Jungle Fever

by AnonymousLostie

An unfinished Action/Romancer with Keamy. It's very good but don't get your hopes up - it stops right in the middle of everything! Also it needs editing, but the site won't let me edit the text! :o

STORY INFO: This was supposed to be a detailed, involved story. It's Unfinished. I'm sorry. It gets going pretty well but then just stops. But it's good and I worked very hard on it, so I decided it should be posted somewhere rather than never be read by anyone. Please note this is sort of a "real" read, not the lighter material that is pretty common for fanfic.

LEGAL GUMBO: I don't own Martin Keamy, Omar, or any of the other mercenaries of LOST. I wish I owned Keamy. He'd be my beautiful, hunky man-pet and I'd keep him tied up next to my bed and feed him grapes one by one. But I think Bad Wobot owns them both, so I'm just taking them out to play for a while. But don't worry, ABC. I'll put them back when I'm done.

And no, I don't make any money from writing Fanfic. Are you kidding? I barely get paid at my actual job in real life. I certainly don't get paid to explore randy-Durandy fantasies on the internet.

RATING: This story is rated R for mention of some Adult Situations. It also contains violence and bad words like Fuck and Shit. This material is inappropriate for anyone not claiming or pretending to be at least 18 years of age. It was supposed to contain delightfully graphic sex, but again, it was never finished and so never earned a proper X / NC-17 rating.

Technical Difficulties: Oy, the line spacing here is terrible! The font, too. And it didn't preserve the indents or even the sentence spacing, so I dunno how you're supposed to read anything here. I'd recommend copying and pasting this thing into your word processor and fixing what you can, just to make it an easier read. Also, I haven't exactly proofread the whole thing, so it may have a hanging sentence here or there.

CHAPTER 1

Keamy watched the jungle around him as his company tramped through the undergrowth. The dense forest seemed to swallow them as they pressed on, twenty men under the glare of the Andes mountains, heading northeast in the sodden wilds of South America. Only half of them had experience in jungle terrain, and even Keamy wasn't comfortable here. He had worked in Colombia before, but didn't recognize the feel of this place. There were insect noises that started and stopped, bent trees that made deformed figures in the mist, and there was always the feel of being watched. The rainforests were choked with vegetation, cut with riverbeds and dark channels that lured men off of their compass bearing. They wandered down paths that seemed like shortcuts, never to be seen again.

Remote South America was supposed to be overgrown and rustic, but charming in its way. Far from the tourist beaches, dirt roads wound through the jungles and were dotted with ramshackle villages. The cocaine trade employed thousands, whole families who lived in the valleys below the cultivated slopes. They were poor people but didn't seem to know it, going about their business contentedly enough. They were used to seeing armed men, too. Even mercenaries felt oddly welcome here on the main streets; barefoot children played nearby and grinned at them, waved sometimes before going back to their games. But off the roads, past the foot tracks that the locals used for gathering in the forest, there was a deep, ominous jungle.

It was late afternoon, but time and daylight were luxuries in the heavy mist here. Footfalls echoed against the moss-draped trees, but sound vanished beyond that, enveloped by the white vapor all around. Even the treetops disappeared into the fog above, vines looped down from nothingness, and foreign birds called but were never seen. Within a fifty foot radius, clarity showed every leaf and twig, but the outlying plants were lost to grayed shapes and vague uneasiness. Keamy was edgy about having so few troops with him on such an unusual mission, but they were alert and well-armed. That never failed to comfort him, the noise of soldiers on the move: assault weapons clicking and shifting, supplies creaking faintly, and the thudding of boots on the forest floor. The sounds of power.

Even though a third of them were new to Keamy, the group seemed capable of accomplishing their objective, meeting with the Rojo Helecho, the jungle militia, to attempt a prisoner exchange. Keamy had been given custody of a sullen little man named Carlo, who was to be used to trade for their own team member, a mercenary who had been captured several months earlier. Keamy hardly knew the merc, but recognized him from the photo and info he'd been given about the assignment. Carlo had refused to provide any strategic information about the Rojos, but insisted that they were keeping an American hostage and would be willing to trade for him. Although Keamy hadn't been present during the interrogation, he knew it meant that Carlo was a man of some importance and therefore valuable as a captive. Keamy had been charged with keeping him in viable condition until the exchange was made, though no one had the details on where that would be; even the legitimate military didn't know where the Rojos were headquartered. Keamy's group had a general location, several maps, and a specific guide for the journey.

It was a strange, native woman who led their walk through the trees with utter confidence, picking her way around every obstacle and forever glancing back to make sure the troops were still following. She wore a reedy, wide-brimmed hat, and a burlap gown decorated with strings of beads that rattled quietly as she moved among the ferns and brambles ahead. She was known locally as "Lowani Priestess," but Keamy figured it had something to do with voodoo. She carried a bag of bones and dried animal parts, and often mumbled to herself. He had heard hundreds of languages in his travels, but nothing like Lowani's gibberish. Even Carlo, who knew little English and was accustomed to dealing with the native peoples, seemed unnerved by the woman's frequent ramblings.

To Keamy's dismay, the only translator available for the mission was another annoying woman, a college professor who had been assigned to the group a few days earlier. She had no military experience, but was a near-expert on the peoples of the region, spoke several dialects of Spanish and other variants, and could even communicate with Lowani. Her name was Amanda-something and she was a graduate student or a PhD anthropologist-something. Keamy couldn't remember and didn't care. His focus was on the objective: keeping Carlo alive and captive until they reached the Militia's territory. Not wanting to deal with distractions, he had immediately made Amanda Omar's project.

Thank God for Omar.

He walked with her, stayed by her, monitored the bearing as they followed Lowani. He even kept her entertained when the group stopped for water breaks. Or at least kept her distracted and answered her questions, so she wasn't compelled to bother Keamy. Little Omar was tough and dependable. He took orders and got the job done, even when conditions were weird and awkward. Even when things that should never be mixed, were mixed. Like women and work.

Keamy didn't like having civilian girls around on the job - especially when they were cute - and Amanda was very Civilian. Dressed in the same, mottled green fatigues as his troops, she looked the part from far away, but he saw the frailty within. Civilians always looked innocent and uninformed, even the educated ones. Her studies made her worldly enough, but she was soft and vulnerable otherwise, all care and feminine courtesy and velvety brown eyes that glanced about with too much wonder. Even now, her femininity was obvious as she stepped carefully around the jungle plants, not accustomed to working this deeply in the field. She avoided the brambles daintily, arching around them and rolling her hips in that tantalizing way that only women were able to do. She moved like a real one with natural grace.

The military tamped those things out. Keamy had a couple of women in his company and could usually forget about them. They were sturdy, as reliable as male soldiers, and seldom distracting. They were contemporaries who kept their personal business to themselves. And they didn't look at him the way Amanda did. She was an anthropologist-something, which meant that she studied people and cultures, but on this trip she'd taken to studying him. Even while Omar was comparing notes with her about the topographical map, she followed Keamy discreetly with those wide, sparkling eyes. Sometimes she smiled at him, a faint smile that he didn't understand, then went back to writing in one of her books. It wasn't any kind of flirting he recognized, but it still seemed like flattery and made him uncomfortable.

To Amanda, Keamy was a curiosity and maybe even a real person, which was unsettling in every way. Women were supposed to see him as an object or a means to an end. They wanted his body or his money, sometimes both, and it was rarely personal. He had a few women that he called on repeatedly, but even they weren't real girlfriends. They liked him and felt something genuine when he visited, but he knew they didn't wait for him. There were always other men, as surely as he needed other women.

Mercenary work paid for the good life, and Martin reveled in it when he was off duty. International assignments came with an endless supply of booze, drugs, and women of every persuasion. He would oblige any exotic beauty who looked at him the right way, but paid sex was often the best to be had. And mercenaries were a boon for hookers, moreso than local military or shore leavers were, because mercs had less time to play. They were always in a hurry to find good company, and even Keamy seldom had downtime for more than a few days. With his good looks and obvious profession, he was a ripe target for any sensible prostitute. Most nights, his only problem was deciding who and how much, and managing his time.

But Amanda wasn't a hungry bar girl or someone to be paid for favors, and she wasn't even military. She didn't fit into any of the proper categories for women. She was here contaminating his workplace with her girly cuteness, looking and acting every bit the professional but still distracting him. That bothered him the most. She wasn't doing anything wrong, but he couldn't keep his mind on the job.

She was a tall, dark-haired cutie. Not dour and angular like so much standard beauty, but cute in a pure, affectionate way. Her soft, curved face was ideally arranged. He'd noticed that from the moment they were introduced (for him, the most awkward five seconds imaginable), that she always seemed pleased to see him. Whenever she looked at him, her eyes lit up in that entranced way, and the smiling and watching had begun shortly after that.

Amanda was paying attention ahead, following Lowani as she made her way into a thicket of high ferns. As usual, the woman was muttering something as she ducked under the branches.

"Wait," Omar whispered, grabbing Amanda's shoulder suddenly and making her turn around.

Some ten feet behind them, Keamy and the rest of the troops had stilled, rifles at the ready, and were focused on a steep bank beside the trail. Someone had heard a noise from higher up the hill. Twigs snapping, a dry branch scraping. Whatever, but all was quiet now. Keamy lowered his weapon slowly, squinting up into the mist.

