The rain fell in steady and cold ribbons. It turned the jungle floor into a stew of mud, roots, and waterlogged decay. Sawyer moved ahead without speaking. He picked up an AK-47 off one of the dead GCP soldiers which was now slung tight against his chest.

  Four of the GCP soldiers were dead, but there had been a fifth who escaped like the coward he was. Intent on finding him, they followed the faint tracks deeper through the trees. They soon found a disturbed trail. Marks dragged across the soil. There was crushed grass and boot treads half swallowed by the earth.

  Cormac kept glancing up like he expected to fall into a trap.

  Then they saw the last shack.

  It sat low in a sunken clearing. It was a lopsided structure built of moldy planks and dented corrugated steel. The walls were patched with burlap. Chicken bones hung outside strung with beads and foreign bone charms.

  The moment they reached the porch, Sawyer caught the smell. It wasn’t just the smell of death, but also the metallic scent of blood; except, it wasn’t sweet and it wasn’t fresh. There was a medicinal edge to it. Instead of an inviting aroma, it made his lips curl.

  He waved his hand for them to continue.

  Cormac stepped wide and moved to the flank. His eyes were still haunted from the outpost fighting and the coursing adrenaline.

  Sawyer stepped up to the shack and pressed his boot to the door.

  It creaked inward. He held his AK-47 up.

  That horrid smell and the darkness greeted them.

  Inside, the temperature dropped. The air was wet and still. The floorboard bowed, spongy beneath their boots. Sawyer swept the corner with his rifle. Cormac took the opposite side. It was silent.

  Inside the shack, it was like a gallery.

  Glass jars lined the walls, on every shelf and sagging table. They were packed along the walls and suspended in thick green liquid. There were eyeballs, hundreds of them in all sizes. They weren’t all human. Some had irises the color of lapis while others had shades of milky yellow and a reptilian gaze.

  In the center of the room, appeared a man. He wasn’t there when they breached, he couldn’t have been, the shack was too small and there was nowhere to hide. He simply appeared out of nowhere.

  “Woah!” Cormac cried out. He pressed himself back into the corner, rifle raised.

  Sawyer rushed to his side.

  They snapped their guns up and trained them on the man.

  He wore a long wine red coat with a velvet collar. His hair was slicked black and curled behind his ears like a 1930’s jazz performer. His face was pale and almost powdered and yet perfectly untouched by sweat or dirt.

  “Evening, gentlemen,” he said. His accent was clipped and precise like a Cambridge professor. “Forgive my ambiance. But your intrusion is unexpected.”

  Sawyer didn’t lower his rifle. “Hands where I can see them.”

  “I’d rather not,” the man said. “But since we’re being polite, introductions then. You’ve stepped into my supper club. My name is Exavier Sterling. I usually don’t host Americans…”

  Cormac grunted. “Is this a joke?”

  “Only if you don’t laugh.”

  Exavier stepped away from the center table and gestured around the shack with both hands. “It’s rude to interrupt my dinner, but I understand. The four men outside…that’s a real shame. They were the tastiest ones I could find in the region.”

  “You’re a vampire?” Sawyer asked.

  “You were feeding on soldiers?” Cormac questioned.

  “They’re just a snack,” Exavier said. His face flickered with something darker. “They were my blood pets. I gave them comfort and they gave me sustenance. I was clear with them. No compulsion and no cruelty. I provided them with perks, mostly cash. You’ll find their stash in the corner. White bricks. Locally sourced. Well…Columbia is close enough.”

  “You paid them with cocaine?” Sawyer asked.

  Cormac spat. “You’re a parasite.”

  “I’m a traveler,” Exavier corrected. “Traveling is expensive in the modern age. And the company I keep requires a lot of worldly travel. Harland Morrow expects a lot from me. I used to think Panama was so promising, like a fine red, but now? It’s all soured blood and vinegar ever since the cartels got involved. They really suck the fun out of the situation.”

  Sawyer’s stomach twisted. “You know Harland Morrow?”

  Exavier looked mildly offended. “We’ve played tennis together since 1973. Of course I know him. I thought everyone in Panama knew Harland Morrow.”

  Sawyer kept his rifle raised. His sights were fixed on the vampire’s head. Exavier Sterling stood there like he was poised for a painting. His silk gloved hand rested on his hip. The other idly toyed with one of his many jeweled necklaces. His eyes were pale and ancient, but irritatingly amused with the situation.

  “He’s armed,” Cormac whispered.

  Exavier glanced down at the tip of the scabbard poking out from behind his trousers. “Virginia has been with me for a long time. Less like a sword and more like family at this point. We have a long and violent history.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Did Harland turn you?” Sawyer asked.

  That made Exavier chuckle. The sound was dry and tinged with contempt. “It’s not polite to ask about that kind of thing. It’s like asking a prisoner why he’s getting twenty-five to life.”

  “Oh, sorry to offend you,” Sawyer said, sarcastically.

  “It’s fine…and no…Harland played no part in my transformation.”

  Sawyer’s eyes narrowed. “Then who did?”

  Exavier spread his arms. “A Viking who lived long enough to be a Spaniard. A filthy little creature who smelled of musk and desperation. He left me to die outside Portobelo in 1780. He ran a blade through me in a drunken duel. I barely survived. He came to my bedside in the hospital, just after midnight, and gave me a simple choice. I could die slowly. Or I could live forever.”

  Sawyer’s mouth went dry.

  Exavier watched the realization hit and smiled wider. “Yes, I’m old, boys. I’m nearly as old as the founding of the United States, although I couldn’t make it for the signing of the Declaration of Independence. I’ve seen empires collapse and I’ve drank the blood of emperors. I’ve stolen their gold, too. Lots of it, actually.”

