Page 6

CHAPTER 6

D eacon, his team, and Echo moved to the back of the aircraft. Together, they positioned the equipment they’d need and checked the rigging. They didn’t have long until the drop. The two and a half hours it would take to get to the Nam Ou River meant they’d spend every minute working. Echo pitched in and worked just as hard as the men. His respect for her grew with each passing minute.

Ranger double-checked the parachute rigging after he’d finished. Just when he’d straightened and given him the thumbs up, the light in the hold changed from white to amber. His team went to their parachutes without being told, and Echo followed suit. He stopped her. “You’re tandem jumping with me.”

She frowned and snapped, “I can do this.”

He put his hand on her arm. “I know you can, but any asset, I repeat, any asset , always jumps with one of us. It’s policy to protect the people entrusted to our care.”

She stared at him and narrowed her eyes. “You’re not pulling my leg?”

“No, he isn’t,” Ranger chimed in. “Three missions ago, I got stuck with a guy from some drug enforcement squad assigned to a host national task force. He smelled like a wet dog had rolled in a dead skunk. His breath was worse.”

Bandit laughed. “You got the short straw.”

“I always get the short straw.”

“Because you’re so damn big, everything is a short straw for you,” Rip said, ducking a swipe from Ranger.

“You must be feeling better,” Ranger said as he buckled into his parachute.

“Yep. That stuff Bandit gave me saved the day.”

Deacon was glad for his team’s help in belaying her fears. She was going to be a handful. Her determination and stubbornness could benefit or distract them if they weren’t channeled correctly. He held her harness as she slipped it on and buckled it. After, he checked her harness, and she checked his—standard procedure when jumping. Then he attached the back of her harness to the front of his, and they hooked up to the line. It would pull the chutes ripcord as soon as they cleared the aircraft. With only a few hundred feet to fall, any delay in the chute opening could be deadly.

The light turned red, and Deacon hit the button to open the back bay door. The transport plane’s drone over the dense jungle canopy below reverberated back to them. The plane skimmed just a few hundred feet above the Nam Ou River. The water revealed the river’s winding path, cutting through Laos’s harsh, forested mountains. The team had seconds to prepare as the green signal light flickered inside the cargo hold.

The motorboats—compact, reinforced, and equipped with high-powered, ultra-quiet battery-operated motors—slid from the plane’s belly, parachutes blossoming behind them as they descended into the humid night. Each boat splashed into the river precisely, creating controlled ripples that vanished quickly in the river’s swirling currents. Behind them, the team followed, each man free-falling for a few tense seconds before his chute deployed. In the daylight, Deacon watched shadows drifting downward like silent ghosts. The ground came quickly. “Soft knees,” he reminded Echo. She nodded her head but didn’t say anything. Boots touched down in shallow water or on the river's narrow sandbanks. In perfect synchronization, he and Echo hit the ground and lurched forward, rolling with the momentum of the fall. As soon as they stopped, he unfastened the tandem harness, and they pulled the chute’s material to them. The team regrouped and began securing their equipment.

The soft hum of motors broke the stillness as the boats came to life. Twin battery engines powered them soundlessly upriver against the gentle current. Everyone aboard remained alert, their sharp eyes scanning the tree-lined shores for any sign of movement. Every so often, a flickered glimpse of a distant village flashed by, but otherwise, the jungle towered over them. Its tangled vines and towering bamboo cast jagged shadows across the water.

The Nam Ou was both a blessing and a pain in the ass. Wide stretches allowed for swift navigation, but the occasional narrow bends and clusters of jagged rocks tested their skill. In places, the river narrowed into fast-moving channels, forcing the team to slow, grab the boat by the handles attached to the side, and power them over the jagged rocks. The jungle pressed close in these locations, and the humidity smothered each of them. The upside was that the dense foliage offered cover, and they’d take every advantage.

Every crackle of a branch or distant birdcall sent a ripple of tension through Deacon. He sensed the same tension in his team and Echo. She’d worked hard and stayed silent like the rest of the team. Echo was a warrior, and he was damn proud of her.

