He looked to be around my age, and was dressed in camouflage pants, shirt and cap. The brim of the cap was pushed down, so I could barely see his eyes. He wore an ammo belt; a canteen hung by a thick strap over his left shoulder. The canteen caught my attention, and for the first time since I’d escaped the bullet-ridden Nova, I realized how dehydrated I was.
But fresh water wasn’t the most crucial thing weighing on my mind. I couldn’t stop wondering who this man was, how he knew my name. If he knew anything about me, he’d have to be one of them. So what was his next move? A bullet to my head? Was that why he’d coaxed me out of the bushes? So he could get me close enough to do the deed without making a mess of it again?
No. The inner voice had guided me here. Despite my instincts, my fears, I felt compelled to listen to it. And because of this reasoning, I had to trust this man, whoever he was.
My suspicions came thundering back, smothering every other thought and emotion in a heavy darkness.
He knew my name.
How was this possible? Had Fields told him?
This would mean he
was
one of them. If so, he’d no doubt talked to her, asked her questions. Knowing Fields as I did, and assuming she’d been playing possum all this time, they would have been forced to revert to extreme measures to get her to talk. Torture, perhaps? Sense deprivation? Threats? They’d had her nearly twelve hours, now. Twelve hours, in my experience, afforded kidnappers more than enough time to find out whatever they wanted to know from their victim. From what I’d seen during my Pakistani Brighton tour, a terrorist could find out anything he wanted to know in just a few minutes.
Would Fields be able to stand the pressure for this long? Or would she cave? Would she tell them about me? My military training? My background? How I functioned?
My guts twisted, and my exhaustion began trickling away. The throbbing in my wounded arm even eased up. If this bastard was actually Simon or a member of his gang,
I was going to find out very quickly
. And if I discovered that he’d hurt her in any way, he was going to die a very painful death.
He knelt on his right knee, his left side against the pine tree. His right side faced me, but the bush separating us concealed his weapon from view. He was watching the area to our right, just beyond my former sanctuary. He actually appeared to be watching our attackers. Logic told me that if he’d been gunning for me, he would have already shot and killed me by now.
My suspicions remained strong. Gritting my teeth and summoning what strength I had left, I transferred the Ruger from my right hand to my left. My left arm wasn’t in much better shape than my right from all the abuse I’d subjected it to, but it wasn’t numb with pain, and could still function. I wasn’t quite as proficient with my left arm, but the target was only a few feet away, and even though the pistol grip was designed for the right hand, I could manage the shot.
All I had to do was ask the question. If I didn’t get the right answer, I’d put a round in his kneecap. That would disable him long enough for me to take his weapon, get him on the ground, and repeat my question. A second round would shatter his other kneecap, and the elbows would be next. If he still didn’t talk, I’d simply finish him off and hunt for a way out of the woods. I was pretty much a physical wreck at this point, but that didn’t matter. I was going to find Fields if it was the last thing I ever did. If I didn’t, or if I found her too late, I had no desire to continue my existence in this chilling nightmare world.
I gripped the Ruger more firmly in my hand and cleared my throat. My heart was in my mouth and my nerves were tingling, but I managed to get the words out nonetheless. “I’ve got a question to ask you.”
He turned to face me, shifting a little amongst the bushes, and I saw the weapon resting on his thigh. It looked like a Desert Tactical Arms Stealth Recon Scout sniper rifle, with a telescopic sight. The same model the military had used more than thirty years ago, in Iraq and Afghanistan. At the time, it was used strictly for military personnel. By the time I enlisted in the military a decade later, they’d stopped using them, and it was almost impossible to find one. The fact that this man had one, for some inexplicable reason, comforted me. This strange feeling somehow told me that he wasn’t Simon, or even a member of Simon’s gang. Like many off-the-wall ideas, this one didn’t come with an explanation. The only thing I knew was that I no longer felt as tense or as uneasy as I did moments earlier.
“Is that ... a Scout?” I asked.
He nodded.
“I haven’t seen one of those in years. What caliber is it?”
“.338 Lapua Magnum.”
A nasty, heavy load. No wonder Marlon and the other guy had gone down so hard. The round used by the Scout was designed to penetrate body armor at nearly eleven hundred yards. Once again, I found myself wondering what the hell was going on, how this strange guy who apparently knew my name had just come from out of the blue and saved my ass twice in the last couple of hours.
More gunfire slapped the ground just a few yards away. The gang was getting closer. He motioned for me to get down, and we moved another twenty yards farther into the woods. Once I found a good spot, he crawled over to the pine and peered around it. Then he raised the Scout, peered into the sight and popped off a couple of heavy rounds into the hill on the other side of the valley. The gunfire stopped immediately.
He turned back to me and stared at my bloody arm. Then, resting the butt of the rifle on the ground between his feet, he reached into his jacket. He seemed concerned. “How bad?”
“Not bad. I need to clean it up.”
“Is the bullet still inside?”
“It was a .22, so yeah, probably.”
“Bummer.” He produced a silver flask. Another shot rang out, smacking a tree just beyond us. He barely flinched. I had the feeling he was a seasoned soldier. “Pour some over the wound and have a slug or two.”
I rested the Ruger on the ground in front of me.
He frowned. “You’re using a .22?”
I took the flask. “I needed something light to carry around. These assholes have been chasing me all night. I’m using mini mags.”
“Is that all you’ve got?”
“I’m also carrying a .38 Ladysmith in a pancake holster behind my back and a .22 Beretta in my pocket.”
He shook his head. “I’m surprised you’ve only been hit once.”
“I guess you could say it’s my lucky day.”
