By midday, heat baked off the jungle in waves that warped the still air and stunned the human mind into a dull stupor. Triage hid in the hot bush, silent, his breath thin and shallow as he peered through the leaves at Mac. The day was eerily quiet—no artillery firing in the distance, no choppers cutting through the air, nothing that gave any indication they were in the midst of battle. The only movement came from the soldier picking his way through the low brush, kicking rocks as he wandered away from his camp.
From the shadows, Triage watched. And waited.
When he was sure no one followed Mac, Triage slipped closer, moving through the undergrowth with a stealth common to his people, but that the Americans were unable to counter. Closer, closer, Triage crept around branches without rustli
