The dogs’ howls echo the mechanical whine of the sirens blaring from the speakers. The sounds undulate, rising and falling like the jungle-draped topography around us.
The airfield we stand on is a swath of ochre in a sea of riotous green. The sky above a cerulean dome hazed in tremulous clouds. Sunlight beats through them, pinging off the helicopter and baking the dirt, mixing with the moisture of the jungle and wrapping itself around us in a heavy, sweaty embrace.
My son, James, trembles in his father’s arms. I move closer, putting my hand on his back. James’s silver eyes, wide and frightened, meet mine—the same silver, but I’m not shocked or scared. I’d almost be surprised if the sirens were silent, the dogs quiet, and danger a distant foe.
We stand at the edge of the airfield, the shaded jungle path leading to the Costa Rican compound of Joyful Justice only a few yards in front of us. I inhale slowly. Mulberry’s achingly familiar scent twines with salty ocean from our earlier swim and mingles with the smell of this place: wet leaves, rich soil, decomposition, and heady sweetness. Verdant death.
Walkie-talkies squawk in unison from Merl and Anita. They pull handsets free from their waistbands and step back—moving in opposite directions away from each other and us. Anita’s burnished black ponytail sways with her movements. Merl’s dark curls, slicked back and secured into a bun at the back of his head, catch the relentless sunlight, reflecting it back.
They both wear cargo pants—Anita’s an ashy fern and Merl’s a mossy gray. Their T-shirts are pitch black. The walkie-talkies crackle with warning.
Mulberry’s arm comes around my waist, and James leans toward me. I take him, pulling my almost one-year-old son flush to my chest and bringing my lips close to his ear. “It’s okay, sweetheart, Mama is here. Shhhh.” He buries his face into my neck.
My three dogs—who’d been playing with Merl’s three Doberman Pinschers—return to my side. Blue’s mismatched eyes, one blue and one brown, scan the environment as his nostrils flare and ears swivel.
He’s a giant mutt, his head reaching as high as my waist. Blue has the long snout of a collie, the markings of a Siberian husky, and the thick coat of a wolf. His two offspring, Nila and Frank, share his instincts, though Frank is a doofus and Nila is a sleek, intelligent bitch.
She’s the smallest of the three but still reaches my hip. She has a pure white coat, ice blue eyes, and a heart of steel. Frank shares his father’s coloring—the sprays of black and tan on his ears, shoulders and around his mismatched eyes. The puppies‘ faces are flatter than Blue’s, their shorter muzzles influenced by their Kangal mastiff mother.
Frank presses his snout to James’s foot, a low whine escaping as he looks up at me. Nila joins with Blue in circling us, as though forming a defensive line. They know we are in danger but don’t know from what.
The dogs in the jungle, trained to protect the compound’s perimeter, continue to howl even as the sirens wind down.
Merl returns to us. “There are three drones incoming.” The wind pulls a strand of his curls free, making it twirl and dance. Merl’s brown eyes, framed by lashes so thick and black even Elizabeth Taylor would envy them, narrow and look toward the sky. “We have about five minutes. You need to get to shelter.” His gaze comes back to me, unyielding. Merl taught me to fight—not just swing angrily at enemies but actually defeat them. The power of his commands still holds more weight than anybody else’s.
“How can I help?” Mulberry asks, his hand flexing into a fist at my hip, scrunching the soft material of my T-shirt.
“The electronic countermeasures in place disrupt the drones’ equipment, so for now we just need to stay hidden. And ready.”
Anita joins us. The skin around her brown eyes is tight, and she chews on her bottom lip—two signs she’s thinking fast and hard. I resist the urge to insist Merl let us fight. There isn’t even anything to engage here. The only thing to do is hide…not my best defense.
Anita looks behind me at the helicopter. I follow her gaze to see Daniela, the pilot, pulling a mesh camouflage net over it. A surveillance countermeasure.