As night approached, a light mist rose from the water, lingering over the surface like a veil of smoke. The team pressed on, the boats moving through the fog silently. Occasionally, they paused in shadowed inlets to check their bearings and regroup. The muted sounds of them passing water to each other blended into the river's murmur. For now, the river was their silent ally, carrying them deeper toward the heart of their target’s location.

Click’s voice came softly over the comms. “Two hundred yards farther up on your left is the best place to put into shore.”

Deacon’s fingers tightened around the tiller as he whispered, “Copy that.” The river rippled in the dim light, its surface shimmering under the moon’s faint glow. He guided the lead boat toward the sandy inlet Click had identified, the muted engine drone blending with the jungle's soft rustle.

The team moved with practiced precision, their movements as quiet as the jungle around them. Feet hit the sand, muffled by the soft, shifting grains as they hauled the boats ashore. “As far as we can carry them,” Deacon whispered, his voice cutting through the thick, humid air. He didn’t need to remind them why—his team had seen this river swallow miles of land during monsoon season.

Although the darkness provided merciful relief from the sun, it was an obstacle in its own right. The oppressive canopy overhead blocked out even the faintest starlight, leaving the world around them a shadowy maze. They moved in single file, their machetes hacking at the dense foliage, the sharp metallic ring of steel striking vines occasionally piercing the jungle sounds.

Progress was agonizingly slow. The jungle pushed back at every step, its tangled undergrowth clutching their boots and slowing their advance. Sweat trickled down Deacon’s back, soaking into his gear. The boats were heavy, but they were a lifeline—a vital exit strategy in case the mission went sideways. Better to suffer now than regret it later.

When they reached towering trees that had weathered countless storms, they anchored the boats securely, tying them to thick trunks that could withstand even the heaviest floods. With equipment strapped to their backs, they camouflaged the watercraft with foliage and netting before pressing on, their steps muffled by the thick jungle floor.

As they trudged toward the camp, Deacon found himself behind Echo. Her movements were purposeful, each step fueled by determination. Exhaustion pressed down on everyone, but she didn’t falter. Her grit was impressive, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

When they stopped for a brief rest, Deacon sank beside her. He passed her his canteen, the cool metal slick with condensation. “How are you doing?”

She accepted it without hesitation, taking a long pull of the water before handing it back. “I’m exhausted,” she admitted, her voice raw with fatigue. “But then again, everyone looks tired.”

Deacon tipped the canteen to his lips and drained it, the tepid water doing little to refresh him. “Hell, yes, we’re tired,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “This heat would take it out of anyone.”

“How much farther?” she asked, brushing damp strands of hair from her face.

“Five clicks, that way.” He pointed north and east, his hand cutting through the humid air like a blade. “Once we get there, we’ll observe before making a move. Going in blind is suicide.”

She nodded, her focus sharpening. “Makes sense. Whoever’s working on this will need electricity—and a computer. Or, at least, they’ll think they do. The device is standalone, but it’s designed to look like part of a system. Fake wires and all.”

Deacon frowned, wiping sweat from his brow. “You're masking your device? From whom? Your own people?”

Echo leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m not sure if you know this, but nobody trusts anyone at the CIA.”

The low chuckles from his team broke through the humidity. Deacon rolled his eyes, smirking.

“She fits right in, Cap.” Ranger grinned as he took another drink from his canteen.

Echo shook her head slowly. “Not really. The humidity is turning my hair into a frizz show, and I can smell myself from where you’re sitting.”

Deacon chuckled, a rare moment of levity cutting through the strain. She pulled out her own canteen, taking a sip before handing it to him. “When this is all over, I’m finding an office with air conditioning and carpet so plush it feels like heaven under my feet. Barefoot luxury—that’s my dream.” She lifted her boots and wiggled her feet around while pointing to them. “Not barefoot. Not happy.”

Ace snorted, taking a swig of water. “Mighty opinionated on what you want, aren’t you?”

She tilted her head, pretending to ponder his question. “Extremely, but I’m unsure where ‘mighty’ and ‘extremely’ fall on the opinionated continuum. Is mighty more or less than extremely?”

Rip laughed. “She’s a keeper, Cap. How come we haven’t met her before?”

