© 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.

THRILLERS 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

Overkill (2025)

NOAH KAYNE (2 Stories)

Southern Style

Brotherhood of the Sun Dragon

Noah Kayne: The Whole Story (Combined 2 Books)

LIGHTHEARTED THRILLERS

Cutter (2025)

Check out David's band, Ancient Trance, @ frequency99.com, where you can stream albums for free!

“I've often been asked, 'Why did you join the Marines?' One time, I answered a civilian honestly: 'I wanted to find out if I could shoot someone when I didn't have to.' The response was along the lines of, 'You're crazy.' After that, I never told them the truth again. They won't understand if they haven't been there.”

Terry M. Sgt., U.S.M.C. 1967/71, Chu Lai R.S.V.N. 1968

Author’s Note

After taking a couple of years off from Dirk Lasher thrillers, finishing Savage reminded me how absorbing and rewarding writing these stories can be. Returning to the series was driven by two major reasons: I had specific action sequences that hadn't found a place in the original six books, and I wanted to delve deeper into the emotional layers underlying military and tactical action. With Vulnerable, I've aimed to explore both aspects more meaningfully.

The action scenes in this book are as exciting and intense as ever, but there's a progression—each scene feels tighter and sharper, reflecting my growth in streamlining action without losing impact. However, what truly sets Vulnerable apart is the emotional weight behind the action. In earlier books, I focused on fear, rage, and adrenaline during intense moments, but I knew there was more depth to tap into.

While Savage was a high-stakes, continuous action piece—a two-hour shot of tension building to a climactic confrontation—Vulnerable brings the emotional undercurrents to the forefront. I've woven the personal vulnerabilities of the characters into the very fabric of the story. This book is about stripping Dirk down to his core and exploring what happens when a man like him is pushed beyond his limits, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. The title says it all—it's about confronting what it means to be vulnerable.

Dirk's journey isn't just about his failures. He's a man who's always focused on tactics and brute force, with someone else handling strategy. Now, thrust into a role where he's expected to manage the bigger picture, he stumbles and fails. But failure isn't the end; it's necessary for Dirk to grow. This book represents a turning point—after being knocked down repeatedly and reaching a low point where even his moral compass is broken, he loses himself completely. Yet, it's in this breakdown that we see the seeds of his eventual rebuild. The story needed to reach this low, not just for drama, but because it's essential for Dirk's arc. There needs to be a shift, a moment when he begins to claw his way back, and that's what makes this book so significant in the series.

The arcs of other characters intertwine with Dirk's, especially Wade's. Their journeys mirror each other, both being stripped down emotionally. Wade's path may be subtle at first, but once you notice the connection, it illuminates Dirk's struggles in a new way. Wade's backstory ties into this story in ways that longtime readers of the Noah Kayne series will recognize. You'll find traces of Wade and Noah's past threaded throughout.

I've always wanted to explore parts of the world not often highlighted in military thrillers. Instead of the usual Middle Eastern or European settings, I've placed Dirk's adventures in Central and South America. These regions offer untapped stories rich with complexity and history—a place where chaos and confusion reign. In real-world military operations, you never truly know the bigger picture, and even when you think you have a handle on it, things can change in an instant. That's the frenetic energy I've aimed to capture, throwing the reader into the confusion along with the characters.

By the end of Vulnerable, Dirk has been stripped of everything—his resources, his allies, even his internal sense of direction. But this isn't a story about endless failure. It's about hitting rock bottom so that the only way left is up. This book marks the lowest point in Dirk's journey but also the moment where he begins to turn the corner, setting up the climactic final installment, Overkill, scheduled for release on July 4, 2025.

As I've grown as a writer, I've learned the importance of not rushing character arcs and letting emotions progress organically. In Vulnerable, the emotional journeys are woven into the narrative as much as the action scenes. Take the character Bonsai—Trudy Bonnington—as an example. Her arc has two sides: the actions she takes and how she feels about them. It's not until near the end of her journey that she realizes the consequences of her potential choices, leading to a grand, well-earned realization.

Achieving this depth required me to slow down and allow emotions to advance naturally. Characters must remain true to themselves. They can make surprising decisions, but at the moment they make them, the reader should understand how, based on what they know of the character, the decision seems rational—even if it doesn't seem rational to the reader. This was a challenging skill to master, and I believe it sets these books apart.

I strive to ensure I'm not just writing the same book over and over. Each one is distinct. Savage was brutal and action-packed; Vulnerable is an emotional tour de force. I have ambitious plans for the final book of this trilogy, Overkill. It's going to be the fastest-paced, most brutal, heart-wrenching, uplifting masterwork you've ever read. I'm taking a few weeks off before diving into it.

I hope you enjoy the journey as much as I enjoyed writing it. I've poured a lot into this book, not just in terms of action and excitement but in giving the characters the emotional depth they deserve. If you enjoyed Vulnerable, I'd love to hear from you. Reviews help others discover these books and keep the momentum going for the series. I'm also happy to answer questions on Goodreads if you have any. Thank you for being a part of Dirk's world, and I can't wait for you to see what comes next.

Oh, and this book ends with a cliffhanger. Sorry about that...

Chapter 1

Dirk let the engine rumble as he waited in line.

His black ’68 Charger made a deep, throaty growl each time he gently pressed the accelerator as the lead car pulled away with its passenger. Everything felt ironic to him now; he snickered to himself at the thought that random people might be getting into random cars.

“Come pick up your very own nut-job,” he muttered, imagining a twisted marketing slogan. “Get’em while they’re medicated!”

But it wasn’t funny. Dirk wasn’t in a joking mood. He instantly felt anger at himself for thinking badly of Wade when he spotted him waiting in his own line of people being released.

Wade Clay was a walking enigma, frustratingly odd. Even now, he was still wearing the helmet he’d grabbed and put on a month ago, right before the accident. Wade looked absurd standing there in an old man’s wife-beater undershirt, Hawaiian shorts, black knee-high socks with white sneakers, and a banged-up motorcycle helmet perched on his head, his well-muscled old man arms flexing with tension at the wait.

“At least he has the visor in the front,” Dirk muttered to himself.

The car in front of him loaded its passengers and sped off. Dirk pulled up, put the Charger in park, and waved to Wade through the passenger window. A nurse approached the driver's side as Wade opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.

“Please sign here, Mr. Lasher,” the nurse said, offering a clipboard with a stack of papers.

Dirk didn’t bother reading them; he signed where she indicated and handed the clipboard and pen back.

“He needs to come back for a checkup in three weeks, okay?” the nurse continued, reading from a form Dirk had just signed.

“We’ll be here,” Lasher nodded, giving the nurse a thumbs up. He waited for Wade to buckle up, then pulled away. As they exited, Dirk glanced in the rearview mirror, watching the same scenario play out repeatedly behind him.

“I think we’re safe, Wade. You don’t need the headgear.” He glanced over as Wade removed the helmet and stashed it in the small back seat.

“Can we go to the bar?” Wade asked. “I’m starving for some non-hospital food, and I’m guessing you haven’t bought groceries lately.”

It was true. Dirk hadn’t. He hadn’t really done much of anything over the past month. He’d gone to the VA a couple of times for his ribs, which were healing, or to visit Trudy, who was also healing, but mostly, he’d stayed in bed or stared blankly off his back deck. He’d resisted the lure of the bottle, recognizing it as a trap—perhaps the only clear-headed decision he’d made in weeks.

Lasher didn’t look healthy, either. He was pale from staying indoors, with an unkempt beard about an inch long, and his hair matted and tangled.

He didn’t want to go to the bar. He didn’t want to do anything.

“Let’s go back to the house, then you can take the car,” he said, focusing on the road as he merged onto I-95 South. Wade’s hospital was in Hollywood, about fifteen miles north of Dirk’s sprawling home.

Wade shook his head. “I’m under doctor's orders not to drive,” he looked at Dirk, then out the window. “Or operate heavy machinery,” he added, deadpan.

Dirk couldn’t tell if it was a joke or not. He had always struggled to read Wade, and the familiar frustration churned in his gut.

“Okay,” Dirk said, forcing down his irritation. “Henry’s the line cook today.” He changed lanes to take the exit for HWY 41 West, leading to the access road where his bar was located.

“He’s the best one,” Wade said, smiling.

Dirk managed to smile back. Henry was indeed the best cook they had, an older man from Honduras who had moved to Miami with his family twenty years ago.

“Where’s Trudy?” Wade asked as they exited the interstate.

“She’s still at the VA, probably for another two weeks.”

“Why so long?”

Dirk shook his head thoughtfully. “When she broke her arm, it messed up the shoulder work. They had to operate again to repair the cartilage. I don’t fully understand it, but the first time, they could use what was there; this time, they had to rebuild everything.”

“They can rebuild her. Better…faster…stronger,” Wade said, starting to hum the theme song from The Bionic Woman.

Dirk didn’t have the energy for more banter, so he went silent, and they drove the rest of the way without talking; Wade occasionally humming the Bionic Woman song.

They arrived at the Fox & Hound Pub around three in the afternoon. The place was just as it always was: a rundown biker bar that screamed trouble. Eight bikes were parked to the side of the white sand parking lot, with maybe five older model cars scattered around. Two guys were stationed out front on either side of the main doorway. Both were big, hairy, greasy, and covered in tattoos.

Dirk parked and got out. Both men nodded at him. This was part of an unspoken agreement the bar regulars and some locals had made with themselves. Dirk never asked for protection or help; they simply offered it out of loyalty, a loyalty Lasher didn’t fully understand.

But he appreciated it now more than ever.

Dirk nodded back as he walked past them.

Wade stopped to chat with the men; Dirk didn’t wait around to listen. He knew Wade well enough to guess what he was doing—building rapport, offering to buy them a beer or a burger. These were the little things Dirk would never do, but they made all the difference.

Dirk headed straight into the dimly lit interior. He nodded at a few familiar faces as he made his way to the back, where he poked his head into the kitchen. Henry was there with another line cook.

“Henry, could you whip up a burger for Wade and me?” Lasher asked.

Henry looked up and nodded as though he had been expecting Dirk and his request.

Dirk waved his thanks and turned to sit in his usual booth near the kitchen door, all the way at the back of the drab flat-roof structure. A few moments later, a burly man came around from behind the bar and placed a warm, unopened can of store-brand orange soda on the table in front of Dirk.

“The beer’s cold,” the man said, “but this ain’t.” He turned and headed back to the bar.

“Larry,” Dirk said, popping the tab on the can, “it’s your thoughtful hospitality that keeps the patrons coming back.” He raised the soda in a salute and took a big swallow.

Larry grinned. He liked Dirk, everyone did. “Sure, that must be it, not the twenty-five cent drafts or anything.”

Wade appeared from the front before Dirk had to come up with a reply. Larry immediately grabbed a cold glass from the small freezer behind the bar, filled it with an unlabeled craft beer, and brought it over to Wade, who slid into the booth opposite Dirk.

Dirk watched; his face skeptical. “Did they specifically say alcohol was okay?”

Wade didn’t hesitate, taking a long pull from the glass. “You got me; you signed all the paperwork with the instructions.” He smiled, raising the glass slightly in Dirk’s direction in a mock toast before taking another long drink.

Dirk rolled his eyes and glanced around the bar.

Henry arrived with two plates, each bearing a hamburger and fries. He set one in front of Dirk and the other in front of Wade. Wade ate quickly, clearly hungry. The artisan buns, fresh from a bakery Henry had a connection with, made the burgers something special. Dirk took a couple of bites—it was as good as always—but he wasn’t in the mood for food. Wade noticed and, after a polite pause, ended up finishing Dirk’s meal as well.

Larry returned to clear the table, and Dirk and Wade sat in comfortable silence for a good while.

Finally, Wade spoke. “I’d like to visit Trudy in the hospital.” He took a long drink, watching Dirk closely.

“Sure,” Lasher agreed.

“Let’s go now. I miss her,” Wade said.

Dirk nodded. He missed her too.

They got up and walked out, both acknowledging a few people on their way to the car. Wade paused before getting in, looking over the roof of the Charger at Lasher. “Do you think she’ll remember me?” he asked.

It was an odd and almost ridiculous question, but Wade seemed genuinely concerned. Dirk forced himself not to make a snide remark. “I’d say the chances are pretty good,” he replied with a thin smile before getting into the car.

Chapter 2

“I’ll never remember who all these clowns are,” Kimberly Sharp muttered.

She was dressed in her signature red power dress, a silk satin creation that hugged her curves like a second skin. The dress was tailored to perfection, accentuating her broad shoulders and athletic arms while artfully concealing the scars and healed wounds marring her torso.

It left absolutely nothing to the imagination, a deliberate choice.

K'Bari stood silently behind her in the grand reception hall. His towering frame, reminiscent of a pro basketball player, was a study in strength, with massive, rounded shoulders and long, powerful arms. His bleached blond curls contrasted sharply with his otherwise dark features. Like Sharp, he was impeccably dressed, his tuxedo fitting as if it had been crafted just for him.

“That one there? That’s Desmond Hoyte, head of the People’s National Congress. He was president before Janet Jagan took over,” K'Bari said in his deep, edgy voice. The rhythm of his Creole-tinged English blended smoothly with an Americanized tone, adding an exotic touch to his words.

Sharp eyed Hoyte, her expression turning to one of mild disdain. “Why would I waste time with the loser of the last election?”

K'Bari’s gaze remained steady. “’Cause he’s still with us, while Jagan? She not.”

Sharp looked unconvinced.

“Outside Georgetown, it’s a different story,” K’Bari continued, his tone unwavering. “Hoyte’s still got pull. The government here? It’s more of a local suggestion. Guyana’s almost two countries now. Hoyte’s got his own base in New Amsterdam, south of the Berbice River.”

Sharp nodded, absorbing the information. “That’s where we think the oil is. Does he know?”

K’Bari’s smile was slow and deliberate, devoid of warmth. “Ain’t nobody livin’ knows.” His words carried a chilling undertone.

The thought sent a thrill up Kimberly Sharp’s spine, a reaction only someone as twisted as she could feel. K’Bari allowed his gaze to drop from her face, his smile widening ever so slightly. “Not too cold in here, is it?” he asked, his eyes unapologetically roving.

Sharp subtly shifted her shoulders back and forth, a movement that caused the focus of K’Bari’s stare to dance under the dress in an alluring way. His expression remained impassive, but the smile lingered.

“Damnit, K’Bari,” Sharp said with a low growl. “Now I’m in the mood. Introduce me to Hoyte, then go find me a candidate for tonight. Someone with some fight in them.”

Chapter 3

Afternoon thunderstorms were in full swing as Dirk Lasher drove Wade Clay to the VA hospital where Trudy Bonnington was being treated. The rain slowed everything down, hammering on the car roof and drenching the windshield to the point where the wipers, even on their highest setting, did little to improve visibility.

A couple of accidents on the road turned what was usually a quick twenty-minute trip from the bar into a prolonged ordeal. They finally arrived at the hospital lobby just after 7:30 p.m., thirty minutes after visiting hours had ended.

Dirk tried to negotiate with the evening shift nurse, but rules were rules, she said. She was older and seemed somewhat checked out. During the discussion, Dirk noticed that Wade had disappeared. He was getting nowhere with the nurse when the desk phone rang. She picked it up, nodded a few times, and then hung up.

“Well, that’s some luck right there,” she said to Dirk, looking skeptical. “Miss Bonnington’s primary care physician just called to tell me that he’s approved after-hours visitors for her and gave me your name and Wade Clay’s.”

Dirk had his suspicions but didn’t care.

“Where did your friend go?” the nurse asked when she realized she needed two badges, but only one person was standing in front of her.

Just then, Wade emerged from the bathroom on the other side of the small lobby and hurried over. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “Seventy-five-year-old kidneys have their own agenda,” he added, speaking to Dirk but in a way that included the nurse. Then Wade turned to the nurse with a laugh. She responded with a smile, and he even reached over to touch her arm.

He stood waiting as the nurse opened a drawer and pulled out two visitor badges. Dirk noticed they were dark blue, rather than the usual yellow.

Dirk felt a pang of irritation, thinking Wade was going to blow it. Then Wade said something else about being 75 years old, which made the nurse smile again. Apparently, Wade was a charmer on the senior circuit. After more small talk, the strangeness of the doctor’s phone call was completely forgotten.

They took the elevator to the fourth floor, checked in at the nurse’s station, and were led to room 434. The nurse knocked, announced them, then nodded and walked back to her station.

Dirk peeked his head in first. He was familiar with the room; he stopped by every couple of days.

“I have a visitor,” he said when he saw Bonsai looking back at him. She smiled at seeing him, then her eyes widened at the mention of a visitor. There was really only one person it could be.

Wade stepped around Dirk with a big smile on his face, and Bonsai’s face lit up.

“Trudy!” Wade said as he walked over.

She was sitting up in a hospital bed in a small private room. She had on a white tank top similar to Wade’s, only hers was clean. Her right shoulder showed signs of massive trauma, with a new scar running from the top of her shoulder to her bicep, then horizontally around her arm to her tricep. The scar was fresh and pink, with small marks still visible where staples had recently been removed. Her right forearm looked pale, like it had recently been removed from a cast.

“Wade!” she exclaimed, holding out her arms for an embrace, the right arm not held as high as the left.

They both smiled broadly. Wade stepped over, careful not to disturb her shoulder as he embraced her.

“I’m glad you remember me. Dietrich tells me they installed bionics, like on TV,” Wade said very seriously. Dirk’s proper first name was either Dietrich or Detrick; Wade waffled between the two pronunciations, and he was likely the only one who actually which one was correct.

Bonsai made a face. “What TV?”

“You know, The Bionic Woman! She fought Bigfoot, if you didn’t know,” Wade said, deadpan, almost with a hint of reverence.

Bonsai had no idea what he was talking about. She was too young to have watched the TV shows from the 1970s.

She kept her smile. “Whatever, you weirdo,” she said, still smiling as she reached out for a second hug. “I’m just glad you’re okay. We didn’t know...” she trailed off. After the situation resolved itself a month ago on Wade’s property, she and Wade were taken to different hospitals.

Wade’s face changed. “I had forgotten that. They blew up all my stuff, didn’t they?” He turned to Dirk, looking a little bewildered.

“Everyone can stay with me,” Dirk interjected. “But there are some things we need to talk about. Once you get released, it might be best if we take the boat out for a while to get away from everything.”

Bonsai picked up on some nuances that Wade missed.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

Dirk stepped over to the other side of the bed and sat down in the visitor’s chair by the window. He pointed to a similar chair for Wade to sit in on the other side of the bed by the door.

“Nothing dangerous, not yet anyway, but it seems the idiots in the organization can’t leave me alone,” Dirk said after Wade got settled. “They’ve been working behind the scenes with some of the banks I use. A lot of the accounts are being closed, which is fine, I can just transfer the funds somewhere else.  The accounts that are being confiscated are troublesome because I lose all access to the money and may never get it back.”

Wade nodded as though he understood. Dirk knew he might or might not; it would depend on Wade’s mood.

Bonsai looked confused. She didn’t know any of the history.

“I remember that Jim Cruz guy,” Bonsai said, looking at Dirk. “He said you owed the organization money. Are they trying to collect?”

Dirk frowned. He looked worn out and disheveled, but there was still fire behind his eyes on the subject. “It’s all just a nuisance. Lisa did some computer work for them in Panama, and we ended up getting a percentage of the organization’s Panama income for maybe two years. It was an enormous sum of money.”

“And they want it back?” Bonsai asked.

“I don’t care what they want,” Dirk bristled slightly. Bonsai always had so many questions on this topic, and he was never in the mood to answer. “It was all done under contract and completely legal. But it’s all moot. They can chase me around for crumbs, but what I’ve learned is that once you have these types of resources, other avenues open to you. I have investments and holdings all over the world. I’m very diversified. The truth is—and I think this is why they’re fixated on me—the truth is that I probably have more resources and more pull, should I use those resources, than they do, at least in any particular geography.”

“Then why mess with you? Why not let sleeping dogs lie?”

Dirk nodded. He looked at Wade, who was also listening intently, then back to Bonsai.

“They did for a while,” Dirk answered. “Either they didn’t know the extent of my holdings until recently, or they weren’t working on anything I could interfere with. Whatever it is, something changed. A third possibility is they have their own problems and now need the money where before they didn’t. That could be it, with the Colombian drug trade starting to dry up. That was their primary funding source back in the ’80s.”

Bonsai’s smile faded to confusion. “I don’t understand. Are you saying you’re rich?”

Wade laughed.

“What?” Bonsai turned to him.

“You’ve seen his house,” Wade said. “Only a rich guy would live in a place like that.”

Bonsai looked even more confused. “I’ve never seen the house. The only house I’ve seen, Wade, was yours.”

“You’re kidding?” Wade said. “He’s got the biggest house on Biscayne Bay!”

Dirk started to look annoyed. “Wade, cut it out. Don’t start.”

Dirk cut Wade off just in time; he had been in the process of raising his arms for a big speech.

“What?” Bonsai was desperately curious. “What house? A mansion?”

Dirk’s mood darkened. “It was Lisa’s house more than mine. She enjoyed all that stuff.”

“What stuff?” Bonsai was becoming exasperated. “Can either of you give me a straight answer or what?” Her tone was still friendly, but there was a small edge to it.

“When you get out of here, I’ll take you there so you can see it yourself, okay?” Lasher said. There was just enough friendly forcefulness in his tone to end the topic.

“Awesome,” Bonsai said, calming, the feeling similar to having won an argument even though she wasn't actually arguing with anyone. Well, maybe herself.

“I want to talk about something else, though, Trudy. Something serious about your future,” Dirk said, changing the subject.

Lasher had met Specialist Bonnington, aka Trudy, aka Bonsai, as part of a mission into the Darién Gap. She had been the Delta Force team RTO, Radio Telephone Operator. The Delta team had been lost in a plane crash, and only she and Lasher survived. They bonded quickly in that environment, and, at least from Dirk’s standpoint, he was still trying to figure out what their relationship actually was.

“Okay,” she said, sitting up a bit and matching Dirk's solemn tone.

“I know they’ve offered you a medical discharge,” Dirk started.

Now Bonsai looked uncomfortable.

“So?” she said. “It’s not mandatory.”

Dirk nodded. He had spoken to General Hampton, so he knew that Bonsai’s injuries would prevent her from returning to Delta Force. Her options were to select a new support related MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) or take the medical discharge, which was honorable. If she chose to change specializations, she would have to go through AIT (Advanced Individual Training) for that MOS and then be assigned to a new unit.

It was the military equivalent of starting all over again. It also meant she would miss the Warrant Officer window, which Dirk had encouraged her to take. There were strict time-in-MOS requirements, as the entire point of getting a Warrant was because you were being acknowledged as an operational expert in that field, and you needed time in the field to become that expert.

Dirk spoke kindly. “I know you have two choices: take the honorable discharge or start over in a support-related MOS. No more forward deployments. And no more Delta Force.”

She was visibly upset, turning her head.

“It’s all I ever wanted, and I failed my first assignment.”

Dirk shook his head. “Hold on there, soldier. You succeeded at your first assignment.  In a nearly impossible situation you saved over 300 solders.”

“And this is the thanks I get?” She was indignant, not mad at Dirk or Wade but having nowhere else to funnel her disappointment.

Dirk understood her frustration deeply. It was the same realization he had come to long ago and the same feeling of being abandoned. The U.S. military was a machine. It could provide great benefits and opportunities if it turned one way and randomly take them away if it turned the other.

Chapter 4

Sharp stood talking to Desmond Hoyte in the reception hall, the room’s grand chandeliers casting a soft glow on their conversation. She was a master manipulator, and after their introductions, she had strategically “dropped” a napkin, allowing Hoyte a lingering view down her dress as she bent over. It was a move executed with precision, the kind of tactic that had always served her well in negotiations. And, knowing exactly what she was doing, the view was unencumbered by undergarments, adding an extra layer (or removing it?) from her calculated ploy.

The effect was immediate—she had Desmond Hoyte’s full and undivided attention.

“Mr. President,” she began with a voice as smooth as silk. Kimberly Sharp knew how to start a conversation and how to draw someone in with a mix of allure and intellect. She was an expert in playing to ego, keeping promises without actually making them. Lightly, she touched his arm at the bicep, her fingers brushing against the fabric of his expensive suit. “Oh, you are a strong one, aren’t you?” she added with a coy blush.

Every movement and every word was meticulously planned and flawlessly executed.

Hoyte smiled, his experience evident in his measured response. “K’Bari tell me you an’ I, we might have similar interests.” he said, his polished Guyanese accent lending a musical quality to his words. He appreciated the brief contact but did not reciprocate the warmth, recognizing the manipulation beneath her charm.

Kimberly could read Hoyte as easily as a well-worn book. He wasn’t going to be swayed by her charms alone, so she shifted tactics, adopting a more businesslike tone. “I believe we do, yes. What I find particularly interesting is that you lost your last election,” she remarked, her pouty face a delicate mask of false sympathy. But she performed it in such a way that it was clear this was an act reserved for someone of Desmond Hoyte’s stature—former president of Guyana, South America. It was a clever blend of manipulation and open camaraderie, designed to put him at ease while still asserting her control over the conversation.

Hoyte’s smile dimmed at the mention of the election, a brief flicker of irritation crossing his face.

Sharp continued without missing a beat, integrating his reaction seamlessly into her narrative. “But by losing, you’ve gained other resources that actually make you more influential now—now that you are, how should I say, untethered from the watchful eyes of the public?” Her voice carried a note of intrigue as if she were sharing a secret with him, drawing him further into her web.

Hoyte was a man of power, fully aware of the implications behind Sharp’s words. He also knew that in situations like this, when someone like Kimberly Sharp reached out with a proposition, there were often additional, more personal, benefits to be had.

He allowed a smile to return, this time tinged with something darker. “It does take plenty energy, yes? To work behind de scenes, outta de public eye, as you say,” he replied, his eyes drifting over her form, his interest unmistakable.

Sharp noticed and understood the silent agreement forming between them. She knew what he wanted, and she was more than prepared to deliver.

Sharp switched to her upbeat, almost girlish persona, the transition seamless. “Let’s get to know each other better. I have these pesky 10,000 FARC soldiers—the ones trained and led by US Special Forces and General Cruz. Maybe if we clear the air, some magical idea will fall into our laps about how we can work together! You know, maybe make New Amsterdam a real proper capital?”

Hoyte chuckled, appreciating her directness and the potential benefits of their alliance, as he began to escort her toward his private quarters. The room seemed to quiet as they passed, the buzz of the reception fading into the background. As they neared the door, Hoyte’s arm slipped around her waist, his hand drifting lower, testing the boundaries. As they disappeared from sight, just before they were gone, Kimberly Sharp reached behind and took Hoyte’s curious hand in a warm embrace. She pushed it lower onto her rear, which swayed this way and that as they walked away.

Chapter 5

The next two weeks passed with little of note. Wade moved into Dirk’s guest house by the large Mediterranean-style pool at the back of the property. There were four such bungalows, each the equivalent of an upscale one-bedroom apartment. Wade visited Dirk and Lisa’s house many times, but he never stayed over.

A large dumpster sat outside the front of the property, its presence suggesting some sort of upheaval, though only a few items were tossed inside. The main house itself was a testament to the interpretation of modern Miami art deco architecture—two stories of sleek glass and sharp right angles, reflecting the opulence of its surroundings.

Behind the house, on the other side of the pool area, lay Biscayne Bay. In 1998, Biscayne Bay was a picturesque lagoon located on the southeastern coast of Florida, bordered by the vibrant city of Miami to the west and the barrier islands, including Miami Beach, to the east. The bay was known for its crystal-clear waters, abundant marine life, and stunning views of the Miami skyline. It was an exclusive enclave where the wealthy and powerful made their homes, with opulent mansions lining the shore, each one a fortress of luxury and seclusion, far removed from the chaos of the city.

Dirk’s property featured a newly built concrete dock that extended from the pool area far out into the bay. Several boats were moored along the dock, ranging from small sports boats to a large, high-tech-looking white sixty-foot yacht.

Dirk pulled up to the gate in his Charger, the car’s engine a low, powerful growl. He rolled down the window and entered a seven-digit code into the keypad. After a moment, the large, ornate gate swung open, allowing him to drive through. The gate closed behind with a soft, metallic click.

Bonsai watched all this from the passenger seat, her expression a mix of amazement and suspicion as if she were on guard against some kind of unfunny joke she didn’t understand.

“You live here?” she asked as they rolled up the driveway, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Instead of answering, Dirk tapped the dashboard of the Charger. A panel glided open, and he pressed a button beneath it. One of the five garage doors rumbled, confirming what she had just asked—yes, he did live here.

As the garage door rose, Bonsai watched Lasher guide the ’68 Charger into its spot, the engine’s purr resonating through the interior space. The Dodge Charger was an iconic American muscle car known for its powerful engine, aggressive design, and raw performance on the road. It embodied the spirit of the 1960s and ’70s, a time when speed and strength were paramount in automotive engineering. Dirk seemed to be a collector of them. As Bonsai took in the sight of the cars lined up along the wall, she realized that each one was more than just metal and paint—they were reflections of the man beside her, the man who had saved her life.

The ’66 Charger was raw and powerful, much like Dirk when he had taken down her Delta Force Master Sergeant—no hesitation, just unchecked force and rage. It was the same unyielding strength she had seen whenever he asserted his dominance, leaving no doubt about who was in control.

Next was the ’67, polished and precise, a reminder of Dirk during the briefing before they headed into the AO. He had been calm and collected, every word measured, just like the way he’d navigated them through the chaos, knowing the jungle could swallow them whole if they slipped.

The ’69 Charger was different—aggressive and almost primal, just like Dirk had been when he took out the FARC special forces with nothing but a hunting knife. It had been gruesome and brutal, but he had done it to save her. The memory of his blood-soaked hands lingered, not as something to fear but as a testament to his willingness to do whatever it took to protect her.

Finally, the ’70 Charger, the last of its kind, broad and imposing, was like Dirk after Cruz told him what they had done to Lisa. It might be the Dirk she was dealing with now, the powerful monster he had been forced to become, a man pushed to his limits and beyond. She remembered the night he had reached out, his hands still bloody from a fresh kill, and pressed his finger to her lips to silence her. The memory sent a chill into her stomach, like a jolt of electricity that lingered from that dark night—a night that felt like a lifetime ago, though it had only been a little more than a few months.

As the garage door clicked shut, Bonsai found herself staring at the line of Chargers. She saw the raw strength, the precise strategist, the ruthless protector, and the powerful monster.

But which one was the real Dirk?

The question gnawed at her. Should she follow him, drawn in by the excitement and mystery that surrounded him, or should she be wary of the darkness that seemed to lurk beneath the surface? He was a man who had saved her life, but could he also lead her down a path that was too dangerous, too consuming? The uncertainty thrilled her, but it also left her with a lingering doubt, one she couldn’t easily shake.

Dirk turned off the engine and got out, unaware of the storm of thoughts swirling in Bonsai’s mind.

He led the way through the interior garage door, down a long hallway lined with glass walls that allowed the lush surroundings to spill into view from every angle. The hallway opened into the main house, where they entered through the kitchen, a space as impressive as the rest of the property—large stainless steel appliances gleamed under the recessed lighting, a giant six-burner gas stove commanded attention, and granite countertops stretched out expansively.

The entire back wall of the home was a seamless panel of floor-to-ceiling glass, standing ten feet tall and stretching possibly fifty feet long, just off the main room. The view outside had been meticulously crafted, offering an unobstructed line of sight to the bay over the long, sparkling pool, with the one-story cabana buildings flanking the area, surrounded by lush ground plants and decorative gardens that added a touch of tranquility to the luxurious setting.

Dirk casually tossed the car keys on the kitchen countertop, the clink of metal against stone echoing softly in the spacious room.

“Make yourself at home,” he said to Bonsai, his voice relaxed. “Feel free to eat or drink anything you find. Wade’s been doing some grocery shopping, so I think we’re well stocked.” He motioned to the huge double-wide sub-zero refrigerator and huge walk-in pantry as they passed by. Dirk didn’t slow down, heading straight for the sliding back door that led out onto the massive pool deck. “Your bungalow is back here across from Wade’s,” he added, holding the door open for her and then sliding it closed behind them to keep the cool air inside.

Bonsai followed; her eyes wide as she took in the surroundings. The place was beyond nice—it was a level of luxury that suggested Dirk had resources far beyond anything she had ever imagined.

Outside on the pool deck, the air was thick with the scent of the ocean, a salty freshness carried on the breeze. The gentle sound of small waves lapping against the shoreline created a peaceful backdrop to the opulent setting.

“The back of the house faces almost perfectly due East,” Dirk told her as he led the way across the deck. “It means we get the most amazing sunrises. Lisa and I used to come out here most mornings to watch.” He turned slightly, offering her a thin, humorless smile as he spoke, the memory clearly bittersweet.

Bonsai had dozens of thoughts racing through her mind, but mostly, she was awestruck and at a loss for words. She simply followed along, absorbing the details of the place that was now her temporary home. She found herself in a trailing position behind Dirk, a mental flashback taking her to the last time she had followed him—through the jungle, when everything had seemed lost and hopeless.

Suddenly, Dirk stopped abruptly, taking a half step back to position himself in front of her, blocking her view of something ahead. Instinctively, she placed a hand on his back to steady herself, just like that night, her heart quickening at the familiarity of the situation.

“What?” she asked, the question escaping before she had time to think, the tension in the air feeling eerily familiar.

One of the bungalows stood in front of them, about thirty feet away. Dirk was staring intently at it, his body tensing as if preparing for something. Then she saw it—a man walked in front of the open window. It wasn’t Wade. This man was a hulking figure, tall and broad-shouldered, with muscles that seemed to strain against the fabric of his shirt, his presence radiating an unsettling intensity.

He walked back the other way, giving her a better look at him. He was big and intimidating, his presence filling the frame of the window. Though he was dressed nicely now, the bloodstains and bruises hinted at a recent ordeal or altercation.

The man in the window turned and saw them. He waved, acknowledging their presence. A moment later, Wade crossed the open window and emerged from the front bungalow door, looking perfectly fine. He wore a t-shirt that said My Other Shirt Has Sleeves—and sure enough, he had cut the sleeves off this one. His strong, well-muscled old-man arms were visible, showing the definition of someone who still took care of himself. Wade waved to her, then gestured for the man inside to come out.

The other man stepped through the door, towering at maybe six and a half feet tall. He had a square jaw and short, salt-and-pepper hair cropped in a military style. Despite his appearance, he didn’t quite look like military—older, perhaps in his late forties—even older than Dirk, if that were possible. The most striking thing about him was the sheer mass of muscle; he looked both intimidating and exceptionally efficient.

Bonsai felt Lasher tense up even more at the sight of the man. Her hand still rested on his back, and she felt the tension drain away as Dirk seemed to recognize the individual.

“Kirpich?” Dirk said after a few moments, his voice edged with surprise.

Wade waved again. “Hi, Dirk. He says he works for you?”

Lasher felt a wave of frustration at Wade's willingness to accept a stranger’s word about having a connection with him, especially given all the uncertainties and challenges they were facing. But he let it pass—a skill Wade had unwittingly forced him to master over the years.

“Dirk,” the man replied, his voice carrying a thick Russian accent that hinted at his Soviet special forces background. The man’s Russian name, Kirpich, translated to Brick in English. His last name was Mason, a name that always made people wonder if it was real or just an alias—Brick Mason was a heck of a coincidence otherwise. “Kimberly... she just bought Guyana.”

Guyana was a small nation on the northeastern coast of South America, uniquely blending African, Indian, and indigenous cultures rooted in its colonial past under Dutch and British rule. It was the only country in South America whose national language was English. Despite gaining independence in 1966, the country grappled with ongoing territorial tensions with neighboring Venezuela, which claimed a large portion of Guyana's western region. This geopolitical strain, coupled with the nation’s strategic location and underdeveloped economy, made Guyana a diamond in the rough for someone like Kimberly Sharp.

Or, as it turned out, someone like Dirk Lasher.

“What are you talking about?” Lasher demanded, slipping effortlessly into boss mode.

It surprised Bonsai, who had never seen this side of him.

He continued, “We have a deal with Jagan. There’s no way she’d betray us. Not after what we did for her mother last year,” his tone firm.

Brick nodded, stepping closer until all four—Wade, Bonsai, Brick, and Lasher—were standing together on the sprawling pool deck. The sun was shining, and a gentle breeze stirred the air. It was a deceptively peaceful day.

“Jagan is still solid,” Brick said, his accent thick and deliberate. “Problem is, Sharp... she now funds Hoyte. And supplies him. She moved soldiers out of Colombia, and they... how you say... split Guyana in two, using Berbice River as demarcation zone.”

They would be the soldiers Lasher faced in the Darien Gap. FARC, which stood for the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia; was a communist fighting force that had gone rogue a little over three months ago, along with several US Special Forces assets that split off, apparently loyal to Kimberly Sharp. The outline of the plan they learned during their initial engagement seemed to indicate a Communist effort to solidify alliances, including FARC and Cuban forces. If Sharp was moving them out of Colombia and into southern Guyana, it meant some powerful players behind the scenes were pushing events in the wrong direction.

“Which puts the Canje on the southern side,” Dirk finished for him. The Canje River was the route to some of Dirk’s interests in Guyana.

“We hold as long as we could,” Brick said, his voice rough and edged with frustration. “But is my fault, Dirk. I wasn’t ready for a hundred FARC soldiers to hit us like that in Guyana. They didn’t talk—they just come in, guns blazing, no warning.”

Dirk was energized for the first time in a month. Bonsai was trying to follow but couldn’t.

“I don’t completely understand what’s going on,” she admitted, trusting Dirk and feeling comfortable enough to ask questions.

Lasher turned to her, his expression shifting as he registered the collision of different parts of his world. He glanced over to Brick, then Wade, and finally back to Trudy Bonnington. He realized that since he was going to ask her to take her military discharge, it was only fair to bring her up to speed on why working with him might be a more stable career path.

“I’ll explain, Trudy,” Lasher said, clearly working something out in his head. “Brick, were you followed?”

Brick quickly shook his head no. Dirk took it at face value.

“Okay,” he said. “Guyana is important to keep, so we’re going to have to deal with this.” He glanced at his yacht in the distance by the dock, then back at his house, and finally at Wade. “The yacht is fueled and ready to go. Let’s not risk anything. Let's just get on it and head out into the Caribbean. We can finish our conversation and put a plan in place. Trudy,” Dirk paused, then added, “and you too, Wade. I’ll bring you up to speed once we're out of here. I get the feeling it's not safe, and I don’t want to have to play defense anymore by staying here.”

