Leaves crackled overhead. Branches swayed. He heard something hard clatter on a tree trunk and crash into the undergrowth further up the hill, maybe five yards east.
Victor threw himself to the ground an instant before the grenade exploded.
Soil and plant life flew through the air. Hot slivers of metal slammed into the tree trunk above where Victor lay. Bark sizzled.
He breathed in the acrid smell of high explosive. He wasn’t injured, despite his close proximity to the blast. Lethal radius for a modern fragmentation grenade was about five and a half yards, and injury radius around sixteen yards, but the path of shrapnel rises as it travels outwards and Victor had been lower than the grenade.
He lay still, hoping to convince the two gunmen he’d been killed and therefore draw them out of cover. He heard the clatter of another grenade sailing through the branches above him. He watched it fall out of sight three yards up the hill, and pressed himself prone, hands clamped over his ears. The grenade exploded and more soil and decimated foliage blasted outwards, more shrapnel ripped through the undergrowth. Smoke swirled in the air.
They weren’t going to be convinced of his death quite so easily. Another couple of yards closer and the elevation wouldn’t save him. The sound of a third grenade tearing through vegetation kept him from getting up and running. It sounded lower, closer.
It thumped into the ground two feet from Victor’s face.
A typical fragmentation grenade had a three- to five-second fuse. One second of flight time left two to four seconds before it shredded Victor’s skull with red-hot shards of steel moving at high velocity, and disintegrated what was left of his head with the overpressure wave. Two to four seconds, if the thrower hadn’t cooked it off first. Not enough time to get up and out of lethal radius.
Only one choice remained.
Victor grabbed the grenade and hurled it in the direction it had come from, snapped his arm back, heard the huge boom three seconds later, felt the whoosh of air from the concussion flow over him, and heard shrapnel pelt the tree shielding him. His ears rang.
He doubted either of his enemies had been caught in the blast, but their close proximity to it would have surprised, if not disorientated, them. And that was all the distraction he needed.
Victor jumped to his feet and ran, not up this time but to the south along the hillside, in the direction of the highpoint, a plan taking shape in his mind.
He ran for two seconds before he heard the muffled clicks of an MP5SD firing – probably the first gunman, who was to Victor’s right, to the west, with the second too far to the north to have a line of sight. Victor sprinted along the even gradient, another five yards, ten, his heart beating faster and faster, the burn in his legs growing more intense, fighting against the thick undergrowth, dodging around trees. The shooting stopped and he knew he’d disappeared out of the shooter’s line of sight. Both would give chase, but Victor wanted them to follow. After another twenty yards, he paused briefly behind a mossy boulder, blind-fired some rounds in the direction he’d come from to slow his pursuers, and sprinted again. He jumped over vines twisting their way along the ground. After forty yards, he threw himself down to the forest floor where clumps of woody shrubs grew among the taller trees, swivelled around and reloaded the MP7. He sucked in a lungful of warm air.
Now, to the east, twenty-five yards up the hillside, Victor could see the outcrop from which he’d fired the Longbow. He wasn’t interested in the rifle – at close range it was worthless – but the highpoint served as a perfect marker. He moved up into a crouch. He couldn’t hear the two guys rushing through the undergrowth, so they were coming after him at a cautious speed – expecting an ambush – which gave him some time. If they thought he was going back to his hide, even better.
He looked around, spotted blood glistening on a tree trunk where he’d expected to find it. At the foot of the tree, the guy he’d shot lay on his back, arms and legs splayed outwards. There were four tiny holes in his chest. Not a bad grouping, considering Victor’s limited
time to aim. He stripped the corpse of the hooded poncho covered in burlap flaps and vegetation, and slipped it on. He then took the man’s headset and radio. Victor clipped the radio to his own harness, fitted the headset in place, flipped up the poncho’s hood and swapped his weapon for the dead guy’s MP5SD.
Now things were a little more even.
Victor crept forward, settled into a mass of shrubs, kneeling to the side of a tree and waited. He tipped his head forward to make best use of the hood. Five seconds went by, then ten. Twenty.
A gravelly voice whispered through his earpiece. He spoke in English: American, Southern accent. ‘This is Cowboy Daddy. I’m at his hide. He’s not here. Gamma, do you see anything? Over.’