Amanda was in awe of him, momentarily ignoring any danger. Even from this distance, Keamy was a giant and incredible to watch. He towered over the others, huge and almost inhumanly strong, but still under stately control, that peculiar tension that never left him. The twelve-pound rifle was nothing to him, a toy balanced lightly on his thick forearm. His quick eyes were cruel and silvery, processing the jungle with a sudden hatred. Amanda had seen a hint of that intensity in him earlier, but this time it spiked for a moment before subsiding. It was clearly hatred. She tensed as his soft voice broke the quiet.

"You heard it?" He asked the man behind him, but didn't look at him.

"Yes, sir."

Keamy glared at the mist, beyond the fringe of vegetation that disappeared into it. He thought he saw phantoms, but they kept dashing away and becoming harmless plant shapes as the vapor drifted. He nodded at Omar, who was also scanning the hillside and finding nothing amiss. Keamy glanced back at Carlo, seeking any information that the quiet captive might accidentally provide, but Carlo seemed confounded. Flanked by several escorting mercenaries, he had looked up from his handcuffs and was watching the foggy treeline in wonder, then checking with the troops around him.

Satisfied that the event was over, Keamy signaled the group and they started their march again down the slope. Amanda noticed their stepping more quietly and watching their surroundings, but they seemed confident enough that the trouble had passed. Keamy approached her and she shrank, again amazed by his size; he was six and half feet of pure brawn and intimidation, now right beside her.

"Let's go. Where's the guide?"

"So that was nothing?" Amanda asked, starting down the trail again, toward the ferns where Lowani had gone. They were headed into a shallow ravine where trickling water could be heard.

"No. It's somebody," Keamy said, glancing back. "Gone for now, but we need to keep moving."

As they continued out of the higher terrain and left the incident behind, Amanda was rapt on the details of him, unable to look away. He was concerned about the near-encounter, but didn't show it. She watched the corded muscles in his neck, how they flickered with every movement, and the grip of his enormous hand on his rifle. Under several days of stubble, his jaw clenched in private frustration. His face was a handsome blend of hard and rounded contours, somehow boyish but older than he was supposed to be. She wondered about his age, how long it could take a man to become so grim and humorless. His eyes were truly haunted, gleamy with memories and barely-contained rage. He was so much to take in, stern and frightening, but beautiful in a way, too. Martin Keamy was positively full of rage, Amanda realized at that moment. She forced herself to look away from his humorless profile as he and Omar were talking again.

Up ahead, Lowani had stopped and was waving at them. Lush, leafy plants grew along the edges of the ravine, and tropical ivy crawled over every tree and stone. She was hardly visible in the shade of overhanging limbs and broad-leafed vegetation.

"We're out of Militia range," Keamy was speculating.

"Gotta be natives, but recon can't see anything in this shit." Omar gestured disparagingly at the fog.

"It means they can't see us either," Keamy said, looking ahead.

"How many?"

"Scouting party. Maybe three." Keamy paused as he saw Lowani giving him some kind of signal, and turned to Amanda. "What the hell's she sayin'?"

Amanda went quickly and began translating more of Lowani's jabbering. The strange language was more emphatic than usual, complete with pointing and head-shaking. Her beads and trinkets clicked with movement as she pointed ahead, to a narrow, overgrown trail that snaked away into the fog. Amanda looked worried and took out one of her notebooks to compare some babbling she had written down earlier with the new complaints that Lowani obviously had about the trail. She walked ahead under the trees, while Keamy watched the shade take her body into darkness. Parts of her were outlined in reflected light from somewhere, and she looked curved and lovely for a moment. He could see the sway of her back, and her shapely legs pushed in fleshy swells against the camouflage pattern of her trousers. Her voice drifted to him, sounding kind and patient, even when trying to make sense of their crazy Priestess guide.

Keamy glanced over and saw Omar watching Amanda, too. He was focused on her ass, hardly blinking, but turned to Keamy in good time.

"What?"

"Nothing," Keamy muttered, bothered for no reason. "We need to get moving. It's... Getting dark," He finished lamely. Then he looked around and realized with dismay that it was true. The forest was darkening all around them. Green turned to gray, tree trunks blackened, and faint whirring sounds signaled the first of the twilight insects emerging. Keamy checked his watch and confirmed that the troops had been walking all day.

"Seems to like you," Omar was saying, adjusting the strap on his rifle and going back to watching Amanda. Keamy turned on him, annoyed again.

"What?"

"She was asking about you."

"What did she say?" Martin asked quickly, then cringed at how juvenile it sounded. "I mean,"

He cringed again, berating himself. "Fuck."

Amanda had a feeling that Keamy wouldn't want to heed Lowani's advice. As she walked back to the troops, she was trying to think of a polite way to convince him that the company would need to stop here for the night. Lowani had perceived danger in continuing any farther on the trail until the following day, but wasn't able to detail it. Amanda didn't know how to warn Keamy of something so innominate, and he was already watching her with unyielding eyes, sensing the bad news and wanting no part of it.

"She says we need to camp here. We'll have to cross a river, and it can't be done tonight." She said bravely.

Every soldier in the lineup reacted with uncomfortable shifting, except for Keamy. He didn't move a bit, but somehow his face changed dramatically. Amanda was afraid of him for a moment, and pointed down the path as he moved toward her.

"... A river just down the hill. You can hear it."

"We're going now." His voice had dropped into a hazardous quiet, and he pushed past her without another word.

CHAPTER 2

It had seemed like a wise decision at the time. Keamy was adamant about putting distance between his troops and their near-encounter with the natives, but dark was falling quickly by the time they reached the river. The temperature had dropped and the mist was settled even thicker. Lowani had complained in loud mumbles through much of the walk, even specifying to Amanda that they were supposed to cross farther upstream, but she went silent upon facing the rushing water. Just one among dozens of dangerous, uncharted waterways sourced by the Andean foothills, the river Tenedor was loud and swift, sixty feet across, and bobbing with debris from a recent storm. Flattened boulders marked the nearest crossing and appeared stable enough, but the current moved hard and fast around them. The troops used lifeline ropes preventively and started across with every care and caution, but the accidents began immediately. In the failing light, there was no determining the surface of the boulders, some of which were slick with algae. Two men slipped and came out soaked, limping, and swearing. Even a single bad step resulted in some combination of those things: injury from landing hard on the rocks, a partial dunk in the cold river, or complete submerging and an exhausting haul-out to safety. Lowani, though aged and hunched, hopped across without incident. Even Keamy with his ungainly height and top-heavy physique was somehow able to keep balance, but still caught an icy splash when Amanda had to be pulled from the water.

After recovering and re-gathering their supplies, the group spent an hour hiking the river's opposite side in search of a safe place to camp. Despite fatigue and general misery, the mercenaries never complained, even when it was discovered that there was no easy climb up the river's bank in the dark. It was lined with vertical, talus walls and a confusion of rocky channels that never led to the surrounding jungle. They finally decided to spend the night in a cave-like gap that was fortified enough to meet Keamy and Omar's satisfaction.

Surrounded by the drifting fog and the echoing noise of the water, the team set up their supplies and camped in the river bank. Ferns and wet vegetation occupied much of the area, and there was hardly a dry length of wood to be found. Several campfires were attempted, but even the damp, shivering troops had to make do with meager flames and cold rations. They settled for an evening of quiet camaraderie, tucking into their private supplies of alcohol and lighting smokes over several hands of poker and gin. Even Carlo knew how to play gin and was invited to a game. He worked around his handcuffs, folding down his cards to hide them whenever he needed to draw or play. That became a game unto itself, with the troops trying to sneak glances before he could tuck his hand in. Huddling together with blankets and provisions, everyone was warm enough among the trees and rock faces to forget about the trials of the day.

Keamy was damp and cold but felt too edgy to do anything about it. He had taken a defensive position, forward in the cave with a view of the river's surface outside. He sat against the cave wall with his rifle close-by, listening to the laughing and goings-on of his team. They had brought a few lanterns, just enough to cast odd, overlapping shadows on the rock walls, and the smell of cigarette smoke wafted to him in dilute curls.

Omar walked by and went out into the night, his boots crunching on the wet gravel of the riverbank. He passed Lowani and Amanda, and Keamy settled on them uneasily. Lowani was crouched by a small campfire, using it to perform some kind of spell while Amanda looked on and spoke to her. In more of that rambling native that was usually just irritating, but in Amanda's voice it was soothing in a way. Keamy couldn't help but relax, leaning on his backpack and watching the show. Amanda was calming and familiar somehow, sitting there in her river-soaked trousers and her funny sheep sweater. She had changed out of her camouflaged shirt to put on something dry, and it was an oversized sweater with a cartoony sheep on it, a ridiculous thing to see in a place like this. Her hair dangled half-dry, falling over her shoulders in careless waves. Some errant tendrils were swaying in her face and she kept combing them back unconsciously with one lovely hand. Her hair looked black when it was wet. She was perched on her knees, her legs bent over neatly, and now the wet fabric was clinging to all sorts of curvy flesh around her thighs. She looked soft and feminine, and Keamy forced himself to look away. He was thinking about what she might have on under the sweater, then convinced himself that he wasn't curious.