He got back into his kneeling position, raised the Scout, sighted in again and emptied the mag into the countryside. He pulled out the empty, pocketed it, removed a fresh 5-shot box mag from his belt, slammed it in, bolted it action-ready, sighted it in and got off two more shots. An ear-splitting shriek echoed across the woods. He set the rifle back down and reached into his jacket pocket again.
I carefully spilled a steady trickle of whiskey directly onto the bloody wound. It burned like the blazes. I clenched my jaw and held my breath until it had soaked through and the stinging died down. Then I had a swallow. The whiskey burned all the way down and its tingling perked me right up.
I snapped the flask shut and held it out. He motioned for me to keep it. Not wanting to argue, I slid it into the inner pocket of my jacket. He found something else in his jacket and pulled it out. He offered me a bandage wrap.
I just gawked at it. I must have looked really stupid right then, but I still couldn’t believe any of this was actually happening.
“Take it. Wrap it as best you can. We’ll fix it later.”
Later? That meant ... well, it meant later, as in the future.
Didn’t it? Of course it did. It also meant hope. And that meant I was somehow getting out of this.
I wanted to shake his hand ... to thank him for showing up ... for saving my life—not once, but twice.
But I knew better. This wasn’t the time for pleasantries. The gang was still out there, shooting at us. But since I’d just been told we might actually be able to do something “later,” maybe then we’d have time to share the rest of the flask. But Fields would have to be with us for the celebration to have any real meaning for me. And that meant we still had a lot to do once we got out of here.
I took the bandage. “Thanks. I really...”
“We gotta get out of here. I just spotted two of those little bastards crawling around behind those dead trees.”
***
Staying behind the trees, my companion and I backed away from our nest amongst the bushes and snuck over to the hill about forty yards behind us. The rise was overrun with trees and brush, ascending at a forty-five-degree angle for more than a hundred yards—a long, arduous climb, but obviously our only escape. If my new friend was right, the armed gang would be crossing the creek in just a few minutes. Being here to meet them would be very bad for everyone.
I stayed about ten feet behind him, watching him closely and stepping in his tracks as we squeezed through the thick trails of wild brush and vines. Without losing step, I removed the magazine from the Ruger and shoved the gun into its shoulder holster beneath my left arm. I opened the flap of my ammo pouch, grabbed a handful of .22 mini mags and dropped six of them into my palm. While I remained focused on the man in front of me, I worked by feel to carefully load the magazine. My nerves were shot and I was exhausted. Even though the shot of whiskey helped me stay alert, I felt myself succumbing to the fatigue. I even zoned out once or twice, and recovered only after I’d stumbled on exposed roots. Fortunately, my instinct and sense of survival remained in high gear, and I managed to maintain my footing. I kept a firm grip on the magazine and kept myself from dropping the ammo.
By the time we were about twenty yards from the top of the hill, I’d finished loading the mag. An exhilarating feeling overwhelmed my exhaustion, and I soon discovered that I felt much better than I did when we’d begun our climb. The pounding in my wounded arm had even eased up. I pulled out the Ruger, slammed the fully-loaded mag back into it, and jacked one into the chamber. As a precaution, I turned and scanned the wooded drop behind us. I saw nothing.
“They’re probably spreading out after they cross the creek,” my friend said. “It won’t be long before they figure out we’re not there anymore. Then they’ll decide to make the climb.”
“I don’t think they’re good trackers. It takes years to become a decent tracker.”
“They’re just a bunch of whacko kids playing war games with real guns.”
“Unfortunately, some of them really know how to shoot.”
“Maybe, but they know nothing about tactics. We were both in the military. We both know that if you weren’t wounded and had a rifle, we could’ve stayed down there and picked them off, one by one, in fifteen minutes or less.”
We were both in the military
.
How the hell did he know
that
?
My suspicions trickled back. A man I’d never seen before knew not only my name, but also the fact that I’d been in the military.
Did I know him? I tried to remember if I’d seen his face before, but he didn’t look familiar. I definitely had to find out what was going on, who this guy was. But this wasn’t the right time. Once we got out of here, I could ask my questions.
“Keep moving,” he said. “We don’t have much time, and I don’t want to give them the opportunity to see where we are.”
He was right; they were down there on this side of the creek and were probably already checking out the area. The gunfire had trickled off, but every so often a stray shot came from the general direction of the valley. Some of them were crouched behind the trees while the others who had crossed the creek searched the woods.
A couple of minutes later, we reached the top of the hill. Tired, sweaty and out of breath, my limbs heavy and tingling, I swayed a little and forced myself to stay on my feet. But my discomfort faded away when I peered down the steep slope that led to the winding country road.
A dark gray SUV sat half-hidden in heavy brush about ten feet off the road at the bottom of the hill.
The sight made me want to leap with joy. A moment later, I caught myself wondering if I was hallucinating. It was, after all, a strong possibility. I was exhausted, thirsty and ready to collapse, with the bullet wound in my arm. All this, as well as the loss of blood, was making me delirious. But there was one way to find out. I slowly brought up my free hand and gently rubbed my eyes. When I opened them again, I fully expected to see no vehicle parked among the bushes. In fact, I fully expected the man beside me to disappear as well.
I took a deep breath and opened my eyes.
The vehicle remained there. And the man who’d saved my life was still standing beside me.
Even so, I was convinced I might be dreaming.
“Is that an actual vehicle down there?” I asked. “Or am I seeing things?”
“You’re not seeing things.”
I still found myself skeptical. I knew how the imagination worked, how it took over when the mind and body were tired and most vulnerable to suggestion. “Is it ... yours?”
“Yeah.”
Relief swept through me in heavy tremors, making me light-headed. For the first time since Walter and I had shared that first glass of Scotch, I actually felt like I might survive this nightmare.