Michael
I lower my head, drawn by the crack of a branch under the sole of my sneaker. The jungle air is so heavy that my T-shirt and hair stick to my skin. My sweaty palm slips around the grip of my gun. Each breath becomes denser and more unpleasant than the last as our steps sink into the muddy ground. José and Chuy lead the way, their AK-47s pushing aside the branches that scratch us with every step.
A sudden movement in the trees catches my attention. I lift my head just before a flock of birds takes off into the sky. Every snap, every rustle of leaves puts me on alert.
“Michael, look at this.”
Moreno points out an energy-bar wrapper abandoned in front of a trunk. He crouches to examine the soil and digs up a cigarette butt. We follow a barely visible trail, but all the signs show
