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  Trask was a fraud.

  And a dangerous fraud.

  Gray gripped the rope and quickly shimmied down. He found the balcony below and climbed on, taking a position to one side of the glass doors.

  He peered through the parted curtain and tested the door.

  Unlocked.

  He eased the panel open and slipped inside the cabin. The layout was identical to his suite above. Except Trask seemed a slob. Discarded clothes were piled across the floor. Wet towels lay scattered on an unmade bed. The remains of some meal cluttered the table. The one saving grace? It wouldn’t be hard to hide his search.

  First, he’d check the obvious. The room safe. But he had to be quiet, so as not to alert the guard posted outside. That security measure had necessitated his improvised point of entry.

  He found the safe in the bedroom closet and slipped a keycard, wired to an electronic decoder, into the release mechanism. He’d already tested and calibrated the unit on the safe in his cabin. The combination was found and the lock opened. But the safe contained only Trask’s wallet, some cash, and a passport.

  None of which Gray was after.

  He closed the safe and began a systematic exam of the room’s hidden corners and cubbies, keeping his movements slow and silent. He’d already reconnoitered his own suite in search of any place that might hide something small.

  And there were many possibilities.

  In the bathroom he checked the hollows beneath the sink, the underside of drawers, the service hatch beneath the whirlpool tub.

  Nothing.

  He took a moment and surveyed the tight space, making sure he didn’t miss anything. The bathroom’s marble vanity top seemed a collage of dried toothpaste, balled-up wet tissues, and assorted creams and gels. From his observations over the past three days he knew Trask only allowed the maid and butler into the room once a day, and even then, they were accompanied by the guard, a burly fellow with a shaved scalp and a perpetual scowl.

  He left the bathroom.

  The bedroom was next.

  A loud oomph reverberated from the cabin door, which startled him.

  He froze.

  Was Trask back? So soon?

  What sounded like something heavy slid down the door and thumped to the floor outside.

  The dead bolt released and the doorknob turned.

  Crap.

  He had company.

  Cotton Malone crouched over the slumped guard. He held a finger to the man’s thick neck and ensured the presence of a pulse. Faint, but there. He’d managed to surprise the sentry in a choke hold that took far longer than he expected. Now that the big man was down he needed get him out of the hallway. He’d just arrived on the boat an hour ago at its last stop, so everything was being improvised. Which was fine. He was good at making things up.

  He opened the door to Trask’s cabin and hauled the limp body by the armpits. He noted a shoulder holster under the guard’s jacket and quickly relieved the man of his weapon. He’d not had time to secure a side arm due to the foreshortened nature of this mission. Yesterday, he’d been attending an antiquities auction in Buenos Aires, on the hunt for some rare first editions for his Danish bookshop. Cassiopeia Vitt was with him. It was supposed to be a fun trip. Some time together in Brazil. Sun and beaches. But a call from Stephanie Nelle, his old employer at the Magellan Billet, had changed those plans.

  Five months ago, Dr. Edward Trask had returned from the Brazilian rain forest, after three years missing, toting a slew of rare botanical specimens—roots, flowers, leaves, and bark—all for the pharmaceutical company that had funded his journey. He claimed his discoveries held great potential, holding the hope for the next cancer drug, cardiac medicine, or impotency pill. He’d also returned with anecdotal stories for each of his samples, tales supposedly told to him by remote shamans and local tribespeople. Over the intervening months, though, word had seeped from the company that the samples were worthless. Most were nothing new. A researcher for the pharmaceutical firm had privately described the much publicized bounty best. It was like the bastard just grabbed whatever he could find. To both save face and protect the price of its stock, the company clamped a gag order on its employees and hoped the matter would just go away.

  But it hadn’t.

  In fact, darker tales reached the US government, as it seemed Trask had not come out of the forest entirely empty-handed. Folded amid his specimens—like a single wheat kernel amid much chaff—lay the real botanical jackpot. A rare flower, still unclassified, of the orchid family, that proved to hold an organic neurotoxin a hundredfold deadlier than sarin.

  Talk about a jackpot.

  Trask had been smart enough to both recognize and appreciate the value of his discovery. He’d analyzed and purified the toxin at a private lab, paid for out of his own pocket, his book deal and television appearances lucrative enough to fund the project. Part P. T. Barnum, part monster, last week Trask secretly offered his discovery for auction, posting its chemical analysis, its potential, and a demonstration video of a room full of caged chimpanzees, all bleeding from eyes and noses, gasping, then falling dead, the air clogged with a yellow vapor. The infomercial had gained the full attention of terrorist organizations around the world, along with US intelligence services. Malone’s old haunt, the Magellan Billet, had been tasked by the White House to stop the sale and retrieve the sample. His mistake had come when he’d mentioned to Stephanie Nelle last week, during a casual conversation between old friends, that he and Cassiopeia were headed to Brazil.

  “The sale will happen in Manaus,” Stephanie told him yesterday on the phone.

  He knew the place.

