The—”
“It could be anyone,” Drake affirmed. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions.”
Alicia flung the towel at Almeida’s head, making him flinch. “We done with this bottom-feeder? Can we fling him back to the sewer now?”
Hayden nodded. “Take him back. Keep his wallet.”
As Alicia and Smyth led him away the SPEAR team leader regarded the rest of them. “That’s some roster,” she said. “And some target. Security will be absolute and top-notch. Are you guys ready for true jungle warfare?”
“Always,” Dahl said.
“I do like to enrich my resumé,” Drake said. “Bad ass is an easy label to achieve. But jungle bad ass? That’s special.”
“Then let’s move.”
CHAPTER NINE
Tyler Webb was as unhappy as he’d ever been in his life. He sat alongside Beauregard in the back of a luxury chopper, minutes away from landing at Ramses’ ridiculous flea market, compelled to attend by the one thing he desired most of all in this world.
The scroll. The final piece of the puzzle on the path to Saint Germain.
Call it a life-revolution, a game-changer, a world-ender. It was all of those and yet didn’t matter. It was the last thing he needed to lead him to the treasures of Saint Germain. It was a much-deserved redemption.
For now though he needed to temper those desires, almost impossible though that was. Their unstoppable itch ran in his blood. But even this close the scroll still stood a world away. Just a little while longer, went the mantra inside his head. I’m almost there . . .
The chopper descended. Webb clung on as the canopy rose toward them—a seemingly impenetrable bed of green. Beauregard sat like a statue beside him, unreadable. Webb choked and hyperventilated as the pilot deftly inserted them into the canopy, veering through stepped gaps and then deposited them with a bump onto terra firma.
Beauregard yawned. “Ready?”
Webb gulped hard. “Sure. Of course. Yes.”
The Frenchman led the way, straight into an atmosphere of cloying heat. Webb stopped to stare into the surrounding jungle, a ruthless force barely held at bay, and tried not to hear the sounds of predators lurking and screeching within. The tents nearby were overhung with mosquito netting and other accoutrements but Webb dreaded to think what Ramses might have set up for him. The Pythian network was almost dead, their mercenaries unpaid and deserted, its leaders isolated and unable to communicate with their leader. Zoe Sheers? He hadn’t heard from that woman in over a week. Webb’s only requirement now was that Julian Marsh performed. The rest would be his to discover. Beauregard followed a safe but makeshift path cut through the underbrush, passing by overhanging trees and through lines of old trunks.
“What is this?” Webb grumbled. “The goddamn scenic route?”
“Just be thankful you remembered to apply the insect repellent,” Beauregard returned petulantly. “And that I reminded you.”
Webb knew the man had a point. He didn’t deign to reply, but eyeballed several unmistakably obvious guards as he passed them by, oddly reassured by their presence. The path wavered for a while, eventually leading to a large clearing at the center of which stood a high podium. Arranged around the outside were a series of tall tents. Webb spied lines of sturdy wooden tables and more tents, even what looked like a pavilion further away near the bend of a quick-flowing river. More people were coming from that way, all shapes and sizes and wearing everything from cut-off jeans and leather jackets to turbans and sandals, from dark-skinned men to platinum blond women, and from several traveling alone to those who were surrounded by thick-necked bodyguards. The sound of quiet chatter filled the nearby trees.
Sunlight filtered down from between torn clouds, but Webb had been told to expect regular cloudbursts followed by baking heat. Apparently, Ramses had installed what he called a cool canopy, where you could
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