"Mr. T.B. We have to go back to the camp to call the police to investigate the scene. You should not touch the dead body. You must preserve the scene so as not to lose important evidence."
Anderson Jr. Seely yanked T.B.'s arm, his fingers digging in, while T.B. crouched, gripping a tree branch, prodding at the bloated corpse. The stench of decay filled the air, a sickly sweet rot that made Anderson gag. The body had been in the water too long—swollen flesh peeling, eyes eaten away by scavengers. The once-human thing was barely recognizable.
T.B. barely reacted. He'd seen worse. This corpse was only terrifying in the way it had surprised him—lurking beneath the surface like some monstrous thing waiting to drag him under. He had seen men die screaming, throats gushing blood, eyes wide with horror as machetes hacked them apart in the African mines. Compared to those horrors, this corpse was nothing.
"Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely, let me look at this corpse for a bit. Then we go. If we wait for the police, the animals will strip it to the bone. We are in the gold mine prospecting area of Kivalina Resources Limited Liabilities Company. I do not want Sir William Smith to consider me irresponsible in the face of potential threats to his assets."
Anderson Jr. Seely exhaled sharply. Exhaustion clawed at his muscles, but T.B. had a point.
"And I'm not his boss. I couldn't order him around. Oh wait—I'm his boss. I own 20% of Kivalina Resources Limited Liabilities Company. But try giving orders to this f**king killing machine and see how far it gets you," Anderson thought bitterly.
"Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely, why weren't you afraid when we were underwater?" T.B. suddenly asked.
"I was terrified. But I figured if I was saving someone, he wouldn't harm me. Because if he did, he wouldn't escape his own accident. Besides, you were so scared, I had to keep my shit together."
"I wasn't scared," T.B. muttered, rubbing his sore cheek. Anderson's slaps had been brutal. "I've seen worse corpses than that. I was just shocked because the head suddenly popped out."
"Mr. T.B., I'm sorry. But I had to snap you out of it. You could have killed us both."
"I know, Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely. It's okay. Thank you for saving my life. Mr. Anderson—"
T.B. froze. His face drained of color.
Then, like a bullet, he bolted for the truck. "Hurry up! Miss Layla Smith—"
Anderson's heart slammed against his ribs. He chased after T.B., barely keeping up.
T.B. wrenched open the driver's side door, yanked a box from beneath the seat. Embossed across the lid: Glock 17 9x19mm Parabellum.
He snapped the box open, loaded the magazine, chambered a round, and stuffed the gun into his waistband.
Anderson's breath hitched. He recognized that gun. The same one that had been jammed against his skull a month ago.
T.B. screamed, "Anderson! Get in! Now!"
Anderson barely had time to buckle before T.B. floored the accelerator, tires screeching, sending dirt flying.
A barrage of questions erupted from Anderson. "What's going on? Who's the dead man? What killed him? When did he die?"
T.B. gave only one answer.
"Hanta is fake."
Anderson's blood turned to ice.
"STOP THE CAR! THE GARAND M1 RIFLE!" he roared.
T.B. slammed the brakes. The truck skidded, throwing them forward.
A muzzle flash tore through the darkness. The bullet punched through the windshield, missing T.B.'s head by inches, lodging in the seat's backrest.
The two men didn't need to speak. They threw open their doors, hit the dirt, and crawled for cover.
Floodlights from the camp flicked on, turning the night into day. A voice boomed.
"Mr. T.B.! Mr. Anderson! Throw the gun! Hands up! Step forward! Or I put a bullet in Miss Layla Smith's skull!"
T.B. flung the Glock 17 away. Hands raised, he stepped forward. Anderson followed, his mind racing.
Then Anderson did something unexpected—he yanked T.B. behind him, shielding him with his own body.
Hanta emerged from the camp shadows, gripping a Garand M1 rifle. Layla Smith was in front of him, bound, terror-stricken. The rifle's muzzle was pressed against the back of her head.
"Move twenty yards from the truck. Miss Smith, climb in. No sudden moves, or I'll decorate the ground with your brains."
They obeyed. Hanta shoved Layla onto the truck bed, bound her ankles, climbed in, and gunned the engine.
T.B. sprinted after them, desperation ripping his throat raw. "Miss Layla Smith! I WILL FIND YOU!"
He ran until his legs gave out, collapsing to his knees, panting.
Just a few minutes after, a hand gripped his shoulder. Without looking up, he rasped, "I have to call Sir William Smith."
Anderson's voice, sharp as a blade, cut through the night. "Find your Glock first. We won't get the chance to call William Smith."
T.B. didn't have time to ask, "Why?"
A terrible explosion erupted from the camp, a thunderous shockwave tearing through the air, ripping apart everything in its path. The night flashed white, then red, as a roaring fireball shot skyward, splitting the silence with a deafening boom.
The impact hit like a freight train. T.B. barely had time to turn before the shockwave slammed into him, a brutal wall of force lifting him off his feet and hurling him backward. The ground came up hard and fast, his back smashing against the rocky terrain as burning air scorched his skin. His ears exploded with pain, a high-pitched ringing drowning out everything else.
Debris rained down like shrapnel—splintered wood, jagged metal, chunks of earth—pummeling his body. A blast of heat rolled over him, scorching the air in his lungs, making him gag on the thick, acrid smoke that swallowed everything.
He tried to move but his limbs felt sluggish, his mind reeling from the sheer force of the explosion. The world spun, the edges of his vision blurred with searing orange flames that devoured the remains of the camp.
Then—a hand yanked him up. Anderson Jr. Seely. His mouth was moving, but T.B. could only hear a distant, muffled roar, as if he were underwater.
The camp was gone. Obliterated.
And Layla was gone with Hanta—or whoever had faked Hanta. Whoever did this hadn't just come to kill; they'd come to erase everything.