He didn't need this shit now. Not now and not here in this jungle that required absolute concentration on his assignment, in this mist that crawled with unseen threats. Where the hell had Omar gotten to? He was supposed to be keeping Amanda busy, out of Keamy's sight at all times so that there was no chance of her hanging around him and looking appealing.

Amanda shivered and crossed her arms tightly as Lowani continued nursing the tiny flame. She was finishing a ritual with some of her sacred belongings, holding a necklace of tiny vertebrae and tracing patterns in the dirt. Amanda suddenly felt eyes on her and turned around, finding Keamy nearby. He was apart from the other troops, settled near the high, stone gap that marked the cave's entrance. Leaning back on a rock slab that the river had polished smooth, he sat between the reflected light of the lanterns and the glancing glow of the moon outside. He seemed to be in both worlds, his blue eyes cool and distant, partly watching her and partly transfixed on the movement of the river. Feeling another wave of chills, Amanda decided it was enough already. She stood, bidding Lowani goodnight, and strode over to Keamy.

"I'm freezing." She griped, stopping next to him and looking down.

He came back from a far place, turning to her. Amanda stepped back as his size intimidated her again; even crouched on the ground, he was as big as a pony. He arched his sinewed neck backward to focus on her, looking blank.

"So."

"Can I sit with you?" She asked hopefully. Strange emotions crossed his face, all too quickly for her to guess at, but he was back to being unfriendly in no time.

"No. You're Omar's thing," He said firmly.

"Why can't I sit with you?" She complained.

"No. You're Omar's thing. He's supposed to handle your stuff. Where is he?"

"He's busy handling his own stuff."

Keamy looked around for no reason. He'd already seen Omar leave the cave, and was now willing him to come back before he'd have to continue discussing this with Mandy. Amanda.

"Amanda," He corrected himself. God, that "Mandy" nickname was something out of a little girl's diary or a high school yearbook.

"What?" She asked.

"Shit," He growled, realizing that he'd said her name out loud. "Nothing."

Amanda could feel the heat coming off of him, inviting and teasing her cold skin. Breath moved slowly in his wide chest, and his very presence was compelling her, pulling her. His pale eyes were alight with unknown thoughts, conflicts and intensities that beckoned her.

"They get to sit together." She pointed at the troops, who had quieted and were gathered closely for the last poker game of the night. "Why can't I sit with you? Please?"

Martin hated that word, hated the way her sweet voice dragged it along for emphasis. There was no way to counter its power over him. Suddenly she was too cute, standing there with her charming face and her sheepy sweater that was looking at him with goofy eyes and hiding her full breasts and all sorts of other things that his chilled body longed to be near. He wanted it, but another part of him dreaded it.

She was cold. Her plump lips were slightly blue and quivering, and he felt an unwanted twinge of responsibility. Amanda was part of his team and he'd been entrusted with her well-being. Until Omar came back, he would have to deal with her.

"Fine," He relented in a murmur, already regretting it. He almost startled as she quickly sat beside him and pulled in close, reaching for him. "Wh – I didn't mean-"

It was too late. She leaned into his chest and had her arms around him before he could even move, her hands crawling under his jacket and finding places to hold onto. She settled her body into his and nuzzled under his throat, sighing contentedly as his arm draped over her. He'd lifted it in surprise, completely on accident, and what a mistake; she'd moved in like she owned the place. He felt her warmth, breasts pressing on him, silky hair tickling his neck, and grimaced as it immediately stirred a reaction, something unfamiliar clenching in his middle. A warning or a compulsion, he wasn't sure, but he tried to pull away from her. Mandy felt his shifting and gripped him tighter, those determined hands moving farther around his back. Dammit, he was really stuck now.

The affection was unbearable but somehow irresistible. She snuggled against him and murmured something too-sweet and polite, something thankful and how this was "much better," and he winced at the stirring in his mid-section again. The warmth from her was soaking into him and already felt too good. He'd been chilled just moments ago, but now there was only close heat and the teasing scent of her shampoo and insect repellant. And her. Hinted scents of laundry detergent, hand lotion, the sweater that smelled of upholstery and baseboard ventilation because it had come from her apartment. He assumed that, anyway. Most likely she lived in an apartment. Probably alone. Martin cursed himself for even speculating about it, but even more for suddenly wanting to know. One of her hands - he was too unfocused to keep track of them just now - spread out on his back and started caressing him absently. For a moment it was all he could feel, fingertips rolling gently under his shoulder blade. Women always seemed to do things like that on accident, having no idea of the effect on him.

Keamy thought he recognized the touch. It usually came after a solid fuck with one of his almost-girlfriends, a lingering hand that trailed over him while he was catching his breath. But with Mandy it was something else, an appreciative gesture that had nothing to do with sex. Mandy. Dammit, it was "Mandy" in his thoughts again.

"Amanda." He corrected sharply.

"Hmm?" Her voice hummed against him pleasantly.

Shit.

"Nothing."

Keamy tensed when he heard footsteps, and looked up to find Omar returning. The little guy was just in time to be too late to prevent all of this. He walked by and immediately noticed the mayhem, slowing down as he saw that Amanda had ambushed his commanding officer for an evening of cuddling. Seeing that there was no hope for him, Omar grinned at Keamy and went on his way, finding a cozy place to bed down for the night. Keamy glared at him vindictively but couldn't concentrate on it for long. He felt those breasts shift against him, and fidgeted again. Feeling his movement, Amanda readjusted her hold on him, tightening it even more and stroking his back again.

"She's right. You're tense."

"Huh?"

"Lowani. She said you have ye'tal that bother you and make you unhappy. Evil spirits." Her kind, feathery voice went to work on him, getting in his head and doing that thing it had started doing recently. For the first two days of the mission, he'd been able to listen to her words and ignore the rest of it, but lately her voice was getting in and doing something to him, muddling his thoughts somehow. He didn't like it.

"It's not spirits bothering me," He growled to himself. "And she's here to lead us to Militia territory, not put curses on me."

"It wasn't her fault. The fire did it." She said quietly, relaxing completely against him. Keamy felt solid all around her. His low voice vibrated against her ear, sometimes rumbling, sometimes wispy. She heard his heart thumping nearby, and the quiet noise of Kevlar shifting with his breathing. The jungle essence clung to his jacket, pleasantly musty and blending with the warm scent of him.

"Her fault... What?"

"She put a prognosticating spell into the fire and that's what came out. It was supposed to tell us about our journey and what we're doing here, but it did its own thing." She explained, feeling drowsy as the comfort overtook her, the chills fading away. "She saw you. Your lifelines."

"Really."

Mandy thought he was trying to sound uninterested, but there was curiosity. Lowani had been right about the river crossing, and the spell in the fire had been very clear. In a flittering space no larger than a candle flame, she had seen the past, and Keamy's future in a series of lines that she drew in the dirt.

"She saw you near a pyramid."

"That's not a secret. We're going to Egypt next month."

"Mmm?" She breathed quietly, loving the low throttle of his voice.

"You said prognosticate. That's the future, Egypt. But it's not a secret. They need us for a security thing."

Amanda forced herself to come back from the haze of sleep. Her feet were sore and her legs ached from so many hours of hiking, but the fatigue was melting in a perfect calm here. There was no jungle, no worry about strangers in the fog. She wanted to drift off in Keamy's heat, with his breathing in her arms and his voice all around her.

"No. She didn't say Egypt. Her people don't have a word for that. She said their word for 'pyramid.'" She nuzzled farther under his jacket, feeling the weight of its armor brushing against her cheek. "And it wasn't the future. It was supposed to be, but she said it was the past."

"I've never been to the pyramids before." Mandy could hear his voice coming easier, yielding to the calm. Even he couldn't ignore the lulling effect of this closeness.

"Not the Pyramids. There was just one. It was black."

The Luxor.

Keamy tightened up, forgetting all the comfort and discomfort of Amanda, at least for the moment. Even her saccharine voice, growing fainter and meandering with sleep, couldn't bring him back.

"She said you were looking at it. With a feeling. Llojar 'ne ... It's strange. A strange way. It doesn't translate."

Somehow, Lowani had seen him near the Luxor pyramid in Las Vegas. Where he was born, and where he had killed for the first time. Keamy's thoughts jumped to the past, to an evening of memories in the heat of the desert. Years after joining the Marines, he had come back home and killed in the desert hills that overlooked the city. It happened on a roadside, one of any lengths of highway that stretched out from Las Vegas, cracked and desolate and still warm in the pink twilight.

It had been something like self-defense, he'd told himself at the time. He hadn't even used a weapon; he didn't need one, as he was military trained now. And grown. He was bigger than any man and could kill with his hands. And when it was done and the blood was already caking in the dry air, he had moved the body away from the road, dragging it at first. But it left incriminating furrows in the desert sand. He picked it up and carried it over a dune, left it among the scrub and chaparral, within sight of the city. Then he'd looked over and seen the Luxor, its black glass haloed beautifully in the setting sun.

Martin had killed so many since then, but that first time was a specter in his memory. He'd worried that someone would come after him or at least question him about it. Years later, he found out why that had never happened. He had returned to that place in the desert, tried to find that same, pink hillside. He walked along the road but couldn't recall exactly where it was. Then, after searching for some twenty minutes, he found the scattered remains of his memory. Away from the road, never discovered, a few bones had been left by the desert scavengers. They were flaky and sandblasted, a half-submerged skull and some ribs lying loosely. But no. He looked again, and this skull had gold teeth and bullet holes in it. This wasn't his. Keamy couldn't believe it, but he'd found someone else's past, bleached and gnawed and forgotten in a desert that was obviously riddled with strange stories.

