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  The soldier had found one man dead and her staked in the middle of the rain forest with an anaconda crushing the life from her. Those worried eyes weren’t letting her go until he had some answers.

  As much as she didn’t want to ever talk about that horrible, horrible moment along the riverbank, Rebecca took a deep breath, steadying her voice before she spoke. “It was an accident.”

  “You didn’t see the body, Doctor. It was—”

  Those damn tears spilled over, and she had to choke out the words. “It was my fault…” Embarrassed, Rebecca steeled herself. “The tribe did surround us, but Yerato wasn’t worried. It was a gesture signaling that the tribe was receptive to introductions. Then… And…”

  As hard as she tried, Rebecca just couldn’t finish. The soldier’s hold transformed from restraining her to supporting her. Sick of being the weepy girl, Rebecca used the back of her hand to brush away the tears.

  Whenever in trouble, go clinical.

  Continuing, she almost sounded like she was lecturing. “A startled Tayassu tajacu.” From the soldier’s confused look, she used the animal’s common name. “A peccary charged out of the brush and knocked my feet out from under me. I would have been the one to fall down the bank if it hadn’t been for Yerato. He…”

  Not even professional detachment could force her throat to work.

  The soldier’s tone softened. “But the wounds on his torso and legs.”

  Regaining her composure, Rebecca went back to packing. “A crocodile dragged him under. We lost them to the current.”

  He didn’t seem to have an answer for that. Who did? Finding her GPS equipment, she tucked it into her bag. Now where was her laptop?

  “Dr. Monroe, let’s start over.” The man offered his hand. “I’m Sergeant Brandt of the—”

  “Special Forces, Special Ops, Special Seals, whatever.” She’d spent enough time in enough third-world countries to spot a covert operative a mile away. This wouldn’t be the first time the State Department had tried to pull her from the field after the host country had complained of her presence. Her research was just too politically incorrect. Someone in the Ecuadorian government must have caught wind of her project and demanded her immediate removal.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. My university sent you—”

  “No, they didn’t—”

  Rebecca knew full well that this soldier was in no way responsible for her anger, but all the fear and pain over the last few days came to a head.

  “Don’t lie to me,” she hissed.

  * * *

  Brandt’s posture stiffened. Usually he didn’t let spoiled academicians get under his skin, but this one had gone too far.

  “Ma’am, I am many things, but a liar is not one of them.”

  He held the doctor’s gaze without flinching. Finally she lowered her head, sighing as she went back to stowing her gear. That was about the best apology he could expect under the circumstances.

  “All I know is your extraction order came through the State Department’s Antiterrorism division.”

  Rebecca looked over her shoulder. “Antiterrorism? That makes no sense. I’m a genetic anthropologist.”

  Insect noises returned to the quiet rain forest as Brandt explained. “There was a bombing in Paris. Skeletons were discovered under the Eiffel Tower’s foundation, so your expertise has been requested.”

  Monroe slung another pack over her shoulder. “You don’t understand. I’m a paleo-computational biologist. I study ancient human migrational pathways through haplo-gene DNA analysis.” She turned toward him. “I’m completely useless after the Bronze Age.”

  Brandt’s hand went to his gun as monkeys chattered in the distance. “Regardless, somebody far above my pay grade wants you in France, so we’re going to France. If you could just follow us to the airfield…”

  Not only did the good doctor ignore him, she hefted another pack on top of the three she was already carrying. The sergeant understood the basic instinct of those extracted to enter into a state of denial, but their childish stubbornness got old quickly.

  Forget that they were deep in a hostile forest filled with skittish, superstitious natives. His CO had made the time sensitivity of this mission abundantly clear. If his team was scrambled to do a HALO jump from thirty thousand feet into the tangled canopy, whatever happened in Paris had the brass shook up.

  “I’m afraid I am going to have to insist, Dr. Monroe.”

