The trafficker was panicking. Running blind. His light danced in front of him as he ran. That was his mistake.
Bear moved like water, silent, lethal, his rifle tight to his chest, his partner a dark, dangerous shadow just ahead, pulling the leash, eager for the chase.
He caught up just as the trafficker stumbled, tried to turn, gun pressed to Bailee’s head. Too late. Flint launched. The dog sank teeth into the man’s wrist, the weapon skittered to the floor, and Bear closed the distance.
The trafficker tried to draw a blade. Bear didn’t give him the chance. His rifle barked and the man dropped.
Flint backed off, panting.
Bailee braced her hands on her knees, breath ragged, but standing.
Bear stepped in, caught her shoulders, pulled her upright. “You good?”
She nodded once. “Thanks for not hesitating.”
“I was never going to let him take you.” Those three words burned in his chest. “No goddamned way.”
He looked down at the body. “The team is in a firefight. Let’s go.” A sound echoed from behind them. Not footfall. Conversation. Bear’s head snapped up. Voices. Soft. Rhythmic. Familiar.
Lakota.
Bailee froze beside him, the shock on her face when she looked at him mirrored his own. Here in the Amazon, someone was speaking their language.
Drawn forward, they moved toward the sound. At the edge of flickering firelight stood a man, barefoot, painted, bow still in hand. He didn’t raise it. He just nodded once.
Behind him, deeper in the trees just beyond the cave’s outer ring, a village shimmered into view.
Then the voice came again. Female. Lakota. His heart jumped into his throat and his breath caught.
Bailee whispered, “Did you hear that?”
He didn’t answer. He was already moving toward it.
The night air stirred. Smoke curled upward from the small fire in the center of the gathering space, the scent of crushed leaf and dried bark thick in Ayla’s lungs. She sat cross-legged in the dirt, her knees dusted with ash, hands resting on her thighs, her teacher’s words flowing like low river-water in Lakota beside her. They loved her language.
Ayla listened. Her teacher had so much to teach her, and she’d soaked it up like a sponge.
The fire popped.
Her teacher paused mid-sentence, blinking, her lined face going still. Then she turned and looked past Ayla’s shoulder, toward the trees.
Ayla turned, too, and froze.
A man stood just past the fire’s edge, rifle lowered, dressed in camo, one of those floppy hats on his head, some kind of goggles covering his eyes. A stunningly beautiful woman stood next to him. They were painted with dust and war and rain.
He turned toward her, flipped up the goggles.
Her knees went weak, her heart beat so hard, it was like a drum.
Dakota.
Her brother.
Her throat closed. Her hands went cold.
He was older now. Harder. But still him. The set of his jaw. The shape of his mouth. The scar at his temple from when he fell off the fence. She hadn’t seen him in three long years.
For a heartbeat, the world around her dissolved. The fire. The jungle. Even the breath in her lungs. Gone. The last time she’d seen Dakota… She was fifteen and she was being taken.
