A few things went through Dexter’s head as he plummeted toward the ground ten thousand feet below him. For one, he wondered if it was possible to light a cigarette successfully while free falling at near terminal velocity. He concluded it would not since the rushing air would effectively snuff out the flame. Not to mention render a perfectly good cig unsmokeable. The second thought was that he really hoped Kirra had rigged his chute properly. She was clearly upset about something and was keeping mum about it. Dexter would have to ask what was going on, but only if he managed to get his chute open when the altimeter strapped to his wrist told him to pull his ripcord. Ordinarily, he would have preferred a HAHO insertion; the High Altitude High Opening parachute technique meant you exited at the height of a standard commercial airliner, usually around 35,000 feet, opened your chute almost immediately and then you could drift miles to your destination. HAHO insertions were useful when you needed to get into certain restricted countries because you could exit the aircraft close to the border and the winds would carry you nicely a solid twenty miles over into your target area. Plus, when the chute opened, you were too high up to be heard. HALO, High Altitude Low Opening, on the other hand always carried with it the risk that someone would hear the chute snap open when you pulled around 3,000 feet. The benefit was that Dexter didn’t have to wear oxygen and a better suit like he would have with HAHO. There was less to conceal when he touched down. Wearing next generation night vision goggles, the night around him was bathed in shades of green luminescence. He glanced at the altimeter on his wrist, careful not to put himself into a spin. He had about fifty pounds of gear strapped to him and a spin could prove deadly if it happened now.� 9 At 4,000 feet he deployed his chute, wincing as the rushing air popped it open and immediately braked him hard, which felt like he’d been punched in the nuts all three of them. He exhaled, checked the risers and saw that they weren’t tangled, then allowed himself a sigh of relief. Kirra’s rigging skills were still up to snuff. The canopy of the jungle yawned before him, with treetops occupying every bit of space. The tropical rain forest would be like walking into a steam bath, but Dexter was well-used to it. The KIA had seen to his training and sent him to jungle schools in Borneo and Malaysia where he’d studied survival techniques with some of the best in the Special Forces. He steered himself into a tiny opening and then slid through the branches, finally getting snagged on the limbs high up. But again, this was to be expected when you jumped right into the bush. He was just glad he’d escaped being impaled by a tree. The humidity hit him like a wall and he immediately got his combat knife free to cut the risers and allow himself to descend with his kit into the jungle. The chute would remain in the tree, but he doubted anyone would even notice. It had been painted to blend in with the dense foliage. As he scrambled down the tree toward the jungle floor below, he listened to the cacophony of sounds around him. A steady buzzing of insects told him that the jungle was full of life. That was good. One part of his mission was to ascertain the health of the ecosystem in this part of the rain forest. The other part was eliminating the principle threat to that ecosystem. Reginald Chatsworth, known around these parts as Chefe, was a British industrialist who had almost singlehandedly destroyed much of the Amazon due to his deforestation efforts. Of course, nothing tied him directly to the immense damage. Chefe used an extensive network of cutouts and middlemen to conceal his true involvement. But the intel wizards at the Koala Intelligence Agency had ferreted out the names behind phony corporations headquartered in the Cayman Islands, traced them through certain contractor havens in other offshore places, and finally tracked the money trail through crypto platforms based in Moldova before coming up with Chefe’s name. Chatsworth spent nearly all of his time at his family’s estate located in the Scottish Highlands. But on occasion, he did travel. Like the flight he’d taken on a ghost Gulfstream out of a small airstrip near Plockton that had made its way across to Newfoundland and then leapfrogged down the eastern coast of the United States, crossing the Caribbean and eventually landing near Humaita along the banks of the Madeira River. Once he landed, he was greeted warmly by an emissary of President Balsanapo, who was actively assisting with deforestation efforts in the country in exchange for huge sums of money. At roughly the same time as Chatsworth was leaving his family’s estate back in Scotland, Dexter had been enjoying a particularly fine vintage of wine poured for him by sommelier of impeccable credentials and the loveliest smile Dexter had ever seen. He was dearly hoping to convince her to join him for a glass when his phone buzzed and the number 486 flashed across the screen letting him know that he needed to call in. When he did, he got a simple message. “Package is on the move. So you need to be also.” The phone had disconnected before he could reply, but that was the way it worked. Dexter already knew the plan; it had been formulated months prior in a strategy session with the KIA headshed. They’d gone over all of the options. Everything from blackmailing Chatsworth to simply trying to pay him off to stop his destruction. In the end, they’d chosen the simplest solution: termination. The fact that Dexter spoke fluent Portuguese, held the record for more jumps than almost anyone in the KIA, and had been involved in the planning session meant that he was given the green light to take the target out. It was a small op and small ops usually had the best chance of success. The more complex things got, the more they tended to have massive problems. “Jump in, eliminate the target, then get to your exfil. That’s it. Don’t get in there and fuck about. Chatsworth always has security with him, so you’ll get one shot and that’s it. If it all gets bunged up, you know the deal.” “I’m on my own.” Dexter smiled. That part of the job came with every operation. KIA operated outside the standard framework of intelligence agencies. If their agents got compromised, no one was coming to their rescue.� 11 His feet touched the jungle floor, feeling the ground beneath him for the first time. Some sort of something slid over his right foot while centipedes raced over his left. Dexter paid them no mind; life in the jungle continued regardless. You either switched on and made peace with it, or it would simply kill you. He popped open the compass in his vest and took a bearing. As he walked, he started assembling the modified MK22 sniper rifle. Ordinarily, it was almost four feet long, but the armorers at the KIA had taken the best features of the standard one, and modified the length to half that. The range was severely limited, but it made up for it by being small and lighter. The ten round magazine held enough rounds to take care of Chatsworth, but Dexter only needed one. He wouldn’t have the luxury of being able to zero the weapon, but instead had to trust that it would hit the target. A shorter barrel meant he would need to be closer, probably within two hundred meters. But along with increasing the chance of a kill shot, it also increased the risk to Dexter. Chatsworth’s security team would likely be able to pinpoint his position quickly. So take the shot and then get the hell out of there. He moved easily through the jungle. The night vision goggles worked like a charm and soon enough, he came to the start of a clearing that surrounded a large swath of manicured grounds. Even out here in the middle of the rain forest, the wealthy could carve out an enclave for themselves without repercussions. Dexter grinned. Usually without repercussions. The main house had a lot of lights on and Dexter shucked the NVGs, stowing them away in his ruck. Bright interior lights blew out his goggles and he couldn’t see crap. He’d use his own sight from here on out. He found a high piece of ground and tucked himself slowly into it. Ordinarily, constructing a sniper hide took hours and was slow grueling work. You had to conceal it perfectly and that normally entailed seeing it in daylight to make sure nothing looked out of place. But Dexter didn’t have the luxury of time. Chatsworth was due to leave this villa tomorrow and travel further into the jungle to inspect the deforestation efforts. That was when his security team would be on full alert. But here, in Chatsworth’s private villa, they were more relaxed, surrounded as they were by inhospitable jungle on all sides. Who would ever try to travel through such dangerous terrain to reach them? Dexter and the Koala Intelligence Agency would. He sipped some water through the hydration bladder hose in his ruck and allowed himself a few bites of the eucalyptus crackers that the folks in research had designed for missions like this. They were calorically-dense, but packed with energy and vitamins and caffeine. He slid the butt of the MK22 into his shoulder and rested his face against the stock, willing himself to settle down his breathing after the taxing hike to get there. Chatsworth always ended his nights with a cigar and a snifter of brandy. Now, all Dexter had to do was wait.