He never did find his own. He'd looked over to the city again, saw it twinkling to life as darkness fell. The black sparkle of the Luxor was crisp and elegant. He wondered how long it would be there, watching the truth that no one else would ever know, those bodies and memories left drying under the Nevada sun. He wondered how much Lowani knew.

"A black pyramid. And denal, their word for rich. Wealthy." Amanda's voice finally pulled him to the present, forcing away the memory. He was back in the jungle, on assignment. He felt her hands moving on him again, holding him snugly, and her voice was soft on his throat. "What's wrong?"

Keamy felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. He couldn't even feel the cold anymore and he couldn't concentrate on Las Vegas. There was only her voice again, compassionate and laced with other emotions that twisted him inside. She was so warm and close now, breathing on his neck and melding all of her soft, supple curves against him. Most women were tiny, but she was tall enough to fit to him nicely. His arm was still over her and his hand had somehow come to rest near her hip. Mandy's hips and her long, folded thighs, Mandy and her dumb sweater that was wrapped all over him. She wasn't wearing anything under it, he was sure of that now. He felt its single-layered fleece separating him from rounded shoulders and warm, pooling breasts. He was breathing in her damp hair and could feel her sigh on him, slowly moving into an easy sleep. Then he felt a tightening in his groin and almost cursed aloud. Mandy had been hanging around for days, but this was the first time she'd really affected him..

He did not want this. He tried to think of something else, anyone else who would satisfy him without all this kindness and empathy. He wanted meaningless women who were happy to be paid and happier to leave him. Better still, women who knew just enough English to do business and make a fortune on men like him, and afterward they got together with their friends to badmouth him and assign all sorts of native curse words. He imagined they did, and secretly hoped they did. He wanted to be far away and so drunk that he couldn't remember their faces. A man could forget all his demons in the sweet embrace of foreign drugs. He wanted clean heroin, Chinese opium, and blurry sex by gaslight in a cheap room above a tavern somewhere. Anything but Amanda.

He realized she was talking again, babbling something under his jacket, and he tried to pay attention.

"... It curls around again..." Her voice droned.

"What?"

"The path. The island one. She said not to worry about it."

"What path?" He angled his neck to look down at her, but she was too close. There wasn't a damn inch of space to be had anywhere.

"Your lifelines. One of them is really bad." .

"I'll skip that one." He muttered, suddenly feeling his fatigue. Her warmth was lulling, making him want to close his eyes.

"No, you have to take all four of them." Her voice warbled, barely intelligible.

"Fuck that." He grated. He wasn't expecting her to respond, but she kept mumbling faintly.

"You take it, but it turns around afterward, so it's ok. It turns out... it turns..."

Keamy waited for her to finish the hanging words, still disbelieving that she could actually be falling asleep on him. He nudged her remindingly.

"Hey. What about it." She sighed a deep sigh, then spoke in a sleepy delirium.

"My cat's name is Chewy..."

Keamy couldn't help but smile as she drowsed away. He caught himself enjoying the moment, then got a jab from his better judgement. Women weren't supposed to sleep with him this way. He never paid them to and they certainly never did it by choice. He told himself that this was circumstance, a practical matter of keeping warm, and that calmed some of the uneasiness. Staying here didn't compromise his professionalism. He said it to himself again and again as he felt his discipline waning. He didn't want to give in, but it felt right all over. She was so trusting and seemed harmless. As he closed his eyes, he knew somewhere that she was dangerous. Women like this were never free. They were needy, full of temptations and silken depths where reason failed and men surrendered. But that was somewhere, such a distant, nameless thing that couldn't reach him here. She was limp and quiet now, fully in his control. There was no harm in this tonight, was there? Outside, the wilderness answered in peaceful sounds. The river's tumbling echoed on the rocks, a thousand frogs were creaking and croaking, and soft rodents moved in the leaf litter nearby, rummaging for food. Keamy checked once more to see that the posted sentries were in position and make sure his weapon was still at his side. He looked to the troops, who were lying close among each other, warm under their woolen blankets. Even Carlo, though he was alone and chained to a tree, had been given a blanket and was sleeping soundly, his handcuffs glinting in a bit of stray light. Keamy looked outside and saw gaps in the fog, moonlight canting through them and floating in shards on the river's surface. Just outside the cave, not twenty feet away, a young anaconda was sleeping in a dry patch near the rocks. He could almost see breathing in the silver coil of its stillness. Feeling nearly at peace, Keamy drifted off.

CHAPTER 3

The weary troops slept until mid morning, then woke to a changed landscape. The fog had thinned and the sky was shifting with clouds and broken sunlight, showing the riverbanks in lively, mossy green. What the night had painted in a labyrinth of rocky slopes and tunnels, the day revealed plainly: The river gorge did offer a passage to the jungle beyond, just a quarter mile downstream. Keamy got up early, leaving Amanda asleep on his backpack. He had slept well and had to extract himself from the warm tangle of her body without waking her. He didn't want to leave all that comfort, but he was also desperate to get away from it for some reason. After another round of cold rations for breakfast, the company packed up and hiked out, putting Tenedor and its slopes behind them and entering a new stretch of forest.

Keamy put Omar and Amanda in front again, just behind Lowani and a pair of Recon troops. With the fog thinner now, visibility reached more than a hundred yards and the group was more vulnerable to surrounding threats. Lowani had spent the morning arguing with Amanda about the safest trail to take, as their crossing Tenedor in the wrong place had offset their journey. They were pushing deeper north, cutting a corner that the original route would have circumvented, but it was the flattest terrain and would take miles off their traveling. Keamy would not go back, and Omar agreed. There was not much known about this area, but the maps showed a continuation of native territory across Tenedor and farther east, which Keamy was determined to avoid.

That was the start of the trouble, because Keamy was now doubting Lowani's value as a guide. Amanda thought he seemed disturbed about her predictions and was being obstinate because he simply wanted her to be wrong. She had even bickered with him about it, insisting as much as she dared that Lowani was right, but one cold look from him put an end to it. She went sullen and hadn't said a word to him since. She had stopped looking at him and even stopped that mischievous smiling that Keamy realized he'd gotten used to. He thought it would be a relief not to have her stealing glances and twinkling her eyes at him as she'd been doing for days, but instead it put him in a sour mood. That bothered him, too, being affected by her again, and over something that shouldn't have mattered.

Amanda focused ahead and ignored the troops as they moved on through the jungle. She tried not to think about Keamy, but she could feel him back there. His tension and anger were obvious even on the few times she had accidentally looked back and seen him. Keamy was always tense and not far from anger, but he was wrought with them now and looked about to snap. His jaw kept flexing, his posture was stiff, and he glowered at the forest depths as though challenging anything hapless to emerge from them and pique his fury.

It was hard to believe that he'd been sleeping with her just a few hours earlier. But she remembered it and wanted to be there again, close and relaxed with him. He'd hated it at first, but something in him was eventually won over. When the night was shrouded enough and there were no immediate worries, Keamy had another, calmer side that she wanted to touch again. If the opportunity was there, she would. As she caught a look at him now, his massive frame moving heavily with every step, her hands itched to touch him. The urge was strong, even with the frustration about him, the cold set of his face that was entirely her fault. She'd argued about why he'd bothered to take a guide along if he wasn't going to listen to her advice, and that was plenty to get a rebuff and a threat from him. He'd advanced on her, looking violent and full of potentials that made her regret her words instantly.

Overhead, brightly fringed clouds were moving swiftly through the breaks in the canopy. Twittering birds gathered under the denser boughs of the trees, and even the insects had quieted in anticipation of rain. Amanda hadn't advised Keamy about the weather, because she hadn't wanted to rouse more anger from him over something that couldn't be fixed, but she lamented the decision as soon as the rain began in earnest. They were leaving the high trees and entering a rougher area of low-lying vegetation, a seasonal creek bed with long banks that offered little shelter. Here the rain struck every stone and flat leaf, creating a noisy drizzle and impairing their view all around. More disconcerting were the soldiers' footfalls, suddenly very audible as they moved through the stony river bed. The place was full of water-tumbled pebbles that gave and slipped as the algae on them grew damp.

Amanda was following Lowani and losing all sense of time and place. The pattering of the rain and the gravelly, clacking noise of so many footsteps was hypnotizing. She was lost in reverie, thinking about Keamy and looking at the ground to keep her footing. The plants were thicker now and she pushed aside the larger, dripping leaves in a pointless effort to avoid getting wetter, and realized suddenly that the vegetation was surrounding her. She was no longer in the open ravine, and Lowani and Omar were no longer in front of her.

