The fire-fight was heard all over Solitude. All who heard it, from Winthrop-Smythe back at the base camp, or Charlie, Carmen and Trev in their dark hole, or Savanarolova, who, with Munro, had created a camouflaged hide in a tree, paused in what they did and listened intently to the noise of gunfire and grenades detonating. None who heard it knew of the screaming, they were all too far away for that, and some who had heard it began their own battle for survival soon after.

Pincher and Dusty began a frenetic dash through the forest at night, desperate to escape the glowing lights that had suddenly appeared. Somehow they knew that there was a malicious intent behind the weakly glowing orbs and that to be near them was to tempt fate. At first when they had encountered the orbs they were still, watching the orbs drift through the forest towards the men. However a wave of fear welled up within them and started them from their immobility. A feeling of intense nausea gripped them. A cold, clammy shaking that started icy sweat from their foreheads and palpitations in their chests. Memories of open graves and cruel deeds floated up from the depths of their memories and the stench of rotten flesh flooded their nostrils. To confront the lights, to remain and satisfy their curiosity, was to commit suicide.

They crashed through the undergrowth, panicking when something snagged them, momentarily stopping them in their tracks. Whoever was not trapped would pause and scrabble ineffectually at the obstruction, all the while looking back over their shoulder at the darkness beyond, eyes wide, tears starting, whimpering. Whoever was trapped would pull at their kit, tearing clothing, snapping straps, twisting plastic buckles so that they snapped, shedding whatever was caught, desperation lending them strength. Bottles, knives, flak-jackets, rucksacks, ammunition and equipment from a variety of pockets and pouches littered the trail as they fled through the night.

Dusty could only hear the panting of his own breath and the crash of his body through the undergrowth. His face and forearms were a ragged mess of torn skin and streaming blood from the numerous scratches the forest had inflicted on him in his headlong dash. Thankfully the gloves and safety glasses he wore protected him from incapacitation or blindness. He used his rifle as a battering ram to force his way but it felt as if the forest was dragging at him, pulling him backwards towards the lights. Panic gripped him. It felt like one of those nightmares where no matter how fast you run from the danger, the monster, you made no headway. Flogging his body in the dark through the grinder of twisting, thorny vines, he felt as if he was trying to run waist deep in tar.

Suddenly he heard a sharp cry. Pincher let out a frantic wail, “Dusty! Help me!”

Stopping, he looked back through the darkness. He could not see the lights. Perhaps they had given up the chase? He switched on his gun light and pointed it at Pincher, whose distress was easy to hear. Illuminated in the tight beam, Pincher was sat on the forest floor, almost buried in bird’s nest ferns. His face was washed out and streaming with sweat but the look in his eyes, and the laboured breathing that hissed from between clenched teeth, spoke of his agony. Muscles bunched in his jaw, twisting, writhing, as he tried to stop from screaming out. Dusty tracked down Pincher’s heaving body with his light and let it settle over the man’s right lower leg. Pincher was grasping it tightly but there was no mistaking the blood that streamed from between his fingers, nor the unnatural bend in the leg beneath his white-knuckled hands.

“You’ve broken your leg, Pincher,” Dusty said robotically.

Pincher let out a stream of invective, “I know that, you moron. Strap your rifle round my leg as a splint and get me up!”

Dusty stood there, unsure of what to do. He made no move towards Pincher. It was as if proximity to the doomed would condemn him too. After a moment, he spoke, “You’ll be fine. Strap your leg up, take some painkillers. Keep quiet and get under cover.” His reassurance sounded hollow and certainly did not sound convincing to Pincher.

“What? You’re gonna leave me! You cannot be serious! You can’t leave me! You need me! There’s no way you’re gonna survive here without me! You need me!”

“Pincher,” Dusty interrupted, “I’ll be back for you in the morning with some help. I can’t carry you and I’m not going to try. Keep shouting like that and you’ll bring those things down on you as sure as anything. Keep schtum and hide!”

“I hope you rot in Hell!  I hope you break your neck in this damn jungle!”

“It’s been great, Pincher.”

With that, Dusty turned on his heel and fled. He felt nothing leaving Pincher behind except relief. He no longer had to listen to the sordid outpouring of hate that passed for conversation with Pincher. Not only that but maybe Pincher could persuade his pursuers to stay and chat for awhile, maybe give Dusty the breathing space he desperately wanted. On he went, muscles straining as he worked through the black, tangled morass in the never-ending night.

***

Back at the camp, Winthrop-Smythe was seething. No-one was answering their radios and no-one had made their scheduled report either. He felt blind and helpless, unable to communicate with his team, unable to find out more about the gunfire up on the slopes of the volcano.

He gazed at the stars visible in the night sky above the clearing. This job was going down the toilet so fast, he wasn’t sure that anything would rescue it. He had been a mercenary long enough that he had learned to listen to the little voice inside that said it was time to go. It was not that time yet, but that little voice was getting louder with every passing hour.

If only his employer did not scare him so much that he felt as if he looked at the living embodiment of the Angel of Death every time he was with her. She had a cold, reptilian cast to her eyes that made Winthrop-Smythe feel that she would like nothing more than to see his veins opened. He did not doubt that running out on Iphigenia Savanarolova was something that a wise man thought twice about. However, he had done it before with employers who almost scared him as much and he was still ahead of their hit-men. He could probably cope with any of the stooges that Savanarolova would put on his trail. There were a few unmarked graves in woodlands around the world that spoke of his success in dealing with these pursuers.

What worried him most was that the gunfire had stopped, and there had been no repetition of it. He had recognised the characteristic chatter of his men’s AK 47 rifles, as well as the dull reports of shoulder fired grenades. There had been a furious amount of it then it had petered out. What had happened? Why hadn’t anyone reported in? Why weren’t radio calls being answered from any of his teams?

Winthrop-Smythe fretted. He paced around the camp. He checked his watch. He tried to raise the teams on the radio again and again. Still there was no answer to his requests except static hiss.

Trying to reason through things and not let the absence of communications and information unnerve him, Winthrop-Smythe attempted to reassure himself. It was unlikely that something unpleasant could have befallen every team. At least he hoped so. Shooting had only come from one area and in such volume as it could only originate from the patrol. He had heard nothing from out where the sniper team were posted, or from where he believed Pincher and Dusty were located. Goodness knew where Savanarolova was, she was a law unto herself, but at least he had heard nothing else.

Perhaps the silence could be explained by a natural phenomenon? The clear skies precluded some form of atmospheric interference. However, the one unusual object on Solitude that he did not normally operate around was the volcano. Could volcanic activity jam his communications? He told himself this was the likely cause and bit his fingernails as he did all he could do: wait.

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