“It hasn’t popped its cork in over a century, but there are vents and geothermal activity, so thermals won’t give us a reliable body count. We’ll probably be relying on what we see rather than gadgets.” I tapped the map. “Choppers from the Ark Royal will set us down here. The terrain is rocky with thick foliage. Combat names for the mission and keep the chatter down. Full team on channel two, direct to me on channel one. The TOC command channel is channel three. Call signs only once we hit the ground.”

“What’s the op?” asked Bunny.

“Mission priorities are flexible,” I said. “We look first. If we can find the kid who sent the videos, then we extract him. Everything else after that is based on what we find.”

“Rules of engagement?”

“Nobody gets trigger-happy,” I said, “On the other hand, we’re not flying two thousand miles to take anyone’s shit.”

“Hooah.”

“The USS George H. W. Bush is heading this way in case this really turns into something. The Bush will be in fighter range about two hours after we make landfall. That means ninety fixed-wing and helos ready to pull our asses out of the fire if it comes to it.”

“Wow… it’s nice when Washington likes us,” said Bunny. “Say, boss, what do we do if we run into any of those guys with the body armor?”

“Aim for the head,” said Top. “Always been a fan favorite.”

“Works for me.”

Top took a slow breath. “Cap’n… about Jigsaw…”

“Yeah.”

“We don’t know which team took them out. Russians or the other guys.”

“No.”

“I’m of two minds. On one hand, I want to know who did it and nail their hides to the wall, feel me?”

“Completely.”

“On the other hand, I get either side in my sights I’m not sure I’m going to indulge in a lot of restraint. You have any issues with that better tell me now and make it an order.”

I considered how best to answer that. “Top… Church and the geek squad are working on connecting the dots. We got some new info off the second video, and he has a lip-reader working on recovering info from the hunt video. We’re all hoping that by the time we put boots on the ground in Costa Rica we know who the bad guys truly are.”

“Wasn’t goons in exoskeletons put Big Bob in the ICU,” said Bunny.

“Uh-huh,” agreed Top. “And it wasn’t the goons who killed the staff at Deep Iron. Now… I don’t see how Russian mercs tie into a buncha assholes who still think Hitler’s a role model, but I’m leaning toward them being the ones who need their asses completely kicked.”

“Probably so, but we have to be open to any possibility. Church sent us on an infil and rescue, not a wet work.”

“Okay, Cap’n, loud and clear.”

“Bunny?” I asked.

“You’re the boss, boss.”

FOR THE REST of the flight we went over the information from the conference and I played the second video. I watched their eyes when the kid said, “You have to do something before everyone in Africa dies. And maybe more than that. You got to stop them!”

Top leaned back, folded his arms, and said nothing. Bunny looked at me. “Holy shit. Is this for real?”

“We’ll find out.”

Top took a toothpick from his pocket, put it between his teeth, and chewed it. He didn’t say a word for the rest of the flight.

Chapter Seventy

Cyprus

Sunday, August 29, 11:59 A.M.

Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 72 hours, 1 minute E.S.T.

Aleksey Mogilevich, nephew of Semion Mogilevich, who was the lord of the Red Mafia in Budapest, looked at the name on the screen display of his phone and smiled. He waved away the redhead with the platinum nipple rings and flipped open the phone.

“Hello, my good friend.” He never used names on the phone and preferred calling everyone “friend.” Repeat customers were always his “good friends.”

“Hello, and how is the weather?” asked Otto Wirths. The question referred to the security of the line and any prying ears where Aleksey was.

“Fine weather. Not a cloud in the sky. I hear that you’ve used up all the products I sent.”

“Yes. Unfortunate.”

“There are always more.”

Of the twenty ex-Spetsnaz operatives leased to Otto by Aleksey only one was still alive, but as he was merely a coordinator his value was negligible. Neither Aleksey nor Otto was very broken up over the losses. Assets were assets, to be used and either disposed of or replaced depending on need.

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” said Otto, “because I do need more.”

“How many and how soon?”

Otto told him, and Aleksey whistled. The two girls sunbathing topless on the forward deck of the Anzhelika looked up, thinking that he was signaling them, but he shook his head. He got up and walked along the rail and gazed out into the vastness of the sea.

The yacht was an elegant 173 footer with a 37-foot beam, built by Perini Navi of Italy. The first time Aleksey had been aboard it had been a charter for which he’d paid $210,000 for a single week. He liked it so much he bought the boat after the trip was over. It had a crew of eleven, and though it was slow-twelve knots-Aleksey never needed to be anywhere fast. His business was conducted by satellite and cell phones and computer.

The Anzhelika currently floated in the wine dark waters thirty miles off the coast of Cyprus.

“Can you supply those assets?” asked Otto.

“There is a surcharge for overnight delivery, you understand.”

“I understand.”

“Then… yes. I have assets in Florida who will do nicely.”

“If the assets fulfill my patron’s needs, Aleksey, I’ll send you a five percent bonus on top of that.”

“Ah, it’s always heartwarming to know of the generosity of my good friends.”

They discussed a few details and hung up.

Aleksey watched the beautiful water and the pure white gulls and thought about how wonderful it was to be alive. Then he sat on a deck chair and made calls that would send several dozen of the most vicious and hardened trained killers he knew to the rendezvous point with Otto Wirths. As Aleksey made the calls he never stopped smiling.

Chapter Seventy-One

Isla D’Oro

Sunday, August 29, 2:29 P.M.

Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 69 hours, 31 minutes E.S.T.

The chopper from the Ark Royal flew just above the waves and put us down on the far side of the island. We jumped out and faded into the green shadows of the trees until the chopper was far out to sea. We were in full combat rig, with all of the standard equipment plus a few special DMS gizmos. We crouched behind a thick spray of ferns until the jungle settled into stillness. Ambient sounds returned as the birds and bugs shook off their surprise and resumed their perpetual chatter. We waited, ears and eyes open, weapons ready, watching to see if anyone came to investigate.

No one came.

I switched on my PDA and pulled up a satellite image of the island. There was a cluster of buildings on the other side and nothing but dense rain-forest foliage wrapped around a terrain so rough and broken that it looked like an obstacle course designed by a sadist. Gorges, cliffs, broken spikes of old lava rock, ravines, and almost no flatland. All of it sweltering in 102-degree heat and 93 percent humidity. Fun times.

I dialed my radio to the frequency the kid gave us but got nothing but static. Then I tapped my earbud for the TOC channel.

“Cowboy to Dugout, Cowboy to Dugout.”

“Dugout” was the call sign for the TOC. Immediately Church’s voice was in my ear. The fidelity of our equipment was so good it felt like the spooky bastard was right behind me.

“Go for Dugout. Deacon on deck.”

“Down and safe. No signal yet from the Kid.” Not an imaginative call sign for the boy who’d contacted us, but it would do.