  The tall biologist slowly turned to him. He expected a blast of anger, but she just tucked a stray lock of hair back into its braid. “Dude, I’m not sure if you’re in a position to insist on anything.”

  He was confused until Davidson called out, “Um, Sarge…”

  Brandt spun around to find the clearing encircled by natives—men, women, and children. How did they sneak up on them?

  He swung back to Monroe. “Tell them to back the fuck off.”

  The clearing suddenly seemed so much smaller. The thick vegetation leaned over them, reminding him that a foreign jungle surrounded them. Even the humidity became oppressive, ominous.

  Yet the doctor looked perfectly comfortable, even calm, as she spoke. “We both know you’re using non-lethals, so you obviously don’t have extreme prejudice authority here.”

  “I have discretion,” he said, clench-jawed. They were outnumbered twenty to one. And the kids. Why the hell did the tribe bring them back?

  A little boy, no more than five, entered the clearing, oblivious of the four extremely well-armed men. Monroe took the child’s hand. A smile even graced her lips. She looked like the beautiful woman she must be when she wasn’t being squeezed to death.

  “Discretion to do what, Sergeant? Shoot innocent women and children?” Her smile deepened, this time for him, as she headed to the jungle’s edge. “We both know that you don’t have it in you.”

  “Really? Because I’ve got a dozen Black Ops missions to say otherwise.”

  Their gaze locked. Brandt was pretty much used to his stare getting the job done, but the doctor’s eyes just twinkled in the torchlight. Her laugh was hearty, calling his bluff. “Come on, you didn’t even shoot the snake! Like you’re really going to open fire here.”

  And goddamn it, if she wasn’t right. Exhaling hard, he gave the all-clear signal as he lowered his gun. She might have won the battle, but Brandt intended to win the war, and he had just the secret weapon to do it. He was under orders to only reveal the information in private, but what else could he do? His men couldn’t care less about the name he was about to utter, and who the hell were the natives going to tell?

  “Professor Lochum made the request personally.”

  Monroe stopped just shy of exiting the clearing. “No way.”

  “Afraid so.” Brandt didn’t know why the name held so much power over the doctor, but thankfully it did.

  When the woman didn’t follow, the little boy tugged on her hand. Monroe hugged him, and then turned to one of the natives. Besides the two red marks on his forehead where Brandt had shot him earlier, the old man wore a brilliant parrot-feathered necklace that clearly marked him as the chief.

  A series of clicks were exchanged. Finally the older man took the child’s hand from hers. The chief smiled kindly at Monroe, but his eyes bored into Brandt, clearly upset that they weren’t allowed a rematch.

  As the doctor walked toward Brandt’s team, she tossed one of her packs to Svengurd. Startled, the corporal nearly dropped his assault rifle to catch it. Monroe tossed one at Lopez, then another to Davidson.

  “At least I won’t have to…” She shoved the last pack into Brandt’s arms as she passed him, “carry these anymore.”

  Unburdened, she walked to the forest edge as the warriors silently parted for her, then melted into the forest.

  The pack was impressively heavy as Brandt threw it over his shoulder.

  Dr. Monroe was much stronger than she looked.

  Fellowship

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  Sea of Galilee

  AD 14

  Judas wiped a bead of sweat from his cheek and felt the prickle of stubble. He checked over his lip, more there as well. A smile spread. At last he might grow a beard. In the eyes of his mother, his bar mitzvah might have marked his passage of a boy into a man, but amongst his fellows it was a full beard that bought respect.

  He glanced over at Jesus, who had had thick growth on both cheeks for two seasons now, even though he was a year younger than Judas. But that was hardly surprising. Jesus was far more advanced than any of them, and all the more awkward for it.

  Just as now. For all there was to do this day, Jesus continued to stare up at the clear skies, oblivious to the harsh summer sun. It was as if his friend studied long and hard enough, he could see the face of God himself. Judas joined his gaze, but as hard as he tried, he saw only endless blue skies. No golden throne. No majestic heavenly seat.