Wade nodded. “I understand, Detrich. I’ll start cleaning out the house while you’re off on your adventure.”

Dirk pushed away his usual sense of frustration with Wade. “Wade,” he said seriously, making direct eye contact. “I’m asking you to come with us.”

Wade’s face broke into a sincere smile. “I’m going to need a hat if we’re doing this.”

Dirk had no clue what that meant, and he didn’t have the energy to worry about it, so he just said, “Of course Wade, you can take one of mine.”

Chapter 6

It was midday; the yacht was heading south by southeast at fifteen knots. Dirk knew this route well and was aware they would need to take on fuel near Jamaica. He also understood the risks of entering a mainstream port. Kingston and Montego Bay were out—too many eyes, too many chances for the wrong people to notice his movements, or worse, for the organization to have placed a lookout there. Ocho Rios and Falmouth weren’t much better, both crawling with tourists and security that would make a quiet refueling impossible.

Port Antonio, however, offered something different. It was off the beaten path, a smaller, less commercialized port where a man could slip in and out without much notice. But it wasn’t without its dangers. The organization would have a man there, but he would be easy to spot - the area also had a reputation—whispers of smuggling operations, international kidnapping schemes, and local gangs who controlled the docks after dark. It wasn’t the kind of place where you could count on the authorities for help; in fact, they were likely in on it.

That suited Dirk just fine. The danger meant fewer questions, fewer prying eyes, and more options to deal with them. He could handle the local toughs if it came to that, and the risk was worth it for the anonymity the port offered. Port Antonio was the kind of place where you could disappear if you needed to, and right now, disappearing was exactly what Dirk wanted.

The trip from Miami to Jamaica would take about a day and a half, which gave them time to plan and make some decisions.

Dirk could run the yacht without a crew, which was a huge factor in his decision to buy it. If the boat were any bigger, he wouldn’t be able to. Wade was handy with the engine and mechanics, so between them, they had everything under control. It took a couple of hours to navigate out of the Miami sea lanes and clear most of the other maritime traffic. Once that was done, Dirk set the course and speed, engaged the autopilot, and stepped into the small meeting room just off the pilothouse. It wasn’t a large bridge like in the movies, but it was big enough for a couple of people.

“We’ve got about a day and a half; then we’ll refuel at Port Antonio on the north side of the Jamaican island. It’s off the beaten path, which is what we need,” Dirk said, laying out the plan.

“They will have a spotter at each port if they realize what you are doing and where you are going,” Brick added in surprisingly good English, which seemed to change with the situation.

“It’s going to work out fine,” Dirk replied after thinking for a few moments. “We’ll get there just after midnight. Brick, you and I can take the tender in. We’ll land on the beach, maybe a quarter mile from all the lights and whatnot. Then we’ll have four or five hours to find them before the boat is visible in the morning light.”

Brick nodded in agreement.

Wade nodded as well, wearing a white fishing hat like Gillian from Gillian’s Island.

Bonsai looked confused. “Find them and do what?” she asked, not following the plan.

Lasher looked at her hard. “This is the hand we’ve been dealt.”

“But we’re not sanctioned,” she countered. "Listen, I know what we're up against, but I have to remind everyone that I'm still under the UCMJ,” – Uniformed Code of Military Justice – “even if we’re operating off the books. If this goes sideways, I’m the one who could face a court-martial for unauthorized engagement, which carries substantial prison time. We need to think this through—if we can’t get covert approval or at least make sure we’re not violating ROEs,” – Rules of Engagement – “I could be looking at serious consequences when this is all over. I’m with you, but we need to find a way to do this that doesn’t put me in a legal nightmare."

It was a completely valid point.

Dirk nodded that he understood, then started thinking. “You're right, Trudy. We should let General Hampton know. Heck, we should coordinate with him and SOUTHCOM and go in under the SAVAGE program he is putting together. But to be honest, after what happened out at Wade's place, I don’t even trust Hampton. The leak, at least one of them, is somewhere in his chain of command.”

“Be that as it may,” she started, but Dirk stopped her by raising his hand.

“We’re not going to put you in that kind of trouble,” he said calmly, not his usual angry self. “Wade and Brick, there are some things Trudy and I need to discuss. I’d prefer to talk to her alone. Maybe you could give us a half hour or so?”

They both nodded and exited the small briefing room.

The room was maybe eight feet long and fifteen feet wide. Brick had to exit first, then Wade; they were both too big to walk side by side in the narrow space. Wade was the last one out, and he closed the door to give them privacy.

Dirk waited, then spoke. “I think you should take the honorable discharge,” he said, his voice flat.

She shook her head quickly. “There’s an appeals process. I can explain what happened and how I just need more time…” she trailed off, knowing it wasn't realistic.

Dirk let her talk until she ran out of words. “I want you to work for me,” he said, his voice emotionless and flat, just like before. He was careful not to let any emotions slip in so she did not feel pressured in that regard.

Her eyes teared up just a little bit. “How would that change anything? The SAVAGE program is still under Hampton. Still military. Same problem.”

“I told Hampton I quit three weeks ago,” he watched her closely.

“Quit what?”

“All of it,” he stated, neutral and firm. “I’m done working for someone else.”

“I’m going to need you to explain some stuff to me,” she said. “After seeing the house and this yacht, I can see you have a lot of money, but…”

He reached over, grabbed a notepad and pen, and started writing. She stopped talking and watched. He opened the notepad and wrote something on the paper. Then he stared at whatever he had written, putting the end of the pen in his mouth as he thought. He wrote something else down on the paper, then slid it across the table so she could read it.

“The top number is my approximate net worth. It’s just a number; maybe sixty percent of it is in what they call fixed assets. Property, boats” – he indicated the boat with his hands – “that kind of stuff.”

Bonsai read the paper. Her eyes squinted, and she furrowed her brow, gently shaking her head.

Dirk continued, “The second number is what I’ll pay you a year. It’s the same line of work, only we don’t have a UCMJ or ROEs.” He smiled like a predator at her.

Her eyes drifted from the top number to the bottom number on the page.

“Is that a comma or a decimal place?” she asked, looking up at him. Her eyes were searching for something.

“Comma,” he smiled, this time more warmly.

“No joke?”

“No joke.”

Then, some negative thoughts hit her. “Wait, wait, wait,” she pushed back from the table, waving her hands in front of her. “You seem like a decent guy. What, exactly, would I have to do to earn this? I’m not signing up for anything kinky or weird. You’ve got the wrong girl for that, let me tell you.”

His smile turned sincere. “Nothing weird,” he assured her. “Well, nothing kinky. It sometimes gets weird out here. But in all seriousness, what I said a month ago in the Gap is true. I am going to end this organization. I can’t do it from within someone else's system. I can’t have oversight, and I can’t work where I don’t control the flow of information. What I’m asking you for is your Delta Force training and sensibilities. The work isn’t kinky, but it can be brutal, as you know. And we run the risk of imprisonment anywhere we go. Imprisonment, or worse, we’re basically a roving band of murderers in the eyes of civilization. If you come with me, you’ll be covered in darkness, just like me, even when you’re standing in broad daylight.”

She went through her own thought process. He watched her land on an answer.

“I want the money upfront before I quit the military,” she said, reaching a conclusion, being the strong individual she was.

Dirk felt proud of her. Good for her, ran through his thoughts. “Absolutely,” he said, allowing his face to show his approval. “It’s a lot of money. Tell you what, once we make sure Port Antonio is safe and we get the fueling started, you and I can go to a bank there and open an account for you, just in your name. I’ll move the money at the same time. There’s a branch of the National Commercial Bank there I’ve used before.”

She sat there thinking. “That’s a lot of money,” she finally said.

“You’re worth it,” Dirk said right before Wade and Brick burst into the room.

“Pirates!” Wade yelled, agitated, pointing toward the aft of the boat.

Chapter 7

“Is Cuban gunboat, not pirates,” Brick said, his thick Russian accent adding weight to the observation.

All four of them stood on the back deck, their eyes fixed on the approaching vessel to the north behind them as they steered south.

The gunboat, smaller and more agile than the 60-foot yacht, sliced through the waves with determined precision. Its angular, utilitarian design contrasted sharply with the yacht's sleek lines, giving it a predatory appearance.

From a distance, the gunboat's low, flat profile was difficult to discern, it’s not impossible that it could have been pirates. But as it closed, the details became unmistakable: the dark gray hull cut through the sea like a sharp blade. The deck was cluttered with equipment, stark reminders of its military purpose. A forward-mounted gun turret dominated the bow, scanning the surroundings, ready for action.

The engine's low, throaty rumble grew louder, a steady, ominous hum that reminded Dirk of his ‘68 Charger. The sound carried a sense of power and menace, sending ripples across the water that betrayed the gunboat's high-performance capability. As the vessel closed in, the crew became visible on deck, their figures cast in shadow by the late afternoon sun, standing ready at their stations. The red, white, and blue of the Cuban flag fluttered at the stern, a bold contrast against the vessel’s muted tones.

The yacht's wake splintered as the gunboat bore down on them, its bow rising and falling with the swells, clearly designed for quick maneuvers in open water. Despite its smaller size, the gunboat radiated an aura of authority and threat, making it clear that this was no ordinary vessel—it was a weapon of the state, fast, armed, and single-minded in its pursuit, a hunter closing in on its prey.

“Can we outrun it?” Bonsai asked, her voice tense.

Dirk shook his head. “No, it’s probably twice as fast as we are. We’re going to have to stop and let them board.”

Wade’s eyes widened in fear. “I can't go back to Cuba. Not after ‘78.”

Dirk shot Wade a sideways glance, not in the mood for his antics. This was serious.

Brick looked from Wade to Dirk, his expression grim. “I have... similar problems. It's very bad if they get their hands on me. Cuba is no-go.”

Dirk sighed, the weight of the situation settling over him. “Okay,” he said, resigned. “I don’t have any weapons on this thing,” he added, looking at Brick, then at Wade.

Bonsai watched the exchange, a small amount of panic creeping into her eyes.

Dirk noticed. “Any idea what the crew complement is on one of those?” he asked, directing the question at Brick but leaving it open for anyone to answer.

Bonsai responded, her tone steady despite the tension. “Ten to twelve, with room for as many as twenty. They can transport a full eight-man fire team.”

Dirk gave a nod.

Bonsai smiled faintly. “We’re trained to recognize just about all potential hostile assets; it was weeks of study.”

The gunboat was closing.

"Attention, stolen vessel. Attention. This is the Revolutionary Navy of Cuba. You are navigating in Cuban waters. Stop your engine immediately and prepare for inspection. I repeat, stop your engine and await instructions," came blaring over a loudspeaker in Spanish. It was barely audible due to their distance, but they were closing.

Dirk turned to Brick and Wade. His initial thought was to tell Wade to stand with Trudy and to have himself and Brick take action. But he quickly recoiled at the idea of letting Wade be the one speaking to the Cubans. Wade might have noticed Dirk’s thought process or something else because he volunteered before Dirk could articulate a plan.

“Brick and I,” Wade stated purposefully, “will go down to the dive well. When you stop, we’ll swim over and,” he struggled for words, “do what has to be done.”

“Why did they say this is a stolen boat?” Bonsai asked nervously. “Dirk, you said it was your boat. If you all are playing some twisted trick on me...”

“Relax,” Dirk said, still in boss mode, so it came out strong and confident. “It’s just like with the bank accounts. They’re trying to use the system against us. I know Sharp has Cuban connections. That’s all this is. Still dangerous, and I feel bad for the seamen on that boat, but they took the job.”

He turned to Brick and Wade. “I’ll keep them talking as long as I can. I’ll let them board while you two swim over, they won't find anything interesting on this boat. I have all the paperwork. Then, Brick, it’s your clock. When you start, we’ll finish it up over here.”

Bonsai’s head was spinning a little. Brick and Wade quickly disappeared down a set of stairs.

“I repeat, stop your engine immediately. If you do not comply, we will consider your action hostile. You are under investigation for vessel theft. Do not attempt to flee.”

It was easier to hear this time.

Dirk quickly looked around. They had maybe five minutes before he would be forced to slow the boat.

“I don’t understand our plan,” Bonsai said calmly, watching everything.

Dirk nodded and took his shirt off. It startled her.

“What are you doing?"

He looked at her. “Tie your shirt in a knot or something to show your middle. We need to look like we’re out here enjoying ourselves. It will add a level of confusion that might buy us the extra seconds we need.”

She stared at him for a few more moments, then quickly tied the bottom of the shirt up so her midriff was exposed.

They waited a few more minutes. The gunboat closed and made a few more loudspeaker calls. When they were close enough to bring the front machine gun into range, Dirk stepped over to a small panel and disengaged the autopilot. The engine cut out immediately, and the boat slowed. After a moment, its wake passed under it, and the yacht arched the bow up and then down as the wake passed. The gunboat circled, visually inspecting the craft from all sides, black smoke puffing out the top of it as its diesel engine idled and revved at the maneuver. Then, finally, it slowed, circled one more time with its loud engine, and came alongside.

A tall, lanky Cuban seaman tossed a rope to Dirk. There were two others with little handheld grappling hooks standing next to him should Dirk not cooperate.

The gunboat captain was a hard-looking man in his upper thirties. He wore a pair of aviator sunglasses and chewed a toothpick in the side of his mouth. He gave orders to his men; then, once Dirk looped the tossed rope around the yacht’s side staple, the captain yelled, “Prepare to be boarded!”

“I have the registration and title of the boat,” Dirk yelled back in Spanish, looking up to where the captain stood on the small second deck near the forward gun mount. “We’re out of Miami. I own her outright!”

A crewman jumped over and was tossed the two other ropes, which he tied off. Once done, he straightened and looked around.

Dirk offered the man the papers he had gathered to show ownership. The crewman looked at the papers and then looked up to the captain for instructions. The captain shrugged his shoulders, looking inconvenienced. The crewman reached out and took the papers. He walked over and handed them to another man still on the gunboat. They made their way up to the captain. He studied them for a bit. Dirk could see Wade and Brick swimming over, working their way around to the outside of the gunboat. Since everyone’s attention was focused on the yacht, they might have a real chance.

The captain studied the papers for a while and then asked, “Can you prove you are Dirk Lasher?”

Dirk slowly and carefully took out his wallet and handed the crewman his driver's license. It made its way up to the captain. He studied the license and the papers.

“We will verify this,” he called down. He looked deflated, like he was ready for some fun that had just been denied him.

Dirk made a surprised face and whispered to Bonsai, “These guys might be legitimate. Thank God.” He allowed some relief onto his expression. “There’s going to be enough killing; we don’t need to start this early.”

She nodded her agreement.

Nothing happened for a while. Dirk smiled at the crewman standing on his deck. Everyone just watched each other and waited. There were six crewmen total on the gunboat on the deck. If you added in the captain, a pilot, and a few more engine crew, it looked like Bonsai’s assessment was correct: a ten-person crew with room for more.

When Dirk looked back at the gunboat, he noticed he only saw three men on the deck now. Three had disappeared.

A combination of frustration, fear, and disappointment struck him. Brick and Wade were already onboard; they didn’t wait to see if violence was going to be necessary. It was sure starting to look like it wouldn’t have been.

“Nuts,” Lasher said softly to Bonsai. “It’s already gone hot. Get over there and help out as soon as I go.”

“What?” she started to say, but he was already in motion.

Lasher moved very quickly, suddenly wrapping his arms around the crewman near him from behind. The kid didn’t expect it. He would never get the chance to expect anything ever again. Lasher rotated his head around violently. There was a snap, and the crewman went limp. Lasher dropped him to the deck in a single fluid motion, gracefully unholstering the kid's 9mm sidearm, priming it, then firing into the crew on the gunboat standing on the deck, completely surprised.

BAM BAM BAM.

One shot each. Bonsai sprinted and leaped over the gap between boats. Dirk kept the handgun sighted and scanned the gunboat for any movement. Bonsai stayed crouched on the gunboat edge, waiting for an indication of the threat level. Dirk remained crouched on his boat, scanning.

A lot of time passed.

“Clear!” Rang out finally in Brick's thick voice.

Dirk moved his head left and right, up and down, trying to get a line of sight to confirm Brick was not under duress. After another moment, both Brick and Wade stepped out from the only cabin door, both covered in the gunboat crew’s blood.

Dirk relaxed.

Bonsai relaxed.

Brick smiled.

Dirk felt irritation at what they had just done.

Wade smiled big and announced, “Now we’re a fleet! Deitrick, that makes you an admiral!”

Dirk dismissed the comment, moving quickly. “Guys,” he yelled, “dump the bodies as fast as you can. Brick, search the bridge. Wade, figure out the engine. We’ve got to get moving and away from here as quickly as possible.” He finished as he started to move, stripping the extra ammo and knife off the downed crewman on the yacht, then pushing the body overboard.

“How can I help?” Bonsai asked, ready.

“Get over there and help them with the bodies. Make sure we salvage their weapons and clothing. You never know,” he said, glancing at the horizon before spinning around quickly, scanning in all directions. There were no other boats or land in sight. “Oh, and Trudy? Look around for obvious GPS devices and other tracking equipment. Rip it all out and throw it overboard.”

She nodded and ducked into the gunboat cabin door.

It took about thirty minutes for them to dump the bodies, clean the surfaces, inventory the equipment, and for Wade to figure out the Cuban gunboat’s pilot controls. While they did all that, Dirk used his charts to plot a course away from shipping lanes and known fishing spots. They would have to anchor for the night somewhere unharried, with time to think. With a real sense of urgency, they got the two boats moving, Lasher and Bonsai on the yacht and Wade and Brick on the gunboat.

Chapter 8

It was nighttime. Dirk had only the most minimal running lights on the yacht and none on the gunboat. The risk of a random vessel without radar running into them was near zero.

They were sitting on the yacht's deck, both boats anchored; the gunboat was tied off about fifty yards away with a thick set of ropes. They were using the small four-person tender from the yacht to move back and forth when necessary.

Wade spoke first. “I don’t completely understand what’s going on.”

“Me either,” Bonsai chimed in quickly.

Lasher looked over to Brick, who nodded as though giving permission for something.

“I own a few more ventures than just the bar,” Dirk started. “In many ways, I’ve become the same thing the organization has become, only we’re”—he gestured to include Brick—“a lot more low-key and philanthropic than hostile like Kimberly and the organization. But we’re benefactors, just like her. Lisa ran the thing really, not me. We’ve got missions set up all over the world. I guess the difference between us and the Red Cross is that we don’t have any administrative class, and we’re not a bunch of tree huggers. If the situation calls for it, we’re happy to veer away from passivity.”

“So, what do you do?” Bonsai asked. “What were you doing in Guyana?”

Dirk looked over to Brick, who answered.

“Da. We have about a thousand acres in interior, near Baracara Village. It is farm, and school for farm. I like the work. Mostly rice fields. Some sugarcane, some bananas. Mostly rice. We grow it and give it away, and we teach how to grow it and not give it away.”

“Why don’t you tell people what you do?” Bonsai asked. “Wouldn’t the publicity and recognition help?”

Brick looked at Lasher, whose face hardened, and his smile became thin. “The people we help know, that’s all we need. Otherwise, it gets complicated, and you end up with much help that isn’t really helpful. Charity is a big business like everything else. The only time it works is when you never hear about it.”

Bonsai thought about that. It was more profound than she initially realized. It made her see Dirk and everyone else in a different light. These old guys weren’t the greedy SOBs her generation often believed them to be. They also weren’t running their mouths about their good works. She had seen Dirk firsthand and thought she knew him or at least understood him. He held very simple worldviews, and she was optimistic to see that he also acted on them.

Wade was well ahead of her. “So, we’re going to take the farm back?”

Brick started to nod in the affirmative, but Lasher spoke first.

“Maybe,” Dirk said. “Losing the farm is a symptom. The real problem is the organization.” He looked around the group. Everyone was looking back, waiting to hear him out. They each held eye contact when he looked at them. He realized they each trusted him. He resigned himself to not abuse that trust. “Full disclosure, everyone. We’re going to be harassed and countered, sometimes violently, sometimes economically, until we push back hard enough that they lose interest, either because they are no longer around or because we’re too big a bear to keep poking. They murdered Lisa. I cannot fathom why. It can’t just be revenge; Sharp is smarter and more experienced than that. Lisa must have been doing something, or she had found out something that they considered a threat. I need to understand what that was, but it’s secondary to ending them. I can’t live in a world where the people who killed Lisa are prospering, whether I know the details or not.”

“Well,” Wade said, “we’re a lot better armed than we were a couple hours ago, and now we have a gunboat.”

“Yes,” Dirk agreed. “This does change things. I’m still working on the details. My original thought was to dock at Georgetown and meet with Jagan. I can’t believe I am going to say this, but she owes me. Owes us.” He indicated Brick. “It’s favor trading and alliance brokering, I know, but it’s in her best interest. I think I still need to do that, plus she can give us permission to operate in the country; she’s the president of it, after all.”

“Do you think that solves my UCMJ problem?” Bonsai asked.

Dirk shook his head. “No, unfortunately, since I stepped out, I don’t have any official federal capacity, and an E5 isn’t chartered to broker international military treaties. That said, it will prevent a lot of problems as we’d at least be operating legally in-country.”

“Bummer,” Bonsai said.

Dirk made a maybe not face. “I think we can solve the UCMJ issue when we get to Jamaica, as discussed.”

He missed the look of concern on Bonsai’s face as he continued. “What’s much more interesting is we now have the option of going in heavy and taking back what’s ours.”

Brick looked thoughtful. “Da, Wade and I can go down the river and attack from the waterfront. Permission or not.”

“Wade?” Dirk asked.

"Alright,” Wade answered. “Let’s go over what we’ve got. This gunboat is well-equipped. Up front, there’s a 30mm aimable rotating autocannon—good for tearing through people and lightly armored boats. We’ve got about a thousand rounds for it, so we’re stocked up, but we’ll need to make every shot count.

“On the sides, we’ve got two 12.7mm heavy machine guns. They’re fixed, so they shoot where the boat is pointing. But here’s the fun part—a surface-to-surface missile. Just one, though, so we’ve got to be smart about where we aim it. It could take out a bunker or a group of them if they’re bunched together. But yeah, just one shot… no pressure, right?

“The engine’s got plenty of power—we can hit 40 knots easily. That’s fast, but we’re still up against a hundred soldiers. It’s got me thinking back to Vietnam… except instead of slogging through rice paddies, we’re fighting to take them back. I guess you could say we’re really in the weeds this time.

“Anyway, Brick, what do you think? How do we stack up against what you saw of them? What’s the best approach with what we’ve got here?"

Brick thought for a moment.

Bonsai watched the interchange, morbidly fascinated. These old guys had taken down the gunboat more effectively than any scenario proposed or practiced in her Delta Force training. Listening to them now, she realized they lived in a world of action much more interesting than she had believed civilian life could be. And much more brutal. They lived in a world without rules, only vague moral codes that amounted to nothing more than an eye for an eye.

“Is doable but not easy,” Brick finally answered.

Dirk frowned. “I don’t like the idea of splitting up. Dividing a fighting force isn’t really a good answer to any problem, and since there are only four of us…” he trailed off.

Brick spoke up. “I agree, but this solves problems. What if President Jagan says no, don’t do anything? This way, we take what’s ours back, and at the same time, we work through proper channels. But we have the initiative. And the leverage.”

Dirk thought about it, finally. “Trudy, what do you think?”

Bonsai took a moment to gather her thoughts, surprised she was included. When she spoke, her tone was analytical and precise. “Splitting up a small force like ours is a high-risk move, but it’s not unprecedented. During Operation Gothic Serpent in Mogadishu in ‘93, splitting forces allowed for simultaneous objectives to be pursued, though it required quick adaptability under fire. In our training, we studied that battle. The big takeaway was to keep each unit as autonomous as possible.”

She paused, looking directly at Dirk. “That, and we need to be as precise and as ruthless as possible—nothing left to chance.”

Everyone seemed to be thinking. Finally, Dirk said, “That’s good advice. Brick, when did we dredge the river? Two years ago?”

Brick nodded. “She can make it, no problem,” he answered, indicating the yacht with a gesture.

Dirk nodded in agreement. “Okay. Here’s the plan. We stay here tonight and head to Port Antonio in the morning. We’ll get there around two or three AM the next day, still enough time for the original plan. We’ll transfer fuel to the gunboat and then refuel the yacht. They both have about the same range if we keep it to fifteen knots. Then Trudy and I will sail for Georgetown to meet Jagan. Brick and Wade, you sail down to New Amsterdam, then follow the river in. Work it so you get there after dark. It’s about fifty miles to the farms, maybe eight more hours. You figure it out. We’ll follow probably a day or two behind; the old girl here can make the river if it’s still dredged. Once we have the farm back, we’ll move the yacht right offshore. Then we have a modern base camp, and we’ll see what’s what and who’s who after that.”

They talked through logistics for about an hour, then Brick and Wade took the tender over to the gunboat. The agreement was to sleep in, so everyone was rested, then head out mid-morning.

Chapter 9

Dirk lay on the bed in the master quarters. It was a nice enough room, with plush carpet and high-end décor. Dirk didn’t really notice it. He was aware of it, but it didn’t mean anything to him. The yacht had air conditioning, more to keep the moisture out than the temperature down; it was a pleasant enough night in the low seventies, but it was still humid out here.

Dirk had taken a quick shower and just stepped back into his boxers. He and Bonsai had put all the Cuban sailors' clothes in the washing machine to clean them. The Cubans were smaller than their American counterparts, and some of the uniforms had been ruined with puncture holes or blood. The hope was to strip the markings off the gunboat. If, for some reason, they couldn’t, the uniforms might come in handy should they need to hold up appearances.

Just as Lasher was starting to think through a strategy for what needed to be done, there was a gentle tap on his cabin door.

“Come in,” he said. There was only one person it could be.

Bonsai poked her head in. Her hair had continued to grow out from the high and tight it was when they first met three months ago. She was wearing a long T-shirt, which Dirk knew was her sleeping attire.

She walked straight in and, without a word, laid down on his right, her left shoulder tucked into his side. She rested her head on his strong, bare chest.

Dirk was taken aback, then realized this was the same configuration they’d slept in when hunkered down in the jungle trying to recover. That had been the last moment before he learned the truth about Lisa—that the organization had been the one behind her illness and ultimate death.

After a while, Bonsai confided, “I’m very nervous about accepting the medical discharge, honorable or not."

Given their closeness, Dirk was a little unsure how hard he should push her for the medical discharge. He knew she’d be miserable if she was reassigned to a military support MOS and forced to ride out the rest of her career, worried about what could have been, feeling left out and like a second-class citizen because of her injuries.

He was also noticing, for the first time, that she was attracted to him. It hadn’t occurred to him before; he was still too deep in his own head dealing with his grief. It was coming up on ninety days since the funeral. Not long enough for a new relationship to be appropriate, but far enough along that he was at least aware of the possibility.

She felt good next to him. Warm in a pleasing way. He could feel her breathing at his side and her warm breath on his chest.

“It’s your decision,” he started. “If you take the discharge and aren’t happy working with me, you’ll still have a tremendous amount of money in the bank. Enough, really, to do whatever you want.”

“It feels like I’d be giving up. Quitting what I worked so hard for,” she said quickly. Clearly, this concern was at the forefront of her thoughts. “Letting my team down.”

Dirk understood all of this. After a few years in the military, the emotional attachments became very complicated. There could be many reasons why; a simple one was that the constant mindset necessary for high-pressure success became a worldview all its own.

“What about you?” he asked. “I have to believe riding a desk in a support role would start to wear on you. With this opportunity, you’ll be out in the world, making a difference.”

She shifted her head to look up at him, her eyes big, her closeness inviting.

“I like the idea of that. I’m worried the reality of it will wear on me just the same.”

He looked down at her and they held each other's eyes. This was a moment, but Dirk let it pass. It was too soon; he needed much more time to clear his head. He realized he needed to get justice for Lisa before he could move forward into a new phase of his life.

He also realized it wasn’t fair to Bonsai if he didn’t tell her as much.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Sometimes, the lines are very clear to me. I can easily see what’s right and what isn’t. Sometimes, like now, I just want revenge. I don’t know if it’s moral or not, but I crave it.”

He shifted to sit up, a natural move that ended the close embrace. He sat up straight, and she adjusted her position so she was sitting up also, a foot or so away, facing him near the foot of the bed.

Lasher continued. “I took revenge one other time in my life—pure revenge. I went to Honduras and ended an organization just like the one we’re dealing with now. It was primal, and I made them pay. In the end, I didn’t feel any better, and it made things much worse.”

Bonsai knew enough about Lasher to ask a meaningful question. “Are you worried you’re doing the same thing now?” She watched the fire return to his eyes.

“I’m not worried, I know, absolutely I am doing it again.” He pushed his emotions down. “I can’t make you any promises. What I can tell you is that I’m not a raging maniac. The work we’ll do is good work. But first, before I can see the future, I have to fix the past. I’m going to brutally kill all of them. I completely understand if this doesn’t sound like a world you want to commit to.”

Her face changed. She had the same fire Lasher did. “No, goof,” she said, pushing through her own emotions. “I want to help! I’m not some helpless charity case. I’m furious at what they did to your family. I L—” she almost confessed too much “—like you, and I’m beginning to understand the world you’ve built for yourself. It’s the best world I could ever imagine. The idea of being part of it—I crave it, too.”

“But you’re nervous about accepting the medical discharge?”

“The army saved me,” she confessed. “I feel like I owe it something.”

He nodded. Again, he understood completely. “Sleep on it. We’ll have to make the decision tomorrow. If you’re staying in the army, we’ll get you a plane ticket back from Jamaica to Miami; you’re 100% correct—you can’t go any farther.”

She reached out and took his hands. “Just don’t let me down, okay?” she said.

It was another moment.

Dirk let it pass in the same way.

Nothing much had really changed in the last ten minutes. Nothing, except Dirk felt a wave of irritation at Wade, who had seen this situation developing months ago, while Dirk had completely missed it.

Chapter 10

“We’re going to refuel at the Errol Flynn Marina,” Lasher said. “There are two harbors, east and west. If we approach from the west side of Navy Island, we’ve got two places where a lookout could be: on Navy Island itself and at Nose Point. If we try to refuel at the east harbor, we’ll still have those two, plus the Titchfield Peninsula and the Folly Lighthouse.”

“I met Errol Flynn twice,” Wade mentioned. “Everyone said he was six-two, but the only time he topped six feet was when he stood on a stepping stool.”

Brick listened and made a face, trying to figure out what Wade was talking about.

Wade finished. “It was a little weird—he was definitely taller the second time.”

“Okay, Wade. Thanks,” Dirk said to keep the conversation moving. “Brick, you and I will have to start on the island, clear it, then take the skiff to Nose Point. We’ll have about five hours of darkness.”

They had the boats anchored to the north. They could just see the lights from the port and the rotating lighthouse to the east, marking the entrance to the east harbor. Their goal was the west harbor.

“I’d like to go,” Bonsai said. “Dirk, we made a good team in the jungle. I want to feel like I’m part of this. Like I’m contributing. If I’m leaving the Army for this, I want to experience it first.”

Brick was unreadable.

Lasher looked at her. “If we have to take action, will it mess up your shoulder?”

She rotated her shoulder and waved both arms to the same effect. “No, the VA did miracle work,” she said after the display.

“Plus, you have the bionics,” Wade offered.

Dirk frowned. “Wade, they didn’t put in bionics. Stop it.”

Brick’s face went into contemplation. “What are bionics?” he said as he studied Bonsai like he was seeing her again for the first time.

“They aren’t anything,” Dirk pushed back. “It’s from a TV show from a long time ago.”

Wade winked at Brick. “I’ll explain it while these two are off taking out the bad guys.” He turned back to Dirk. “Do you want to hear about Errol Flynn or not?”

“Wade,” Lasher started, his temper showing.

Bonsai noticed and tried to help. “Wade,” she took over, looking from Dirk to him, “what is it you think we need to know about when you met Errol Flynn?”

Wade smiled proudly. “Sure, it was a couple of years after the war. I came down with my friend Mike; he had a connection—we supplied army surplus to one of his movies. Mike and he hit it off, and after filming, we got invited to his home away from home for a week-long visit.”

Bonsai nodded patiently. “Can you help us understand how that applies here?”

Wade made a face as though it was obvious. “You don’t know?” He looked around, amazed that no one knew. “Holy cow, kids these days. The man used to own Navy Island. That’s where he kept his vacation house. That’s how the marina got its name. I spent a week walking the whole darn place.”

Dirk watched Bonsai through all the banter. She fit right in. He never would have had the patience to feel Wade out, and it turned out he had very important information.

Dirk softened considerably. “That’s fantastic, Wade. Let me get a marker, and you can draw what you remember of the layout for us.” He also realized that Bonsai had another point: he couldn’t treat her like a helpless dependent. That’s exactly what the Army was going to do by forcing her to ride a desk for the rest of her career. She could stand on her own two feet.

He thought about it, and, all things equal, he’d much rather spend time with Bonsai than with Brick.

No offense to Brick, of course.

They spent forty minutes having Wade explain what the island had looked like fifty years ago.

“Okay,” Dirk said once everything had been worked out. “Brick, you stay here on the yacht. Trudy, let’s go down to the master quarters. I have some field clothes for me, and we can see if any of Lisa’s stuff fits you. Wade, you man the gunboat; wait for us, then we’ll ride the skiff over with you once we’re dressed.”

Lasher turned to go, then stopped and turned back. “Wade,” he said sincerely, “thanks for your help in all this.”

For this moment, this time, Dirk didn’t let it pass.

Chapter 11

Navy Island served as a breakwater for Port Antonio. Its name was a remnant of British colonial maritime rule when the British Navy dominated these waters in the 18th and 19th centuries. Errol Flynn purchased it in 1946, right after the war. He built a vacation house that eventually evolved into a vacation compound. After he died in 1959, the property fell into disrepair, and its new ownership became steeped in mystery.

Wade was convinced the only real place to have a lookout was from the ruins of the main house, which were located on the highest point on the island. The island itself was small, but not too small—about half a mile by a quarter mile in dimension, roughly sixty or seventy acres in total.

Lasher and Bonsai approached from the far northern side in the skiff. They both wore black clothes—not quite military tactical gear, more like good, solid, well-made explorer or jungle traveling gear. Lasher carried two hunting knives, Bonsai one knife, and a 9mm sidearm with a silencer configuration. It was the only one like it they found on the gunboat, the silencer providing a huge tactical advantage.

Dirk cut the engine maybe five hundred yards out; they paddled the rest of the way in. Some of the buildings and structures were just visible in the moonlight. Nature had reclaimed most of the property. The main house sat on a hill, still largely intact. From time to time, from the water's edge, they could see a small light in the house. Someone was smoking. Then two people were smoking, then three.

Then all the little lights went out again.

Lasher pointed, and Bonsai nodded; they had both seen it.

They pulled the skiff out of the water and dragged it up well into the tree line. Soft music started to float in over the sound of the ocean waves lapping on the gravel beachhead.

Dirk tapped his ear; Bonsai nodded again. They had both heard it. He made his hand into a gun shape, then held up three fingers. After that, he opened his hand and put up three fingers.

Three combatants, possibly three non-combatants.

Bonsai nodded and made a facial expression of someone drunk. Dirk almost laughed out loud, then nodded back and made a tipping motion with his hands, agreeing.

They’re all probably lit up drunk.

The first time they fought together in the jungles of Panama, both had been severely wounded. Bonsai’s right shoulder had been messed up badly. To counter that, they had used a combat formation they invented out of necessity. It had worked well, and they agreed to use the same tactics here. Lasher had grown up near the Florida Everglades; with extensive Army jungle training and experience, he was a master night navigator. Bonsai, trained by Delta Force, was a formidable combatant herself, but she didn’t have the jungle tracking skills Lasher did.

Dirk moved. Bonsai followed closely. Both were crouched; Dirk carried a hunting knife in each hand. Bonsai kept her hands free, with both the knife on her belt and the 9mm in her belt holster just a split second’s decision away. She kept her left hand on his back, simplifying what she had to do: follow close and respond quickly.

The vegetation on the island was nothing like the dense mess they had confronted in Panama. Here, while overgrown to a degree, there were still clear walking trails, and the ruined buildings provided frequent markers to maintain bearing and location.

As they got closer, the music grew louder.

The setup wasn’t very sophisticated at all. They could see the pathway leading up to the main house. Two more men, guards only in the loosest sense, stood and talked at the base of the trail, maybe a hundred and fifty feet from the house. The hilly landscape funneled everything into where they stood to get to the house.

Dirk crouched off the path, thirty feet away from the two figures. He was close enough to make them out. They were young, not children, teens closer to their twenties, but still young in the eyes of the world. He was just about to signal to Bonsai that he’d disable them without killing them when she fired two quick rounds from the 9mm. Two shots not more than a few milliseconds apart—Phfft Phfft—each bullet finding its mark, the dark mist barely visible in the moonlight.

Both figures dropped out of their sightline.

He turned to face her. She had a seductive look that transitioned into a cheesy smile, her big, wide eyes looking at him as she holstered the handgun. He was going to scold her, but the look caught him by surprise.

Instead, he nodded, not allowing his inner turmoil to be visible. “Reload it,” he mouthed silently, then gave her a thumbs-up and started moving again. He pulled one of the bodies off to the right; she pulled the other off to the left. He immediately turned and began the advance again up the side of the path toward the house. Bonsai put her hand on his back and followed after pushing new rounds into the handgun clip and reseating it.

They moved carefully toward the house. The area was in ruins; the outline of its past glory was still visible. They approached using what was once a driveway, with a big fountain in a roundabout and the modest main house on one side. The building was one story and maybe eighteen hundred square feet, a nondescript square with a million-dollar view. They could see through the broken windows, through the interior. There were several people silhouetted on the back side of the house, looking out over the bay.

Dirk moved up to the front window and stood to one side. Bonsai stood to the other. He gave a hand signal to wait, then one to listen. The music was more prominent but not loud. They were very casually giving lip service to operational security. Clearly, these were not trained mercenaries or people who expected any kind of trouble. They probably had no idea who they were on the lookout for or why.

Dirk and Bonsai stayed there for a very long time. Dirk was waiting to see what the radio schedule was. Almost always, there was a set schedule for situation updates, usually an hour or two apart. There were many reasons for this, but a primary one was to keep the lookouts organized and to give them a sense of schedule and oversight.

