Cormac gripped the wheel of their stolen police car which crawled the last few miles south of Colón across the dark jungle. The headlights cast watery shadows over the narrow road. Each curve was hemmed by walls of hanging vines. Mud flicked off the tires in wet arcs. It was still far from dawn. For the first time in a while, they had some time.

  Cormac kept both hands on the wheel and leaned forward. “If Ashley is still in Panama, we have to find her,” he muttered. “We have to find the Black Ledger.”

  Sawyer slouched, arm braced against the door. He hadn’t spoken in over twenty minutes. “We’ll find her,” he said eventually. His voice was flat.

  Cormac let out a dry laugh. “After what she pulled, maybe she ought to stay lost. For her own good.”

  “Yeah, well,” Sawyer said. “If we do find her, don’t get any ideas. We can’t kill her without getting the book back first.”

  “Even if we find her, and retrieve the Black Ledger, we can’t just rush her and take her out. She’s still CIA.”

  Sawyer side-eyed him. “Well, don’t expect a polite conversation.”

  “If it comes to it,” Cormac said. “I’ll use the silver dagger she gave me and stab her right in the heart. She’d probably appreciate the poetry of it.”

  “That’s one way to do it.”

  A hard silence followed. They turned onto a gravel road and followed a muddy trail marked only by a leaning wooden sign choked in ivy that read PRIVATE FISHING ACCESS. The shack revealed itself only when the brush thinned. They stopped in front of a stilted one-room box of sheet metal and plywood. It looked half lost in the reeds and it was perched on the edge of Gatun Lake. Fog hovered a foot off the surface and curled through the stilts. The water stretched wide and silent and its surface was dappled with lily pads. Its shores were thick with tree roots.

  They parked beneath a knot of palms where the car wouldn’t be easily spotted. Sawyer stepped out. His boots crunched on gravel and wet twigs. The humidity hit him thick and heavy. The soundscape was different there. There was no traffic or dogs barking. There was just the rustle of the unseen lizards and the echo of frogs clicking like metronomes. Occasionally there was something bigger that splashed in the lake, but the reeds distorted the sound of the source.

  “This is it?” Sawyer asked.

  Cormac popped the trunk and shouldered the duffel. “It’s the fallback point alpha. It’s off the grid and it looked cool on the map. Now that we’re here in person…”

  “Not exactly a five star choice, Cormac.”

  They moved across the warped wooden porch. The shack door creaked open on rusted hinges. It was dark inside. There was one cracked window and a single cot with a damp wool blanket. There was a tiny propane stove nailed to a folding table. The whole room smelled like mildew and rodent urine. A line of ants crawled along a warped rafter overhead.

  Cormac dumped his gear and lit a small lantern. Sawyer tossed his pack. The light cast long and watery shadows that made the corrugated walls look like the ribs of a dead thing. Sawyer stood in the center—he looked around like a concerned animal. At least for now, it seemed clear.

  They unzipped their bags and unpacked. They had a pair of suppressors, a couple hundred rounds of .45 ACP and 9mm, two dented magazines of 5.56, an old M4 they picked up from one of the police officers. Unfortunately, they couldn’t find any grenades or flashbangs. Their body armor was useless, just two ripped plate carriers missing their ceramic plates. Their compass was cracked and most of the stuff in their med kit was ruined. The only thing they had going for them was the $4,000 in rubber-banded cash and their pristine silver daggers which were still clean and sharp, wrapped in their sheaths.

  “We’re down to scraps,” Cormac muttered. “I’ve seen cartel kids better equipped.”

  Sawyer grunted and sat on the cooler. “Call Bradford. Didn’t he say Project Black Ledger had funding?” He held up the M4 speckled with rust. “We really need a cash injection and new hardware.”

  Cormac tapped the satellite phone. It rang then connected.

  Bradford’s voice crackled through. “You two alive?”

  “Barely,” Sawyer said. “We lost Ashley. She’s just gone. Took the Black Ledger.”

  “It’s worse than that,” Cormac said. “Harland owns the Panamanian military. The GCP and the police are in his pocket.”

  Bradford exhaled. “Understood. We need to escalate.”

  They debriefed Bradford about the events with the mysterious man at the port, the fight with the GCP and the police forces, how Ashley stole the Black Ledger, and all the events leading up to that point. And even though it was painful, Sawyer told him how he killed the police officers.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Bradford didn’t flinch. “You’re a vampire and I’m not surprised that you’re acting like one. I don’t like it, Kestrel. If this hunger of yours starts affecting the mission then the administration is going to tear this project apart.”

  “We’re trying to fix it,” Sawyer said.

  Bradford continued. “If I find anything about reversing your vampirism, I’ll be the first to let you know. But listen to me Kestrel, this thing has to come to a head eventually.”

  “I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Cormac said.

  “Me either,” Bradford said.

  “We need gear,” Sawyer said.

