by Brent Towns
Kane wasn’t one to back down from a hostile staring contest. He glared right back, letting the smuggler see the cold menace glittering in his eyes like ice chips. Then he abruptly grinned and lowered the Sig. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” He patted the pilot on the shoulder and stepped back.
Oswald gaped at him like a fish that can’t believe it just escaped the hook. “Really? You were just screwing with me?”
“Not screwing with you. Making sure you were telling the truth.”
“I oughta sock you right in the jaw, mate.”
“You can try,” Kane said. “But it won’t end well for you. Of course, you already know that, since this ain’t your first rodeo.”
Oswald shook his head and chuckled. “Bugger my hole, but I like your style.”
Kane offered his hand. Not the one holding a gun. “No hard feelings?”
The merc shook his hand. “The only thing hard is my willy. Forgot to tell ya, I kind of like it when men get rough with me.” He gave Kane a wink.
Kane laughed and holstered the Sig. “Thanks for understanding.”
“Hey, what’re ya gonna do, right? It’s not like you slapped me across the forehead with your pecker.”
“Thought about it.” Kane grinned. “But I didn’t want to cave in your skull.”
Oswald snickered. “You’re a funny bloke and that ain’t no lie.” He motioned toward the trail. “Go on, get outta here. I’ll be here waiting for whoever makes it back.”
“You don’t think we’re all coming back?”
The merc snorted. “Mate, there’s six of you going up against a cartel army. I’ll be shocked if even one of you makes it back alive. And even if one does, I’ll be expecting them to come back missing at least two limbs.” He shook his head. “You guys are on a suicide mission.”
“What can I say?” Kane replied. “Guess we just don’t fear the Reaper.”
The White House
Nick Pullman, the White House Chief of Staff, muted the television in the Oval Office and turned to President Carter. “It’s not good, sir.”
“Just give it to me straight, Nick.”
Pullman took a deep breath and then plunged ahead. “The latest polls show that the American public thinks you botched this one up.”
“What the hell do they want me to do? Turn myself over to the terrorists?”
“Actually…” Pullman replied. “…yes.”
“Let me guess—it was a CNN poll.”
“CNN, Fox News, Washington Post, Gallup… it’s unanimous, Mr. President. Averaging all the polls together, nearly 58% of Americans think you should sacrifice yourself to stop the attacks.”
Carter leaned back in his chair. “Huh,” he grunted. “Well, isn’t that just swell.”
The bodycam footage showing the decoy operation—complete with remarkably clear shots of Brick Peters as the fake President—had been leaked to the news media shortly after 8:00 p.m. and had been playing on a seemingly endless loop ever since. Accompanying the footage was another video from Johnny Jihad, still wearing his hooded mask in front of the shredded American flag. His message was short and anything but sweet.
“As you can see, your cowardly President, instead of surrendering himself to me and ending the death and destruction I have rained down upon your heads, has chosen trickery and deception. Tomorrow America will once again run red with infidel blood. You were warned. Now you will pay.”
President Carter turned his head and looked at the muted television. On the screen, Brick was in the act of shooting the terrorist in the leg. He gestured at the TV. “Don’t the American people understand the mission was at least a partial success? We captured one of the bastards. He’s being interrogated as we speak.”
“None of that will matter if there’s another attack tomorrow,” Pullman replied. “Unless the prisoner gives us information that stops the attacks, the public is going to view today’s operation as a debacle.”
“And I’m sure my opponents are falling all over themselves to point fingers and shovel all the blame onto me,” Carter said sourly.
Pullman nodded. “It’s already starting, sir. In fact, some of your detractors are already starting to whisper the I-word.”
“Impeachment? Are you kidding me?” Carter snapped. “I authorized a covert mission to try to apprehend the most wanted terrorist on the planet. We not only killed three members of his cell, but we also managed to take one alive for questioning. How is that impeachable?”
“I didn’t say it was,” Pullman replied. “I said some of your political opponents are throwing it around.”