After possibly a half hour, the music was shut off, and a radio call was made. It was all in Spanish, which was a native language for Dirk, who grew up near South Miami, speaking both English and Spanish. Bonsai only spoke English.

He listened; it was a bored report from the men on both sides of the conversation. The report only lasted a few seconds, then the music started playing again, and the cigarettes got lit. Lasher looked over to Bonsai, then gave a hand signal for two hours.

We have two hours until the next report when they’ll be missing.

Dirk angled his head around the house and stood on his tiptoes. He could see Nose Point a mile or so away to the west. He watched for a few moments, then could just faintly make out a lighter and the red glow of a cigarette near the tip of the point, lighting up after their sitrep. He motioned for Bonsai to look. She shifted her stance, ducked under the window opening, followed his eyeline to the Point, and then nodded.

He looked back to the local lookouts. With the faint cigarette light, he could make out the men's faces. There were only two of them, and the third person was a worn-out-looking young woman who was clearly there for reasons other than her eyesight.

Lasher pushed away anger. He was anxious to deal with the trained soldiers of the organization. He had no interest in murdering unqualified locals and their whores. He couldn’t justify his next actions; he didn’t want to perform them, but he did anyway.

This is the cost of revenge, he scolded himself, but knew what had to be done.

He gave Bonsai a hand signal to wait here and back him up if anything went wrong, then he ducked low and disappeared around the outside corner of the decrepit house. Bonsai watched him disappear into the night. She drew the 9mm and sighted it, crouched low with a minimal profile in the lower corner of the empty window frame.

She saw a shadow come around from the direction Lasher would be approaching. In a split second, with only confusing darkness, she heard the now familiar sounds of the quick, wet work he was doing. She tried to focus in the dark but could no longer see anyone, only the nighttime skyline on the other side. Just as she started to feel too much time had passed, Lasher reappeared from around the corner, covered in blood that wasn’t his own.

Chapter 12

Wade’s information had helped with Navy Island, but they knew nothing about Nose Point (other than that, on a map, it looked like a nose). The cigarette light Lasher had seen suggested the lookout would be very near the shoreline. They were also racing against the sunrise. It was 4:30 AM, and the sun would be up by 6 AM, the same time as the next radio report. The sky would start to lighten in less than thirty minutes.

The little skiff's engine screamed as Lasher opened it all the way up. He went around the east side of Navy Island and kept the boat close to the shoreline of Fanny Bay, which kept them out of sight from where he’d seen the lights on Nose Point. He beached the skiff just before the turn around the Boundbrook beachhead. They were about a thousand feet from Nose Point. There was a main road just twenty feet from shore and a few houses here and there. It wasn’t a secluded area, and the sun and the traffic would probably arrive around the same time.

Dirk kept to the inland tree line. They had to stop and hunker down to hide a few times as a car with an early morning driver heading to work went by. He kept his eyes on the location where he’d seen the cigarette light. As they closed in, a small driveway leading up a short rise to a parking lot came into view. There was a sign that said Dickie’s Best Kept Secret.

It was a restaurant.

They crossed the empty road, and Lasher led the way across the angled driveway to the shoreline. Some trees and rocks provided reasonable cover. They stopped, crouched. Just like on Navy Island, they could hear faint music playing. Someone had a boom box on the back deck of the place that overlooked the water.

Dirk leaned in close and whispered, “There’s no way up to the patio from down here,” he pointed. “We’re going to have to go in the front door.”

Bonsai nodded.

“I want to change up our strategy a little,” Lasher said.

“Okay,” Bonsai listened, relaxing her crouched stance to focus.

“Same configuration with you trailing, but sight the pistol. Take every shot you have when you have it. I’ll bat cleanup and deal with anyone who gets close,” he partially lifted one of the hunting knives he still held in both hands. “How many rounds do you have left?”

She nodded. “It holds seven, and I have a pocketful, maybe twenty rounds.”

“Ok,” he said.

Bonsai had now worked in the field with him enough that she knew he was going to start moving quickly, but instead, he paused for a second, working something out.

“Seven rounds it is. Once they’re fired, we’ll switch back, and I’ll move to offense, and you bat cleanup. No time for a combat reload.”

“Got it,” she whispered.

Before she finished, he was up and moving. She was ready and moved with him. She drew the handgun and held it in her right hand, her left hand on his back as they moved. They had to backtrack a little, then came around across the small parking lot and, staying low, positioned on either side of the front entrance.

Dirk spoke very softly, “If it’s unlocked, we go in quiet and take out as many as we can before making noise. If it’s locked, I’m going to kick it in and we go in heavy and loud.”

She nodded.

He reached over and twisted the door handle. It clicked and opened.

“Idiots,” he mouthed to her. She made her drunk face, which was just as funny this time as last.

He carefully pushed the door open. The interior was dark. Lasher ducked his head to advance. He was incredibly lucky; just as he lowered his head, a baseball bat slammed into the wood door frame inches away. It had been a swing designed to kill.

The wood splintered, and the impact was loud and jarring. Dirk realized what had happened and was starting to retreat backward when a big man tackled him, emerging from the darkness at a full sprint. He slammed into Lasher and drove him into the gravel parking lot. Dirk dodged the man’s blade and quickly brought his left hand up, then down, just under his assailant’s ribcage. He split the attacker’s stomach open, rolling out of the way, trying to get his bearings.

Bonsai fired into the bat wielder, two shots at near point-blank range. He went down and fell into the darkness that was the interior.

Dirk got himself up and slammed his back into the exterior wall right beside her, to the side of the door. He quickly pointed to the first downed man and held up one finger, then to the second and held up a second finger, then he held up a third finger and pointed back into the restaurant.

Suddenly, there was frantic yelling in Spanish from the rear of the place.

“They’re here! They’re here! At the point! At the point!”

Dirk blew air out his nose, stepped back, and ran in. Bonsai was right behind him, her left hand on his back. She was learning his quick actions and constant forward momentum. He ran straight ahead; the last man was silhouetted against the night sky, which was starting to show just the hints of the pending morning sunrise. Dirk twisted, ready to throw one of his knives at the man to shut him up. Before he was halfway through the windup, Bonsai fired four quick shots, all impacting and ending the man on the radio.

Dirk kicked the downed man—he was gone. Both Dirk and Bonsai circled and looked around, frustrated that this might have given them away.

Lasher motioned to Bonsai to start reloading. Then the radio squawked.

“Nose Point, say again,” echoed in Spanish through the dark, now empty building.

Dirk reacted quickly; he spun around. The boombox was near the back wall. He snapped his fingers frantically and pointed at it while he pried the radio handset out of the dead man’s still warm hand.

“What I don’t…” Bonsai started, looking between Lasher and the boombox.

“Crank it,” he said, ready.

She nodded and turned the sound up. Pop music with a lot of lyrical chords started playing loudly—party music.

Dirk emulated the sound of the man’s voice as best he could.

“There’s a party at the point, bossman!” Lasher sounded drunk. “They’re here! We’ve got four girls and only three of us, boss! They’re here! It’s party time!” He just tried to sound like a drunk, low-level worker.

“Cut the chatter, José. You better all three be awake when Domino gets there to relieve you,” the radio said.

“Yes, boss,” Dirk said, ripping the mic out of the receiver and smashing the radio with his foot.

“Leave the music on; let’s get out of here,” he said.

Bonsai nodded. They ran as fast as they could back to the skiff and then headed back to the yacht.

Chapter 13

They arrived back at the yacht and gunboat about thirty minutes after sunrise. The two boats were close together, tied off. Wade and Brick had transferred the fuel, so the gunboat had a full tank. They had also taken down the Cuban flag and stripped off the registration information. It wouldn’t fool an expert, but it might attract slightly less attention.

Dirk ran the skiff into the rear dock of the yacht and stowed it with a hand crank. He was flaming mad. He and Bonsai hadn’t spoken much on the way back because of his mood. He was out of practice, and at the same time, he was being too brutal. Yes, he had planned to take out the organization, and sure, the people he’d just encountered were technically on its fringes. But the truth was, they were just low-level workers, one step removed from being stupid kids. And to top it off, the whole operation had backfired. Instead of a stealthy refuel, they had just announced to the world where they were and, with a little analysis, where they were going.

To top it all off, they still needed to refuel. After the little boat was stored, he ripped off his outer black shirt and threw it into a corner of the interior area.

“It was shirt's fault?” Brick asked, coming down a small metal staircase that he had to turn sideways on to maneuver.

Lasher looked at him, irritated and confused at the same time, then he realized the joke. It helped, and he forced several layers of frustration away.

“It was my fault,” he said angrily. “All we ended up doing was to announce which port we wanted to refuel at.”

Wade had just stepped down the stairs behind Brick, catching the end of the conversation.

“Then let’s go to a different one; we’ll seem all sneaky and forward-thinking,” Wade offered, wiping his hands together in big, long strokes as though they were covered in dirt.

Brick made an approving face. Bonsai quickly turned to gauge Lasher’s reaction. Wade smiled.

“Damnit, Wade,” Dirk started.

Bonsai stepped forward to intervene.

Dirk waved her off. “That is officer thinking right there,” he finished.

Bonsai had helped earlier. Dirk was trainable, and he now understood a little bit more about his frustrations with Wade. Wade often started by trying to be silly or bringing in a reference point he could work from. It must be how his mind worked now with the medicine. Dirk was simple and straight, but he needed to be more patient with Wade, allow him his opening, and let him get to the point.

Wade paused at the comment. He stood waiting for the criticism that didn’t come, then made a surprised face of his own, and nodded. “Sure, yeah. It is officer thinking! We can go to St. Margaret’s Bay. It’s maybe five miles farther west. I know a guy there; he has a pier and a fuel pump. It’s more for smaller boats, but I’ve helped him fill the reserve tanks in the past, and his tank holds enough. We’ll have to be a little careful; there’s a police station on the other side of the road. The dock isn’t visible from there, but it is visible from just about everywhere else.”

“Is close to Port Antonio,” Brick said to Wade. “Won’t they be on alert too?”

Dirk smiled at Wade and then at Brick and then Bonsai. “No, it’s perfect. We took out the lookouts on the west side of Port Antonio. The closest reinforcements will be the next place up the coast to the west—St. Margaret’s Bay. It’s a really brilliant idea, and it makes the work we just did meaningful.”

“Everything is ready,” Brick said.

Dirk nodded, calming himself and working to manage his anger. “Okay, Trudy and I will bring the yacht in. Wade, can you call your friend to let him know we’re coming before you head back to the gunboat?”

Wade nodded.

Dirk continued, turning to Bonsai. “Super. We’ll try and look like vacationers. We’re not going to be able to get to a bank, so on the way in, let’s make our own phone calls. You can call General Hampton after I get a wire going to your current bank account. Do you know the numbers?”

She nodded that she did.

Dirk had his own moment when he realized that to send the wire from the bank he would have to use, the transfer would run through the Panama wire hub, which Lisa had built out for Kimberly Sharp a decade prior. No one else would understand the irony, but he did.

“Is it OK if we do it this way?” he asked her.

She nodded that it was. She had to get on record her acceptance of the discharge, and this would do it.

“Let’s get going,” Lasher said. “Oh, and Trudy, let’s be careful not to give the General too much information.”

She agreed.

They got everything organized, the boats separated, and Dirk got the yacht heading south to the island. It would take about two hours, so they would arrive right around nine in the morning. They made their phone calls. Dirk called his bank and wired the money. Hampton accepted Bonsai’s resignation, believing she was at Lasher’s house near Miami.

They went down to the main cabin. The plan was to wear casual, vacation-like clothes. Dirk had a pair of Bermuda shorts picked out; he would go shirtless. Bonsai was going to wear shorts and one of Lisa’s bikini tops. Dirk changed into the shorts in the bathroom, trying to clear his mind. He was focused on the task ahead, but there was a tension in the air—an awareness of the moment that he hadn’t expected.

Then, before he knew what happened, after exiting the little bathroom, Bonsai changed into the bikini top right in front of him. He was caught off guard and turned too late for it to matter.

Now, on top of everything else, he had that image in his head, her fit upper torso, flat stomach, broad shoulders, long elegant neck…

He tried to shake it off, but the unexpected intimacy left him rattled. It wasn’t the time, and he knew it. He needed to stay focused, to keep his mind on the plan, but the image lingered, challenging his concentration. It also brought other, unwelcome feelings.

Once changed, Bonsai smiled as she looked over at him, apparently completely unaware of the impact she had just had on him.

Chapter 14

They approached the bay at ten knots—not slow, not fast. Wade piloted the gunboat, trailing significantly. Far enough back to not be with the yacht, but close enough to still see what was going on around it.

Dirk slowed even more as they passed out of the ocean currents and into the calm water that made up the bay. The island was beautiful, with green trees, bright, colorful plants, and clear blue water as far as the eye could see. The dock was right where Wade said it would be. It was too small, in general, for the yacht, but the approach to it and the water around it were deep enough, which was all that mattered to get the fueling started.

Wade’s contact was standing on the dock, waving and giving instructions for how to pilot the vessel, the last little bit to line up for the fuel. Wade said the man's name was Shifty Sam.

Of course that was his name, Dirk had replied.

Of course it was.

Shifty Sam looked like an old beat up version of Kurt Russell from the movies. His white hair was very long, hanging below his shoulders. He was missing most of his teeth, and as they glided in closer, Dirk noticed he was also missing several fingers on both hands. One of his feet had been replaced with a prosthetic he had painted blue to match his one shoe.

Dirk tossed him a line when they got close; the man seemed to be in a panic.

“Hurry, hurry!” he said, securing the line and hobble-running over to a small fueling pump. He grabbed a thick, long copper wire and tossed the end of it up to Dirk, who caught it and used the two clamps on the end to attach it to a metal hook near the fueling port. He stepped into the pilot room, killed the engine, and shut down all the electronics. Then, he quickly stepped back out and hopped down to the dock from the elevated platform right off the pilot room. He took the fuel hose from Sam, inserted it into the receiver on the yacht, and watched as Sam turned the fueling knob to activate the flow.

“How long?” Lasher asked Sam.

“How empty is she?”

“Little more than half.”

“About an hour.”

After maybe fifteen minutes, two Jamaican police walked up the dock. The appearance was that they had walked over from the police station across the street from Shifty Sam’s property.

“Whose boat is this?” the shorter of the two men asked.

Dirk raised his hand from his spot on the dock in a friendly wave, then indicated himself and Bonsai, who was still up on the top deck of the yacht, looking down with the morning sun at her back.

“I have the registration papers in the pilot house if you’d like me to get them,” he said as casually and as friendly as he could.

Shifty Sam had disappeared.

Dirk readied himself. He could see Bonsai above them all. She had the 9mm with the silencer tucked behind her back.

The shorter officer looked up at Bonsai for a long time, then back to Dirk. He put his hand out, and the taller junior officer handed him a clipboard. The man wrote on a form in a ticket book. He pulled off the top white paper; still on the clipboard were a yellow and pink sheet from under the top paper, which had the same writing from the steno pad.

“You have to pay tax on all fuel,” the short officer said very sternly to Lasher. “It is 15%; you don’t save money by skipping the larger fueling ports.”

“She holds fifteen hundred gallons,” Dirk offered, working with the upper end of all the numbers so the police wouldn’t try to barter. He didn’t care about the money compared to getting away from here and onto Guyana. “Fuel is what, a dollar fifty? How about an even four grand to cover the taxes?” He smiled as he said it.

Dirk wasn’t upset; this happened all the time in the Caribbean and in Central and South America. He was used to it and, in some way, felt comforted that he was dealing with simple corruption he understood versus the global games the organization was playing.

The taller junior officer made a facial expression; the more seasoned man knew how to keep himself in check—he knew a sucker when he had one in his sights.

The lead officer pretended to get mad. “You Americans always try to cheat us hard-working Jamaicans,” he said. Even he wasn’t really buying it, but this was how the game was played. “You want to pay 7% or 8% when I told you it was 15%.”

Dirk knew the script. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. No, I would never do that. Oh no,” he put about as much effort into it as the officer did. “Please, just tell me the proper taxes, and I’ll pay you right now; we have a small amount of cash onboard.” He knew that he had just gone from sucker fish to self-cleaning filet-of-fish in their eyes.

Now, it was a guessing game. The officers would want to pick a number higher than the total amount of money they thought he might have, but not so much higher that it was an impossible sum they couldn’t lower later to leverage the situation to a close.

The lead officer looked Lasher up and down, then looked up to Bonsai.

Dirk saw the decision cross the man’s face. He had considered something dark when he looked up at the bikini-clad Bonsai, but when he looked back at Dirk, the scales seemed to tip too far in the wrong direction.

“Ten thousand,” he finally said, his voice firm but with a hint of doubt.

Lasher pretended to fret.

The officer pretended to give a stern look.

Lasher finally nodded, pretending to be broken. “Okay, okay. We have it. Honey, would you toss down the whole lockbox, please? Make sure it has ten thousand dollars in it,” Dirk finished, looking up at Bonsai, who nodded and disappeared.

She returned a few awkward moments later, holding a small metal box with a handle on it out over the railing, leaning down low. Dirk put his hands up; she carefully dropped the box, and it fell ten feet between them. Dirk caught it, checked the contents, and handed it to the taller officer, who confirmed the amount.

The officers talked with Dirk for a few more minutes—nothing important—then they turned and left, walking back across the street and out of view.

Once they were gone, with Shifty Sam nowhere to be seen, Bonsai called down to Dirk. “We’re just going to pay them off? No spinning backflip karate moves?”

Lasher’s face firmed as he pointed to the mouth of the bay, visible from the end of the dock.

There were two Jamaican Military Close Shore patrol craft positioned in the center of the bay’s mouth. Each was about twenty-five feet long, with what looked like a three-person crew: pilot, gunner, and mechanic. There was a forward machine gun mount. Essentially, they looked like old 1950s speed boats that someone had outfitted with a machine gun on the front.

Chapter 15

“It’s the same damn thing with this guy over and over again,” Kimberly Sharp muttered, a hint of annoyance curling at the edges of her voice.

K'Bari had just delivered the latest report from Jamaica.

Sharp sat at a small table, her attractive form draped in a simple white flowered sundress that clung just right, as always, giving her an air of deceptive innocence. She sipped delicately from a teacup, seated in a small chair on the veranda owned by Desmond Hoyte, the head of the People’s National Congress. The building was as grand as its purpose, serving as both the residence for Hoyte and several key members of his staff, as well as the administrative heart of the Congress.

The setting was an ironic contrast to the view from the veranda—a sharp divide between the opulence of the National Congress building and the struggling streets of New Amsterdam below. Across the Canje River, the town lay in its typical state of third-world disarray, now worsened by the influx of thousands of expat communist soldiers from Colombia. It looked overcrowded and on the brink of something dangerous.

New Amsterdam, Guyana, in 1998 was a patchwork of cultures. East Indian traditions wove through the daily life of the majority, while Afro-Guyanese influences added a rich layer of cultural heritage. The smaller Amerindian presence was quieter but no less enduring, their customs lingering like whispers in the background.

A tall, strong-looking older man in a white tuxedo approached silently and refilled Sharp’s teacup. His presence was almost ghostly in the way he moved.

She turned to him, momentarily breaking her focus on K'Bari. “They say New Amsterdam could have had the best of everything—Caribbean warmth, European elegance, and South American flavors. But instead, they ended up with Caribbean technology, European bureaucracy, and South American traffic.”

The man smiled politely, nodding in agreement before disappearing back into the shadows of the building.

Sharp watched him leave, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips, then turned her attention back to K'Bari. “That was both funny and insightful,” she said, her tone light, almost teasing, as she looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “I don’t think he understands me at all.”

“Me nah go kill every person who polite to you,” K'Bari replied in his thick accent, his tone flat and firm.

She pouted, the look playful.

“Me nah do it. Besides, he be me uncle.”

Sharp’s eyes narrowed slightly, the moment of playfulness fading. She rolled her eyes, the thrill she sought slipping through her fingers. She refocused on the bad news. “So, we can’t track the yacht anymore?”

K'Bari shook his head. “We can track it all we want. She on fire in St. Margaret’s Bay. Easy to see, half sunk. But de people? Dem gone.”

Sharp’s irritation simmered beneath the surface, gradually turning to frustration. “Quit being cute about it,” she snapped, her voice severe, slicing through the humid air like a knife. Even K'Bari, ever unflappable, flinched at the sudden venom in her tone. “Just @!#$ing kill them. Just! Kill! Them! I don’t care how; I don’t care if they see it coming. Destroy them! End them! Do it! Remove them FROM MY PLANET!” she screamed, her voice rising to a pitch that sent a distant flock of birds scattering into the sky, startled by the sudden fury.

Chapter 16

Dirk sprinted up to the pilot cabin; Bonsai was already there. From the cabin, he could see the police station across the street. All the officers were inside, the doors firmly closed. If they’d painted the three monkeys on the front door—those that see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil—the image would have been complete.

He jumped down, using the railing as a bar to slide under it, grabbing the copper ground wire and tossing it back onto the dock. He ran the length of the boat, yanking the ropes off the staples, then circled and climbed the side ladder back up to the pilot cabin, hurriedly pushed the button to start the engine, and slamming the throttle forward while spinning the helm hard to starboard, turning the ship away from the dock.

One of the speakers on the patrol boat blared over the water.

“Attention, vessel. This is the Jamaican Navy. You are in violation of restricted navigation protocols. Stop engines and prepare for boarding. Acknowledge!”

“What are we going to do?” Bonsai asked, her voice hurried, eyes darting around for options.

Dirk pointed at the mouth of the bay. “Only choice we have is to try and get out of here into open water.”

She followed the line where he pointed. “Wait, we’re going to ram them? Is that even possible?”

“I’m open to suggestions,” he said, staying calm to help bring her back down.

She picked up on his exaggerated calm.

“Vessel, this is Jamaican Navy Patrol. You are instructed to immediately reduce speed and cease all forward movement. Acknowledge!”

The yacht had completed its turn and was now heading straight at the two close shore craft.

Bonsai looked around. He was right; there were no good options.

One of the patrol boats revved its engine and began to advance, taking an angle to pass the yacht on one side.

“Stop your engines and hold position immediately. Failure to comply will result in the use of deadly force. This is your final warning!”

It was a bad situation. The only way forward was through.

The stationary boat in the mouth of the bay fired a short five-round burst into the water about fifty feet in front of the approaching yacht—a warning shot. A few moments later, they fired a second burst, impacting closer to the bow.

Dirk held steady, the yacht now climbing over twenty knots, barreling forward.

The stationary boat opened fire with the machine gun—no more short bursts. This was a long, concentrated volley, tearing into the front of the yacht, white fiberglass splintering and exploding on impact, flying up into the air.

The craft speeding along their side angled behind them, then opened up, aiming for the inboard engine at the waterline. They hit something, the engine grinding in protest, smoke pouring out the rear of the craft. The stationary boat fired up its engine as the yacht got close, moving to the opposite side from the other craft and firing with a reloaded machine gun near the same spot—the rear of the yacht where the engine was.

A small explosion rocked the boat, followed by a larger one inside the yacht. Then a massive blast tore through the aft of the craft, blowing it apart.

The concussion launched the back of the yacht upward, pushing it forward at an even more accelerated velocity. The massive ripple wave from the blast point spread out, shoving the bow below the waterline and then lifting it out violently as the wave surged under the rest of the boat.

Both Lasher and Bonsai were knocked off their feet.

Dirk recovered first, pulling Bonsai up and maneuvering them out of the small pilot cabin onto the top deck. He pointed north, Bonsai looked. The Cuban gunboat was speeding forward at a breakneck pace, pushing past its top line of forty knots.

One of the patrol boats circled into view, turning to bring its gunner in line. The rounds zipped past, sounding like angry bees. Some impacted the deck and railing, splintering fiberglass everywhere. Dirk fell backward, dragging Bonsai down with him. There was nowhere to go; they simply had to hope Wade and Brick were on top of their game.

Chapter 17

Wade stood in the pilot house, the throttle jammed all the way forward, smoke pouring out of the elevated exhaust. The gunboat smashed into the waves as it sped ahead. Brick was in the wind, machine gun primed, his massive arms flexed with tension, as much just holding on as anything.

They watched as the fireball that had been the yacht’s engine erupted in the distance for a second time. The red and orange flames, thick black smoke, and white debris from the blast stood in stark contrast to the surroundings: crystal clear water, a cloudless blue sky, and the deep, lush greens of the Jamaican island interior.

As the craft neared the mouth of the bay, Wade’s expertise at the helm showed. He pushed the gunboat well past its design specs, banking off waves and maneuvering two and three steps ahead of the situation. When the gunboat burst into the bay, Wade had it moving west but angled southeast, lining up one of the nearshore patrol crafts that was still emptying rounds into the distressed yacht.

The gunboat skipped across the water nearly sideways, finally biting as the propeller grabbed and pushed the craft forward into the melee. Wade flipped a red switch, lifted a transparent plastic lid off a series of buttons, and slammed his hand down, depressing two red buttons near the helm. The dual fixed 12.7mm machine guns roared to life, spitting out dozens of rounds a second. His aim was true, and the nearest patrol boat lit up. First, the rounds blew out glass and siding, and then, as the gunboat shifted in the water, lowering its aim, pieces of the patrol boat exploded in all directions—shrapnel of fiberglass, metal, and wood flying everywhere.

Brick held on as the gunboat jerked left and right through the maneuvers, struggling to maintain his position. After the volley into the first patrol boat, Wade reduced the throttle, steadying the platform. Brick took the hint. The second patrol boat was rounding the far side of the yacht, shifting its focus from the distressed vessel to the new threat of the gunboat. Brick aimed, tracking the movement easily despite the speed. He opened fire, the .30 caliber rounds devastating the smaller craft. He continued to fire until the patrol boat caught fire, everyone on board riddled with bullets. Its engine died, and it started to drift sideways, consumed in flames.

Wade slammed the throttle forward and then pulled it all the way back, sending the gunboat leaping forward. He adjusted the angle of their approach, and the gunboat glided to a stop inches away from the side of the sinking yacht.

“Dirk! Trudy!” Brick yelled from his position at the front of the boat.

No response.

Wade left the engine idling and stepped around to stand with Brick.

The yacht lurched and sank a few more feet. There wasn’t a risk of it going completely under; the bay wasn’t deep enough. But there was a risk of further explosions as the fuel mixed with the warm brackish water while the ship settled. Its aft was probably already on the bottom of the bay.

“Dirk!” Wade yelled.

They both waited and listened.

After a long moment, they began searching for an access point. Wade pointed to where the waterline met the yacht a couple of dozen yards away. He went to the pilot's cabin, put the boat in reverse, and gently eased her backward.

Once adjusted, he put the engine back on idle and stepped around. Brick was already positioned and went over just as Wade retook his spot.

“Dirk?” Wade called out again, waiting.

There was movement near the shore, maybe two hundred yards away.

Shifty Sam was yelling something frantically from the dock. He was waving and pointing back to the island. Then Wade saw it: the police had exited the station and were preparing two more patrol boats. They were different—designed for civilian patrols instead of military ones like the nearshore craft they had just engaged. Even so, no one wanted another armed confrontation, so time was of the essence.

“We’ve got maybe five minutes,” Wade shouted to Brick, who was on the yacht, making his way up to the top deck where they had last seen Dirk and Bonsai.

“They’re here!” Brick yelled down. “Both alive. Knocked out.”

After a moment, Brick picked up Bonsai and carefully carried her to where he could hand her to Wade. It was tricky, given the angle of the craft in the water, but the slope was just manageable.

Wade took her. The handoff was awkward, but they managed it. Then Brick went back up for Dirk, and Wade carried Bonsai into the interior cabin. Two very narrow, modest bunks could be folded out from the wall. He did so and put her on one. She was breathing, and there were no major wounds or impact points.

Brick entered, carrying Dirk. After another moment, he pulled out the second narrow bunk and put him on it.

The sound of boat motors came from outside. Wade stepped into the pilot's cabin; Brick went out the door and back up to the machine gun mount. Two police patrol boats were pulling away from the other side of the dock where they had refueled the yacht.

Wade snorted in disapproval, made eye contact with Brick through the forward glass, then pushed the throttle forward and angled the gunboat out of the bay and back into the open water.

Chapter 18

The gunboat's interior was bleak and utilitarian. Bonsai sat up, her head throbbing, taking in the cramped, cold cabin. Dirk was still out, lying on a cot like hers on the other side of the small space. She needed to get her bearings. The command console hummed with old, rugged controls—radar flickered, static crackled. The weapons rack held AK-47s and pistols, everything secured and ready.

But where were Wade and Brick?

The boat was moving; she could feel the waves beneath the hull. Questions pressed on her as she stood. She remembered the explosions and Lasher pulling her down out of the way of incoming enemy fire. She moved over to his cot, her pulse quickening as she checked on him. He seemed fine, more asleep than unconscious. His breathing was regular; there were no visible wounds or bloodstains.

Her legs were wobbly. She used the wall to stand and move, working her way to the door. She opened it; it was nighttime, which meant many hours had passed since the battle on the yacht.

The air smelled of recent rain.

She looked around, taking a few steps out of the cabin, but saw no one.

“Trudy!”

It was Wade’s happy voice. She realized it was coming from above and behind her. She took a few steps and turned. Both Wade and Brick were sitting on upside-down buckets on the upper deck.

“Hi, Wade,” she said when she saw their setup. She walked to the ladder and climbed up to the second deck.

Wade stood and offered her his seat on the upside-down bucket.

“Age before beauty,” she smiled at him.

“I insist,” he said, gesturing to the spot again.

She conceded and sat down. “Has Dirk been unconscious this whole time?” she asked once settled.

Wade shook his head. “He woke up pretty quickly after we got both of you onto the boat. We kept him awake for a couple of hours; then once he was in the clear, he went to sleep.”

“Oh,” she said. “Good.”

Brick looked concerned. “You must now stay awake for while too,” he said in his thick Russian accent.

“I’m a little wobbly but feel okay,” she said, then had a thought. She looked down; she was still wearing the shorts and bikini top from earlier. She didn’t have any shoes or a change of clothes.

Wade noticed the look. “While I don’t mind you in a bikini, I can see how you might want something a little more modest,” he said, grinning.

“Da, I like bikini too, but not practical.” Brick leaned forward, his voice rough with his heavy accent. "Cabo de la Vela," he said. "On Guajira Peninsula. Good place—remote, lawless. Locals, they don’t ask questions. Wayuu people, they live simple. I know it from old days, smuggling, you know? No government, no police. We can get clothes, supplies. In and out, quick. No one will expect us there."

“Won’t we need money?” she asked.

“They take American,” Brick replied.

“I have a couple thousand dollars on me,” Wade offered with a reassuring smile. “Cash money.”

“Dirk?” she asked.

“It was his idea,” Wade explained. “Once Brick suggested it.”

Bonsai smiled, feeling a little more at ease, getting used to Wade’s eccentricities.

Wade looked at her for a long moment, his eyes softening as if he saw something familiar. “You know, Trudy,” he began slowly, “you remind me a lot of someone I knew a long time ago. Dirk’s mother, Candy. She had that same fire in her, that same spirit. It’s not that I’m confused, no memory problems right now—believe me, I know exactly who you are—but there’s something in you that brings her back to mind.”

Bonsai was taken aback, unsure how to respond at first. “I didn’t know Dirk had a mother,” she finally said, a little hesitant, making a joke. “I thought they built him in an Army lab.”

Wade smiled, not changing the subject. “She was something special. Strong, determined, like you. She never gave up, no matter how tough things got. And they got tough, let me tell you. She had this way of making you feel like you could do anything if you just tried hard enough.”

Bonsai felt a warmth she hadn’t expected. Growing up in the foster care system, she had never had this kind of encouragement or support. It was a foreign feeling but not unwelcome. “Thank you, Wade,” she said softly. “That means a lot.”

Wade smiled gently. “You’re a tough one, Trudy. You’ve got us now, and we’re here for you. You’ll find we’re tough too.”

Bonsai’s eyes softened, and she smiled back at him. “I appreciate that. More than you know.” She really did, and worked hard not to get emotional.

Wade chuckled softly. “Well, let’s get you something a little more comfortable than that bikini. I’m sure we can find something when we reach Cabo de la Vela.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” Bonsai agreed, feeling a little lighter, a little more ‘on the inside’ than she had in a long time, maybe ever, given her tough upbringing.

Brick gave a rare smile. “Da, sure, no one listen to Brick. It okay, I survive. But maybe I miss bikini, if anyone care to ask.”

Bonsai chuckled, shaking her head. “Don’t push your luck, buddy,” then laughed, feeling even more at ease with the banter between them all.

Chapter 19

The gunboat was uncomfortable. It wasn't made for extended stays; instead, it was designed for eight-to-twelve-hour shifts. Wade had the boat heading due south, cutting across a few east-west shipping lanes and running perpendicular to the warm Gulf coast currents. They were just a few miles out from Cabo de la Vela, a remote and harsh landscape.

Wade, thinking ahead, wanted to perform a tune-up on the gunboat's engine, which involved changing the oil and greasing the pistons. It was a wise move, given they were pushing the boat well beyond its traditional usage with the long voyage from Jamaica to Guyana in open waters, and there was no telling how much care the Cuban military had taken in their maintenance of the huge machine.

Bonsai was continually learning the extent of Lasher’s reach. Apparently, there was a local bank in Cabo de la Vela where he kept a lockbox. She had tried to joke about the coincidence, but all three men remained sober, and pointed out that it wasn't a coincidence at all; it was simply a result of the work Dirk had been doing with Lisa for the past decade.

Bonsai wasn’t completely convinced. It would be reasonable to have a lockbox in a big city, but Cabo de la Vela wasn’t that. It wasn’t hardly anything, really: a fishing village turned black market hub with a spattering of tourism from people who wanted someplace well off the beaten path. The infrastructure was rudimentary, with dirt roads and limited plumbing. A few semi-modern buildings made of cinder blocks dotted the area, including the bank, a dilapidated motel, and the local administrative building. Geographically in Colombia but claimed and run by Venezuelan authorities, Cabo de la Vela was remote, economically depressed, and strategically insignificant. Tensions between Colombia and Venezuela often led to threats concerning the village and the peninsula it sat on, but they were just lip service.

As the landscape came into view, the isolation and barrenness of the village became apparent. There were no trees visible, not near the village and nowhere on the long, rolling mud hills on the horizon.

Wade slowed the gunboat and fell into an informal line of boats waiting their turn to enter the narrow channel that led to a sheltered inner harbor. The harbor wasn’t anything fancy—just a natural breakwater formed by the landscape, blocking the undercurrents and providing some protection.

The air was hot, much like Jamaica and even Miami, but it was dry and arid instead of humid. There was a pungent smell in the air, a combination of chemicals and rusted metal. Strip mines dotted the landscape, evidence of past exploitation. The harbor area itself looked mined out years ago, with nothing but small remnants left.

Bonsai felt a wave of concern rising; the place looked tough and dangerous. She watched Lasher, Brick, and Wade. They seemed more relaxed than usual. Dirk owned a biker bar, after all. She was slowly coming to understand that places like Cabo de la Vela were more their element than the posh neon of Miami Beach. To them, this wasn’t a dive filled with undesirables—it was home. Well, not their home, but familiar nonetheless.

The docks were few and far between; shanty wood structures that looked unsafe. It was fortunate they had moved the fuel over from the yacht, as there would be limited, if any, fuel options here. Wade steered the boat away from what looked like a local beach area where people were in the water. Numerous boats were anchored in the semi-shallows to the west. He found a spot, killed the engine, and dropped the anchor. They were in about nine feet of water, roughly twenty feet off the sloping beach. Wade waited for the boat to drift and settle once the anchor caught.

“I stay with boat,” Brick offered as they prepared to depart. “I manage to have appropriate clothes,” he added, glancing at Wade. “And shirt with sleeves already.”

Wade flexed his well-muscled old-man arms.

Brick then flexed his, showing even more impressive muscles. They both laughed.

“Put away garden snakes,” Brick joked to Wade.

Wade grinned, shaking his head. “Just keeping you on your toes, Brick.”

Bonsai smiled, feeling a sense of camaraderie among the group, even in such a rough and desolate place. She liked this crew, and she thought she fit in well.

“There’s a place near the motel that will have the engine stuff I need,” Wade said as they mobilized. “I’ve got more than enough money. Dirk, do you need some?”

Lasher shook his head, “We’ll go to the bank first, then shopping. There are enough tourist spots around; we’ll find what we need.” Then he looked at Wade’s sleeveless shirt, “We’ll grab you a couple of changes of clothes also,” then, “Brick! What size do you wear?” he yelled back up to the boat.

“The bad movie number, I no no in American,” he yelled back. “Look like 30?”

“Triple X,” Wade offered.

“Sure,” Dirk said, a little bewildered. “Ya, that’s the best way to describe his shirt size. Sure. Of course, the bad movie number 30. What else would he wear.”

Bonsai smiled; it was funny at that moment. Wade gave Brick a thumbs-up, then headed toward the garage he’d mentioned.

Lasher gestured in the opposite direction for Bonsai, and they began walking. The beach was pleasant enough if you could ignore the backdrop. Mostly, there was just flat nothing. A few fishing boats were pulled up out of the water here and there. The village stretched along the shoreline for about two miles, curving with the coast. It wasn’t very deep, though; there were only two roads, one heading west, the other east, running parallel. The houses, shops, and shanty shacks were all crammed between them, making the village just one block deep.

They walked slowly. Wade would need the rest of the day, maybe even into the night, to do the engine work, so there was no rush. Dirk was still shirtless with just the Bermuda shorts. Neither of them had shoes; it was fortunate that it wasn’t a cloudless, scorching summer day, as the beach sand would’ve been too hot to walk on. Instead, it was cloudy and warm but not peak summer heat.

Bonsai spoke first. “I understand Brick works for you in Guyana. He runs the farm. But he seems pretty loyal, and it feels like there’s more to your relationship.”

They kept their distance from the few people scattered along the beach. They had about a mile to walk, so there was time to talk.

Dirk laughed. “Brick works with me,” he emphasized. “Just like you. Just like Jack before, well, you know.”

“But you pay them money?” she asked.

His smile lingered. “I share my good fortune,” he corrected.

She shook her head, still not fully grasping it.

“It’s not complicated, Trudy. I adopted the model the organization uses. It took me a while to understand it. There’s a philosophy behind it that seems to work.”

She studied him closely. “What philosophy?” She realized this would apply to how he saw her as well.

