. There were fires maybe two kilometers east. That would be where the US forces were being held. It would also be where at least three platoons of special operations assets were, pending some major development post-firestorm, but it didn’t feel like that was the case.

“Do we care why they turned?” Bonsai asked in a low whisper as they ran.

“No,” the answer came back harshly from in front of her. Lasher was hard to see in the darkness, even though he was only a few feet in the lead.

“I might know some of them; we probably went through some of the same training courses,” Bonsai whispered.

“If you see anyone you remember being exceptional, kill them first,” Lasher said.

Bonsai was under the impression she should be quiet, so she was. She settled in at arm’s length behind Lasher, not worrying about where they were going but just working to stay focused and in her trailing position. This was something she was familiar with; there had been many training sessions she had been through where they offered limited instructions, amounting to run that way, without explaining how far the run would be or if there were timing requirements.

She settled in, holding the Kukri in her left hand and her right arm in a sling made from her sports bra. It was the only thing left they could loop over her neck that had some give.

She found that from time to time, her thoughts raced. She pushed them away. One trick to survival often was pushing that inner voice out of your head. It tended to complain a lot. Her brain kept trying to get her to think about all the mistakes she had made in life, how tragic it was to lose the rest of the team and constant self-doubt. She didn’t need the voice; she knew she was good enough. If it hadn’t now been proven over and over, then it wasn’t provable.

But she was convinced. She had had imposter syndrome for much of the past five years. Constantly getting passed well ahead of her classmates hadn’t helped with the self-doubt and negative feelings, but the last several days in the field had made all the difference.

Lasher had a way of making her feel like she belonged. She suspected he made most people feel that way if he wanted them to. They were now about to do hand-to-hand combat with some of the best-trained soldiers ever to have walked the earth. She knew, on the off chance she survived, that this experience meant she would never feel like an imposter again.

They covered the distance quickly, in less than twenty minutes. It was nearly impossible for her to understand how different everything was, with much of the vegetation burned away.

Lasher slowed. The terrain and vegetation were changing a little, less charring, just as Lasher guessed; they were careful not to let the chemical ordinance too close to the captured soldiers.

He crouched low and started to move sideways, clearly seeing something that she did not, continuing to advance. She could see his fists flexing around the blades and the muscles in his forearms tensing. Before she saw them, he was moving fast. He came in silent and low, somehow managing to angle their approach to be from the three soldiers' rear. In a flash, Lasher ran one blade across the throat of the closest man; then swung his arms out in both directions using his backward configuration, cutting the necks of the other two soldiers instantly. The whole ambush took under five seconds. It was a brutally efficient kill.

“Jesus,” she whispered under her breath. She had seen what she thought were the toughest men in the world under the most extreme conditions. But they looked like children playing on the playground compared to Lasher’s savage advance and handiwork.

He never stopped moving, now back along their original path.

“How did you find them?” Bonsai asked. Lasher stopped and turned. She felt fear run down her spine when he focused on her; his eyes were crazy. He put his finger to his lips to indicate quiet, leaving a red mark of blood. Then he pointed to his nose and lifted his head so his nose was in the air.

“Right, use all the senses,” she whispered.

He moved his finger to her lips, making the silent motion for her, turned, and continued his advance.

The landscape was changing. More a jungle landscape now, less and less fire damage, but not the dense jungle from before. It was obvious that many soldiers had moved all over the AO. It felt more like a forest in North Carolina, still heavily wooded, but you could see for dozens of yards through the trees, and there was limited ground cover.

Bonsai smelled BO. She thought about saying something, but Lasher was already moving sideways. She didn't know how he could tell which way they were facing just from smelling them, but he sure seemed able to, or he was using some other method she wasn’t familiar with. The second group went down as quickly as the first. While these might be special forces, they were clearly not expecting trouble and were not on high alert.

After disposing of the second set of soldiers, Lasher started to move back to his original approach and then stopped. She almost ran right into the back of him but stopped just in time. By the time she had stopped he had already turned and was giving her a hand signal.

He made a fist. Hold tight.

He extended his thumb to point at his chest. He was indicating himself.

He swept his hand from his chest in her direction. From me to you.

Hold tight; I’ll flush them to you.

Before she could protest, he was off to her right, almost instantly invisible in the dark night.

She crouched down, holding the Kukri tight in her left hand.

There was a commotion and some muffled wet sounds. Suddenly a staff sergeant in an American uniform came running at her. He was clutching his throat, blood spilling out of it. She positioned to take her swing, but suddenly, one of Lasher’s Kukri exploded out the front of the man's chest, and he slid to a stop right at her feet, bleeding out into the jungle floor, which greedily accepted the offering.

Then Lasher was there. He was covered in blood; it looked like he hit one of the men's jugulars, and it had sprayed all over him. His eyes were full of fire. She had another moment of fear where it seemed like he had to go through a process to recognize her. He held up his hand again, telling her to remain quiet. Then he held up two fingers, pointed with one finger to his right and one to his left. He quickly turned his hand upside down and made a walking motion.

Two soldiers are on patrol, one to the left and one to the right.

He pointed at her and signaled left, then at himself and signaled right, then pointed directly to the ground.

He’ll get the one on the right, Bonsai the one on the left, then they were to regroup back here at this spot.

She nodded. It was going to be hard with just the one hand to keep the man from calling out. She heard footsteps. Lasher was gone. She moved to her left, listening, smelling, and just generally sensing for the soldier. She saw him and carefully moved low, emulating the attack vector Lasher had taken. She got behind him; he hadn't sensed anything. With a lot of confidence, she swung the Kukri like a tennis backhand, aiming for his neck. She missed a little low. She heard him suck in air and could feel a scream coming. Quickly, she dug the blade out of his shoulder, rotated it to the reverse configuration, and slid it across his throat just before he could call out.

Blood sprayed out, some of it in her direction. Before she could react, Lasher was standing there. How had he handled his man and found her position so quickly?

He held her gaze for a moment; there was the noise of a stick breaking a good way off. He forced her down into a crouch, bending down with her. She was starting to notice that Lasher always seemed able to focus on two or three things at the same time. He pointed left and right again, then spun his finger in a circle in the air.

Two more, same configuration. Same strategy. Go.

They moved off—the same result.

Both Bonsai and Lasher were covered in blood now. Unlike a few days ago, this time, it wasn’t their own.

Lasher moved away from the fire light and back into the area of the jungle that had been firebombed. It took him about five minutes to get to what he considered a safe distance.

“If there were seventy-five of them, now there are sixty,” he said, counting the two groups of three, the five men he handled solo, and the two patrols of two soldiers each.

“Jesus,” she said.

“Sure, they just got to meet him,” he continued to look back at the fire lights. They almost looked like bright stars on the ground, a continuation of the now-visible night sky. He then shifted his focus from the distance to Bonsai. “How do you feel?”

She answered instantly. “I feel great.”

He nodded. “I’m going to guess it's around nine o’clock. We’re going to feel like this probably until dawn. Eventually a patrol or someone is going to find our handy work. What watch shifts would you use on a special forces team?” he asked her since she would know, and he had never served on a special forces mission before.

“We’d have four-hour shifts,” she answered.

“Okay. What about patrols?”

“They’d make sure everyone got at least four hours sleep if the conditions allowed for it; they would also try and have a cycle where everyone got a full night's sleep at least every couple of days. Again, if the conditions allowed for it.”

Dirk was trying to do all the logistics in his head. They knew three guards per post and at least two two-person patrols. His guess was that each of the three platoons would be tasked with two guard posts and two patrols each. “So, four-hour shifts. Okay. It was fully dark at about 8 PM. I think it's about 9 PM now. There will be a lot of activity starting about 11:30 PM leading up to the shift changes. What would your sitrep schedule be?”

“We’re not doing military time?” she smiled.

“It’s been a while.”

Bonsai thought. “Well, this place was just firebombed. What is the assumed threat level?”

“My guess,” Lasher said, “is that their moles are feeding them the US plans so that they will know ahead of time, well in advance. If I know General Hampton, he would look to contain this situation. If we can confirm there are still living hostages, we should be expecting some type of skyborne assault. If they killed all the hostages, I would expect remote harassment, Tomahawks, and stuff like that. There will be political considerations if the FARC forces are mixed in and depending on their status, attacking the Colombian military, even renegade ones, could have implications.”

“So we’d be in some kind of modified moderate or low level of readiness. It could mean no sitreps, as every four hours would be standard in that scenario, and that's also the shift. It could be a mid-watch check-in, so every two hours.”

Lasher's eyes showed fire. “Ready to run?” he asked.

“Of course,” she responded.

“Okay, I want to get to the exact other side of the encampment, it’s going to be a symmetrical layout based on Taylor’s briefing. If we hurry, I think we can take out the watch stations and patrols on the east side, just like we did here on the west side. Then, we’ll evaluate the situation. We’ll assume at 10 PM when the sitreps fall behind, they will increase the threat level. We also know the patrols, or at midnight the shift change, will eventually blow the whole thing open. I also want to be on that other side as I think the jungle is still intact over there, so we can go to ground and evade any patrols when the sun comes up.”

She nodded, and they sprinted off.

It was maybe a kilometer and a half to the other side. Of course, they had to stay far away from the outer zone the guard stations established. Lasher knew the patrols might extend beyond the guard station, but he didn’t see why they would, given the operating environment. He was still careful.

The layout on the east side was the same as on the west. This was a sign of an inexperienced commander or a central control freak, one who preferred symmetry on his maps to tactical advantages. They dispatched two more guard posts of three soldiers each and intercepted two more two-man patrols.

Once done, Lasher again sprinted away from the center of command and control, presumably where the hostages were held. He went into the jungle, which slowed everything down, as navigating it at night was a challenge under the near pitch-black tree canopy. Not like out in the burned-out areas, where starlight provided some illumination, albeit minimal, it still made all the difference.

Once they were well away and settled, they stopped to rest. They still felt great, but they were starting to feel the physical exertion they were putting forth.

“I think we’re still on the south side of 10 PM,” Lasher said when they finally stopped. “Let’s do some sleep shifts. You sleep first; I’ll wake you in four hours. I’ll find some coca leaves. We’ll feel great come morning. They, on the other hand, are about to go on full alert and freak out trying to figure out how they just lost a third of their fighting force.”

Bonsai nodded, then “Sleep? We just slept for a week!”

He nodded back. “There is going to be a flurry of activity when the carnage is discovered. They’ll get everyone up, check on things, send out patrols, make radio calls to whoever. Let them wear themselves out. I’d prefer to be asleep while they are spending all that energy. It will take a while for them to figure out what’s going on. And I left some brutal messes around for them. They’ll waste at least an hour on macho, angry tirades about how no one disrespects American special forces or whatever. They’ll run everyone around for hours. None of them are going to get much rest, starting in just a few minutes. I figure we let all that develop, wait five or six hours, then go back in before dawn.”

Bonsai smiled. “You are an evil SOB,” she loved the plan.

“I’ll find some coca leaves. You force yourself to sleep, I’ll wake you in about four hours, and we’ll switch. Then we’ll be well rested and juiced up come about 4 AM.”

Bonsai nodded, following orders as usual. From all of her training, she knew the value of sleep, and like many good soldiers, she had developed the tools to force herself to sleep. She was awakened by Lasher with one hand on her shoulder and one hand over her mouth. She had the quickest moment of panic, not understanding, and then she realized he was keeping her from making any noise.

After just a moment, she nodded that she was awake and understood. He released both hands and stepped back.

Lasher raised his hand to his lips, placing his index finger vertically to signal silence. He then extended two fingers and pointed to the left, indicating two soldiers in that direction. Next, he extended the same two fingers and pointed to the right, showing two more soldiers there. He repeated the gesture, pointing straight ahead to signal two soldiers in front. Finally, Lasher made a circular motion with his index finger to indicate movement, then pointed to his chest and swept his hand backward over his shoulder to signal for her to follow him. She pushed herself to her feet using her left arm and nodded that she understood.

They moved as quickly as they could. Since they were unencumbered, they stood a good chance of outrunning pursuers dressed in full battle gear. Lasher took them back several dozen yards, then he circled around and headed farther east. They moved quietly for a long time. After a good while, he stopped and turned to Bonsai. He put his finger to his lips, then he extended two fingers and pointed to the left, then to the right, and finally straight ahead, indicating the earlier identified soldiers. He then pointed to his eyes and gestured back over his shoulder, signaling that those same soldiers were now following them.

Bonsai looked at him. She raised her eyebrows and shrugged her good shoulder, basically asking, are you sure?

Lasher gave a firm nod and a thumbs up, signaling that yes, in fact, he was sure. She had no idea how he was able to track the soldiers, but she was fully convinced he could.

He gave the follow me signal and started moving again. They didn’t go very far when he stopped and abruptly changed directions. He was moving slower and crouched over. He changed directions again, then abruptly stopped.

Lasher turned around to her, extended his arm, and pointed with his index finger, moving his hand in a circular motion around him to indicate that they were surrounded.

Bonsai’s face sank. She looked down at herself. She was fully covered by the mud, but suddenly, the prospect of getting captured by traitors became a reality.

Dirk saw the look and whispered very softly, “On three, we’re sprinting that way.” He pointed east, keeping his hand low and his face very close to hers. “There are two soldiers over there, maybe fifty feet out. When we get to them, I’ll engage; you keep running. Then just get as far away from here as you can. Go back to the river and follow it north. It will be one hell of a trip, but you can make it.”

She started to protest, but he was already moving. She followed. Just as he thought, there were two soldiers, both wearing starlight headgear, meaning they could see perfectly in the darkness. He angled their approach and was on them before they could react. Bonsai slowed, and Lasher forcefully waved his arm for her to keep going. There was a lot of weight behind it; he was making it clear she needed to do what he asked. Her conflict only lasted a moment, and then she continued on, disappearing into the night.

Lasher downed the first soldier and was now engaged with the second. Unlike the ambushes earlier in the night, this was going to be a fair fight, and Dirk knew on his best day he was no match for a younger special forces soldier in a battle to the death.

They started to circle each other. Lasher held the Kukri’s in both hands, the left one in his preferred backward grip, the right one in a more traditional forward-facing position. The soldier was smiling. He had a large hunting knife still on his belt, a Springfield XDM 9MM handgun in a holster, and he left his M4 rifle on the ground.

Lasher was confused. Then he understood. He straightened his back and stopped moving while the soldier remained in his ready crouch.

“You have orders to bring me in alive,” Dirk said in disbelief. “Soldier, don’t underestimate me. I’m tired of killing tonight; don’t make it easy.”

The man spat in Dirk's direction.

Lasher shrugged.

The man launched forward; it looked like he was going for a Judo-style move to get his hands on Dirk to disarm and overpower him. It was a stupid move; Lasher swung his right Kukri low to force the soldier to redirect, then swept backward with his left hand, running the blade across the man's neck, partially severing his head.

Before he was off the downed man, two more soldiers gang-tackled him from behind. He rolled left, running the sharp blade across a man's chest. It wasn't a mortal wound, but it was a painful one.

Someone was behind him, hitting him hard in the back of the head. He tried moving right, then left. The blows kept coming. Unsure, Lasher rolled forward and turned. There were four men now. They fanned out to completely encircle him. He slowly turned. They moved in coordination. The men to his front threw dirt at his face while the two to his rear launched another tackle.

He spun and felt the Kukri penetrate flesh, but he couldn’t see well. He took another very hard blow to his back. Then another. When he spun, he got more dirt in the face, and someone new was punching him from behind. This went on for a few more moments. Lasher landed several more Kukri cuts and slices, but in the end it wasn’t enough. They had him down and beat him for a very long time. They knew what they were doing, too; very painful but not enough to put his life in danger.

They were saving him for something. He worked hard to keep his imagination from wondering what it might be.

Chapter 25

The bucket of cold water woke him up.

He tried to move his arm to wipe some of it away, but he was tied to something.