Amanda had wandered into a dark, side passage and was now separate from the group, hidden in high, wide-leafed foliage that twitched and moved with the impact of the downpour. She stopped to get her bearings and was relieved to hear the tramping footsteps of the mercenaries. They sounded close, but the noise of the rain was obscuring everything now. She was about to call for Omar when the plants in front of her shuddered violently and a soldier emerged. Amanda went rapt as he came face-to-face with her, standing there in the swaying leaves while the rain left darker spots on his khaki clothing. He wasn't a mercenary; he was a local soldier carrying a different rifle. She opened her mouth to ask him who he was, when noise erupted all around. They both startled as the jungle came alive with shouting and running steps, the plants jostling with violent, unknown movement, and someone yelling Amanda's name. The mercenaries were on the move and Keamy's voice was loud enough to carry over the patter of the rain. Someone else was barking in Spanish, the words echoing with distance.

Feeling pure anxiety, Amanda turned, leaving the surprised man without a word, and ran back through the high plants. Suddenly they were everywhere and much denser. Had she come the wrong way? The ambient shouting continued and she panicked as she ran harder, at last seeing an open area ahead. She bolted through it and ran straight into a bulk of green camouflage, one of the mercs. They both fell into the creek bed, which was now at the center of the hostilities. Amanda scrambled awkwardly on the slick mud, surrounded by mercenaries who were in position and ready to fire. They were aiming up at the ravine's edge, where a line of armed strangers were shuffling and arranging themselves behind cover. She had barely gotten her footing on the rocks and almost slipped again when she saw the extent of the makeshift army above her and heard more shouting in Spanish. Before she could understand a word of it, something grabbed her wrist and hauled her violently to her feet.

It was Keamy, obviously angry about her getting lost, and muttering something obscene as he yanked her close to him, toward a tree that he was using for cover. She instinctively tried to free herself, tugging against his hold, but quieted when she felt the power in his grip. Despite the chaos all around, she was in awe for a moment and stared at her forearm. Everything beyond her wrist had simply disappeared, swallowed in the wrap of his enormous hand. He pulled her with no exertion at all and tossed her down behind the tree, next to several mercs who were already poised in the surrounding cover. She was too disoriented to say anything as she looked up on the ridge, where the band of armed men had their rifles ready. Then she looked all over the ditch and found only half of the mercenary company. They were positioned behind rocks, below the edge of the bank, and crouched in the brambles and other vegetation, but there was no sign of Omar, Lowani, or the Recon troops.

Amanda checked both sides of the ravine as far as her vantage and the worsening weather would permit, but now she couldn't tell which direction they had even been traveling. Under the high jungle that framed it and the steaming rain that distorted it, the creek bed looked identical at both ends. The yelling cacophony added further madness, as the Spanish soldiers were calling back and forth and Keamy was hollering for his missing team members. They had been cut off beyond the ravine; a string of armed men were moving at speed out of the basin, trying to catch up to them in the jungle. Keamy and another soldier were trying to communicate with the army of strangers on the ridge above. There were about a dozen of them, all dressed similarly to the one Amanda had encountered, and all with rifles ready. One of them, a leader of sorts, was hollering in Spanish.

The man to Keamy's right - Amanda couldn't remember his name - translated it while keeping his rifle level.

"He says this is private land. He wants to know who we are."

"Tell him to call his troops back," Keamy growled, indicating the smaller band of soldiers who had run into the jungle after Omar and the rest of the group. "Or we'll open fire."

The translator - Dawson, Amanda remembered it suddenly - yelled it up to the man who was apparently in charge of the ragtag army. Amanda watched Keamy as he processed the whole scene, and suddenly it was clear to her. These strangers were a defense force of the local drug cartel, and the same people who had been stalking in the fog yesterday. They carried a mixture of weapon types and were dressed in loose, ragged khaki. They fidgeted and muttered among themselves with none of the discipline or composure of the mercenaries. Amanda was stuck by the difference; she had gotten used to the mercs' smooth function under Keamy's command and could see the cartel's weaknesses almost as clearly as he could.

"He says no. He wants to know what we're doing here first." Dawson translated.

Keamy was watching the cartel with intense calculation, scanning every man he could see. They were behind cover but still exposed enough to be targets. Some of them were armed with single-shot weapons, and none of them wore armor. He kept his rifle's scope in line with their leader's torso, feeling the compulsion to kill him. He knew from the maps and Lowani's information that this land was supposed to be unoccupied. The cartel must have recently expanded its territory and was concerned about the presence of government-issued soldiers anywhere near it.

"Tell him we're passing through and it's none of their business. We're not official military." Amanda listened over the drizzling rain as Dawson hollered in Spanish, and the ambient tension seemed to dissipate for a moment. Then Keamy's voice started again, and she heard something new in it. He was low and dangerous and suddenly at the end of patience. "He needs to call off his men now. I won't say it again."

The new translation had just begun when gunfire erupted in the distant jungle. Turmoil ensued again as the cartel soldiers began barking at each other and the mercenaries shifted and took further cover. Amanda ducked worriedly as distant shouts and the rattle of machine guns overlapped and carried through the rain; the second string of cartel soldiers were in active combat with the mercenaries. Keamy was ordering his team into smaller groups and telling them to hold. The cartel leader was furious, cursing at the men around him; he hadn't intended for the second group to engage the enemy.

Amanda was about to tell Keamy that it was all some misunderstanding, when a weapon sounded close-by, sending multiple shots into the foliage. Dawson was cut off in mid-sentence and went down in a heap, landing on the rocks and clutching at his throat. He had been hit by a stray shot, and Amanda gasped as she saw him turn bluish, clawing his fingers into a dark red opening that had appeared near his collarbone. Instantly there was blood all over the front of him, pooling in his mouth and drowning him. A gurgling sound came out as he sank backward and lay beside her feet, quieting. She could only stare at him, at his upward gaze while the rain began collecting in his eye sockets. She couldn't look away, even when the cartel soldiers began screaming back and forth about which of them had accidentally fired the shots. Keamy didn't care, and she heard all his rage loosed in the order to open fire.

The ravine exploded with sound as guns came to life, the mercenary rifles with their modern precision, and the cartel's rough-hewn blend of older weapons. Amanda trembled, covering her ears and still looking at Dawson, whose heart had not quite stopped. A few, dying pulses were spilling from the wound in his neck and staining more of the rocks under him. Rainwater was dribbling from all sides of the creek bed, collecting in large puddles and moving the blood everywhere in diluted threads. Mercifully, someone - one of the friendlier mercs - pulled her away from the body and made her take cover next to Keamy. Behind one of the sturdier trees, she crouched and watched the team unload their frustration on the small band of drug dealers above the slope, firing countlessly and hitting nothing and everything. Bullets peppered the tree line, cutting leaves and gouging trunks, finding hidden flesh in the melee. Several men were dispatched instantly when they attempted to return fire by rising too high above their cover. A jingling sound became strangely musical as myriad empty shells dropped and bounced on the rocky floor of the basin.

The cartel dispensed thousands of rounds as well, full cartridges that sliced cleanly and drove deep furrows in the ravine, and ragged bullets that whined and left tiny holes. Through the guttural noise of machine gun fire, Amanda could hear bullets grazing the mercenaries, catching in their Kevlar and pinging off of their weapons and buckles. The larger rounds did worse, breaking branches and shredding the team's cover. With her limited, cowering view, she saw the battle in minutia: splashes appeared in the puddles of rainwater, blades of high grass were suddenly hacked off, and embedded creek stones were whole one moment and neatly halved a moment later, all by passing shot that was never seen. She saw a stone jump up with impact and then burst into pieces as it was struck again in midair. Then came the odor of battle, some unimaginable horror anew. The smell of blood and freshly cut vegetation, skin and tree bark burning, grease and gun oil liquified in the heat of rapid fire, all mingled with the jungle's earthy damp.

She looked up and saw one of the mercs leveling a grenade launcher at the edge of the basin. In another moment, a trail of smoke found its way through the rain and erupted in a fireball. Two men went screaming and flailing as the jungle seared around them, then cooled and blackened under the worsening rain. There were more cries of pain with every volley of shots, and the cartel's soldiers were fading quickly. Their higher position and greater numbers could not compete with the mercenaries' weapons and bulletproofing, as even their highest-speed projectiles were unable to break through the plated vests. Amanda cringed when she began seeing the body hits; team members hitched and fell with the hard impact, but usually recovered. They managed to get into some compromised-but-still-effective position and resume the onslaught with vengeance. Only a few stayed down and bled, enduring wounds when the shots came in at odd angles and managed to bypass their armor.

Keamy was the biggest target and seemed to have no concern whatever for safety, standing in an open patch of foliage and firing at the tree line in a focused fury, determined to hit the group's leader. His concentration was only interrupted when an odd noise sounded, the crunch of a glass bottle nearby. He turned to the soldier next to him and saw a clear liquid draining from his backpack; a bullet had struck it and broken a bottle of vodka inside. The alcohol pattered onto the ground and twined with Dawson's blood among the rocks and pebbles. This took half a second of Keamy's attention, just long enough that he had paused firing his weapon. Amanda screamed when he was hit with a wide, arcing spray from one of the enemy's remaining assault rifles. She heard the rounds thud against his armor, even saw them rip the fabric in tiny bursts, and he went limp and fell forward onto the creek bed.