“People seem to do better when they see themselves as working toward their own goals. Especially in situations like ours, where there isn’t a clear organizing structure. There’s no depth chart showing how to move up from the third string to the first. So, instead, the organization treats everything like a franchise. I copied them. It’s brilliant; we’re still building a team of experts. There are some very loose rules and a loose hierarchy, but most everyone works toward their own self-interest, with just enough coordination so we’re all moving in the same direction.”

“I kind of understand,” she admitted.

“I know it’s the exact opposite of the military structure. I wonder if that’s why it’s such an effective counter. It presents as chaos to the military mind.”

“Probably the same way the rigid structure of the military confuses them. Maybe that’s why they struggle with basic organization,” she said thoughtfully.

Dirk nodded. “Exactly. It’s like when they’re tracking us down out here. If we were up against a formal military, they’d send overwhelming force to neutralize us. Everything would be coordinated, and they’d come in heavy. But the organization can’t do that. That’s why we keep running into small groups of them, but they struggle to coordinate between the different pockets.”

“That seems important,” she mused, her brow furrowed as she processed the revelation.

“It is. It’s also a warning to us. If I’m trying to mimic their model, I need to be more self-aware—find a middle ground that gives us an edge.”

She nodded, then realized they’d drifted off-topic. “So, why is Brick so loyal to you?”

Dirk’s expression shifted, the warmth fading into a more solemn look. “I killed his brother, Kamén,” he said flatly, turning to meet her eyes. “Actually, you can relate. I killed him in the Darién Gap.” He paused, a thought striking him. “I seem to do that a lot in that place.”

Bonsai blinked, absorbing the information. “What was he doing in the Gap?”

Dirk hesitated, considering how much to reveal. Finally, he settled on a response. “What was he doing in the Darién Gap? Working for Kimberly Sharp,” he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

Bonsai nodded, the name enough to shift her focus. “That explains a lot.”

Dirk’s thin smile returned, this time tinged with something darker. “It does.”

They walked in silence for a moment, the weight of their conversation settling in. Bonsai glanced at Dirk, her curiosity piqued. “I take it his brother deserved it?”

Dirk’s gaze turned ahead, scanning the horizon. “He did.”

Bonsai nodded, feeling a strange comfort in his harsh words. Dirk Lasher sure did seem to end a lot of people. She knew she should be horrified at each new revelation.

But she wasn’t. Not in the least.

Chapter 20

The rest of the day passed uneventfully.

Wade found what he needed to tune up the engine, while Dirk and Bonsai made their way to the bank, where Dirk accessed his lockbox. They took their time walking back through the main thoroughfare, moving slowly, exploring the modest shops. Lasher picked up a pair of sturdy blue jeans and a light yellow Cubano shirt. He also found a different style for Wade and grabbed a pack of 3XL undershirts for Brick.

Bonsai had a wider selection. She found jeans that fit well and several casual floral shorts and blouses. Both she and Dirk bought practical high-top tennis shoes, focusing on functionality rather than fashion.

They stopped to eat at a small, local spot and ordered six meals to go—two for Wade and Brick for today, and one each for tomorrow's journey. The meals were sealed in Styrofoam and tin foil, ensuring they’d keep. They also picked up a large bottle of Jim Beam Kentucky Straight Bourbon—the best they could find in Cabo de la Vela, though it was the worst blend. Dirk passed on a haircut and shave, despite Bonsai’s gentle suggestion. He hinted he’d take care of it in Guyana before meeting with Jagan, implying he had some sort of holding there, maybe a house. Bonsai was learning that Dirk was rarely specific about these things.

As the day wore on, everyone pitched in to help Wade with the engine work. They finished around sundown. Bonsai ran out of tasks about halfway through and spent the rest of the time gathering wood for a beach campfire. Given the scarce environment, she ended up buying a bundle of wood from a vendor at an inflated price, but no one cared—it was a good idea.

The night unfolded around the campfire, with the four of them sitting on the sand, passing around the bottle of cheap whiskey, and wearing their overpriced tourist clothes. The fire crackled, sending sparks into the inky black sky as they exchanged stories. Dirk and Wade took turns embellishing tales of their exploits; Bonsai found herself laughing at their banter, feeling a rare sense of camaraderie.

Much later, as the fire settled into a steady glow, Brick leaned forward, his thick Russian accent cutting through the night. “I tell story,” he began, his voice deep and rumbling, “from days when Soviet Union fall.”

Everyone turned their attention to him; he rarely spoke of his past.

“Kamén—my brother—and I, we were both in Spetsnaz,” Brick continued. “Special forces, you know? Like you Trudy, only we not soft like American military. We were trained, strong, young Russian men. But when the Soviet Union fall, everything change. No more order, no more mission. Just chaos.”

He paused, his eyes reflecting the flames. “We were in small town, somewhere in Georgia. Not state—country. Things were bad, very bad. No food, no money. Only guns. Kamén, he say we take what we need. No ask, just take.”

Brick chuckled, but it was a dark, humorless sound. “We go into village, small place, poor people. Kamén, he is ruthless. We take what we want. Then...then we see little girl. She was hiding, holding small doll, too scared to run. Kamén, he look at her, and something in him...break. He do things to her, then shoot her, just like that.”

The laughter around the fire had died, replaced by a heavy silence. Dirk shifted uncomfortably, his gaze on Brick, who stared into the fire as if seeing that moment again.

“I was angry. Not just angry—lost. This was my brother, my blood. But I knew then, he was gone. Kamén, the brother I knew, was gone.” Brick’s voice softened, and he looked up at Dirk.

Dirk held Brick’s gaze, the memory of that dark time heavy between them.

Brick took a deep breath, his voice steady, “Kamén, he was beyond redemption.”

There was sincerity in Brick’s words. Bonsai felt a lump in her throat. Wade reached over and patted Brick on the back, a simple gesture of solidarity.

Brick let out a rare, deep laugh, breaking the tension. “So, now you know why I drink so much! Is to forget, but also to remember what is important.”

They passed the bottle around again, each taking a sip, except Dirk, who stopped drinking at the start of the tale. Wade, ever the old soldier and completely misreading Dirk’s intensity, held the bottle up. “To Brick, and to Kamén. May we remember the good, and learn from the bad.”

When the bottle made its way back to Bonsai, she asked, “Now Brick, I understand you used to work with Kimberly Sharp? What’s her deal? Dirk won’t talk about her,” she smiled at Lasher, who sat a few feet away, his eyes flicking between them, his expression a mix of curiosity and lingering anger—not at them, just in general.

Brick reached over, took the half-empty bottle, took a long pull, and handed it back to Bonsai.

“Kimberly Sharp…” Brick began, his voice still heavy, “is not just some villain. She is...genius, really. A mind so dangerous, it cuts through everything. She see world in ways we cannot, with ambitions so big, so powerful, they hard to even understand. She always planning, always moving pieces on board only she can touch.”

Bonsai took a swig from the bottle, her eyes blurry but fixed on Brick, clearly intrigued. And drunk, but mostly intrigued. She passed the bottle back to him, leaning in slightly, urging him to continue.

“When I first meet her,” Brick continued, his voice carrying the weight of the memories, “I think I join just another operation. But Kimberly, she have this...vision. It not just about power or money—those just tools for her. She want control, real control, over everything she can see. And you get pulled in, feel like you part of something much bigger. Important even.”

He paused, his gaze dropping to the fire, reflecting on the past.

The fire burned in Lasher’s eyes as Brick continued.

“She ruthless, yes, but not like most people. Kimberly, she don’t do things out of anger or impulse. Every move she make, every life she take, it calculated, with purpose. No, that not right. She sometime kill for fun. Mostly for purpose. That what make her so dangerous. She don’t care about people she use, but she use them so well, they don’t even realize it until too late.”

Bonsai nodded, her curiosity deepening. She didn’t notice Dirk’s steelier expression or how his eyes changed. “But why did you stay with her? Why follow someone like that?”

Brick sighed, taking another swig from the bottle before handing it back to her. “At first, I stay because...she give me direction. After Soviet Union fall, I was lost. She offer me place in her grand design, chance to be part of something bigger than myself. And I believe in her, in what she building. Like I say, she make you feel like you part of unstoppable force, something that could reshape world.”

He paused, the firelight casting shadows on his face, highlighting the internal conflict. “But then...I see what she really is. A genius, yes, but one without mercy, without any true loyalty. She use us all, including my brother Kamén.”

Brick’s voice grew quieter, more reflective.

He looked at Lasher but quickly looked away. No one could have held Dirk’s stare, not at this moment.

“Kamén believe in her even more than I did. But then he cross line... He kill Jill Harper, girl Dirk save from darkest parts of organization. That when I see truth. Kimberly, she don’t care about Jill, about Kamén, about any of us. We all just tools for her, pieces on her board.”

Bonsai’s eyes widened as she listened, the weight of Brick’s words sinking in. She passed the bottle back to him, but her gaze remained locked on his, searching for something more.

“And Dirk?” she asked softly. She looked at Lasher. She thought she understood the amount of loss he had suffered, but there was so much more; it was crushing in its weight.

She turned back to Brick, who held her gaze with unblinking eyes, a solemn look on his face. He was speaking to her but really talking to Dirk. “Dirk do what had to be done. When Kamén kill Jill, it final straw. Dirk end him for it. And you know what? I don’t blame him. Kamén, he lost himself, lost his humanity. Dirk do what I could not. He stop my brother before he hurt anyone else.”

Dirk’s eyes narrowed slightly as he listened, the tension in the air thickening. Brick glanced over at him again, then back to Bonsai. “I don’t hold it against him,” Brick added, his voice soft but firm. “In fact, I grateful ...he save me from having to be the one to end Kamén. Hard thing for brother to do.”

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken emotions.

Finally, Brick broke it with a small, almost sad smile. “Kimberly...she force of nature. But even she cannot see everything. One day, someone will stop her. Maybe that someday be us.”

Bonsai looked over to Dirk, but he was gone. She looked back to Brick and Wade.

Wade answered her look. “I raised him kind of soft,” he said, introspective. “He probably just wants attention. He would do this when he was a kid, get all mopey and wander off brooding.”

Bonsai didn’t know if she bought that. Nothing about Dirk Lasher suggested a soft upbringing; in fact, it seemed the complete opposite. She knew Dirk had issues with Wade. Up until now, she didn’t really understand them, but maybe Wade was just too hard on him growing up, and he was struggling to come to terms with the result, which was good, instead focused on the process, which she had no doubt would have been painful.

Brick answered Wade for her. “Dirk not soft, Wade,” he said, handing the bottle to Wade to suggest he wasn't being critical but trying to be helpful.

“Then why’d he leave?” Wade asked, waving his hand in the direction of where Dirk had been sitting. It seemed a legitimate question.

Brick shook his head. “Because he love Kimberly. Maybe not like Lisa. Maybe long time ago. He see something in her, and her actions hurt him. When she had Lisa killed, he get confused. Then Trudy come along too soon. She all young and interesting. Make him feel young, forget his problems. But his feelings part of problem, too, then he get mad that he forgets. The more he mend, the madder he get at the mending.”

Brick looked hard at them both. “Is Brick only one paying attention? It pretty basic stuff…” he allowed himself to trail off, drunk.

Chapter 21

Bonsai searched in the darkness.

The night here felt darker than anywhere else, an oddity considering the open landscape—no trees, no buildings, nothing to block the sky. The stars were faint, the moon veiled by thin clouds, casting a dim glow over the shoreline. She saw a figure ahead, walking along the water’s edge, his silhouette unmistakable. He was moving west, away from her. She picked up her pace, closing the distance quickly.

“Dirk!” she called out as she neared him.

He stopped and turned.

She ran to him and wrapped her arms around him. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to upset you by asking Brick all those questions.”

He let the embrace linger, then gently stepped back. “It’s fine, Trudy,” he said, turning to walk again, a silent invitation for her to join him.

“Is it true what Brick said?” she asked after a few moments.

He glanced at her, then looked back toward the horizon. “Probably,” he replied, his tone guarded.

“So...you think I’m interesting?” she tried to joke, though it came out awkwardly. It wasn’t the right time, and she knew it the moment the words left her mouth.

But he smiled, just a little, enough to soften the mood. “That’s what you took from all of that?” he asked, his tone lightening if only a bit.

Her approach might have worked after all.

“Seriously, though,” she continued, more earnest, “there’s a lot of emotion tied up in all this for you, isn’t there?”

He nodded slightly, almost to himself. “Seems there is.”

“I didn’t fully understand before,” she admitted, growing more serious. “But now it makes some sense. I’m sorry, Dirk. I’ve been flirting with you, and I see now how that might have made things harder for you. That wasn’t my intent.”

He looked relieved, a weight lifting from his expression. “I’m interested, Trudy,” he confessed, his voice carrying a vulnerability she hadn’t heard before. “But you’re right. I have a lot to work through first. Thank you for being here. It’s made a world of difference. The truth is, if I were alone after losing Lisa, and then Jack a week later—if it were just Wade and me...” He looked up at the sky, searching for something in the vastness above, then turned to her, his expression grave. “The weight of what I’m going to do...it’s been crushing me. I shouldn’t be dragging you into this, putting you in harm's way for my own selfish reasons. I’m nothing but rage under the surface. It’s hard to control, to channel. I have to be a monster, but I can’t let myself get lost in it. I can’t afford to let my feelings take over, because the rage...it brings poor decisions, choices where no one wins. Does that make sense?”

She studied his face, her heart aching for him. “No, it doesn’t make sense,” she said with a soft smile. “But I think I understand. You don’t trust yourself to act on feelings because you’re afraid you won’t be able to keep them separate from everything else you have to do.” She paused, considering. “And you’re worried that any decisions you make now might be as wrong as the ones you’ve already made to end the organization. Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

He looked at her then, really looked at her. She wasn’t completely right, but she was close enough. This was the moment. She was there, ready, willing. He could pull her in. He wanted to, but as soon as he acknowledged it, the rage surged, filling the space where love might have been.

She felt the tension in him, saw the storm of emotions playing out in his eyes. He looked like a man torn between desire and duty. She realized that the only way to help him, to eventually get what they both wanted, was to give him the time he needed. She fought her own urge to step into his arms, to close the distance between them.

But she didn’t. Just like him, she let reason prevail. The alcohol made it nearly impossible, but these were both strong people.

“I need you to make me a promise,” she said after a long silence, the tension easing as they resumed walking along the shoreline.

“Trudy…”

“No, this is an easy one,” she insisted. “Two things. First, I need you to promise to include me, just like you’ve been doing. I want to help you do what has to be done.”

They walked on, Dirk waiting for the second point.

“Can you promise me that?” she pressed.

“Let me hear the rest of it,” he said gruffly, his usual way.

“After we do what needs to be done, when everything has settled down,” she continued, her voice steady, “I need you to promise we’ll revisit this conversation.”

He stopped walking again, looking out at the water for a long moment before turning back to her. “I promise,” he said quietly.

She nodded, relief washing over her. “Good,” she said, her voice softer now, almost tender. “That’s all I needed.”

They walked in silence for a few more minutes, the rhythmic sound of the waves the only thing between them. The air was cooling; the night was quiet save for the gentle lapping of the sea. Finally, Dirk stopped again. They stood there for a moment, the space between them filled with unspoken words, emotions too complex to articulate. Then, as if by mutual agreement, they both turned, heading back to the boat, side by side, each lost in their own thoughts.

The night wore on, and as they finally made their way to the campfire, the embers glowing faintly in the darkness, they knew that things between them had changed. It wasn’t the right time, but the promise of something more lingered in the air, unspoken but understood.

Chapter 22

The gunboat sped along at twenty knots, slicing through the bright blue water that stretched endlessly before them. The South American continent remained a distant silhouette to their starboard side, its jagged coastline barely visible against the horizon. Wade skillfully kept them far from the coast, navigating away from established shipping lanes and tourist hotspots. They couldn’t afford another run-in with local authorities, not if it could be avoided.

The sun hung high in the sky, blazing down with an intensity that turned the world into a furnace. The air was thick with heat, but it was also surprisingly clean, carrying the faint, salty tang of the open ocean. The water below them shimmered, reflecting the sunlight in a thousand tiny mirrors, the endless expanse of cobalt blue broken only by the occasional whitecap.

They had motored past Aruba, and now the boat had just cleared the strait between Grenada and Trinidad. The four of them were a sorry lot—groggy-headed and massively hungover, with the exception of Wade, who, much to their irritation, felt great. The boat's constant motion, the unrelenting heat, the hangovers, and the bright sunlight conspired to make everything worse, the engine’s steady rumble only amplifying their collective misery. The headaches were relentless, throbbing in time with the boat’s rhythmic rise and fall on the swells.

Even the usually refreshing sea breeze seemed to offer no relief, only stirring up the smells that were already turning their stomachs. The rich scent of the leftover Mexican food from the day before, usually so appetizing, was now unbearable. They were on the verge of tossing it all overboard when Wade, ever the pragmatist, solved the problem by eating the four meals himself for breakfast.

By midday, the sun was a blinding orb in the sky, and Wade, with his seemingly iron stomach, cracked open some Cuban military rations. The pungent aroma from the packaged food drove Dirk, Bonsai, and Brick out of the stuffy inner cabin and onto the lower back deck. They traded the oppressive smell for the scorching heat—it was the lesser of two evils.

The deck was bathed in sunlight, the surface almost too hot to touch. The clean smell of the ocean was more pronounced here, tinged with a freshness that was almost invigorating, if not for the relentless heat. Dirk and Bonsai sat on upside-down buckets, their faces pale and drawn, while Brick leaned heavily against the railing, his usually stoic demeanor betraying his discomfort. The motion sickness had hit them all hard, the gentle roll of the ocean a cruel torment as they tried to find some semblance of comfort.

Wade remained at the helm inside, guiding the boat with steady hands as they neared their destination. They were heading to Mabaruma, Guyana, now only a couple of hours away. The small, remote area lay about ten miles inland, nestled in the northeastern most part of the country. It was accessible by the Kaituma River, a winding waterway that was kept dredged deep enough for the gunboat to navigate.

The river's approach would offer a change in scenery, the open ocean giving way to the dense, emerald-green canopy of the Guyanese jungle. For now, though, all they could do was endure the temprature, the motion, and the lingering effects of last night's whiskey as they pressed on through the sunlit sea, the promise of solid ground still hours away.

As the gunboat neared the coast of Punta Guaini, the vast expanse of the open ocean began to merge with the distinct, murky waters of the approaching shore. The transition from the deep blue of the Caribbean to the brownish-green hues of the Guyanese coastline was marked by a series of dredged mudflats, an artificial gateway that had been painstakingly carved out of the natural landscape. Guyana, with its lack of traditional natural harbors, relied heavily on such dredged channels to allow vessels like theirs to navigate the tricky waters leading inland.

The mudflats stretched out before them, a smooth, seemingly lifeless expanse that contradicted the rich history and strategic importance of this region. Historically, these mudflats were a formidable barrier, preventing easy access to the interior. The Dutch, who were among the first European settlers in the region, recognized the potential of these waterways and embarked on extensive dredging projects to create navigable channels, enabling trade and transport deep into the country. These channels remain vital lifelines, connecting the remote interior of Guyana with the outside world.

Wade expertly guided the boat through the narrows, his eyes keenly focused on the water ahead. The once-open sea now gave way to the muddy, sediment-laden waters of the Kaituma River, where the currents slowed, and the landscape began to change. The coastline here was low, with dense mangroves clinging to the edges, their roots entwined in the mud, a testament to the resilience of nature in this harsh environment.

As they moved further inland, the riverbanks slowly rose, and the thick mangroves gave way to the towering greenery of the jungle. The waterway, once broad and muddy, began to narrow, the river carving a winding path through the lush, untouched wilderness. The sun, now lower in the sky, cast a golden hue over the landscape, the light filtering through the dense canopy above, creating spotted patterns on the river’s surface.

Wade throttled down the engine, allowing the gunboat to glide more gently along the calm river. The noise of the engine, once constant, was now softened, almost drowned out by the symphony of the jungle. The air, thick with humidity, was filled with the scent of damp earth, decaying leaves, and the unmistakable life of the river itself.

As they advanced deeper into the interior, signs of human habitation began to appear. Small docks dotted the riverbanks, with wooden canoes tied off, gently bobbing in the water. The land flattened out, revealing small farms, their fields stretching out in patchwork patterns. These were humble farms where the locals cultivated cassava, plantains, and other staple crops, earning a living from the fertile but challenging land. Simple fences bordered the farms, the thatched-roof huts blending seamlessly with the natural surroundings.

Further upstream, the jungle receded even more, making way for larger patches of cultivated land. The farms here were more prosperous, with well-tended fields and sturdier huts, some even sporting tin roofs. The river, now wider, seemed to take on a more purposeful flow as if guiding them toward their destination.

As the sun began to go lower in the sky, moving long shadows across the water, they finally approached Mabaruma. The town, nestled on the river’s edge, was small but bustling, a testament to the perseverance of its inhabitants. Mabaruma was a place where the raw, untamed beauty of the Guyanese interior met the aspirations of those who had carved out a life here. Wooden buildings with corrugated tin roofs lined the river, their paint peeling from years of exposure to the elements. A few larger structures stood out—warehouses, a church, and a central market area, where the day’s trade was winding down.

On the southern side of a tall hill that rose above the town, they could see a large estate. Modest by global standards, it was a virtual palace in the Guyanese interior. The estate was surrounded by a high wall, with a wide iron gate that opened onto a gravel road leading to the main house. The building itself was a two-story structure, painted white with a red-tiled roof, its verandas lined with wooden railings. It had an air of colonial charm, though the jungle pressed close on all sides as if trying to reclaim the land.

Adjacent to the estate, and more prominent than the house itself, was a large school. The building was modern by local standards, with clean lines and a sturdy structure. The school was clearly well-maintained, its white walls gleaming in the dying sunlight.

Brick pointed to the estate and school, talking to Bonsai. “This prototype for what we have in Canje farm.”

She followed his gaze. “The school looks nice for out here,” she observed.

Brick pointed at Lasher. “He pay for it all,” he said.

All three were feeling a little better but still moving slowly.

She looked from Brick to Dirk, who was following the conversation, and shrugged his shoulders dismissively.

Some things clicked for Bonsai. “Wait, is that one of your houses?” She indicated the estate, still looking at Lasher.

“This one is more an office building, but it’s fully staffed, yes,” he said. It came out heavy; he clearly didn’t like to discuss this aspect of whatever it was he had set up.

“Does it have regular beds?” Bonsai asked. “I would kill for a good, comfortable night's sleep at this point.”

Dirk nodded in agreement. “Wade and Brick will head out in the morning. We’ll get ourselves organized and see Jagan in another day or two, as soon as her schedule allows.”

Wade navigated the gunboat toward the dock, passing several others. Bonsai had the feeling Wade had been here before. He killed the engine and let the boat glide in smoothly, just as proficient with the gunboat as he had been with the airboat back in the Everglades a month and a half ago.

A tall, good-looking Amerindian sat in a small open-air building on the dock. Upon seeing the boat approach, he stood and walked over to greet them. Brick tossed him a rope, and together they secured the boat. Brick exchanged a few words with the man, gesturing at Dirk, then at the school, and finally toward the gated property behind it. The man nodded, his expression shifting. He took a second look at Dirk, a small glimmer of admiration in his eyes, before shaking Brick’s hand and running off down the dock toward the house.

Bonsai noticed but didn’t mention it. Lasher seemed oblivious.

Dirk stepped onto the dock and offered his hand to Bonsai. “The good news is, we have aspirin at the house,” he said, flashing his standard, humorless smile.

“Oh my God, that’s fantastic news. I still feel terrible,” Bonsai replied, gratefully taking his hand and stepping off the boat.

A few more Amerindians soon approached, polite and helpful. Before long, there was a small crowd, all speaking to Brick while sneaking glances at Lasher, as though they were catching sight of a celebrity.

Chapter 23

The house and property were in good repair and well-maintained. About twenty people seemed to live and work on-site. Next to it was a boarding school for elementary-aged kids. Apparently, it was quite a big deal, as the Guyanese government only provided education in the coastal cities. There were around fifty students at the school at the moment.

In the back section of the property, out of sight from the river, was where Dirk stayed when he was here. It was very modest, even by Guyanese standards: a one-story cinderblock building with a flat metal roof and an open courtyard. The whole place was maybe fifteen hundred square feet. There were four small rooms, each with a cot, giving everyone their own space.

No one talked much; everyone was exhausted. The kitchen had staff, and there seemed to be a meal schedule. Around sundown, the smells of dinner began to fill the air. Guyanese culture was a mix of influences from the Indian subcontinent, Africa, and a small touch of Westernization. The meal tonight smelled distinctly Indian, with curry and earthy spices taking over the air. There wasn’t a formal sit-down, but everyone seemed to gather around the same time, grabbing a plate and breaking off into familiar groups, signaling the end of the workday. It wasn’t overly social, nor was it too formal.

After dinner, Dirk retired to his small room, asleep before the sun had fully set. Bonsai found Brick and Wade carrying supplies back and forth to the gunboat, preparing to head to New Amsterdam and then down the Canje River to the farm, a good thirty miles inland as the crow flies—maybe twice that as the river runs.

She helped reposition the supplies, which took a couple of hours. She was tired and hungover but needed something to do to pass the time—physically worn out but too mentally wired to sleep, given the excitement of the new surroundings. She also noticed, just as Dirk had mentioned, that the property was well-stocked with small arms and basic military supplies, including plenty of ammunition now being loaded onto the gunboat.

"How will we stay in contact?" she asked as they walked back up the pier toward the house.

"We take satellite phones," Brick replied. "Only way. No cell, no landlines out here."

Bonsai nodded. "Are you worried it’s just you two against a hundred soldiers?"

Brick shook his head. "We not just two. I have maybe twenty-five men wait for us. They tough. Not soldiers, but good fighters. Work on farm. Now, they fight for farm. For them, no big difference between shovel and gun."

"How will we reconnect?" she pressed.

"Farm has runway," he said, waving off her concern.

She gave him a confused look, unsure what that meant.

Wade chimed in. "Dirk spent two years getting his pilot's license," he said, pointing toward an area behind the school.

She squinted and could just make out the top of a hangar. Apparently, there was an airstrip both here and at the farm. It made sense, though the idea of getting back on a plane with Dirk weighed heavy after their last flight together.

"When will you head out?" she asked.

Brick looked over at Wade.

“We have to get past New Amsterdam; the Canje branches off and runs through the middle of the town,” Wade offered. “We need to go through at night. It's about a full day’s trip.”

He seemed to realize something. Brick picked up on it too.

"We need leave now then," Brick said. It was around midnight.

“No,” Bonsai said instinctively. She had been hoping to ask Wade questions about Dirk. “I mean, I hoped we could spend some time together before you left. You’re heading into a lot of danger.”

Wade did some calculations in his head. “I mean, if the weather holds and I push things a little in the open waters, I could make up a couple hours.”

“So, we can talk now?” she asked, hopeful.

“You want me stay and talk or you just want to talk to Wade?” Brick asked. It was the first time she had seen him unsure.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to both of you,” she said.

“Let’s talk on the boat,” Wade said, indicating back to the boat on the dock. They were currently walking away from it. They turned and headed back, heading into the pilot cabin and sitting down. It was private and familiar.

The long walk back made the start of the conversation awkward.

“So I have some questions about Dirk,” she started.

Wade and Brick both sat focused on her.

She continued. “I didn’t get the chance to really think through my decision to leave the military. I think taking the medical discharge was the right thing, and it was the direction I was leaning toward. But events forced me to decide before I thought everything through.”

Both men nodded that they were listening.

“What do you need to know, sweety,” Wade asked.

“I have a million questions. Let’s start with the basics. I don’t understand who Kimberly Sharp is. Not who she is,” she made a face, having a harder time framing the question than she thought she would. “I mean who she is to Dirk. What does she mean to him?”

Wade looked unsure, but Brick didn’t. “Sharp is cunning evil bitch,” he said. “She same bitch to Dirk as to whole world. No difference.”

Bonsai was surprised at the bad language; she had gotten used to everyone minding their language around Lasher. He really did have a positive influence on people.

Bonsai recovered. “But on the beach, you said he loved her? I didn’t understand.”

Brick’s face turned grim. “I mean what I say. Sharp is master manipulator. Everyone think they to smart for it, that those she manipulates dumb or something. Classic case of self-delusion. Dirk, he fall for it just like Brick did. Just like Kamén did. It not like you think. You believe you are doing good. That she is doing good. But you not. She not.”

“So Dirk thought he changed her?”

Brick shook his head. “No. Kimberly think she change Dirk.”

Wade followed along and tried to help. “Trudy, did you ever see the movie The Bridge on the River Kwai?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Oh,” Wade was taken aback. “Oh, well, never mind then.”

Bonsai thought she had offended Wade, given his reaction. She hadn’t; Wade was just an odd fellow.

“So, did they, you know?” Bonsai asked.

Brick didn’t understand the question. He made a confused face.

“You know,” Bonsai said again, rolling her eyes.

Brick was lost. Wade leaned over and whispered something to him. Brick turned red in the face.

It took him a moment to recover, the redness fading. “Well,” he started, “Kamén have job after him. I have it after Kamén. Far as I know, it part of job requirements. She very,” he paused, “Brick no speak out of school,” his face showed how hard he worked to come up with the right words. He understood enough about Bonsai’s interests in Lasher to have some semblance of discretion. “She very, energetic?” he looked at Wade.

Wade made a face and put his hands up, quickly shaking his head from side to side. “Don’t bring me into this,” he said.

Brick looked back at Bonsai. “Brick stick with energetic.”

Bonsai found she disliked Sharp even more, but she wasn’t getting the details she needed.

“So, what have I gotten myself into?” she asked. “I got rushed into joining up.”

“You make right decision,” Brick said. “I tell you my experience if you like. It similar to yours. Well, some similar. Dirk very simple man. Brick very simple too. Lisa not so simple. Dirk would have walked away completely, he burn out years ago, while still in military. Lisa not burn out. She want justice. It keep Dirk in game, keep him having to be tough guy long after he just want to drink beer and sleep.”

“He’s not a puppet, is he?” she asked, a little surprised.

Brick laughed a deep, genuine belly laugh. Even Wade smiled. Their reaction answered the question well enough.

“Dirk many things,” Brick said when he recovered. “He to simple to be puppet. Someone pull string, Dirk kick them in head.”

“That would be a marionette, not a puppet,” Wade offered to Brick.

“I think Dirk kick either,” Brick argued back, missing the language nuances.

“So he used to work for her. You all did?” Bonsai asked.

Brick let his mood turn somber again. “Not exactly. It complicated. Just like now. I don’t work for Dirk. I work with Dirk. Same for Kimberly, she let you think you make choice. It very powerful strategy.”

Bonsai thought about it. The conversation seemed to be answering some questions, but she realized while it was answering questions, she wasn’t really getting any answers.

So she changed the subject, turning to Wade. “Can you tell me about Dirk’s childhood? I can see there is some tension between you two because of it.”

Wade looked surprised. “Tension?”

“You know, because you raised Dirk but weren’t his real parent. Not his biological parent. I was raised in a foster system, too. Not like what you went through, but I’m trying to figure Dirk out.”

Wade got a little agitated. “What do you mean we’re not related?”

Now Bonsai was confused. “But,” she hesitated. “But I thought you said you took care of him when his mom died?”

“Sure,” he returned a little defensively.

“So? Doesn’t that mean you’re not related?”

Wade’s head twitched as he was thinking. This was the first time he exhibited any behavior that seemed actually a symptom of a real mental problem—more than just being a silly old man.

Wade’s eyes teared up. The emotions came out of nowhere.

“Wade?” Bonsai said.

Brick looked unsure.

She reached over and put her hand on Wade’s hand, it was like he was seeing her hand for the first time.

It was very odd.

“You did a good thing taking care of someone else’s kid,” Bonsai offered, trying to console him as he seemed to be in real distress.

Wade looked around like he was seeing the interior of the gunboat for the first time.

“Why does everyone keep saying we’re not related?” he said, seeming very confused and getting upset.

Bonsai held his hand with both of hers. “Are you related?” she asked. She had learned you had to really focus on what Wade was saying, as the central topic was often presented as a tangent.

Wade started crying. “I’m so proud of my boy,” he said, looking spooked at the realization. “Trudy. Brick,” he looked from one to the other. “Of course he’s my son. I can explain, but I shouldn’t have told you. You must promise me you won’t tell him. No matter what.” He really looked panicked. “I need my meds from the doctor. It’s been a couple days.”

Bonsai slid back, her mouth open.

Brick’s eyes were wide and darted between Bonsai and Wade.

“Wade,” Bonsai said after a while. “I don’t understand.”

Wade kind of snapped, like he had a new thought. Then he looked around again, like he was back. Like the moment had been some internal change, maybe a different personality that the medication kept in check.

Bonsai saw a pained expression cross his face, then he switched back to his classic Wade persona, only now with an uncomfortable edge.

“Gotcha!” he said, slapping his knee. He wiped his eyes—the tears had been real. He was trying to cover for something; it was obvious to her. “Oh come on, Trudy! Luke, I am your Father! I can’t believe you fell for that!”

Bonsai was stunned.

Brick was confused.

Wade seemed genuinely shaken.

“Wade, that not funny,” Brick said after a while.

Bonsai tried to get the conversation going again, but the moment was lost. She helped them carry fuel cans to fill the tank, and they departed around two in the morning, Bonsai the only one on the pier to see them off.

Chapter 24

K’Bari stood tall on the New Amsterdam dock, the murky Canje River stretching behind him as it merged with the muddy expanse of the Berbice River. Once a natural boundary, the river had become a lifeline of trade and power, linking the land to the sea. Dressed in military garb, K’Bari bore the insignia of a general—not of any recognized nation, but of a growing idea, one rooted in Kimberly Sharp’s ambitions. Her influence had seeped into every corner of the realm, and this moment was just another strand in her intricate web.

Flanking K’Bari were two men, each as imposing as the next. Though shorter and broader, their biceps strained against their uniforms. Both held the rank of master sergeant, their nametags reading Koma and Tafari. Their faces were chiseled, hardened by brutality and survival. Wide-jawed and with a Russian-esque appearance, they resembled human battering rams. Even K’Bari’s authority seemed overshadowed by their raw physical power.

"We move south at first light," K’Bari ordered, turning to Koma and Tafari. "Take hundred men. Cruz needs reinforcements at the farm, yes? We finish the job."

Koma grunted in acknowledgment, his broad shoulders tense with anticipation. Tafari nodded, his usual cold expression momentarily giving way to eagerness.

K’Bari and his men stood on the southern side of the Berbice River, the once vital waterway now a silent boundary between two opposing forces. The Guyanese army had set up defensive positions along the northern shoreline: sandbags, makeshift barricades, and what few armored vehicles they had. Outnumbered four to one, they huddled behind their defenses, hoping to hold against the overwhelming FARC presence.

On the southern bank, K’Bari’s forces occupied New Amsterdam like an infestation. Eight thousand FARC soldiers were spread throughout the town, outstripping the 2,000 Guyanese soldiers across the river. Another 2,000 FARC soldiers were scattered throughout the Guyana interior, securing strategic assets. The scene was post-apocalyptic—abandoned buildings, trashcan fires lighting the streets, and an oppressive air thick with impending violence.

K’Bari scanned the northern shore. The Guyanese army wasn’t built for this kind of conflict—outdated helicopters, worn-out rifles, and armored vehicles long past their prime. Their strategy was clear: dig in, fortify, and wait. They knew they were outmatched and outgunned, reduced to a purely defensive stance.

K’Bari’s FARC soldiers, hardened by years of guerrilla warfare, were used to striking from the shadows, not this kind of standoff. They were restless, eager to move. But this wasn’t the moment for a head-on clash. Sharp’s orders were clear—hold the line, do not engage. Not yet.

His thoughts drifted southward, to the farm General Cruz had secured. Sharp had been precise in her instructions. Take a hundred men, go south, and crush the last of the Guyanese holdouts. The farm was strategic, a crucial piece in Sharp’s plan to control the country. Cruz had taken most of the area, but pockets of resistance remained. K’Bari’s mission was to finish the job, secure the farm, and tighten the noose.

Sharp had chosen her pieces well. She had people stationed worldwide, loyal not out of duty, but out of self-interest. Sharp’s genius lay in creating opportunities that didn’t exist without her, threading the needle between chaos and order. In exchange, these men and women believed they worked for themselves, all while building her empire.

K’Bari reflected on her latest moves. She’d called in a favor in Cuba, smoothing over the loss of a gunboat with a cutting-edge Swedish internet deal that gave Cuba a decade-long advantage. Then there was Jamaica. A burning yacht might have made headlines, but Sharp had secured a multi-billion-dollar contract for Jamaica’s aluminum producers, boosting the island’s GDP by fifteen percent. Patrol boats were a small price to pay for such a windfall.

Now, Guyana was in Sharp’s crosshairs. Sovereignty, natural resources, and a malleable military—Sharp needed all three. She had courted President Jagan, expecting an easy victory, but two years ago, everything unraveled. Lisa Lasher had intervened, derailing their plans by whisking Jagan’s mother into hiding.

K’Bari’s hand tightened into a fist, recalling how close they had come. They had planned to leverage Jagan by threatening her mother, but Lisa had ruined everything. Now, Jagan’s military remained weak and underfunded. If Jagan had cooperated, they could have built a force aligned with Sharp’s ambitions. Instead, they had to pivot. K’Bari had turned his focus west, developing a communist offshoot in Colombia and quietly moving fighters into Guyana, avoiding Venezuela’s watchful eyes.

The Guyanese army on the northern shore wasn’t the real threat. They were entrenched, waiting for an attack that wouldn’t come—at least, not from this side.

The low rumble of an engine drew K’Bari’s attention eastward. He could just make out the silhouette of a gunboat approaching. Travel on the rivers was restricted by martial law, so this was unexpected. He signaled Koma and Tafari to ready their own boat but stayed to observe.

As the boat neared, K’Bari recognized its Cuban design. Standing in the back was an old man, dressed in absurdly casual clothes—flowered shorts, black socks, a sleeveless shirt that read “My Other Shirt Has Sleeves,” and a white Gilligan’s Island-style hat. Despite his ridiculous appearance, he looked strong.

When the man spotted K’Bari, he waved and smiled, friendly and unthreatening.

K’Bari, astonished, waved back, his smile far more predatory than the man’s on the boat. As the vessel passed and disappeared down the river into darkness, K’Bari made a mental note to bring more guns.