When he opened his eyes, everything was blurry. His left eye seemed swollen and almost closed; he could only see through a sliver of it.

He lifted his head. When he did, his neck screamed in pain that ran down his back.

There was a ringing in his ears, and he could hear the sound of a generator running close by.

Someone slapped him hard.

He tried to focus on the blurry blob that seemed to be where the blow came from.

“Damnit, Glenn. I friggin told you not to rough him up too much. It’s important he’s lucid for this next part.” A voice with authority but not an impressive voice.

“Yes, sir. I think he’s just soft; we used kid gloves.” A much gruffer male voice. It had an element of bass and malice in it.

“Kid gloves with rocks in them,” the other voice returned. “Dirk? Hey, old buddy. How you doin’?”

Dirk tried to distinguish between the two figures, but he couldn’t. Things were unblurring a little; he could see that there were two men, one taller than the other.

He was struck again, this time much harder, more than even a solid slap. It made everything go blurry, and he lost focus.

“For Christ’s Sake, Glenn. What did I just freaking say?”

“Yes, sir.”

Chapter 26

The bucket of cold water woke him up.

It couldn’t have been more than a minute or two.

“Dirk?” the same voice as before. “Dirk, we don’t have as much time as I want for this, so try and stay awake. It will move everything along. Can you do that for me, old friend?”

“Cruz?” Lasher said. His mouth and jaw hurt when he said it. He ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth and was surprised that a couple of teeth had been knocked out.

“That’s General Cruz,” the other voice said and hit Lasher hard in the back of the head.

“Damnit, Glenn!” Cruz yelled. “Stop hitting him in the head, or this is going to take forever!”

“Yes, sir.”

Dirk laughed a real laugh. “General?” He finally got out.

Lasher tried to look up and focus, but he still wasn’t able to.

“Dirk, the world is changing,” Cruz started.

Lasher cut him off. “Oh, Lord. Jim, seriously. I am sick and tired of this speech. The world is changing. A new generation of new ideas. Whatever. You and Napoleon have more in common than your height. People have been giving that speech for centuries. It usually turns out badly.”

He got knocked out again.

Chapter 27

The bucket of cold water woke him up again.

It couldn’t have been more than a minute or two.

“So here is how this is going to go,” Cruz was standing close, his hand forcing Lasher's head up as he came to. “Kimberly didn’t actually want to kill you. I insisted on it, though. She just wants her money back. Lisa stole millions from her.”

Cruz started too soon; Lasher wasn't coherent enough to follow.

“Glenn. Glenn!” Cruz screamed. “Do you see what you did? This is why you need to listen!”

“Sir,” another voice. “ETA two hours.”

“Okay,“ Cruz returned. “That gives us a solid sixty, and then we’re out. Prep the helicopters and start to get the FARC a-holes ready to defend the place.”

There was the sound of commotion.

“Glenn, were you just about to knock him in the head again?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I mean,” Cruz sounded exasperated, “how can I make myself more clear? This guy has banking accounts all over the world with millions of dollars in them. Maybe billions. If you keep hitting him in the head, how will he remember them? If you hit him one more time, you’ll be the one that explains to Sharp how we couldn’t follow basic instructions.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, but it sounded much more sincere than the earlier times.

“Good Lord, I have to do everything myself,” Cruz said.

Dirk was finally able to get his vision focused. He was in Cruz’s command tent, tied to a metal chair. Cruz stood looking at him. Lasher might not have recognized him; his transformation was so pronounced. He was still Jim Cruz, but he did look much harder. He had multiple scars on his face and some running down into his BDU shirt. His hair was salt and pepper, and Lasher could see a build under his fatigue that had not been there ten years prior.

Next to him was a big Russian-looking man. He was in US Special Forces BDUs, and his nametag said Glenn. He had Staff Sergeant stripes. Daylight came from the edges of the tent and the flap that served as a door.

Then Dirk looked down. A jolt of fear so strong that he physically recoiled. He was stripped completely naked, no more underwear or boots; they had electrical connectors attached to his privates.

“Jim, what the hell?” Dirk heard himself say. It was a startling situation. He found himself squirming, pushing, and pulling against the restraints.

“I know, buddy,” Cruz turned and waved Glenn out; he waited for him to leave. “So, here’s the deal. Kimberly wants me to get the bank account numbers from you. Once I have them, I’m supposed to bring her proof that you’re dead. Can you guess what that proof is?”

He looked down to where the connector was attached.

Dirk followed his gaze; it was a straightforward answer. He fought against the restraints again to no avail.

Cruz shook his head in disappointment. He went over to the device the cables were attached to and turned it on. Dirk flinched even though nothing else happened.

“It takes a couple of minutes,” Cruz said, checking a few gauges and nodding in satisfaction.

“Jim, I had no idea about your family,” Lasher said, telling the truth.

Cruz kept checking the gauges, then dismissive, “Sure. I know, Dirk.”

“Then why take it out on Lisa?”

Cruz turned to look at Lasher and wrinkled his forehead. “Why would I care about her?”

“What? You said..” Dirk started.

“No. Sorry, Dirk. I’m not used to having to explain myself to people anymore. Right. Sharp wanted Lisa to suffer. I want you to suffer. What Sharp wanted simply provided the means for what I wanted.”

“And Kimberly wants the bank accounts?”

Cruz walked over. “Now you’re getting it,” then he returned to the machine. “So, here’s our challenge,” he fiddled with some knobs, then held Dirk’s gaze. “I haven’t used this in a while. It’s a very effective device; the challenge is if I don’t get the initial settings right, it tends to send too much juice through the line.” He started giggling. “Man, this one dude. It blew his junk right off, like it exploded; then he caught on fire right there in the chair, all screaming. It was very inconvenient. If Glenn hadn’t acted quickly with a fire extinguisher, the whole tent might have burned down.” He giggled some to himself at the memory.

“Heaven forbid,” Dirk said, able to focus and his head pretty clear, his system flooding with adrenaline.

An enlisted soldier in US fatigues announced himself and then whispered something to Cruz, whose demeanor changed after a little back-and-forth.

“Nuts,” Cruz said as he turned to Dirk, then laughed. “Well, literally, from your standpoint.” He motioned to the wires, then walked over to the machine. Dirk felt his whole body tense up. Cruz looked at the controls and seemed to decide something. He continued to look at the machine when he spoke next. “Your friend apparently still thinks she is on a mission,” Cruz said.

Dirk felt the smallest flash of hope. Bonsai, having made it onto a Delta team even considering how they rushed her through training, was still one of the best-trained soldiers the US military could produce. Their plan had always been to free any captive and reform them as a fighting force. Maybe she was still trying. Or, based on Cruz’s reaction, maybe she was having more luck than just trying. He started to hear commotion, movement, and the sounds of military orders being yelled from outside the tent.

“So, here’s the thing, Dirk,” Cruz said, still looking at the machine. “Kimberly needs the bank information. She’s fine if I make you suffer, but she is more interested in the money you owe her.”

“I don’t owe her any money,” Dirk said.

Cruz turned to look at Lasher like he was truly surprised. “Of course you do. But that’s not my conundrum. I’m trying to decide if I just crank this thing up to a hundred and leave or not. It seems the luxury of time that I was counting on has escaped me.”

“Jim,” Dirk said in a friendly tone.

“Dirk,” Cruz said back, just like before, over the radio.

“You only have one move. Just shoot me in the head because if I get out of here, you and Sharp will become my mission. I will hunt you both down and end you a thousand times worse than this playschool contraption. And truthfully? I don’t want to. I’m exhausted. I had nothing left to give; now I have less. I’d be much better off if this were it.”

Cruz smiled. “What kind of goofy reverse psychology are you trying?”

Dirk couldn’t have been any more serious. “I’ve fought my whole life to resist becoming what I’ll become if you don’t handle things now. From the time I was a freshman in high school, Wade had me learning to fight. By the time I was fourteen, I was running Waste Management for Dade County, at least the mafia side of it. I bought my first car with protection money I made at school. Even back ten years ago, with you, and you know this, I had this dark streak and every day, in every way, I fought it. I kept it in check. You’ve killed the part of me that was capable of doing that. When you took Lisa, you changed me. Don’t let me out of here. Don’t make this a thing because I will follow through, and I will become the monster.”

Cruz nodded. “You know, Dirk. I believe you.” He smiled and flipped one of the switches.

Lasher recoiled. However, the power to the tent was cut the instant before the switch completed the circuit.

Cruz’s smile froze. He flipped the switch a couple of times, then realized the generator noise had stopped. He rolled his eyes and shook his head.

The enlisted man ran in again. “Sir?” he said as though waiting for instructions.

Cruz nodded and exited the tent with the man. Dirk heard him yell “Glenn!” As soon as he was outside.

Dirk felt relief. He put his head down, which helped with the neck pain.

He started to hear the sound of commotion and more and more yelling.

The tent lights flashed on, and the machine hummed for a second, then lost power again.

Dirk felt a tingle when the power came back on. He focused on the machine and realized Cruz had left the switch he had tried to activate in the up and on position.

Cold terror engulfed him.

He fought against the restraints with no success.

He became exhausted after giving it his all.

The lights flickered again.

He felt the jolt again.

His breathing increased.

Out of options, he started rocking the chair back and forth. After a few rocks, he let the chair go forward, and then he pushed back with his legs to accentuate the momentum when the chair rocked back. He pushed hard enough to lift himself off the ground, then he arched his back and released it as the chair fell over, greatly enhancing the violent impact the chair had on the ground when he landed.

The wires held their connection to both him and the machine, now pulling on areas that he would have preferred were not pulled on. He was stunned from the landing, his ribs catching a now familiar fire. The chair had held together; he tried squirming more, applying as much force as he could in all possible directions. It wasn't going to work; the combination of the metal chair and tied restraints was expertly done.

He slid down to lessen the tension on the wires.

The noise outside had turned it into a full-on riot, complete with yelling and small-arms fire, which was starting to intensify.

The power came back on.

Dirk’s world exploded in bright white pain, his whole body convulsing, each muscle thrown into spasms and chaotically working on its own. Dirk was jerking around, which was pulling on the wires again.

He couldn’t think, the voltage being too high over a short duration. He started to foam around the corner of his mouth, and the convulsions from the current started to become more severe, the tension on the wire more pronounced at times.

After a few more moments, one of Dirk’s spasms pulled hard enough on the wires that the connection cord unset itself from the machine's receiver. This was better than the other option, and it interrupted the power supply without completely severing it. Dirk was now getting random volts as the connection faltered.

It was next to impossible, but the intervals were just long enough that he was able to think basic rudimentary thoughts in between blasts of electricity. He generally understood that the connection had been affected. He forced himself to rotate the chair left and right; he was on his back with his legs up in the air. He did it a few times; when he would rotate the chair to his left, the connection was made, and he would lose focus. When the momentum took the chair to the right, the connection came unseated, and he could briefly think.

After a few rounds of this, he put all his weight behind the roll to his right. It worked; the chair landed over with a thud, and no more waves of electricity were running through the wires into him.

He relaxed. Everything was still where it should be.

The sounds outside escalated into a full-bore battle.

After maybe half an hour, someone came through the tent door. From his angle, he couldn’t see who it was; he sensed more than one person.

“Dirk?” It was Specialist Bonsai’s voice.

He tried to reply but ended up just making a kind of a throat noise.

She rushed over to him. She was wearing BDUs that were a few sizes too big for her. It created the oddest impression between her beat-up appearance and brand new too large for her outfit.

Behind her were several US Army Rangers. They looked fresh and clean compared to everything else.

Bonsai got the wires off him and then started to undo the restraints.

He tried to say something.

She stopped and looked at him.

He swallowed and said in a very low, forced, hoarse voice. “Thanks.”

Chapter 28

Dirk sent the nurse away. The hospice was nice for what it was. Everyone was very well-behaved and helpful.

They had a morphine drip on the line that ran into her arm. It was constant pain now, and the machine restricted the self-application of morphine. It wasn't enough anymore.

Lisa had technically been gone since probably lunchtime yesterday. She was no longer lucid and did not respond to any stimulants. They had her on all kinds of pain management, but Dirk sat at her side anyway. She had grown too weak to press the little red button that released the morphine into her system, so for the last week, Dirk sat at her side and pressed it when she needed it.

Now, he sat, still manning the button, pressing it about every thirty minutes as the timer on the machine would allow.

He knew it was pointless; everyone knew, but they kind of let you do whatever helped. The hospice theory seemed to be that it was as much for the family members as the patients.

It was the middle of the night when all the alarms started going off, and the lights turned from green to red. A growth in her chest was finally closing the airway completely. She remained unconscious but started convulsing as her body could no longer get enough air to satisfy its needs.

A few staff came over, and a doctor was present. Dirk had signed all the do-not-resuscitate paperwork, so everyone, including him, just kind of stood around watching her thrash about and expire.

When it was over, he sat at the bedside, like he had been doing for weeks now. The staff left him alone. They told him they would have to move the body after two hours. He took the time, still pressing the morphine drip every thirty minutes.

Just in case.

Chapter 29

Dirk woke up in a hospital bed. The first thing he noticed was he had an IV running into his arm. There was a little handle near his hand with a morphine drip button.

Instantly, a wave of sadness washed over him.

It passed.

He looked around, trying to figure out where he was.

Everything was in English. He was in a smallish room, but it was a private room. There was a window, but he could only see that there was daylight on the other side of the closed blinds.

He looked around. His right arm had all the tubes and stuff running into it. His left arm was free. He leaned over and opened the little nightstand drawer. There was a Bible in it. He took it out and opened the inside cover:

Property of Atlanta VA Medical Center
For comfort and spiritual guidance, provided with care by the Atlanta VA Medical Center Chaplain Services.

He tried to say “Atlanta,” but instead, his scratchy throat resisted.

He put the book back on the nightstand and looked around. There was a small panel on the side of the bed. On it were a few buttons, one of the buttons had a picture of a nurse.

He pushed it.

He could see a light come on near the door. After maybe five minutes, an older nurse opened the door. She had a kind of manufactured niceness about her.

“Good morning, Mr. Lasher,” she said. She carried a clipboard and wrote something on a form.

Dirk tried to talk again but still found his throat too dry. She saw this and made an “I’ll be right back” gesture. She returned quickly with a tray. On the tray was a Styrofoam cup of crushed ice.

“You had surgery on your abdomen to fix the ribs and all the internal damage,” she said. “We also fixed your ear.”

Dirk put his hand up to his right ear, nothing, then his left, and he felt a big bandage. He also felt several bandages on that side of his face.

The nurse nodded. “They really pounded the heck out of you, didn’t they?” She seemed to have real sympathy, the cold exterior falling away for a moment.

Dirk lifted up the sheet to look at his left side. There was a long Lidoderm strip that was maybe a foot and a half long and four or five inches wide. It covered from his waist to his armpit. Whatever had been done had been extensive. The Lidoderm strip also contained pain relief that slowly released over time.

They also had a catheter on him. Everything was working as it was supposed to, and all the correct pieces and parts were still present.

The nurse smiled. “Take your time. Let me know if you get hungry; you’re approved for crushed ice and Jello.” Then she acted like she remembered something: "Oh, and you have a very enthusiastic patient from a couple of rooms down who wants to talk to you when you're ready.”

Dirk smiled; that had to be Specialist Bonnington, aka Bonsai.

He nodded back to the nurse and gave her a thumbs up. She smiled and left.

It was another couple of hours. Lasher kept hoping his voice would return with the crushed ice, but it did not. He felt well enough otherwise, so he negotiated with the nurse for a pad and a pencil, then let her know that he was ready for visitors.

They brought Bonsai in a wheelchair. She had on a hospital gown but not over her right shoulder, which showed about four times as much work and bandaging as Lasher’s entire left side. She was all smiles, and she waved as they wheeled her over. The orderly parked the chair in a good spot, set the break, and left.

“Dirk! They told me you were recovering and that everything was okay!”