  “Trask is there with a video crew from the Discovery Channel, aboard a luxury riverboat. They’re touring the neighboring rain forest and preparing for a television special about his lost years in the jungle. His real purpose for being there, though, is to sell his purified sample. We have to get it from him, and you’re the closest asset there.”

  “I’m retired.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “How will I know if I found it?” he’d asked.

  “It’s stored in a small metal case, in vials, about the size of a deck of cards.”

  “I assume you want me to do this alone?”

  “Preferably. This is highly classified. Tell Cassiopeia you’ll only be gone a few days.”

  She’d not liked it, but Cassiopeia had understood Stephanie’s condition. Call, if you need me, had been her last words as he left for the airport.

  Cotton hauled the guard over the cabin threshold, closed the door, and secured the dead bolt.

  Time to find those vials.

  Movement disturbed the silence.

  He whirled and saw a form in the dim light, raising a weapon. Trask was gone. In the dining room. He’d made sure of that before his assault on the sentry.

  So who was this?

  He still held the gun just retrieved from the guard, which he aimed at the threat.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” a gruff voice flavored with slight a Texas twang said.

  He knew that voice.

  “Gray friggin’ Pierce.”

  Gray kept his pistol firmly aimed and recognized the southern drawl. “Cotton Malone. How about that? A blast from the past.”

  He took stock of the former agent in the dim light. Midforties. Still fit. Light brown hair with not all that much gray. He knew Malone was retired, living in Copenhagen, owning a rare bookshop. He’d even visited him there once a couple of years ago. There were stories that Malone occasionally moonlighted for his former boss, Stephanie Nelle. Malone had been one of her original twelve agents at the Magellan Billet, until he opted out early. Gray knew the unit. Highly specialized. Worked out of the Justice Department. Reported only to the attorney general and the president.

  He lowered his gun. “Just what we need, a damn lawyer.”

  “About as bad as having Mr. Wizard on the job,” Malone said, lowering his gun too.


  Gray got the connection. Sigma Force, his employer, was part of DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. Sigma comprised a clandestine group of former Special Forces soldiers, retrained in scientific disciplines, who served as field operatives. Where Sigma dealt with a lot of science and a little history, the Magellan Billet handled global threats that delved more into history and little science.

  “Let me guess,” he said to Malone. “You know about Trask’s neurotoxin?”

  “That’s what I’m here to get.”

  “Seems we have an interagency failure to communicate. The coaches sent two quarterbacks onto the field.”

  “Nothing new. How about I go back to Buenos Aires and you handle this?”

  Gray caught the real meaning. “Got a girl there?”

  “That I do.”

  An explosion rocked the boat—from the stern, heaving the hull high, tossing them both against the wall. Gray tangled with Malone, hitting something solid, but managed to keep hold of his gun. The blast faded and screams filled the air, echoing throughout the ship.

  The riverboat listed to starboard.

  “That sounded like someone took this ship out,” Malone said as they both regained their balance.

  “You think.”

  The boat continued to list, tilting farther starboard, confirming the hull was taking on water. A glance past the balcony revealed a pall of black smoke wafting skyward.

  Something was on fire.

  A pounding of boots sounded from beyond the cabin door. A shotgun blast tore through the dead bolt and the door crashed open. Both he and Malone swung their guns toward the smoky threshold. Two men barged inside, dressed in paramilitary uniforms, their faces obscured by black scarves. One carried a shotgun, the other an assault rifle. Gray shot the man with the double-barrel, while Malone took down the other.

  “Okay, this is interesting,” Malone muttered, as Gray quickly checked the hallway and confirmed only the two gunmen. “Seems we’re not the only ones looking for Trask’s poison. Were you able to find it?”

  He shook his head. “I only had a chance to search half the suite. But it shouldn’t take long to—”

  Gun blasts popped in the distance.

  He cocked an ear. “That came from the dining hall.”

  “Our visitors must be going after Trask,” Malone said. “In case he’s got it on him.”

  Which was a real possibility. He’d already considered that option, which was why he’d gone to great lengths to keep his search of the cabin under the radar. If the effort proved futile, he didn’t want to alert Trask and make him extra guarded.

  “Finish your search here,” Malone said. “I’ll get Trask.”

  Gray had no choice. Things were happening fast and off script. Lawyer, or no lawyer, he needed the help.

  “Do it.”

  Malone raced down the canted passageway, a hand on the wall to keep his balance. He’d not seen Gray Pierce since that day in his bookshop a couple of years ago. He actually liked the guy. There were a lot of similarities between them. Both were former soldiers. Both recruited into intelligence services. Each seemed to have taken care of themselves physically. The big difference came with age, Pierce was at least ten years younger and that made a difference. Particularly in this business. The other contrast was that Pierce was still in the game, while Malone was merely an occasional player.

  And he wasn’t foolish enough not to realize that also mattered.

  He skidded to a stop as he approached the stairs that led down to the riverboat’s dining hall. Take it slow from here in. Through a window he surveyed the river outside. The boat sat askew, foundering in the swift current. Past a roil of smoke he spotted a gunmetal gray craft prowling into view. A uniformed man, whose features were obscured by a wrap of black cloth, stood at its stern, the long tube of a rocket-propelled-grenade launcher resting on his shoulder.