Amanda had been afraid to leave the protection of the trees earlier, but now there was no choice; the sight of Keamy lying next to Dawson, quiet and deathlike on the same, muddy ground, was too dreadful. He was face down on the wet rocks, rain sprinkling around him, smoke wisping up from his back. She waited a few seconds, hoping that he was only stunned, that he would show any sign of life, but he never moved. With no regard for a clear path in the crossfire, she left her cover and hurried to him. He was partly exposed on the lee side of a fallen tree, but the rain offered some protection by obscuring the enemy's aim. She stilled when saw the irregular line of bullet entries across his back, punctures through his jacket and vest. She had seen him take the hits, but was irrationally hoping that something else had knocked him down. Kneeling close, she marveled in horror at the holes, fingering them lightly, feeling the armor around them and the way they pocked the hard surface. They were still warm, but cooling quickly in the rain. The rest of him was cold and soaked, and he wasn't breathing. She went for his throat and found a faint pulse, then took one shoulder and tried to turn him over. He was much too heavy for that, but the movement stirred him. He shifted on the stones and coughed weakly.

Keamy felt the world re-materialize in agony. His back was on fire, pressure lanced through his chest, and his breath had been knocked away. He gasped, smelling wet earth and battle smoke all around, and the pain made him cough. There were tight slugs in his armor that felt like knives wedging between his back ribs. He'd fallen on his rifle awkwardly and his arm was twisted under it, screaming at him. He blindly pulled it free and tried to move, but his other arm gave out with a stabbing pain behind him. He'd taken a hit on that side, too, a hard one on the shoulder. A few more had just missed him; he felt the burns stinging in random places, and his head was aching. He'd hit it on the ground when he fell, and now part of his face was numb and he was feeling sleepy for no reason at all. There was little else but pain and dizziness, rain splashing dirt in his eyes, a reality that begged to disappear. He lifted his cheek from the mud, fully intending to get up, but the earth reeled and went hazy white. He sank down as unconsciousness reached for him sweetly, dulling the pain and noise, even the gunfire and shouting. He wanted to surrender to it for some unaccountable space, to be alone with the quiet and whoever else was here. Someone was close, touching him and trying to help him, and he could stay there for a little while. Just a minute, couldn't he? Until his head cleared. Everything was spinning and there were voices around him, words dashing between the gunshots and the rain. He felt gentle hands on his face.

"Martin... Martin, can you hear me?"

The fog in his vision was slowly thinning, opening a shaded sky above him, an emptiness falling in drops that whispered all around. The pain was everywhere, but he could breathe easier and the ground was leveling off ; he was on his back and could feel the earth tipping, but not as steeply. He blinked and found a girl leaning over him, someone he almost recognized beyond the haze. She was holding his head still and watching him with a kind of controlled panic, trying to get him to focus. But it felt better to look at the sky aimlessly.

"No. Martin, look at me. Come on. Look right here."

Keamy saw flashes, white stars that danced in his periphery, but the image of her was almost clear. If only he could remember her name. Not that it mattered. His thoughts were jumbled, but nothing about her made sense anyway. She wasn't supposed to be here giving him this kind of attention, giving him such a look, an intensity he'd never seen, and paying no heed to the danger that was all around.

Amanda wanted to check him for blood, but the roaming look about him was more worrying. Keamy was so dazed that he hardly reacted when she turned his head gently and found a swelling injury on the side, very obvious in the close cut of his hair. She had already called for the team's medic, but there was no safe passage for him between the trees in the basin. Even the mercs on either side of her were firing protective interference, unloading belts of ammunition at the remaining cartel soldiers, and Keamy noticed it. More gunshots came through, splitting a few creek stones nearby, and his gaze finally sharpened. He focused on the high edge of the ravine and darkened with absolute rancor when he saw the cartel's leader still alive. All too suddenly, he found his rifle and sat up as quickly as he could, staggering as he tried to get to his feet.

"Careful!" Amanda grabbed him as soon as his balance wavered, but there was no hope of catching a man of such size. He fell sideways against one of the trees and leaned hard on it for support, panting as the dizziness surged . He was obviously in pain, grimacing and sweating even while rain-soaked, but anger invigorated him. He looked up, seeming to notice her for the first time, and Amanda went cold inside when his anger suddenly fixed on her. His eyes turned firm, unwavering blue, full of wrath that she didn't understand at first. Then she remembered that she was in the open, partly vulnerable to fire, after he had already dragged her behind cover once. She opened her mouth to explain herself, but not in time. He grabbed her arms so hard that she cried out, and threw her to the ground behind the nearest tree. He pinned her against it and glowered at her, his whole body tight with as much restraint as he could muster. She shuddered as his threatening voice came low and eerily calm.

"Don't move from here." He warned. She nodded nervously, afraid of him again, and he let her go.

There were still intermittent shots coming from above, and Keamy moved to a better position and began firing again, wincing as the rifle's kick aggravated his injuries. Amanda began shaking worse than before and tucked in close to the gnarled roots of the tree, shielded by leaves and ferns. She watched Keamy and two other mercs pick off the last few cartel soldiers, who dropped out of sight or retreated if they could, cursing in Spanish. Among them was the group's leader, whom Keamy had hit twice and wanted to finish, but his target was lost to distance and the pouring rain. Keamy's blood was up and he wobbled to his feet, wanting to climb the slope and chase the man down, but even he could see that his opportunity was gone. In no time at all, the ridge had gone quiet of gunfire and was taken by the aftermath of battle: noise from the wounded, steam and smoke rising from silent bodies and cooling weapons, and the weight of a hard-won, unfinished victory. Keamy took it in reluctantly, torn between the grim assessment of his team and the need for more conflict. Amanda felt that from him like electricity, a restlessness that would only be sated by violence. He was trembling faintly and going glassy-eyed with shock, but he still watched the ridge with predatory interest, glancing at it while he regrouped the mercenaries and ordered them out of the creek bed. They had to meet up with Omar and the rest of the company, whoever had survived the conflict in the jungle, and find a safe place to camp.

Amanda tried to stand up, but found her feet shaking so badly that she had to wait, kneeling while the mercs began filing past her. She had no military experience, and the ugliness of it all the was too much to watch. There were several wounded, two who needed to be carried, and the salty odor of blood and open flesh became stronger and made her nauseated. She had to look away as the passing blood drips began to color the grass, smeared and tracked through by the mercs as they walked by. To her surprise, someone crouched by her and took her arm lightly, speaking kindly in Spanish. Somehow it was Carlo, seeming concerned and asking if she needed assistance, and Amanda looked at him wonderingly. She'd forgotten all about him or assumed he'd been separated with Omar's group, but he was here with her and not even handcuffed. He'd been chained to one of the mercs, but had to be cut loose when the man was injured. Before she could even answer him, Carlo waved at Keamy and hesitantly called him over.

Amanda watched uneasily as Keamy evaluated the situation. He looked displeased and came over to them, striding along the creek bed with his rifle, his heavy swagger, and every inch of his magnificent, frightening self, more than she could handle right now. He ordered one of the other mercs to take charge of Carlo and lead him out of the ravine, then approached her. He seemed frustrated and Amanda recognized it immediately; he was searching for Omar or anyone else who would deal with her, but there was no one. She cringed, expecting him to grab her roughly again, but he knelt and took her shoulders firmly, trying to steady her.

"You're ok? Come on," He said quietly, pulling her up. He kept her still for a moment, holding her arms and watching for the tremor in her feet to stop, and she nodded at him gratefully and held on. Much of his earlier aggression had gone and she was surprised by the sudden gentleness in him. He seemed almost compassionate as he let her go carefully and guided her to follow the mercs, then fell into step behind her as they left the ravine and its carnage behind.

Amanda was given Dawson's jacket and vest. It was still blood-soaked and wet with rain, but there was no excuse for her not having protection as the team entered the jungle. The rain was light and sprinkling but had grown steady, and travel was slow with the injured team members. Worse, the trees had gone quiet, offering no hint of where the altercation with the cartel had taken place, and no one came to meet them. Under the dripping, darkening canopy, the team stalked and searched until they began finding clear signs of conflict - gashed trees, spent shells, and finally a dead cartel soldier. The mercs had entered a copse full of high, dense foliage, and the body was invisible under the plants. One of the injured men, Mayhew, almost tripped over it.

Keamy immediately divided the team to secure the area, and grew progressively more agitated as they found more bodies, no survivors, and no explanation. Scattered among the deep plants, seven cartel members were found dead, presumably all of those who had engaged the mercenaries. But only three of Keamy's men were recovered; Omar, Lowani, and two others were unaccounted for. Determined to find their bodies, Keamy put two teams to search farther out and a smaller group to remain under cover with the wounded. Distance travel was no longer possible for the two severely injured men, and a few more with flesh wounds were faring little better. Even Keamy seemed to be slowing down as the search continued and the afternoon grew late, but frustration kept him on the move. The rest of the group was just as committed to the task, sparing no concern for pain or weariness while they covered the jungle in a grid pattern. Keamy headed the second party and was gone for nearly an hour, but had to return when Mayhew's bleeding started up again.

Martin was livid when the first team returned with a strange report: One of the Rojo had been found. Over a hundred yards past the copse, alone on the open terrain, a militia member was warm and dead in the grass. He was outside militia territory for no conceivable reason, and had been killed in the mercenary conflict. To Amanda's surprise, Keamy quickly ordered her to accompany him to confirm the discovery and search farther beyond the copse, where there appeared to be trails leading away from the battle site. Amanda was tired and didn't feel like bushwhacking to find more dead men. She had been left with Ramirez, the Medic, and had been helping him with some of the injuries. It was gruesome but still preferable to more hiking and tramping out in the rain with Keamy, who was even less amicable than usual. He'd spent fifteen minutes yelling at Carlo, demanding answers about why a member of the Rojo would be in the area, then went moody and quiet for the journey out of the woods, not even looking at her.