Lasher realized he might not have recognized her had they passed in the street without an introduction. In the combat gear and jungle, she had looked young, yes, but tough and imposing. Here in the hospital room, in the wheelchair with the light-colored hospital gown on, she looked to him like a little kid. She also looked a lot more feminine; her hair had grown out just a little from the high-and-tight, and he couldn’t be sure, but it was entirely possible she had put a little bit of makeup on before they wheeled her over.

He waved hello and pointed to his throat.

Her smile got even bigger. She pretended to roll her eyes. “Oh, come on! We’re not doing hand signals in the hospital!”

He shrugged; they both were smiling. He held up his notepad and a short, stubby pencil.

“So, has General Hampton talked to you yet?” she asked. She was nearly bouncing out of her seat with excitement, a real feat given her seat was a wheelchair.

Dirk nodded no, then pointed at her and put up one finger.

“Aww,” she blushed. “You made me A-number one! The King of New York!” – movie reference from the time.

Dirk shrugged his shoulders.

“Ok,” she leaned forward and lowered her voice, still smiling, pretending to be in a conspiratorial whisper. “I hope you say yes to him. I know you might not want to. I totally get it, and I don’t want to try and influence your decision-making,” she clearly did want to influence his decision-making.

Dirk waved his hand, suggesting they refocus. He held up a finger for her to wait, then opened the notepad and wrote: “What happened after they captured me and you kept running?”

Her face showed surprise. “Oh, man. Sorry Dirk, I forgot you’ve been out for the past week.”

He was surprised that much time had gone by.

She got a little more serious. “Okay. So, I ran another fifty feet or something; then I circled back. I watched them surround you, then beat you silly. I wanted to try and help, but I knew you would rather have me safe and to continue the mission.”

She looked at him for reassurance, and he provided it, nodding and making a sincere face, then giving her the thumbs up.

She looked relieved. “So then I waited there until daylight. I figured they wouldn’t come back and search the same area they had just been in. I was right; no one ever came back. So, when the sky lightened, I made my way to the edge of the compound. You were right; the prisoners were on the east side. They had guard patrols and whatnot, but also, just like you thought, they pulled everyone to try and figure out what had happened to all the guards and sentries. I heard a couple of soldiers talking. It never occurred to them it was you. They thought maybe it was Wargandi or other locals.”

Dirk ran his hand across his forehead, pretending to wipe sweat away.

“Sure,” she continued. “It was very lucky. So, the back edge of the holding area was up to the side of the jungle I was on. I approached it and got the attention of a tough-looking guy. I pushed the Kukri through the fencing; then, he took care of the rest. The soldiers cut their way out. They got out about the same time the Rangers dropped in. It couldn’t have been better coordinated if, well, if it was actually coordinated.”

She was beaming with self-esteem.

Dirk was impressed and let her know it. He used the little notebook to ask her some tactical questions, such as, did she do this, then that, or the other way around? These were just questions to let her enjoy the moment and feel like someone cared, which, of course, he did.

After she was talked out about the experience, he wrote in his notebook, “Cruz?”

Her mood changed just a little. Apparently, it wasn’t all good news. “That’s part of General Hampton’s conversation. Cruz flew to Colombia.”

Dirk’s mood darkened. His face relaxed, the smile gone. He looked back at Bonsai, just a hint of the fire from the jungle returning. He pointed to himself, then to Bonsai, then to his notebook, open to where he had written Cruz on the page. He looked her in the eye hard to make sure she understood the gravity of it. Then he pointed to the name Cruz again, lifted his hand, and ran his index finger across his throat.

You and I are going to finish this; we’re going to kill Cruz.

Chapter 30

General Hampton showed up two days later. He was upbeat but not all smiles like Bonsai.

“Thank you, son,” Hampton said after shaking Dirk’s hand. Lasher was still in the hospital bed and still unable to stand.

Hampton continued, “I know you only did it because I asked. I’ll be honest; you were a long shot, but I wanted every possible advantage. So, when I say thank you, I mean it.”

Dirk nodded. “You're welcome,” came out softly and scratchy but understandable.

“When the plane went down, we assumed the worst case was everyone was dead; the best case was that you were now yet another asset in need, which just made things even more complicated. It never occurred to anyone that someone could survive the crash and then make it to the detention site. Much less take out so many of the deserters and get weapons inside to the troops to use to escape. I know it was hell, but you executed the perfect mission. Exactly the results we wanted.”

Lasher almost laughed, but then he started to remember the price he had paid. His face must have changed as Hampton picked up on it.

“I know, it was a heavy toll,” Hampton said. “We handled everything for Jack’s parents. They wanted to wait for you to be able to attend, but we could only hold the remains so long.”

Dirk nodded that he understood while he pushed away a wave of sadness. He realized that was the same process he saw Wade do when told about Lisa’s funeral. “I appreciate it,” he forced out softly. Then, “What about Blake, Taylor, and the whole Delta team?”

“All that’s done. It’s been two weeks. I attended all the services I could,” Hampton said.

Dirk had a moment where he realized that people in positions like General Hamilton were surrounded by much more grief than he gave them credit for having to deal with.

Then Dirk remembered. “What about Cruz?”

He wasn't as hard to hear as just a few moments ago.

When Hampton spoke next, Dirk could hear the career politician in the explanation.

“I know this hits close to home for you. You fought bravely. Now, we need you to finish what you started. You can pick any team members you want, and money and resources are no object.

“Congress just funded the Strategic Assault and Versatile Global Enforcement team, or SAVAGE, after the mess the gap turned into, and they’ve put me in charge. This unit is tasked with addressing the big, existential threats to our nation. It’s a serious responsibility, and we need to build effective mission teams to tackle these challenges head-on. We have the budget and the authority to organize integrated teams of military personnel and civilian consultants.

“Our first mission should come as no surprise and is critical. The sixty remaining rogue U.S. Special Forces operatives have defected to Colombia and are training FARC soldiers to enhance their tactics. A FARC fighting force led by these rogue Special Forces assets will destabilize the region, which is especially critical as we work to stabilize the area for the 1999 Panama Canal turnover."

“I’m still in a hospital bed, unable to walk,” Dirk said.

Hampton made a knowing face. “We’ve got some time. Not everything we do is a spontaneous cluster,” he smiled, seemingly confident. “We’ve got eighteen months before the turnover date. I want to have you in country within sixty days, but that gives you plenty of time to finish the mend, form the team, and hit them where it hurts.”

Dirk thought for a while. Hampton watched.

“General,” Lasher started. “You know I’ve lost everything. Everyone. It turns out it's my own fault because I didn’t finish things off a decade ago. I walked away, thinking that my happiness would resolve it all. If I do this, tell me we’re going all the way. Tell me we’re going to sniff out this organization and end it with prejudice because that’s the only operating mode I have right now.”

“Of course, son.”

Dirk nodded. He trusted Hampton. The General might be the only active member of the armed forces who had yet to betray him.

Well, one of two, Dirk realized. “Okay, General. This is simple. Specialist Bonsai and I will be the team. We’ll heal up and head in.”

Hampton was just slightly taken back. “Dirk, we’ve got a near-endless bench full of the best operators in the world. As I said, money and resources are not constrained. We can operate with overwhelming force if needed. We don’t have to bootstrap here.”

Lasher became very firm. He was still respectful, but there was an edge to him all of a sudden. “General, there is only one soldier under the rank of O-9 that I trust, and the only civilian that I trusted was eaten alive by crocodiles right in front of me. Sixty days isn’t long enough for me to find someone else and to trust them. I promise, if we do this, if she and I can go in well-prepared, well-equipped, and healthy, I promise you the mission parameters will be met.”

A soft “Yes!” echoed from the door. Both Hampton and Lasher turned to look at it. While it had been closed, it was just slightly cracked now.

Hampton turned back around and smiled at Lasher. “Heard, soldier,” he said, and they shook on it.

Chapter 31

“We’ve got a couple of months to get ready,” Lasher told her as they drove south on I-75. Neither Dirk nor Bonsai was much interested in a plane flight from Atlanta to Miami.

“Thanks for letting me come stay with you,” Bonsai said. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Sure,” Dirk looked over at her. “We’re actually going to stay at my friend Wade’s place. He has two little houses on a big plot of land near the Everglades.”

“You mentioned you and he didn’t really get along?” Bonsai was wearing a T-shirt and shorts. Her right arm was in a sling provided by the hospital, and you could just see a lot of scarring and bandages under the shirt on her right shoulder. But the surgery had been a success, and the doctors told her she would have full mobility and strength back after a couple of weeks, followed by a few more weeks of rehab to bring the muscles back up to speed. The timeline worked fine for both their schedule and General Hamptons.

Dirk had on a similar T-shirt; they were limited to what the hospital gift shop had. He also wore a new pair of blue jeans. Lasher’s face was still on the mend. It showed the bruising, and there was still just the hint of swelling on his left side. His left eye held the ring, once black, now a lighter green-gray. Under his shirt, the operation had left a fresh scar that ran from his waist up to his left armpit. He would recover fine, too.

“Wade and I have a very unique relationship. I still don’t fully understand all the pieces of it. He’s tried to explain it to me, but the story keeps changing.”

She made a surprised face. “What do you mean the story keeps changing?”

“Wade’s got memory problems, very pronounced. He’s on Donepezil, some new-fangled drug. I also take him to see a specialist once a month,” Lasher said, changing lanes as the scenery went by. They were just outside of Macon, Georgia, with seven hours to go on the trip.

“Wouldn’t that help him tell you a consistent story?” she was trying to figure this out.

Lasher smiled. “Well, see, you are a smart one. That’s the hundred-thousand-dollar question, and it’s part of my frustrations with him. It is absolutely clear to me that, sometimes, he’s faking forgetting something or remembering it differently. But other times, for basic and important things, like feeding his two little dogs, he legitimately forgets or thinks he already did it. It’s maddening.”

“So why do you care?” she asked. “I mean, if he is just screwing with you all the time, why bother with him? I heard you tell Williams that you aren’t related.”

Dirk got a serious look. “Wade was a wild guy in his day, as far as I can tell. He drifted into organized crime a little. Heck, my childhood was learning the ins and outs of how to organize corruption. I’ve never gotten a coherent story, but Wade had an old army buddy who was a sheriff down in the keys. He married his receptionist, who had a kid. Things went south. I don’t know what happened, but when it was over, only Wade and the kid were alive. He pulled some legal strings and did some shady things but was able to game the system, and he got custody of the child, pretending to be his grandfather.”

“And that kid was you?”

He smiled an ironic smile. “Seems it was,” he changed lanes to take 495 around Macon to avoid the city traffic.

“So, you consider him family?”

Dirk thought about it.

“I suppose from a ‘you can't choose your relatives’ perspective, yes, I suppose it's just the same.”

Chapter 32

They pulled up to Wade’s property at about five in the afternoon. Dirk had kept some French Fries from his lunch, and he presented them to the two little barking dogs through the fence, as always.

“Dietrich,” Wade emerged from the house and called out.

“Wow,” Bonsai said softly under her breath so only Lasher could hear. “He does look like an older version of you.”

Dirk squinted, looking hard at Wade. Many people told him this, but he didn’t see the resemblance, so he just frowned at Bonsai.

“Hi, Wade,” Dirk called out, raising his hand in greeting. “This is Specialist Bonnington,” Dirk said, then looked over at her. “What’s your first name?” He realized, after everything, he still didn’t know it.

“Gertrude,” she said.

He made an inquisitive face, and she shrugged.

Dirk turned back to Wade, “She goes by Bonsai,” he called back.

Wade was wearing jeans and a plain short sleeve button-down shirt made of some type of synthetic. It was just the right choice to make him look both old and like a redneck, which of course he was. He opened the fence gate and signaled for them to enter as he held off the two little dogs with his foot, holding them back as they sniffed the air.

Lasher and Bonsai went through the gate, and Wade closed it.

“Head around back,” he said. “I’m working on another hog in the pit. I’ll make some lemonade, and you can bring me up to speed on Lisa,” he turned and disappeared into the house.

Dirk led the way around to the back of the houses.

“I thought Lisa was your wife who passed?” Bonsai asked as they walked.

Dirk nodded. “He’ll remember by the time he’s done making the lemonade.”

And Wade did. He brought out the same small folding table he always used and found a third folding chair for Bonsai.

Once everyone sat down and was settled, Wade said, “Dietrich, I know you didn’t ask me to, but I went to the house just to check on it. I opened the gate for the city.”

Dirk nodded; he was glad. “Everything still standing?”

“Yes,” Wade was thinking deeply. “I paid the lawn guy, so the grass is still getting cut. I flipped some lights on and off and made sure the AC was on but set up high to keep the moisture out.”

“Thanks, Wade,” Lasher was about to say something else when Bonsai interrupted.

“I just remembered. Don’t you have a boat?” She asked Dirk.

The question seemed to trigger a memory for him. “I do. But my boat is boring. Wade, you know what might be fun. Let's take your airboat out tomorrow. We can go out to Mardas’s Sundries shack. Nothing deep, then we can go fishing or something out there.”

“Absolutely,” Wade smiled a big smile and looked happy.

They spent the rest of the afternoon and evening just relaxing. They talked about nothing, ate BBQ, fed the little dogs more than they needed, and generally just were normal people for a while. Wade set Bonsai up in the second house, where Lasher usually slept.

Dirk slept on the couch in Wade's house; the two little dogs slept with him.

The next day, Wade loaded up his and Dirk’s fishing poles. They would buy one for Bonsai at the shack on the way out, and a loaf of bread to use as bait from a local store on the way. It was going to be a hot day, so Wade dug out his cooler from the storage room in the second house. When he was looking for it, he unlocked the door to the back area. Bonsai was curious and followed him in.

The lights flickered on. The inside looked like an Army Navy Surplus store, with everything from shelving to a checkout register.

“You run a retail store all the way out here?” Bonsai asked as she started to look around. It was a lot of older stuff, maybe from the 1970s and 1980s, but it was very well cared for and in very good condition, much of it new. Things like hunting knives, firearms, shelves and shelves of ammunition, lanterns, tents, really the full range of a well-stocked store.

Wade shook his head no. “An old army buddy of mine used to run a surplus store. He died a very long time ago. I didn’t know what to do with all his stuff, so I set it up here just as he had it.”

She was impressed at the range of items. “Everything is so well kept; I can even smell the oil on the handguns,” she said, bending down to look in a glass case displaying many handguns.

“Mike was a stickler for keeping everything squared away. It felt like it would be dishonoring his memory to let it fall into disrepair.”

She smiled at him. “Don’t tell me you Lashers are secretly sentimental?”

“Oh,” Wade seemed concerned, “Dietrich and I aren’t related. That was just something I had to do when he was little.”

She saw this as an opportunity to learn something about Dirk that he didn’t seem willing to share. “He told me something happened to his mother, but it’s not very clear.”

“He told you, though?” Wade asked.

“Some of it.”

That seemed to make a difference to Wade. “Did he mention that I sometimes forget stuff?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

Wade got more serious than she had seen him get in their short interactions. “Dirk’s mother was the dispatcher for a friend of mine, Buford Jenkins. They got married in, I think, seventy-five or so. We had some run-ins with the Italians. They were on their way out, and the Colombians were on their way in. Let's call it a slow transition. Bufford picked a side and went on the take for the Italians, and things kind of fell apart. The Colombians wanted to send a message, and they used Buford and Candy, Dirk’s mom, to do it.”

“Jesus,” Bonsai said.

“No, Wade,” he said. “I’m sorry, I thought I introduced myself.”

Bonsai looked confused.

Wade laughed. “Gotcha!” he said. “As long as I stay on my meds, I’m fine.” He had a smile and seemed proud of his joke. “Anyway, that’s about the whole story. I raised him like he was my own. Did everything I could to teach him what it meant to be a man and to grow up right.”

Wade found the cooler. He locked the storage room up, and they went to find Dirk.

