"Daisy." The voice came distorted through the crashing waves.
I blinked hard, tactical knife slipping in my sweaty grip. The figure emerging from moonlit surf resembled some eldritch creature - rectangular torso fused with swaying kelp-like limbs.
"Christ..." My thumb eased off the Glock's safety as recognition dawned. The "creature" resolved into Daisy staggering under an armload of Coast Guard survival suits, her cargo making hieroglyphic shadows on the wet sand.
"Where the hell were you?" I grabbed the waterlogged neoprene, military-issue tags clinking like wind chimes.
Her pupils contracted in the tactical flashlight beam. "Tide pools...your voice...drowned." She tapped her Ops-Core headset - the left earpiece crusted with salt.
Emma emerged from the treehouse platform, Valentino nightdress fluttering. "Darling!" She descended the rope ladder with showgirl flair, crushing Daisy in a Dior-scented embrace. "These will make perfect mattress toppers!"
Kate watched from the shadows, Zippo flame reflecting in her narrowed eyes. "Should we thank the SEAL too?" Her combat boot nudged my rucksack where satellite phone components glinted.
Dawn revealed our new mission parameters. While Emma helped Daisy harvest clams in ballistic nylon waders, Kate cornered me by the smoldering signal fire.
"Choices." Her thumb caressed the KA-BAR at my belt. "That Black Hawk's fuel range..."
I pretended to adjust my MOLLE gear. "We'll know by sundown."
Her laugh cracked like gunfire. "Still playing Boy Scout?" Suddenly her fingers worked the quick-release on her Crye Precision combat shirt. "Look at me, David. I'm not some red carpet mannequin." The scar across her ribs glowed silver - matching the one on Jack's throat.
When I reached for my field jacket to cover her, she pressed closer. "Three days without resupply. You think Emma's keeping that Dior lipstick for morale?" Her teeth grazed my jugular. "I can be...practical."
The crunch of approaching footsteps saved me. Daisy appeared clutching two geoducks, her expression blank yet somehow accusatory. Emma trailed behind humming a pop single, survival suits transformed into makeshift Prada sling bags.
"Move out!" I barked, shouldering the antenna array. The jungle swallowed us whole.
Daisy moved like a Marine Force Recon scout - pausing to taste bark resin, adjusting course by lichen patterns. Her sudden freeze sent us diving for cover.
"Grouse." Her lips shaped the word.
The tactical takedown unfolded like an Osprey manual diagram. Daisy's hand signals directed flanking maneuvers. My combat gloves closed on iridescent tail feathers—
—just as the male exploded in a whirlwind of claws and alarm calls. Daisy's tackle collided with my lunge. Stars bloomed as our helmets connected with a sickening crack.
"Status!" I croaked through ringing ears.
Daisy sat up rubbing her NVG mount, blood trickling from hairline to jaw. "Operational." Her gaze locked beyond me. "Nest."
Kate's whoop led us to four speckled eggs cradled in Kevlar scraps. Emma wrinkled her nose at the raw contents. "This isn't fucking Noma."
Daisy solved the problem with C4 putty and a canteen cup. The resulting poached eggs tasted of gunpowder and desperation.
As we breached the tree line, Emma gripped my arm. "What if there's no signal?" Her Cartier nail beds dug crescents into my flesh.
I lied through cracked lips: "There will be."
Daisy crouched ahead, tracing fingers over petroglyphs. The cliff face revealed its secret - a weather station antenna eaten by corrosion, its solar panel sprouting orchids like circuit board tumors.
Kate's scream came seconds before the earth moved. The landslide swallowed our gear cache whole, leaving only Daisy's hand protruding from the mudflow - still clutching the emergency beacon's shattered remains.