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several fortunes, so he could afford alternatives. They’d built the small concrete building just off the property, where it could annoy as few people as possible.
    But it also created a hole in their security.
    Brennan crept slowly backwards on his hands and knees until he was part-way down the hill and out of the compound’s line of sight. He hadn’t seen an exterior perimeter guard or anyone else keeping eyes outside the electric fence, another mistake. He circled slowly around the base of the hill to the thick foliage of the tree line, following it, just out of reach of the thin white glow of the compound’s bright lights. The jungle was loud, alive with the hum of cicadas and the odd calls from tropical birds. He moved slowly; the trees were full of potential noisemakers, and a fleeing flock would be like a smoke signal to the guards, so hacking through troublesome vines and branches was out of the question. It was laborious, taking a step, then pushing aside foliage, then extracting his boots from the tangled grass and roots, then repeating the process. It slowed him to a few yards every thirty seconds to a minute, and made the trip of three hundred yards seem like miles.
    By the time he checked his watch, twenty-six minutes has passed. It was ten-thirty at night. Brennan crouched low and checked his sight lines. He checked the roving dog handlers with his binoculars, waiting until their view was obstructed by the barracks. He knew he could come in from the left side of the outbuilding and it would prevent them from getting an open look at him; but the whitewashed concrete accentuated the lighting from the compound, meaning he would have to get inside quickly or risk exposure. He scoped the lock on the outbuilding door; it looked like a standard padlock, easily defeated with his combination bolt/wire cutters. He took them out of a pocket in his web belt and quickly covered the ground between the trees and the outbuilding wall. Brennan peeked around the corner, ensuring the patrol wasn’t near enough to spot him or downwind of his scent. Then he quickly reached around and snipped the padlock, discarding it into the grass.
    He opened the door slowly, just wide enough to squeeze inside, then closed it behind him and traded the bolt cutters for his pen light. He had to crouch. The shack was empty save for the generator, a four-feet-by-two-feet metal beast that shuddered and vibrated as it kicked into life. He was relieved nothing had made the shack home; tiny, hot enclosures in the jungle were prime real estate for snakes and spiders. A bite would complicate an already complicated night.
    Disabling the generator was necessary because of the lighting in the compound. But doing it loudly would also serve as a fine distraction. The heat inside the shack was extreme and he sweated heavily. He took his pack off his shoulders and withdrew the timed charge, a wad of C-4 hooked up to a small digital clock, a battery and a pair of contact leads.  He studied the generator for a moment, looking for the fuel tank. Brennan shuffled around to the back side of the big engine, placing the moldable explosive on the tank but out of the line of sight of the door, in case the snipped padlock was discovered prematurely. He moved back to the door and switched off the penlight, then listened for a few moments, shrouded in darkness, trying to ensure there was no one directly outside the cinderblock shed, or perhaps a perimeter patrol that he’d missed. Then he slowly pushed the door open again, just enough to squeeze through, closing the door as he slid back around the corner, out of sight. After another quick, cursory check, he crouched low and headed for the tree line, nerves half expecting the hot sting of a bullet in the back, until he was safely under cover again.
    Near the top of the hill, he went back into a prone position, keeping his profile low, until he could safely watch the compound. Brennan swung the binoculars towards the two