Instinct: A Chess Team Adventure - By Jeremy Robinson Page 0,80

Asia, the Ngoui retreated to the mountains, lived in seclusion, and slowly died out for lack of resources as humanity encroached. What remains of them, some twenty-five females, are what natural selection has left us with after so many generations of hiding and hunting. Savages with a spark of intelligence. A spark that is much brighter in their offspring. But they are all that are left. They are the last . . .” Weston looked into Bishop’s eyes. “. . . of the Neanderthals.”

Neanderthals? Bishop’s stunned expression was impossible to mask.

Weston smiled with delight that his revelation had made an impression. “But with my help the species is making a comeback and is reclaiming the land that had been theirs long before the first human learned to speak. Which, I’m afraid, is bad news for you . . . especially given your size.”

Just as Bishop’s mind began to pull back the curtain of the veiled threat, Weston’s voice issued a quiet order to Lucy. She sprang up from the rock in an instant, bouncing off a second rock, and dove toward Bishop. She moved like lightning and Bishop’s broad body made an easy target. He managed to bring his fist around, catching the girl in the gut, but not before she swept her outstretched, sharp-clawed fingers deep into his throat, cutting through arteries, windpipe, Adam’s apple, and spine.

As the girl fell to the rocky shoreline, gasping for breath, chunks of Bishop’s destroyed throat splashed into the river. Bishop fell to his knees. His head tilted back and then fell to the side, connected only by a thin wisp of flesh and spine. As his body fell back, his hand stretched out an open palm, then fell limp. With a splash, Bishop’s big body landed in the shallows of the river.

Weston stood above the body and petted the girl’s head.

Lucy looked up at Weston. “Why, Father?” she asked, more curious than remorseful.

“He was too big.”

“Red?”

Weston nodded. “We can’t let her have children again.” He pushed Bishop’s body out into the river, which swept him away. Blood plumed into the water from Bishop’s open neck. Weston looked down at Lucy. “The fish will thank us.”

With that the two turned and left, Lucy carrying the dead fish, Weston the fishing pole. They didn’t give Bishop’s body a second glance.

Behind the rock wall that hid him from view, Rook’s body shook with rage. He’d heard everything . . . seen everything. Only Bishop’s final act—his outstretched palm, which could have just as easily been an involuntary death twitch—had kept him firmly rooted in his hiding spot.

He clenched his fists as the image of Bishop’s throat being ripped apart replayed in his mind. No one could recover from that. Not even Bishop. Rook crept back into the shadows of the boulders that lined the river.

He waited in silence, controlling his breathing, his anger, like he’d seen Bishop do so often.

When he was sure no one was watching, he began scaling the cliff wall, all the while making a mental checklist of everyone he needed to introduce to a bullet, or any other sharp object he could find. Hell, blunt objects would work just as well. Whether or not Rook would get his revenge was uncertain. The mission still took precedence and he wouldn’t let Bishop’s death be in vain. Reconnecting with the team and getting Pawn and the blood sample out of the jungle and back to the States were still the priority. If Weston, or Cha-Ka, or any of the “old wenches” happened to get in the way—or remotely close to the way—Rook wouldn’t back down.

THIRTY-SIX

QUEEN’S EYES OPENED and saw nothing but black. She’d been knocked unconscious during the brutally efficient attack. She could see specks of light filtering through holes in the hood over her head. The smell of rotting fish filled her nose with each breath. She wasn’t sure if it was from the hood or her captor’s body—a body she was now inspecting without moving a muscle.

The shoulder beneath her was broad. The gait felt long and the steps were heavy, punishing her stomach with every jolt. The back was interesting—covered in thick hair.

A man, Queen thought.

But something was off. First, there was too much hair. Even the hairiest Italian didn’t sport a back patch that thick. Second was the attack itself. She’d done battle with the best the world had to offer and always came out on top. These guys had not only subdued her, but King as well. Killing