Chapter 33

Dirk drove them to Wade's dock and shack in Jack’s old pickup truck. He decided to keep the vehicle to honor Williams. The dock was down a three-mile white sand dirt road. Wade had an old black military-looking airboat. An airboat was a simple contraption; it was flat-bottomed like a skid, had a single chair for the operator, and a bench with storage under it for passengers. On the back was a giant fan, six feet across. The operator had simple controls: a throttle that controlled the speed of the fan and a lever that turned a pair of large rudders left or right to direct the airflow.

Wade went into the shack and brought out four large gas cans. He poured two into the boat's tank and stowed the other two in a metal frame to the side of the fan. The frame was on the opposite side of the driver's chair to provide a little counterbalance. There was also a clearly added on later pole and latch to store the two fishing rods. Wade put the bag with bread and the cooler, now full of sodas, beers, and ice, in the storage compartment under the bench.

Bonsai remained on the dock after everything was stowed away. Lasher sat on the bench, Wade in the pilot's chair.

“You two are crazier than I thought. Are there at least life preservers for this thing?” She said, not being funny, being serious.

Dirk and Wade exchanged amused faces. “Sure,” Wade said, pointing back to the shack. “Go into the shack and look to your right.”

She turned and started to walk back, then paused, “Do you want me to grab one for you two?”

“We’re good,” Dirk smiled.

A few moments later, she returned with a very old and beat-up-looking orange preserver that was missing one of the three Styrofoam bricks that made it buoyant.

“You’re all set!” Wade joked when she came back. “Look, the waters are not that deep in most places, and where it is, if you go in, you won't want to be bobbing up and down on the surface like a lure.”

Dirk realized the association Bonsai was going to make. This was a frustrating part of being around Wade; he knew what happened to Williams, and he either forgot or didn't, but either way, he decided to bring it up.

Bonsai was still standing on the dock. She had a bad look on her face.

“You know,” Dirk started.

“No,” she interrupted. “It’s OK. I know the difference between an alligator and a crocodile.”

Dirk's face softened. “Wade and I grew up here in the Everglades,” he said. “I’m sorry, I thought this would be an easy, fun day fishing. But it might be too soon…” he trailed off.

“I’m OK,” she said again, forcing herself to step on the boat. She was still holding onto the life preserver. “Get right back on the horse if you fall off. This is probably fine.”

She got situated, and Wade pushed the throttle forward before she could change her mind. The boat jumped out of its slip and took off, accelerating quickly. Bonsai put both hands around Dirk's arm and held on tight.

The noise from the engine and the fan was loud enough that a conversation wasn't really possible. They sped across the water heading west, the morning sun at their backs. Bonsai relaxed after a while, and the three enjoyed the scenery and the feeling of freedom the boat presented.

After about ten minutes, an elevated wood structure came into view. It was two separate wood docks and a wood swamp shack a good ten feet above the water line. There was a window on the far side where a boat could pull up and purchase supplies, but Wade headed for the little docks.

There were no other boats there.

As a matter of fact, the place looked unused.

Dirk looked at Wade, “When was the last time you were out here?”

Wade thought. “I can’t remember. It’s been a couple of years. But not that long. Let's look inside; I can’t believe they would move away without telling me.”

Wade expertly navigated the airboat into the closest slip. He cut the engine several yards out, and the boat glided into place, gently fitting right into its spot and floating to a stop millimeter from the edge of the dock.

Dirk stepped onto the dock and put a rope with a loop on the end over the boat's staple to hold it in place.

Wade hopped down, spry for a seventy-five-year-old. Both Dirk and Wade extended a hand to Bonsai to help her off the boat.

“Oh my, what gentlemen!” she laughed, taking both their hands and stepping onto the dock.

“You know, just in case, let me go on ahead and look inside,” Lasher said.

Wade shrugged. Bonsai looked like she was going to protest but then didn’t.

Dirk walked up the dock and up the steps and disappeared around the side, presumably entering the building.

Bonai and Wade stood in awkward silence for a bit, then, to break the awkwardness, Bonsai asked, “You said a lady named Mardas owns this place?”

Wade turned to her and focused; he had been in his own head. “Yes, that’s right.”

“But when we pulled up, you said you couldn’t believe ‘they’ would have moved away without telling you.”

“Sure. Her son helps her out here. At least, I think it's her son; they make an odd pair. A guy named Isaac Stone.”

The name didn’t mean anything to her. She looked around. “Do you think there are alligators around here?” she asked Wade.

He focused on her again. “Sure, they’re everywhere. There are probably three or four pretty big ones under the dock and around the edges of things.” He didn’t mean anything by it, but Bonsai's face grew panicked.

“Can they get on the dock?” she asked, looking around at the water.

“Probably,” Wade followed her gaze. “But alligators and crocodiles have wildly different worldviews.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I know what happened to Jack. He was a good man; I liked him. Crocodiles are evil SOBs. They hunt for sport as much as for food. Alligators can be just as dangerous, and they hunt also, but they have some rules they tend to follow. They’ll be aggressive, yes, but only when they are hungry or when they are protecting their nest or their little ones. So, we can manage the situation better with alligators. Don’t corner them. Heck, don’t approach them at all. They also will generally only go after a person standing up tall in dire situations. It’s not unheard of, but the percentages are a whole lot lower than with a crocodile.”

“Interesting,” she said. Like many things, the conversation didn’t address her concerns, but it did provide good information that helped her push the thoughts away.

Dirk came back after a few more moments. “The place is empty. Cleaned out. If I had to guess, it’s been empty for a while.”

“Sorry, Dirk,” Wade said. “I don’t remember anyone telling me they left. I guess I could have forgotten, but I don’t know.”

Lasher nodded. “It’s not the end of the world.”

Wade’s eyes lit up. “You know what?”

Lasher didn’t take the bait; he just waited.

“Dirk, I’ve never shown you where the man whose name I borrowed lived.”

From Lasher’s standpoint, the conversation just got serious. “What are you talking about?” his voice was hard.

Wade’s smile got bigger. “Yes, this is perfect. Trudy,” he turned to Bonsai, using the common short name for Gertrude even though neither she nor Lasher had told him her real first name, “there are Mayan ruins on the property out there. Just like at Crystal River.”

“Whose Trudy?” Dirk asked, legitimately confused.

Bonsai also had a quizzical look on her face. “That’s my name. Trudy is short for Gertrude. But how did you know that?” she was looking at Wade.

Wade’s smile got even bigger; he was practically glowing. “I might be an old coot, but my hearing is still 20/20.” It didn’t make any sense, but it did answer the question. “Sure!” he continued, “This will be a lot more fun than fishing. It may be a two-hour ride. We’ve got a cooler full of drinks and a whole loaf of bread we can make Wish Sandwiches out of!” Wade had already decided in his own mind.

Lasher knew that since Wade was driving the airboat, it would be much easier to accept his idea.

“What’s a wish sandwich?” Bonsai asked.

Now, Wade was truly glowing. He had done it; he got the question for his joke.

“It’s when you got yourself two pieces of bread and you are wishing you had something to put between them!”

He laughed and slapped his knee.

Bonsai laughed; it wasn’t that bad a joke. Even Dirk smiled, although he had heard the joke a thousand times.

They regrouped on the boat, took the rope off the staple, pushed it out of the slip, fired up the fan, and headed north by northwest. By the time they got to the hammock - elevated areas of land that are slightly higher than the surrounding swamp, allowing trees and other vegetation to grow, making them habitable – Wade was on his fourth beer. The more he drank, the more normal he became.

It was midday, and it was hot and humid. The sun was up in the sky; there were many white puffy clouds here and there that created a lot of shade, which helped. Wade followed what seemed to be his preferred method of parking the airboat; he fiddled with the throttle, angled the craft, and then cut the engine with enough precision that the boat ended up gently coming to rest wherever he wanted. This time, it was nearly fully out of the water on the bank of the hammock’s edge.

When the airboat came to rest, Wade was very intently staring dead west. A number of overgrown, rocky formations looked out of place, but it was also clear they were organized into a meaningful pattern on the ground.

Everyone's spirits were high, but now Wade was acting strange.

“What is it, Wade?” Bonsai said, standing and taking two steps so she was right next to him.

“Be still, Trudy,” he said.

“Call me Bonsai,” she said nicely, staring at the structures like he was and getting quiet and serious like he was.

“Sure thing, Trudy,” Wade said, not paying attention. “This place is haunted. We just need to give the spirits a few minutes to recognize me; then we’ll be able to explore.”

Dirk waited, still seated on the bench. He knew many elements of the story, but Wade had never taken him out here to where Jim Lasher had lived. Dirk knew that the name didn’t really mean anything. Yes, it was Dirk’s mother's maiden name, but she wasn't related to the Everglades Lashers; apparently, lucky that Wade had someone in his circle with the same last name.

“Who lived here?” Bonsai asked Wade.

He turned to her and spoke softly, still waiting for something. “An old army buddy of mine, Jim Lasher. He and his family, three boys, and their wives, were all murdered right here on this spot. It was awful; there was a cult. They ate them.”

Dirk took it all in, just listening; he did not know this part of the story.

Somehow, the mood on the bright sunny day turned dark, the sun going behind a cloud at just the right moment.

Bonsai’s eyes got big. Just above a whisper, she asked, “People ate them?”

Wade nodded knowingly. “Everything eats everything else out here.” He said but never took his eyes off the buildings he was watching.

Suddenly, the air started to move again. It was very strange, but it snapped the spell. Wade stood up and jumped off the outside of the boat, turning and putting his hand up for Bonsai. She took it and jumped down. Dirk exited the other side.

The three walked to the front of the boat and looked at the area. The land included a series of grassy mounds of varying sizes, which rose gently above the surrounding flat terrain. These mounds were spaced out across the site, creating small hills in the otherwise level landscape—overgrown pathways wound through the area, connecting the mounds and different sections. The site was dotted with trees and patches of dense vegetation, giving it a wild, untamed appearance. Some parts of the site were open and grassy, while the thick canopy of tall trees shaded others. Near the center of the site was a large open field, providing a panoramic view of the surrounding mounds and trees. The overall layout was spacious and natural, with the ancient mounds blending into the untamed beauty of the Everglades. The abandonment had allowed nature to reclaim much of the area, adding to its mysterious and secluded atmosphere.

“What happened to the cult?” Bonsai asked, the weight of the place omnipresent.

Wade looked at her. “I killed them all.”

She took the answer in, then turned to Lasher. “I see where you get it from,” she said, a humorless smile on her face.

“When in doubt, shoot it out,” Dirk said, then “Right, Wade?” It was friendly, but there was the weight of a lot of history underneath the comment.

If there was any nuance to the conversation, it was lost on Wade Clay. He snapped his fingers. “I know! Let's go look at the big building. I know where the entrance is, and there is some cool stuff to see.” he started walking forward.

Lasher and Bonsai followed. They walked past some well-built but now abandoned wooden structures—basically, the homes that were occupied when this was a family residence. It was a long walk to the stone buildings. They were clearly ancient, showing the same style of construction as many other Mesoamerican ruins. But the Everglades had mostly reclaimed them. You noticed when looking for them, but otherwise, they blended into the scenery.

Wade turned as they walked. “This is where I had to fight the cult leader, right in this open ground between all the buildings,” he spread his arms, indicating the area they were walking through. “He was a giant of a man, Noah’s brother,” Wade looked thoughtfully. “Dirk, did you ever meet Noah Kayne?”

“No, Wade. He died before I was born,” Dirk answered patiently.

“Right,” Wade said. “Well, his brother was just as big as he was. A giant of a man. Named Arthur. He formed the Brotherhood of the Sun Dragon.” Wade turned around again and looked at Bonsai. “Took me forever to learn what a Sun Dragon was. Evil, vial monsters. They cross-breed alligators and crocodiles into giants.”

“I’m learning to hate those things,” Bonsai said.

Wade nodded. They were getting close to the far side of the compound, nearing the large mound-like structure. “I know how you feel. I understand more than you might think what it was like with Jack. When the stupid cult captured me, they also captured a pair of young women I was acting as the guardian for. Nice girls. Their father had moved to Texas, and they wanted to stay in Florida.”

“What happened,” Bonsai asked, curious.

“Fed them both right to the Sun Dragons. Ate them right in front of me. I know you’ve seen it, but that sound a person makes when one croc pulls left and another pulls right. It stays with you.”

Bonsai looked at Lasher; he was expressionless. Instead, he watched her closely for something, but she didn't know what. She looked back at Wade. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.

It surprised him. “Why thank you, young miss.”

They had reached the large mound. Wade pointed to the left side, then walked over and pulled some vines and plants away from a recessed area on the side.

It was a door.

“Wow!” Bonsai’s mood changed to excitement. “Can we go in?”

Wade continued to move plants away, and once the area was clear, he started using his hand to wipe away dirt and mud.

“They never got it open. Authur, that's Noah’s brother's name; he was a big wig archeologist with the University of Miami. They had a team out here for about three months before he went completely nuts and started the cult. They never figured out how to open the door. Neither have I, outside of using dynamite or something, which is an option. I own all this land, and no one is at all interested in these ruins. They don’t fit the narrative, so as far as the academics are concerned, they don’t exist.”

Bonsai looked carefully. On the ancient door, a large, intricate glyph dominated the center. At its heart was a menacing skull, its hollow eye sockets and gaping mouth suggesting a possible representation of death. Encircling the skull were dark, shadowy lines. Below the skull, a rectangular cave symbol with cross-hatching seemed to hint at a hidden entrance to an unknown realm. Flanking this central image was crossbones.

“Can you imagine what’s inside?” She said after looking at everything.

“Wade,” Lasher said. “This is incredible. I had no idea.”

Wade smiled; he looked proud of himself.

They couldn't open the door. Many had tried before, and all had failed. They ended up exploring for several hours. It turned out to be a fun day. They ate wish sandwiches and drank iced sodas and beers.

Around four in the afternoon, they headed back, docking the airboat a little after six thirty and getting home to Wade’s house just before dark.

Chapter 34

The next month was very easy; they stayed at Wade’s property. After a couple of weeks, Lasher was all healed up, and Bonsai got her arm out of the sling and started the rehabilitation process. She was in contact with the Miami VA Medical Center, which provided the plan and monitored her progress. Dirk drove her there twice a week, but the real work took place out on Wade’s ten acres. They set up a little course for her to run. They had paint cans full of water to carry, a few hand weights, a pushup station, a pull-up station, some hurdles to jump over, really anything they could think of and make with two-by-fours and sweat equity.

Both Bonsai and Lasher spent their days maneuvering the course, sometimes together, sometimes separately. Bonsai needed to recover and get her shoulders and arms back up to full strength and working together again; Lasher needed to get back into an exercise routine in general.

By the end of the first month, they had setup targets and had turned the obstacle course into an assault course. They bought high-end paintball equipment and used the paint guns to practice. Sometimes working together against the targets, sometimes independently against each other, and after a couple of weeks of that, Dirk and Bonsai would have Wade move the targets around when they were not looking and then act as a live-fire adversary they could practice against, and more importantly, where they could practice working together. One element of building a live-fire team was the team members getting to know and trust their teammates. The goal was to know what the other person would do in nearly any situation such that you could be efficient with very little additional communication.

They also started having phone conversations with General Hampton and his staff. Dirk didn't care about a salary or anything, but to be legal, he had to accept a position as a DoD employee. He resisted until Hampton finally offered him an SES (Senior Executive Service) Grade 1 position. Dirk also asked, and Hampton agreed with little discussion, to promote Bonsai to sergeant (E5) as she had both the time in service and time in grade and should have been promoted two years prior. He also helped her fill out the application to Warrant Officer School as a communications specialist. General Hampton personally walked the paperwork around. If they survived their mission to get Cruz, Bonsai was slated to attend the training at Fort Rucker in three months.

They were down to two weeks. Hampton had an Ops team that was planning the logistics. Lasher and Bonsai simply needed to refine their teamwork and continue to improve their fitness.