Mulberry turns, his hand falling away from me. Slipping the diaper bag off his shoulder to the ground, he jogs toward her—his pace quick though his gait isn’t totally even. Mulberry lost part of his left leg and wears a prosthetic. But as he runs across the dirt, there is only a small hitch in his step. His broad shoulders under a khaki shirt roll with each step, his arms pumping. I always thought Mulberry looked like a man made out of boulders. But stone doesn’t burn and he has scars licking down his left bicep that envelop his elbow and end in a jagged shoreline at his wrist.
“Do you know their backpack locations?” Merl asks Anita, drawing my attention to him.
Every person at the training compound has an exit plan in case of a raid. There are survival packs—bags with fresh water, dried food, and other survival essentials—kept in the trees on the outskirts of the camp. Instructions include meeting points where we rendezvous with other members to either retake the compound or escape, depending on the situation.
Anita nods. “Yes, I can lead them there.” She nods at me, and I nod back. We’ve been through some shit together, some really horrendous shit. We can handle escaping into the jungle.
Mulberry joins us again, swinging the bag filled with essentials for James back onto his shoulder. I glance back at the helicopter—it’s covered in the net now, Daniela securing it. Merl claps Mulberry on the shoulder and nods at me before turning to run toward the center of the compound, his three Dobermans trailing behind him, their ears perked, hackles raised.
Anita follows at a slower pace to accommodate me, but carrying my son doesn’t slow me down much. I pull him tight to my body, keeping one hand on the back of his head to steady it. His arms wrap around my neck, and he lays his cheek on my shoulder, his breath brushing skin.
Anita glances back at me and, seeing my speed, picks up her own. Mulberry’s heat is at my back, Blue’s nose rhythmically taps my hip, and Nila and Frank follow close.
The howls of the guard dogs fade. The compound is going silent, trying to disappear into the wild landscape. Insects’ music—a cacophony of chirping, buzzing, trillings, and whirring—swells into the quiet.
We break out of the trees into the main area of the former resort turned vigilante training camp.
A large open-sided palapa holds the dining area; next to it is a grassy lawn used for tai chi and other martial arts practice. Men and women wearing cargo pants, T-shirts, and laced ankle boots—the unofficial Joyful Justice uniform—move with purpose, darting into the trees, following narrow paths into the jungle as they head for their assigned locations.
We follow the curved path around to the two-story building that houses Merl’s dojo, the command center, and kitchen. Anita slows, turning back to us. She points to a footpath disappearing into the shadows of the jungle. “Follow that path, your packs are the first ones—about a hundred yards.” The bags are secured in trees by ropes. Because of the humidity, the ropes often swell and have to be cut. Anita doesn’t bother to ask if we have a knife on us.
“Got it,” I say.
Anita gives me a curt nod, her dark eyes serious. “See you soon.”
“Yes,” I agree, willing it to be true.
We reach the edge of the jungle, and Blue steps onto the dirt path. The darkness closes in around us, the air stifling, thick with humidity and alive with jungle sounds. James pulls his face from my neck, looking around.
Over the cascading insect orchestra, a resonating hum grows louder. James looks up at the canopy above us. “Vroom?” he asks.
“Vroom,” I agree, keeping my focus on the winding path. Roots criss-cross the dirt. Big wet leaves and spidery vines encroach, tugging at my clothing and leaving trails of dew. Sweat slides down my spine under my shirt.
Nila jogs ahead, taking the lead, her nose to the ground while Blue stays by my side and Frank behind us—a train of people and dogs. A pack moving through the jungle. A formidable force.
A bird squawks loudly, jerking James’s attention. He pulls his arms from around my neck to clap. Mulberry huffs a laugh behind us. “Nothing gets our kid down.”
“Except getting cleaned,” I point out.
Mulberry laughs again.
The drone’s mechanical hum grows louder.
Nila stops, turning her head to the sky, nostrils flaring, trying to find its scent. I crane my neck. Through the thick foliage the sky is just a few flashes of blue. Three shadows darken the diamonds of light cascading to the jungle floor, and flashes of white glint above us. No bombs drop. No bullets rain.
Yet.