Page 63 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

The jungle is black and suffocating. The canopy blocks the stars entirely, a claustrophobic tunnel of vegetation closing around the narrow track. The air is thick with moisture, the residue of the storm pressing against the windows like a living thing.

"Comms check." I key the tactical radio. "Ivy, you copy?"

A brief crackle. "Copy, Wraith. Comms are nominal. I've got your GPS track on the display. You're fourteen klicks from the outer perimeter."

"Stay on this channel. Anything changes at the facility, you call it."

"Understood. Facility is secure. Your ballerina is still asleep."

The addition is unnecessary. Ivy knows it, but says it anyway.

"Copy. Wraith out."

I scan the jungle through the passenger window. The mist curls between the trees in slow tendrils. The terrain is rising. The road climbs toward the ridgeline in a series of switchbacks that force the Hilux into low gear. The engine groans under the strain.

"Six klicks to the outer perimeter." Cipher's voice is quiet, focused. "I'm picking up intermittent RF signatures on the scanner. Consistent with short-range tactical radios."

"How many?"

"At least four distinct frequencies. They're running a rotating encryption protocol." A pause. "Not military-grade, but not sloppy either. Someone trained these people."

The road narrows. The canopy presses closer, denser, branches scraping against the roof with a sound like fingernails on sheet metal. The mist thickens, reducing visibility to thirty meters.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

Something is wrong.

The instinct is older than training. Older than doctrine. A primal animal response wired into the brainstem of every creature that has ever been hunted. The jungle is too quiet. No insects. No birds. The rain stopped hours ago, but the nocturnal chorus that should have resumed is absent.

Silence means something scared every living thing into hiding.

"Stop the vehicle."

Cipher looks up from the tablet. "What⁠—"

"Stop."

Rook brakes. The Hilux lurches to a halt on the rutted track, the engine idling rough. Behind us, Bronco pulls the Land Cruiser to a stop, the diesel clattering.

I scan the road ahead. The headlights illuminate forty meters of mud and gravel before the track curves left around a massive teak tree.

The curve is blind.

The terrain on the left drops sharply into a ravine choked with dense undergrowth. On the right, the jungle rises steeply—a natural elevated position overlooking the road.

Elevated position on the right. Dead ground in the ravine on the left. Blind curve forcing deceleration. Limited reverse capability on a single-lane track.

The geometry is textbook.

"Kill the headlights." I chamber a round.

Rook cuts the lights. Darkness swallows the track.

"Bronco, lights off. Hold position." I key the radio, keeping my voice low. "We've got a potential⁠—"

An IED detonates fifteen meters ahead.

The blast shreds the road surface, launching a column of mud, gravel, and shrapnel into the canopy. The concussive wave hits the windshield with a crack that spiders the tempered glass corner to corner. The shockwave punches through the cab, compressing the air in my lungs, and the world goes white for a fraction of a second.