Dirk also had his bar back open. There was some free time, and he had a good staff.  He wanted to get them back to work. Wade had a set of dirt bikes and two four-wheel all-terrain vehicles. They sometimes raced or used the bikes to navigate the course to keep their decision-making quick and reflexes nimble. Not a huge fan of bikes, Bonsai had started going to the bar and working as a bartender when nothing else was going on.

They generally worked the schedule so that their evenings were free.

Today was Tuesday, exactly fourteen days before the mission date. Bonsai was at the bar, and Wade and Dirk were sitting on the concrete slab at Wade’s house. This time, Wade was working on a simple coal BBQ, cooking burgers, corn, and potatoes he had wrapped in tinfoil. Because Wade was Wade, he had also made himself a tinfoil hat and was wearing it as he worked the grill.

“So, Dietrich,” Wade said. He sometimes called Dirk Diederik with the hard K sound at the end, and sometimes Dietrich, emphasizing the CH sounds. Dirk had no idea if it was relevant or not. “What’s the deal with Trudy?”

Lasher was sitting looking out over the back lot, drinking a cheap Red, White, and Blue beer from a can. “Just what I’ve told you,” he said back, not giving the question much thought.

“No, I mean to you. What’s the deal with what she means to you?”

“What are you talking about, you crazy old coot?” Lasher said dismissively.

“She’s a good bit younger than you,” Wade said, working the grill.

“A good deal younger for what?”

“Replacing Lisa.”

Real anger rose up from Lasher’s core. “Wade,” he stated forcefully. “You are on thin ice, buddy.” He was leaning forward now and very focused on the conversation.

“So that’s not what you are doing?”

Dirk quickly grounded himself. Getting mad at Wade wouldn’t solve anything.

“If you have a point, Wade, make it.”

“Well,” he was a little sheepish, not because of Lasher’s reaction; Wade had completely missed the fire in it. “I can’t help but notice that you two are pretty friendly, and she showed up right after, well, you know…”

Wade's point infuriated Dirk even more. “She’s fourteen years younger than me,” he returned calmly and dismissively.

“Okay, A think about the fact that you know that, and B, some men would consider that a catch,” Wade said, focused on the burgers, not Dirk. “So, she’s too old to be your daughter and too young to be your wife?”

“Daughter?” Dirk was getting frustrated with whatever point Wade was trying to make.

“Dietrich, Dirk,” Wade was being very sincere, which wasn’t like him at all. “You have always been chasing the role of a protector. You made me get all these damn dogs from the pound…”

Dirk cut him off. “I made you get them?”

“I had my old dog Tank. You played with him all the time. When he passed, you would just mope around. Then you asked for your own dog; you demanded an old dog we saved from the pound. The problem was that he was so old that he only lasted a couple of years. Then we had to get another one, then another. I never understood why you kept getting dogs that wouldn’t be around for more than a year or two.”

Dirk pointed to the two little dogs sleeping by the glass door full of hamburgers.

Wade scoffed. “What? Sure, I got used to having dogs because of that, but I got these two nerds as puppies. It broke my heart every time to lose so many little guys.”

Dirk had always assumed Wade, in the role of his grandfather, was the one who wanted the little German dogs. For some reason, this revelation just made him madder. He realized that while it felt associated with the Bonsai conversation, it wasn’t.

“What do your dogs have to do with all this?”

Wade was starting to realize that the conversation was upsetting Lasher. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m just trying to figure out how you show up with Trudy less than a month after the funeral.”

None of this had occurred to Dirk. Did it matter? Was he making bad choices? He didn’t think he was, and the thought of Bonsai as anything other than simply who she was ended up being confusing. It wasn’t that Dirk was a monk or stupid or something; it was just that he held very simple worldviews. Yes, they could come across as naive, and maybe they were, but they also provided a moral foundation that was simple and effective. He thought about it deeply. No, he wasn't doing what Wade suggested. He wasn't doing anything except what he always did—trying to do the right thing in tough situations. Then he realized that Wade was right, but not how he thought.

“Okay, Wade. You’re right to a degree, thank you, I had not thought about it. I am projecting onto Bonsai, but not about Lisa. It’s more about Specialist Mariana, the girl who got killed in the jungle when all this started ten years ago. I did do what you suggested, but not the way you are saying. My focus was on Mariana. I vowed that I would not lose another specialist to those jungles.”

“That’s the soldier that the panther attacked?” Wade asked. Dirk didn’t think he was choosing this moment to pretend he had a bad memory, but he could never be completely certain.

“Ya,” Dirk grimaced. “Bonsai would be wearing a fur coat if that had been her ten years ago.”

“Ten years ago, she was a sophomore in high school,” Wade, the pragmatist, offered.

“You know what I mean,” Lasher said back, now with a lot more to think about over dinner.

Chapter 35

Another couple of days passed. They were now ten days out from the mission. After the weekend, they would start driving to the US Southern Command (SOUTHCOM) HQ, which was only about a half-hour drive from Wade’s property. Then, when they got within 72 hours of the mission time, they would stay over at SOUTHCOM to complete preparation and ensure operational readiness.

The days and nights were routine at this point. They trained all day; Bonsai, Lasher, or Wade would go to the bar and check on things after it got dark, then they would all sit around outside while Wade cooked something in some contraption, everything from a pit dug in the ground to simple hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill. They would all get drunk on cheap beer, then Bonsai would go to the second house, Dirk would sleep on Wade’s couch, and Wade would sleep in his normal bedroom.

Tonight was no different. It was two in the morning. Lasher was suddenly awakened by Wade. Wade’s hair was standing up. He was in boxers and a yellowed undershirt. He smelled like the fire pit and the cheap beer.

“Someone just opened the front gate,” he told Dirk.

Lasher’s initial reaction was to dismiss Wade and go back to sleep. Then he remembered how good Wade’s hearing was.

A shadow crossed the front window. Dirk felt the now familiar rush of adrenaline and fear.

“Do you keep a firearm in the house?” Lasher asked, rolling off the couch and staying low.

Wade shook his head no, then pointed in the direction of the other small house.

Dirk nodded. “Ok, get the key. I’m going to grab a kitchen knife and see if I can get out the back door before they circle around. Lock the dogs in your bathroom. If you get the chance, try and get over to Bonsai and unlock the back. She’s special forces; if we can get her some weapons, and if we have a little bit of luck, I think we can survive this.”

Wade nodded and moved quickly, disappearing into his bedroom.

Dirk grabbed a steak knife out of the little kitchen and, staying low, sprinted for the back door. He opened it and looked out. No one was visible. The combat course dominated the large property. Dirk wanted to try and get into the mazes so he could move about unseen.

It didn't feel safe. He felt watched and felt pressure on the back of his neck, but he fought that off, shook his head to be fully awake, opened the door, and, staying low, ran as fast as he could to cover a hundred feet to the back maze in bare feet and wearing only his boxer shorts.

When he got to the maze, he turned and saw a figure following him. He had a quick moment of positioning the knife when he recognized Bonsai. He watched her run in the night. She was very clearly only wearing a T-shirt and nothing else. He noticed that he noticed, which was because Wade now had him second-guessing himself. It was one of his shirts, too, and it came down well past her waist. Dirk briefly wondered when she had taken one of his shirts, but he quickly lost the thoughts in place of more pressing matters.

She saw him and ducked down next to him. They were behind one of the wood walls Wade had built for them. It provided good concealment from the direction of the houses and allowed them a complete view of the western side of the property.

“Jeez,” she half-joked, “are we ever going to do this with pants on?”

Dirk held up his steak knife. “I’d gladly trade pants for a weapon with a sight on it.”

They saw four teams of two men each come around from the front of the houses. Two from around each corner of each structure; then they formed up, four men behind one house, four behind the other.

“They’re doing a classic Ranger Assault of a Fixed Position,” Lasher whispered.

Bonsai nodded. “Where’s Wade?”

Dirk shook his head. “I have no idea. I asked him to hide the dogs in the bathroom and to try and get you the key to the weapons. So, about the only thing we can count on is that the dogs are not in the bathroom, and he couldn’t find the key.”

Bonsai, now having known Wade for about a month, suppressed a real laugh.

“But seriously,” Lasher said, “Wade has some booby traps, and that will create an opening for us.”

“Wouldn’t he have mentioned traps?” she asked.

Dirk smiled. “Wade has many qualities. One of them is not being a good communicator. I helped him with some of it years ago.”

They watched the two teams. “They look like junior enlisted Rangers to me,” Lasher said. “See, they have a point man, a second, a rear guard, and a spotter. It’s basic Ranger School week two stuff.”

Bonsai nodded. “You’re right,” then she motioned to the four soldiers outside the second house, the one she slept in. “They’re doing exactly the same thing.”

“My guess is that the sliding door in the armory house has enough anti-personnel stations set that the situation over there will resolve itself in maybe eight to ten seconds. I’m worried about Wade in the main house,” he paused, “well, and us out here.”

He turned to her.

He was caught off guard for just a moment; her return gaze had an impact on him; then, “I suspect several claymores will take out the second team. Look at them; they are going to breach at the same time. They’re all wearing Starlight. When the mines flash, that's our ticket. Cover the open ground as fast as you can. I’ll use my steak knife here and try to injure each one of them, starting with the trailing man. Your job is to finish them. Try and get a knife or firearm off the first guy we take down. Then we clear out the other three and make sure none of the B team survived.”

They waited. Something was delaying the breach.

“I’ve learned one thing about myself,” Bonsai said while they waited.

Lasher looked at her.

“I miss my DBUs.”

A massive explosion cut short his smile. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a claymore. It looked like some type of incendiary construction as the trap blew scalding hot fuel out in a spray, and then a spark caused a massive fireball.

“Good old Wade,” Dirk said as he and Bonsai sprinted from their crouched position. They ran at their top speed.

The four soldiers in the main house were running out. Their breach had been uneventful. On the other side, the men were down and on fire. One was trying to crawl away, but it was pretty clear he would burn to death first.

Each man on the main team ripped the starlight off their heads, the bright light from the explosion would have been devastating viewed through the night vision equipment.

Lasher and Bonsai were getting close, really pushing it. Suddenly, M60 machine gun reports filled the night. The four men kind of dissolved as the massive ordnance ripped through them from near point-blank range. Dirk skidded to a stop, helping Bonsai stop by grabbing her arm to help slow her.

The men were down.

Wade was standing in the main doorway to the second house, hair standing up, old man muscles strained in his arms, holding the M60 with both hands. The two little dachshunds were standing with him, barking their heads off.

“How did you get into the other house?” Dirk asked once everything calmed down.

Wade smiled his crazy smile. “I’ve lived here for thirty years.”

Dirk just stared at him, not understanding.

“Tunnels, Dietrich,” Wade spoke as though talking to a slow child. “What, I’m just going to sit out here and rot away?”

The fuel trap had burned out. There was now a huge arc from the back of the second house out maybe twenty feet into the yard where the grass and weeds that were Wade's yard were now just a black char.

“This place is a mess,” Bonsai said after a couple of minutes of everyone just standing there.

Dirk nodded. “We should call Hampton’s people; we don’t stand a chance if local law enforcement shows up before the military.”

Wade looked suspiciously at Dirk. “Haven’t you already been talking to them? The only way anyone could know that I live way out here would be to have been in on those conversations.”

Dirk wanted to disagree, but he couldn’t. He also felt frustration; this was exactly why he stepped away last time, all those years ago. The intel community seemed to be porous both inside and outside of military channels.

“This is bigger than a leak,” Bonsai said. “They just sent eight soldiers to take us out.”

Dirk had a thought: “Check their uniforms for markings. Let's collect their gear and see if we can determine a point of origin. Check their pockets. I doubt they would be carrying ID, but people can be stupid,” then he remembered. “And check their clothing tags. They might provide a clue. Even the language they are in might tell us something if it isn’t English.”

They collected everything into two piles. The first pile contained salvageable and still operational items. The second pile contained clothing too covered in blood and gunk to be readable and equipment that was no longer operational after the short firefight and explosion. The piles were about even in number of items.

All of the equipment was new but also nondescript. They had M4 Carbines, starlight equipment, then basic gear like hunting knives and extra ammo, but nothing that pointed to a specific source.

The clothing tags were all in English and were standard military-issue tactical gear. It could have been from the military or purchased retail from any number of survival or surplus stores.

Lasher looked back to the aftermath. “Strip the bodies; look for tattoos or other markings. See if they have dog tags. Let's see what kind of haircuts they have.”

Wade and Bonsai did the work. The men all had military haircuts; none carried ID or wore dog tags. The break came when they saw their tattoos.

“Is that Spanish?” Wade asked.

Half the bodies were either burned or bullet-ridden; of the four that were relatively intact, three of the men had tattoos on their arms, chests, and backs. Everything was in Spanish. One soldier's tattoo across his back read “Hijo de la Revolución,” Child of the Revolution.

Wade pointed to it. “Cubans,” he said.

Lasher looked.

Bonsai rolled one of the other bodies over, there was a Cuban flag, blue stripes with a red triangle with a white star in the middle of it.

“Yep,” she said, pointing to the flag.

“Cuba is only 150 miles from here,” Lasher said, then started looking around.

“What is it, Dirk,” Bonsai asked.

Wade started making the same motions, looking up and tilting his head left and right. “I hear it,” he said.

Dirk turned to Bonsai. “What kind of support would you have if this were a Delta mission in a hostile country?”

She started to think.

“Quick!” He pushed.

“We’d have local contacts, a safe house, staging area, some kind of command support structure, and an evacuation plan, at a minimum.” Now she heard the engine noise of a military helicopter.

Suddenly, a high-pitched hissing noise filled the air. They all looked to the night sky. Wade saw it first: the trailing firelight from the missile's chemical engine.

“Missile!” He yelled, pointing.

They all three remained frozen for just another moment as they processed the information, and then, nearly in unison, they started to run away from the house, which seemed to be the target.

The impact was devastating, a very powerful ordinance. It impacted the main house, which exploded immediately in a huge fiery blast, blowing out brick, wood, and fragments of everything Wade owned.

The concussion knocked them all down. They were lucky to have reacted when they did; any closer and the debris would have been ten times more dangerous, and the blast might have rendered them unconscious. The two little dogs were not as lucky; the force from the concussion was too much for their little bodies, and they were both killed in the blast.

Before they could recover, a second missile came in and detonated the second little house. The explosion was much more powerful as the inside ordinance created several huge secondary explosions. Fire and debris littered the area. A large military helicopter flew over very low but at a good speed, the noise was deafening and the wind intense.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Bonsai yelled; the first to recover.

Dirk looked around. Half the main house exploded onto Wade’s car and Williams’s truck. He had returned the rental car weeks ago.

“The dirt bikes!’ Wade offered.

The helicopter circled again, apparently looking for a place to land.

Dirk looked; the shed the bikes were stored in was on the opposite side of the obstacle course from them, maybe two hundred feet away.

They were a little lucky, as the obstacle course took up enough of the property that the helicopter couldn’t land between it and the shed. Instead, it landed on the far side of the second house. They had a chance, but only just, and they had to move immediately.

“Let’s go,” Lasher said, his voice determined. The three of them started running. All three were still recovering from the concussion, so they moved quickly but not as fast as their top speed. Wade was surprisingly quick for a seventy-five-year-old.

Just as they made it behind the first wall of the course, small arms fire opened up on them—rifle fire from the team that jumped out of the helicopter. One of the rounds caught Wade in the left calf.

“You’re hit!” Bonsai yelled when she saw the bullet pierce the leg and blood splatter out.

Wade started limping but didn’t otherwise noticeably slow down; he waved her forward, irritated at the attention.

More rifle fire rang in; both the sounds of the rounds impacting here and there on the course obstacles alongside the audible reports that immediately followed. All three knew the course backward and forward; they took the quickest route through it and got to the shed. No one stopped; the door opened inward - Dirk slammed his shoulder into it, and they each ran through.

