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He looked over at Styles lying facedown and the corpse resting in its niche, its empty black eye sockets staring ahead. “But hurry up, c’mon, let’s get outta here.”

SIX
    T he pounding of the drums grew in intensity and echoed through the rain forest. The thunderous beat reached into a hidden cavern decorated with a distinctive skull motif. The drum’s message alerted its sole inhabitant, beckoning him from his hidden lair. But the man remained seated on his throne. His eyes were closed as if he were asleep, but he was awake and aware.
    He was seeing, hearing, feeling the jungle’s reactions to the drums. Flocks of birds took flight as the beat intensified. Monkeys screeched and swung in packs from tree to tree. A lion lifted its head to listen. Crocodiles basking on the banks of a river, skidded into the water and drifted through the sunlight. The wind howled through the trees and seemed to cry out, Phan-tom, Phantom . . . He heard and saw all of it and more.
    He followed the message inscribed in the beat of the drums and listened to the guidance of forest spirits. Intruders were pillaging a sacred burial place. In his mind’s eye, he saw the cliff and the secret entrance to the cave. He knew exactly where it was. He felt a sense of urgency and blinked open his eyes.
    He stepped away from the Skull Throne and slipped from the shadowy depths of the cavern. His sharp eyes were masked. Like another layer of skin, a purple bodysuit fit his powerful form, rising up over his head in a tight hood. At his waist was a double-holster gunbelt with a skull insignia on the front, and on his feet were black riding boots. The skull ring on his right hand completed the distinctive ensemble.
    “Devil, our help is needed again,” the Phantom’s deep voice resonated.
    A gray Bangallan mountain wolf rose to its feet and lumbered after its master into the forest. There the Phantom whistled softly and a white stallion pranced over to him. He leaped onto its back, slipping his feet into the silver stirrups. A gentle tap at the stallion’s sides sent the horse galloping down the trail, the wolf loping gracefully in his wake.
    The Phantom rode with the wind at his back and breathed in the warm, humid air. It smelled rich, familiar, with all the odors he associated with home. He enjoyed riding Hero, enjoyed the freedom of the outdoors, but at the same time he steeled himself for the confrontation with the grave robbers.
    He had no idea who they were, but he would find out soon enough. He urged his mount on, and they dashed through Whispering Grove en route to the sacred crypt.
    The Phantom arrived at his destination just in time. He watched from a sheltered place as three grizzled men emerged from the cave. One held a black leather satchel close to his chest. The other two carried cloth sacks that looked as if they were heavy with loot from the cave.
    The sight of intruders desecrating any burial site usually enraged the Phantom to action. But this place was special to him, literally a part of his heritage. Among the ancestors resting within the crypt was Buli, the great shaman-priest of the Touganda, who long ago had initiated an outsider into the tribe’s ancient lineage of power.
    “I never thought I’d be glad to see this jungle again, but that place gives me the creeps,” said a man wearing a battered Panama hat.
    “At least that crazed drumming has stopped,” said one with a skull tattoo on his cheek. He took out a cigar and bit off the end of it. “I never cared much for restless natives.”
    At that moment, the Phantom urged Hero forward and the white horse thrashed through the underbrush, hoofs thundering against the turf. Just as the men turned to see what the commotion was about, the majestic stallion reared up on its hind legs and pawed the air several feet over their head. They threw up their arms and scrambled back, panicked and confused.
    “What the heck is that?” Panama Hat yelled, staring up at the purple