Mandy softened on him as she followed in silence. He looked so taut and drawn that some part of him might snap if he moved too quickly. Omar was gone, the team was compromised, the assignment would be more difficult without Lowani, and Keamy could search all night and still not find the missing team members. He was injured and wet to the skin, now limping slightly as movement jarred the sore spots, and his hatred was so palpable that she didn't dare bother him with conversation. There was only hate when he came upon the dead Rojo. They had entered a swath of open land, high grass along the crest of a hill, and the militia soldier had been shot in the back. Mandy looked at him for a while but found it all surprisingly ordinary. After watching Dawson's grisly end and spending time with the wounded team members, she was getting used to the business of war. There were several bullet entries in the man's back, reddish holes that were already swollen with the omnipresent rain, and he seemed to have died quickly.

He was not a member of the cartel. Keamy recognized his brown camouflaged clothing instantly and didn't say a word, but was obviously fuming about it. He began walking the stretch of grass, trying to track where the man had come from, and Mandy just watched him. She had to respect his dedication, as he was cold and miserable but never showed it as he kept on, checking every gap in the treeline, every furrow in the grass that marked another step in the man's trail. He seemed numb to the rain, but was firm-faced and seething and afflicted in the worst way, which she finally saw clearly: He hated losing control. He hated the unexpected, any circumstance that took mastery from him. Control was power and Keamy needed it all the time. Victory through a mound of dead cartel soldiers was no consolation for the militia's interfering with his plans.

"He didn't come from this side," Amanda said, still watching him. She had taken shelter on the other side of the grass, where the plants grew tall and undisturbed, melding into a much thicker canopy. The ground here was so dry that Keamy dripped on it as he came out of the rain, looking from the fallen Rojo to the copse and back again. After several minutes of tracking, he'd determined a senseless conclusion. The man had run along the stretch of grass, completely exposed to fire, instead of entering the jungle for cover.

"No, he should have gone this way," Keamy grated, looking around and noticing the forest for the first time. This was new terrain that sloped downhill and opened into a jungle-framed valley. Guarded by high, wide trees wrapped in vines, the interior of the rainforest was oddly quiet and draped in clumps of lichen. A second level of vegetation was ferned and carpet-like on the thickest branches, dangling in archways between the trunks. In the shaded distance, completely shielded from the weather, a pond reflected utter stillness. Even the noise of the rain petered out beyond the sentinel trees; only a faint trickle and a few, pipping frogs could be heard.

"He wouldn't have. This is a forbidden place." Amanda began to explain, but paused as she was distracted by him. Even drenched and angry, Keamy was too attractive. His storm blue eyes glanced and wondered, taking in the sanctuary of this new jungle. Rain dripped down his face and ran from his jacket, and she could imagine his shirt sticking to him underneath, clinging around his chest and shoulders. It made her want to touch him again.

"What?" He asked, not even paying attention. He found her watching him in a strange, captivated way. "What?"

"Forbidden. The outer trees mark the boundary." She pointed to one of the trees, where the bark had been seared in a line of tiny symbols. "This is a warning in the old language."

Keamy hadn't even noticed the carved, stick-like shapes in the tree bark, and stepped closer to investigate. He was so close that she could feel the heat coming off him and smell the tangy warmth rising from his muscles.

"You can read this?"

"Some of them. Lowani told me about this place. It's Joalla, a sacred valley. The locals won't enter it."

"You're sure about that?" He asked, but was already looking back at the dead Rojo. The man had clearly chosen to risk death on the open grassland rather than cross this imaginary barrier.

"Yes. That's why it's so untouched. It's protected by the spirits of the dead."

Keamy had seen plenty of jungles in his travels, but few so pristine. The ground was littered with mossy, untrod stones, and every branch and fern was tipped with long, delicate strands that even a passing contact would snap away. In the few veins of exposed soil, water trickled over bright pebbles. An orange frog hopped in plain sight. Keamy nodded at the perfect seclusion.

"Let's head back. We'll move everyone in here tonight."

CHAPTER 4

It was after dark by the time the mercenaries made camp in the new forest, and none too soon for their welfare. In the bloody damp and chill of the battle site, the injured men had worsened while the teams had been out searching. One more had died - a Spanish soldier who, like Keamy, had fallen after taking a hit. He had struck his head on a rock and never regained consciousness, while several more with gunshot wounds were senseless in shock and had to be carried out. The dead were left behind and the rest of the team gladly moved on, marveling at their new surroundings in the forbidden rainforest. Even through pain and exhaustion, they admired the privacy among the giant trees and the layered canopy that blocked all but the heaviest rain. The leaf litter was soft and dry enough to sleep on, and firewood was found in quantity. In no time at all, there was warmth to dry their clothes and ease the miseries of the day.

Only Carlo, as a member of the Rojo, balked at entering the sacred jungle. He began struggling and insisting in panicked Spanish that the land was haunted, but Keamy was in no mood. He put an end to it with the cold tip of his weapon against the man's head, calmly telling Amanda to explain it in as few words as possible, and soon even Carlo was able to settle in and find the jungle tolerable. The team had clean water from one of the still pools and ate hot rations, even enjoying a share of fresh meat. A monkey had been killed during the conflict with the cartel, shot overhead by accident, and was large enough for everyone to have a few bites. With night wearing on, three campfires in full blaze, and the team resting easily for the first time in days, the losses of the afternoon were less affecting. Sentries were posted around the site and the place felt secure enough for comfort.

Amanda helped the medic with the injured soldiers, who began to improve as soon as they were warm enough to sleep. There were two with bodily injuries and several more with limb wounds. Mayhew and another man had been hit in the arm at exactly the same place, one man had lost his thumb to a passing shot, and another had been grazed in the eye. There were countless burns from overheated weapons and near-hits – bullets that angled close and burned ruts in the skin - and the whole team was flecked with random bruises and gashes. Combat was blades and bullets and exploding things, but it was also airborne debris, rocks and branches that went flying with impact and spattered the team. They were minor complaints, but the medic was attentive to all of it and treated the men well. They found comfortable places to sleep among the high roots of the trees, and there were extra blankets and supplies available due to the loss of multiple team members. As the night wore on, they were content to doze and talk quietly around the fires, absorbing the forest and Carlo's tales of its mysticism.

Only Keamy continued to stew over the failures of the day. He was well apart from the team, sitting by himself in a wide alcove of roots and hanging plants, just near enough to hear them and keep an eye on the sentries around the perimeter. They were distant figures against the jungle dimness, sketched in blue with their rifles aloft, and he knew they weren't necessary. He'd assigned them for his own peace of mind and perhaps out of guilt for what had happened this afternoon. Men had died under his command, and still more were lost to the jungle's depth, missing somewhere in the night of this green primeval. He could hear it all around him, moving and speaking in its natural rhythm, but there were no answers to any of his worries. He sat by a smoldering fire and stared into it raptly, thinking about the loss of Omar and Lowani, and feeling warm and cold at the same time. His clothes were nearly dry, and he was sipping at a flask of 150 proof alcohol. It had belonged to one of the dead men and he'd taken it in hopes of a buzz and some pain relief. It dulled the pain but made him feel chilly and sick. But he kept drinking it. He couldn't seem to put it away.

His back was aching. The armor had stopped the bullets, but every impact was bruised and swollen, and he was sore everywhere from hitting the ground. One of his armor plates was cracked and another was dented and painful to lean on. He wanted to take off his jacket - for comfort and to help it dry- but he was too stiff to move. A headache had started up and needed more alcohol, as did the wrenched elbow he'd fallen on. Between the damage there and the burns around his shoulder, his whole arm was throbbing mercilessly. Somehow a hot cartridge had slipped through his armor and gotten loose under his shirt, burning him in several places before falling out.

Despite having little appetite, he had eaten dinner with the team before settling by himself, wanting to be alone with his preoccupations. But the booze was strong enough to improve his mood a bit, and his thoughts drifted away from the jungle. As much passion as he had for mercenary work, there were better times waiting upon completion of an assignment. He wanted to be celebrating in the usual way, drinking with his team in some tropical bar on the coast, far from the tourist traps and their imagined sensibilities. In the Real South America, away from scrutiny, where life was for hedonism. Martin needed a respite of no complications and no regrets, only memories of success behind him and greater missions ahead, all easy in the glow of honey wine, fermented pineapple, and dusky-eyed women waiting for the night. They lounged and flirted, drifting between the taverns and street vendors while he and his men relaxed in the spoils of victory. There was no better reward than a warm bed with a naked hooker already in it, especially in a country where his dollars easily afforded the whole night.

