The Black Hawk’s blades were already spinning.

  The high electrical whine of the rotors filled the air with chaos. When you cross beneath them to reach the body of the bird, you instinctively duck your head like a turtle—even though you could walk through ten feet tall, spine straight, and be just fine. People think helicopters speed up before they take off. Like there’s some dramatic wind-up.

  There isn’t.

  The blades are already moving as fast as they’re going to move. The ground simply gives up its hold, and suddenly you’re lifting. And then you’re gone.A Black Hawk can carry about fourteen fully equipped soldiers. Today there are six of us.

  “It’s beautiful here,” Smith says, staring out the window.

  Each of us wears a headset for communication, our voices riding through the constant mechanical howl.

  He’s not wrong.

  The mountains roll endlessly beneath us, jagged and enormous. No roads. No towns. No power lines. Just miles of stone and wind—vast stretches of earth that look like they’ve never belonged to anyone. The higher we climb, the colder the air becomes.

  “I’m married too,” Smith adds after a moment.

  Rodriguez grins wide.

  “How many kids?”

  Espellier leans forward slightly, adjusting his headphones, curious.

  “One,” Smith says. “Baby girl. Born last year.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  He pulls a photograph from his breast pocket and holds it up.

  “How many you got?” Espellier asks Rodriguez.

  “Three,” Rodriguez says casually. “Four soon. She’s pregnant right now.”

  Both Espellier and Smith stare at each other.

  Their composure collapses at the exact same time.

  “Bro,” Espellier says slowly, “are you trying to build your own squad?”

  Rodriguez just laughs.

  “How about you?” Smith asks Espellier.

  “No kids. No wife.”

  Espellier shrugs.

  “Spent most of my youth fishing with my father. Bermuda.”

  Rodriguez squints at him.

  “I was wondering about that accent. It’s like British… but with a Jamaican twist.”

  Espellier shrugs again.

  “I don’t hear my accent.”

  Then he points across the cabin.

  “And you sound Mexican as fuck.”

  The cabin erupts.

  “Wait,” Rodriguez says, leaning forward. “Bermuda? Like the triangle?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is it scary out there? Being on the ocean like that?”

  Espellier tilts his head.

  “Hurricanes are worrisome. But when you grow up somewhere, it just becomes normal.”

  He looks out the window at the mountains below.

  “And we fish in the Devil’s water all the time. Plenty of people do.”

  Rodriguez points at him again.

  “Yeah, but have you ever seen anything?”

  Espellier pauses.

  “One time.”

  He glances around the helicopter like he’s making sure no one else can hear. Which is ridiculous.We’re all wearing headsets.

  “This one time,” he says quietly, “me and my father went out before sunrise.”

  His eyes grow wide. His stare drifts somewhere far away.

  “We saw it.”

  The whole cabin leans in.

  “What was it?” Smith asks.

  Espellier lets the silence stretch.

  “We saw her.”

  Another beat.

  “Big. Snarly. Hairy beast.”

  Everyone waits.

  “Evans’ mother.”

  Evans launches across the cabin.

  The sudden onslaught rocks the helicopter until the captain’s voice cuts sharply through the headset.

  “Gentlemen,” the pilot says, dry as sandpaper, “need I remind you we’re about four thousand feet above the earth riding in a Coke can powered by a goddamn ceiling fan?”

  That cools things down

  The mountains rise toward us as the helicopter begins its descent.Massive ridges of black stone and wind-cut valleys. The pilot brings us down about fifty meters from the cave entrance.Dust and gravel whip across the landing zone.The skids touch. Doors open.We jump out. Just boots on rock and the short walk toward the mouth of the mountain.

  The cave waits.