-3-

            That business had brought Morgan to this frozen moment in the Belize jungle.  While he watched, a big hand reached out of the darkness behind the uniformed guard and clamped across his face.  That would be Smitty, the point man.  Morgan heard a thump as the guard’s head arced back and his body jerked forward, as if something had hit the small of his back.

            Nerveless fingers dropped the harness leash, and the huge dog leaped forward.  Morgan’s right hand reached to the back of his belt.  When he brought it forward, it was filled with the handle of his fighting knife.  He held the knife in a reverse grip, its spine pressed along his forearm.

            In less than a second the dog was on him, close enough to smell its breath.  The beast hung in midair, its jaws set to snap over Morgan’s face.  His arm swung in front of him, the edge of the blade slashing across the dog’s throat.  Momentum carried the beast forward, its bulk smashing into his chest.  Slammed to his back, Morgan felt hot gore pumping onto him from the animal’s slashed throat.  Even above the natural stench of the jungle, the odor made him gag.  Revolted, he thrust the body away, watching the dog’s final death throes before rolling to his knees and looking over the mound again.

            He saw another flash of light, then two more.  All clear.  Shaking off the picture of the huge dog charging him, he signaled his men to continue.

            Swinging machetes, the small group of professional soldiers moved through the brush at an aggressive pace.  His point man aside, Morgan led the way, feeling sweat pooling in his boots and sliding down his back beneath his belt and other carry straps.  He wished he could stop someplace and wash the blood off his uniform, but he knew the mission needed to proceed as planned.  As he trudged on, Crazy Mike drew up beside him.

            “The other outer ring guards will find the bodies,” Mike said.

            “We’re less than ten minutes from the target,” Morgan replied in hushed tones.  “By the time they get back to the compound they’ll find us there.”

            “We might move a little faster if you weren’t so...”

            “What?  Paranoid?”  Morgan asked.

            “Over prepared.”  While Mike had a machine gun slung across his back, Morgan carried a greater variety of tools.  He liked to travel with everything he might need.  In addition to the machete he used to carve his path through the brush, he wore a shoulder holstered pistol, a fighting knife at his back, a submachine gun at his side, a pair of boot knives, and several extra fully loaded magazines.

            “You know my attitude,” Morgan said.  “Better to be over prepared than dead.”

            “Yeah, well there’s no sense killing yourself before...”

            “Freeze!”  Morgan snapped with unexpected urgency.  Behind them, the rest of the team dropped to one knee, their rifles thrust forward.

            For a full minute, no one moved while Morgan looked around in all directions.  When Mike started to ask “What?” Morgan silenced him with an upraised palm.  Having checked everywhere else, Morgan looked toward the damp ground. 

            “Mike.  Don’t panic or anything, but your left boot is pressed against a wire.  It’s pretty taut and I’m afraid whatever it’s attached to might go off if you back off.  See anything?”

            “I can’t even see the damned wire,” Mike answered.  “I don’t remember any mines or snares on that map Stone gave us.”

            “That’s because there weren’t any.  This is probably new since his recon.  Now you just hold real still and I’ll try to keep you in one piece, okay?”