“The hell with ‘em.”
“I know caution is not your strong point, sir, but I’d tread lightly with that kind of mentality,” the Chief of Staff advised. “The country has been hit by five catastrophic attacks in two days. Speaking bluntly, the majority of Americans don’t like you right now. If your opponents can rally enough support from the people on pursuing impeachment, you might find your neck on the political chopping block.” He paused, then added, “Frankly, sir, if we’re hit by another attack tomorrow, the demands for your resignation are going to be very loud.”
“Then let’s stop another attack from happening,” Carter said. “What’s the status on the interrogation of the prisoner? Has he given us anything useful yet?”
Pullman pressed the intercom and said, “Send in General Jones, please.”
Hank Jones entered the Oval Office a few moments later. He looked sick and angry.
President Carter frowned. “Hank, are you all right?”
“No, sir. I’m actually a pretty long way from all right.”
“What’s wrong?”
“We lost him.”
“Lost who?”
“The prisoner. The terrorist.”
Carter’s frown deepened. “What do you mean, lost him? Where is he?”
“He’s dead.”
“Damn it!” Carter exploded. “I told you to get answers, not kill him.”
“We didn’t kill him,” Jones said. “He killed himself. Suicide pill. A false tooth with a cyanide capsule underneath.”
“A cyanide capsule? That’s an old-school play right there.”
“Simple but effective.”
The President rubbed his face dejectedly. “So we lost our one shot at stopping this next attack. Now, what do I do? Jump on Twitter and ask for hopes and prayers?”
“God and luck, sir,” Jones replied. “That’s about all you’ve got right now.”
“So I need a miracle,” President Carter sighed. “Looks like we’re royally screwed.”
Colombia
Kane’s time as a recon marine had instilled in him a combat-centric sixth sense that alerted him to danger. His days with Team Reaper working under the World Wide Drug Initiative had honed that sixth sense to a razor-sharp edge. He had learned long ago to never ignore it. And right now, that sixth sense was banging alarm bells in his brain, letting him know that someone or something in the vicinity meant them harm.
He estimated they were less than a quarter-klick from where the SOC-R was supposed to be. The wet, pungent smell of the river permeated the jungle here. It was a smell he knew all too well—and one he hated—from his previous missions here. He’d always hated Colombia, and that would never change. One of his least favorite places on earth.
Through his NVGs, Kane could see that the path, not much wider than a game trail, curved around a bend up ahead. The jungle pressed thick on both sides, reducing visibility to just a few meters. Kane raised a clenched fist, signaling everyone to hold fast. He motioned Axe forward as Cara dropped and pivoted to watch their back trail, HK416 carbine tucked tight to her shoulder. Arenas crouched beside her, rifle sweeping a ninety-degree vector. Ferrero and Teller each took one side of the trail, eyes looking through their NVGs to probe the dense, tangled brush just beyond the ends of their muzzles.
Kane kept his HK pointed forward as Axe edged up next to him and asked, “What’s up, Re
aper?”
“Got a bad feeling that we’re not alone.” Kane kept his voice low.
“If it makes you happy, I don’t think you’re wrong.”
“In this case, I’d rather be wrong.”
“Think there’s an ambush around the bend?”
“Good place for it.”
Axe nodded. “If I was planning an ambush, that’s where I’d do it.”
Kane made the call. “Off trail the rest of the way.”
“Copy that.”
As Axe moved back to pass the word to the others, auto-fire came slashing out of the jungle. The salvo caught Arenas on the left side, two bullets ripping into his upper thigh. Another one snuck in just below his vest, struck a rib, and deflected rearward to tear a nasty chunk out of his side. He grunted in pain as the impacts drove him sideways into Cara.
She returned fire, blazing blindly into the brush as she shouted, “Reaper Three is down!”
