That must have been a couple of days ago judging by the state of his corpse, now hideously bloated by heat and decomposition. Flies buzzed and swarmed around the gory splatter of blood and brains on the sandy ground, as well as the gaping hole in the side of his head. It was a horrific sight matched only by the repulsive smell of corruption. Keegan coughed and retched, turning away for a moment to steady himself. He was no stranger to death, but the body’s reaction to such things was physical as well as emotional. When it hit, it hit hard. You failed, a voice in Drake’s head echoed, filled with recrimination. You failed before you even left Langley. He was dead this whole time. You came all this way, risked your whole team for a dead man. Drake immediately cut that voice out, shut it off so he could concentrate on matters at hand. Blame could come later. Right now there was still a chance they could find clues that would lead them to the men who did this. ‘The sons of bitches must have recorded the video days ago,’ Keegan said, his voice muffled by the rag he’d tied around his face to ward off the stench.