Chapter 25

“I can’t believe that worked,” Brick said, genuinely amazed. He stood inside the pilot cabin as Wade returned from the deck, shaking off the damp night air.

“He seems like a nice enough guy,” Wade replied, stepping into the cabin as the gunboat moved slowly west and south along the winding Canje River.

Brick shook his head. “Nice guy? No. He bad man. K’Bari is my rival here in Guyana. That why I hide. If he see me, it bad news. Just him see boat, we already have trouble coming.”

Wade, still distracted by his conversation with Trudy the day before, pushed the thoughts aside. He knew this situation required his full attention, even though it was getting harder to focus. His medicine had gone down with the yacht in Jamaica. “I noticed they’ve got a lot more soldiers in New Amsterdam than I expected,” he said, trying to engage in the gravity of their current situation.

Brick grunted. “Da, K’Bari is intolerable now. Kimberly Sharp—she back him. She delivering the goods.”

“The guy’s name is K’Bari?” Wade asked. The name had an exotic sound, a mix of cultures.

Brick nodded. “Sure, K’Bari. As far as I know, it stand for devil bastard. He mean, cruel. Lucky for us it was Cruz who took farm. If it were K’Bari, he’d have killed all the men and tortured the women. Dirk would lose his mind.”

Wade grimaced, understanding the weight of that. “Oh, bad... sex stuff.”

Brick’s face hardened. “Da, the worst kind. I not tell you everything, but it bad. Dirk can’t know about this. He would be furious. This is something I deal with, because if Dirk get involved... it will be all-out war. K’Bari’s cruel. That why I handle it without him. We keep this quiet.”

Wade nodded, realizing Brick was trying to prevent things from escalating even further. “Do you think he’s going to follow us?”

Brick’s expression darkened, his thick brows knitting together. “Yes. We in trouble. I figure they already prepare to head downriver. Maybe by first light. That give us, what, four, five hours head start. We need to find my men and organize fast.”

Wade slid into the pilot’s seat, taking control. “I can push the speed and get us a little more time,” he said, upping the throttle and feeling the boat’s engines respond with a low growl.

“Da, da. We need every advantage,” Brick said, his eyes locked on the radar panel as the boat picked up speed, cutting through the dark water.

The river narrowed as they navigated the winding course, the dense jungle pressing in from both sides. Wade glanced at Brick, whose gaze remained steady, calculating.

“So, this K’Bari,” Wade began, “how did he end up here? Seems like the kind of guy who’d fit in anywhere he wanted to cause chaos.”

Brick sighed, glancing out the window. “K’Bari is opportunist. He rise fast because of Kimberly. He not just muscle, though. He thinker. He see Guyana as perfect place to build power. Chaos is his weapon. He lead FARC, but he not FARC. He use them, same way he use everyone. If he find out it us, he make it personal. We in real danger.”

Wade’s hands tightened on the controls. This was serious. He pushed the throttle a little more, the boat surging forward, its hull slicing through the water.

“We need a plan,” Wade said. “Running can only get us so far.”

“Da,” Brick agreed, “but first, we need time. When we reach my men, we strike. Fast and hard.”

The trees along the riverbank seemed to close in as the boat sped through the night. The water’s surface reflected the stars overhead, but the jungle was dark, the unknown looming in every shadow.

“I keep thinking about K’Bari’s forces back in New Amsterdam,” Wade said after a moment. “I didn’t realize FARC was that strong here. Eight thousand troops?”

“Da, more than that maybe. K’Bari control much of southern Guyana now. He bring fighters down from Colombia. It take months, but now they entrenched. FARC is everywhere. And with Kimberly backing him, he only get stronger.”

Wade’s mind raced. He knew they were walking into a hornet’s nest. Whatever Brick had planned had to be good, because right now, everything felt like it was hanging by a thread.

“Can we trust your men?” Wade asked, casting a sidelong glance at Brick.

Brick smiled grimly. “We can trust them to fight. And right now, that all we need.”

They fell into silence, the only sound the hum of the boat’s engine and the gentle lapping of the river against the hull. The sky was just beginning to lighten on the horizon, the first hint of dawn breaking through the trees.

“Four hours,” Brick muttered, checking his watch. “We reach my men soon. After that, things get... complicated.”

Wade nodded, eyes forward, hands steady on the wheel. They had four hours, and they needed every minute.

Chapter 26

“Four hours is plenty of time,” Bonsai said whimsically, feeling fantastic.

The people here were being incredibly kind to both her and Dirk. The air was fresh, the sun was rising, and the excitement of meeting the president of a country gave her an extra spring in her step.

She and Lasher had mostly slept through the previous day, only getting up to eat or stretch their legs. She had taken a few walks along the property, which bordered the jungle—a striking contrast between the wild, untamed landscape and the creeping edge of civilization. Bonsai was feeling increasingly confident about her decisions, whether they were forced or hurried, given the opportunities they had opened up for her. Sure, she was still on reserve status for four more years—the military could call her back anytime, and they still had minimal oversight—but the future felt more promising.

The people in the building were mostly older Amerindian women, bustling around with a sense of purpose, though Bonsai wasn’t entirely sure what they did. Dirk had spent a couple of hours with some of the women in charge, which felt oddly like staying at your grandmother’s house—if your grandmother had been cloned twenty times.

This morning, the plan was simple: get a makeover. Nothing too fancy, but since Dirk was flying them to Georgetown to meet with President Jagan later, a little dressing up seemed in order. Although Bonsai felt rested and content with her choices, she had hoped to use this time to talk with Dirk. But, as always, he was either asleep or caught up in meetings, so they hadn’t spent much time together in the past few days.

Now, she sat with three of the Amerindian women fussing over her. Her hair had grown out over the past months four or five inches. They trimmed it neatly, gathering the top half into a twist, while the sides fell straight and sleek. The style unexpectedly accentuated her long, narrow features.

They helped her with makeup, something she rarely wore, and took measurements to tailor a dark three-piece business suit they had seemingly made just for her the day before. Underneath the suit, she wore a crisp white blouse. The women insisted on a deep neckline, hinting that Jagan might be more interested in that than anything Dirk could offer. Bonsai felt slightly self-conscious, but her slender, muscular figure carried the look without being overly revealing.

As they finished, she caught the scent of a pleasant, masculine, soapy fragrance. Turning, she noticed a large man standing near the door, watching the women complete her makeover. He was strikingly handsome. She didn’t recognize him at first—clean-shaven, with a strong, square jawline and hair neatly cut in a salt-and-pepper business style. His dark brown suit was tailored perfectly, emphasizing his broad, muscled shoulders and back.

Then it hit her—it was Dirk Lasher.

He looked like royalty or a powerful CEO, a far cry from his usual rugged appearance.

“Jeez, Dirk. You clean up pretty good,” Bonsai said, blinking in surprise, amazed that someone like him spent any time with her at all, much less offering the chance of something more.

“Not too bad yourself, Miss Bonnington,” Dirk replied with a sincere smile—not the thin, joyless one she usually saw in the field. “We’ll be leaving in about an hour. When you’re done here, meet me in the main building, conference room. There are a few things I need to catch you up on before we head out.”

She nodded and, twenty minutes later, joined him in the conference room. Also present were the Amerindian woman who seemed to be in charge of the other women and a short, stocky man who looked like a mix of Amerindian and Dutch—an eccentric combination.

Dirk sat at the head of the table. A projector screen displayed a satellite image with New Amsterdam on the right, the mouth of the Berbice River at the center, and Guyana’s army deployed along the opposite shoreline, stretching from Rossignol in the north to Ithaca in the south—a span of about five miles.

Dirk held a small remote, his thumb rolling a ball to control the display. He zoomed out, clicked a button, and a new area, circled in red, appeared thirty miles inland from the river mouth.

“This is where the farm is,” he said, looking at Bonsai. He rolled the ball again, the view shifting back to the streets of New Amsterdam. The town, shaped like an upside-down ‘U,’ hugged the Berbice River on one side, with farmlands in the middle and the Canje River forming the other side of the ‘U.’

“They’ve got around eight thousand troops staged in New Amsterdam.” He rolled the image down the Canje River toward the farm, then zoomed in. “You remember Jim Cruz?” he asked.

She nodded. Dirk tried not to glance at her neckline as he spoke, which amused her.

He focused the image on what was clearly a military camp, formerly rice fields. “Cruz took the farm, but he hasn’t secured the surrounding area. These are the men Brick mentioned.” He zoomed out, focusing on an area about a mile and a half downriver.

“Oh,” Bonsai said, understanding part of the problem. “They’re on the wrong side,” she noted, realizing that Wade and Brick would have to pass the farm to reach the encampment.

Dirk nodded, then rolled the ball so the image followed the river north and east for about ten or fifteen miles—midway between New Amsterdam and the farm.

“I can’t tell what’s happening,” Bonsai said. Smoke, explosions, and fire obscured the ground.

“Three patrol boats and a troop transport left New Amsterdam at first light,” Dirk explained. “Our gunboat passed through around 2 a.m. Whatever happened when they met up, happened here—and it’s still happening.”

“Oh no,” Bonsai whispered. “Wade and Brick?”

Dirk nodded solemnly. “Nothing we can do until we talk to Jagan. I’m going to ask her for military support.”

“How big is their military?”

He zoomed out, showing the forces positioned along the river opposite New Amsterdam. “That’s all of it.”

Bonsai leaned in, studying the display. “That’s it? Not even half a brigade—and that’s their entire military?”

Dirk gave her his familiar, humorless smile. “Worse. Four light helicopters, three patrol boats, and maybe fifty support vehicles—mostly jeeps and transports.”

“Christ, do they even have enough ammo?” she asked, half sarcastic.

Dirk frowned. “No. They’re still using 1950s-era NATO rifles.”

Bonsai’s eyes widened. “Holy cow. Those fire 7.62. Packs a punch, but the rounds are huge and heavy…” she trailed off, familiar with the outdated gear.

“Yeah, Guyana’s a mess. But we’ve lost some assets at home too.”

She glanced at him, surprised.

He zoomed the display out, then shifted the view to Biscayne Bay near Miami. Slowly, he rolled the ball forward, zooming in.

“Is that your house?” Bonsai asked, realizing what she was seeing.

“I think the term was is more appropriate,” Dirk replied without humor.

“Why would they burn down your house?” she asked, astonished.

“Who?” he said.

“Who?”

“Who would burn down my house?”

Bonsai didn’t understand and said as much.

Lasher nodded, cold and calculating. The usual undercurrent of rage was absent, which somehow made him more menacing. He rolled his thumb again, shifting the view back to Guyana, flashing across the Caribbean waters before centering on a town about thirty miles north of Georgetown. He zoomed in on a beach where a U.S. military watercraft was anchored offshore. The still image captured four U.S. soldiers in full jungle combat gear debarking and getting into a car on the road from Anna Regina to Georgetown.

“What on earth?” Bonsai said.

“We tracked them. They’re from SOUTHCOM.”

“What? Is General Hampton sending help?”

Dirk’s humorless smile soured. “We did some digging,” he nodded toward the male Amerindian in the room, who remained unintroduced. “This is a SAVAGE kill team.”

“I’m sorry,” Bonsai said, trying to clear her head. “I thought we were supposed to be the SAVAGE team. Then you said no?”

Dirk stood, walking to the display. He pointed at the lead soldier. “This guy here—his name’s William Walker. I know him. He’s good. We ran searches; he was reassigned from the DIA to SOUTHCOM under Hampton a month ago.”

“Right after you turned them down?”

“About then,” he said.

Bonsai realized something. “All your old stuff was there, at the house, all the keepsakes from your marriage?”

She watched him closely. He wasn’t fazed; there were no emotions present.

His thin smile held, “Yes, everything from my life up until now was there. But we’ll deal with that later. We must stay focused. I want to explain to you how things work out here. You need to understand this.”

She nodded, confused.

Dirk nodded to the man seated at the table with them.

“Hello, my name is Mr. Jemez,” he stood and extended his hand to her.

She shook it. He was very formal and very polite.

“Mr. Dirk has asked me to explain how he works and to explain the Falling Star situation.” He waited for her to nod, then continued. “Mrs. Lisa had us spend the first five years looking for their digital footprint. She wanted us to be able to observe their actions and identify both what they were setting up and where they were setting up.”

Bonsai had been in many briefings and knew to ask questions. “Who is they?”

Jemez looked to Dirk, who quickly nodded and made a small get-on-with-it type gesture back to him.

“We call them NEXUS. NEXUS is not a conventional organization. It’s a system, one built on connections and influence. Kimberly Sharp is the benefactor. She doesn’t command. She offers opportunities—opens doors or closes them, whichever moves her ambitions forward. People see her as the key to their success, but it’s all part of a larger design.”

He gestured to the display. “Each individual thinks they’re acting in their own interest, pursuing their own ambitions. They are; every choice is their own. But Kimberly makes the connections and influences the markets. She aids or hinders based entirely on the relationship. They all believe they’re independent, but she’s the point of convergence—the nexus. They’re building her empire without ever realizing it.”

He folded his arms, eyes steady. “It’s like a franchise. She provides the means, they do the work, and in the end, she’s the one who profits. Quietly, from the center, she pulls the strings.”

Mr. Jemez adjusted his cuff, his expression unreadable as he continued.

“For years, Sharp’s operations have appeared as scattered, isolated pockets of influence across different continents. Alliances in unexpected regions—military, economic, and political—but never quite enough to draw a clear picture. Until recently.”

He paused, reconfirmed with Lasher, then continued. “Over the last few months, it’s become evident what she’s doing. She’s mobilizing her assets toward some end goal. It seems she’s organizing them into three distinct segments: military power, energy production, and national financial autonomy. These alliances are not random; they serve a precise strategy. Each region she influences falls neatly into one of these categories, allowing her to build a network that operates under the radar but is ready to strike when necessary.”

He clicked the remote Dirk had handed him, zooming the map to Guyana. “Guyana is central to this plan. It’s a unique convergence point where all three of her priorities—military power, energy, and autonomy—can be harnessed. The government here is weak, malleable, ripe for external influence. And there are rumors—rumors that are becoming harder to dismiss—of massive oil reserves beneath this soil.”

Jemez let the significance hang in the air for a moment. “Control Guyana, and you control access to vast energy resources. Combine that with the country’s untapped workforce—thousands of military-aged males—and you have the perfect recipe for power. Military, energy, sovereignty—it’s all here, waiting to be exploited.”

He pointed at New Amsterdam on the map. “K’Bari is her in-country benefactee. He orchestrates this operation. Sharp provides the resources and connections, but the tactics are K’Bari’s. His ambitions are large, and he is ruthless. He has the muscle, the organization, and the drive to reshape this region in her image. He is cruel, efficient, and willing to do whatever it takes.”

Jemez’s voice lowered slightly, his tone sharpening. “But K’Bari is not without opposition. Mr. Dirk and Mrs. Lisa discovered Mr. Brick had come here, for other reasons, from Peru. They saw the potential in the model and offered him their backing. They became his benefactors, giving him the resources and direction to challenge K’Bari. Where K’Bari operates through brute force and fear, Brick counters with precision and strategy. Brick is to Dirk and Lisa what K’Bari is to Sharp—each of them serving their benefactor’s interests, locked in a battle of wills and influence.”

He glanced at the screen, then back at Bonsai. “Sharp’s plan is brilliant in its simplicity. She creates pockets of influence, but the key is that each one believes they’re acting in their own best interest. K’Bari thinks he’s building his empire, and in a way, he is. But he’s also just another piece on her board. Brick, on the other hand, knows the stakes. He’s playing a similar game, but everything is done in daylight, not in the dark.”

Jemez folded his hands and looked back at Lasher.

“Why not just let them have the farm?” Bonsai asked. “Why not just deal with New Amsterdam?”

Dirk nodded; it was the right question. “We selected the location down the Canje River for a reason. It’s a very strategic location that provides access to the vast interior. If we control the river, we control access to the interior. Holding the farm cuts off the thousands of people they want to conscript into military service.”

He looked at Bonsai to make sure she understood. She seemed to, so he continued. “That’s one of their three objectives. The main one—or at least, I suspect it is—is energy production. If Guyana has the reserves we’re hearing about, and Sharp controls them, she’ll have fuel for the two dozen other military pockets she’s organized. On top of that, she’s staging different forces here in Guyana. She’s already combined K’Bari’s rebels with the FARC revolutionaries and even some U.S. Special Forces assets that peeled off a couple of months ago in the Darién Gap.”

“Guyana isn’t really central to anything,” Bonsai said, trying to piece it all together.

Dirk nodded. “I’ve been struggling with that too. But I think what General Hampton told us originally is still the key. The U.S. has a hard deadline of New Year’s 1999 to turn the Panama Canal operations over to the Panamanians. If Kimberly can consolidate alliances across Cuba, Colombia, Jamaica, Venezuela, and countries like Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, and El Salvador, just think of the influence she’d have. She could form a new Soviet Union-style bloc in the Western Hemisphere—with vast natural resources and a huge population of military-aged men. That kind of power could shift global dynamics. Add in the energy production she can get from Guyana, the banking infrastructure she already built out in Panama and add to that the revenues and control of commerce the Panama Canal would give her.”

It was a lot to take in.

Finally, Bonsai asked, “Why would the US allow this to happen? It seems too big, too grand.”

Dirk motioned back to Mr. Jemez.

“We believe the intelligence is being hidden from the US government higher-ups,” Jemez answered.

“Hidden?” Bonsai asked.

Dirk answered, “It’s new information, but we now believe that Sharp did the work to insert her NEXUS people into all levels of US security services, the FBI, CIA, and DIA, as well as the intelligence elements of the military like General Hampton and now SAVAGE.”

She thought deeply. “Dirk, are you sure? Do you have any other information to confirm these suspicions? I mean, accusing General Hampton of being a traitor, or worse, an active saboteur working at the highest levels. That’s a big accusation.”

Instead of answering, Lasher gestured to the Amerindian woman.

The old woman looked comfortable in her chair, her weathered hands folded in her lap. Turning her gaze to Bonsai, she began to speak in her rich Creole accent.

"Before Mrs. Lisa pass," she said softly, "she set up channels and connections dat still givin' us good information, ya see."

She paused for a moment, letting the words settle. "We have someone who know General Hampton well—not in his chain of command, but a peer, ya see?" she continued. "Dis person tell us plain and clear: yes, indeed, General Hampton been compromised. He can't go to de U.S. government 'cause he don't know how deep dem NEXUS operators run. But he's workin' on it."

Bonsai’s mouth fell open in amazement.

"What all dis means," she went on, her eyes holding Bonsai's, "is dat de SAVAGE program be compromised too. It now just another offshoot of Kimberly Sharp's influence. Only dem be funded by Congress. Sharp’s geniuses continue."

Leaning forward slightly, she lowered her voice. "Also means dat de SAVAGE kill team we saw enter de country—we've confirmed der orders," she said gravely. "Dey gonna reach out to both of you when you in Georgetown, pretendin' to offer support. But truth be told, their real orders be to eliminate Mr. Dirk. Miss Bonsai, their orders for you are to convince you to return to da military."

Her expression grew more serious. "Dis de same team dat burned down Mr. Dirk's house in Miami," the old woman added. "Miss Bonsai, when you told General Hampton dat's where you was when you called him couple days ago, he sent de team dere."

Chapter 27

TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!

The enemy vessel's machine gun roared, spitting fire into the humid air.

Slower—THUD! THUD! THUD! THUD! Massive rounds impacted around them, spraying wood and metal fragments skyward.

Wade slammed the throttle forward and spun the gunboat’s wheel hard. The river was wide here; there was room to maneuver. He veered around the sinking troop transport, using it as cover against the incoming fire from the two pursuing craft—a smaller light patrol boat with a front-mounted machine gun and a heavier gunboat of unknown origin and design. The heavy gunboat was slightly slower but boasted much thicker armor at the waterline.

"Need more rockets!" Brick shouted, tossing the spent handheld missile launcher into the churning water. He had just fired their only surface-to-surface weapon at the troop transport.

"We've got about a hundred rounds left for the forward machine gun and half the small-caliber ammo!" Wade yelled back.

The gunboat's engine screamed, its joints and connections creaking under the strain. Wade pushed it to its limits.

THUD! THUD! THUD! THUD!

Another volley slammed into their boat's exterior as Wade cut across the smaller patrol boat's line of fire.

"I can't hold on like this!" Brick yelled from the exposed front machine gun mount, gripping tightly as the boat rocked violently.

Wade zigzagged—left, then right, then left again—before pulling a hard turn into a tight circle. Explosions erupted in the water where they would have been had he not been an expert pilot. The larger pursuing gunboat unleashed its gravity mortar—a devastating but slow and inaccurate weapon, the only thing giving them a fighting chance.

Bringing the gunboat out of the turn, Wade angled directly toward the crippled troop transport Brick had hit earlier. Soldiers were leaping overboard, swimming frantically for the shoreline.

Wade slammed his palm onto the two red buttons. The fixed forward machine guns roared to life, unleashing a hail of bullets. His aim was true; after several direct hits, the transport erupted into a massive fireball, the shockwave rippling across the water.

He accelerated, steering close alongside the burning wreckage. Thudding impacts echoed as he plowed through debris and over soldiers struggling in the water, the hull shuddering with each collision. He veered around the wreckage, positioning it between his gunboat and the heavier enemy vessel closing in. The river was wide, but the larger gunboat was relentless, pushing past the debris like a beast on the hunt, cutting the river in half with its angle.

Wade's eyes flicked to the smaller patrol boat making a move to cut him off. Its pilot thought he could box them in, but Wade wasn’t about to let that happen.

"Here we go," Wade muttered under his breath. With a swift yank on the throttle, he cut the engine speed abruptly, the boat’s bow dipping as the craft slowed almost to a crawl.

The enemy patrol boat, thinking it had Wade dead to rights, fired off a barrage—TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!

Bullets slammed into the water where Wade's boat should have been. But the maneuver worked. The rounds chewed up the river in a spray of water and debris, missing them by inches.

Brick didn’t miss a beat now that he could get his balance again. He slammed the last belt of ammo into the machine gun and opened fire.

TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!

The front-mounted gun unleashed its final volley, lighting up the smaller patrol craft. Wade saw the bullets tear into the hull, ripping apart metal with savage precision.

The smaller boat’s pilot swerved, but it was too late. Wade twisted the wheel sharply, cutting in front of the patrol boat, angling the gunboat sideways so it moved in tangent to the direction it faced as Brick’s machine gun fell silent, the last of the ammo expended. Wade hit the forward guns—BRRRRRT!—and the fixed weapons roared to life, unleashing a final, deadly barrage.

KA-BOOM!

The patrol boat exploded in a fiery flash, debris raining down into the water as its remains scattered across the river.

But the victory was short-lived.

The larger gunboat loomed over the battlefield, its heavy bow turning toward them with lethal precision. Wade’s earlier gamble left them exposed, slowed, nearly stationary, and now, the massive enemy vessel had them dead in its sights. The rumble of its engines vibrated through the water like the growl of a predator preparing for the kill.

“Nuts!” Wade hissed, his eyes locked on the behemoth closing in. He could hear the distant roar of its main guns priming to fire.

“We’re out of rockets, out of ammo,” Brick growled from the front, his hands gripping the empty machine gun.

Wade glanced around, desperation creeping into his mind. The gunboat had the angle on them. There was no room left to maneuver. No more tricks. Wade could see its main cannon swiveling, locking onto their position.

“We’re done,” Wade said, a grim realization settling in.

He cut the engine. The gunboat sputtered and fell silent, drifting in the water. Wade lifted his hands off the wheel, signaling surrender, though his mind was still racing, searching for any possible move left to make.

The massive enemy gunboat loomed over them, its shadow stretching across the water like a death sentence. Wade could see the figures on deck—soldiers, heavily armed and ready to board.

Brick sat back, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he stared at the approaching vessel. There was no escape, nowhere to go. The enemy gunboat slowed, maneuvering carefully to maintain its advantage, coming alongside their smaller craft with its cannons still trained on them. The soldiers moved into position, ropes at the ready.

A giant of a man—Wade recognized him as the same one he’d seen on the dock in New Amsterdam—emerged from the boat's interior. He carried a machete and looked visibly upset.

"You be Kirpich Mason," he said, looking down at Brick on the exposed front deck.

Brick nodded. "And you be K’Bari," he replied, his voice calm and steady. There was no weakness or defiance, just a statement of fact.

K’Bari nodded and made a hand gesture; six heavily armed soldiers fired in unison into Brick, semi-automatic projectiles blazing in a short violent burst, many rounds each, murdering him on the spot.

“Jesus!” Wade screamed, twisting the key to restart the engine and slamming the throttle forward. It was hopeless—but doing nothing felt worse.

The gunboat lurched ahead. K’Bari shouted a command and the heavier vessel fired its forward cannon. The angle was too sharp—the round exploded harmlessly in the river, several yards off the bow. Gunfire followed; bullets ripping through the air and splintering the boat into shards.

Wade felt the back of the boat rock violently as a gravity mortar landed squarely on the rear deck.

BOOM!

The explosion ripped apart the aft, sending debris flying into the chaos the river had become.

He jammed the throttle, but it wouldn’t budge—it was already maxed out. The engine screamed, a high-pitched whine that was quickly turning into a choking cough as water poured in from the damaged hull. Gunfire raked the pilot house; Wade ducked as rounds shattered the controls, sending fragments flying. K’Bari’s men had finally gotten a clear angle. Wade crouched behind the steel plating of the wheel, the only cover he had left.

Suddenly, a bone-jarring crash. The boat ran aground, slamming into the riverbank with violent force. Wade was thrown forward, then whipped back as the boat came to a grinding halt. The engine continued to roar, but the aft propeller was now out of the water, spinning uselessly. For a brief moment, the wreckage blocked the soldiers’ line of fire.

Wade forced himself to his feet, his body protesting with every movement. His legs felt like lead, but he scrambled over the shattered controls, staying low beneath the broken glass and twisted metal. He grabbed a satellite phone, a bag of rations, and some gear he had stowed before the chaos.

“Wade!” a voice shouted from the brush along the riverbank. “This way!”

Wade turned, spotting Noah Kayne in the shadows of the dense jungle. Without hesitation, he leaped from the wreckage and sprinted toward the cover of the trees, slipping briefly on the red slick that had been Brick, then disappearing into the wilds of the Guyana interior.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his mind racing. This was a problem. Noah Kayne was the voice in his head—the personality that had haunted him since before the doctors, before the medications. All the action and adrenaline must have accelerated the medication dissipating in his system.

Bad news: Wade knew Noah wasn’t real. Good news: Noah was one mean son of a gun, and in a violent situation like this, he would definitely come in handy.

Chapter 28

K’Bari stood on the bow of the menacing heavy gunboat as it motored steadily down the river. Koma and Tafari stood behind him, both still dripping wet. They had each been aboard different boats, both of which had been sunk by the Cuban gunboat in the fierce exchange. The chaos of the battle site was behind them now, the echoes of explosions and gunfire fading into the distance. The heavy gunboat was crowded with soldiers—reinforcements. Not the hundred they needed, but about thirty survivors, the rest lost to the sinking vessels, explosions, and the carnage as the Cuban gunboat had mercilessly driven over those trying to swim to shore.

K’Bari’s steely eyes scanned the surroundings, moving slowly and deliberately. He took in every detail, committing it to memory in case it was needed later. The dense jungle surrounded the river, the thick foliage pressing in from both sides. Towering trees with sprawling canopies blocked much of the sunlight, creating dappled shadows across the dark, slow-moving water. Vines hung from the branches like nature’s nooses, while the underbrush teemed with life, rustling and shifting in the humid air. The smell of damp earth, mixed with the rich, heady scent of vegetation, filled the air, so thick you could almost taste it.

Birds called out in the distance, their bright colors occasionally visible through the layers of greenery. The jungle was alive, a vibrant ecosystem that seemed to pulse with energy. Huge ferns and tangled roots reached down to the water’s edge, where the riverbanks were muddy and thick with mangroves. It was a world where everything grew unchecked, wild and relentless.

As they motored forward, the foliage began to thin, the jungle canopy receding slightly. K’Bari's gaze shifted ahead; he could make out the farm compound a mile before they reached it. The land sloped gently upward from the water, giving him a commanding view of the sprawling property. It was vast—dozens of different crop fields stretched back into the interior, each a slightly different shade of green. From the dark, almost black-green of the jungle in the background, to the lighter, vibrant greens of the various crops, the landscape was a patchwork of life.

In stark contrast to the natural beauty, a modern white building stood in the foreground. It was several stories tall, with sharp, clean lines and a square structure that looked almost out of place in the lush jungle. The building practically glowed against the greenery, its white facade gleaming in the filtered sunlight. It was sleek, sterile, and industrial—completely at odds with the wild surroundings.

As they approached, the pilot slowed the boat, maneuvering carefully around several recently sunk and destroyed watercraft—remnants from the initial battle when Cruz had captured the location just over a week ago. The wreckage still littered the water, half-submerged hulls and twisted metal jutting out at odd angles, a grim reminder of the conflict.

K’Bari’s sharp eyes caught sight of the sniper Cruz had deployed along the waterway. He noted the man’s position but gave it little regard. He didn’t respect Jim Cruz, but he didn’t entirely disrespect him, either. Cruz was competent enough. His strength lay in administration, not in military strategy, at least not in K’Bari’s opinion. Cruz was too cautious, too measured. But he could be trusted not to ruin a situation beyond repair, and that, in K’Bari’s mind, was a more valuable trait than many gave credit for.

The gunboat slowed as they approached an industrial-looking pier that jutted out into the river. The boat docked smoothly, and K’Bari waited as the others disembarked, watching everything. He exited the ship last, stepping onto the solid ground with a sense of purpose.

Ahead, he saw Cruz making his way down from the large white building to greet him. As the two men approached each other, Cruz extended his hand, a thin smile on his face. K’Bari grasped it firmly, his grip like a vise. There was no warmth in the handshake, just the exchange of power between two men with different strengths.

“Where are the rest of the reinforcements?” Cruz asked, his eyes scanning the men who had survived the journey with K’Bari. “I was told to expect a hundred.”

K’Bari released Cruz’s hand and stood tall, his presence imposing. “There no be a hundred,” K’Bari said, his voice carrying the faint Creole lilt. “The Cuban gunboat sank half our forces. Took out three boats and plenty of men.” His eyes flicked toward Koma and Tafari, both standing behind him, still damp from the battle. “But me, Koma, Tafari, and the others—we enough.”

Cruz’s face tightened, frustration evident. “You’re confident that’s enough?”

K’Bari’s lip curled into a half-smile, more predatory than reassuring. “I don’t need numbers. I need soldiers. And I brought them.”

Cruz didn’t press the issue. He knew K’Bari’s reputation—brutal, relentless, and always confident. Instead, he shifted the conversation to the next problem. “There’s a group of rebels about a mile and a half downriver,” Cruz began, gesturing toward the jungle as if the threat were lurking just beyond the trees. “They’re dug in deep and well-equipped. I’ve attacked twice and lost men both times. They’ve got heavy weaponry and sniper positions we couldn’t dislodge.”

K’Bari’s eyes narrowed, his mind already calculating. He glanced back at the jungle, the thick foliage concealing whatever rebel forces were hiding there. “How many?”

“About thirty, maybe more. They’ve fortified their position, and they know the terrain better than we do. I’ve tried what I can think of, but every time, they hold, and hit us back, hard. We’re losing ground, and I can’t keep throwing men at them.”

Cruz’s frustration was clear, but K’Bari remained unfazed. He folded his arms, his broad chest barely moving as he breathed. “I handle it,” he said, his voice calm and firm. “You stay here, hold the farm, and keep working. Get it back operational. That’s your job now.”

Cruz frowned, glancing up at the modern white building looming behind him. “I’ve been working on it, but a lot of the infrastructure got really messed up when we hit it initially. It’s going to take time.”

“Then make time,” K’Bari said, his voice steady, his accent only lightly coloring his words. “Or I find someone else who will.”

Cruz stiffened, but before he could respond, K’Bari took a step closer, his voice dropping to a menacing growl. “I don’t care about your setbacks or excuses. You’re going to fix this place. When I come back, it better be running. You failed out there—force me to waste my time; come out here when I am needed back there.” His eyes were cold, cutting through the silence. “Because if you fail again, I won’t need rebels to take you down.”

Cruz’s face paled, his mouth opening to protest, but the words died before they left his lips. K’Bari turned away, signaling the conversation was over. He nodded toward Koma and Tafari, and the three of them made their way toward the large white building, its sharp lines glowing against the green jungle backdrop.

As they walked toward the structure, K’Bari cast one last glance back at Cruz. “Remember,” he called out so all could hear, his voice loud and dangerous. “You’re only useful to me if you get this done.”

Cruz hid his disdain for K’Bari and his tactics. He smiled back and waived. It was all just a matter of time now; Sharp had filled him in on her plan for Guyana and for K’Bari. He tried to suppress a smile.

Chapter 29

Dirk Lasher kept his eyes on the horizon, his grip firm on the yoke as the twin-prop plane glided through the air. He wasn’t one for small talk, and Trudy Bonnington had long since learned that. They’d shared silence more often than words during their time together, but it was never uncomfortable—just the way Dirk operated.

Bonsai, sitting beside him, looked down at the endless stretch of jungle, unaware of what Dirk had in store. “This isn’t the fastest route to Georgetown,” she remarked, more as an observation than a complaint.

“Nope,” Dirk responded curtly. He adjusted the controls, his eyes still forward.

Trudy raised an eyebrow, sensing something different in his tone. Dirk was a mission-first kind of man. Detours weren’t his style. She didn’t push further, though—she trusted him, more than anyone else.

Minutes later, the plane banked slightly, and the dense green canopy below gave way to an awe-inspiring sight. The Kaieteur Falls—massive, raw, and wild—appeared like a half-mile-long crack in the earth, the Potaro River spilling over the cliff in a torrent of water that dropped impossibly far. Mist rose up from where it crashed below, swirling in the air like something alive.

She stared in disbelief. “What… is this place?”

“Kaieteur Falls,” Dirk said, his voice low. “Not many people know about it. Even fewer see it from up here.”

She was silent, absorbing the enormity and raw power of the quarter mile high waterfall. The sound of the plane’s engines was steady, but beneath it, she could feel the roar of the water below. Bonsai had seen a lot in her time—combat, chaos, danger—but nothing like this. It was beautiful and overwhelming, like nature was reminding her of her place in the world.

“Why’d you bring me here?” she asked softly, still gazing out the window.

Dirk shrugged, his rough exterior still present, but there was something more in his eyes—something thoughtful. “Thought you might like it.”

She turned to him, not sure what to say. It wasn’t like Dirk to go out of his way for something like this, but she realized that this was his way of showing appreciation, of acknowledging everything they’d been through together. It wasn’t about words—it never had been with him. It was about moments.

“You were right,” she said quietly, glancing back at the falls. “It’s incredible.”

Dirk gave a small nod, his expression still unreadable, but Bonsai knew what it meant. It wasn’t romantic, wasn’t about soft gestures—it was about trust, about building a bond. In that moment, circling high above Kaieteur Falls, that bond grew even stronger, forged in silence and in the raw beauty of the realm below.

“Let’s get to Georgetown,” Dirk said finally, turning the plane back on course, his usual tone returning.

Bonsai smiled faintly as the falls disappeared behind them. The moment was over, and she could feel the tension return to the cabin. She and Dirk were wearing their new clothes, having packed a couple of changes, too, including jungle tactical gear. Unlike other times, they were well-prepared and well-equipped now—ready for anything.

Or nearly anything, she thought.

“I feel like we don’t understand something about General Hampton. About the SAVAGE team you identified with the satellites,” she said.

Dirk glanced over at her, his expression quizzical.

She continued. “Dirk, I just can’t believe General Hampton is compromised. You’ve known the man for over a decade...” She trailed off.

“We’ll have a chance to find out,” he replied, his voice flat and emotionless as usual.

She smiled internally; he had a way of answering questions without providing anything useful. “How’s that?”

“I know Bill Walker—William Walker—the guy leading the SAVAGE team.”

“You know him like you know Brick?”

His thin smile softened slightly. It was a clever question. “No, not like Brick. I first met him when he was with the DEA in Panama. We aren’t friends or anything, but I’ve run into him a few times since. I’m confident he’ll offer a conversation, no matter what his true orders are. And if his orders are to cause us harm, I’m confident he’ll tell me and give me some kind of choice before he acts.”

“Confident?” she asked, skeptical.

His smile turned genuine. “All I have are my instincts, and so far, so good.”

They had over an hour left on the flight, given the detour, so she decided to ask some of the questions she’d been meaning to cover over the past couple of days.

“I have some questions,” she began, then paused.

Dirk nodded, but after a few moments, he realized she was waiting for a reaction. “Cat got your tongue?”

She hesitated visibly. “They might involve Lisa,” she said carefully.

Nothing changed in his demeanor. “That’s fine, ask away.”

She proceeded cautiously. “I’m struggling to understand some things. It's basic stuff, nothing personal. It seems like you have this huge network of money and people.”

He nodded, signaling he was listening.

She continued. “It seems like it would’ve taken years and incredible resources to put it all in place.”

He nodded again; his expression unchanged.

Her confidence grew. “But when I first met you, I got the distinct impression you hadn’t really been doing much of anything for a while. Even now, you know where everything is, but it doesn’t seem like you’re familiar with it. Even the people in Mabaruma—they know who you are and clearly respect you, but it felt like this was the first time they had actually met you. I don’t understand the dynamics…”

He nodded as though he understood. “Sure, it’s not complicated, really. And you’re right. For at least the past five years, I’ve just run the bar. Even there, I don’t have to bounce too many people—everyone kind of knows the deal and keeps themselves in check.” He gently banked the plane to avoid a cloud formation on the otherwise clear day. “Lisa did all of this. I was basically home base. I know all the details and gave plenty of advice, especially early on. But yeah, I’ve been an absent parent when it comes to Lisa’s network.”

“What was she trying to do?” Bonsai asked, feeling like she was wading into dangerous—or at least unexplored—territory.

“Honestly?” he asked.

It was a silly question, one he wouldn’t have tolerated himself from her, so she let him know. “Not for fake,” she smiled.

He nodded. “Again, I never thought it was all that complicated, but I’ve been accused of being simple. We were both on the security detail during the 1989 Panamanian elections.”

“Oh, those were a disaster.”

