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He twisted and leaped as the explosion blasted behind him. A wall of superheated air shoved him out of the way, blowing his poncho over his head. He hit the ground rolling as a fireball swirled overhead, across the courtyard. Tangled in his poncho, he tumbled—right into the eviscerated corpse. Limbs fought, heat burned, and scrambling fingers found only a gelid belly wound and things that squished.
Gagging, Kowalski fought his way free and shoved the poncho off his body. He stood, shaking like a wet dog, swiping gore from his arms in disgust. He stared toward the main building.
Flames danced behind the kitchen window. Smoke choked out the shattered pane.
“What happened?” the doctor gasped in his ear.
He only shook his head. Flames spread, flowing out the broken window and lapping at the porch.
“Kowalski?”
“Booby trap. I’m fine.”
He collected his weapon from his discarded poncho. Resting it on his shoulder, he intended to circle to the back. According to Dr. Rosauro, the main office was in the rear.
If he worked quickly—
He checked his watch.
8:45 a.m.
It was hero time.
He stepped toward the north side of the hacienda. His bare heel slipped on a loop of intestine, slick as any banana peel. His leg twisted out from under him. He tumbled face-first, striking hard, the weapon slamming to the packed dirt, his finger jamming the trigger.
Silver disks flashed out and struck the figure lumbering into the courtyard, one arm on fire. It howled—not in agony, but in feral rage. The figure wore the tatters of a butler’s attire. His eyes were fever bright but mucked with pasty matter. Froth speckled and drooled from lips rippled in a snarl. Blood stained the lower half of his face and drenched the front of his once-starched white shirt.
In a flash of insight—a rarity—Kowalski realized what had been nagging him before. The lack of monkey corpses here. He’d assumed the monkeys had been cannibalized—if so, then why leave a perfectly good chunk of meat out here?
The answer: no apes had attacked here.
It seemed the beasts were not the only ones infected on the island.
Nor the only cannibals.
The butler, still on fire, lunged toward Kowalski. The first impacts of the silver disks had struck shoulder and neck. Blood sprayed. Not enough to stop the determined maniac.
Kowalski squeezed the trigger, aiming low.
An arc of razored death sliced across the space at knee height.
Tendons snapped, bones shattered. The butler collapsed and fell toward Kowalski, landing almost nose to nose with him. A clawed hand grabbed his throat, nails digging into his flesh. Kowalski raised the muzzle of his VK rifle.
“Sorry, buddy.”
Kowalski aimed for the open mouth and pulled the trigger, closing his eyes at the last second.
A gargling yowl erupted—then went immediately silent. His throat was released.
Kowalski opened his eyes to see the butler collapse face-first.
Dead.
Kowalski rolled to the side and gained his legs. He searched around for any other attackers, then ran toward the back of the hacienda. He glanced in each window as he passed: a locker room, a lab with steel animal cages, a billiard room.
Fire roared on the structure’s far side, fanned by the growing winds. Smoke churned up into the darkening skies.
Through the next window, Kowalski spotted a room with a massive wooden desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
It had to be the professor’s study.
“Dr. Rosauro,” Kowalski whispered.
No answer.
“Dr. Rosauro…” he tried a little louder.
He grabbed his throat. His transmitter was gone, ripped away in his scuffle with the butler. He glanced back toward the courtyard. Flames lapped the sky.
He was on his own.
He turned back to the study. A rear door opened into the room. It stood ajar.
Why did that not sit well with him?
With time strangling, Kowalski edged cautiously forward, gun raised. He used the tip of his weapon to nudge the door wider.
He was ready for anything.
Rabid baboons, raving butlers.
But not for the young woman in a skintight charcoal wet suit.
She was crouched before an open floor safe and rose smoothly with the creak of the door, a pack slung over one shoulder. Her hair, loose and damp, flowed as dark as a raven’s wing, her skin burnt honey. Eyes, the smoky hue of dark caramel, met his.
Over a silver 9mm Sig-Sauer held in one fist.
Kowalski ducked to the side of the doorway, keeping his weapon pointed inside. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name, señor, is Condeza Gabriella Salazar. You are trespassing on my husband’s property.”
Kowalski scowled. The professor’s wife. Why did all the pretty ones go for the smart guys?
“What are you doing here?” he called out.