  A thin tendril of jealousy laced Judas’ heart. Others might secretly scoff at his friend’s intense faith, but Judas wished fervently that he might one day glimpse what Jesus so clearly saw.

  Just then his friend’s head cocked as if he could hear the distant strains of an angel’s song. Judas, on the other hand, could hear only his sister’s argument back at the village and the shouts of men as they patched a roof. Jesus, however, seemed wholly unaware of the ordinary dealings of men. Instead his focus remained fixed upon the ephemeral.

  But as always, Judas’ interest waned as quickly as a starling’s, and his gaze wandered out over the open waters of their small sea. Boats with their stiff linen sails still dotted the water. The fishing must be good indeed if the men were still out this late in the day.

  A breeze stirred the reeds on the bank around them, carrying with it the smell of cooking sardines and a richer aroma. Perhaps the women were stuffing some large musht fish with goat cheese. Judas glanced at Jesus again to see if the scent registered. It was his favorite meal, after all. But his younger friend’s eyes never wavered from the heavens. Besides, it was doubtful that Mary, his mother, would be inclined to favor her oldest son with such a delicacy. She was still of ill temper that Jesus had not taken up an occupation since the family had returned home to Capernaum.

  But after the death of Joseph, Jesus’ interest in carpentry had died as well. Even though he had his mother and five younger brothers and sisters to support, Jesus had retreated even further into his meditation. James and Jude, neither past their bar mitzvah, were scaling the catches brought to shore by the fishermen or hauling firewood, anything to bring home coin.

  Reminded of his own obligation, Judas returned to work on the leather strap. His own father had died years ago, and he was used to providing for his mother and three younger sisters, but physical labor was beyond him now. His right leg was laid out straight, still too stiff to tuck under him. Unconsciously he rubbed his throbbing knee. On inspection, it looked no different from the left. The ache lay deep inside.

  They had been far from home, traveling south in the winter, following the harvests. The kindly act of helping a villager with a bogged oxcart had cost him dearly. His leg had been crushed under the heavy wheel. A Roman soldier had been benevolent enough to set the limb, but had admitted he was no physician. It had taken a month until they had found an Essene disciple with the knowledge to rebreak the leg and set it properly. Even then it had not healed with the strength it once had. He could walk and perhaps carry a light load, but to balance on a scaffold? To use his right leg to brace when swinging a scythe? The tender bone could not bear such strain.

  But his injury had not erased his younger sisters’ needs. Food, shelter, and dowries did not fall from the heavens. What else could he do but swallow his pride and learn the skill of leather craft?

  Even those who knew of his misfortune still felt unsettled at his profession, for most of his work was commissioned by the Romans. Who else needed studded belts or straps for their quivers? He knew the derision the others felt for him, but he did not cause the Roman occupation, and it would not end if he stopped making scabbards.

  The only one who had passed no judgment sat next to him on the bank. Two fatherless boys set apart from the others. One ostracized for his entanglement with their oppressors, the other for his aloof manner. Most could not sit with any comfort next to a boy who sometimes went days without speaking. And when he did grace people with words, most times it was to correct their recital of Scripture. No, most avoided this boy who seemed to know more about God’s will than even the high priests.

  Just this morning Judas had found his friend sitting alone at the edge of the sea before the mist had even risen from the waters. Judas had brought a breakfast of dried sardines and coarse bread, but Jesus had ignored both the food and his presence. Most days Judas would fill the empty air with word of Jerusalem, and if he ran out of such news he would whisper rumors of the town. However, Judas had to admit it was more to bait his austere friend than to truly inform him. The only guarantee of a response from Jesus was to spread gossip as to who might have broken the Sabbath or sought comfort outside the sanctity of marriage.

  But today Judas remained silent, for Jesus seemed to be deep within a conversation of his own. His brow was furrowed. Even his lips pursed then relaxed as if he wished to argue, and then thought better of it. It was a strange day, but no day sitting next to Jesus could be called ordinary.