“They were. We were protecting the opposition party, the ones against Noriega. Everything came to a head in the aftermath. The city fell into chaos. Kimberly got ahold of Lisa, and in a bad situation, she made a bad choice. She tortured her, beating her feet with a hammer. Messed them up good. Lisa never walked right again. She never admitted it, but I think there was always a complicated moral philosophy involved. I just figured she was going to spend the rest of her life trying to make sure Kimberly felt a sense of payback.”

Bonsai was instantly surprised at that. “All this good, just for revenge?”

Dirk smiled a knowing smile. “I think that’s part of it. Call me simple, but the best payback might be showing Kimberly how her model could have been used all along. To demonstrate the error of her ways. And, at the same time, to counter everything she was trying to achieve.”

They talked the whole way to Georgetown but didn’t really cover anything else important. Bonsai considered mentioning Wade’s odd revelation but decided against it. She also wanted to ask Dirk more about his relationship with Kimberly Sharp, but she decided not to breach that topic either. Her gut told her that while important, neither of those items was front and center to the danger of the SAVAGE team and the importance of the meeting with Jagan.

The twin-engine plane descended toward Georgetown, its blades spinning steadily as it cut through the bright tropical day. Bonsai adjusted the lapel of her newly tailored dark suit, the fabric hugging her slender frame. She glanced at Dirk beside her, his muscular physique filling out his tailored suit. Even in the relaxed setting of the cabin, Dirk looked impressive—middle-aged, broad-shouldered, and commanding. His presence was impossible to ignore, and in his well-fitted suit, he looked every bit the powerful figure that she was learning he was. Bonsai, in her late twenties, was equally striking. Her deep neckline accentuated her elegance, and with her hair perfectly styled and makeup flawlessly applied, she looked stunning, a sharp contrast to the intensity that awaited them below.

As the plane approached the Cheddi Jagan International Airport, the sprawling city of Georgetown came into view, nestled between the mouth of the Demerara River and the Atlantic Ocean. From above, Georgetown was a mix of the old and the new. Along Main Street and Church Street, the city’s colonial history stood tall, with pastel-colored wooden houses perched on stilts and more imposing structures like St. George’s Cathedral piercing the skyline. But it was clear that time had worn on parts of the city—rusting tin roofs and crumbling facades betrayed the struggles of a town trying to balance its past with a present of economic hardship.

The glistening blue of the Atlantic stretched endlessly on one side while the brownish waters of the Demerara River wound their way through the city's heart. On the riverbanks, old fishing boats bobbed lazily, the contrast between the slow pace of the water and the buzzing energy of the streets palpable even from the air.

After some radio chatter the plane leveled for landing, Bonsai glanced out the window and caught sight of the lush greenery framing the city's edges. The jungle crept in from the distance, a constant reminder of the wild expanse beyond the urban sprawl. The runway appeared, shimmering in the heat, and with a soft jolt, the plane touched down. The tires screeched briefly on the asphalt before the aircraft slowed, and soon, they were taxiing toward a small hangar near the edge of the airport.

Stepping off the plane, Bonsai and Lasher were immediately hit by the dense, warm air. Luckily it was the dry season, or the humidity would have made the formal clothes uncomfortable. Instead, Dirk’s sharp suit clung perfectly to his muscular frame as they walked across the tarmac, his powerful stride setting the tone. A local hangar administrator approached them, wiping the sweat from his brow, his clothes rumpled even without the extra humidity.

“Everything set?” Dirk asked, his voice as commanding as his presence.

He was back in boss mode.

“Yes, sir,” the administrator responded quickly. “President Jagan’s car is waiting for you.”

Dirk nodded, and with Bonsai by his side, they made their way to a sleek black town car waiting just beyond the hangar. The driver, dressed in a crisp white shirt, stepped forward and opened the door for them. Once inside, the car pulled away smoothly, and the scene outside the window began to shift.

As they drove toward the capital, the landscape was a study in contrasts. Fields of sugarcane and rice gave way to clusters of tin-roofed shacks, the poverty of the city’s outskirts laid bare. Children played barefoot and shirtless in the streets while vendors sold fruit and trinkets from rickety stalls. The deeper they traveled into Georgetown, the clearer the divide became. The dilapidated homes and crowded streets began to fade, replaced by government buildings and well-maintained residences along Avenue of the Republic. Bonsai noticed the grandeur of the Parliament Building in the distance, a relic of colonial rule, standing proudly amidst the chaos.

The car eventually pulled up to a majestic government building near Brickdam, and uniformed guards greeted them. Lasher and Bonsai stepped out, their polished appearances sharply contrasting with the worn streets they had just passed through. Ascending the steps, they entered the cool, marble-floored interior.

In a few moments, they were ushered into President Janet Jagan’s office. At 77, Jagan was a slight woman with short-cropped white hair and a face lined with years of political struggle and service. Though her stature was small, her presence was formidable. Dressed professionally, her sharp eyes told the story of decades spent fighting for what she believed in. She became the first female president of Guyana, and her tenure was already marked by her supposed focus on the working class and her idealistic socialist background.

Her tenure was also marked by a deep debt to Lisa Lasher, as it turned out.

“Mr. Lasher, Miss Bonnington,” Jagan greeted them, her voice steady and clear. She extended her hand. “I trust your flight was smooth.”

Dirk shook her hand firmly. “It was, Madam President.”

Jagan gave a slight nod and gestured for them to sit. “Please, we have much to discuss.”

As Dirk and Bonsai settled into their chairs, Bonsai took a moment to glance out the large window behind the president’s desk. The city of Georgetown sprawled below, the remnants of colonial grandeur juxtaposed against the harsh realities of poverty.

Jagan settled behind her desk. “My condolences for Lisa’s passing,” she said, offering Dirk a sympathetic look.

“Thank you,” he replied. “We received your kind flowers for the funeral. I put them back in her room at the house once everything settled.”

Bonsai couldn’t read Dirk. Since she knew the house had just burned down, she found the statement crushingly sad, even though it was presented in a positive light. So much of Dirk’s world was just the act of putting on a happy face.

“That’s good to hear,” Jagan said, not knowing any of the details underneath. “Now, before we get started, there’s another matter. We have four U.S. military personnel in holding across the street. I have to make a decision that will affect Guyana’s standing in the international community.”

“Let me guess,” Lasher said, leaning forward, his voice hard. “You have U.S. government higher-ups calling around the clock. You’ve captured their advance team, and now you have to decide how friendly you want to be, given that sending a covert military team into your country without permission is bad manners.”

Jagan smiled, tapping her finger against her nose, then turned her attention to Bonsai.

“Miss Bonnington,” she started.

Like with Dirk in the conference room, Bonsai noticed that Jagan was working hard not to stare at her neckline. However, unlike Dirk, the vibe was unpleasant.

“Yes, ma’am,” Bonsai said with a thin smile. Then she realized it was the same smile Dirk always used. It was starting to make sense.

“They tell me you’re very much part of this as well,” Jagan continued.

Bonsai didn’t understand and made a face.

“They’re demanding that we detain you as a military deserter.”

“A deserter!” Bonsai reacted like she had been slapped.

Even Lasher was caught off guard. “Madam President are you sure?” he asked instinctively, trying to process the information. He reached over and put his hand on Bonsai’s arm to calm her.

“This is part of my problem, Mr. Lasher. Miss Bonnington. Dirk, if I may, I know you’re one of the good guys. And we both know I owe you for helping with my mother.” She appeared to think deeply; it wasn’t quite an act, but it felt polished—like a politician who knew how to use body language. “Did you record your phone call with General Hampton?” she asked, turning back to Bonsai.

“No,” Bonsai answered, bewildered.

“Well,” Lasher jumped in, “we use Iridium Communications for all our satellite phones. Lisa set up a hub that monitors and records all the calls. We used it early on to try and build the case against the organization. All the recordings are at a data center near Tampa Bay.”

“Can you access the data remotely?” Jagan asked, not as a skeptic but as someone who knew the value of having proof on hand.

Lasher leaned back, unsure. “Probably, but I have no idea how.”

Bonsai was visibly shaken. Jagan noticed.

“Miss Bonnington,” Jagan offered, “don’t worry. There’s no extradition agreement between Guyana and the United States.”

Bonsai was way beyond worrying. “Extradition?” Her panic was building.

Lasher turned back to Jagan; he knew the harsh realities of politics. “How long do we have before you need to decide?” He realized that despite the lack of an extradition treaty, Jagan wasn’t in a position to ignore her relationship with the U.S.

Justice didn’t matter as much as leverage.

Jagan nodded, recognizing his understanding. “Two days, three at the most if we can agree on some milestones,” she said kindly, though an edge of calculation slipped through.

“That’s not a lot of time,” Lasher said.

“Milestones?” Bonsai repeated, struggling to keep focused. Feeling real fear at the prospect of losing her standing.

Jagan transitioned from host to ruthless politician underneath. “The truth is the U.S. has been holding us back here in Guyana. We’re under constant threat of invasion from Venezuela to the north, with rebels now occupying New Amsterdam, practically cutting the country in half. To the east, Suriname waits for any sign of weakness along the southern border. We’re boxed in, surrounded by instability and enemies."

She let out a frustrated sigh. “And what do the Americans offer in return for our loyalty? Nothing but roadblocks. Every time I try to modernize our forces and secure the equipment we need to defend ourselves, they shut it down. All they offer is a U.S. military base in Georgetown. A base, as if we’re incapable of managing our own affairs. They call it protection, but we both know what that really means. Control. Occupation, in everything but name."

Her tone softened, and she leaned in slightly, locking eyes with Dirk. "I’ve tried every official channel, every negotiation. They’ve made it clear: no new equipment, no updated military without their base. And the world is watching. Venezuela, the rebels—they know we’re vulnerable. They know my hands are tied.”

Jagan paused, letting the weight of her words settle in the air. “But of course, a leader can’t just sit and watch her country fall apart, can she? There must be... alternatives. Unofficial but effective solutions. The kind that doesn’t get tangled up in bureaucracy or Washington’s leash?”

She leaned back again, her gaze still fixed on Dirk. “I just need the right connections. The right mind to see the opportunity. After all, with the right help, we could level the playing field. Quietly. Discreetly. But of course, someone with the right experience in such matters would already understand what needs to be done."

Dirk understood the game and was trying to think through what Jagan was hinting at: for him to broker an arms deal. He wasn’t against it. He had some old connections—so did Wade and Brick. Wade went into the domestic black market, and Brick had ties in the Russian markets, where they were still selling off Soviet equipment almost a decade on.

But Bonsai, unfamiliar with the nuances of geopolitics, thought Dirk missed the opening, so she tried to help. It had worked with Wade, why not here.

“Could we help broker a deal?” she asked. She was too rattled to be thinking clearly.

Jagan smiled, and Dirk frowned.

Bonsai could feel the dynamics in the room shift, growing uncomfortable when neither Jagan nor Lasher responded. Instead, Jagan smiled and watched Dirk, while Dirk frowned and watched Jagan.

“Madam President,” Dirk began, his voice steady and firm, but he was not in boss mode. “My team and I have a few connections. It might be possible to make some inquiries. That said, working internationally requires a solid foundation and certain... unique resources.”

Jagan smiled that same thin smile, one Bonsai had only now come to fully understand. It wasn’t just politeness—it was calculation. The realization hit Bonsai like a cold wave, and she wanted to interject. But the energy in the room told her otherwise; she sensed she didn’t know all the players in this game or all the right moves. Better to stay quiet. Besides, she was fighting the realization that she was not willing to run counter to US interest. If General Hampton was ordering her back to Miami, she would go. She could not live in a world where she was labeled a deserter.

Jagan’s gaze flicked to Bonsai’s neckline before refocusing on Dirk, her smile curling at the edges. “What did you have in mind?” she purred, leaning forward slightly as though ready to close a deal. She believed she had found the key to her ambitions.

Dirk didn’t flinch. “The Canje farm is a strategic location. It controls the river leading into the interior. Help me get it back. Officially sanction me. Give me a helicopter and just a squad—sixteen men. I know you're stretched thin, but I can make it work. We retake the farm, and then, yes, I’ll use my connections and those of my team. We have people with deep Soviet-era ties. I'll source new equipment, and I’ll pay for it.”

Jagan went into her familiar deep-thinking routine, a practiced performance. Even though Dirk suspected it was largely an act, it was effective. She made it seem as though she was weighing the proposal with careful consideration, adding gravity to the situation.

Bonsai watched closely. She realized this was an entirely different level of negotiation. The ability to speak like a politician—hinting, presupposing, and guiding others to the outcome you wanted without ever explicitly stating it. It was more than just words; it was the mastery of subtlety.

Jagan’s eyes, still fixed on Dirk, gleamed with interest. “So, you want to be my general?” she finally asked, her voice dropping to a more serious tone.

Dirk recoiled slightly, caught off guard. “Good Lord, no. We’ve got a country full of generals at this point. I want to be the guy that stabilized your government and eliminated this communist threat to the region so I can go back to drinking beer at my bar.”

Bonsai observed him closely. In that moment, she realized she couldn’t read him any better than he could read Jagan. Was this another part of his strategy? Whatever it was, it seemed to be working—Jagan appeared genuinely engaged. The dynamic in the room shifted, and for the first time, it felt like they were having a real conversation.

Then Bonsai saw it. Behind Jagan’s polished exterior, beneath her public persona of social responsibility, burned a ruthless ambition. She was power-hungry, and Dirk was her means to cement control in Guyana. If she had a modern military, even a small one, she could shift the balance of power in the region. The realization hit Bonsai hard—Jagan was using Dirk, just as Dirk was brokering power to trade for rewards.

Was he using her in the same way? Was this the world outside of her small safe circles? She realized in that moment that she had overplayed her hand. It struck Bonsai that Dirk was more like Kimberly Sharp than she had ever realized. And Jagan? She was playing the same game. Perhaps this was the secret to how the world really worked, Bonsai thought, a truth she had been trying to grasp.

“Deal,” Jagan finally said, the word hanging in the air like a victory.

“Good,” Dirk responded, his tone businesslike. “For Trudy here, we need to offer her in-country asylum.”

Jagan started to nod in agreement when Bonsai, suddenly finding her resolve, interrupted.

“I don’t want asylum,” she said, her tone a mixture of confidence and plea. She was speaking directly to Dirk now.

“Trudy, legally…” Dirk began.

“No,” she cut him off, her voice firm. “I’m not going to be on the other side of a conflict with my own country. I’ll talk to this Walker guy. If they’re ordering me back, I’m going back.”

Dirk’s brow furrowed. “It’s dangerous,” he warned. “You don’t understand—”

“I don’t understand?” Bonsai snapped, her hands flying up in frustration. “Look, Dirk, I wouldn’t be so sure about General Hampton. I think you’re wrong about him. I’ll go back with them just like they want. I’ll talk to him, straighten everything out. Then we’ll all come back with reinforcements, and we’ll all be on the right side of things.”

Dirk stared at her, his mind racing. He could see the resolve in her face—she wasn’t backing down. He glanced over at Jagan, searching for any sign of help.

Jagan, ever the politician, waved it off. “Doesn’t impact our deal,” she said smoothly.

And it didn’t, Dirk realized. But it did impact how he felt about it. He rarely let emotions interfere with his decision-making, but this situation was different.

Dirk sighed, then nodded. They spoke for a few more minutes, finalizing details, though Dirk rushed through the conversation, eager to speak with Bonsai alone. He had a meeting later with the Chief of Defense Staff, Omar Sangrés, to finalize plans, but for now, he had time. As far as Jagan was concerned, they had a deal, and he was officially sanctioned, which was what he needed.

Now, he had to reason with Bonsai.

They left the office together, exchanging pleasantries with the staff before finding a small conference room where they could talk while Dirk waited for Sangrés schedule to clear.

Dirk leaned against the conference room wall, arms crossed, jaw tight, his eyes fixed on Bonsai, who stood by the window. The tension between them was unmistakable, the silence heavy with unspoken words.

“You’re really going back?” Dirk finally asked, his tone cold, almost daring her to challenge him. “After everything you now know?”

Bonsai turned to face him, her eyes hard with resolve. “I have to.”

“You don’t,” Dirk shot back, taking a step toward her. “You’re not proving anything to anyone. Especially not to Hampton.”

“This isn’t about him,” she replied, her voice steady. “I’m not trying to change Hampton or the system. I’m trying to prove something to myself, Dirk. I need to see this through.”

Dirk shook his head, frustration evident in his clenched fists. “See what through? Are you proving something to yourself by walking into a trap? By letting them tear you apart?”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t back down. “Maybe. But I have to know. I need to find out if I can still be the person I was before all this. I won’t let them label me as a deserter. They know me well enough to know that’s something I won’t accept.”

He stepped closer, his presence commanding. “The person you were? Trudy, you’ve become so much more than that. You don’t owe anyone, least of all yourself, a return to the past. Who cares what they say?”

She hesitated, her eyes flickering with conflicting emotions. “I care. It’s not about the past. It’s about knowing I didn’t quit when things got tough. It’s about knowing I didn’t run away from who I was.”

“And what about who you are now?” Dirk pressed, his voice low, intense. “You’re not that same soldier anymore. You’ve grown. You know that.”

Bonsai swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words and his closeness. “Maybe. But I can’t walk away without trying. I can’t leave this unfinished. I have to give it everything. Walking away has left a bad taste in my mouth.”

Dirk’s expression softened, though his resolve remained strong. “You don’t need to prove anything, Trudy. You’ve fought more battles than most soldiers could even survive.”

She stepped closer, her voice quieter now, a hint of vulnerability breaking through. “This isn’t about battles, Dirk. This is about me. I need to finish this—for me.”

Dirk was silent for a moment, his gaze locked on hers, seeing the inner struggle she hadn’t fully expressed. He let out a long breath. “You always have to be the hero, don’t you?”

Bonsai’s lips twitched into a brief smile. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then finally spoke, his voice softer but firm. “You’re doing this like you’re on your own.”

Her breath hitched at his words, the unspoken meaning hanging between them. “Dirk...”

“You’ve been pushing me,” he said, stepping closer, his eyes never leaving hers. “Ever since Miami, you’ve been chasing something. And I’ve been trying to fight it because of Lisa.”

Bonsai’s heart clenched at the mention of Lisa, but she didn’t retreat. “You’re not betraying her, Dirk. I’m not asking you to forget her.” She could feel the charged atmosphere between them.

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t pull away. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I know exactly what I’m asking,” Bonsai whispered, her hand gently resting on his chest, feeling his beating heart beneath her fingers. “I’m asking you to let me in. To stop fighting what’s right in front of us.”

Dirk closed his eyes for a moment, struggling with the storm of emotions building inside him. When he opened them again, the hesitation was gone. “You don’t know what you’re starting, Trudy.”

She stepped even closer, her lips just inches from his. “I know exactly what I’m starting.”

And then, the dam broke. Dirk pulled her to him, their lips colliding in a kiss that had been held back for far too long. It wasn’t tentative or unsure—this kiss was everything they had been holding in, every unspoken word, every frustration, every desire they had both tried to deny.

The kiss was electric, raw, and consuming. Bonsai melted into him, her hands gripping his shoulders as the intensity grew. It was the kind of kiss that made the world around them disappear, that made everything finally feel right. Their bodies fit together as though they had been made for this moment, this embrace.

Time seemed to stop, the kiss stretching on, filled with everything they hadn’t said and everything they had always known. It was a moment of surrender and claiming, an instant when both of them finally gave in to what had always been there.

When they pulled apart, breathless and shaken, Bonsai’s hand lingered on Dirk’s chest. Her eyes were wide with emotion, her heart racing, but she steadied herself, knowing she needed to keep moving before the weight of the moment drew her back in.

She took a step back, her speech softer now, though still determined. “I have to go.” Her voice broke; tears streamed down her face.

Dirk’s brow furrowed. “Trudy…”

“I’m going across the street,” she interrupted, her tone sharp again, gathering herself. “I’m going to see William Walker and find out what the orders really are.”

Dirk opened his mouth to argue, but Bonsai had already turned, her face still flushed from the kiss, her steps wobbly at first then firmer as she neared the door.

And just like that, she was gone, leaving Dirk alone in the small room.

After a long while, he crumpled into a chair, sitting motionless for the two hours it took before one of Omar Sangrés staff came to find him for their meeting.

Chapter 30

The dry season had stripped the jungle of its usual weight. The air was still thick with heat, but the rains had passed weeks ago, leaving the ground beneath Wade’s boots firm, starting to crack in places where the higher waters once pooled. The Canje River, snaking through the dense forest, had a quieter flow here, its edges caked with mud baked in the midday sun.

“We’re lucky it’s the dry season,” Wade muttered, wiping sweat from his brow as his eyes scanned the north shore.

Noah Kayne, towering and broad as ever, stood beside him. Though a figment of Wade’s troubled mind, Noah was as real to Wade as the jungle surrounding them. His dark eyes always seemed to be watching. Wade knew Noah wasn’t actually standing there—because he was only real on the inside—but in moments like these, when his grip on reality slipped, Noah’s presence was a comfort. Especially now, with Brick dead. The ache of that loss weighed heavily on Wade.

Wade knew both that Noah wasn’t real, and that he was—at least, to him.

Noah, the protector who had always appeared when Wade was in trouble, nodded in agreement. “You picked the correct side of the river,” he said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. The air around him carried a hint of cinnamon and fire. He motioned to the southern shore, where vines twisted into towering trees, and the undergrowth tangled into an impenetrable wall of green. “Over there, we’d be crawling through the mess, taking twice as long. Here, in the shade, it’s easier.”

The northern bank of the Canje River was more forgiving. Shadows stretched longer here, and the undergrowth wasn’t as dense, allowing them to move faster across the more open ground. The forest on this side didn’t drink the sun as greedily, leaving pockets of shade that made the trek more bearable. Wade knew the dry season had given him a break, but he also knew it was just a matter of pushing forward—ten miles more, and the jungle would spit him out into the arms of the rebels, the ones still loyal to Brick.

The thought of Brick sent a pang through Wade’s chest.

“He shouldn’t have died,” Wade muttered, glancing at Noah.

Unlike Dirk Lasher, who could process his emotions and painful memories at will, Wade—off his medication—was a slave to his thoughts. It was all too real, too present. There was no escaping the weight of the moment.

Noah’s expression hardened. “K’Bari made sure he did. You saw it, Wade. No mercy. You know what this means. I didn’t come back for nothing. Brick’s gone, but K’Bari’s still breathing. That can’t go unanswered.”

Wade nodded, the weight of it pressing down on him. K’Bari had killed Brick just hours ago. Now, Wade was heading to meet Brick’s men, rebels who had been waiting for orders, but he had no plan. Noah was right. K’Bari had to pay, and Noah—like always—was there to make sure Wade didn’t let things slide.

“You’ve been gone a long time,” Wade said as he navigated the jungle, his voice carrying the exhaustion of years. “All that time, you weren’t around.”

Noah turned, his massive frame almost casting a real shadow across the midday sun. “I was always here, Wade. You just couldn’t see me. The meds, the doctors… they kept me down. But I never left you.”

Wade swallowed, feeling the familiar pull of his past. In the 1970s, when he and Noah had fought side by side, things had been different. They had faced threats they barely understood—cults, corruption, and betrayals that cut deep. Noah had always been the voice of reason, the protector, and predator, who appeared when things were at their darkest. And now, with Brick’s death hanging over him and his mind unraveling, Noah had returned.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” Wade asked, his tone darker. “You saw K’Bari kill him?” Wade was struggling remembering what was real.

“I did,” Noah confirmed, his voice low and steady. “And that’s why I’m here now. You’re not alone, Wade. We’re in this together, just like we always were.”

The jungle hummed with life around them as they moved through it—birds called from the canopy, insects buzzed in the thick heat. The air was heavy but not suffocating, and small paths wound through the undergrowth, marking the trails left by wildlife. Wade knew the jungle could turn on you in an instant. He had learned that in the Everglades, where he and Noah had fought their first battles outside the military. Back then, it had been against Arthur and the Sun Dragon cult. The betrayal still stung, even after all these years, even after all the medication meant to suppress those memories.

“You think this is the same as before?” Wade asked, more to himself than to Noah, his thoughts muddled.

“It’s not the same,” Noah replied, keeping pace beside him. “But K’Bari? He’s no different from the men we fought back then. He’s a traitor, and you can’t let this one go. You stood up to worse.”

The memory hit Wade hard. The swamp, the heat, Noah by his side when everything else crumbled. Arthur’s betrayal had cost them more than trust—it had nearly cost Wade his life. But Noah had been there, pulling him back, ensuring justice was served.

“This isn’t like the old days,” Wade muttered, shaking his head. “I’m not who I used to be.”

Noah stopped, his gaze locking on Wade. “You’re still you. You’re the same man who survived hell with me, who took down men that should’ve killed him. K’Bari’s just another version of that evil. You can’t run from it. Remember Arthur? He was bigger, stronger than K’Bari.”

Wade sighed, his eyes tracing the cracks in the ground where water once flowed. “Sure, and Arthur beat me every time. He even killed you—his own brother. He raped women, tortured men… I’m not running. I’m just... tired.”

Noah’s voice softened. “I know. But you don’t have to carry this alone. I’m here, just like I always was. This time, we finish what Brick started. And you’re gonna need to help Dirk with this.”

As they pressed on, the jungle closed in around them, the canopy above tangling into a thick web of branches and leaves, filtering sunlight into scattered beams. Every step was a reminder of the miles left to go—more miles through this dense labyrinth of ancient trees and unseen dangers. The air smelled rich with earth and decay, a testament to the cycle of life and death in this remote corner of the world.

The path they followed was barely a trail, more a suggestion left by animals and time. Vines hung like curtains from the trees, and twisted roots reached up from the ground, ready to trip anyone who wasn’t paying attention. Sweat dripped down Wade’s back, and the steady rhythm of his footsteps became a metronome counting down the distance.

Occasionally, they came across clearings where the sun broke through, illuminating pockets of vibrant flowers and fluttering birds. The jungle’s beauty, even in its raw, unforgiving state, was undeniable. But the sounds of distant howls and the rustling of unseen creatures kept them alert. The jungle was dynamic, and with each mile they conquered, they drew closer to the confrontation Wade knew was waiting.

Wade gripped the strap of his supply bag tighter, talking to himself, reminding himself of who he was. Noah wasn’t a challenger—he never had been. He was Wade’s strength, the voice that guided him when he doubted himself. Now, with Brick gone and the rebels waiting, Noah was there, making sure Wade didn’t break under the significance of it all.

They continued through the jungle, alive with movement around them, until they neared the area where the rebels were stationed. Wade could feel the tension rising as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows. The rebels gathered in small clusters, weapons at the ready.

They would be expecting a leader.

They would not be expecting Wade.

Noah stopped beside him, his gaze sweeping the rebel camp. “This is it,” he murmured. “You know what has to be done.”

Wade nodded, his heart heavy but resolved. The path ahead wasn’t easy, but with Noah at his side, it felt possible.

Together, they stepped out of the jungle and into the clearing where the rebels waited. The sun dipped below the trees, casting the final glow of daylight across the camp.

The land around the rebels bore the scars of recent battles. Trees were splintered by gunfire, and the ground was pockmarked with craters from mortar shells. Makeshift fortifications lined the perimeter—sandbags stacked high, barbed wire coiled like serpents, wooden spikes jutting from the earth. Spent shell casings glittered among the underbrush, and the faint smell of gunpowder still hung in the air.

“They’ve been holding their ground,” Noah observed, surveying the defenses. “Brick trained them well.”

Wade took in the sight, a knot forming in his stomach. “He always said preparedness was half the battle.”

“I was there, Wade. Mostly he said pass the bottle,” Noah quipped.

As they approached the outer defenses, a voice rang out. “Halt! Identify yourselves!” A rebel soldier emerged from behind a barricade, rifle raised and steady. His uniform was worn but well-maintained, a testament to the discipline Brick had instilled.

Wade raised his hands slightly. “Wade Clay. Brick sent me.”

The soldier’s eyes narrowed. “Jaguar?”

“Shadow,” Wade replied, remembering the code Brick had given him.

The guard relaxed, lowering his weapon. “Advance and be recognized,” he said, signaling two other rebels who stepped out of the jungle, flanking them.

Led deeper into the camp, Wade saw the extent of Brick’s organization. Despite the rugged conditions, the camp operated with military precision. Tents were arranged in neat rows, and equipment was meticulously stored. The rebels moved with purpose, tending to weapons, sharing intel, maintaining their watch. There were about thirty-five of them in total, each one reflecting the strict discipline Brick had demanded.

“Impressive,” Noah murmured. “This isn’t just a group of rebels—it’s an army.”

Wade nodded, pride mixing with sorrow. “Brick believed in order and discipline. Said it kept them alive.”

“He never said that, Wade,” Noah chuckled.

They passed training areas where soldiers practiced drills, their movements synchronized. It was clear that Brick had run a tight ship. Ahead, a larger tent stood apart from the others, its entrance guarded by stern-faced rebels. The guard leading them stopped. “Wait here,” he said before stepping inside.

Wade took a deep breath, glancing at Noah. “This is where we meet their new leader.”

Noah nodded. “What do you know about him?”

“Brick mentioned him a few times. Commander Marcus Reyes. Former military strategist. Corrupt orders from higher-ups wiped out his unit. He’s smart, ruthless when he needs to be, but fair. The men respect him.”

The tent flap opened, and the guard reappeared. “Commander Reyes will see you now.”

Inside, the command tent was illuminated by lanterns casting a warm glow over maps and documents. Commander Marcus Reyes stood behind the table—a tall man with sharp features, dark hair cropped short, and a scar running across his left cheek. His piercing green eyes assessed Wade with a mix of curiosity and caution.

“Where’s Brick?” Reyes demanded.

“K’Bari gunned him down about ten miles north, less than six hours ago,” Wade said.

Reyes stared at Wade for a long moment.

Noah, only visible to Wade, muttered, “He seems pissed.”

Finally, Reyes turned to his men. “Well, boys, that’s it then.”

It felt like they were ready to give up.

“No,” Wade interjected, his voice firm. “That’s not it. Not by a long shot.”

“What do you mean?” Reyes asked, his tone angry and short.

Wade thought hard, trying to remember. “Brick and I were just half the plan. We’ve got the Guyanese military coming. My boy Detrich is there now, working out the details.”

Reyes barked out a laugh. “The Guyanese military? We’re not fighting bridge club grandmothers here!”

Wade didn’t flinch. “They’ll be there, and with Dirk & Trudy leading them, you’ll be impressed.”

Reyes relaxed, though his skepticism remained. “Cruz has tried twice to dislodge us. We’ve held him off and harassed his men when they retreat. But if K’Bari’s in charge now, it’s only a matter of time. He’s ruthless, but he’s also a brilliant military strategist.”

Wade nodded. “We’re supposed to be in position by tomorrow night.”

Reyes frowned.

Noah nodded his approval. Since he was just in Wade’s head, he didn’t remember the plan too well, either.

Suddenly, the tent erupted in a violent explosion.

Wade was thrown to the ground, the blast hitting him like a freight train. His ears rang with the deafening concussion, and the world around him blurred in chaos. Dirt and debris rained down, filling the air with choking dust. Reyes and his men had been closer to the blast and had taken the brunt of it. Wade could hear their screams and the panic that followed.

Shouts and gunfire erupted all around him; Wade struggled to focus. His head throbbed, and the ground felt distant beneath him, as though he were floating in a haze. He blinked hard, trying to clear the fog from his mind, but nothing seemed to help. He realized with a sinking feeling that he was flat on his back, staring up at the darkening sky. The sun had already set, the shadows of nightfall creeping in.

"They used the sunset to time their attack," Noah said, his voice calm but insistent. He knelt beside Wade, trying to help him up, but Wade’s body refused to respond.

“I can’t get up,” Wade muttered, trying again and failing, frustration bubbling up.

Gunfire cracked in the distance; Wade could hear the rebels scrambling, shouting orders, trying to regroup. The attack was well-coordinated, and they were coming fast.

"Wade," Noah said, more forcefully now, "you have to get up. We’ve got to move. They’re closing in."

Wade’s limbs felt like lead, his body too stunned to obey. His mind whirled, knowing they were running out of time, but the shock from the explosion kept him paralyzed.

Noah’s eyes hardened. “Wade, let me take over.”

The old, familiar rush of relief washed over Wade. This was why Noah was here. This was his purpose. "Do it," Wade whispered, surrendering control.

Noah stood, fully inhabiting Wade’s body now. His movements were fluid and purposeful, a stark contrast to Wade’s earlier daze. There was a shift in his posture—stronger, more alert—and though he wore Wade’s face, there was a distinct change in the eyes. Noah was in command.

Without hesitation, Noah reached across his body and ripped Wade’s sleeveless shirt clean off in a single, powerful motion, tearing it in half. The debris-filled air cleared slightly, revealing the grim scene around him. Reyes’s body lay motionless nearby, his belt still strapped with a large hunting knife. Noah snatched it without a second thought, tucking it into his own belt. The flimsy white hat Wade had worn was discarded, and in that instant, Noah Kayne was fully present.

“We’re seventy-five years old, Noah,” Wade’s voice echoed in his mind, a warning laced with doubt. “We’re not the fighters we used to be.”

Noah grunted in response, unfazed. He sheathed the knife and instead pulled an AKM rifle from a fallen soldier’s body, checking it for ammo. He found an extra belt of magazines and slung it over his shoulder. The weapon felt right in his hands, natural.

A second mortar blast hit nearby, the ground trembling beneath his feet as the tent fully collapsed. Noah’s gaze snapped to the west, where figures were pouring through a breach in the defensive perimeter—K’Bari’s forces. The night had come alive with chaos, with fires from the explosions casting flickering orange light and shadows across the battlefield, making it nearly impossible to distinguish friend from foe.

Noah raised the AKM, flipping the fire selector to full auto. With cold precision, he strode forward, holding the rifle at waist level, and squeezed the trigger.

The weapon bucked in his hands, but Noah controlled it easily. The thirty-round magazine spat out a spray of bullets, cutting down the advancing soldiers as they tried to funnel through the choke point. Men fell like wheat before a scythe, pink mist blooming in the air as rounds tore through flesh. Noah barely paused as the clip emptied, expertly reloading with another magazine before the last fully hit the ground, continuing the onslaught without missing a beat.

Shell casings clattered all around him, the smell of gunpowder thick in the air. It was brutal, efficient work—Noah’s specialty. He fired off the last of the rounds in his third magazine just as another mortar round struck dangerously close, the impact throwing him to the ground. Dirt and debris rained down, pelting his exposed skin with shards of metal and earth.

He rolled to his feet quickly, ignoring the stinging wounds on his chest and arms—superficial at best, bleeding but not enough to slow him down. The mortar fire stopped abruptly, and the battlefield shifted. The rebels, seeing their chance, had regrouped and formed a defensive line. Noah’s actions had bought them time, and now the fight was more balanced.

“They’re out of mortar rounds,” Noah noted calmly, wiping blood from his chest. Wade, still present in the back of his mind, agreed.

A sudden war cry pierced the air, drawing Noah’s attention to the far side of the rebel line. Two massive figures were cutting through the chaos, their presence unmistakable—Koma and Tafari, K’Bari’s most dangerous men.

Noah’s lips twisted into a smile. These were the kinds of enemies he lived for.

“Noah, use the rifle!” Wade pleaded, knowing what was coming.

Noah ignored him, dropping the rifle to the ground. He glanced around, spotting a large piece of metal debris from the tent. He picked it up and held it in his left hand like a makeshift shield. With his right hand, he drew the hunting knife from his belt, his grin turning into a grimace of pure pleasure.

He sprinted forward.

The night was alive with fire and smoke, the battlefield a blur of motion, but Noah moved through it with lethal intent. Koma and Tafari saw him coming, their eyes locking on his approach, the orange light and heavy dust in the air creating the impression of another world, or maybe hell itself. They swung their machetes with brutal strength, cutting down men as they moved to engage. But Noah was faster. He ducked and weaved between their strikes, the knife in his hand flashing in the firelight as he plunged it into Koma’s side, twisting the blade with a sickening squish.

Tafari roared in anger, swinging his blade in a wide arc, but Noah was already gone, slipping to the side and driving his knife up into Tafari’s chest. Blood sprayed across Noah’s face as the warrior fell, his body crumpling to the ground.

It was an impossible feat. Wade could not have fought both bigger, younger, more brutal men and survived. But this was the difference between him and Noah Kayne. Noah was even crazier than Wade, meaner, more hard-edged in his sense of right and wrong. Noah didn’t operate in a lot of grey areas. In his mind, he was right, and pretty much everyone else was wrong.

Noah stood over their bodies, breathing hard, his eyes scanning the battlefield for the next threat. But the melee had quieted. The rebels had pushed back the attackers, their line ultimately holding for a third time.

The night was theirs—for now.

“You keep what you kill,” Noah muttered to himself, wiping the blood from his face.

With Reyes dead, Noah Kayne decided that he was the rebel’s new leader.

“I wonder if there will be any challengers?” he smiled to himself, noticing that Wade didn’t answer.

Chapter 31

The meeting with Omar Sangrés had dragged on forever. The man was a talker, and it had taken every ounce of Dirk’s self-control to stay engaged. To make things worse, the meeting had been a series of soul-crushing revelations. Guyana had access to a fixed-orbit satellite with fairly good resolution. While it couldn’t provide a live video feed, it was capable of delivering targeted still images only minutes behind real-time.

As they discussed the Guyanese military, images continued to stream in. One early set showed the aftermath of a ship battle roughly halfway down the Canje River. Dozens of dead soldiers floated in the water, casualties from a sunken troop transport. And then came a gut-wrenching image: Brick’s body, sprawled lifeless on the front of the Cuban gunboat, riddled with bullets near the machine gunner’s nest.

For Dirk, it was a one-two punch, still raw from the confrontation with Bonsai earlier. But then another image came in, showing the location Brick had identified as where his men were staged. The photos, taken after sundown, were grainier due to the low light, but the scene was clear enough. K’Bari had reached the farm and sent a large force to eliminate the rebels. Judging by the explosions and fires visible in the rebel camp, it looked like they’d had some success.

Sangrés had also explained, with a hint of smugness, that while Jagan might wish she had men to spare to help Dirk retake the farm, the truth was that she had none available, the entire army was committed to the defensive lines established against the siege of New Amsterdam. He suggested setting up a meeting with Jagan to discuss it further; Sangrés seemed almost gleeful at the idea of dragging Dirk through the bureaucratic process of scheduling a staff meeting. Apparently, as he delighted in pointing out, the Guyanese constitution prohibited the President from making any unilateral military decisions without the support of her cabinet and a majority vote in the Senate.