  Sawyer shifted. He remembered the silver dagger in his ankle holster. Reaching down for it would be tricky. It might be impossible to unsheathe it before Exavier struck him down. He spoke to stall the vampire a little longer while he considered his options. “You saw the ancient world?”

  “I helped draw some of the borders,” Exavier said, proudly. “I once raided merchant vessels with Bartholomew Sharp. Ever heard of him? Pirate Prince of the Pacific. We slit throats in Spanish territory and burned settlements for joy and profit. I liked the chaos. Still do. It suits me, makes this dull life worth living.”

  “You were a pirate?” Cormac asked.

  He glanced over. Cormac’s eyes kept glancing down at his leg. He was also thinking about that silver dagger.

  Exavier’s smile thinned into something meaner. “I was a predator long before I had fangs. It was a natural progression and a way of life.”

  “So why come here, to Panama?” Sawyer asked. “Just because of Harland?”

  “Because Panama,” Exavier said, sweeping his arms, “is a place where the lines of morality blur and where money buys power which will influence the coming age. In Panama, bodies vanish without consequences. It’s a paradise for the wicked. The corporate moguls love it here. They scurry in the dark like rats, making deals they don’t fully understand. There is just enough law to look civilized, but it can all be bought.”

  Exavier stepped forward. “While this has been mildly entertaining, you’ve intruded long enough. You really should consider fleeing.”

  Sawyer’s spine stiffened.

  Exavier paused. “But you won’t run, will you?”

  In one smooth motion, Cormac crouched down and unsheathed his silver dagger. His eyes never left Exavier, who just stood there and watched him, amused.

  “You think this is funny?” Cormac said. He sheathed his pistol and readied his dagger. “You think I’m going to let you just walk away? What’s with all of these eyeballs in glass jars? Are these all of your victims?”

  Exavier exhaled. “The eyeballs are Harland’s thing. He’s really demented, you know. He’s quite a sick individual. He likes to leave little ‘momentos’ around to remind the soldiers of his presence. It’s all fear and tactics and blah blah blah. Now—listen here—I’m only dining here and you’ve ruined my evening. I’ll make you a deal…it involves me walking out of here and you not doing a thing about it. Deal?”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Sawyer snapped.

  Exavier’s tone didn’t change. His eyes flicked to Cormac. “You. You’re not like him. You listen. You understand nuance. You know what it means to follow orders. I can see it. You’ve always been a loyal soldier haven’t you?”

  Cormac blinked.

  Sawyer’s finger tightened on the trigger of his AK-47. “Cormac—don’t listen to him.”

  “Always in his shadow,” Exavier continued, voice rich and velvety. “Always the one following behind. You don’t have true power like your brother. But what if I told you…you could lead?”

  “Shut your mouth,” Sawyer snapped. “You don’t know us! Stop talking!”

  “Cormac,” Exavier whispered. His voice curled through the air like an intoxicating incense. “Listen to me. There is evil in the room, but it’s not me. There is an evil monster right beside you. Kill him.”

  The silver blade flashed in an arc.

  Sawyer pivoted just in time. The edge of Cormac’s silver blade missed his neck by inches. But he wasn’t done as he reared back and prepared to strike again. Cormac gritted his teeth and his eyes were bulging red and filled with rage.

  “Cormac! No!”

  Cormac slammed into Sayer. His eyes turned vacant and his breathing went shallow. In those moments of struggle, he gained a newfound strength and speed which terrified Sawyer. He grabbed Sawyer’s neck and slammed him to the ground. And then that flash of silver came down again, threatening to pierce his forehead.

  Sawyer rolled hard and caught his brother’s wrist. He grabbed and twisted with all of his strength. The blade slipped out of Cormac’s hands. They crashed into the wall of glass jars. Fluid and eyeballs rained down onto them. Cormac grunted and growled, and struggled as Sawyer grappled him and held him in a chokehold.

  “Cormac! Stop this!”

  After seconds of struggle, Cormac’s eyes blinked. The fog lifted.

  “Sawyer?” he rasped. “What are you—?”

  Sawyer shoved him off, panting.

  Cormac unsheathed his sidearm and raised it instinctually toward the center of the shack. But he aimed at nothing. The shack door behind them creaked softly.

  Exavier Sterling was gone.

  They sat in silence for what felt like minutes. The rain intensified outside and slammed into the tin roof. The shack swayed gently with each gust of wind. Cormac sat on the floor, pale and quiet, and shook his head in disbelief.

  “I heard you,” Cormac whispered. “I knew it was a trick, and still…I couldn’t stop it.” He turned to Sawyer. “Is that how it feels when you—” He couldn’t complete the sentence. He just looked back down at his boots. “I feel so helpless.”

  Sawyer’s voice was flat. “He tried to make you kill me.”

  “I was watching myself do it. It was like an out of body experience.”

  Sawyer stared at the jars of eyes on the wall. The way they watched them irritated him. “This whole country is infected with monsters and their tricks. Everything keeps leading back to Harland Morrow.”

  Cormac nodded. “So what now?”

  Sawyer looked toward the duffel bag that Exavier had mentioned. The stash.

  He opened it.

  Inside were stacks of American cash in tight bands, about ten thousand dollars. Beneath it were bricks of cocaine taped and stamped with a sigil of two fangs.

  “This is payment,” Sawyer muttered. “This is how Exavier bought loyalty. They gave him blood and he gave them drugs.”

  Cormac stepped beside him. “You look like you have a plan.”

  Sawyer nodded. “It’s time we take a page out of the CIA handbook. If we need more information on Harland Morrow’s whereabouts, we need sources. We need eyes and ears.” He grabbed the duffel bag. “Time to buy leverage.”