Star Killer
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Chapter 1:- Prologue
The jungle air was hot and humid, the leaves of the trees were heavy with moisture as Virgil Roberts pushed his way through the dense undergrowth. At any other time he would have found the jungle beautiful, but he was too preoccupied now with making good time to think of anything else. Sweat was beading on his brow as he hacked his way through the vegetation, and he hoped that the courier he'd hired before leaving San Cristobal was having an easier time of it than he was.
He could hear the sounds of pursuit behind him, crashing through the rainforest with a speed he couldn't hope to match. But he wasn't concerned with escaping from the men who followed him, only with distracting them long enough for the courier to get out of the country without them realizing it.
Of course, that was assuming that they hadn't spotted him when he was dropping off the letter, but Virgil had to work with that assumption. If they had spotted him, then all of this was for nothing -- the courier was as good as dead and the message was never going to make it to its destination. And if that were the case, then this whole chase was pointless, and he couldn't let himself think that way.
He was skirting the edge of a narrow waterfall when bullets started to fly above his head. Instinctively he dove for the jungle floor, but soon he was cut off by his pursuers, their guns trained squarely at his head.
"Do not move, my friend," called one of the more distant mercenaries as he approached. He was a wiry man, dark-haired and sun-kissed brown, whose camouflage fit him like a second skin, and his English, although not flawless, had surprisingly little accent to it. "We would hate for you to do something foolish now that we have found you."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Virgil said as he got to his feet, hands above his head.
"Ah, your famous dry wit. Excellent. I expect you to keep us entertained on the way back." The mercenary turned to his companions and spoke to them in Spanish. "Restrain him and take him with us," he said. "Keep close watch. We want him alive and... relatively unharmed." He turned back to Virgil and smiled, white teeth in stark contrast to his swarthy skin. "You speak Spanish too, yes?" he asked as two of his men moved in.
"Si," Virgil replied. One of the men grabbed his arms and twisted them roughly behind his back. The other slapped shackles handcuffs around his wrists. "I do."
"Excellent," he said, clapping his hands sharply to draw the attention of his men. "In that case, vamos!"
The muzzle of a rifle jabbed into Virgil's back and he began to walk. If luck was on his side, his message would get to the States in time. He didn't want to think about what would happen if it didn't.
The jungle air was hot and humid, the leaves of the trees were heavy with moisture as Virgil Roberts pushed his way through the dense undergrowth. At any other time he would have found the jungle beautiful, but he was too preoccupied now with making good time to think of anything else. Sweat was beading on his brow as he hacked his way through the vegetation, and he hoped that the courier he'd hired before leaving San Cristobal was having an easier time of it than he was.
He could hear the sounds of pursuit behind him, crashing through the rainforest with a speed he couldn't hope to match. But he wasn't concerned with escaping from the men who followed him, only with distracting them long enough for the courier to get out of the country without them realizing it.
Of course, that was assuming that they hadn't spotted him when he was dropping off the letter, but Virgil had to work with that assumption. If they had spotted him, then all of this was for nothing -- the courier was as good as dead and the message was never going to make it to its destination. And if that were the case, then this whole chase was pointless, and he couldn't let himself think that way.
He was skirting the edge of a narrow waterfall when bullets started to fly above his head. Instinctively he dove for the jungle floor, but soon he was cut off by his pursuers, their guns trained squarely at his head.
"Do not move, my friend," called one of the more distant mercenaries as he approached. He was a wiry man, dark-haired and sun-kissed brown, whose camouflage fit him like a second skin, and his English, although not flawless, had surprisingly little accent to it. "We would hate for you to do something foolish now that we have found you."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Virgil said as he got to his feet, hands above his head.
"Ah, your famous dry wit. Excellent. I expect you to keep us entertained on the way back." The mercenary turned to his companions and spoke to them in Spanish. "Restrain him and take him with us," he said. "Keep close watch. We want him alive and... relatively unharmed." He turned back to Virgil and smiled, white teeth in stark contrast to his swarthy skin. "You speak Spanish too, yes?" he asked as two of his men moved in.
"Si," Virgil replied. One of the men grabbed his arms and twisted them roughly behind his back. The other slapped shackles handcuffs around his wrists. "I do."
"Excellent," he said, clapping his hands sharply to draw the attention of his men. "In that case, vamos!"
The muzzle of a rifle jabbed into Virgil's back and he began to walk. If luck was on his side, his message would get to the States in time. He didn't want to think about what would happen if it didn't.
