The jungle was not a polite host. It grabbed at ankles with gnarled roots, slapped faces with wet ferns, and hummed with the constant threat of things that bit, stung, or ate flesh.
For Lucas Sinclair, it was a green, humid hell.
"Move it, mule," Aria called out from ten yards ahead. She wasn't even breathing hard. Her boots found purchase on the slick mud with annoying ease, her machete clearing a path for Leo, who was trotting behind her like a happy, mud-splattered spaniel.
"I... can't..." Lucas wheezed.
The canvas sack on his shoulder felt less like sand and more like a dead body. Fifty pounds didn't sound like much in an air-conditioned gym with a protein shake waiting. In ninety-percent humidity, on an incline that felt vertical, it was crushing him. His knees shook with every step. The strap dug into his shoulder, cutting off circulation to his arm.
