Indy stared down at the river, feet planted at the edge of the precipice. The cliff face looked stable enough, but the stone was slick with rain, and their climbing gear had been ruined by the fire the previous day. Free climbing would be dangerous, but he wasn't sure they had a choice. Dusting off his palms, Indy stepped away from the edge and turned to Spalko.

"What do you think?"

Her face was shielded by a soft-brimmed hat, but Indy didn't miss her grimace. "Can you manage with your wound?"

He ran his fingers over the bandages. The injury still stung, but his arm was functioning normally. "It shouldn't be a problem."

Together, they walked to the edge, estimating the distance. Indy guessed that it would take an hour or two to reach the bottom but walking along the river to search for a better place to descend could take weeks. A fine curtain of mist hung over the river, and the rush of water was loud in his ears. He blinked.

"We still have some ropes. Let's tie a makeshift tether."

"It will have to do," Spalko sighed, gesturing for the men to come forward.

Indy snatched up a rope and looped it around a study tree, knotting it securely. He tested his weight against the harness and nodded.

"Load up!"

As the soldiers tied a second rope to a nearby tree, Indy backed slowly towards the edge, palms already sweating. His pack was heavy against his back, and his heart thudded against his ribs. A few days of sleeping rough had taken their toll, and his joints ached with every step. Carefully, he looped the excess coil around his waist and stepped over the edge.

His shoes skidded against the muddy soil, and he inched downward, reminding himself to move slowly. A few stones skidded towards the river, loosened by his steps. The air was thick and windless, and he could feel his shirt sticking to his back. As he inched past the halfway point, he heard shouts from above, and one of the soldiers stepped over the side, clinging tightly to his tether.

The minutes dragged on, and Indy almost shouted in relief when he felt the sand of the riverbank under his feet. The soldier landed just behind him, and he looked up to see Spalko and a second soldier begin their descent.

From the outset, the man seemed skittish, placing his feet gingerly on the rocks. Spalko moved quickly, scrambling down the incline with practiced ease. Near the halfway point, the soldier misplaced his footing, and he dangled precariously from the rope, swinging wildly away from the cliffside. He began to slide, and his grip loosened. As he plummeted, he reached out instinctively for the rope, instead catching Spalko's shoulder. Dragged backwards by the additional weight, she kept a precarious grip on her own tether. The soldier hit the sand with a sickening thud, just as she began to fall, grasping at the rope to slow her descent.

Twenty feet from the ground, she caught a handhold in the rock. It was enough to stop her momentum, and she slid slowly down, landing on her feet.

Indy jogged towards the fallen man. His neck was bent at an unnatural angle, and his eyes were wide and empty. Cursing under his breath, Indy crouched beside the soldier. He pinched his wrist between his fingers, but he couldn't detect a pulse. Dropping his chin, Indy smoothed the man's rumpled jacket and shut his eyelids.

"Form up!" he shouted over his shoulder. Standing up, he brushed the sand from his trousers. "We depart in five minutes."


They set up the only remaining tent a few meters from the river. As the two remaining footsoldiers hammered the stakes into the ground, Spalko tended the fire. The smoke kept insects at bay, and she had set a canteen of water to boil over the flames. Wrapping her hand in a strip of cloth, she lifted the vessel from the coals and set it aside to cool. Water-borne pathogens were a danger in the Amazon, and she didn't want to lose her remaining men to dysentery.

The death of Rossi had come as a shock, and she wondered what other unpleasant surprises would confront her on the way to Akator. Her palms were scuffed and stinging from gripping the rope, and her shoulder was deeply bruised. Jones hadn't complained about his arm, but she noticed the way he held it close to his side. She didn't like seeing him in pain, and she hoped that infection wasn't setting in.

There was a crackle of twigs, and Jones appeared at the edge of the forest, carrying an armload of firewood. Night was falling, and a light rain tapped at the leaves above their heads. The fire smoldered and hissed, and Spalko picked up a stick, stirring the coals.

"Sit down," she invited, as Jones dumped his armload of wood. He nodded and dropped down beside her.

One of the soldiers shouted. "Ma'am, we're finished."

Jones flashed a tired grin. "Shall we take first watch?"

"Fine." She turned to address the soldier. "Both of you can sleep. We will take the first watch."

The soldier saluted and disappeared into the tent. Spalko inched closer to Jones, watching rainwater drip from the brim of his hat. It was mostly dry under the canopy, but the air was muggy and damp.

"We cannot afford to lose more men," she mused.

"I know. We are only three days from Akator – we'll just have to be careful."

Her fingers went to the bandage on his forearm. "How is it healing?"

"Fine," Jones said stoically. "A bit better today."

"Good."

There was the buzz of a mosquito near her neck, and she swatted in away. Jones glanced at her. "That was a nasty fall you took."

