Germ

Tate smiled, drawing infinite pleasure from the well of their surprise. "I found all their devices and reworked them so I could trot on by without anyone the wiser. I've been running reconnaissance through there for over a year. Can't get into the underground complex. I picked the lock on the metal door, but it only opens into a long hall with a door on the other side that has an electronic lock I can't pick. I was able to sneak into the topside part of the compound and observe their comings and goings. They're so confident about the perimeter security, they pretty much ignore inside the compound. On the surface, at least." He paused. "And I know where the stairs are."

"So why haven't you used them?"

"I have no idea what to expect down below. I've never wanted to use force, because that would alert them to the security breach. Then they'd look for it until they rediscover the mine—"

"And plug it up," Stephen finished.

"I want to keep that ace up my sleeve. For when we're ready."

"Well, Stephen and I are ready." In her excitement Julia had absently reached beneath her to hunt for that obstinate splinter. She caught Stephen watching her with an amused smirk. "The seat bit me," she said.

Tate laughed, deep and loud. "Woman, I've been driving this thing so long, half my butt is wood!"

That got them laughing, and for a moment they forgot about their destination and the perils that awaited them.

eighty-seven

The sky had lightened to a Russian blue by the time

Tate steered the truck off the road and into the jungle. He plowed through fifteen feet of dense foliage, killed the engine, and hopped out. Stephen and Julia joined him at the back. Stephen stretched and massaged his muscles. Julia considered rubbing the ache out of her backside but settled on rotating her upper torso, hands on her hips. She breathed in the tropical air, felt the humidity against her skin, listened to the drips, the rustling, the infinite stillness of the jungle around her. Turning her thoughts to the daunting task that lay ahead, her stomach tightened; but the rest of her felt energized, excited to be moving toward the contest, happy to be

doing

something.

Tate gave them the once-over and shook his head. "You're not ready for a trek through the jungle," he announced and hoisted himself onto the flatbed. He clicked through the combination on one of the lockers, leaning close to see in the half-light, and yanked up the handle. When he turned around, his arms were laden with an assortment of items. "Hop up here and sit down."

When they did, he jumped to the ground, losing a few items on impact. He put his goods next to them, pulled out four large Ziploc bags, and handed two to each of them. "Pull these over your socks." When they had replaced their sneakers, he lifted Julia's left foot and began mummifying it with duct tape.

"Is this necessary?" she asked impatiently.

"Depends." He continued rolling the tape around her foot, the adhesive screeching rhythmically with each pull like a bird in pain. "Are you okay with spiders and snakes?"

"Snakes?" she said weakly.

"Lots of them. False water cobras, pit vipers, more varieties of coral snakes than in any other part of the world—all very deadly. If you see something slithering, kill it or run." He ripped the tape free from its roll. He rummaged through his pile, extracted a pair of women's gardening gloves, and handed them to her. He passed two large work gloves to Stephen. "Two rights, I'm afraid."

"Whatever works," Stephen said as he began what turned out to be a long process of squeezing his monstrous hands into the gloves.

Tate used tape to connect Julia's gloves to the sleeves of the heavy leather jacket he'd given her, then examined the neck opening, hitching the zipper all the way up. "That oughta do it."

He handed her a filthy and frayed wool cap, which she held delicately away from her. "Are we trying to scare Litt to death?" she asked.

He jumped onto the flatbed and stepped to the open locker. The sky had lightened enough to reveal its contents of shovels, rakes, and hoes. These he removed, dumping them noisily on the flatbed. He hinged open a false back and pulled out two pistols.

"Sig Sauer or Beretta?" he asked, squatting by Julia.

"What, no Springfields?" she joked. She was relieved to have something more substantial than a hoe with which to face Atropos and Litt.

Tate was all business. "I think you'll like the Sig," he said, lifting one of the guns.

"I went through the Academy with one," she responded, taking it. Its heft felt good in her hand. She removed the magazine, saw that it had the maximum number of rounds—thirteen—and slammed it back into the bottom of the grip. She pulled back on the slide, ejecting a bullet.

"I always keep one chambered," Tate said.

She nodded, retrieved the round, and flicked the magazine release with her thumb.

Tate watched her, the folds of his face molded into an incredulous expression.

"What?" she said.

"You can do that with bulky gloves on."