“Son of a bitch!” Kane snarled. “Cara, Teller, cover Arenas! Everyone else, get off the trail and find these motherfu—”
Another burst of auto-fire, this one from a different position, shut him up by thumping a trio of slugs into his vest. The blows kicked him off his feet and he hit the ground with the breath knocked out of him. His chest felt like he’d been hit by a wrecking ball. Pain surged through him, but he knew he was a sitting duck out here on the open trail.
Get up! he silently screamed at himself. Fighting through the hurt, he dragged himself into the brush.
Through the green tint of his NVGs, he saw Axe and Ferrero diving into the jungle. Cara and Teller fired controlled bursts into the jungle, letting their HKs tell the unseen attackers exactly what they thought of their bushwhack tactics.
Kane stayed prone, hidden under a cluster of ferns, struggling to regain his breath. This wasn’t the first time he’d caught a round in the Kevlar and probably wouldn’t be the last, but it pissed him off every time. Not to mention he would have a bowling-ball-sized bruise on his sternum for the next couple of weeks.
Off to his right, he heard the phut-phut-phut of suppressed gunfire. Someone cried out in pain, followed immediately by another short burst, then Axe’s voice came through the com. “Tango down.”
More auto-fire on the other side of the trail. Cara’s gun added to the violent cacophony, accompanied by Teller. They were burning through their second magazines, fighting furiously to keep the attackers away from the wounded Arenas.
Kane summoned enough breath to call out, “Anybody got eyes on the tangos?”
Zeroing in on the sound of his voice, bullets scythed into the ferns and drilled divots in the dirt beside him.
“Shit!” Kane rolled away from the tracking line of fire. He used the momentum to power up into a combat crouch, spinning toward the threat as his HK sought target acquisition.
The guy was less than three meters away, dressed in ratty camo, glowing like a green ghost through the NVGs. The IMI Galil submachine gun in his hands swung toward Kane as he tried to hurriedly correct his aim.
Kane beat him to the punch, quicker on the trigger. His rising close-quarters burst caught the gunner low, chopping open his belly before marching up his body to explode his face into a hammered mess. The man staggered backwards, dead on his feet.
“Tango two down!” Kane said into the com. “How many more?”
From the other side of the trail, Ferrero’s carbine cooked off a suppressed burst and ripped a scream from his target. “Tango three down!”
“Can’t see shit in here, Reaper!” Axe said.
A sub-gun rattled to life.
“Damn it!” Cara cursed. “We’re still taking fire! That last burst just missed me!”
“Copy, Reaper Two,” Kane replied. “Reaper Four, Bravo Three, converge on her position. Keep your eyes peeled for bogeys. I’ll circle around.”
“Copy that, Reaper One.”
Kane rose from his crouch, head on a swivel, and quickly scanned his surroundings. Satisfied there were no other attackers in his immediate vicinity, he crossed to the other side of the path. As he did, he glimpsed Cara, Teller, Axe, and Ferrero shielding their wounded comrade, HKs bucking as they laid down cover fire, probing the dense brush with streams of 5.56mm bullets. Then he was back in the jungle, ghosting toward the unseen gunner.
Another sustained fusillade rang out.
“He missed again,” Axe said over the com. “Be advised, Reaper One, I don’t think the guy has got a line of sight on us. He’s just firing blind and hoping for the best.”
“Copy that, Reaper Four.” Kane adjusted his movements to take himself further into the jungle. The hidden gunner had to be close enough to the trail for his bullets to penetrate all the brush, but far enough back to remain concealed.
“Going prone,” Kane said, dropping onto his stomach. “Shoot high and keep the bastard’s head down.”
His teammates immediately complied, filling the jungle with lead as Kane snaked forward, looking for a sign, any sign, of the target. Up ahead, he could see leaves and limbs exploding as bullets pulverized them.
A second later, the enemy gunner returned fire.
Kane saw the muzzle flash light up the night less than fifteen meters in front of him.
Gotcha.
Still prone, he lifted his carbine and cut loose with some full auto rock ‘n’ roll, emptying his magazine just behind the spot where he had seen the muzzle flash. Through the thick brush, he glimpsed fragments of thrashing movement as the bullets pounded into the target.