Echo raised an eyebrow at Deacon, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “Yeah, how come they haven’t met me before?”

Deacon shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. “My personal life stays personal.”

“Which means he doesn’t trust us around someone special,” Bandit said, earning a round of low laughter.

Echo turned to Deacon, her eyes filled with mischief. “Am I special?”

He stood, stretching his shoulders. “Oh, you’re about as special as they come.”

She got to her feet, raising her canteen in a mock toast. “Good to know, Sparky.”

Ranger choked on his water, coughing as Rip slapped him on the back. “Sparky?”

Echo batted her eyelashes. “Oops. Did I let the pet name out of the bag?”

Deacon tapped his ear twice and then hers. “For the second time, remember the aircraft? Payback’s going to be my pleasure.”

She grinned, activating her comms as she passed him. Her quiet laugh drifted back to him like a tease on the humid breeze.

Bandit’s voice broke the moment. “So, why does she call you Sparky, Cap?”

Deacon’s only response was a one-finger salute, drawing more laughter from his team.

Five miles later, with their backpacks concealed, Deacon, Ranger, and Bandit moved ahead to recon the camp.

Tucked deep within the jungle, the camp was concealed by a dense canopy of towering trees and thick undergrowth. The location was deliberate—miles from the nearest village with no clear trails leading in or out. The faint hum of insects and the occasional cry of distant nocturnal wildlife were the only sounds that could be heard.

The camp’s centerpiece was a communications shed constructed from corrugated metal sheets and wood that appeared to have been scavenged. Its walls were patched with camouflaged tarps, blending the obvious manmade structure into the jungle's greenery. A rusted satellite dish perched at an extreme angle on the shed’s roof, tilting skyward. Tangled wires snaked from the building to a portable generator that hummed faintly nearby.

Deacon moved as close to the shed as he dared, keeping concealed under the brush near an old vacant tent that looked like it had been decaying on its frame for at least ten years. He used his night vision scope and looked through the glass sheets making up the shed’s windows. The shed was cramped, with outdated radios and monitors cluttering a makeshift desk. Maps and documents covered the walls, and the faint glow of LED screens cast an eerie light through the scope. There was no human movement in the shed or at this portion of the camp.

Quietly and cautiously, he moved deeper into the camp. Not far from the shed, a cluster of bunkhouses formed a semicircle. The crude structures were little more than wooden shacks topped with tin roofs. Hammocks hung between the posts inside, and the air was filled with the stale scent of unwashed bodies and damp fabric. Snores seeped out of the open windows, and bodies pulled the hammocks tightly against the bolts fixed to the walls. Weapons leaned casually against the walls, while personal belongings—clothes, boots, and hats—were scattered across the bunks. A central fire pit lay cold and dark, its ashes dispersed from the last meal.

Around the camp, natural barriers of jagged rocks and thick bamboo made approaching undetected tricky. Camouflage netting stretched across key areas, obscuring the view from aerial surveillance. Deacon moved carefully and quietly. With no outpost or guard, he moved among the buildings to gather intel on how many were in the camp and what assets they had.

The surrounding jungle was a maze of thorny vines, giant ferns, and towering teak trees. Narrow trails, barely visible under layers of fallen leaves, hinted at well-worn paths used by the jungle’s smaller animals. A hidden watchtower, little more than a platform perched high in the trees, overlooked the camp, providing an ideal vantage point for guards. However, there were no guards on the platform tonight, and nothing indicated that the men inside the hammocks were on alert or awaiting the arrival of a delivery.

Deacon whispered in a low murmur that barely stirred the heavy jungle air, “Rendezvous at our camp.” Without waiting for a reply, he melted into the shadows, rejoining his team. The night was dense and suffocating, the humidity wrapping around them like a damp shroud. Even though they’d put distance between themselves and the camp, caution weighed heavily. He motioned for the team to huddle, their movements quiet, with only whispers of fabric brushed against the undergrowth.

“There are minimal weapons. No one on watch,” he said softly, his tone edged with skepticism. His sharp gaze flicked to Echo, her silhouette barely visible in the moonlight that filtered through the canopy. “I’m not sure this is the camp we’re looking for. The comm gear in that shack is ancient—practically museum pieces.”