Dirk felt the frustration mounting, and he made a mental note to contact Jagan and get his new role communicated to her staff and the government's directors. This was all nonsense, a way for lesser men to feel powerful.

He’d been tied up for hours, and now it was approaching nine o'clock at night—nearly eight hours since his initial meeting with Jagan. After leaving Sangrés’s office, Dirk had walked over to the administrative building across the street to find Bonsai, only to discover it locked up tight. The guard assured him that no one remained inside after seven at night, and beyond that, they were of no help.

Annoyed, he had walked back across the street, only to find that, in the thirty minutes he had been gone, the capital building was also locked up and empty. He hadn’t arranged a place to stay, and the plane was a three-hour walk back through some of the roughest parts of town. To make things worse, there was no town car waiting to take him anywhere.

Trudy must be somewhere around here, he reasoned, as should Walker and his team. He spun in a slow circle. The government buildings were in the heart of the city, but apparently, even in the city center, this part of town was completely abandoned after dark.

Dirk weighed his options. Walking back to the airport seemed the best bet. There, at least, he had his plane, a change of clothes, and his satellite phone. He could get back by midnight, sleep safely on the plane, and figure out his next move in the morning.

“Chief Lasher!” A strong male voice rang out in the empty night, echoing through the darkness.

Dirk spun around but didn’t see anyone.

A red dot flickered onto his chest, aimed squarely at his torso. Then, a second red dot appeared. And a third.

“Hey, buddy,” a calmer voice called again. “Mind putting your hands up real quick?”

It was William Walker. Dirk recognized the inflections in his voice. With no other choice, he raised his hands.

Walker stepped out of the shadows, moving toward Dirk. He was dressed in the same jungle gear Dirk had seen in the earlier photos, but he looked older—his face sunburned, lined with more wrinkles than Dirk remembered.

“Hi Bill,” Dirk said, hands still raised, the partially lit government buildings providing the backdrop.

“Hey Dirk,” Walker replied, approaching at an angle that kept the three red dots trained on Dirk’s chest from the other unseen members of his team. “I’m going to search you for weapons. Am I going to find any?”

Dirk nodded. Despite being on possibly opposite sides, the two men still had a professional trust.

“Nine-millimeter on my back belt under the jacket. Switchblade on my right calf, and brass knuckles with an extendable blade in my pocket.”

Walker smiled, carefully removing the items while keeping his eyes locked on Dirk the entire time, never giving him an opening. He found a second switchblade strapped to the opposite leg and a pair of small, handheld daggers where the handles were horizontal, designed to fit snugly in the hand with the blade extending between the middle and index finger—a mean street-fighting weapon.

When finished, he tossed the weapons into the darkness and turned back to Lasher. The red dots from the laser sights still danced across Dirk’s chest.

“Kind of hard to concentrate,” Dirk said, lowering his hands slightly, indicating the lasers.

Walker nodded but didn’t signal his team to stand down. “Kind of how things are these days. Don’t worry. It’s a good team—mostly not trigger-happy.”

Dirk could feel the red dots burning into him, making it impossible to focus. The knowledge that three people had high-powered rifles trained on him, ready to shoot at the slightest provocation, was a lot to ignore.

“Where’s Trudy?” Dirk asked, cutting straight to the point.

Walker shook his head. “Back where she belongs.”

“She belongs here, with me,” Dirk said, his voice firm, a quiet force behind his words.

Walker smirked, but his face quickly turned somber. “I’m sorry about Lisa, Dirk.”

“Thanks, Bill. But let’s not change the subject.”

Walker sighed. “Dirk, seriously. What are you doing? I’ve got reports of people being killed in a straight line between your old house and here. You understand you’re not sanctioned, right?”

Dirk stared at him for a long moment. He genuinely liked Walker—he was a sharp guy with a rational mind. But Bill Walker was also a bureaucrat at heart, a lifer in the system. He could handle himself in the field, but his real strength was in the analysis, taking in data and piecing together the bigger picture. Dirk decided to play to that strength.

“You’re wrong, Bill,” Dirk said casually, glancing into the darkness behind Walker, as if bored. “You’ve got U.S. weapons trained on the Guyanese Special Military Advisor to the President.”

Walker met Dirk’s gaze, processing the information in silence. However incredible it might be, Walker knew Lasher would not lie to him about it. After a few tense moments, he raised his right hand and flattened it, then made a downward patting motion with his palm.

Two of the red dots disappeared immediately. The third lingered a moment longer before finally fading away.

With the lasers gone, Dirk asked again, “Where’s Trudy?”

“She’s halfway back to Miami by now,” Walker replied.

“To what end?”

Walker’s face twisted in a half-shrug. “How would I know? You know how this works—they give me the ‘what’ but never the ‘why.’”

Dirk pressed his lips together, frustration simmering. He had no other choice. “Bill. William. I need your help.”

Walker looked at him for a long time, weighing the situation. “Help?” he asked after what felt like an eternity. “I’m supposed to assess the situation and either arrest you or end you, based on my sole discretion.”

“Then use that discretion and decide to help me instead.”

Walker made a low harumph sound, shifting his weight.

“Bill, I need to get control of my farm in the interior. You know it’s key to this—you were briefed, I’m sure. Janice Jagan has sanctioned the operation. Everything’s above board.”

Walker looked like he was trying to find a way out, searching for an excuse not to get involved.

Dirk pressed harder. “I saw your watercraft. It’s a Mark V Special Ops boat. With that much firepower and your team of commandos, it’s a realistic mission.”

“Dirk…” Walker’s voice strained, torn between duty and friendship.

“Consider this the favor,” Dirk said, his tone sharpening. He was pulling in a debt.

Walker grimaced. “Don’t waste it on this.”

“This is the time, Bill. You owe me, and this will settle it.”

“Why don’t you use the Guyana military, mister Special Advisor?”

“I tried,” Lasher admitted. “Jagan authorized the raid and a squad of sixteen men. Sangrés claims she isn’t authorized to do that without some form from her cabinet. Can you believe that? Red tape paperwork all the way out here? My gut tells me it will take days to work it out. But I saw their satellite feeds. One of my friends is dead, and Wade Clay, my grandfather, seems to be missing; he was on the same boat. If Brick is dead, the farm is now my responsibility. Jim Cruz is there; I suspect you know that also. Now is our chance; if the rebels fall or have already fallen, it’s not clear; we must move now. Tonight.”

Dirk knew, if Walker declined, then he was compromised. Calling in this debt transcended politics, and orders. If he agreed, then Dirk had a man on the inside he could leverage later.

Walker sighed deeply, the weight of the situation sinking in. Men like William Walker and Dirk Lasher lived by codes—philosophically simple but tied to complex realities. “Fine,” Walker said, resigned. “Let’s get the introductions over with and head back to the boat.”

They shook hands on it. Dirk offered his standard thin, joyless smile. He hadn’t realized how much he’d grown used to having Bonsai by his side until now. Her absence was a dull ache in his chest, more noticeable in moments like this.

Walker gave a series of hand signals, and soon after, the low rumble of a diesel engine broke the silence. A military-grade vehicle emerged from the shadows, its engine growling in the dark, briefly reminding Dirk of his old ’68 Charger. That car, along with everything else he had once owned, had been set on fire by the very same people here in the vehicle with him. He knew they put him in the front seat—not out of respect, but out of caution. Placing him in the back would have meant no one had eyes on him, and they weren’t about to take that risk.

Walker’s team was introduced; Dirk barely registered the names, he didn’t care and was struggling with Brick’s death and Bonsai’s departure. It was getting to be too much to keep to the background and not deal with. Because of that, the names came and went in a blur—standard military types. Lieutenant Garza, the weapons expert; Harrison, their medic; and Marek, the radio operator, both Sergeants.

Garza, who was driving, glanced at Dirk from time to time with a mixture of suspicion and annoyance. Walker sat behind Dirk, and though Lasher couldn’t see him, he had the distinct feeling that Walker had his rifle at the ready, its barrel aimed in his direction.

After the introductions, Walker spoke up. “So, Mr. Lasher here needs assistance with his Canje Farm. I’ve agreed to help him.”

“Help him?” Garza barked; his tone sharp. He shot a look at Dirk. “I thought we were supposed to shoot him. How did we go from ‘shoot’ to ‘help’?”

Dirk met Garza’s gaze and held it, not blinking, not backing down. He wasn’t trying to posture as a tough guy, but he wasn’t shying away from it, either.

“It’s my call, Lieutenant,” Walker said, his tone laced with formality. “With the Delta asset secured, we have some flexibility with this second task.”

Dirk glanced back at Walker, and they exchanged brief, polite smiles.

“Yes, sir,” Garza replied, though Dirk couldn’t shake the feeling that Garza was the one who had kept the laser sight on him longer than necessary.

Walker continued, shifting the conversation back to the mission. “It’s a straightforward op. The primary objective is to seize and secure the Canje Farm, which is currently occupied by General Cruz and approximately 30 men. Intelligence indicates that General K'Bari is also on-site. Our job is to neutralize enemy forces and re-establish control of the farm. There’s a heavy gunboat patrolling the river near the farm, which is a significant threat to our insertion and extraction. Once the location is secured, we’re out. After that, it’s up to Mr. Lasher to dominate and do whatever else he wants once we’re gone.”

They cleared the northern reaches of Georgetown; the military vehicle rumbled along the dirt road outside the city, its tires kicking up clouds of dust as it headed north.

Walker shifted slightly, his voice firm. “Garza, you’re on heavy gunboat duty. We can’t afford to have that thing roaming the river when we’re inserting. Use the Mark V’s weapons or shoulder-launched missiles if you need to, but take it out. Once we hit the ground, you lead the assault team. You’re in charge of breaking through Cruz’s defenses.”

Garza smirked; his hands steady on the wheel. “Roger that. No problem there.”

Lasher turned slightly and raised an eyebrow. “Wait a minute. Are you planning to blow up the heavy gunboat before we’re inserted? There goes the element of surprise, don’t you think?”

Walker paused, realizing the flaw. “Good point, Lasher. Blowing up the gunboat before insertion isn’t exactly subtle. We’d lose the element of surprise.”

He looked back at Garza, adjusting the plan. “Change of plan. We’ll insert up river,  avoid engaging the gunboat unless absolutely necessary. You focus on guiding us in, use the terrain to our advantage once we’re on dry.”

Garza gave a quick nod, eyes still forward. “Copy that. Low and fast.”

Walker continued, his voice now measured. “If the gunboat engages us during extraction or by surprise, that’s when you light it up, Garza. Until then, we stay quiet, but the boat is your responsibility in all scenarios.”

Lasher leaned back in his seat, satisfied. “Good.”

Walker nodded and turned his attention to the back of the vehicle. “Harrison, you’re our lifeline. Stay in the middle of the formation during the approach. If things get hot, your priority is triage and extraction of any wounded. Once the farm is secure, you’ll check for any hostages or friendlies. Be ready for civilians or injured enemy combatants.”

Harrison nodded from his seat, his voice calm. “Understood.”

“Marek,” Walker said, shifting his focus. “You keep us connected to the Mark V. Relay any intel and track the gunboat’s movements with radar. Once we’re on-site, coordinate with me for fire support if needed. After we’ve seized the farm, you’ll call in extraction and manage any support items.”

Marek, always composed, gave a quick nod. “I’ll keep the line open.”

Walker glanced back at Lasher. “Dirk, you’re sponsoring this mission, but I’m not letting you sit on the sidelines. You’ll be our point man. Lead us into the farm once Garza gets us there, clear the way. You know the terrain better than we do.”

Lasher didn’t hesitate. “I’ll handle it.”

Walker leaned back slightly. “Contingencies—if we can’t neutralize the gunboat during extraction, we’ll use evasive maneuvers along the riverbank until we’re within striking range. Cruz’s men are well-armed but not expecting us. There will be basic resistance, but once we take control, be ready for a counterattack or an escape attempt by K’Bari.”

Everyone was nodding they understood.

“Great,” Walker closed. “We’ll get set up and head in. It’s a couple of hours to New Amsterdam once we’re back on the boat. Everyone is ordered to find four hours in the next eight and get some sleep, the sooner the better.”

Chapter 32

Dirk Lasher and everyone except the boat pilot were asleep on the Mark V as it motored past Georgetown. They were heading south at about twelve knots, a speed chosen deliberately. It would put them near New Amsterdam around three-thirty in the morning—the perfect time to slip through unnoticed.

Dirk was deep and in a dream.

He sat in his usual booth at the Fox & Hound pub, a beer in front of him, untouched. Across from him sat Lisa, his wife, who Kimberly Sharp and the Organization had murdered. In the dream, Lisa looked very much alive, practically glowing in the dim interior of the pub.

"Dirk," she said, her tone serious, "you can’t do what you’re thinking of doing."

He knew she was right, even if a mild frustration tugged at the edges of his mind. His grieving process had forced these conversations into his dreams as if he couldn’t escape the inner conflict. But being with her again, even in a dream, filled him with a familiar joy.

"And what am I thinking of doing?" he asked, the frustration giving way to the comfort of her presence.

"You’re planning on using Walker’s team to take back the farm, then killing them when the operation’s over."

Dirk flashed a guilty smile, raised his hands in mock innocence, and shrugged. "Hey, I’m just mulling it over."

Lisa frowned. "I get that your decision-making is out of whack. I understand what happened near Cuba and off Jamaica. You're struggling, Dirk. You’re seeing everything as a deadly threat that has to be neutralized with lethal force. Your instincts are to move fast, to strike before they can strike you, because deep down, you’re afraid you’ve lost a step, that you’re overmatched in a fair fight. But it’s only in hindsight you see if you were justified in your extreme actions, leaving the real possibility that you are sometimes not.”

Dirk motioned to Larry behind the imaginary bar. Larry understood the signal and brought over a warm, imaginary orange soda to replace the imaginary beer.

Lisa grimaced. "Why do you drink that stuff warm? At least switch to diet—you don’t need all that sugar."

Dirk smiled sincerely, missing how she always worried about him. "I don’t know," he admitted. "I just like them warm." He popped the top and took a long sip from the store-brand can.

She watched him closely, and when he didn’t say more, she pressed on. "Don’t dodge the issue, Dirk. I expected you to say I was wrong—that you haven’t lost a step."

He took another pull from the can, savoring the dream. "Why would I disagree? Of course you’re right. You’d be right if this were real, and you’re right because you’re my subconscious. You know everything there is to know about me."

She smiled, though her eyes held a sadness. "You never fail to surprise me."

Dirk dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. "I know who I am. Back in the Darién Gap, we only survived because I ambushed everyone. Until I couldn’t—and then I lost the first fair fight I had. I’m terrified it’ll happen again. And then what?"

Lisa tilted her head slightly. "Won’t your new little friend come to the rescue like I used to?" There was a trace of jealousy in her voice.

"You saved me more times than I can count."

She studied him for a long moment. "I still don’t know how I feel about all this little miss perfect stuff."

“Well, it’s a non-issue now,” Dirk said, his voice hardening slightly. "My focus is getting the farm back. We can deal with the rest after."

Lisa nodded. Of course, she understood; she was, after all, just a figment of his imagination.

The light in the pub shifted. Dirk looked up toward the door as Brick and Jack Williams entered, making their way to his booth. Jack had been his friend for decades, a fellow military special agent, until he was killed in Panama just months ago after General Hampton had called him back into service.

They sat down, the booth magically expanding to accommodate them all.

"I take it as good news that Wade isn’t with you two?" Dirk asked as they settled in.

Brick nodded. "Da, good news. But some bad news too—Wade’s off his medication."

Dirk rolled his eyes, sighing heavily. "I should’ve remembered that." The air in his chest felt heavy, his thoughts weighed down. "Well, I guess I just did. This means we also have to deal with Noah…"

Jack looked at Dirk with concern. "Dirk, are you thinking of teaming up with William Walker... and then killing him?"

Before Dirk could respond, Brick shook his head. "No, Dirk. You get reputation as man who cannot be trusted. That very bad for a benefactor-type person."

Before Dirk could protest, the light at the door shifted again, and Specialist Mariana entered, followed by the teenage Jill Harper. Mariana was killed under Dirk’s watch in the jungle; Jill was thrown off a ten-story roof with her little dog by Brick's brother Kamén Mason. They took their seats in the booth, which again expanded naturally to fit them all.

Jill looked at Dirk with wide, pleading eyes. "Grandpa, don’t do it. You’re one of the good guys!"

More figures began to flood into the bar. Thomasito, the Panamanian street gang leader with a heart of gold, who died on the night of the election riots a decade ago. Mike Fealty, lost in the Bay of Panama that same night. Mateo, the Wargandi chief, whose village Dirk had failed to protect. The Soviet agents from Honduras Lenkov and Belov followed - hulking figures who added to the weight in the room. Brick's brother, Kamén Mason, was among them.

Dirk’s pulse quickened. He had failed all these people. His chest tightened; the sound of blood rushed in his ears. It was happening all over again—he was failing, and it was beginning anew.

More people streamed in. Agatha, the school bus driver from Arizona; Bonsai’s entire Delta Force team; the giant Buluc Chabtan, the Mayan God of War; and finally, Kimberly Sharp.

The light from the door seemed to follow Sharp like a spotlight. Her red power dress clung to her as her long black hair blew in an invisible wind.

Dirk’s mouth went dry. "Kimberly... I thought you were dead. I just learned you’re not. Why are you here then?"

Sharp smiled, the light around her growing even brighter. Lisa stood from the booth, fists clenched. "She’s not welcome here, Dirk," she said firmly, turning toward Kimberly.

Sharp raised her hands, and her red dress fell away, revealing screaming faces—thousands of them—twisted in agony, the lives of those she had taken. Their voices rose, pleading with Dirk for help, accusing him, condemning him.

Suddenly, the entire bar turned on him. Everyone began shouting at once, blaming him for their deaths, demanding answers he didn’t have.

Dirk bolted upright on the small cot on the boat, drenched in sweat and gasping for air.

He looked around. He had woken everyone up, and they were all staring at him.

Walker shook his head to clear the fog of sleep. "Quite the potty mouth there, mister. I didn’t know you scream non-stop expletives in your sleep."

Dirk was too unsettled to appreciate the joke or understand its implications.

Chapter 33

Kimberly Sharp was bored.

K’Bari leaned back in his worn-out chair, the dim light of his makeshift command center casting shadows across his furrowed brow, his dark mood matching his dark complexion. He knew this was a dangerous time. A bored Kimberly Sharp could mean trouble: she might suddenly fixate on him or, worse, find some random person to torture, forcing him into damage control. Even worse, it could spark a change in their mission or lead to an impulsive, violent assignment, ill-timed given the already volatile situation. His fingers drummed on the cracked surface of the satellite phone, heart beating a little elevated as he waited to find out which version of Kimberly Sharp he was about to deal with. K’Bari was growing impatient with Sharp’s abstract focus and her ability to create more problems than she solved.

To his relief, it seemed he was dealing with the composed, strategic Kimberly—a rare sunray piercing the fog of his anxiety.

“I decided to let them pass,” her voice crackled through the phone, calm and measured. She was explaining the Mark V boat that had just sailed through their area. “I didn’t want the Guyanese across the river thinking this was the start of our little shooting war.”

K’Bari exhaled slowly, a flicker of relief washing over him. She was right. He was impressed; she’d shown good forethought. Kimberly had a knack for seeing angles he sometimes missed in the heat of the moment. As long as she was an asset, he had no problem with her.

“De Mark V is a serious machine,” he said cautiously, still unsure where she was taking the conversation. His accent thickened slightly, a sign of his curiosity. “If it be Garza’s boat, no point in pretendin’ we tryin’ to stop it.”

“It’s even better, K’Bari. Want to know the best part?” Her voice carried a hint of excitement, a stark contrast to his guarded frustration.

K’Bari blew air out of his nose, shaking his head. “’Course me want to know,” he said, sounding more enthusiastic than he felt.

“We’re about ninety-five percent sure Dirk Lasher was on the boat,” she said, her voice tinged with excitement at the discovery.

Now she had his full attention. “No way. He not be dat stupid. I was just startin’ to grow respect for de man.” His skepticism was clear, but there was a reluctant admiration beneath it.

“I know, right?” She almost giggled, the adrenaline from the news making her more animated. “But there’s one other thing we need to handle. Not immediately—we’ve got about a day before it becomes a real issue.”

K’Bari felt anger welling up inside. He knew Sharp had the ability to manipulate him, drawing him deeper into their tangled web. He gritted his teeth. If this was some stupid problem she created, it might be the final straw.

“Let me guess. You lost de nuclear codes,” he said sarcastically, his bitterness barely hidden.

“Nuclear codes? No, silly. Nothing crazy like that. Just a little situation we need to clear up.” Her casual tone only deepened his frustration.

Uh oh, K’Bari thought. He braced himself for whatever was coming, but she pressed on before he could interrupt.

“We need to get Desmond Hoyte out of my bed. No big deal, just a little cleanup.”

“What you mean, ‘get him out’? Why can’t he just walk out on his own two legs?” K’Bari’s patience was wearing thin. He leaned forward, elbows on the cluttered desk, trying to grasp the situation.

“Well…” There was a pause, as if she were blushing—an absurd feat over the phone.

“Well no!” K’Bari’s eyes narrowed as he started to piece it together. “Look, untie him, undrug him, glue whatever you cut off back on—I don’t care what you got to do. Jus’ make sure de man has a good day today. Dis be my home!” His voice was a mix of authority and frustration.

“Well, it’s a little late for that advice, mister know-it-all!” she snapped, her tone shifting to the childish one she used when navigating tight spots.

“What you do, woman?” K’Bari demanded, showing real anger.

“It wasn’t my fault! He said he wanted to try it. How was I supposed to know you had to poke a hole in the plastic bag?” Kimberly’s frustration was clear, her voice tinged with exasperation.

“Good Lord! How you know? How about when he turn green and start thrashin’ ‘bout? How about you know then?” K’Bari’s voice rose, his anger bubbling to the surface.

She was quiet for a while, the hush stretching uncomfortably between them.

“Well?” K’Bari was legitimately upset now. If she had killed Desmond Hoyte, he’d lost ten years of work inside Guyana, not to mention the personal connections and the delicate balance of their mission.

“Well what? I just thought he was having a good time. We were, you know, kind of in the middle of things…” Her voice trailed off, uncertainty creeping into her tone.

K’Bari took the phone away from his ear and went through a deep breathing process, trying to calm the storm of anger. When he put the receiver back up to his ear, Sharp was still talking.

Frustrated and needing answers, he cut her off abruptly.

“Did you kill de man or what?”

“I’m offended by that, K’Bari!” she snapped back, her voice carrying an odd mix of inflections, a subtle warning that he was stepping on dangerous ground.

He went through the calming process again, forcing himself to regain control. He couldn’t work like this, but now, over a phone, was not the right time. “You right. K’Bari misspoke. Desmond Hoyte still be wit’ us, or he have self-imposed calamity?”

“That’s better,” she said, gathering herself. “Mr. Hoyte, through his own poor choices, has decided to move on to a better place,” she concluded, her voice formal and distant.

K’Bari was as mad as he could get. Losing Hoyte, after already losing Koma, Tafari, and the reinforcements in the rebel attack, had put him in a very bad spot. The stakes were higher than ever, and the pressure was mounting.

“Dis create bigger problem. We did not take de rebels. Now wit’ de Mark V comin’, very real possibility we lose de farm.”

“What the hell do you mean we did not take de rebels” – she imitated his accent in an unkind way.

“I mean what it mean, Kimberly,” K’Bari offered. He wasn’t in the mood to dance around her eccentricities any more than she was willing to dance around his.

“Nuts.”

“Okay,” K’Bari tried to organize his thoughts, working to get a full grasp of the situation. “So life get complicated. We have a US special ops team headin’ our way on a pretty powerful little boat. We got a man on de boat—Garza. Boat still a real threat, and de other three team members could be a problem.”

“Yep.”

“Then we got rebels to de south. We no have enough men to take de location.”

“Nope.”

“Then we got de farm itself. De farm serves two needs. It be de gateway and trainin’ ground for soldiers, and it also de source for food for de soldiers. You trust Cruz to run dis place?”

“Who’s Cruz?” Sharp sounded genuinely confused.

K’Bari pushed down his frustration again. “He’s de little man who bring in de US Special Forces.”

“Oh right. Do we still need him?”

“I no know,” K’Bari’s anger bubbled closer to the surface again. “But I thought de whole point was to train up soldiers on special forces tactics, so we be real badasses able to fight de best. Dat no longer de plan?”

“The special forces company is still up here in New Amsterdam,” she admitted.

“Well maybe you bring dem here and show dem which way to point de guns?” K’Bari’s insubordination was thinly veiled, but Sharp missed it, the nuances hidden behind his accent.

“And how, mister smarty pants, do you suggest we get there? You’ve managed to sink all of our transports, and the helicopters from Colombia are still days away.”

She was right, and it made K’Bari even angrier. “We still have de patrol boat docked dere. It can hold you, a pilot, and a small squad of four.”

“Me?” Her surprise was evident.

K’Bari knew what he had to do. “Look, lady, I stuck out here because of you. You wanna be around when dey find Desmond Hoyte? ‘Cause dey will find him long before I get back dere to fix it.”

“Fine,” she said, giving in. “Keep your GPS tracker on. I’ll get the boat prepped and head down with a small team of special ops soldiers. Tell Cruz to send word and have them ready for me. We’ll go to your position and save de day.”

Chapter 34

Dirk Lasher stood in front of the gear laid out on the table, taking a moment to absorb the details. It had been ten years since he’d been in a ready room like this, surrounded by modern military equipment, and some of it felt almost foreign. The Darién Gap a few months ago had reminded him of his own limitations, and now, as they headed down the Canje River on the Mark V, he knew he couldn’t afford any slip-ups. He was going to have to be brutal and fast; it might mean some mistakes, some less-than-honorable encounters, but Dirk knew how to survive; it was his only option.

William Walker and the rest of the special ops team were already geared up, waiting. It took Dirk longer—not because he wasn’t capable, but because he was sifting through memories, relearning the feel of everything.

His eyes lingered on the M4 for a moment, but he passed it over. The M4 was newer, a weapon that hadn’t seen widespread use back when he was active. The HK MP5, though—that was different. The MP5 had been in service a decade ago, old even during his time, and it felt right in his hands. Compact, reliable, and perfect for the kind of close-quarters fighting he preferred. He slid a 30-round magazine into place, the weight familiar, as if no time had passed.

He selected six 30-round magazines and slid them into his chest rig, the weight barely noticeable. For good measure, he added two 40-round extended mags into his pack. Over 400 rounds wasn’t excessive for him; he could carry it, and he didn’t trust the unpredictable nature of what lay ahead. As strong as he was, Dirk had been reminded in the Gap that it only took one misstep to end up pinned down with no options. Remembering that, he grabbed and screwed on a compressor for the barrel of the MP5. It wasn't completely silent, but it was pretty close from more than ten feet away.

Next, Lasher grabbed the Springfield XDM, another 9mm, which felt natural as a backup. He liked the idea of both weapons using the same ammo. He’d used a prototype version of the XDM during his service, so even though it was a newer model, it was familiar in his grip. He slid it into the side holster on his right thigh, strapping it low for easy access. He loaded the 19-round magazine and added two spares, giving him enough rounds to back up his primary weapon if things got too close. Almost as an after thought he grabbed the silencer attachment for the XDM so he could operate with either covertly.

The black jungle boots came next, tough and ready for the wet, muddy terrain of the Canje. He laced them up tight, the feeling familiar; his feet remembered the fit. The all-black camouflage fatigues followed, the fabric rip-stop tech thin enough to stay cool yet strong enough for the jungle.

He reached for the body armor, strapping it over his chest and shoulders. The lightweight plates wouldn’t slow him down, but they’d stop the kind of rounds he expected to encounter. Attached to the vest were additional pouches for gear—he slid the last few mags into place, along with a compact medical kit, the kind of thing you hope you never need but can’t go without. He added a survival kit to the belt—a basic setup of fire starters, water purification tablets, and a small flashlight.

Dirk’s eyes fell on the knives next. He felt a rush of anger when he looked at them; things always ended up in a brutal closeup personal situation. One, a fixed blade he secured to his chest, another, a smaller boot knife tucked inside his left boot. He added a folding blade to a pouch on his vest and, just for good measure, slipped a garrote wire into the side. It had been a while since he’d used one, but it was the kind of tool that might come in handy in the dense jungle, where silence mattered.

His mind spiraled, conjuring images of him using the wire on Walker and his team. The tension tightened around his thoughts like a noose. The darkness inside him felt almost tangible. It was confusing, also, as he couldn’t tell if the feelings were positive or negative. He feared he had lost connection to his internal moral compass.

Suddenly, a sharp bang on the door jolted Lasher out of his grim reverie. Garza stood there, silhouetted against the light from the narrow hall.

“You wanted to do this today, right, chief?” Garza’s voice dripped with sarcasm. Of all the team members, Garza was the most openly dismissive, holding Lasher in utter contempt.

Dirk gave a curt nod, pushing down the urge to respond, pushing away the thoughts urging him to act now before they suspected something. Instead, he followed Garza up half a deck to where the rest of the team waited in the large, open aft area. The early dawn was creeping in, but the light felt cold, casting everything in an eerie glow. The boat had slowed to navigate through the wreckage that littered the river.

A troop transport, half-sunk and scorched, floated like a carcass in the water, its metal husk twisted and blackened from fire and explosions. Further down, a patrol boat sat submerged, only its broken railing visible above the surface. Fifty yards beyond, the Cuban gunboat lay crippled, its aft blown apart; the mangled wreckage jammed onto the shoreline, as if it had tried and failed to escape.

They stood in silence on the deck, the air thick with the smell of burnt fuel and death. The river, once a lifeline, now felt like a graveyard. The sight before them was a grim omen, a foreshadowing of what awaited. The early morning mist clung to their gear, making them look like dark specters—riders of the apocalypse—armed to the teeth with cutting-edge special ops equipment, prepared to deliver their own brand of destruction.

As the boat pushed through the devastation, an uneasy silence settled over the team. The battlefield behind them wasn’t the past—it was a glimpse into their future, the calm before the storm. They weren’t just passing through; they were heading toward something worse. The sky lightened, but the shadow looming over Lasher only deepened.

“This place smells like ass,” Garza said, his voice cutting through the quiet morning, jarring in its crudeness.

The others ignored him, but Dirk turned, locking eyes with Garza. They stood close, having come up the steps together.

Garza met his gaze, leaning in with a mocking grin. He exaggerated a sniff of the air near Lasher. “Oh, sorry,” he said with mock realization. “I should have said ‘assholes.’”

Dirk locked onto Garza’s gaze, holding it with an intensity that bordered on violent. His instincts screamed at him to strike, to seize the moment and make Garza pay for the slight. The rage surged from deep within his core, hot and raw. It was always the same—some tough guy, staking his claim, marking his territory, challenging Dirk in all the wrong ways.

But this time, it felt different. This time, Dirk realized he was at a crossroads. A line in the sand. A line he could not cross. Must not cross. He could feel it; the controls and restraints he lived by were gone. He was nothing but rage. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself if he gave into it this time.

Everything he’d ever known, everyone he’d trusted—gone. His wife, murdered. His closest friends, dead. Wade, vanished somewhere in the depths of the jungle. His home, his cars, burned to the ground. And worst of all, Kimberly Sharp—her shadow stretching long over everything he touched, pulling at the puppet strings of his life once again.

And then, the final humiliation—Bonsai. The one person he had tried to help, the woman he was starting to feel something for, had turned on him. She had betrayed him.

How had it come to this? How had his life spiraled into this dark, violent chaos? All Dirk had ever wanted was to drink a cold beer and run his little bar, far away from the violence, the blood, the endless battles.

He was beyond burned out. He was beyond sick of it all.

Then his focus snapped back to Garza. The man's smug smirk, his open insubordination—it grated against Dirk’s last nerve like nails on a chalkboard. He didn’t need this. Not from this clown. Not from anyone.

Dirk glanced at Walker, who saw the shift in his expression a moment too late. Time seemed to slow, the world around Dirk narrowing to just him and Garza. The noise of the river faded, and all Dirk could hear was the blood pounding in his ears, his breath coming in ragged bursts. All he could see was Garza—arrogant, smug—representing everything wrong with the world.

Before he fully realized it, he moved like lightning. His hands were around Garza’s throat, squeezing. Hard. The smirk vanished as Dirk lifted him by his neck and absolutely slammed him against the bulkhead with a violence so sudden the boat reverberated in the water. Somehow, Dirk’s XDM was in his other hand. He held it backward, and without thinking, he slammed the handle down hard on Garza’s face. Once. Twice. The world blurred, and everything turned red.

Garza’s face was a bloodied mess, his eyes rolling around, but Dirk wasn’t stopping. He couldn’t stop. He was screaming, a guttural, primal roar ripped from somewhere deep inside him, the fury that had built up for years finally boiling over in this moment.

Blow after blow, he felt Garza’s flesh give way beneath the gun handle, bones crunching under his fists. Blood sprayed across the deck, across Dirk’s arms and face. He was no longer in control—this was raw, blind rage, everything he had suppressed for too long erupting in violence.

Walker and the two sergeants were on him, trying to pull him back, but Dirk was lost in the haze. He felt their hands, heard their voices, but none of it registered. He lashed out, elbows and fists swinging wildly, knocking the sergeants to the deck. One crumpled, clutching his nose in agony, the blow hard enough to break it in several places. The other lay still, dazed from a strike that shattered his jaw.

Dirk turned back to Garza, his face a bloodied ruin, barely conscious but still alive. His head twitched, struggling for breath. For the first time in a long while, Dirk felt unbridled glee; he was basking in the storm of his own fury, reveling in the destruction.

It wasn’t until Walker, desperate, slammed him back and pinned him to the floor with his foot that Dirk’s mind began to clear. His chest heaved, his breath ragged, and his hands trembled, still slick with Garza’s blood. Garza was alive, but barely. His face swollen, his breaths shallow, yet he stood a chance. The other two soldiers were in better, though still dire, shape.

Walker was screaming something, but the world was still moving too slowly for Dirk to catch the words—it was just noise to him. When Dirk looked up, Walker was standing over him, sidearm drawn, aimed squarely at his chest.

“Enough,” Walker growled, his voice low, controlled, but the tension was unmistakable. His finger hovered on the trigger, ready to end it if Dirk so much as twitched.

Dirk lay there, heart pounding, rage simmering just below the surface.

Walker didn’t lower the gun.

From motionless to fully animated in a split second, “Do it!” Dirk screamed with so much fury a flock of birds was startled and flew from the nearby trees. He let out a primal scream, his voice hoarse, challenging Walker.

Walker pressed his foot harder into Dirk’s chest, then glanced up as if distracted. “No, wait…”

The world went dark. The pilot’s boot swung to Lasher’s head, knocking him unconscious with brutal precision.

Chapter 35

Dirk could smell the jungle.

His head throbbed.

He felt cold water on his face.

The headache intensified.

Someone was saying his name—a gruff male voice.

More water splashed onto him.

Someone kicked his leg.

He coughed.

It was bright out.

His head screamed in agony; his eyes ached. He forced them open. In front of him stood a very angry-looking William Walker, his sunburned face redder than usual.

Dirk tried to speak but only managed to cough. Finally, he croaked out, “I think you missed; I’m still alive.”

To his surprise, his rage had dissipated. He shook his head to clear it, but it was a mistake; it felt like a bell had been rung inside his skull.

Walker cleared his throat and tossed a backpack onto Dirk’s lap. It landed with a heavy thud.

“A gift?” Dirk joked. “Oh, Bill, you don’t owe me anything.”

Walker wasn’t amused. “Damn straight I don’t owe you anything. We’re even. I kept my team from ending you, so that squares us.”

Dirk waved his hand, another mistake; he found himself coughing again.

Walker seemed disappointed. “Your precious farm is that way.” He pointed downriver. “We’re heading back. I have three soldiers in urgent need of medical care.” He emphasized the last part, his tone hard.

Dirk nodded, gradually regaining his faculties. He glanced past Walker, downriver. It was well into the morning now, sunlight piercing the jungle here and there, bright rays illuminating the vivid greens and browns of the foliage. This was dense jungle, serious stuff, but not as impenetrable as other jungles deeper into the Guyana interior.

“Garza,” Dirk managed to focus, the memories slowly returning.

“Yeah, you $#@!ed him up for life,” Walker said, visibly upset, working hard to keep his temper in check.

Dirk chuckled softly, despite the pain. “You might have missed it. He called me an asshole.”

Walker made a noise of exasperation.

Dirk waved his blood-covered arm, suggesting Walker missed the punchline, that he didn’t get the joke.

“Dirk,” Walker said, his voice firm. “I hope you get what you’re looking for. But please understand, we’re done. If I ever see you again, I’m going to assume you’re confused about our relationship. Do you understand?”

Dirk nodded. He felt utterly defeated. The weight of Walker's words sank in; they echoed what he had said to Brick nearly a decade ago after that mess had been settled. Brick had saved Lisa from Kimberly, but Dirk couldn’t risk Brick still being around. Now, ten years later, he had finished the job and Brick was dead. Another failure in a long line of them.

“I understand,” Lasher replied, his voice low, hopeless.

Walker held his gaze for a long moment, then turned and walked back down the short trail to the waiting boat.

Dirk watched him leave, feeling nothing. He forced himself to sit up. Walker had left all his tactical gear intact. Dirk opened the backpack to find more rations and additional survival gear. He heard the boat’s motor rev and listened as it slowly faded into the background, heading back upriver.

He realized he was hungry. When had he eaten last? He opened a protein bar. It tasted surprisingly good. He sat there eating it, every now and then holding the bar at arm’s length and studying it to make sure it wasn’t something new. It wasn’t; it was part of the same basic kit the military had used forever.

His head still hurt terribly. He rummaged through the backpack and found an entire box of powdered single-dose pain relief. There were forty little packages, each neatly stacked on top of the other. He pulled five of them out, ripped off the top paper, and emptied the powder into his mouth.

He sat there for another twenty minutes, embracing the pain relief as it slowly spread through him.

He wasn’t angry anymore. It was an incredible feeling; or rather, an incredible absence of feeling. It was the lack of anger that he noticed as the biggest difference. He could think again.

He stood and stretched. The headache was fading; he noticed the giant lump on the back of his head more than the prior throbbing pain inside it.

He checked all his gear, making sure each firearm was loaded, primed, and operational. He found the compass he had packed, then had a thought and flipped over the large survival knife on his chest. There was a small compass in the handle.

