He saw the Scandinavian and La Bruja. The big man and the woman were together and, as Milton watched, they kept low and ran for the trees.

Milton readied himself, breathing deeply in and out, and counted down.

Three.

Two.

One.

Go.

He ran after them.

* * *

Björn grabbed La Bruja by the elbow and dragged her deeper into the trees.

“The government,” she said between gasps.

“Maybe.”

“What do we do?”

“Run. The guidelines—do you know where they are?”

“North of the camp. There’s a stream. The first one is tied around a rock.”

“We need to get to it,” Björn said.

She swore colourfully. He knew that she wouldn’t want to run. She was a fighter; she wanted to fight. But she was a pragmatist, too, and she knew that the prudent play was to take advantage of the escape route and get away from the soldiers. They were outgunned and outmanned, taken by surprise and with no idea of the strategic situation.

“This way,” she said.

66

Milton crashed through the undergrowth and forced his way deeper into the mahogany and myrtle trees that populated the rainforest around the camp. The racket of the firefight—the rattle of automatic gunfire, the dull explosions of flash bangs, the yelled voices ordering people to surrender, the shrieks of pain—became more and more muffled as he pressed ahead. The jungle was dense here, with orchids and bromeliads filling the spaces between the laurel and acacia, and ferns and grasses carpeting the ground. He crashed through a collection of cycads, stumbling over their stout trunks and crowns of stiff leaves.

A startled tapir shot out into his path; Milton didn’t see it until it was too late and collided with it, sending him sprawling to the ground. The pistol popped out of his hand and disappeared into the undergrowth. He cursed and reached for it, grunting with pain as he shoved his hand into the middle of a bush that was equipped with an array of sharp spikes.

He heard the sound of someone across to his right and froze. The sound grew louder. Milton held his breath and waited for whoever it was to come into view. It was very dark, with just the faintest traces of silvery moonlight reaching down through a gap in the canopy. Milton stayed still, aware that he ought to be putting more distance between himself and the camp, yet unwilling to reveal himself to whoever was about to reach him. The attackers were wearing night-vision goggles. He would give himself away in an instant if he left his cover.

There came a crash, a curse—a male voice, in Spanish—and then the sound of someone scrabbling back to their feet. Milton counted down to allow the man to draw near.

It was one of the local guards from the camp.