Many of Auma’s youthful army appeared to be intoxicated, though it was impossible to know with what. They watched him from the trees like the girls had. Like the corpses had. With curiosity. With indifference. With rage. But none dared approach or even meet his eye. None had the ability to act on their own or think for themselves. For some, those were skills that had been beaten out of them. For others, they were skills they’d never acquired. Only serving Gideon Auma mattered. Their god.

The clearing they finally entered wasn’t really a clearing at all—just a place where the ground cover had been torn away and the canopy had been woven together in a way that would hinder a search from the air. Singh’s guide signaled for him to wait and then disappeared into the trees.

He stood motionless near a stone altar dried with blood and fitted with chains that suggested the sacrifices performed there weren’t limited to animals. After more than half an hour, the Great Man appeared from a cave to the north. He was wearing fatigues that were somewhat more complete and in better condition than those of his followers. His beard was patchy and his hair a bit wild where it escaped a camouflage cap. The skin around his vaguely glassy eyes was dark and surprisingly undamaged.

Weak cheers erupted from his followers as he approached and offered Singh his hand. Not to shake, though. In a way reminiscent of the pope offering his ring to be kissed. Trying to strike a balance between further insulting God and ending up on one of the crosses he’d passed, Singh took the man’s hand and bowed his head over it. The gesture seemed to be sufficiently reverential because a moment later the cult leader spoke.

“What message do you bring from your masters?”

Singh was only a messenger and he would do his best to disappear into that role. An irrelevant little man unworthy of Gideon Auma’s notice. And more important, unworthy of his fury.

“They are concerned with David Chism’s escape.”

Auma’s expression remained impassive, though it was likely that there was quite a bit more lurking behind that façade. He’d made commitments that depended on Chism’s ransom and now those promises of reward and victory had been dispersed to the wind. Hardly in keeping with his image.

“God didn’t will it,” he said finally.

“Indeed,” Singh responded. “Perhaps he wants you for greater things.”

That seemed to awaken some interest in the man. “What?”

“We believe there is an opportunity to kidnap Nicholas Ward himself. The ransom for Chism would have been millions. But for Ward? It would be billions.”

Auma shook his head. “No one knows where his compound is and even if we did it would be difficult to access and heavily secured.”