“They won’t come,” Rick said. “They’re spread thin. The only men we know about in a ten-kilometer radius are on that bridge.” He reached over and put a hand on her knee. “Hey, Cynthia, look at me.” She met his gaze again. “Most of them are scared kids. We’re highly trained soldiers. They don’t have the organization or the foresight to strategically lie in wait for our helicopter in every clearing in the country, and they don’t have any way to decode our radio transmissions. They bully villagers, rape, pillage, steal, shoot people without regard. The organization the group has is run from the capital city, and Chukuwereije himself has been losing power daily since we arrived. Besides, the rest of us will be giving them some work to do while you’re getting to the LZ. Okay?”

She tried to process what he said. It sounded good, and she didn’t think he’d lie to her. Finally, she nodded. “Okay. When do we leave?”

The night vision goggles gave a perfectly clear view of the soldiers on the bridge. Rick scanned the area, seeing no other human activity. As far as they could tell, no one had relieved these men all day. No other traffic had come by via this road. This was a good thing. The soldiers would be bored, tired, starting to think they’d wasted their time guarding this particular bridge. In the back of his mind, he wondered about the river below. His team had observed no activity from this vantage point, but he didn’t want to find out that the soldiers had saved a surprise for him.

He climbed down from the tree and quietly made his way to the rally point. The men wore camouflage paint on their faces, making the whites of their eyes shine against the different shades of green paint. Fisher pulled a Chiclet of fruity gum out of his jacket pocket. He popped it into his mouth like a pill and asked, “What’s the news, Daddy?”

“Low and slow out there.” He glanced at Peña. “What’s up with the river?”

Peña lifted his chin, a motion he often did as a precursor to a report. “I swam along the bank to within twenty yards. Saw nothing. Not a great strategic location. No good access to the bridge. No great cover for a craft.”

That was what he wanted to hear. He focused on Fisher. “You and Peña Colada paddle to the other bank. Just like we went over. Jerry Maguire, Pot Pie, and I will meet you in the middle.”

The men grabbed their gear and the boat they’d borrowed from Ayo’s grandmother, then went into the jungle toward the riverbank. Swanson rubbed his beard. “They’re going to exhaust themselves crossing.”

“At least they’re not swimming,” McBride said. “Remember that time in—”