The bikes were there. Dirk jumped on one, Bonsai on the other. Wade grabbed a helmet for some unknown reason and jumped into one of the four-wheel ATVs, probably a good choice given his leg wound.

No one paused; they started the vehicles and jammed them into gear. They only had moments before the gunmen would be through the obstacle course and would have an angle to cut them off.

Wade pulled up and yelled, “Follow me. We have to go through the fence onto the farm pasture. It’s a huge field.” He didn’t wait, instead jamming the ATV into gear and spinning his right wrist all the way forward. He jumped away out the shed door, angling to his left, riding the fence line.

They went farther down the fence line than Dirk would have. Wade was looking for something. He seemed to find it, quickly turning the vehicle left again between posts. The chain link fell away, looking for all intent and purpose as it had been cut on either side by a blow torch.

The rifle fire intensified. Dirk’s shoulder was grazed. Then it subsided, then stopped.

They sped through the night. The field was flat, and wherever the cows were, it wasn't around this part tonight.

The dirt bikes' top speed was about forty miles an hour, but given the situation, it felt like a hundred in the dark night.

After a few moments, they heard the engine noise of the helicopter over the high-pitched whine of their vehicles.

“Oh boy,” Bonsai said, looking back.

They slowed so they could be heard in the night.

“It didn’t have a side mount. Or even I don’t think a forward mount,” Lasher said quickly. “Those would have been anti-tank missiles that took out the houses. We’re too fast for those. But I think that’s an MI-17, which has S-8s. Probably eighty or a hundred.”

Bonsai and Wade nodded; they understood. The S-8 was a small, fast, forward-firing missile. The MI-17 had at least four but possibly as many as six B8V20 rocket pods, each with twenty rockets.

Sure enough, almost on queue, there was a winding flash by them, and the ground exploded. It was to their right, so all three veered left and reaccelerated to their top speed.

More missiles flew in; devastating impacts, some closer than others, each throwing up dirt and ground into the air.

“We’re not going to make it!” Bonsai yelled, slamming her bike right, then left, then right again.

Lasher had dropped the steak knife somewhere; he didn’t remember. Not that a steak knife would help, but it was the only weapon they had had.

Then, one missile too many came in. It exploded about twenty feet directly in their path. Wade didn’t turn in time, and his ATV crashed into the depression. He slammed forward and was knocked cold, slumping over in the vehicle after its abrupt and jarring deceleration.

Bonsai tried to turn to miss the hole, but the debris from the explosion was still in the air. She lost visibility and hit the edge of the depression, where the front tire grabbed. The bike flipped, sending Bonsai through the air. She landed on her back, knocked out, and slid another ten feet.

Lasher had slightly better luck trying to go around the other side. He lost visibility, and his bike slid on its side. But it didn’t throw him; he was able to control the deceleration to some degree.

The bike slid to a stop on its side. If it had been a full-sized motorcycle, it would have crushed his leg. But it didn’t, as the dirt bike didn’t weigh all that much in the grand scheme of things. Dirk recovered quickly and stood up. The helicopter stopped firing its missiles and hovered for a moment. Dirk had a brief instant where he was afraid they did have forward-facing machine guns. But, if they did, instead of simply using them, the helicopter broke its hoover and landed about fifty feet away.

Dirk stood there in his boxers and bare feet. The scare from the operation after the crash was still pink and visible. His body was a conglomeration of healing wounds and bruises. He looked fitter than when this all started. He had lost at least fifteen pounds, and his arms and chest had some of their old definition back. His face was all but healed, just the faint miscoloring that would be gone in a couple more days remained.

Smoking and burning elements from the trail of missile explosions along the route they had taken, smoldering fires here and there, provided an otherworldly orange light. There was minimal light, a few clouds, and no moon.

Dirk watched the helicopter. It’s rotor moving the smoke here and there. After it landed, nothing happened for a while. Then the rear door slid open, and a single man emerged. He was a big guy; he had sloped shoulders and that kind of caveman build that spoke to close-quarters expertise.

Lasher watched. The man started to walk forward. He wasn’t carrying any weapons that Dirk could see.

The man started to unbutton his camo BDU, eventually taking it off and letting it fall to the ground. Underneath, he wore a combat brown undershirt. Lasher could see rippling muscles under the shirt. The soldier's forearms were thick, and his wrists were wide.

Then Dirk recognized him.

It was Sergeant Glenn from the tent.

Glenn, who reported to Cruz and who had beaten Lasher when he was bound. The same Glenn who had applied the electrical cables to him.

It was Glenn, who suddenly, in this moment, represented everyone who had now taken everything from Dirk. Lisa was gone. Jack was gone. They just killed Wade’s two dogs. Bonsai’s team was gone. Wade’s house was now gone. Even Jack’s beat-up old frigging pickup truck was gone.

Both Wade and Bonsai might be dead or dying.

Lasher allowed his anger to wash over him, completely consuming him. He centered himself and focused on lowering his heart rate. He used the anger to produce a rage-filled calm, watching Glenn advance with a smirk on his big, Russian-looking face.

As Glenn approached, Lasher noticed he was loose, letting his arms relax and his shoulders drop. Glenn stopped a few feet in front of Dirk, who just stood in his spot, watching, his arms down at his side, taking no defensive posture. The only thing noticeable from a normal standing position was that Lasher kept clenching and unclenching his fists.

“You don’t like to wear clothes?” Glenn asked after the two stared at each other for a few moments. The only sound was the slow spinning of the helicopter blades and the low rumble of its engine. The firelight flickered; the blades moved the air just enough that the smoke danced in the dim light.

Lasher recognized Glenn's stance—Systema - a Russian martial art.

Glenn smiled and leaned just slightly to his right, Dirk’s left, looking at the shoulder graze. He pointed at it, “I’m going to beat that spot especially,” he smiled and cracked his knuckles loudly.

Lasher didn’t do anything. He knew a few katas he could use against the more relaxed fighting style, but he wasn't in the mood. His best chance was to let Glenn initiate an attack and then simply use that first move to drive to a kill shot.

Without warning, Glenn stepped forward and drove his elbow upward into Dirk’s face. Lasher twisted his left shoulder low and moved up with his right elbow, performing an elbow block and redirecting the force of the attack off to the side. He was surprised at how strong the force was, but otherwise, the block worked.

Dirk moved directly into a counterattack while Glenn’s elbow was still extended. He allowed the momentum from the block to continue, bringing both arms close to his center. Then, he quickly delivered several short, powerful, rapid punches to Glenn’s face and chest. Glenn stepped back, taking a few blows but nothing debilitating.

As Dirk stopped the punches with Glenn now out of range, Glenn surprised him, leaning his upper body forward while still retreating, then pulling on Lasher’s shoulder, driving him into his raised knee. Dirk tried to spin, but Glenn was too strong; he took the blow directly to the scar on his left side. Dirk tried to lessen the blow by spinning that side away from the knee.

Pain shot through him, and he felt the ribs break again. This caused him to lose himself in anger, fear, and pain.

Dirk sucked in air.

He was done playing defense.

He continued the momentum from the dodge and turned it into a full-borne spin, twisting, ignoring the pain of the freshly broken ribs. Spinning with a massive amount of torque, he brought his leg up and then down hard, allowing the momentum to enhance the blow. He landed his heel on Glenn’s chin.

There was an audible CRACK.

Glenn tried to counter but couldn’t; he waved his arms a little in futility, the chin shot blurring his vision for a moment. He recovered enough to change strategy; he grabbed Dirk’s leg, grasping it and pulling it in the direction of Dirk’s spin, completely taking his other leg out from under him.

They both spun and landed in a heap, twisted together. Lasher landed on top and forced himself to keep rolling.

Glenn rolled with him. He took several power punches as Dirk moved, delivering brutal, powerful strikes that would have broken bones had they landed. But Dirk kept rolling. He grabbed Glenn’s arm after a missed blow and twisted it until he heard a pop, using the spin to get back to his feet.

Glenn screamed and started to reach around with the other arm to grab his now broken shoulder. Lasher instead blocked the move, got his arm around Glenn’s neck, and twisted his body with everything he had. He felt a few snaps, and Glenn’s screaming stopped. Lasher didn’t care; he kept twisting until there was no more resistance.

Blood was spurting out everywhere.

Lasher dropped the now severed head and collapsed onto the ground.

He expected whoever was left in the helicopter to get out, walk over, and shoot him.

Instead, after a good while, the helicopter engine screamed, the blades started spinning faster, and eventually, it took off and disappeared into the night.

Dirk sat looking back at Wade’s property.

Everything was on fire.

The dirt was on fire.

Lasher’s whole world was on fire, and he watched as the flames slowly consumed the little bit that had remained.

Chapter 36

The gunfire, explosions, and small arms fire ultimately attracted local law enforcement. Dirk forced himself to stand long before they got there and checked on Wade and Bonsai. He secured them and made them comfortable as best he could; they were both thankfully alive. Wade took a blow to the head, which could bring other problems. Bonsai was scraped and bruised, and she had a broken right forearm.

Dirk moved them over to the side, away from everything, and then he sat down between them and waited. He might have fallen asleep; he had no sense of time. After a good while, he saw the flashing blue and red lights and heard the sirens a few moments later. He watched the local police form up. It took them even longer to work their way to his location. When they saw him and the bloody mess that had been Glenn, there was a long time while they formed a perimeter, yelled instructions, and generally were nervous nellies.

Dirk just sat and watched. He didn’t care, and he knew they wouldn’t shoot first, so the rest of it was just hollow noise.

Eventually, everything calmed down. The police called SOUTHCOM at Dirk’s request. Medics took Bonsai and Wade away to separate hospitals—Bonsai to the local VA and Wade to his head trauma specialists.

Dirk had a medic’s blanket over him. He didn’t want to go to the hospital. He didn’t want to do anything, so he just sat in his spot in the field, and the world moved around him. From time to time, a police officer would come over and ask him questions. He mostly didn’t answer but answered enough.

A counterintelligence crew, along with military police, showed up a few hours after sunrise. They were taking jurisdiction given that the assailants were, by all appearances, Cuban nationals mixed with the rogue special forces under Cruz. They came over and asked all the same questions again that the civilian authorities had asked. Dirk answered in the same way.

By midday, the sun was up, and it was hot—too hot for the blanket and too hot for Dirk to sit shirtless in the middle of a field without shade. He tried to stand and found he couldn’t initially. He was more banged up than he had thought. He eventually got to his feet, the struggle making him even angrier. He was mad at being awake, mad at being injured again, mad that now Wade’s house was gone. Mad that the two little dogs were dead. Mad that Jack was dead. Mad that Lisa was dead and the realization that she had been murdered by Cruz and this stupid organization that seemed obsessed with him.

He was angry at himself for not stopping Williams when Blake first approached them, mad that he went to Panama, and mad at General Hampton for using him.

He realized as he slowly walked back to the house that he wasn’t mad at Wade. It was a revelation because he had been angry at Wade for most of his life, for one reason or another. Then he thought about Trudy Bonnington, Bonsai. It was a wall of feelings mostly ending in guilt.

“Damn, now I’m mad at Wade again,” he smiled to himself as he walked. All Wade did was point out the obvious. Dirk was really mad at himself for everything. He missed Lisa, and he felt guilty for noticing Bonsai and for feeling relief that Lisa’s troubles were over. It made him feel selfish.

Ahead, he could see the destruction and all the military personnel moving around. When he got to the fence opening, he walked straight through the assault course. There were many more small arms fire indications than he remembered. They had really opened up on them. Dirk felt a sense of good fortune that he had only been grazed, given the volley of rounds he was seeing in the wood and other obstacles. 

The sense of loss returned as well, seeing the course in ruin when it had represented one of the better months of his life: something to do, Wade’s weird worldview but good cookery, watching Bonnington heal and improve. There had been a real spirit of belonging and shared purpose.

The debris on the ground hurt his bare feet, but he didn’t care. He both felt it and ignored it at the same time. When he got close to some of the military personnel, he found a Captain and asked for a ride back to his home. It was a sincere ask, as Dirk lived near South Miami, a good hour from Wade’s place.

The Captain called over an enlisted Private First Class and handed him the keys to one of the small military civilian cars the agents drove. Dirk didn’t bother talking other than to tell the soldier the address and to give instructions, when necessary, “turn here, stay in the right lane,” simple items.

The houses and area got nicer and nicer as they drove. The enlisted soldier became a little unsure when they made the turn onto Via Abitare Way, as it was nothing but huge sprawling mansions on multi-acre properties with huge security fences and spectacular views of Biscayne Bay.

“You live out here, sir?” The enlisted soldier asked.

Lasher looked at him. It was too stupid a question to answer; instead, he said, “Keep going to the end of the street; the big gate is mine.”

All the gates so far had been very impressive; the enlisted soldier was curious what big might mean in comparison. He didn't have to wait long as the end of the street came into view. Sure enough, there was a very impressive gate at the end of the road on a cul-de-sac (Florida loved cul-de-sacs).

There was a keypad. The driver pulled up to it and rolled down his window. He turned to Lasher, waiting for the code.

Given the clear problems with security, Lasher couldn’t trust some random soldier. Instead, he said he would take it from here, exited the car, and stood in his underwear with the medical blanket wrapped over his shoulders until the driver pulled away and was out of sight.

He then turned, punched in the seven-digit code, and walked through the opening gate, waiting for it to close and secure. He then turned and walked up the long driveway, past the dumpster the county had dropped off, and to the sprawling but now lifeless mansion on the water's edge.

The End.

NOTE: After the following information about the next book and the bonus Panama Red first couple of chapters, there is the essence of an end credits scene. It's just something fun from a Dirk Lasher book that will never be finished that takes place between the first series and this second one. Also, if you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a rating or review, as it helps others find the series.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D8WNXW2Q

Dirk Lasher Returns Christmas 2024!

VULNERABLE!

Get ready for a chilling holiday season with Dirk Lasher's return in the highly anticipated second book of the Operation Falling Star trilogy, Vulnerable. This Christmas, the mission plunges into darkness, and the stakes have never been higher.

Vulnerable thrusts Dirk Lasher and his team into the treacherous depths of Georgetown, Guyana—a city known for its blend of colonial architecture, vibrant street life, and the surrounding dense rainforests and sprawling savannas. Betrayed by his old flame and ruthless adversary, Kimberly Sharp, Dirk and his team find themselves on the defensive, navigating these dangerous streets. Georgetown's colonial charm quickly becomes a deadly trap, and Dirk's relentless anger threatens to turn a strategic operation into a reckless all-out assault. Can he channel his fury into victory, or will it ignite a full-blown military conflict?

Dirk's enemies test his limits like never before, dragging him into old wounds and unresolved conflicts, making the mission even more personal and dangerous. In a deadly game of wits, strength, and survival, Dirk must confront his deepest fears and push himself to the breaking point.

As the city closes in and the line between hunter and hunted blurs, Dirk's mission becomes a brutal struggle for survival. Every decision could mean life or death, and the weight of past mistakes threatens to crush him. The pursuit through Georgetown reveals not only the brutality of his enemies but also the darkness within himself.

Vulnerable promises to be a relentless, heart-pounding, and emotionally charged thriller. Feel the tension rise as Dirk Lasher navigates betrayal, danger, and brutal confrontations in this intense, fast-paced adventure.

Mark your calendars and brace yourself for an unforgettable journey this Christmas with Operation Falling Star: Vulnerable. The mission is just beginning, and Dirk is prepared to face it head-on. Are you?

Bonus – Panama Red

See where it all began! Get Panama Red by David Edward now FREE on US Amazon Kindle!

Parking Lot

US Army Sergeant Jack Williams parked his car outside the old condo high-rise on the Bay of Panama. The day was crisp; sparkling blue water in bright sunlight as a warm wind pushed the ocean's salty smell inland.

Williams wore his preferred attire for fieldwork, a tacky Hawaiian shirt, and shorts.