  “I know how I am to die,” his friend said, as if informing Judas of where he might settle once he married.

  Anyone else Judas might have scoffed at, but Jesus believed so deeply in his own words that he found himself believing them as well.

  So Judas asked the only question worthy. “Will you suffer?”

  Jesus turned his calm face away from the bright sky and looked into Judas’ eyes. “Greatly.” He then returned his sight to the heavens.

  Judas followed his gaze, for once glad that he could not see what Jesus did.

  CHAPTER 2

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  Ecuadorian Rainforest

  Tok stood motionless at the center of the clearing, the scent of fresh blood and snake excrement thick in the air. It held a certain fragrance. Fear and anger. A tincture to brighten his foul mood.

  He had missed capturing the doctor by over six hours. Between the time that their mole had forwarded the SEALs’ orders and his own team were wheels up, they had lost those six hours. Someone was going to die for the delay.

  Adding to his annoyance, the constant moaning and screaming of the savages was becoming tiresome. After his recent surgery, he had barely acclimated to loud noises, let alone the high-pitched squeals from the tortured natives. Tok turned down his cochlear implant’s volume, but immediately missed the company of the jungle’s sound.

  Born deaf and mute, he had only known a cold, lonely, isolated world. A world where he had only himself and his fear. He had grown used to his soundless, barren life. But now, after the surgery to replace his deformed inner ear with microelectrodes, the wind was his constant companion.

  And now this rain forest with its insects, birds, and reptiles. Even the river murmured sweet nothings.

  The surgery had only been two weeks ago, but already he could not bear to be without this interaction. Slowly he dialed the implant’s volume up until his head was filled with the lovely buzz of the jungle. How different this Ecuadorian air sounded from the crisp Swiss air he had just left. This sensory cornucopia was worth the occasional tormented cry that sent a sharp lance across his brain. The acoustic enhancer was going to need some modifications for fieldwork.

  Fortunately, the natives seemed of inferior stock. They could not tolerate much more torture before they either capitulated or died.

  Someone tapped his shoulder before speaking carefully. “Master Tok, I believe we have found a way to extract the information.”

  “Petir, I don’t need to read your lips. I can hear you.”

  The older man sm
iled. “As I can you.”

  Tok was confused until he realized that he had been signing his words as he spoke, even though his new subvocal cord microphones transmitted into Petir’s specially designed earpiece. “Old habits die hard.”

  “For both of us,” his mentor agreed. “Would you follow me?”

  Tok followed, but at a languid pace. It was not that he did not wish to get the information and proceed with his mission. He was nothing if not diligent and efficient. It was that he did not wish to leave this place with all of its new sounds. The layers of amazing tones made him yearn to go home.

  Born deformed to a whore on the streets of Cairo, Tok had grown up terrified of the press of the marketplace. But what a wonder the crowded bazaar would be now. The shouts of the merchants. The loud bartering. Once they were rid of this troublesome doctor, he would head to Egypt and reclaim his birthplace, rather than let it linger as a childhood nightmare.

  And Tok could be assured no one would recognize him and call out, “Golgo,” Arabic for abomination. Deaf, and mute, with multicolored eyes and a webbed hand, he had been called much worse. He flexed his left hand within its thick leather glove. Despite the tropical heat, he kept the glove on, for it covered a patchwork of scars caused by the correction of his hand’s deformity. No one looking at him now with his brown contacts would suspect he was once kicked and beaten for simply existing.

  As they entered an area of trampled vines and leaves, Petir stepped over the broken body of the chief and pointed to a small naked boy cowering at the foot of one of his team. The child’s face was painted with stark red lines across his eyes. Savages.

  “I think we’ve found something he cares for more than his life.”

  Tok crouched by the chief and looked into the tattooed face. Such primal anger. His own emotions might not be as noticeable on the surface, but a rage built within his chest, stoked as these natives refused to give the information he desperately needed.