The reply came a second later. Another Southern accent, more pronounced. ‘Cowboy Gamma. Negative. Over.’
‘What’s your position?’
There was a slight pause before the second guy said, ‘I’m about twenty metres to the west, coming up to the base of the outcrop. Over.’
Thank you very much
.
‘Copy that. Keep ’em peeled. Out.’
Victor repositioned himself and stared into the undergrowth. He saw a slim branch tremble about fifteen yards to his eleven o’clock, near to the lowest point of the highpoint. The gunman moved slowly, keeping low, and would have been invisible in the ghillie suit had Victor not known exactly where to look. The guy’s head turned Victor’s way but he didn’t see him, thanks to the stolen poncho. It may not have been as effective as a full ghillie suit with burlap attached to legs and arms as well, but his enemies were expecting Victor to be far more visible. Victor lined up the MP5SD’s iron sights over the gunman’s centre mass and thumbed the selector to single shot.
Fired once. Twice. A double tap.
The suppressed
clicks
echoed quietly in the trees. The man in the ghillie suit fell backward into the undergrowth. Victor approached quickly, moving from tree to tree in case the shooter called Cowboy Daddy heard the shots and moved to investigate from the higher ground. Victor saw the corpse lying on the forest floor, two bullet holes over his heart.
‘Cowboy Gamma, were those shots? Over,’ a voice asked through Victor’s earpiece.
‘Roger that,’ Victor said back, imitating the dead guy’s strong Southern twang. ‘I got him.’
Victor waited, hoping his impersonation was a good one. His gaze was fixed east toward his hide. The elevation was too steep to see it, but he should be able to spot the gunman if he came this way.
‘Good man,’ the response finally came. ‘The Cowboys rustle another steer.’
‘
Oh
yeah,’ Victor said.
‘But listen up,’ the one called Cowboy Daddy said, ‘we have a predicament here. This boy didn’t drop his target before we killed him, which means our client is going to be mighty pissed off. I don’t know about you, but I want another cheque. So let’s see if we can’t rub out Mr VIP ourselves. Over.’
‘Copy that. Over,’ Victor said back.
‘Haul your ass back over that wall and try to get eyes on Mr VIP. If you see him, you take him out. Kill ’em all, if you got to. I’ll get behind our boy’s rifle, see if I can shoot better than him. We’ve gotta be fast if we’re gonna fix this. Out.’
Victor waited for a ten count and crept north twenty yards before heading east and up the hill for thirty more. He approached his hide slowly, still cautious despite the instructions, but relaxing when he spotted the muzzle of his rifle tracking from left to right.
He moved around in a semicircle until he was behind the gunman and could see his legs poking out from under the protective sheeting. Ten careful steps brought Victor within five feet of the gunman’s boots.
’This is Cowboy Daddy,’ the guy with the rifle said. ‘I can’t see shit from up here. No wonder the prick missed. Cowboy Gamma, get there as fast as you can and take that fucker down. How far out are you? Over.’
Victor was too close to risk even whispering a response, so he stayed silent as he crept closer.
‘Cowboy Gamma, this is Cowboy Daddy. Confirm your position. Over.’
Victor crept forward until he was inches from the man’s feet. He nudged the sole of one boot and darted around the tree to the right, out of sight. He was on the other side of the tree, and behind the gunman, by the time the guy had scrambled to his feet to investigate what had just happened. Sometimes the simplest tricks were the best.
Victor smashed the butt of the MP5 into the back of the man’s head where the spine met the skull. He collapsed forward, limbs limp, and was still.
Victor threw some water over his captive’s face. The American awoke suddenly, eyes snapping open, grimacing through the pain in the back of his head but evaluating the situation at the same time. He was sitting with his back against a mossy tree, arms stretched backwards around the trunk, wrists tied together on the other side. He pulled against the restraints.
‘Don’t bother,’ Victor said. ‘I used to be a Boy Scout.’
The guy stopped struggling. He’d been stripped of his headset, weapons and tactical harness. Victor had found nothing useful except some hard candy. He’d taken the green ones and left everything else. The American seemed groggy but without lasting damage, which was good because the brainstem was the most vulnerable part of the skull and a four-pound gun smashing against it wasn’t conducive to coherency.
