“You gonna re-up?” Pete asked, obviously repeating himself.
Ethan had been thinking about it, off and on, but he made up his mind at that moment. What was the point of leaving the Marines? He had nothing waiting for him in civilian life.
Oh, sure, he had Ellie, and soon he’d have nephews or nieces or one of each. But Ellie was in Santa Martina, and there was no way Ethan could stand to live in the same city as Destiny, so tantalizingly close and yet so frustratingly apart. He’d have to live somewhere else and visit. And if he was only visiting anyway, he might as well stay where he was. There was nothing like getting shot at for distracting you from your problems.
“Three misfits plus me,” Ethan thought. Make that four misfits.
“Yeah,” Ethan said. “I’ll re-enlist. What about you guys?”
Merlin ran his hand over his clipped blond hair. “I am definitely—”
Ethan’s foot came down on a hidden gopher hole, and he stumbled. At that exact moment, Merlin let out a yelp, then reached over his shoulder to slap between his shoulder blades, like he’d been stung by a bee. At the same moment, Pete winced slightly and lifted a hand to touch his back.
“Ambush!” Ransom shouted, and gave Ethan a hard shove.
The last thing Ethan saw before he went tumbling over the edge of the ravine were all three of his men collapsing, unconscious or dead.
Then he hit the river hard enough to knock the wind out of him. The current was fierce, tumbling him head over heels. By the time Ethan had managed to extricate himself from his heavy pack, he’d been swept far downstream. He struggled to regain control, desperate to get back to his men, but he was no match for the white waters. The current tossed him this way and that, then sucked him down in an undertow until he thought he’d drown. He fought his way to the surface, and managed a single gulp of air before the rushing waters flung him into a boulder. He saw a bright burst of light, and then only darkness.
Ethan awoke cold and wet and confused. His head throbbed fiercely, there was a stabbing pain in his side, and it was hard to breathe. When he opened his eyes, he saw nothing but a brown blur, and he could hear nothing but a roar of white noise.
Then memory rushed back. The ambush. The river.
His vision slowly came into focus, though it was a few more moments before he could process what he was seeing. He’d been washed up against a rock outcropping at the edge of the river. Most of his body was underwater, but the force of the current was pinning him against the stone. A lot of tree branches and other debris had washed up with him, then piled atop him.
He started to pull himself out of the water, but dizziness swept over him as soon as he raised his head. Ethan lay back down. If he got partway out and then passed out again, he’d be swept away and drowned. He had to stay where he was until he got a little more strength back.
Ethan wasn’t a medic, but he knew some basic battlefield medicine. He’d been flung against the rocks and hit his head hard enough to knock him out, and he was still dizzy. Concussion, for sure. Every time he took a breath, it felt like someone was jabbing a knife into his side, and the deeper it was, the more it hurt. He’d been instinctively taking shallow breaths to reduce the pain. So he’d also cracked or broken some ribs.
Bracing himself, Ethan deliberately took a deep breath to see if he could figure out how many. It was cut off by an excruciating coughing fit. An alarming amount of water ran out of his mouth. No wonder his chest felt so congested. How long had he been lying there, cold and wet and with his lungs half-full of river water? He was in excellent physical condition, but that seemed like a recipe for getting sick.
Ethan started to cough again. Then, over the roar of the river, he heard voices, and forced back the cough with sheer willpower.
“He has to be dead,” said a gruff male voice. “Let’s go back, set the explosives, and call it a day. We got three out of four prime candidates. That’s good enough.”
“I agree,” said a woman. “It’s been almost four hours. We could blow the entire operation if we spend any more time here.”
“We can’t just assume he’s dead without seeing a body.” That was a slightly higher male voice. “I say we keep searching.”
The gruff male voice spoke again. “Don’t sweat it, Kritsick. Locals call this the Disappearing River: anything you throw in is never seen again.”
The high male voice, who was presumably Kritsick, said, “And if he’s alive and blows the whistle, this entire project will never be seen again.”
“Ayers?” asked the woman. “It’s your call.”
A new male voice, deep and commanding, spoke after a brief pause. “Even in the wildly unlikely event that McNeil turns up alive, what does he know, really? Most likely, he’ll report that one of his men shouted ‘Ambush!’ and pushed him into the river to save him. He’ll be told that his teammates were killed in an explosion. That doesn’t contradict what he saw. They’ll still blame the terrorists the team was sent to search for. Maybe they’ll give Pierce a posthumous medal for saving McNeil. Makes no difference to us.”
“What if he saw the darts?” asked Kritsick.
“Unlikely,” said the woman. “They’re quite small.”
“Even if he did, that part of the report won’t go anywhere,” said the gruff voice. “This is what our people within the military are for.”
Our people within the military. Ethan’s heart sank. He couldn’t run back to the base and get help—anyone could be in on the conspiracy, even his own commanding officer. Ethan was absolutely alone, with no one he could trust but himself.
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter what McNeil might have seen,” the gruff voice went on. “He’s dead.”
“We’re moving out,” Ayers said firmly. “We need to set those charges. We’re already hours behind schedule.”