THE PROFESSOR'S DIRTY CLAIM
Then we climbed.
A faint trail, barely a game path, switchbacked up through dense green. Vines thick as wrists. Air heavy with orchid and rot. Insects sang in the understory. Damian went first, rifle slung across his back, machete in hand, clearing just enough to pass.
I followed, pistol holstered, senses sharp.
We reached the summit at first light.
The island was smaller than it looked from the sea, two square kilometers at most. A single volcanic cone at the center, collapsed into a shallow crater lake. Jungle everywhere else. No roads. No buildings.