“Ha!” he said to himself. “Just like the old days.”

He no longer cared about the farm, or Kimberly Sharp, or General Hampton. He didn’t miss Lisa any more than he remembered his attraction to Trudy “Bonsai” Bonnington or his friendship with Kirpitch “Brick” Mason, or his oldest friend, Jack Williams.

His only thought was to find Wade. That crazy old man was all he had left. The man who had given up everything to take care of him. The only person on the planet who had yet to betray him. Dirk knew the challenges of Wade off his medication. He knew Noah Kayne well enough, although the situation was going to make things a hundred times worse than back in the Everglades, which was remote, but nothing like out here.

Dirk felt like his steps were lighter as he began the trek forward. The air was thick with humidity, the sounds of the jungle buzzing around him—chirping insects and distant bird calls blending into a symphony of life. Everything smelled anew. Yes, he was going to have to kill his way out of this situation. Yes, many good people might be hurt. But, unlike everything that came before, he didn’t feel bad about what had to be done. He didn’t feel good about it. He felt nothing. Nothing about the violence. Nothing about the choices he had already made, or the ones in front of him to make.

Today was going to be a good day.

Well, a bad day for those he encountered, but a good day in the grand scheme of things.

Dirk tried to orient himself, squinting as his head throbbed in rhythm with the distant sounds of the jungle. To his left, through the dense trees and underbrush, he could just make out the wrecked Cuban gunboat, maybe three or four hundred yards back upriver. A strange feeling—almost like a weight had been lifted—settled in his chest. He made a decision, one that felt right in the moment. He would head back to the boat. This might be his only chance to really examine it, to see it up close. Who knew what could be inside? Perhaps something useful. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity, especially not now, not when he was feeling more alive than he had in years.

As he made his way back to the gunboat, Dirk was careful to keep a safe distance from the water’s edge. He’d been in enough jungles to know that even though the river didn’t look like prime hunting grounds for predators, you never took unnecessary risks. There were no visible tracks, no signs of large animals lurking nearby, but that didn’t mean they weren’t out there. Like a handgun, you always treat the river as if it’s loaded, even when you're sure it’s not.

The closer Dirk got, the stronger the smell of blood became. That coppery tang hung in the air, mixing with the thick humidity. He slowed his steps as Brick’s body came into full view. His friend’s lifeless form lay sprawled half off the front deck, riddled with what looked like dozens, maybe hundreds, of bullet holes. Brick had been utterly torn apart by gunfire. The rigor mortis was setting in, and flies swarmed over the body, laying eggs in the open wounds. Some of those eggs had already become writhing maggots, wriggling in and out of the torn flesh. It was gruesome. And it was going to get a lot worse by nightfall.

Dirk stood beside his fallen comrade, feeling an odd calm come over him as he reached out and gently closed Brick’s eyes. His hand lingered for a moment, as if silently acknowledging all that had happened. He muttered a few quiet words. River crabs, drawn by the scent of death, had already discovered the body. Dirk watched as two of them worked together, crawling up from the water’s edge. They scuttled over the corpse, searching for pieces they could tear off and carry back to the river. Five minutes later, they returned to repeat the process, a slow but inevitable reclamation of Brick by the natural world.

Two emotions stirred deep within Dirk as he observed the crabs. One was anger—rage, really—at the sight of these scavengers picking apart what remained of his friend, desecrating him in death. The other was something quieter, something more... natural. The idea that nature itself was reclaiming Brick, drawing him back into the earth, back to where he had come from. The jungle was reclaiming one of its own, and Dirk couldn’t help but feel a sense of inevitability in that.

He stood back, detached, watching the internal conflict play out within himself. He was no longer fighting the emotions. Instead, he allowed them to move through him like waves. Anger and acceptance battled for dominance, and slowly, the softer emotion—acceptance—won out. Dirk felt a kind of warmth spread through his chest, as if his subconscious had decided that seeing Brick return to nature was somehow the only way to cope with the tragedy. It didn’t erase the loss, but it made it bearable.

Dirk noted how one side of the vessel was low enough to climb onto without much effort. His headache was still there but continued lessening, other than that, he wasn’t injured. In fact, he felt surprisingly good—better than he had in a long time. The powdered painkillers had done their job. As he took that first step onto the boat, he realized something profound. It had been years—maybe a decade—since he had felt this good in the jungle. There were no immediate threats, no one chasing him, no one to fight. For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t injured or bleeding out. It was just him, the jungle, and the wreck.

He circled the boat’s edge, heading to the rear. The destruction was far worse than he had initially thought from the grainy satellite photos. The aft was completely obliterated, ripped apart by the concussive blast that had crippled the boat. Metal pipes jutted out at odd angles, twisted and scorched. The drive shaft and parts of the propeller were exposed, useless now. This boat wasn’t just damaged—it was dead. It would never float again. To call it a boat now felt wrong; it was more like a sculpture of what had once been, a relic of destruction frozen in time.

Dirk approached the pilot's room and tugged at the door. It stuck, the deck having warped in the blast. After a few hard pulls, the door gave way with a groan. Inside, the small cabin was in disarray. The smell of burned electronics was sharp, mingling with the stale air and the faint scent of blood from outside. He peered through the broken windows into what was left of the meeting room. The back wall was gone, completely blown away when the aft had taken the direct hit.

There were a few AKMs still strapped to the wall, miraculously intact. Ammunition was scattered here and there. But Dirk didn’t need any of it. He had everything he needed in the modern equipment Walker had supplied him with. The room itself was a lost cause. There was nothing here for him, and it was clear that Wade had already scavenged the essentials—probably the satellite phone and the Cuban sea rations. “Good for him,” Dirk thought, a small smile tugging at his lips. Wade had always been resourceful.

Then something bright caught his eye—a splash of color against the wreckage. He reached down and pulled out a tangled mess of fabric. It took him a moment, but then he recognized it: Bonsai’s bikini top. Two emotions surfaced again. The first was that familiar crushing sadness, the weight of everything he had lost. The second was softer, gentler—a pleasant memory from before everything had gone wrong.

Dirk didn’t fight the feelings. He didn’t push them away like he once might have. Instead, he simply watched them pass through him, waiting to see which one would settle. Eventually, it was the gentler emotion that lingered, and a faint smile curved his blood-streaked lips. He dropped the bikini top back to the floor, its meaning had been lost given recent events. He felt nothing about it and that nothing felt wonderful.

He had hoped, though he knew it was unlikely, to find Wade’s little pill bottle. It was nowhere to be seen. Dirk shrugged off the disappointment. He knew it had been left behind on the yacht, anyway. What mattered now was that his mind felt clearer than it had in a long time. For the first time in days, maybe even months, he was thinking straight. He could methodically work through the details and piece things together.

After another sweep of the boat, Dirk stepped off and re-entered the jungle. He began looking for signs of Wade. It didn’t take long. In the soft earth just beyond the wreck, he found footprints, faint but discernible. Broken branches and bent foliage marked the path Wade had taken. Dirk crouched down, studying the trail. Wade had moved quickly, but the jungle had held onto the memory of his passage, leaving just enough evidence for Dirk to follow.

He started walking, calculating as he went. The way the river twisted would take him past the farm eventually, though he was on the opposite side. Wade wouldn’t have known that, but somehow, by chance or instinct, he had ended up here.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Dirk felt something shift inside him—a stirring of something other than anger or despair. It was faint, but it was there.

It was the first bit of luck he’d had in a very long time.

Dirk worked his way through the jungle, following Wade’s trail, which was easy to spot. After many miles, the terrain opened up, and the farm sprawled out to his right on the other side of the river. He moved cautiously, his eyes scanning the opposite shore. Men dressed in military gear were moving around, loading crates onto a larger gunboat. Dirk recognized it immediately. This was the same boat he had seen in the photos—the one responsible for destroying Wade’s gunboat.

As he passed the farm, the jungle became harder to navigate. The river wound its way through the dense undergrowth, and the banks, exposed to more sunlight, were choked with growth. Despite the challenge, Dirk noted something: the thicker vegetation made Wade’s trail even easier to follow, with broken branches and trampled plants marking his path. Dirk felt a sense of quiet optimism—something that had eluded him for so long.

The last mile and a half took twice as long to traverse. The jungle became more hostile, the signs of past battles etched into the landscape. Trees were scorched and splintered from grenades and mortar fire, while others bore the scars of relentless small arms fire. The air, thick with the jungle's rich earthy scents, now carried something else—something sickly sweet that mingled with the lingering stench of smoke. It was a smell too sweet, too overwhelming, and it sent a shiver through him.

Dirk pressed forward, trying to identify the scent. At first, he thought it might be from a hog roast, but as he moved closer, the truth dawned on him. It wasn’t food. It was the smell of burning bodies. There were piles of them as he approached a clear encampment.

A familiar wave of fear rose in his chest, but alongside it, there was something new—a detached caution. He let the two emotions hang in the air without reacting, observing them as they made their way through him. This situation could mean many things, but there was no need to jump to conclusions. He pressed on; his senses heightened but his mind calm.

The jungle was almost completely blackened now, the charred remains of trees standing like ghostly sentinels. Footpaths had been worn into the earth by soldiers, and crude barricades funneled any approach into a single narrow entry point. Dirk didn’t feel the pressure of being watched, but he knew better. Someone, somewhere, had eyes on him. He let the MP5 hang loosely from his shoulder and raised both hands into the air, a universal gesture of surrender.

As he neared the camp’s entrance, the atmosphere grew more unsettling.

Wooden barricades - sharpened stakes driven into the ground - all faced outward, clearly prepared for any attacking force. It was a defensive setup, crude but effective. He approached the narrow entry, no more than four feet wide. The blood stains on the wood and the deep gouges in the earth told the story of brutal hand-to-hand combat. This was the choke point, the place where men had fought and died. It was clear the rebels had exploited every advantage the landscape offered.

Dirk, hands still raised, stepped through the narrow opening. The scene inside the camp made him pause. Around twenty men stood in eerie silence, all of them covered in black mud and nothing else, no undergarments; their faces were painted white to resemble human skulls. Dark eye sockets completed the look, transforming them into walking specters of death. They carried modern weapons—AKMs—and machetes, but it was their stillness that unnerved Dirk the most. They simply stood there, watching him, shoulder to shoulder, in two perfectly silent rows flanking the entrance to a dark tent.

The tent's interior flickered with the glow of orange firelight. As Dirk approached, the men nearest the entrance pulled back the flaps, motioning for him to step inside. He ducked under the top flap, entering a space that smelled of fire and cinnamon—a combination that felt oddly pleasant, masculine, and dangerous all at once.

Inside, the only light came from two small fires burning on flat tin sheets. The flickering glow cast long shadows on the walls, dancing in time with the fires. At the center of the room stood a raised chair, almost a throne, with two large stakes on either side. Each stake bore the severed head of a man. The one to Dirk’s left wore an expression of frozen shock, its wide eyes bulging and tongue hanging slack. The other head was missing both its tongue and eyes, leaving a haunting, vacant look behind. The sight was grotesque, a display of power and warning.

Seated on the throne was Wade—or rather, Noah Kayne. Dirk could tell instantly. Wade was gone. This was Noah, and he was naked, covered in red mud that made him stand out from the other naked warriors. Despite his age, Noah’s body was still muscular, his skin sagging in places but showing strength beneath. Around his neck hung a necklace, and Dirk didn’t need to look too closely to know what it was made of. Male parts. The detail sent a chill through him.

Dirk held his gaze, searching for a glimmer of Wade. But the eyes staring back at him were pure Noah. The posture, the aura of control—it was all Noah.

“Hi Noah,” Dirk said finally, breaking the oppressive silence.

“Detrich,” Noah replied, his voice deeper and more commanding than Wade’s, though it came from the same body.

“You okay if I put my hands down?” Dirk asked, keeping his tone casual, testing the waters.

Noah smiled, a grim, almost pleased expression.

Dirk lowered his hands slowly. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said, his eyes flicking to the severed heads and then to the gruesome necklace. He made a small gesture at his own neck.

Noah nodded in acknowledgment, the grin never leaving his face. “Dirk,” he said, the voice low and steady, “Did you happen to bring Wade’s pills?”

Dirk’s smile faltered. “We lost them near Jamaica,” he said, his tone sympathetic but direct.

Noah sighed and nodded. “I’m not meant to be here. Wade... Wade is completely gone.”

Dirk swallowed hard. This was the worst-case scenario, the one he had hoped to avoid. But Noah, at least for now, seemed calm—collected, even. Dirk could sense the madness lurking just beneath the surface, but for now, Noah was holding it together.

“Noah,” Dirk ventured after a long pause, his voice carefully measured.

“Yes, Detrich?” Noah’s eyes gleamed with a predatory intelligence, always calculating.

“It’s just you and me now,” Dirk said, gesturing to the men standing outside. “You, me, and your soldiers. We’ve got a lot of work to do. People are coming. People who will want to kill us.”

Noah’s eyes darkened, but a wicked smile crept across his face. Violence and death were his domain. “If I were a betting man,” Noah said, his tone laced with malice, “I’d put my money on the home team.”

Dirk smiled back. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He stepped forward.

Noah rose from the throne.

They embraced like old friends, Dirk turning his head to avoid the grotesque necklace as their arms closed around each other.

Dirk stepped back, his mind clear. “Quite the relaxed dress code.”

Noah nodded. “What’s more intimidating? Ragged old uniforms hanging on by threads, or a bunch of naked, muscled men covered in mud, with skulls painted on their faces?”

Dirk grunted, conceding the point.

“And now, the men don’t have to be seamstresses,” Noah continued, his tone casual. “We can focus on what really matters.”

Dirk’s memory flicked to the piles of burning bodies outside the barricades. “And the fires? Part of the same strategy?”

Noah's predator smile returned. “Hard to keep your appetite for BBQ with that going on.”

Dirk’s expression tightened. “It is. I’m guessing it’s even more terrifying here at night?”

“Not if you’re on this side of the barricade,” Noah replied, his tone tinged with madness. The words came out with a chilling sincerity that reminded Dirk of the situation's precariousness.

Dirk hesitated, “Wade,” he began carefully.

Noah’s eyes flickered at the name, but Dirk pressed on. “I know... but I have to believe Wade’s still in there somewhere, Noah. For both of you.” His voice softened, thick with emotion. “I’m sorry I got you into this mess. I’m sorry you’re here, a thousand miles from your hospital, without your medication.”

For a long, agonizing moment, Noah just looked at him, his face unreadable. Something was shifting behind those eyes, but it was impossible to tell what.

Then, unexpectedly, Noah’s face softened. There was compassion there, though it was buried deep. “I don’t think Wade sees it that way, Dirk.”

Dirk swallowed hard. “This isn’t about what Wade thinks. It’s about what I need to say. Wade’s been the single stable part of my life. The only one who ever looked out for me, who tried to prepare me for the world. And yeah, it was a tough upbringing, but the world’s a tough place. And he did it. He prepared me. That was his goal—and he succeeded.”

Dirk’s voice broke slightly, but he continued. “Having Wade Clay as the most stable part of your life… yeah, that comes with its own set of challenges.”

Noah gave a faint smile at the irony, the madness momentarily held at bay.

“But I’ve always resented him,” Dirk admitted, the words heavy, raw. “I don’t even know why. I should’ve felt the opposite. I should’ve been grateful. He raised me, and I never thanked him. Now, I finally understand. I understand the sacrifice of raising a kid on your own, especially one that isn’t your own.”

Noah flinched slightly at the last words, a flicker of something crossing his face, but Dirk was too deep in his own thoughts to notice.

“So, Noah… Wade… we’ve come all this way. We’re literally standing at the edge of the world. The most remote place on Earth. Down a river to nowhere. And here you are, guarding the gates of hell.” Dirk gestured at their grim surroundings. “I don’t want to die out here. Do you?”

Noah’s gaze lingered on Dirk, and for a moment, just a flicker, there was a trace of Wade in his eyes. “No,” Noah said, his voice quieter, softer, the smallest hint of Wade returning.

Dirk nodded, relief washing over him. “Then here’s our new mission. You ready?”

Noah’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he listened, attentive.

Lasher continued. “I told the discharge nurse at the hospital that I’d have you back in three weeks for your follow-up appointment.”

Noah’s eyes darkened with recognition. “I remember.”

Dirk’s voice lowered. “If you can believe it, today marks exactly three weeks.”

Noah gave a wry smile, almost amused. “I doubt you’re going to keep that promise.”

Dirk shook his head, serious. “It wasn’t a promise. I don’t owe that nurse anything. But I am willing to make a promise to you. If you do everything you can to hold yourself together and work with me—follow my lead, even when I’m wrong or guessing—if you can promise me that, then I promise you that by this time next month, you’ll be back for your follow-up. Same place, same people.”

Noah’s smile faded, and for the first time, doubt crept into his eyes. “You can’t possibly know you can keep that promise,” he said, gesturing to their harsh surroundings.

Dirk held his gaze, unflinching. “You’re right. I can’t know for sure. But I can hope. And right now, hope is the best friend we’ve got.”

There was a long silence. Noah’s eyes searched Dirk’s, not for an answer but for something deeper. Trust, perhaps. Or maybe just the chance to believe again.

Finally, Noah nodded, a slow, deliberate movement.

Dirk saw the commitment. “And Noah?”

“Yes, Detrich?”

“Lose the necklace.”

Chapter 36

K’Bari and Cruz sat in K’Bari’s makeshift office. The satellite phone was pushed aside, forgotten for the moment, in the corner of his improvised desk. They were in the administrative area of the farm’s long-repurposed school building; the constant hum of the electrical generator on the roof buzzed in the background like a persistent reminder of the chaos downriver.

K’Bari sat behind the desk while Cruz was on the visitor's side, both dressed in jungle combat fatigues. The tension between them was thick, the calm before the storm, and the atmosphere carried the weight of unspoken decisions.

“So, that’s really the only way in or out now?” Cruz asked, staring down at the topographical map littered with K’Bari’s handwritten notes and symbols, which included the hand-drawn outline of the rebel camp to the south.

K’Bari felt the familiar pang of disappointment. Cruz had the brains to ask the question but lacked the instinct to see the obvious answer.

"What you think this is? Monopoly?" K'Bari shot back, his patience thin as he tried, in his own way, to guide Cruz toward independent thought.

Cruz looked up from the map, not comprehending.

K’Bari rolled his eyes, reaching for a pencil. He made a whirring helicopter noise as he hovered the pencil over the rebel camp’s position on the map, hoping Cruz would catch on.

Finally, realization dawned. “Oh! Sure, they’ve created a choke point on the ground, but all the trees are cleared around the camp. An air assault bypasses all that.”

"Der you go," K'Bari said with exaggerated sarcasm. "You're a real military strategist now."

Cruz’s brief smile vanished as another thought occurred to him. “But the helicopters are still up in Colombia.”

"Look at dat," K'Bari continued, his tone thick with disdain, "now you're a supply chain expert, too."

Cruz’s brow furrowed again. “Why bring up the helicopters if they aren’t available?”

K’Bari shook his head, disappointed. "My God, man. K'Bari is taking special notice of you, trying to teach you how to think. Very few people get this honor. I'm showing you, but you ask a dumb question and don't even know why it's dumb. So K'Bari teach you. Choke point only matters because not all the assets are in the country. Whose fault that be? Not K'Bari. That on you, Cruz."

Cruz’s face brightened as another lightbulb flickered to life. “Oh! So that’s why everyone was so upset about the delay. You needed air support to finish this phase. Why didn’t you just tell me?”

K’Bari sighed deeply, wondering what Sharp saw in this man. She had laid out her plans for Cruz, but to K’Bari, the little weasel was still more of a hindrance than a help, even if a short lived one. Not that K’Bari was too pleased with Sharp these days either—if Desmond Hoyte were truly dead at her hands, things would shift drastically. K’Bari cared deeply about Guyana. It was his home, where his large extended family lived. He had thrown his lot in with Hoyte because Jagan leaned too heavily toward socialist and Soviet influence while Hoyte did not. K’Bari didn’t romanticize the West, but he knew that for a poor country like Guyana, the West was a far better bet than the strangling grip of a socialist regime.

He decided to give Cruz one more shot.

"James," K’Bari said, softening his tone as much as he could, but it still came across more as a threat than a gesture of goodwill. "Let me tell you a story, eh? You need to understand this if you want to be a general, if you want to command men. You follow?"

“Sure, but—” Cruz began.

K’Bari cut him off sharply. "No, you listen to K'Bari now. You listen and learn. Here's de story:

“When K'Bari was a younger man, he was full of ambition, yes? British soldiers used to train near Georgetown. K'Bari always find ways to be around dem, try to get their attention, learn what dey do. I see military as the way out of poverty. But not the Guyanese military—they as poor as the rest of us.

"After some time, the British soldiers start to like K'Bari. Saw promise, yes? They let me help with small tasks. I shine boots, press uniforms. Later, I help with their training—set up the range, carry equipment, clean equipment. That's how K'Bari learned the military. I learned ranks from uniforms, learned how to shoot from range, and learned about weapons from cleaning dem.

"Then one day, a big group of trainers come find K'Bari. All smiles, all friendly. Dey say they have a special training exercise, but the British soldiers are too chicken to do it. They need someone to show it's safe. K'Bari ask, 'What kind of training?' They say it's surviving torture. Being buried alive. I say, 'That does sound like something soldiers would be too chicken for. Smart soldiers you have. Who sign up for that?'"

Cruz was following along. “I know about this. They outlawed it years ago.”

K'Bari shrugged. "They go on about how important it is, blah blah blah. But K'Bari not care about their reasons. He was thinking, 'Am I man enough to do this, to prove my worth?' yes?"

K’Bari paused, waiting for a response.

Cruz, realizing the story had paused for him, quickly said, “Yes.”

K’Bari continued, his voice darkening like a storm brewing. "Good. So, they put K'Bari in little box. They show me a hole eight feet deep. Box near the hole. I get in, knees up to my chest, too tight to move. They nail the top shut. Then the box all jostled as they lower it into the hole. Then I hear de dirt. They shovel dirt on top. So hot in there, K'Bari start to sweat, and soon he realize... there's not much air left.

"I try wiggling, but I realize—there's dirt all around me. I never be strong enough to move again. What if this it? What if they leave me here? K'Bari start to panic. My breathing come in gulps, muscles spasm. I kick the sides, try to break out, knowing it's impossible. I think I'm in hell.

"Then—my foot break through. Cool air rush in. K'Bari breathe deep and kick, kick, kick. I get out. And there they are—the trainers, laughing so hard they can barely stand."

Cruz blinked, still not grasping the lesson. “I don’t understand.”

K'Bari leaned forward, locking eyes with Cruz, his voice a menacing whisper. "Them soldiers never buried me. The box? Never in the ground. I give them power—they never did nothing with it. It was all in K'Bari's head."

Cruz stared, confused. “I still don’t get it.”

K’Bari sighed deeply, deflated. He had tried. Cruz was too thick-headed to ever be a leader. He would never get it. Exhausted from the effort, K’Bari pointed back to the map. "It's about perception, Cruz. Yes, that's the only way into de little camp. But at the same time, it's also de only way out."

Chapter 37

Dirk had lived with a Wargandi tribe in the Darién Gap for almost a year, so he was comfortable applying the mud and stowing away all modern clothes and equipment. He ventured behind the camp, outside the rear barricade, to stash the gear. Walking around from the front opening—the only way in or out—he wrapped everything up and tied it high in a tree, off the ground. He wasn't about to abandon the equipment; it was the key to his and Wade's survival and eventual trek out of the jungle. But one man in combat gear wasn't going to help with Noah's strategy.

Noah's rebels were generally out of ammo and lacked additional supplies. The men were locals from the Waiwai tribes. Recognizing this, Noah delved into their mythology to create a situation that would motivate them. He labeled the men in black mud with skull faces as Yekumaita—"Bringers of Justice" in their language—a social status as much as a military rank. He organized them into two groups of ten. Each group was led by an Imirôkopî, the "Strongest Protector"; Dirk had initially overlooked that these men had extra decorations on their chests to stand out. Noah had given himself—and now Dirk—the title of Ka'iñako, "Fearless One," designated by the red mud instead of black.

Dirk returned after stowing the gear. As he entered the camp through the small four-foot opening, one of the Yekumaita sprinted past him in a mad hurry. The man dashed into the tent and almost immediately reemerged with Noah.

"They approach," Noah said to Dirk.

Another Yekumaita sprinted in, then a third, each speaking hurriedly to Noah.

"We're apparently very popular today," Noah said wryly, pointing north, then northeast, then northwest. "Men from the farm—another attack," he said, indicating northwest. "US Special Forces deserters and a woman," he added, pointing northeast.

Then he turned north and pointed upward, his expression darkening. "An angry black bird."

Without warning, mortar rounds began raining down on the camp—huge explosions erupting as the shells dropped silently. All the mud-covered men sprang into action; they knew the drill. They had defensive barricades built around the narrow opening, ready to defend the small choke point.

The barrage was relentless. Dirk realized this must be some of the artillery he'd seen them loading onto the gunboat near the farm earlier in the day. The bombardment lasted a grueling couple of minutes. When it finally ceased, the camp was in ruins, although Noah’s tent, repaired from the prior attack, this time survived intact. The barricade wall had taken several indirect hits but had held firm. Noah knew what he was doing; the top of the barricade was angled so the mortar rounds could never get a direct hit.

The bombardment halted as a massive V-22 Osprey loomed overhead. The sight of the black machine—a bastard offspring of a C-130 and a helicopter—sent a chill down Dirk's spine. Its two enormous spinning blades on either wing could tilt, allowing it to speed through the air or, like now, slow down and hover ominously over the jungle.

Thick black ropes unfurled from the side—five in total. In seconds, five US Special Operations soldiers rappelled down, their movements precise and deadly. They were all business—organized, menacing, and efficient.

The lead soldier looked familiar to Dirk; there was something about the silhouette that stirred a memory.

He and Noah stepped out from their entrenchment, standing at the edge of the small opening, surveying the larger clearing beyond.

The Osprey hovered ominously to one side, the five soldiers detaching from their ropes.

From another side of the clearing, K’Bari and his men emerged, their faces hard and unyielding.

In the distance, Dirk spotted another group—the US Special Forces deserters: four men in combat gear, a woman with flowing black hair, and a captive—a man bound and forced to his knees.

"Kimberly?" Dirk hissed, his voice almost lost amid the deafening roar of the Osprey's tiltrotors whipping up dust and debris that mixed with the smoke from the camp bombardment. His eyes darted from the woman he once knew to the man bound and kneeling beside her. "Oh my God, Bill?" The sight of William Walker—beaten, bloodied, and bound—sent a jolt through him.

Noah stood beside Dirk, both of them covered in red mud and nothing else. His gaze hardened, eyes locking onto the man who had gunned down Brick. "K'Bari," he snarled, each syllable laced with venom. His grip tightened around the twin machetes, muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike.

The ropes retracted into the Osprey. The lead operator signaled with a swift hand gesture, the team fanning out with practiced precision. As she scanned the chaos, her eyes widened behind her tactical goggles. Recognition slammed into her like a physical blow. "Dirk?" she gasped, disbelief threading through her voice. Could it really be Dirk Lasher standing there, transformed into a mud-covered warrior?

"Trudy?" Dirk squinted through the swirling haze. Amidst all the military gear and chaos, the familiar face staring back at him seemed like a mirage. She wore Second Lieutenant bars on her uniform, but it was her.

Emotions surged within him—relief, confusion, anticipation—all vying for dominance. He embraced them all, his new balanced self.

But the outside world was still there.

Was she a friend or foe?

Then came the most shocking revelation of all.

Kimberly Sharp stood frozen, her gaze locked onto the older man beside Lasher. Covered in red mud, he was almost unrecognizable—but there was something in his eyes, a spark that ignited memories she'd thought long buried.

"Noah?" she cried out over the roaring wind, her voice a mix of disbelief and desperate hope. The name hung between them, a fragile bridge over a vast abyss.

Dirk heard the call and looked at Sharp, then turned his head in amazement to look at Wade beside him. Did Kimberly Sharp know about Noah Kayne?

The Osprey's rotors thundered overhead, the engine revving, the downdraft whipping the clearing into a maelstrom of leaves and dust and smoke. K’Bari and his men stood on one side, their eyes cold and unyielding. Yards away, Sharp's team tensed, weapons raised, the air between them charged with impending violence.

Dirk and Noah stood alone, isolated just outside the choke point, the smoldering ruins of their camp a stark backdrop. The weight of converging destinies bore down on them, the crossroads of their lives meeting in this volatile moment.

Bonsai took a decisive step forward, her M4 carbine rising with unwavering precision. Her gaze darted between Dirk, Noah, Sharp, Walker, and K’Bari—the world narrowing to the tunnel vision of her weapon's sight. Time seemed to slow, each heartbeat echoing louder than the Osprey's roar.

Bonsai's finger hovered over the trigger. She drew a slow, measured breath, her decision becoming clear.

The world held its breath with her, the moment of truth finally upon them, she aimed and fired at...

To be continued in the final book of the Falling Star trilogy, Overkill, coming July 4, 2025!

BONUS! A Chapter from Noah Kayne: Southern Style

The keys from Texas Frank were in my mailbox.

I would have loaded up the M16 and gone in guns blazing.

Noah just brought my hunting knife.

I drove the second black sedan. When we got to the Pink Tramp, I parked on the street. It was early morning and we fit right in. The place was recovering from the night before.

There was a guy standing in front of the main door. Noah punched him so hard that he bounced between the two side walls three times each, then fell onto the sidewalk face first.

I opened the door. We went inside. It was dark, just like last time. It smelled a lot worse; the remnants of whatever sweaty debauchery happened in here over the weekends remained on the edges of things.

Another big man approached. Noah punched him in the throat before he even knew what happened.

Watching Noah work was like watching a karate movie. Noah didn't use karate or anything like that; that wasn't my point. He moved so fast and in such a straight line that it was hard to follow what happened each time with the naked eye.

His latest victim went to his knees after the blow, clutched his throat, then fell forward, lifeless.

I was relieved that I didn't have to do all this gruesome work myself. Sure, my head was on straight now for the first time in as long as I could remember. I also knew that meant I had an Easter Basket full of other problems.

But right now, I do not care; I'm happy to have the help.

Noah took out two more guys on our trek back to Tony's table. By the time we got there, it was just the three of us left in the place.

Tony watched the whole thing. He had an amused look alongside a lot of caution.

"Christ, Wade," he said as I walked over and stood in front of him.

"Noah," I said. It was a revelation.

"!#$@ing nut job," Tony spat.

"Why do they call you two shoes?" Noah asked.

"What?"

Noah was in a mood, apparently. "I figured it's some dumb story from when you were a kid. Like you wore your underwear on the outside and ran around with only one shoe on or something."

Tony got angry. He started to get up, and Noah slammed him back down. I was shocked at the brutal nature of it. It took Tony a few moments to recover.

"What the hell!" Tony said very unaggressive after another moment.

I saw Tony's hand move, but Noah was already reacting. Tony had a snub nose around his ankle and a couple of knives and whatnots in his various pockets.

Noah removed them all.

"What kind of a man has his father and brother killed?" Noah asked.

Before Tony could answer, Noah slapped him hard.

"What kind of a man sleeps with his brother's wife?" Noah slapped him again. I'm calling it a slap, but Tony's head whipped around hard both times; his nose bled from the impacts.

"F%$^ you," Tony said.

I realized Noah wasn't going to kill him. He did slap him again so hard that Tony went away for a moment, then came back.

"Watch your language," Noah told him, speaking softly and getting close.

Tony turned his head to spit out blood onto his dirty carpets.

"We're partners now, Tony," Noah told him.

Tony smirked. "I just finished my exit strategy for my last set of partners."

"Timing is everything," Noah said sarcastically, raising his hand but not swinging it. "Your last set of partners led you astray. They were a bad influence. I'm going to teach you how to be legit. Consider me a positive influencer, your guiding light."

"You have got to be crazy," Tony said softly.

"I thought you already knew that. It was your own diagnosis just a few minutes ago. You said I was nuts."

Tony sneered.

"Wade here needs some operating cash," Noah told Tony. Of course, there was only one of us standing there. Tony sneered again and kind of laughed to himself.

Moving so quickly, even I was surprised, Noah smacked him again. The impact was too severe, much more than what was needed.

Tony slumped over, out cold.

Noah had me go into the kitchen to get a glass of water. While back there, I found a cash box. I busted the little lock; it had maybe eight hundred bucks in it.

When I returned, Noah pulled Tony upright and threw the water on him. Tony coughed some as he reawakened.

"Wade here needs some operating cash," Noah said with the exact same inflections. It was apparent what the lesson was.

"There is a petty cash box in the back," Tony said, the blows to his head were having an effect.

"That's already been allocated," Noah said.

Tony scoffed again and reached into his sports coat pocket. He produced a roll of hundreds. Just as he started to take the rubber band off to count some out, Noah took the whole wad out of his hand and put it in his pocket.

"You're light," he said, imitating mob terms. "But I'll give you some time."

Tony outright laughed this time. "Pal, either you kill me now, or at some point in the future, I'm going to take you apart piece by piece."

Noah raised his hand, and Tony flinched. I knew what Noah knew, and we both agreed that Tony had been broken, at least temporarily.

"Tony," I said. Noah was done with him for now. "In six months, we'll be the best of friends. We'll have you making twice as much money. All legitimate. You will be a man of the people and a defender of the weak and needy, just like Noah and I are."

"I doubt it, you fruit loop," Tony said back very politely.

"Okay," I knew what Noah wanted me to tell him. I agreed. This was brutal stuff, but Noah knew what he was doing. "I'm sorry, Tony. Noah thinks you need a refresher course. He's going to knock you out here in a second. While you're out, we're going to dismantle the rest of your organization. I suspect most of your guys will be gone when you come to."

He started to glare at me, but he knew not to.

Noah jumped in to help. "Your job is easy," he told Tony. "When you wake up, go find Angelica wherever you put her. End her. No one kicks my dog like that. It was a betrayal of trust for the dog and me. Then go round up a hundred grand. I'll be watching you the whole time. Bring the money to the Sheriff's office down in Plantation Key."

"What?"

Noah smiled. "It's an investment. Wade wasn't wrong. We're going to rebuild the whole thing. You'll make more money than now, and it will be legal. You're also going to keep your mouth shut. Once we're retooled and restaffed, you will lead the charge to convert the other two families to the north of here. By this time next year, we will have organized crime out of South Florida. And you will be the figurehead for the transformation. You'll get everything you ever wanted, just not how you thought you would."

***

"That guy is lucky to have us in his life," I told Noah as we left.

"He is," Noah agreed.

"Do you think he'll be a problem?" I asked.

"I truly don't," Noah said. "He'll, of course, have to test the edges of his new gilded cage, but once the money starts to come in, greed will take over. He'll realize that a business with a profit margin is a business with a profit margin. You know what I mean."

I did.

"Do you think he will actually take out Angelica?"

Noah shook his head. "No, he'll give her some money and put her on the run, then lie to us."

"Heck of a way to start our new friendship."

"I didn't think you really wanted her hurt, even after what she did to our dog."

I thought about it. "I'm on the fence, honestly."

"That just means if she gets stupid and doesn't run, we'll have justification later."

We got in the black sedan. Noah wanted to drive, I let him.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"To the school stop sign. I want you to see everything while you are lucid."

"Lucid?"

"What word would you prefer?" he asked.

I didn't answer. We drove to the school and pulled up to the stop sign we used for signs of life. It was covered in stickers. Hundreds of them, maybe more. I was just here a couple days ago, what happened?

"You see what you want to see, Wade," Noah said compassionately. "You always remember we used this sign once, it's like where your memory is stuck, right on the edge. You constantly come here and put different color stickers on the sign. The ground crews used to peel them off, but even they gave up. Lord knows who they think is doing it."

That shook something loose. "Wait. Was Tank my dog the whole time?" I don't know why this thought jumped to the front of the line, but it did.

"We named him Frank, like Mike told you. But I like Tank better. It's more accurate," Noah said as we sat there.

"Is Buford real?" I was becoming unnerved.

Noah nodded. "Sure. He hates you calling him Buford, but he's real. He knows. He's a good friend."

"I'm remembering a lot now," I said. "Will I forget again?"

Noah was grave. "Yes, Wade. I'm sorry. We've done this dozens of times. Once your memory comes back, no matter what I try, you eventually can't leave well enough alone and you want to know what happened out at my place in '71."

"Is it that bad?" I asked.

"Yes," he said.

We sat there for a while, then he put the car in drive and pulled out.

"Now where?" I asked.

"You have the key to that store, right?"

I checked my pocket. "Yes."

"We're going to try something different this time," he said. "Let's get all set up out there. We'll head to Mike's and inventory the place. Then we can rent a U-Haul tomorrow and move his stuff tomorrow night."

"Cover of darkness?" I felt good even though I didn't know why.

"We're moving enough surplus weapons and ammunition for a small army. It's a tourist beach. Yes, cover of darkness sounds appropriate."

"Won't I just forget everything at some point?"

He made a turn and got us on the highway heading south. "We've been able to relocate a couple times. You don't have amnesia; you can remember day-to-day things. If we get you set up and let the routine run for a couple weeks, by the time you remember everything, which ironically will cause you to block a lot of it out, hopefully you'll be ingrained enough in the new routine that it sticks."

***

We did just that. Tony was a problem but came around just like Noah thought he would. We buried Mike at a cemetery where apparently a lot of our army buddies were buried. We didn't have a service, but I did put on a suit and tie and go stand at the grave when they lowered Mike into the ground.

Technically both Noah and I were there, I guess.

Noah suggested I not look around. Of course, I did. I wasn't so unnerved now as I had been over the past couple of days. But as always, I should have listened, as this triggered my memory. It all came flooding back; then, I started to black out.

Mike was buried right next to a gravestone that said Noah Kayne on it. Noah apparently died in 1971, which, honestly, I had kind of pieced together. I was prepared for that. I wasn’t prepared to see my name about three plots down. Wade Clay. Same date of passing in 1971.

"You should have told me, Noah," I said softly as I stood there, losing it.

"You're never ready for this part," he told me.

"If I'm not Wade Clay, and I'm not Noah Kayne, then who am I?"

I was on the edge of becoming unglued.

"It's not some great mystery," Noah said nicely. "Look at your silly driver's license."

Duh. That's the simplest way to solve this whole puzzle.

I reached around to my wallet and took the license out.

I read the name. I knew it but couldn't process the reality of it, and this must have been the point where I repressed it all again.