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1
Deep in the jungle on Nicaragua’s border with Costa Rica
Sam “Buck” Buckard released a breath, the shouting like distant thunder, the crackle and pinging of metal cooling, the smell of smoke, cordite, and heavy vegetation, disturbed the gray fog that seemed to have descended over his mind. He frowned, unable to understand what he was missing in the hissing silence. Whop, whop, whop, his mind whispered from a different place in his head. Rotor blades. He sometimes heard rotor blades in his dreams.
But he wasn’t dreaming. A breath, a harsh intake of air. He knew that sound. It was the kind of noise a man made when he was in pain. Another one, and groans, a cascade of them, the shifting of bodies close to him. But he lay in some kind of weird limbo feeling nothing except a strange weakness and sense of disconnection between his mind and his body.
Then he was caught up in bits and pieces of powerful memories. Trapped in the punishing spiral of centrifugal momentum, pressing with invisible velocity against his chest, pinning his body in place by a giant, unseen hand, spinning out of control, maydays going out in frantic, fierce spurts along with the chilling sound of an explosion, the whine of an engine straining against impossible forces. The images flashed like a strobe light, like random scenes from a movie.
A sharp crack, flickering light behind his eyelids. The scent of blood assaulted his nostrils and balled in his throat. The air was stifling hot, heavily humid.
The world dipped and tilted beneath him, pain biting, muscles burning, heart pumping, the creak and roar of displaced metal.
A storm, he thought dimly. Or was the rumbling in his head? He felt like the sharp hooves of a horse had connected with his skull. He forced his eyelids open—a monumental effort—and tried to take stock of his surroundings—the barrel of a rifle, the polished metal of a doorframe.
In the near distance, thunder rolled and lightning flashed pink behind a bank of clouds. A storm moving toward them.
Buck shifted, pain throbbing through his side, pounding in his head. He blocked it out and used anything at his disposal—adrenaline, cursing, attitude. The ground seemed to spin beneath him, and nausea crawled up the back of his throat. He fought off the sensations, and his eyes fluttered open. Trying to clear his vision drained his strength, and he slipped back toward oblivion.
“Buck,” a hoarse plea. “Wake up. Get your ass going.” It was Mateo “Zorro” Martinez’s voice, their medic.
He struggled into full consciousness again, the strain making him dizzy. Coughing, he rolled onto his knees and forced himself to his feet with one arm banded across his belly. He leaned against the chopper, his gaze darting everywhere. Bodies…of his teammates, their DEA contact, pilots.
Crashed. The helicopter had crashed—an RPG struck the tail rotor, sending them into a death spiral to the hard ground.
Nicaragua. Remote, isolated, and full of thick jungle. No concrete for miles. This country was the land of lakes and volcanoes…and drugs. Lots of drugs. But the one they were after was cocaine. Nicaragua was a key transit country for trafficking between South and North America. Colombian, Peruvian, and Bolivian-sourced cocaine arrived there for storage and transshipment. Mexican drug cartels also had a strong presence in the country. Nicaraguan criminal networks collaborated with counterparts from Costa Rica and Honduras to transport cocaine, and corruption within the state system enabled the market, including elite officials accepting bribes and negotiating with drug traffickers. And, with no communication or collaboration between Nicaragua and Costa Rica, it made it much harder to stem the flow.
They had been tasked with taking out a notorious drug kingpin at the southernmost part of the country, practically on the Costa Rican border.
They’d been met with a dry hole. Their quarry had escaped somewhere between reports of his targeted whereabouts and the time they landed. But with so much money exchanging hands, there was no one they could trust except themselves.
They’d been sold out. Ambushed.
“Buck!” Zorro called again, sending his teammate a desperate look. “We can’t fuck around! Check the guys and get them moving.” He frantically worked over a body, the man’s face turned away from him. The agent? No, he shook his head free of the fog...camo…it was their Lieutenant…LT…Elias “Joker” Jackman.
He pushed away from the side of the chopper. The first guy he came to was already rousing. “Professor?” Buck rasped out. “You all right?”
Milo “Professor” Prescott pushed up from the ground with a groan. “Yeah, I think so.”
Buck turned around. There were several guys in the chopper. He came to the DEA agent, his neck at an odd angle, his eyes open and staring. Buck dipped down and closed them, stowing his emotions and moving inside the twisted chopper.
“What the fuck?” Andrew “D-Day” Nolan swore as he pushed up, accepting Buck’s outstretched arm and clasping his hand as Buck helped him out of the chopper, his side protesting violently. He thought he was going to be sick. He groaned, and clutched his gut, letting the pain wash off him like water.
“You okay?” D-Day asked, his piercing blue eyes assessing everything within view, looking for any sign of danger. He grabbed up his M4 and was already combat-ready.
“Yeah,” he said, pushing himself to climb into the downed bird. Zephirin “Gator” LaBauve was in the back, pushed up against the fuselage. Buck crouched down and shook him. “Gator,” he called, and the man’s eyes flashed open. He shifted and looked at Buck.
“What the hell—” he said, then bit off his words as he rose. He coughed a couple of times and got to his feet as Buck clasped his forearm and helped him to rise. He also grabbed up his M4 and headed for the exit.
He found Blitz just outside the other side of the helo. He was sitting against the side of the chopper, blinking slowly and clasping his arm. He looked up as Buck dropped down, his sidearm pointing at him swiftly and decisively.
“Whoa, brother. It’s me.”
Blitz relaxed and swore.
“You all right?” Buck asked.
He shook his head, releasing a hard breath. “I think my arm is broken.”