As he got out of the car, two men approached. He hadn’t noticed initially, which meant they had been concealed somewhere. It wasn’t that big an area. They were dressed in PDF uniforms, the Panamanian Defense Force, a combination of police and military that Noriega used to run the country as he saw fit as dictator.

“Friend, would you please step away from the car?” one of the two officers yelled in Spanish, advancing.

Williams watched them both; they each had a sidearm in a holster on their belts. The one who spoke rested his hand on it as police did worldwide to be on the ready. Not an aggressive stance, but one that suggested he already had the drop on you.

“What’s the problem, officers?” Williams said back in English, not stepping away from the car. His overnight bag, federal badge, and sidearm were in the back seat. They had caught him before he could open the back door to grab the rest of his stuff.

Panama, under Noriega, did not have the same concepts of due process and civilian rights that Americans were used to. There were no Miranda waivers. The justice system (if that was the right name for it) was suspended earlier in the year, mid-1987, under a declared state of national emergency.

Both PDF officers, stepping apart, continued to move forward, reaching in unison like a choreographed dance, removing the snaps on their sidearm holsters. Glock 30s, .45 ACPs with thirteen-round magazines.

Good solid weapons.

“Fellas,” Williams said smiling, putting his hands in the air while looking around, surveying for additional threats or options, “what’s this about? I've got to get ready for our New Year’s Eve party tomorrow; that’s no crime, right?”

Two more officers materialized from the other side of the parking lot, now working their way forward.

Williams considered his options: fight or flight. Neither seemed viable.

He stepped away from the car, hands in the air, searching for any advantage, becoming frantic to find a way out.

“Turn around,” an officer said, now a pair of handcuffs in his hand, getting close.

Williams couldn’t find an option.

He turned, feeling sudden movement as soon as he did, whipping his head around just in time. The officer without the handcuffs was nearly on him, in the process of taking a running swing at his head, hard. Instincts took over, dropping his leg, intercepting the blow, rolling the PDF officer with his momentum across the bent leg and onto the ground.

If this had been single combat, Williams could have delivered a killing or debilitating blow, in total control of the contest. But it wasn’t. Suddenly he had the other officer’s Glock pressed into his face along with a lot of frantic screaming in Spanish, the two other uniformed men breaking into a run toward him.

“Okay, okay, everybody relax,” Williams released the downed officer and put his hands back in the air.

The blow came from behind him; sunlight suddenly turning pure white.

Then nothing.

Mexico City

Kimberly Sharp was the most influential person in Mexico, but she could have been a ghost. Very few knew she existed, fewer what she did for a living. She wasn’t famous, didn’t own very much herself, wasn’t a politician or an actress. Her official title was benefactora—benefactor in English. Spanish required the identification of gender in the title.

She was the brainchild behind the Global Bank Group, the GBG as it was called. She wasn’t the CEO or president or even an employee. She didn’t own any stock or have any legal control.

She was its benefactora.

The GBG existed as a means for her to exhibit influence, and it did what she told it to do.

From time to time, she would teleconference into a board meeting. Rarely she might need to send a courier directly to the GBG CEO if he were heading into the weeds or doing something else stupid. She mostly had enough spies and operatives throughout the organization that she only needed to tell Hernando what she wanted, and he got the word around.

Hernando was her messenger in the same way that God sent angels to deal with humans. She spoke, and Hernando delivered God’s word to whomever she directed.

If she were happy, Hernando made it rain happiness.

If she were unhappy, Hernando made it rain hell down on whoever had displeased her.

Today she was unhappy. If she didn’t do something to change her disposition in the next couple of hours, she would need to skip the New Year’s Eve party tonight. She would be in no mood for it.

The sun was setting, long shadows on the deck of the penthouse slowly cooling everything off. Mexico City had excellent weather this time of year: mid-seventies during the day and the fifties at night.

Sharp sat at her deck table in a padded chair. She wore an expensive white business suit. Her eyes were an icy blue, piercing if she looked at you. If you dared to look back into them, you noticed that her eyes, while bright, were more like doll eyes. There was some piece of human empathy missing from their return gaze.

A strong breeze blew today. Sharp loved the wind out on the penthouse deck. It cleared the layer of pollution out of the city, allowing for good visibility. From the top of her high building, she could just see the Pyramids of the Sun and Moon several miles away, in the distance across the large metropolis that was Mexico City. The wind made the view better and created a sense of excitement, feeling dangerous this high up.

Two businessmen were on their knees in front of her. An hour ago, they had been seated at the table, drinking sparkling water, providing her an update on the Panama project. The project had fallen behind schedule, they said. Unforeseen obstacles, but they were working on it, they told her.

In return, she motioned for Hernando. He had his men pull the two from their chairs, beating them, but not too much. Cutting their expensive suits off, not being overly careful, the knife digging deeply here and there in the process.

But not too much.

Hernando was an expert at just enough.

He had a graduate degree in it from the school of hard knocks. An ex-special force’s officer in the Mexican military now in his early forties, having led many raids into Guatemala from Mexico as those relations deteriorated earlier in the decade.

Sharp wiggled her finger back and forth, making a show of selecting one of the two men. She got great excitement from moments like this. She felt a warmth that settled in over her providing great pleasure.

Maybe I can salvage the party tonight. Yes, I know what will help.

There was nothing better than watching the life strangled out of a subordinate. It never got old, being the commander of death, making choices that changed the world forever. The trick was to keep eye contact and wait for that moment just before it was over when the struggling stopped and resignation set in.

That fleeting millisecond of knowledge of the coming transition, then gone.

She spent hours wondering where they went. It kept her up at night. When young, she had experimented on animals. Now she could experiment on people.

Strangulation was the only means she had found to produce the proper, well, post-mortem “effect.”  Each victim always came around after death, providing her the postmortem physical reaction that she found uninteresting with the living.

Once they die, they love me unconditionally.

She selected one of the men. He had been the project manager. Before he could protest, Hernando had the man’s belt around his throat.

“Wait!” Sharp yelled, leisurely getting up and walking to stand pressed against the man, looking face-to-face, close enough that their bodies were touching.

She watched his eyes; they were dancing around with fear. He was trying to talk, his tie shoved into his mouth, preventing anything other than grunts and gurgles.

Without blinking, being careful not to miss it, she took a deep breath, feeling that building excitement, smelling the fear in the air. “Do it.”

Hernando tightened the belt; the man struggled. She could feel the moment coming. Feel his body spasming against hers as his life flowed away.

There it is.

A flash!

There was a moment of electricity, then he was gone, the eyes lifeless and rolling away.

What did he see?

She continued to stare at him.

Tell me! I know you can hear my thoughts!

She stepped away, beginning to shake, her head spinning.

Hernando let go of the belt, and the man fell to the ground, crumpled.

Sharp swooned, then sat back down. She took a moment, looked at the other businessman, his eyes wide in disbelief, darting left and right like a panicked deer.

Looking back to Hernando, she said, “Take the live one inside and get him cleaned up. When he is himself again, remind him that we don’t fall behind schedule at the GBG. He has a week to get the schedule back to what we agreed.”

Hernando nodded as one of his men pulled the man to his feet.

As everyone started to leave, Sharp called out, “Hernando! Roll this first one on his back and give me an hour of privacy,” she said lazily, still in the afterglow.

Hernando did as he was asked, just like always, not thinking anything of it.

Back Alley

Lasher ran as fast as he could, waving his arms, signaling Over there! He hopped over trash cans and piles of junk and garbage as the backs of the houses flashed by. The alley ran the whole street behind the houses, unkempt, as much trash dump as a thruway. Buzzards were here and there working through the garbage, paying Lasher no mind.

Two Panamanians ran fast on the street in the same direction, covering the area in front of the houses compared to Lasher in the back alley. They and Lasher caught glimpses of each other between each house, quick flashes of movement. Both the Panamanians were younger, mid-twenties at the most, with long hair and a rugged look to them.

There was a black flash. One of the Panamanians leaped over a front-yard fence, the other grabbing a pole to help slow himself down. Lasher saw it between houses and tried to stop himself, overrunning by several dozen feet. He paused, breathing heavy, then sprinted back the way he had come.

There was a commotion and the sound of bottles hitting concrete. Lasher grabbed a burlap sack off one of the piles of garbage as he ran by, now carefully advancing down the small gap between houses connecting the front and the back.

“She’s coming your way!” someone yelled in Spanish.

Lasher saw her, low and fast, running right at him. He opened the sack and waited, jerking left as she approached, forcing her right. He moved with practiced precision, falling with the bag open onto the ground at just the right moment.

“Got her!” he yelled, victorious.

The sack was adjunct panic, thrashing about, small soft growls of displeasure. Lasher wrapped his arms around it as best he could to keep the burlap from tearing, careful not to apply too much pressure to cause an injury to himself or the baby panther.

He rolled over, sitting up, the sack in his lap, his muscular arms wrapped around it. The little animal was strong. The panther calmed down. Eventually, he allowed it to pop its head out, careful to hold on, so it did not escape. The small animal’s blue eyes were taking Lasher in, looking around actively.

Thomasito, one of the two Panamanians, walked up to him. “Don’t let her go!”

“I got her,” Lasher assured him, petting the cat’s head, causing it to meow at him and pull its head away.

“They’re coot when they’re little,” Thomasito said.

Lasher agreed. “How did she get this far into the city?”

Thomasito looked back, away from the Bay of Panama and north to the jungle, the bay two miles south and the jungle two miles north. “Happens more than you would think. It’s fun when it’s a little one. Once fully grown, that little cutie will kill you in under ten seconds. Two hundred pounds of hungry jaws and claws.” Then he turned to Lasher with his hands out, suggesting Lasher hand the cub to him.

Lasher started to, then pulled the animal back. “Tomas, you’re going to release her back into the jungle, right?”

Thomasito feigned a look of insult. “We Panamanians are civilized, friend. Only an American would even think to do something else.” He saw that Lasher was unconvinced. “Of course, old man.” He yelled over his shoulder, “Julian, bring the car around! We caught her!”

Lasher made a face at the “old man” comment as he handed the cat in the bag over to Thomasito. He was only a few years older than Thomasito. “Have you ever encountered a large one? In your short time so far on the planet, that is,” he added, referencing the old man comment. The cat's claw nicked his arm as he let go of the bag, drawing a small amount of blood.

Thomasito took the cat and scratched it behind the ear. “No, they are rare around the city. But if you go into any of the deeper jungles, you are almost guaranteed to encounter one. They will stalk you for hours before attacking. Very dangerous. We’ll take her about a mile in and let her go. It’s not far.”

Lasher nodded, waiting for the car with Thomasito, waving as they were loaded and pulled away. Once gone, he looked to get his bearings and was surprised at how far down the alley away from his house the chase had brought him. He started to walk back up the alley, then thought better of it; it was pretty disgusting in places, so he made his way around to the main road through the front of the neighborhood and started the walk back.

Even the front of the neighborhood looked worse than it usually did today, and it usually looked pretty bad. Not as bad as the back alley, but the trash and remnants of last night’s New Year’s Eve parties were still ever-present.

Goodbye, 1987. Hello, 1988.

A smell seemed to be following him. He smelled his shirt; it stank like garbage and sweaty panther cub. He would have to change and shower when he got home, which was fine. He could clean out the cat scratch at the same time.

His house was in a derelict neighborhood in a worn-out section of the sprawling urban cesspool that was Panama City, Panama. The area was called El Cangrejo. It had once been a good neighborhood, but not anymore. Street gangs ran things now, providing the only authority. The gangs were not overly organized and easy to deal with if you showed respect and didn’t interfere with their business. Probably more on the up-and-up than if Noriega’s PDF were in charge here.

All the families that could move away from the neighborhood did so long ago; most couldn’t. Panama was the paradise that wasn’t: rampant poverty painted against glass-tower high-rise luxury. Two worlds, each unmindful to the other.

El Cangrejo, the name of the neighborhood, meant “the crab.” No one knew why this name was used for this area, but it always had been. Lasher joked with Thomasito, from whom he also bought home-brewed beer. Lasher called him Tomas, a good-spirited nickname he adopted for the guy. He told Tomas that El Cangrejo sounded to him in English like “the kangaroo.”

Thomasito didn’t think Lasher was funny or care about what El Cangrejo sounded like in English. But he was happy to sell beer to the American at four times its street price. He also liked Lasher; the man had charisma for sure. Everyone in the neighborhood enjoyed having Lasher around; actions like helping save a baby panther cub would endear him to the locals that much more.

As Lasher walked back, he noticed rain clouds to the east in what otherwise was a clear sky. In Panama, there were two seasons: wet and dry. It was just at the end of the transition now, heading from the wet season into the dry season, still plenty of rain, but less each day. The sunsets looked the same here as in Miami, where he grew up, bright sky colors against lush green foliage and clear blue water.

Raised by his grandfather after his mom died when he was eight, he had grown up in Little Havana, just outside of Miami, Florida, USA.

Grandpa Lasher had been a tail gunner in World War II, shot down and spending the last year of the war in a German prisoner of war camp. He hated the show Hogan’s Heroes (even though he watched every episode) and always had a dog named Fritz for as long as Lasher had known him. It wasn’t always the same dog, but it always had the same name. Grandpa would get frustrated when people thought he served in the Air Force during the war. He was an Army man; the Air Force didn’t exist back then—one more newfangled inconvenience.

When Lasher got back to his run-down house, he went inside, grabbing one of Thomasito’s beers from the refrigerator, opening the bottle cap by twisting it off. It wasn’t meant to be a twist-off, but the press they used wasn’t very good, so it came off easily. He walked out the front door and sat down on his front step looking south in the direction of the Bay of Panama. Since south was the direction his house faced, that was the way he looked when he sat on the front porch.

The setting sun was to his right. He could see the sun but not the bay from here. He knew the bay was only a few miles away because he could see the tops of all the modern high rises built on its shores in stark contrast to the look of the local surroundings.

His grandpa would have had some derogatory name for the bay, something like “the tyrant's swimming pool” or “the vulture’s dumping ground,” only using more colorful words. Grandpa liked to swear a lot. Lasher idealized him as a child but decided when he was twelve that he would never use a swear word again, a mishap at school, his first awareness that home life and social life had different rules.

Lasher watched his grandfather live out his final days using this exact model—sitting on his front step buzzed by morning, drunk by noon when he would take his naps. 

Lasher finished one beer and opened another. He had a decent buzz himself, just at that perfect place where you felt good, but the headaches and indigestion had not yet set in. He was at that beautiful point where you wanted to feel this way forever and knew if you could just get one more beer, you might be able to pull it off.

Grandpa would have called this feeling breakfast. Lasher smiled to himself, enjoying the memory, feeling pretty good.

Lasher’s black hair was in a ponytail, pulled back and tied with a woman’s hair clip.

Somehow it made him look tough.

He hadn’t shaved for about a month nor bathed in a couple of days, but he needed to desperately now, putting it off as sheer luxury because he could. He was undercover after all and had to clean himself up at least once a week. The Army, in its wisdom, required even undercover agents to come in to post once a week for a “deployment status meeting.”

Even unwashed, you knew when you looked at him that he could carry his weight. No matter how much awful beer he drank or how long he drank it, his eyes always had a spark in them. He tried to hide it, but it was there.

Thomasito knew it was there, as did everyone else in the neighborhood. They figured Lasher was some type of undercover CIA agent. They were not too far off. Thomasito fed Lasher small bits of information. Just enough for him to get paid, not enough for him to get in any trouble.

The Americans were always active in and around Panama City. They had bases west and north of the city and oversaw the Panama Canal, the eighth wonder of the modern world. There were growing hostilities between the American soldiers and the PDF. But the PDF didn’t come around here. There was no one to pay them off and too much trouble with the local gangs.

