Lost Contact (The Bridge Sequence Book One), Nathan Hystad [primary phonics books .TXT] 📗

“Did you have any luck hiring someone else?” Marcus asked.

“Sadly, no.”

“What about that one from Germany… what’s her name?”

“Elise… and she’s a hard no.”

“I remember Elise. She was quite the...” Marcus smiled, and I threw a throw pillow at him.

“This isn’t a joke. We’re supposed to be leaving for Madagascar tomorrow, and we’re missing our pilot.” I climbed into a pair of jeans and tossed on a short-sleeved shirt, buttoning it up.

“Hunter has cash. He can hire locals—”

“Locals can be bought by the cultists. This mystery is running deep. I can’t help but think Castro would have been safe if it wasn’t for us,” I said.

Marcus shook his head, as if trying to convince himself that wasn’t true. “They couldn’t have known. It was last minute, the bush plane pilot paid in cash. He must have been tied up in something else.”

“You know what, he was always smoking cigars. He probably had a few too many beers and lit his porch on fire.”

Marcus’ eyes blinked wider. “Is that why you called him Castro? The cigars?”

“The very same reason.” After adding some deodorant and a splash of cologne, I moved for the exit. “Let’s find out what Hunter wants to do.”

And we were back in the elevator after too short of a sleep. “Did you get any rest?” I asked Marcus.

We were alone, and he leaned against the wall. “Barely. This whole thing has me wound up. How do you do it?”

“It’s new to me too. Usually, we’re investigating one site, and we have a far larger team of professionals. This worries me. Tripp is a concern.”

“What’s the guy’s deal?” Marcus asked, and I glanced at the numbers, seeing we had six floors to go.

“Navy SEAL. Single. Never married. He’s a killer, Marcus. That’s why Hunter brought him on. He knows his way around a vast array of weapons, and he understands how to stalk and evade better than ninety-nine percent of the population.”

The doors opened, and Marcus held still for a moment. “Is he on our side?”

“Let’s hope so.”

The place was busier in the late hour, and I checked the time, wondering if it was the next day yet. It was almost eleven. The bar was loud, filled with well-dressed patrons drinking heavily as music played from unseen speakers. I scanned the room, spotting Tripp with Hunter Madison at a private table apart from the action.

We walked toward them, and I tried to avoid getting a spilled martini dumped on my shirt while Marcus stopped at a table, chatting with three clearly intoxicated ladies. I reached for his arm, leading him away. “Not the time.”

He shrugged an apology and followed me through the busy lounge.

Hunter looked annoyed as we arrived, and he craned his neck to see around me. “Where’s the pilot?”

I swallowed and explained the recent events. All of them.

He coughed and sank into his seat. “Then we’re at a disadvantage. They know. But how?”

“Who’s they?” Tripp asked.

“The Believers.”

“That cult? Do we really think a group of nutcases could have beaten us to the remote outback? They’d have to be…” Tripp paused and glanced at Hunter as he nodded.

“Tripp, they’ll be on our heels this entire time,” our benefactor said slowly.

“But why?” Marcus asked. “I thought they were into these redeemers, not the Bridge.”

“They are connected, just not in the way you might assume. One thing you should know is that they want the Bridge; not to open it, but to destroy it,” Hunter said.

A waiter appeared, wearing all black, his expression telling me he was ready to close this place down and go home. “What’ll you have?”

“Coffee.”

“Make that two,” Marcus said, sliding in beside Tripp. I went next to Hunter, and we waited until the guy was out of ear’s reach before speaking again.

“You can’t be too careful. I fear they’re in this very room. They’re always listening.” Hunter sounded slightly ridiculous, but he might have been right. I found myself looking around as inconspicuously as I could. A woman and a man bumbled their way to the booth behind us, the man slurring loudly as he shouted for another drink.

Hunter frowned and lowered his voice. “If we don’t finish this team off by tomorrow, our window to the stone forest narrows. My contact is expecting us, and I don’t know if we can slip in otherwise.”

The woman behind us spun around, kneeling on the bench to face us. “I hear Tsingy is beautiful this time of year.”

The man with her started complaining, and she waved him away dismissively. “I think you should head out, love.”

This angered him, and he stood, stumbling over to her. “I bought you dinner. The least you could do is—”

I jumped from my seat and stepped between them. “You heard the lady. Time to exit.”

The waiter arrived with the coffees, and he set them on our table. “Everything okay?”

I tilted my chin, waiting for this drunk buffoon to answer. He lifted his hands and walked away, returning to the bar in search of easier prey.

“You really didn’t need to do that,” the blonde woman said. She was smiling, her cheeks just slightly ruddy. “I can take care of myself.”

“Do you mind? We’re having a private conversation,” Hunter advised her.

She wasn’t dressed like the other guests at the hotel. She had on high-waisted jeans, the legs faded, and hiking boots with a black tee. “Veronica Jones at your disposal.” She walked closer, attempting to shake Hunter’s hand.

He didn’t oblige. “As I was saying, we’re—”

“I know who you are, Mr. Madison. And I also know this gentleman.” She indicated me.

“And what, pray tell, do you want?” Hunter asked angrily.

“You have a problem, and I want in.”

“You’re a pilot?” Tripp asked, eyeing her up and down like a predator on the hunt for a kill.

“Sure. Fly pretty much any type of birds, mostly Chinooks and Hawks, but I’ve tried ‘em all. Planes too. There’s nothing like the loud, cramped, and sweaty cockpit of a Cessna zooming across the Indian Ocean.”

Hunter’s lips