James Rodriguez

Not danger, at least not immediate danger.

Just the certainty that you saw Ireland was fundamentally different from anywhere I'd been before.

Spencer Wilson had paid $5 million for my expertise in navigating uncertain situations.

As I closed my eyes, I wondered if even that sum was adequate compensation for whatever waited in the jungle beyond our camp.

I woke 15 minutes before my scheduled watch.

The luminous dial on my field watch read 245 in the morning.

Thomas would be outside halfway through his shift.

The tent fabric above me was perfectly still.

No breeze off the water tonight.

The camp generator hummed at quarter power, just enough to maintain perimeter lighting and essential equipment.

I pulled on my boots, laced them methodically, and checked my sidearm before unzipping the tent.

Thomas stood at the edge of our camp boundary, back rigid, head slightly cocked, not the relaxed posture of routine surveillance.

Something had him on alert.

All quiet, I asked, keeping my voice low.

He startled.

Not a good sign from a man with his training.

His hand moved instinctively toward his holstered weapon before recognition registered.

Didn't hear you approach.

His eyes returned to scanning the treeline.

And no, not quiet.