As Lasher sat there on his front porch step thinking about his grandpa, he noticed two men approaching his house. They both wore long-sleeved Cubavera shirts; one man’s shirt was yellow, the other man’s shirt was blue. Other than that, they could have been brothers. They were tall for Panamanians, looking more like American Indians than the indigenous Guna or Naso peoples that lived in this area.

As he watched the men approach, he put his beer down, leaning back against the middle step, feeling for his 9MM handgun pressed against his back where he wore it with a modified holster he had made himself. Only it wasn’t there. It was still inside.

Continue reading Panama Red for FREE Today!

Double Bonus!

Below is the opening of one of the partial new Dirk Lasher books I started. It was too soon after the last series, and while the overall story was fun, it didn’t move anything forward. However, the opening provides an entertaining glimpse into Dirk & Lisa’s life between series.

Atlantis Primed

"I'm hearing chatter on the police radio," Jack Williams's voice crackled a few times as the CB unit echoed into the car through the mono speaker.

"I blew through a red light back on 21st and Taft," Dirk Lasher said. He held the CB mic in his hand, releasing the talk button once he finished speaking.

"They have a watch alert out. Play it cool and straight for the next couple of miles, and they'll move on."

Dirk dropped the mic and placed his hand back on the package in the passenger seat, keeping it steady as he navigated the dark Miami streets. His headlights swept over the Woodlawn Cemetery as he merged onto Dixie Highway from 21st Avenue.

"They've lost track of you," Williams's voice broke through the speaker after a few moments. "What's your ETA? Things are getting dicey here. BG is starting to suspect something."

Dirk felt a surge of frustration but pushed it down, staying focused on the task. He picked the mic back up. "I'm going to open it up when I hit Highway One. Then I'm maybe only five away."

"No," Williams's voice sounded slightly panicked. "They've closed the road up by the museum, night construction. Your tax dollars at work. Stay on Dixie; it will turn into 7th Street, then come up 5th Avenue."

"That's going to add a few."

"It's what we've got."

Dirk could hear yelling in the background when Williams spoke. "What's all the yelling?"

"We're close to DEFCON three here, Dirk."

Dirk pressed down on the accelerator; the black '68 Charger darted across the intersection of Highway One, sparks flying from where the chassis skidded against the asphalt. He caught the turn light onto 5th Avenue, letting the eight-cylinder motor accelerate the car down the straightaway.

"I caught both lights, ETA under two."

"Okay," Williams replied. "I'm signing off and heading to the back entrance to let you in. Park down the alley so no one sees you. Remember, you're still at work, too busy to make it."

"I was at work and too busy," Dirk retorted.

"But here comes Dirk to save the day again, right?"

"Hold on, Jack. Is pay-to-play there?"

"Yep."

"Where's the gear?"

"I have it for you. You'll have to change in the alley before you come up."

"Great."

***

"Are you ready?" Jack Williams yelled in his best pretend announcer's voice.

The crowd cheered. They were ready. The chant started low and slow, but it snowballed fast.

"Pain. Pain. Pain! PAIN!"

"Christ, they're getting pretty worked up," Dirk whispered to Lisa Lasher, his wife.

"Man up, Dirk," she replied with a wide grin.

Dirk did not return the smile. Instead, he continued to peek from behind the curtain, trying to catch a glimpse of his opponent. He didn't have to wait long; the chant drew the man out.

"Who's ready for some Paaaaaaiiiiiinnnnnn!?" A deep, threatening male voice echoed; the sound seemed to come from everywhere.

The crowd went into a frenzy. They knew the routine all too well.

"Pain. Pain. Pain! PAIN!" the chant continued.

From behind the curtain, Dirk turned to Lisa. "You've got to be kidding me. This is what they watch?"

"Kids these days, right?" Lisa still couldn't stop smiling.

A massive, shirtless man jumped up into the ring seemingly out of nowhere. He stood at least six feet six inches tall and only wore what looked like animal skins around his waist. Heavy, uplifting rock music began to play.

"That's a big dude," Dirk said, then turned to Lisa. "Did you get the cake off the front seat?"

"Yep, it's over there on the table on the other side of the ring, see?" Lisa replied, still smiling.

Dirk peeked out through the crease in the curtain and spotted the table. Then he switched his attention back to the giant man in the ring who was playing to the crowd, yelling, asking questions, and striking poses.

Williams let it all go on for a few minutes; the crowd was eating it up.

"He seems mad," Lisa remarked after watching the man smash a chair into someone pretending to be a referee.

After a few more minutes, Williams had everything calmed down. Then a new chant started: a rumble with no cheering. They were calling out the victim for the executioner.

"Doink. Doink. Doink. Doink."

Dirk looked at Lisa. "Well, I guess I’m up."

She leaned up and kissed him on the mouth. "It’s the shoes, Doink, that really win a girl's heart,” she said. Then, smiling a big smile, she pushed him against his will as hard as she could through the curtain and into the ring.

Instead of a cheer like for Mister Pain, a hush fell over the crowd. The chant stopped as Dirk stumbled into the ring and looked around. The rock music stopped. Everything fell quiet. Dirk could hear kids whispering "Doink" to each other, amazed that he was actually there. They seemed to be in awe.

Then a new song started to play. It sounded like a drunk monkey playing the whistle while another beat a rhythmless drum with a dead frog. It was not very inspiring, but the kids loved it. They started to sing some tunes that went along with the whistle and drumbeat. Dirk had been briefed on the song. When it ended, he pretended to slip on something, throwing one leg up and falling on his backside, his long floppy red shoes sticking up in the air.

The twenty-some eight-year-olds roared with laughter.

Mister Pain made an exaggerated show of trying to kick Dirk while he was on the ground. Williams made an exaggerated pretend dash to stop him and separate the two. Dirk made a big show of trying to get back on his feet. Finally, when he stood and stopped pretending to be disoriented, Williams started announcing again.

"Where is the BG?” Williams yelled. The little kids were in a frenzy, having a great time. They started chanting "birthday girl" and then switched to singing "Happy Birthday" when she stood up from the front.

While that was happening, Williams, Mister Pain, and Dirk (dressed as Doink the Clown) stood in the center of the ring. Mister Pain kept looking at Dirk suspiciously.

"You're not Matt!" Mister Pain said after staring at Dirk for a while. "What kind of sham is this?" He looked from Dirk to Williams.

"Matt’s flight was delayed," Jack Williams said. "He’s stuck in Houston and won’t be here until tomorrow."

"I’m not doing this with some amateur!" Mister Pain said. He ignored Dirk and focused on Williams, who had been his contact to set up the whole gig.

"We’re all here now," Williams said. Both Dirk and Jack were big guys, well over six feet tall each. Dirk stayed in reasonably good shape; Williams had allowed himself to put on about fifty pounds from his military days when the two served together. It wasn’t muscle. Both men had to look up to Mister Pain, who stood at least a full head taller than either.

"No," Mister Pain said, clearly very upset. "You two are here. I have a big match tomorrow; that’s why I’m in Miami, not some kid's birthday party. I’m not risking getting hurt because cupcake here" – he thumped his finger into Dirk's chest – "doesn’t know the routine."

"How hard can it be?" Dirk asked. He was irritated, too, called in at the last minute, forced to close his bar early, and racing here as fast as he could. But he knew this was for a friend of Williams, whose daughter, the birthday girl, had stage two cancer. So Dirk made the time, pushed his irritation away, and did what was right.

Dirk’s comment seemed to have really set Mister Pain off.

"You want an example, cupcake?" Mister Pain said, leaning forward and towering over Dirk menacingly.

"You can start by not calling me cupcake anymore," Dirk said back, holding the big man's gaze. Both were getting more upset with each other.

"Who the F@#$ are you to tell me what to call you?" Mister Pain moved fast and slammed both his hands into Dirk’s shoulders, pushing him back.

"Watch your language, pal," Dirk was now angry, way past irritation. "This is a kid's birthday party." One of Dirk’s weaknesses was that he could be a bit of a hot head. He knew it and tried his best to manage it, but once someone laid hands on him, keeping himself in check was a much more difficult task.

Mister Pain stepped forward again. Williams tried to get between the two.

“F@#$ you, you god @*&$ little #@@&!” Mister Pain yelled loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Hold on now!” Williams said, trying to push both men apart.

“I will show you the difference between working with an amateur and a professional,” Mister Pain said, then moved very quickly. He punched toward Williams, slamming his foot onto the ring floor as his punch missed by just an inch or two.

“That is how we professionals do it,” Mister Pain said, recovering from his swing and pushing Williams out of the way, this time making accurate contact. Williams stumbled backward, not expecting the force of the push.

Mister Pain continued moving forward very gracefully for such a big man. Dirk was just standing, watching, taken entirely by surprise. Mister Pain took another swing, directed at Dirk, who assumed it would be another stage swing that barely missed. But Mister Pain was angry, apparently as much a hothead as Dirk, or maybe more. He impacted with the side of Dirk’s head, a devastating and solid punch.

The blow made a loud SMACK sound. Dirk went down hard. The movement and noise caught the attention of one of the kids at the party, who, as a group, were almost done singing the birthday song for a second time.

“They’ve started!” The observant kid yelled in a cry of excitement and delight all rolled into one. The others followed his gaze, collectively like a pack of raving wolves.

Kimmy, the birthday girl, turned. Her eyes got big, and a huge smile crossed her face. “LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLE!” she screamed at the top of her voice, her arms shooting into the air like a referee announcing a winning touchdown. She was very much lost in the moment.

All the kids turned and started the chant of Pain again, glued to whatever was happening in the ring.

Williams recovered first and ran to get between Mister Pain and Dirk again. Dirk was down on one knee, shaking his head, trying to recover from the crushing blow. Mister Pain was starting to advance, for all intents and purposes, looking like he was going to hit Dirk again.

“What are you doing?” Williams yelled, putting both hands up to Mister Pain’s chest to stop his advance.

“I am sick and tired of hearing cupcakes talk about how easy this is,” Mister Pain roared. “Like we’re all just monkeys who fling $@^# on cue.”

“I told you to watch your language,” Dirk said in a tempered voice, recovered to some degree and starting to stand up.

“PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN!” the little kids kept chanting, in a frenzy.

Williams continued to try and push Mister Pain back, away from Dirk. Without warning, Mister Pain dropped his left shoulder and brought his right arm up, using his formidable strength to break Williams's contact. Williams stumbled. Mister Pain swung his right arm down in a blur, his hand in a closed fist, landing hard on Williams’s jaw.

Williams hit the mat with a thud, out cold.

“Wow! Auhhhhhhhhh! Paaaaaain!” The kids screeched, fully engaged and assuming this was the show.

“Are you out of your mind?’ Dirk yelled, taking a step toward Williams’s downed form, but cut off from him by Mister Pain, who stepped threateningly in the way.

“I’m sick of you soccer moms and wanna be dead-beat dads always putting me down!” Mister Pain thundered.

“Pal,” Dirk tried to compose himself. “I’m about the farthest thing you have ever run into from a soccer mom. Just calm down; we’re done. You're out. The kids got a couple of minutes of a show. Let me make sure Jack is okay.”

The scene in the ring was ridiculous. Dirk, dressed as Doink, wore big red floppy shoes, white baggy striped pants, and a puffy white striped shirt with big red buttons. He had a huge red wig on, and his face was painted white with a big red smile. Blood flowed from his left ear, where Mister Pain had punched him. It was running onto the white puffy shirt. Mister Pain stood towering over him, trying to get ahold of him. Jack Williams lay near the middle of the ring, bleeding also, out cold from Mister Pain's earlier cheap shot.

Dirk kept backing away. Mister Pain kept advancing, trying to get ahold of him. The kids cheered, having no idea this wasn’t a staged show. About half the crowd cheered for Mister Pain, the other half for Doink.

This went on for a few moments, but Mister Pain had much more experience navigating the small ring than Dirk, and Dirk’s big floppy red shoes didn’t help. When he would try and run, Dirk had to pick his feet up extra high, making it look like he was exaggerating his movements. It did look hilarious, but it was getting dangerous.

As Dirk ran from side to side, Mister Pain was able to land a few solid blows, impacting the side of Dirk's head, his neck, and down his left side’s rib cage. Mister Pain wasn’t fooling around, and Dirk was starting to really get hurt.

Dirk was getting bloodied, and everyone thought it was all a joke. Everyone except Lisa, who slowly realized that Mister Pain's punches were landing with regularity and that Williams wasn’t faking being knocked cold; he was, in fact, out cold in the center of the ring. Just as Dirk ran by the curtain opening, Mister Pain stormed by, slowly stalking his prey. Lisa jumped out after he passed and landed high up on his back. She quickly scrambled into a headlock; the man smelled like booze and onions.

Dirk saw this and turned. “Look, fella,” he yelled, trying to get into a defensive stance despite the big red shoes. “I quit! I give up. Frigging stop!”

The cry to stop just seemed to make Mister Pain angrier. Lisa tried several things, she tried putting her hands over his eyes so he couldn’t see, but it didn’t seem to work. She tried different headlocks, but he was too big, and any time she got good leverage, Mister Pain swiped her arms out of place.

With Lisa entering the fray, the kids were starting to pick up on the vibe, and the chants had changed from cheers to yells in support of Doink, yelling to stop the fight.

Mister Pain slowly approached Dirk, who had stopped in a bad location; he was too close to a corner and had nowhere to go. Mister Pain lifted his big arms, driving Lisa off of him; she fell with a thud onto the ring floor behind him. Mister Pain prepared to crash down on Dirk's shoulders and drive him into the mat.

Dirk’s anger flared seeing Lisa hit the ground. He saw the coming attack and scrambled for a way to avoid the blow, but he couldn’t find any options other than a direct counterattack.

The kids were all yelling to stop. When a few saw the blow coming, they exclaimed, “Look out, Doink!” Even the several dozen parents standing in the back understood something was wrong; they had started moving from the back of the yard to the ring.

With little time to spare, Dirk made the decision to end the fight before Mister Pain hurt him severely or injured Lisa. Plus, Williams might need aid. It was impossible to tell. When Mister Pain was at the top of his swing, both arms up over his head, transitioning momentum to bring them down, Dirk spun into a reverse roundhouse kick. This was a way to bring additional torque into the spin of the kick for extra impact. He hadn’t implemented a move like this for several years, and he felt his leg muscles protesting.

Everything next happened in extreme slow motion. Dirk spun and raised his leg to catch Mister Pain’s jaw. During the move, Dirk felt his hamstring stretch to its limits, maybe beyond; the extension was extreme given the size difference between Dirk and Mister Pain.

Mister Pain was in the middle of his powerful attack, holding nothing back. The kids in the crowd watched with their mouths hanging open; the parents slowly ran through the kids from the rear.

Dirk was fast; his roundhouse kick landed first. The heel of his foot caught Mister Pain’s jawline perfectly. The big red floppy shoe bent around after the impact and flew off Dirk’s foot, sailing high into the air.

Dirk landed back into a ready position, and just like everyone else, his eyes followed his red shoe as it flew over the crowd. His eyes got big as he realized the shoe was tumbling right for the giant birthday cake he had worked so hard to get to the party on time.

The parents slowed their run, now fully mixed into the crowd of kids standing at the front of the ring. Half the parents and kids watched the giant floppy red shoe, and the other half watched Mister Pain slowly falling to the mat. Everyone's mouths were open, and their eyes kept getting wider.

The shoe spun over and over, slowly arching like the opening shot of 2001 A Space Odyssey, clearly now going to land in the cake. It became perfectly silent, everyone in mid-gasp. Mister Pain hit the mat with an audible thud at the same moment the clown shoe landed perfectly on the top of the cake, sticking straight up, the toe of the shoe half buried in the white and pink frosting, the heel of the shoe up in the air like an up and down flag.

There was another brief silence, then time started again, and the kids exploded in applause and cheers. The timing could not have been better.

Dirk quickly ran over to Williams to check on him.

The children yelled Doink long into the night and told tales of the party for years to come.

Kimmy, the birthday girl, bald head and all, smiled for days at the memories.