Sacrifice

She was just thirty feet from the hut. Agamemnon disappeared inside.

A volley of gunfire exploded across the camp. Annja felt hot lead zipping past her head. She ducked and zigzagged across the compound. Agamemnon’s people must have had their weapons closer than she realized.

I have to get out of here!

Annja took a hard right and ran between two huts, the sword leading the way. A young man stepped in her path and aimed his AK-47 at her. Annja leaped into the air and screamed as she came down, swinging the sword.

The man dropped dead and Annja ran on.

Ahead of her, she could see the thick jungle. She ran for the twisted vines and warped tree trunks as if the devil himself was on her tail.

She entered the foliage.

Under the dense canopy, the air grew even thicker. Annja didn’t think the terrorists behind her would stop. She needed to put some real distance between them.

Annja pressed on, using the sword to cut a swath through the dense jungle.

Suddenly she stopped. They’ll track me if I keep doing this, she thought.

She sighed. As much as she hated doing it, she closed her eyes and returned the sword to the otherwhere.

Annja opened her eyes again and took a deep breath. From here on out, it gets tough, she thought. I’ll have to take my time and creep through this jungle if I have any hope of getting out of here alive. The more I fight it, the quicker it will win.

Annja parted a blanket of vines in front of her, carefully moving them out of the way just enough for her to get past. Once she did so, she turned and slid them back into position.

She hoped her pursuers would think she had magically disappeared.

Annja looked overhead and all around. The color was the same anywhere she turned. Green.

How in the world am I going to get out of this mess?

3

Agamemnon watched as his men scampered about the camp collecting themselves and their weapons. The carcass of his man lay in the dirt, staining the ground with dark blood and gore. The air stunk of his death and it only made the rage growing in Agamemnon’s chest swell even further. Already hundreds of tiny flies and mosquitoes fed upon the corpse.

One of his men noticed the sudden invasion of bugs and came over. “Shall we dispose of Jojo’s body?”

Agamemnon watched as the flies seemed to form one undulating mass as they crawled over Jojo’s body, eagerly feeding. He watched for another full minute and then finally shook his head.

“Leave it.”

“Sir?”

Agamemnon faced him. “I want him left where he died. Let the bugs eat him for all I care. His death is an object lesson to you all. You can never, ever let your guard down. Not for one instant. If you do, the same will happen to you.”

His man blanched. “I understand, sir.”

“Do you think that is cruel of me?”

The man’s eyes never met Agamemnon’s. He was far too scared to look his boss in the eyes. “I understand your intentions, sir.”

“Further,” Agamemnon continued, “if your search parties do not come back with the woman, then all who failed will meet the same fate as Jojo. Am I making myself perfectly clear? I will not tolerate failure.”

“Yes, sir.” The man jerked his hand up in salute and then excused himself.

Agamemnon watched him run away, corralling the other men who would assist him in the search. He could hear the hushed tones they used as they discussed the urgency of the mission before them. Of course, Agamemnon wouldn’t kill them all. That would be foolish of him. There was little sense killing his own troops. But with the image of Jojo’s body still so fresh in their heads, he knew the threat of another death would make his men work harder. It would drive them to turn the jungle upside down.

And then they would find Annja Creed and bring her back to the camp, where Agamemnon could dispose of her properly. After all, her death would play a key role in the events that were about to unfold in Manila.

Agamemnon smiled and turned away from the corpse. He wandered over to his hut. At the steps leading inside, he paused and watched the various search parties fanning out to enter the jungle.

Good luck, he thought to himself.

Inside, he sat down at the small radio console and opened up the channel. A screech of static punctured the humid air, and then he heard the voice he wanted on the other end.

“Yes, sir?”

Agamemnon leaned into the microphone. “Is everything ready, Luis?”

“The package has been delivered as promised. We are in the final stages of preparing it for delivery now.”

“Excellent. And how long do you anticipate it taking?”

“Perhaps the rest of the night. If all goes well, we will leave with it tomorrow morning and have it in position the following day.”

Agamemnon smiled. Luis was his most trusted man. If he set a task before him, he knew Luis would always get it done. Unlike Jojo, Luis would not have let himself be taken so easily.

He leaned back and took a breath. Who would have ever expected that the son of a beggar could have risen so far as Agamemnon had? Certainly not the worthless souls who called themselves his family. They’d forsaken him years ago when he’d revealed his plans to them. The idiots—they were content to stay in the slums he’d grown up in, scavenging a meager existence while the wealthy aristocrats and new entrepreneurs drove past them, oblivious to the children running barefoot in the late night traffic hoping to beg a few coins off of them.

The inequity of the classes had drawn Agamemnon to the promise of change that a revolution offered. And Abu Sayyaf seemed just the organization to grant this chance at making things better.

The problem, as it always seemed to be, was that no one in the upper class would listen to rhetoric. All the protests and words would never make them open their eyes and see the hell that the majority of the population lived in on a daily basis.

Something bigger had to be done. And Abu Sayyaf made the people listen with its bombings and violence. A body count guaranteed news coverage. And it made the people in power pay attention.

Now Agamemnon stood poised on the brink of his biggest accomplishment to date. There was just one final little bump to deal with—the American woman.

Once that was done, everything else would fall right in line and Abu Sayyaf would bring the government of the Philippines to its knees. When it was over, a new power paradigm would rule in its place.

And Agamemnon would be the grand architect of the entire operation.

“You’re a good man, Luis. I know we will enjoy success soon,” he said.

“Inshallah.”

God willing indeed. Agamemnon smiled. In order to gain influence over the men of Abu Sayyaf, Agamemnon had, of course, played on their religious fervor. He knew how it remained one of the most potent methods for controlling the masses. Men stirred into a religious zealotry would do anything if they thought their god demanded it. And radical Islamic fundamentalism seemed a perfect way to accomplish his goals. There were already plenty of examples throughout the Middle East that helped Agamemnon justify certain violent tendencies.

And while he knew true Islam was a religion of peace, Agamemnon had found that any religion could be twisted to the machinations of a man in charge. After all, born-again Christians and fundamentalist Baptists were given to extremes as horrifying as anything al Qaeda had engaged in.