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            It was hot, sticky, muggy country even at night.  Bugs and birds competed to see which could create the most irritating sounds.  The river they sloshed through carried the stink of sewage.  Mud sucked at their boots.  Leeches clung to anything that moved.  A field of brilliant stars and a sliver of a moon did little to illuminate the potential animal and reptile dangers lurking in the darkness.

            “You know, Mike, I’ve asked myself a million times,” Morgan Stark whispered.  “Why do we always get ourselves involved in other countries’ petty political bullshit?”

            “Well, because there are still times when the U.S. government just refuses to get involved,” Mike answered with a grin.  “And for the money, of course.”

            The men made little sound, despite the water flowing around their knees.  The river they waded through was really little more than a stream in Belize.  The tiny backwater nation southeast of Mexico was Central America’s version of a postage stamp country.

            Up ahead, the point man flashed his light.  The sun would rise in half an hour or so.  They were right on schedule.  Morgan signaled his seven followers to move out.  All wore camouflage uniforms, black berets, combat boots, and a wide variety of personal weaponry.

            Morgan Stark, team leader, was a couple of inches over six feet tall and a slim looking two hundred ten pounds.  He was the only black man in this racial grab bag of professional mercenaries.  However, if someone had asked his men to describe him, they would have first mentioned his long, quick fingers, the little mustache he still kept within Army regulations, or perhaps his sharp, clear, light brown eyes.  In their business, you learned to judge a lot by the eyes.  But in the world of professional mercenaries, color was almost an afterthought.

            They moved along through the river, about two meters from shore, because it was faster and easier than travelling over land.  Unfortunately, the map in Morgan’s head indicated it was time to branch off into the tropical forest. 

            The tiny light flashed again, just as Morgan was about to crest a low hummock.  That flash warned Morgan of nearby patrolling security personnel.  Not that he needed such a warning.

            He pressed himself up over the edge of the earthen mound, his fingers tangled in the thick undergrowth.  In the near darkness, he found himself face to face with a uniformed guard.  Neither Morgan nor the guard reached for a weapon.  The guard’s dog looked as startled as its master did.  To Morgan’s eyes it was more wolf than dog, huge and gray in the darkness.  It was a Belgian shepherd, the type the Israelis used for border patrol.  Slowly a growl began in its throat and it bared its teeth for war.