“You are American, sí? Sigma Force, no doubt.” This last was said with a sneer. “I’ve come to collect my husband’s cure. I will use it to barter for my marido’s freedom. You will not stop me.”
A blast of her gun chewed a hole through the door. Splinters chased him back.
Something about the easy way she had handled her pistol suggested more than competence. Plus, if she’d married a professor, she probably had a few IQ points on him.
Brains and a body like that…
Life was not fair.
Kowalski backed away, covering the side door.
A window shattered by his ear. A bullet seared past the back of his neck. He dropped and pressed against the adobe wall.
The bitch had moved out of the office and was stalking him from inside the house.
Body, brains, and she knew the lay of the land.
No wonder she’d been able to avoid the monsters here.
Distantly a noise intruded. The whump-whump of an approaching helicopter. It was their evac chopper. He glanced to his watch. Of course their ride was early.
“You should run for your friends,” the woman called from inside. “While you still have time!”
Kowalski stared at the manicured lawn that spread all the way to the beach. There was no cover. The bitch would surely drop him within a few steps.
It came down to do or die.
He bunched his legs under him, took a deep breath, then sprang up. He crashed back-first through the bullet-weakened window. He kept his rifle tucked to his belly. He landed hard and shoulder-rolled, ignoring the shards of glass cutting him.
He gained a crouched position, rifle up, swiveling.
The room was empty.
Gone again.
So it was to be a cat-and-mouse hunt through the house.
He moved to the doorway that led deeper into the structure. Smoke flowed in rivers across the ceiling. The temperature inside was furnace hot. He pictured the pack over the woman’s shoulder. She had already emptied the safe. She would make for one of the exits.
He edged to the next room.
A sunroom. A wall of windows overlooked the expanse of gardens and lawn. Rattan furniture and floor screens offered a handful of hiding places. He would have to lure her out somehow. Outthink her.
Yeah, right.
He edged into the room, keeping close to the back wall.
He crossed the room. There was no attack.
He reached the far archway. It led to a back foyer.
And an open door.
He cursed inwardly. As he made his entrance, she must have made her exit. She was probably halfway to Honduras by now. He rushed the door and out to the back porch. He searched the grounds.
Gone.
So much for outthinking her.
The press of the hot barrel against the back of his skull punctuated how thick that skull actually was. As he had concluded earlier, she must have realized a sprint across open ground was too risky. So she had waited to ambush him.
She didn’t even hesitate for any witty repartee…not that he’d be a good sparring partner anyway. Only a single word of consolation was offered. “Adiós.”
The blast of the gun was drowned by a sudden siren’s wail.
Both of them jumped at the shrieking burst.
Luckily, he jumped to the left, she to the right.
The round tore through Kowalski’s right ear with a lance of fire.
He spun, pulling the trigger on his weapon. He didn’t aim, just clenched the trigger and strafed at waist level. He lost his balance at the edge of the porch, tumbling back.
Another bullet ripped through the air past the tip of his nose.
He hit the cobbled path, and his skull struck with a distinct ring. The rifle was knocked from his fingers.
He searched up and saw the woman step to the edge of the porch.
She pointed her Sig-Sauer at him.
Her other arm clutched her stomach. It failed to act as a dam. Abdominal contents spilled from her split belly, pouring out in a flow of dark blood. She lifted her gun, arm trembling—her eyes met his, oddly surprised. Then the gun slipped from her fingers, and she toppled toward him.
Kowalski rolled out of the way in time.
She landed with a wet slap on the stone path.
The bell-beat of the helicopter wafted louder as the winds changed direction. The storm was rolling in fast. He saw the chopper circle the beach once, like a dog settling for a place to sleep, then lower toward the flat rocky expanse.
Kowalski returned to Gabriella Salazar’s body and hauled off her pack. He began to sprint for the beach. Then stopped, went back, and retrieved his VK rifle. He wasn’t leaving it behind.
As he ran, he realized two things.
One. The siren blast from the neighboring jungle had gone silent. And two. He had heard not a single word from Dr. Rosauro. He checked the taped receiver behind his ear. Still in place.
Why had she gone silent?
The helicopter—a Sikorsky S-76—touched down ahead of him. Sand swirled in the rotorwash. A gunman in military fatigues pointed a rifle at him and bellowed over the roar of the blades.
“Stand down! Now!”
Kowalski stopped. He lowered his rifle but lifted the pack. “I have the goddamn antidote.”
