The Judas Strain by James Rollins

persistence? To just silence them, to cover their tracks? Or was it something more personal? Monk pictured the one masked man toppling into the waters, clipped by one of his wild shots. Or was it revenge?
    Whatever the reason, the raiding party was not settling for just the spoils—they wanted blood.
    Graff choked at the burning air as he straightened. “Where are we going?”
    “Back to visit our friends.”
    Monk led Graff into the jungle fringe. Steps away, the crimson sea of crabs chattered and clattered. If anything, their numbers had grown over the past few minutes, perhaps drawn by their voices or the fresh blood from Graff ’s seeping shoulder.
    The marine researcher balked at the edge of the clearing. “There’s no way through those crabs. Those giant claws can rip through leather. I’ve seen them take off fingers.”
    And they were fast.
    Monk danced back as a pair of crabs, locked in mortal combat, rushed past them, sharp legs a blur, as fast as any jackrabbit.
    “It’s not like we have much choice,” Monk said.
    “And there’s something wrong with these crabs,” the researcher continued. “I’ve witnessed some of their aggression during migrations, but nothing of this caliber.”
    “You can psychoanalyze them later.” Monk pointed to a large neighboring tree. A Tahitian chestnut. The evergreen was draped with many low branches. “Can you climb that?”
    Graff clutched his wounded arm to his belly, trying to keep from moving it too much. “I’ll need help. But why? It won’t hide us from the pirates. We’ll be sitting ducks.”
    “Just climb.” Monk walked him to the tree and helped him scale the first few terraces. The branches were thick and easy to grab. Graff managed well even on his own, climbing higher.
    Monk dropped down, landing near a crab. It raised both pincers in threat. No leaving the party early, buddy . Monk kicked him back into the hordes of his brethren, then called back to Graff. “Can you see the tunnel opening?”
    “I think…yes, I can.” Graff shifted in the tree. “You’re not leaving me up here, are you?”
    “Just whistle when you see the pirates.”
    “What are you—?”
    “Just do it, for Christ’s sake!” Monk regretted the harshness of his tone. He had to remind himself that the man was not military. But Monk’s mind was stacked with worries of his own. He pictured his wife and baby girl. He was not about to lose his life to a bunch of cutthroats or a forest full of Red Lobster entrées.
    Monk crossed to the jungle clearing and stepped to the edge of the churning, snapping horde. He lifted his pistol in one hand and balanced his grip with his prosthetic one. He tilted his head and breathed through his nose.
    C’mon, let’s see what you got…
    He heard a noise from the chestnut tree behind him. It sounded like air leaking out of a half-deflated balloon.
    “They’re coming!” he heard the man whisper, tension plainly sucking the wind out of his whistle.
    Monk aimed across the clearing. He had one round, one shot.
    Across the forest glade a pair of air tanks rested against the foot of a boulder. Earlier, as they were stripping out of their suits, Monk had Graff pass him his bio-suit’s air tank. The portable air cartridges were lightweight, constructed of an aluminum alloy. Using the ankle holster from his pistol, Monk had quickly bound the doctor’s tank together with his own and pitched the package in an underhanded throw across to the far side of the jungle clearing. The tanks had crashed amid the crabs, crushing a pair and sending their neighbors scurrying.
    Monk took a bead upon the tanks now, steadying his aim with both flesh and prosthetics.
    “They’re here!” Graff moaned.
    Monk squeezed the trigger.
    The blast froze the image in his mind for a split second—then one of the pressurized tanks spat a brief flash of flame. The bound tanks spun and clattered, hissing and jumping. Then the second tank’s nozzle cracked and the dance