  Which apparently was how they’d scuttled the boat.

  He rounded the landing and double doors appeared below. A body lay at the threshold in a pool of blood, the man dressed as a maître d’. Malone slowed his pace and negotiated the steps with care, approaching the door from one side, and snuck a quick peek into the room.

  More bodies lay strewn among overturned tables and chairs.

  At least two dozen.

  A large clutch of passengers huddled to one side of the spacious room, held at gunpoint by a pair of men. Another two men stalked through bodies, searching. One held a photograph, likely looking for someone who matched Trask’s face. Amid the captives Malone spotted the good doctor. Stephanie had provided him an image by email. Trask kept his back to the gunmen, hunching into his dinner jacket, a hand half covering his face, trying to be one among many.

  That ruse wouldn’t last long.

  Trask was strikingly handsome in a roguish way, with unruly auburn hair and sharp planes marring his face. Easy to see how he became a media darling. But those distinct looks should get him flushed out of the crowd and into the assault force’s custody in no time.

  Malone couldn’t let that happen.

  So he bent down and patted his palm into the maître d’s blood. Not the most hygienic thing in the world, but it had to be done. He painted his face with the bloody palm, then slipped the pistol into the waistband of his pants, at the small of his back, and tugged the edge of his shirt over it.

  Why he did stuff like this he’d never know.

  He stumbled into view, limping, holding a bloody hand to his fouled face.

  “Help me,” he called out in a plaintive tone, as he wove a path deeper into the room—only to be accosted by one of the gunman holding the passengers at bay.

  Orders in Portuguese were barked at him.

  He feigned surprise and confusion though he understood every word—a benefit of the eidetic memory that made languages easy for him. He allowed the man to drive him toward the clutch of passengers. He was shoved into the crowd, bouncing off a matronly woman who was held close by her husband. He shifted deeper into the mass, bobbling his way through until he reached Trask’s side. Once there, he slipped the pistol out and jabbed it into botanist’s side.

  “Stay nice and still,” he whispered. “I’m here to save your sorry ass.”

  Trask flinched and it looked like he was about to speak.

  “Don’t open you mouth,” Malone breathed. “I’m your only hope of getting out of here alive. So don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  Trask stood still and asked, his lips not moving, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Where’s the biotoxin?”

  “Get me out of here, and I’ll bloody well make it worth your while.”

  Typical opportunist, quickly adapting.

  “I’m not telling you a thing until you have me somewhere safe.”

  Clearly the guy sensed a momentary advantage.

  “I could just identify you to these gentlemen,” Malone made clear.

  “I have the vials on me. If even a single one breaks, it’ll kill anything and everything within a hundred yards. Trust me, there’s no stopping it, short of incineration.” Trask threw him a glorious smile of victory. “So I suggest you hurry.”

  Malone took stock of the four gunmen. The two searchers had about completed their path through the corpses. To better the odds of success he needed them all grouped together. As he waited for that to happen, he decided to press his own advantage.

  “Where did you find the orchid?”

  The doctor gently shook his head.

  “You’ll tell me that much, or I’ll shoot my way out of here and leave you to them—making sure I’m a hundred yards away fast.”

  Trask clenched his jaw and seemed to get the point.

  They both continued to stare out at the macabre scene.

  “Six months into the jungle I heard a rumor of a plant called Huesos del Diablo,” Trask said, keeping his lips still.

  He silently translated.

  The devil’s bones.
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  “It took another year to find a tribe that knew about it. I embedded myself into their village, apprenticed myself to the shaman. Eventually he took me to a set of ruins buried in the upper Amazon basin, revealing a vast complex of temple foundations that stretched for miles. The shaman told me that tens of thousands of people once lived there. A vast unrecorded civilization.”

  Malone had heard of similar ruins, identified via satellite imaging, found deep in the hinterlands of the Amazon, where no one thought people lived. Each discovery defied the conventional wisdom that deemed the rain forest incapable of supporting civilization. Estimates put the number living there at over sixty thousand. The fate of those people remained unknown, though it was theorized starvation and disease were the main culprits of their demise.

  But maybe there was another explanation.

  The searchers across the dining hall checked the last of the bodies. The two armed men closest to them alternated their attention from their colleagues to their captives.

  “Among the ruins I found piles of bones, many of them burned. Other bodies looked like they died where they dropped. The shaman told me the story of a great plague that killed in seconds and wilted flesh from bones. He showed me an unusual dark orchid growing nearby. I didn’t know then if the orchid was the source of the plague, but the shaman claimed the plant was death itself. Even to touch it could kill. The shaman taught me how to gather it safely and how to wring the poison from its petals.”

  “And once you learned how to gather this toxin?”

  Trask finally glanced at him. “I had to test it, of course. First on the shaman. Then, on his village.”

  Malone’s blood went cold at the matter-of-fact admission of mass murder.