“Tango four down,” he said into the com, standing up and heading toward the gunner’s last known position. “Moving in. Hold your fire.”
“Copy that, Reaper One,” Axe confirmed. “Holding fire.”
Kane walked over and found the guy lying in a pool of blood, dead beyond any doubt. Kane had sent over twenty rounds downrange, and it looked like at least half of them had struck home, shearing through the ribcage and ripping away half his skull.
Some might have called it overkill.
Kane called it getting the job done.
And payback for Arenas, damn straight.
He rejoined the others on the trail. While he had been checking on the corpse, they had been checking on Arenas’ injuries. “What’s the sit-rep?” he asked.
“One busted rib, one broken leg, and plenty of tissue and muscle damage,” Cara reported. “Bullets missed the femoral and didn’t penetrate any vitals, but he’s still a mess.”
“I’m fine,” Arenas growled, but he was unable to hide the pain in his voice.
Cara looked at Kane. “He’s not going anywhere, Reaper.”
“Just get me a goddamned branch to use as a crutch,” Arenas said. “I can make it.”
Kane crouched down in front of him and put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s some impressive macho bullshit, but you and I both know the party’s over for you. Sorry, man, but that’s the way it is.”
“C’mon, Reaper…”
Kane cut him off. “Not up for discussion. You’re down for the count on this one.”
Arenas slammed his fist on the ground in frustration, then sighed. “Fine, you’re the boss.”
“Let Cara patch you up, then we’ll get you off the trail and as comfortable as possible.”
Teller frowned. “We’re not leaving him alone, are we?”
Kane stood up and shook his head. “No.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Arenas complained, then winced as Cara started tending to his wounds. “Besides, you need all the guns you can get.”
“He’s not wrong,” Ferrero commented.
“I know he’s not wrong,” Kane said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not leaving a wounded man alone with hostiles in the area.”
“Think they were cartel hitters?” Axe asked. “Did Oswald sell us out?”
Ferrero replied, “The one I put down had on ratty clothes and beat up boots, nothing like cartel soldiers would wear. My guess, these guy
s were just bandits, probably ex-guerilla fighters. Probably saw the SOC-R up ahead at the river and figured a boat like that, somebody would come for it soon, and set up an ambush to take us out.”
“They did a lousy job of it,” Teller said.
“Not really,” Kane countered. “They took out Arenas and managed to put a couple in my chest.”
Axe reached over and punched him in the vest. “Let’s hear it for Kevlar, huh?”
Kane managed to hide how much the punch hurt. “Yeah,” he said. “God’s gift to snake-eaters.”
Once Cara had splinted Arenas’ broken leg, wrapped his busted rib, and used skin glue from their first aid kits to close the wounds as best she could, they carried him into the jungle far enough that he couldn’t be seen from the trail. Cara suggested it would be best if he was lying down, but he flat-out refused, so they propped him against the bole of a large ceiba tree. They set his carbine on one side of him and his pistol on the other.
Kane said, “Teller, I’m gonna have you stay behind with him.”
“You sure about that, Reaper? Leaves only four of you going up against a cartel army.”
“There’s a kid out there, probably scared to death right now. I’m not turning back.” Kane looked each of them in the eye, one at a time. “But anyone who thinks this is a suicide run, you’re free to bow out. No shame, no hard feelings.”
Axe muttered, “No balls would be more like it.”
“I don’t have any balls,” Cara said.
Axe gave her a look of respect. “Sister, you got the biggest balls of us all.” He turned to Kane. “Shut up with all the noble you-don’t-have-to-do-this crap and let’s get our butts in gear. We need to hit that compound before dawn, and we’ve still got miles to go.”
Kane didn’t waste any more time talking about it. They had made their decision. They were warriors, and they would do what warriors do—refuse to back down. “Then let’s hit the road,” he said. “We’ve got a boat to catch.”
