David ed. - Face Off (2014) Anthology

Malone rolled behind the bole of a tree and twisted in time to see the muzzle flash of Pierce’s return fire.

Not bad. Fast response.

The guerrilla was thrown backward, his chest blown out as bullets tore into flesh.

The body thudded to the ground.

“Keep going,” Pierce said. “Let’s try to stay on their flanks.”

Malone bit back a groan of complaint from his sore knees. Jungle warfare was definitely a younger man’s game.

But he could handle it.

They plunged ahead.

PIERCE KEPT TRACK OF MALONE’S progress, matching the pace. What they needed was for any boat waiting for the group to be out of commission. Unfortunately, they were a little shorthanded and would have to handle the situation once there.

He continued through the forest, paralleling the path taken by the guerrilla force. He on one side of the trail, Malone on the other, out of sight. A slight wind coursed through the trees. Its direction appeared away from the river, inland. Shouts from ahead brought him to a stop. First in Portuguese, then English.

“Show yourself, or I kill your man.”

He edged forward and crouched low.

A deadfall opened ahead, where one of the canopy trees had recently fallen tearing a hole in the forest. Starlight bathed the open wound, revealing the guerrilla leader. He held aloft the small steel case, its LED display still glowing. Another of the guerrillas nestled the muzzle of an assault rifle to the back of Trask’s skull. Pierce cared nothing for the doctor’s life. Malone had shared what he’d learned as to how Trask had obtained his prize and at what cost. All that mattered was securing the toxin before it escaped to some foreign enemy’s manufacturing lab, where it could be mass-produced.

“Come out now, or I kill him,” the leader shouted.

From the edge of the deadfall, another pair of gunmen appeared.

Only then did Pierce realize his mistake.

Your man.

Prodded at gunpoint, a second prisoner was thrust into view, gagged, his face bloody.

Malone.

MALONE KEPT HIS FINGERS FOLDED atop his head. He’d been ambushed shortly after parting company with Pierce. A shadow had loomed behind him clamping a hand over his mouth, an arm around his throat. Then a second figure slammed the butt of a rifle into his gut, dropping him to the ground. Dazed, he’d been gagged with one of their face scarves and thrust forward at gunpoint. He now stared out at the dark forest, willing Pierce not to show himself.

Unfortunately his silent plea was not answered.

Twenty yards away Pierce appeared, rifle high over his head, surrendering.

One of his captors shoved Malone forward.

Pierce caught his gaze as he staggered near and mouthed, “Be ready to run.”

PIERCE STEPPED PAST MALONE AND shouted, “I surrender,” which gained the guerrilla leader’s full attention.

He tossed the assault rifle away. As expected, all eyes followed the weapon’s trajectory across the deadfall. He quickly dropped an arm to his waist, yanked out his Sig Sauer, and shot from the hip, taking out the two closest gunmen.

Now for the real prize.

He aimed at the leader and fired.

Instead of a clean kill, though, the round found the man’s outstretched hand, smacking into the steel case, then penetrating the chest. A yellowish mist burst instantly outward, swamping those nearby. He remembered Malone’s relating the botanist’s warning. If even a single vial breaks, it’ll kill anything within a hundred yards.

The danger spread.

Screaming began.

He backpedaled as the breeze caught the cloud and blew it toward him. Malone, still gagged, didn’t have to be told twice and bolted for the trailhead. Pierce turned to follow—only to see a figure emerge from the toxic cloud.

Trask.

His face appeared parboiled, eyes weeping and blind. Another few steps and a convulsion jackknifed through every muscle, throwing the body off balance and to the ground.

Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.

Pierce turned and sprinted after Malone. The windblown danger rolled after him. He glanced back at the spreading devastation. Monkeys fell from tree limbs. Birds took flight only to cartwheel to the ground. Anything that crawled, slithered, or flew seemed to instantly succumb. He caught up with Malone and together they fled down the last of the trail and burst into the village clearing.

Which unfortunately wasn’t empty.

The locals were still there, having not yet evacuated. Children darted behind mothers’ legs, frightened by their sudden reappearance, thinking perhaps the guerrillas had returned. Matters weren’t helped by the fact that Malone was bloody and gagged. Pierce drew to a halt and swung around to face the trail. Above the canopy, a flurry of bats spun and darted, beginning their nightly forage for insects. Then they began to drop from the sky—at first farther out, then closer in.

Death swept toward them, carried by the wind.

He turned to the villagers and saw frightened faces. None of them, himself included, would ever be able to run fast enough to escape the cloud.

His errant shot had doomed them all.

MALONE SEARCHED FOR THEIR ONLY hope, again skidding to his knees and snatching up the RPG launcher.

A quick check confirmed the weapon was loaded.

Thank God.

“What are you doing?” Pierce yelled.

No time to explain.

He hoisted the tube to his shoulder, aimed for the trailhead, and fired. The weapon jolted against his face, spitting out smoke behind him. A grenade whistled in a tight arc then blasted down the throat of the trail.

A fiery explosion lit the night.

Trees erupted in a smoldering rain of limbs and leaves.

Heat washed over him. Was it enough?

Trask’s words echoed in his head. There’s no stopping it, short of incineration.

He tugged the gag free.

Fire spread outward from the blast site. Flames danced high into the night. Smoke billowed upward, masking the stars, consuming all of the air around it, which hopefully included the toxin. He held his breath, not that it would save him if the cloud reached here. Then, from the edge of the forest, a dark shape burst into view, a shred of a living shadow.

A panther.

Yellowed claws dug deep into the dirt. Dark eyes reflected the campfire’s glow. The big cat hissed, showing fangs—then burst to the side, diving back into the dark bower.

Alive.

A good omen.

He waited another minute. Then another.

Death never came.

Pierce joined him, patting his shoulder. “Nice tag team on that one. And damn quick thinking, old man.”

He lowered the weapon.

“Who you callin’ old?”

LEE CHILD

VS. JOSEPH FINDER

When Joseph Finder decided to try a series character, he took many cues from Lee Child’s Jack Reacher. Joe named his hero Nick Heller and made him not a private eye, but a private spy. Nick works for politicians and governments and corporations, sometimes digging up secrets they’d rather keep buried. Like Jack Reacher, though, Nick’s sense of justice drives him. He’s a mix of blue collar and white collar, the son of a notorious Wall Street criminal, raised in immense wealth that evaporated when his father went to prison. He spent his formative years in a split-level ranch house in a working-class suburb of Boston.

By nature, Nick’s a chameleon. He can blend in among the corporate elite as easily as he does among the jarheads.