Victor squatted down and sat on his haunches. His captive looked at him with contempt, but Victor could sense the fear that lay just beyond the bravado. The guy looked to be around the forty mark, brown hair and eyes, muscular and athletic. His hair was very short, his face tanned, crow’s feet etched deeply into his skin. He hadn’t shaved or washed for a few days. He smelled pretty bad, but Victor guessed he smelled no better himself.
The air was hot even in the shade. Victor poured some water over his face and head. The water was lukewarm but still refreshing. He said, ‘I’m sure I don’t have to tell you there is an easy way to do this and a hard way.’
The American glared at him.
‘I can see you’re a tough guy,’ Victor said. ‘You’re well trained. The tattoo on your arm says
De oppresso liber:
“To liberate the
oppressed”.’ Victor sipped some water. ‘That’s the motto of the United States Army Special Forces.’
The American didn’t respond.
‘No point trying to deny it. It doesn’t matter either way. I’ll bet if I looked I’d find similar tats on the other two. They’re both dead, by the way.’
The American was silent.
Victor said, ‘I’m guessing you were all part of the same A-team back in SF. Must have been a real tight group to be doing this now. I can tell by the lines around your eyes you’ve spent a lot of time squinting in the sun. So you’re an Iraq and Afghanistan veteran. Haven’t long been out, maybe two or three years tops. Likely did some work as a private security contractor back in Baghdad or Kabul. Paid a lot better than it did in SF, but your talents were wasted guarding diplomats and news crews. It’s frustrating to feel the skills you spent a lifetime honing being eroded through disuse, isn’t it?’
The American didn’t answer.
‘But then someone you knew from the Army,’ Victor continued, ‘who got out before you did, offers you a different kind of private-sector job. Kind of like what you used to do for Uncle Sam, only it paid better than even babysitting reporters. Given its nature, you were hesitant, maybe even said no to start with, but your friend convinced you this was a bad guy so you would actually be doing some good. And it worked out great. So great, you ended up doing another, and another, and before long that’s all you’re doing. Each time the money goes up and the voice in the back of your head gets quieter and quieter until you can’t even remember what it used to say.’ Victor paused. ‘Before you know it, you’re a contract killer.’
The guy stared at him, confused and more than a little uneasy. ‘What’s your point?’
‘Bet you still think of yourself as a merc, though,’ Victor added. ‘Take it from me, another year and you wouldn’t have bothered trying to lie to yourself. And, to answer your question, my point is that now your teammates are dead, I know you better than anyone. Because I used to be you. And I also know it’s only your job to be my enemy. There’s nothing personal between us.’
The American’s eyes hardened. ‘Except you killed my two buddies.’
Victor nodded. ‘In self-defence. You’ve lost guys before. You got over it. This is no different. You’ll get over it. But I can’t wait that long. You need to decide right now if I’m just a job to you or if I’m your enemy.’
‘Why?’
Victor stared at him. ‘You know why.’
The American’s head dropped forward and he took a heavy breath. When he looked back up he said, ‘It’s how you just put it. This is a job. Nothing more. If things were reversed, I’d have done the same as you. No hard feelings.’
Victor motioned to the water bottle and the American nodded. Victor held the bottle so the American could use the straw. He took several swallows. Victor placed the bottle down.
‘Who you are working for?’
The American frowned. ‘Come on, man, you know I can’t tell you that.’
Victor gave an understanding nod and took the combat knife from his tactical harness. ‘I’m not a fan of torture,’ he explained. ‘Which isn’t because I’m squeamish. You know as well as I do, the more blood you see, the less of an effect it has.’ He touched a finger to the sharp point. ‘The problem I have with torture is that I’m usually a very clean person and it can be such a messy business. I don’t like making a mess, but sometimes it’s simply unavoidable.’
The American’s gaze was locked on the knife. ‘We don’t have to go there.’
‘Then try again at answering my original question.’
The American shook his head. ‘I don’t know exactly.’
‘That’s not good enough.’
‘Wait, Shane always dealt with the clients. No one else did. It was his job. I’m just a shooter. He was the boss.’
Victor raised an eyebrow. ‘Your call sign was Cowboy
Daddy
.’