Echo clenched her jaw, the faint crunch of her teeth audible in the stillness, and then swore under her breath. “Then we move to the next camp. I thought for sure this was the place.” The frustration in her voice was palpable.

Ranger leaned forward, his eyes glittering in the faint light. “Could be the Triad lets this place be seen for a reason,” he suggested, his voice rough with weariness. “A decoy.”

Deacon nodded grimly. “Makes sense. Click? How far to the next camp?”

“Twenty miles through the jungle to your northwest. You’ll have to skirt the mountain,” Click replied, his Boston accent thicker than usual—a clear sign he was running on fumes.

“Is going over the damn thing faster?” Deacon asked, rubbing the back of his neck where sweat trickled down in a slow, relentless drip.

“You guys are friggin’ insane, but yeah, it is,” Click answered, a wry edge to his words.

Deacon checked his watch. “Five hours until sun-up. We push on and get as close as possible before we sack out.” His command was met with gear rustling as the team strapped on their backpacks. He placed a steadying hand on Echo’s shoulder, his fingers brushing against the damp fabric of her shirt. “Can you hang?”

Her eyes narrowed, an edge of defiance flashing through the exhaustion. “Just watch me, Sparky.” The challenge in her voice was undeniable, and the corner of his mouth quirked up despite himself.

“Just checking,” he replied lightly, but his gaze held hers for a beat longer.

“But not on them?” she shot back, jerking her head toward the rest of the team.

Deacon glanced over his shoulder at his men, their postures disciplined despite the mission's physical toll. “I’ve worked with them for years. I know their limitations. I don’t know all of yours yet.”

His words hung in the air, and he saw the flicker of understanding in her expression before she pushed past him with a muttered, “We’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”

The trek up the mountain was punishing. The rocky terrain grated beneath their boots while the humidity pushed down on them. The craggy fissures, devoid of clinging vines, allowed them to set a grueling pace. Echo stumbled more than once, her breath coming in quiet gasps, but she never stopped, earning subtle nods of respect from the men.

As they reached the summit, the faint lemon-yellow streaks of dawn painted the horizon. His muscles screamed with every step. His uniform stuck to him like a second skin. Descending into the jungle’s dense canopy, the air grew thick and heavy again, muffling every sound except their labored breathing and the rustle of leaves.

“Cap, the camp is three clicks ahead.” His operator’s voice broke the silence, startling Deacon. The team froze, their gazes snapping to him. He scanned their surroundings, noting the exhaustion etched into their faces. “Here. Hammocks up in the trees. High and hidden. I’ll take first watch.”

Deacon worked quickly, securing a sturdy spot for Echo’s hammock. “You’ll sleep in mine. I’ll take the empty one when I’m relieved.” He offered her his hand, pulling her into the branches. Her movements were sluggish, her eyes heavy-lidded with fatigue.

As she settled into the hammock, she murmured, “Think Bandit has some Band-Aids?”

“Why?” Deacon asked, leaning closer.

“Blisters,” she muttered sleepily, her voice barely above a whisper. “Nothing bad. Just ... don’t want them worse.” Before he could respond, her breathing evened out, and she was asleep, her face soft and unguarded in the dim light.

Rip volunteered for a second watch, his voice steady despite the grim acknowledgment of the sleep he’d sacrifice. The team moved with the efficiency of men accustomed to hardship, each taking their role without complaint. Deacon slid down to the jungle floor, hiding their packs beneath thick foliage before finding a vantage point to keep watch. Echo had impressed him. She held on and kept up with a team that trained for the struggles of the jungle environment. Sharp witted and funny, she’d found favor with all of the team. Even Ace, who was a hard egg to crack. Echo was different. She was a special mix of determination, fight, and personality that … Hell, she was rather like Ronan’s woman, Fleur. Not physically, but the strength of character was there. The determination to see the mission through. The weight of responsibility pressed against his chest, but he welcomed it. His gaze lingered on Echo’s hammock above, her presence an unexpected thread of … something special woven into their relentless mission.