In the hands of a Chayacuro marksman, the dart can be accurate at over a hundred feet, a distance that it travels in a shade under one second. Once it leaves the blowgun, there’s no sound. An entire troop of monkeys can be brought down before they grasp the danger. Browsing animals who are narrowly missed continue their peaceful grazing, unafraid. But Chayacuro marksmen don’t often miss.

“Ouch,” Theo said. “Damn.”

Arden glanced at him and saw, to his horror, the slender dart protruding from the back of Theo’s neck. Theo, possibly thinking he was brushing off a stinging insect, reached for it and plucked it out. He and Arden and Frank stood staring at it for a second, then looked up at each other, their eyes frightened. All knew what it was. All knew what it meant. Theo uttered a half sob and flung it to the ground.

When a second dart struck Arden – but miraculously lodged in his backpack – they broke for the cover of the jungle.

“I don’t… think they’re… following us anymore,” Theo gasped.

They’re following us, all right, Arden thought, but said nothing. His heart was pumping crazily and he needed all his breath to keep going. The three Americans had been running for almost ten minutes, pushing clumsily through the jungle and hacking inexpertly away with their machetes when they had to. Moving along what they thought was a diagonal track, they should have reached the path by now, but if they had they must have gone right through it without realizing it. But there was no doubling back to look for it. All they could do was keep going in what Arden thought – prayed – was generally the right direction. The only one to carry a sidearm – a little Beretta semiautomatic – he had pulled it from his holster and now clutched it in his right hand.

There was no doubt in his mind about the Chayacuro being on their trail.