Chapters (54)
- Title Page
- Table of Contents
- Prologue
- PART ONE
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- PART TWO
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- PART THREE
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-one
- Chapter Twenty-two
- Chapter Twenty-three
- Chapter Twenty-four
- Chapter Twenty-five
- Chapter Twenty-six
- Chapter Twenty-seven
- Chapter Twenty-eight
- Chapter Twenty-nine
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-one
- PART FOUR
- Chapter Thirty-two
- Chapter Thirty-three
- Chapter Thirty-four
- Chapter Thirty-five
- Chapter Thirty-six
- Chapter Thirty-seven
- Chapter Thirty-eight
- Chapter Thirty-nine
- Chapter Forty
- Chapter Forty-one
- Chapter Forty-two
- Chapter Forty-three
- Epilogue
- ALSO BY ROBERT LUDLUM
- Critical Praise for Robert Ludlum
- Copyright Page
Now Janson took another deep breath. “Mesa Grande is where a bad man met a bad end.”
A bad end, and a defiant one. For on Demarest’s face there had indeed been defiance—no, more than that: a wrathful indignation—until the volley was loosed, and the white cloth circle turned bright red with his blood.
Janson had asked to witness the execution, for reasons that remained murky even to him, and the request had reluctantly been granted. To this day, Janson could not decide whether he had made the right decision. It no longer mattered: Mesa Grande, too, was part of who he was. Part of who he had become.
To him, it had represented a moment of requital. A moment of justice to repay injustice. To others, so it appeared, that moment meant something altogether different.
Mesa Grande.
Had the monster’s devoted followers gotten together, somehow decided to avenge his death all these years later? The idea seemed preposterous. That did not, alas, mean it could be dismissed. Demarest’s Devils: perhaps these veterans were among the mercenaries that Novak’s enemies had recruited. How better to counter one disciple of Demarest’s techniques than with another?
Madness!
He knew that Jessie wanted to hear more from him, but he could not bring himself to speak. All he said was “We need to make an early start tomorrow. Get some sleep.” And when she placed a hand on his arm, he pulled away.
Turning in, he felt roiled by shadowy ghosts he could never put to rest, however hard he tried.
In life, Demarest had taken too much of his past; in death, would he now take his future?
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-four
It was three decades ago, and it was now. It was in a jungle far away, and it was here.
Always, the sounds: the mortar fire more distant and muffled than ever before, for the trail had led them many miles away from the official combat zones. Immediate proximity made the sounds of mosquitoes and other small stinging insects louder than the immense blasts of the heavy artillery. Cheap ironies were as thick on the ground as punji sticks, the sharpened bamboo stakes that the VC placed in small, concealed holes, awaiting the unwary footfall.
Janson checked his compass once again, verified that the trail had been leading in the correct direction. The triple-canopy jungle left the ground in permanent twilight, even when the sun was shining. The six men in his team moved in three pairs, each spaced a good ways apart, the better to avoid the vulnerability of clustering in hostile territory. Only he traveled without a partner.
“Maguire,” he radioed, quietly.
He never heard the response. What he heard, instead, was automatic rifle fire, the overlapping staccato bursts of several Combloc carbines.
Then he heard the screaming of men—his men—and the barking commands of an enemy patrol party. He was reaching for his M16 when he felt a blow to the back of his head. And then he felt nothing at all.