  “No dice on the table just yet,” Bradford replied. “Funding is still tied up. I’m working with our backchannels in D.C. But guys, tell me something, did you learn more about the Reapers?”

  “Those mechanical skeleton freaks have kept their distance for now,” Sawyer said.

  “If Harland has more of those things,” Cormac said. “that’s not something we can handle alone. And especially not with some rusty M4. We need something with more punch.”

  “The problem I’m facing on the hill is people are scared,” Bradford said. “They’re afraid to release funding because they don’t want to look at Panama. The interests there are too powerful.”

  “They’re going to have to pay attention,” Sawyer said. “It’s a supernatural cesspit and it needs a good cleaning. But we can’t do that without serious funding. We need money for infiltration and extraction. We need top of the line gear, explosives, clandestine gadgets. We need some James Bond level gear or we’re all dead. And don’t be surprised if this spreads up Central America and into the United States. Why don’t you run that perspective by the President and the committee?”

  “You’re right,” Bradford said. “I’m going to try.”

  “And Ashley?” Cormac said.

  “Your call,” Bradford said. “Maybe she’s just in deep cover? You know how case managers can be.”

  “She left us to rot,” Sawyer said.

  “I say she’s out,” Cormac said.

  Sawyer nodded. “I agree.”

  “Then she’s out,” Bradford said. “I’m taking satellite snapshots of your terrain. I’ll let you know if I find anything concerning.”

  “Thanks, Colonel,” Sawyer said.

  “Thank you, sir,” Cormac said.

  “Keep working, boys,” Bradford said. “We’re deep in the weeds and we need more intel on Harland’s operation.”

  The line disconnected.

  Sawyer leaned back. He stared up at the ceiling where a long rusted pipe dripped. “It kind of sounds like he’s protecting Ashley.”

  Cormac shook his head. “He’s just hoping she’s innocent. It doesn’t look great, but getting tangled up in CIA ops is only going to make our life more difficult.”

  “Maybe. One way or another, we’re getting dad’s book back.”

  Cormac nodded in agreement.

  They settled in.

  Cormac pulled out a fishing pole he found in the back of the police car. He rigged it with stringy jerky for bait. Sawyer stood in the doorway. His eyes were sunken and his skin was pale as bone. His stomach twisted and his teeth ached. His fingertips tingled. He heard the fluttering of wings and the dripping of water. It was still deep into the middle of the night.

  “I’m going for a walk.”

  Cormac didn’t look up. “Hope that doesn’t mean you’re going to gank some poor farmer and drain him.”

  Sawyer blinked slowly. “I am peckish.”

  “Then sit down and eat some fish. They’re biting like crazy. You’re not the only one who’s hungry.”

  Sawyer bared his teeth, but sat. His shoulders hunched. Minutes passed. Then the rod jerked and Cormac reeled in a fat tilapia. He fried it with a little oil and salt on the camping stove. The shack filled with smoke and the scent of burnt fish scales. It was the first warm thing they’d eaten in some days.

  “Here,” Cormac said.

  Sawyer took it reluctantly.

  The first bite was foreign. It was chewy and rich. The second bite came a little easier. By the third he was shoving Cormac out toward the dock to catch some more. The blood hunger didn’t disappear but it had faded into a deeper level of consciousness that didn’t smother him with its reminder. It was like a bad song you couldn’t forget. But in those moments it was manageable.

  Sawyer licked his fingers. “This helps.”

  “Good,” Cormac said. “Try to be normal for a while. It’s good for your soul.”

  Sawyer’s expression darkened. “Don’t get so moral with me, Cormac. We both know what you did in Iraq.”

  Cormac’s eyes turned flat. “We’re not talking about that.”

  “You sure? Because back in Al Tarmiyah—”

  Cormac stood. The firelight danced across his face. “Drop it, Sawyer. I don’t want to think about that.”

  He leaned back, hands up. “Fine.”

  Later, when the frogs returned and the sky paled to ash, they sealed the shack tight. They used cardboard and stuffed the gaps. They duct-taped trash bags to the window seams. It was a patchwork blackout job but it did the trick and would defend against the sun.

  From inside, the outside world fell away. Sawyer lay on the cot and stared into the dim glow projecting onto the wall from his flashlight. The light, even from its reflection, buzzed beneath his eyelids. It didn’t hurt, but it made his jaw clench.

  Then something landed on his forearm. A mosquito.

  He watched it sink its needle mouth into his vein. It drank. It twitched a little. Then it dropped off his arm and its legs curled. It spasmed on the floor and died.

  Sawyer stared at its tiny corpse on the floor.

  If the mosquito couldn’t drink from him then how bad was he really? He shut off the light and the darkness swallowed the shack.

  The soft rhythm of Cormac’s line flicked across the water. He felt the soft pull of hunger, waiting and coiling like a snake ready to strike.