He thought he wanted that now. Or maybe when he got back to Cartagena he could visit Angie. That was her name, right? The booze had gone to his head, but he remembered Angelita as he gazed into the glowing campfire. He'd seen her a few times and she seemed to like him, enough that she hadn't even asked to be paid. As he thought of her, Martin felt a panging in his gut, a kind of longing. Angie had enjoyed seeing him, and he realized that he wanted that for some reason. Someone like Angie who would fuck him breathless and then stay with him, while away the night stroking him and whispering hot, wonderful lies. Part of him would pretend to believe it, that she meant every word and lusted for only him, and another part would be relieved for the silent truth. He was always glad to get his fill and leave in the morning, even when she made him breakfast and kissed him and smiled at him with such feeling. Because none of that was real, was it? It couldn't be.

Martin wondered, then hated himself for even entertaining the notion. It was the damn booze making him confused, that was all. He seldom drank pure spirits; that had to be the cause of these meandering ideas. Unless it was Mandy. God damn Mandy with her politeness and her sweet nature. He tried not to think of her, but his senses betrayed him in a waft of memories. The feel of her against him and the smell of her hair, the gentleness of her touch and how she was constantly trying to help but only succeeded in annoying and distracting him.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he hardly felt it when the alcohol slipped out of his hand. He looked away from the campfire and found Mandy right next to him, having taken the flask from him and set it on the ground, well out of his reach.

"Hey!" He barked, sounding vague and delayed instead of threatening. He'd hypnotized himself by staring into the fire, and he was slow enough from the booze that he couldn't keep track of her. She'd come from nowhere, and before he could complain further, she was kneeling close to him with a canteen of water. She was up to something and he wanted to stop her, but suddenly her presence seemed calming and he couldn't keep his suspicions together. He smelled her hair again and she was touching him. Those sneaky hands were on him; he felt a hand on his face, taking his chin carefully and offering him some pills.

"Here, take these." She murmured.

"What is it?" He grimaced as she put them in his mouth and got him to drink some water just as quickly. He didn't want to, but it was all too fast to prevent.

"You'll feel better. Raul was passing them around." She explained, sitting down next to him. He'd swallowed the pills and that was that. There was no point in yelling at her now. He sat back and watched her warily.

"Who?" His voice sounded dry with fatigue, and he studied her every move as she set down her backpack and began to take out some supplies.

"Raul. The medic."

"The..? Ramirez," He clarified, nodding at her uncertainly.

"Yeah," She smiled at him, at his funny expression. She had never seen him drunktipsy before. Past his bleariness was a quiet that belied his aggressive nature. His eyes were glazed with pain and unconsciousness, but he looked sweet and almost curious as he watched her removing the items from her pack and setting them down on the leaf litter. "Sorry, I'm not used to the last name thing. Anyway, he asked me to give those to you."

Keamy was watching her hands, admiring the delicacy of her fingers as she uncapped a small, glass bottle and began measuring its contents into a wood-carved bowl. She had changed clothes completely to dry her camouflage; she was wearing the sheep sweater again and a pair of black pants. She'd even washed and dried her hair.

"Huh?" He hadn't heard a word.

"He said you'd never ask him for anything. And he didn't want to come to you."

Martin felt annoyance then, wishing the pills had come from someone else. They were probably sedatives or some other mood-altering drug. Doctors were always trying to give him medication, convince him that he needed to be more stable, that pills would help him "calm down." He just ignored them and did his job and got things done. However they'd peppered his official military record, his reputation as a mercenary was golden. Any man could have his fair redemption in this line of work.

"He wanted to help, but I think he's a little afraid of you," Amanda was saying, still adding to the mixture in the bowl. She had several tiny containers open and was taking a pinch from each one.

"Who?" Keamy blinked at her.

"Ramirez. He thinks you don't like him."

"Oh."

"Where would he get an idea like that?"

Keamy hated Ramirez. He'd been yelling at him earlier.

"I have no idea." He murmured, reaching for the booze again. He lifted his hand and came up with the canteen and stared at it, remembering that Amanda had taken away his alcohol. The flask was several feet beyond his reach, and there was no hope of getting up for it now. He nodded at it. "Gimme that."

Mandy was busy with her supplies, sprinkling dry ingredients into the bowl and stirring them together. She looked up, following his gaze to one of the bottles she was using, and picked it up.

"What, this?" She asked.

"No. That." He pointed beyond her, where the silver flask was sitting on the ground. She looked at his long, pointing hand and picked up another container next to herself.

"This?" She asked.

"No. Over there."

She looked behind herself, where her backpack was sitting beside the flask of alcohol. She pointed at the backpack and looked at him curiously.

"That. Why would you want that?"

"You know that's not where I'm pointing !" He snapped.

"What?" She asked innocently, glancing around and smiling faintly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Fucking Christ..." Keamy muttered and sank backward, frustration sighing from his broad chest. He was too tired to deal with Mandy now. She wouldn't give him his booze, but he didn't have the energy or desire to yell at her, and he was starting to feel light-headed. The pills were already working on him.

Even Mandy could see him relaxing. He'd had some alcohol, and the medication was complementing it in good time. He looked calmer and almost safe to approach, slumped against the tree and leaning on his pack. He was in pain but didn't seem perturbed in the least by his state of disrepair; he looked ragged, his head injury had darkened to an ugly purplish color, and the burn on his throat was oozing and fiery red, edging out from the collar of his battered jacket. He was watching her add more herbs and powders into the bowl.

"What're you doing?"

"This is a recipe Lowani showed me," She explained, stirring the bowl until the mixture formed a thin, brownish paste. "The natives use it to prevent infection."

Keamy wasn't quite listening. The pain in his back was starting to fade, and even the nausea had gone. One of the pills she'd given him was a painkiller, he was sure now. He recognized the warm, lazy feel and the heaviness that was spreading into his limbs, as he knew it well from the past. Much as he hated medication, he'd needed it several times on the job for wounds and surgery, and sometimes the medics put in a full syringe without even asking him. After his vasectomy, the docs had heaped the shit on him - all manner of painkillers, sedatives, and anxiety drugs. It was a veiled attempt to alter his mood and behavior again, and Keamy refused to take any of it, purely out of spite. The whole experience had been exquisitely painful, but a small price for the benefits: freedom from control, and the freedom to drink himself to stupor and fuck to exhaustion, all he wanted and all without consequence.

Martin realized he'd lost track of his thoughts again, and found himself watching Amanda. Her hands were so careful and her slim shoulders moved subtly under her sweater. Her hair was half-brushed, hanging over to one side. The fire flickered on her, following her body and drawing her legs in soft, curved contours. He saw the outline of her breasts swaying with movement under her sweater as she finished the mixing and put away the supplies. She was still talking, telling him that Lowani would never have entered this forbidden place, but now Martin could only hear pleasant, feminine noise. His head was dizzy in a blend of drugs, alcohol, and her sweet voice that was now talking about him. He could hardly discern the words, but she was reflecting on what had happened today, something about him when he'd been knocked down in the ravine. Mandy looked beautiful suddenly, and it felt good to have her nearby. Even the pain didn't seem to matter anymore, and he didn't try to stop her when she came close to him.

She picked up the bowl with the odd mixture in it and sat beside him, almost touching him. He got a tug from his conscience, something that wondered what she had in mind and tried to caution him. Her thigh was too close to his, and she was planning to do something to him, but the warm current of her scent hit him, and all at once she was too lovely and innocent. Her eyes were soft and searching, glowing amber in the firelight, wanting to ask him something that her sweet, plump mouth couldn't manage. He felt her breath on him teasingly, wisping against his skin, and suddenly wanted to taste her. Amanda went for his rifle, needing to move it out of the way before she could address the wound on his neck. The weapon was leaning on him – she'd noticed that he seemed to need it at night to feel secure – and covering his left arm. She lifted the gun slowly, not wanting to startle him, but he looked uneasy as she moved it.

"Ok?" She asked softly, checking with him, setting it down nearby and showing him that it was still within reach. The medication was calming him, but defense lingered in his hazy blue eyes. The fire gleamed on them, following her hand as she reached for his neck. He stiffened, but let her hold him and lean close to inspect the burn on his throat.

Martin had forgotten about the burns. They were panging constantly, full of gunpowder and sweat and whatever, but he'd gotten used to the stinging. And everything else evaporated the moment her soft hands were on him. Her fingers pressed in and her palm felt heavenly under his jaw. She held him and reached down for some of the salve mixture in the bowl, then leaned into him and began dabbing it over the wound, very lightly at first. She was so close that her body swayed just inches from him and her breath started warming the side of his face. He felt heat drifting from under her sweater, thought of her bare breasts, and his groin responded immediately. His cock gave a warning throb, and he grimaced. She saw it and cringed, assuming that she'd hurt him.

"Sorry. I'll be careful." She assured him, going even more gently on the injury.

He felt the side of her thumb moving over the raw skin, applying the salve with total dedication. It even worked, taking the sting out immediately, and no one had ever shown him such care. It did awful, twisting things inside him, things that were almost unbearable and that he still didn't understand. He closed his eyes on the intensity as she treated the exposed part of the wound, and hoped it would stop there. But the bullet had gotten to him that way, leaving a burn trail under his armor, and she was already looking under his collar to see the extent of the damage. He was only wearing a thin shirt underneath, and wasn't sure he wanted her touching him that closely. His stomach was in knots, his dick was heating up, and worst of all... His inhibitions were swirling away, getting lost in the calm of medication. His aches had disappeared and his bad arm had gone numb – he couldn't even lift it.

**** Can you believe it ends right here ? Hehehe. ****