She hummed dismissively. "Only damaged my pride."

"I'm sure you have plenty left."

She rolled her eyes. Jones tipped up the brim of his hat.

"We should probably have something to eat."

"I am not hungry."

Ignoring her, he extracted an MRE from his knapsack, peeling back the foil. The canteen was cool enough to handle, and he measured a few capfuls of water, pouring them into the container. He fetched a spoon and stirred the concoction a few times. Once satisfied, he pulled a second utensil from his pack.

"Here." He pushed it into her hands, and she took it reluctantly. "At least have a little."

She took a spoonful of the porridge, grimacing at the familiar cardboard taste. Jones sat the MRE between them, and they ate in silence, passing the canteen between them. There was something cozy about sitting together before the fire, and she felt her mood lift a bit.

Setting the empty dish aside, she slid closer to Jones. He laid a hand on her knee.

"Would you like something else? I can-"

She cut him off with a shake of her head. His hand was heavy against her leg, and his jaw was shadowed with stubble. The lines in his face looked a bit deeper in the firelight. Impulsively, she leaned forward to kiss him, and he took her lip between his teeth. Everything narrowed to the heat of his mouth on hers and the crawl of his fingers over her thigh. His other hand was at her waist, but he withdrew it suddenly, and she felt him start to fiddle with the buttons of her trousers. She froze.

An image of Marion floated into her mind. She hadn't known the woman well, but she remembered smooth, tanned skin and round cheeks. Irina was suddenly and uncomfortably aware of her own sharp bones and chipped teeth. Her back was rough with scars, and her frame was lean and unfeminine. She had never been particularly concerned with appearances, and her body was never more than a machine to bend to her will. She could hit a target at 50 meters, could drag a man twice her size off the battlefield. But now, she looked at herself critically, and her cheeks colored with shame.

"Wait." She peeled his hand away, suddenly uneasy.

"What is it?" There was a flash of irritation in his eyes, but it quickly turned to concern.

She frowned "I am not opposed to taking this further…"

"…But?"

"I'd advise you to manage your expectations."

"What do you mean?"

Glancing quickly at the tent to ensure the men were still sleeping, she shrugged off her jacket. Next, she shed her undershirt, folding it carefully to steady her nerves. The firelight did nothing to hide the scars and discolored patches on her back and abdomen. She remembered taking off her jacket with Kuznetsov all those months ago, proud to display how she'd suffered for the motherland. But now, with Jones looking on, she wanted nothing more than to cover herself.

"Hey," he caught her wrist. "What's this about?"

She stared at the dirt beneath her feet, irritated at his obtuseness. "I believe the expression is, 'ripping off the bandage.'"

"Irina, what bandage?"

"Don't pretend that you do not see my scars."

"Oh," he responded softly. He laced his fingers with hers. "I don't give a damn about that."

His reaction was surprising, and she stayed frozen in place, digging her nails into his palm.

"But I don't mean to rush you. If we need to slow down, that's fine."

She nodded thoughtfully. It was probably a prudent suggestion, but as she replaced her camisole and reached for her jacket, she noted the unspoken disappointment in his eyes. There was a new tension between them, and she almost regretted voicing her thoughts. Eager for a distraction, she pulled her wristwatch from her jacket pocket. It was nearly time to wake the soldiers, and she gained her feet, glancing at Jones.

"Our watch is nearly over. I will alert the men."

Half in shadow, she saw him nod.


Mac waited in the back of a bar in Peru, holding a cheap cigarette in his teeth. He'd accompanied the others as far as Lima, but Ross had instructed him to stay in the capital until their mission was complete. He'd been happy enough to spend his time loitering in pubs, sampling the local spirits, but things had since gone sideways. He'd arrived at his hotel to find a heavy-jawed man waiting in the lobby, a Ruger half-hidden under his coat. He'd trailed McHale to his suite and entered without asking, instead slapping a stack of American bills on the end table. Mac had immediately guessed that he was Russian, but the blur of an accent confirmed it.

Apparently, the Soviets knew he'd double-crossed them, but they weren't worried, so long as he would perform a task for them. Eyes flitting between the money and the gun, Mac had agreed immediately. Now, he stood smoking beside a payphone, waiting for his handler to make contact. His palms were slick with sweat, and his open shirt was wilted and rumpled. At the front of the bar, a chorus of cheers broke out, and he heard the shouted chorus of a Spanish drinking song.

The phone rang, and he almost ripped it out of the wall in his hurry to answer. "McHale here."

"Good evening. I trust that the task is complete?'

"Sure is."

"Very good. When we know the results, you will receive the rest of the money."

Mac stubbed the cigarette out on the wall. "Brilliant."

"In the future, we may have other tasks for you."

Ignoring the twinge of guilt, Mac grinned widely. "I'm at your service."

The voice on the other end turned to static, and Mac was alone.