The closest tribesmen ducked headfirst through the net, dropping away, like diving pelicans into the sea. Monk spied under the net. The trio reappeared, clinging to ropes. They slid with practiced skill as more ropes were mounted.
Slowly the army began to crawl again, flowing toward the rigged lines and down. Monk followed along the bridge. He reached Jessie as Ryder grabbed a rope and leaped through the net. The billionaire did not hesitate.
Monk understood his hurry.
Lightning slammed into the net's far side. Thunder clapped, deafening. Blue energies shot outward along the canopy's skeleton, but it faded before it reached them. The smell of ozone hung in the air.
"Keep off anything metal!" Monk screamed.
Jessie nodded, repeating his warning in Malay.
In another minute, Monk had joined Jessie. "Get below!" he ordered, and pointed down.
Jessie nodded. As he rolled off the bridge, the storm crested the island and blew with a sudden and sharp gale, roaring like a freight train. Jessie, caught in midreach, unanchored, was shoved bodily off the slatted bridge. He rolled out onto the looser camouflaged netting. His weight tore through it.
Monk lunged and grabbed his ankle. His prosthetic hand clamped hard as Jessie fell away. Monk's shoulder wrenched with fire as he caught Jessie's weight. The young nurse hung upside down below him, screaming a string of Hindu curses ... or maybe it was prayers.
"The rope!" Monk yelled down to him.
One of the rigged lines hung ten feet away.
Monk began swinging the man. Jessie understood, his arms out, hand clawing for the rope. It was still too far. But only by a foot.
"I'm going to throw you!"
"What? No!"
He had no choice.
Monk's shoulder burned as he swung Jessie one last time, "Here we go!" Monk tossed the nurse underhanded toward the line.
Jessie tangled into the rope, scrabbling for the wet line. His body began falling, sliding, kicking. Then he hooked a leg and found a grip. He braked and halted his plunge. He clung to the rope, his cheek against it. His lips moved in a silent prayer of thanks—or maybe a curse aimed at Monk.
With the boy safe, Monk rolled back atop the bridge and crawled with caution. The winds pounded him, but he reached the nest of rigged ropes.
Another lightning strike blasted behind him.
Monk flattened as thunder deafened. He stared back over a shoulder as the net jolted like a trampoline. The rear of the bridge shattered upward from the strike, the wooden slats on fire. One of the tribesmen flew high in the air, arms pinwheeling, while electric-blue current crackled through the netting to either side—but the acrobat landed safely among his brethren.
Lucky man, but there was no going back now.
Only one way to go.
Monk grabbed the nearest rope and dropped through the net.
He slid down toward the rain-swept helipad and landed cleanly.
The rest of the army followed.
Ducked low, Monk hurried to where the others had gathered near the staircase that led down from the helipad. Jessie was already directing the tribesmen, pointing toward Monk, toward Ryder. They would split up from here. Monk would go after Lisa. Ryder and Jessie would head down, clearing a path and readying the boat.
Behind Monk bare feet slapped the decking as the last of the army drained down from the sodden net.
Monk turned to Ryder and Jessie. "Ready?" he asked.
"As we'll ever be," Ryder answered.
Monk glanced over at the raiding party, armed with bone axes and AK-47S. Lightning flashed, limning the army with fire. Eyes glinted from ash-painted faces.
In that momentary flash Monk felt a twinge of misgiving, a moment of unease. He shook it away. It was just the storm feeding his fears.
"Let's go find my partner, and get the hell out of here."
5:02 A.M.
Lisa lay strapped to a steel surgical table, tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. She hung from her arms, wrists snugged in plastic ties over her head. Her legs were loose, unable to touch the floor. She wore only her hospital gown. Cold sweat plastered the thin cotton to her skin, while the steel of the table chilled her back.
She had been tied here for over an hour.
Alone.
Hopefully, forgotten.
To one side a stainless-steel tray held a line of tools used for forensic autopsies: cartilage saws, dissecting hooks, snipping scissors, postmortem needles, spinal cord chisels.
Dr. Devesh Patanjali had removed the tools from a black leather satchel, held open by Surina. He had precisely lined each instrument atop a stretch of green surgical drape. A steel bucket hung from the foot of the inclined table, ready to catch the flow of blood.
While he laid out his tools Lisa had attempted everything to dissuade him from the torture to come. She had tried appealing to his reason, explaining that she could still be useful. That once Susan was recaptured, Lisa would lend her full support to derive a cure from the woman's blood and lymph. Hadn't Lisa already proven her ingenuity?
Despite her best arguments, Devesh had ignored her. He simply lined up each tool, one after the other, on the tray.
Eventually, her arguments turned to tears. "Please . . ." she had begged.
With Devesh's back turned, Lisa's attention had turned to Surina. But there was no hope to be found there, only a deadened disinterest, her face carved in cold marble. The only bit of color was the ruby bindi dot on her forehead, reminding Lisa of a drop of blood.
Then Devesh had received a call. He answered it and grew plainly excited, pleased with what he was hearing. He spoke rapidly in Arabic. All Lisa understood was the word Angkor. Devesh left, stalking out of the room, shadowed by Surina. Devesh hadn't even looked back.
So Lisa hung here, not knowing what was happening.
But she knew her fate.
The polished surgical instruments glistened. If she shifted, the blood pail rattled at the foot of the table. She teetered between exhaustion and a keening edge of terror. She almost welcomed the return of Devesh. The waiting, the anticipation, threatened to unhinge her.
Still, when the door finally did open, she cringed, gasping out slightly. She couldn't see who entered, but she heard the click-clack rattle of wheels.
A gurney appeared into view, pushed from behind.
A small figure was draped atop it, tied down, spread-eagled.
Devesh spoke, shoving the gurney so it came to rest directly in front of Lisa. "Sorry for the delay, Dr. Cummings. My call took longer than I anticipated. And it took me some time to track down our subject here."
"Dr. Patanjali," Lisa begged, staring at the gurney. "Please, no .. ."
Devesh stepped over to his tools. He wore a white apron over his clothes, having shed his jacket. "Now where were we?"