Fire and Forget

by Andrew Warren

  Caine squinted in the dim light. He could see a dark shadow blocking the way farther up the river. As the boats charged forward, the obstruction came into view. A rotted tree had toppled and hung suspended between the two river banks, cutting off the channel. There was only a foot or two of clearance beneath the enormous trunk. The airboats, with their top-mounted propellers, would not be able to pass under it… they were on a collision course!

  Chapter Four

  Caine jerked the boat right, smashing into his attackers as they pulled up alongside him in the channel. From the corner of his eye, he could see the injured pilot lying across the deck. One of the other men had taken the controls. The third man knelt on the bow, aiming his rifle at them.

  Caine slipped his Beretta from his waistband and sent a burst of gunfire across the bow of the attackers’ craft. His shots didn’t hit anything, but they had the desired effect. The lone gunman scrambled for cover, ducking down below the edge of the metal hull.

  As the boats split apart, Caine spotted a dark clump rising up from the water off their bow. A thick, twisted column of roots jutted out from the shallow, muddy swamp.

  “Blayne, hold on!” Chain shouted. There was no time to avoid the obstacle. He pushed the throttle forward and the engine roared louder. A metallic thunk rattled through the hull as they hit the roots. The impact launched the boat up and out of the water.

  Caine gripped the handles of the pilot’s seat as the airboat sailed through the air. For a split second he felt weightless. Then his stomach lurched as they fell, crashing back into the river with a tremendous wet slap.

  As he wiped the spray off his face, Caine heard his pursuers’ boat splash down next to them. Then he felt his boat shimmy and tilt in the water. One of the men from the other boat had jumped onto his deck!

  Caine saw the mercenary standing at the bow of the boat, swinging his rifle towards him. He yanked on the throttle, causing the man to stumble. Dropping the rifle, the mercenary charged forward as Caine slid out of his seat and raised his pistol.

  Before he could fire, he heard another loud thunk. He grabbed the side of the boat as they lurched into the air again … the boat had hit another clump of roots. The channel was getting shallower.

  A wave of muddy water sprayed through the air as they crashed back into the river. The boats continued racing forward. The merc lunged towards him. Behind him, Caine could see the fallen tree looming downriver. The rotting trunk still blocked their path.

  The man closed in before Caine could fire. He slapped Caine’s pistol aside with the open palm of his left hand. Caine instinctively knew what was coming … he had used the same move many times himself.

  These men have had training, he thought. They’re good.

  The thug wrapped his fingers around the barrel of the weapon and pushed it down. He launched a right hook towards Caine’s face. Caine ducked his head low and raised up his left elbow. His forearm deflected the force of the punch, and the man was thrown off balance.

  Grabbing the shoulder strap of the man’s rifle, Caine yanked him forward. He slammed the top of his skull into the bridge of the man’s nose. The mercenary grunted in pain.

  Caine wrenched his pistol from the stunned thug’s grip. The man staggered backwards, trying to put some distance between himself and Caine’s fists.

  The airboat bounced across the water as it continued charging forward at full speed. It drifted right, scraping hulls with the attackers’ boat. The mercenary stumbled backwards. He fell beneath the muddy water that filled the airboat.

  They were racing closer and closer towards the fallen tree. Caine saw a long stretch of mudflat speed by as the bank of the island flattened out and dipped down to meet the river. A row of wooden shacks jutted out from the desolate swampland.

  He turned and pushed both sticks backwards, forcing the vehicle into a quick left turn. The airboat spun in the water and flew up onto the river bank. The prop wash generated by the massive rear propeller jetted out behind them at over one hundred miles per hour. It was powerful enough to push the boat forward across the slick, mud-covered earth.

  Caine fell backwards as the boat surged up and over the river bank. Behind them, the other boat raced forward, continuing down the river. Caine heard the shriek of twisted metal and a loud crash as the craft collided with the fallen tree at full speed. He turned and saw the boat’s hull flip up and spiral through the air. The impact tore the propeller housing away from the stern of the craft.

  Looking back towards the bow of his boat, Caine saw they were still speeding across the muddy plain, heading straight towards one of the abandoned shacks. The mercenary stumbled to his feet and raised his rifle. His back was to the shack.

  Caine rolled behind the pilot’s seat as gunfire burst through the air above him. He kicked out with his right leg, striking the throttle stick and driving it forward. The boat shuddered as the propeller drove it even faster across the wet terrain.

  Caine ducked his head down and grabbed the side of the boat, bracing for impact. The mercenary narrowed his eyes, then spun around, raising his arm in a defensive gesture. It was too little, and too late …

  CRASH!

  Once again, the boat launched into the air. It flew up the muddy embankment and tore through the rotted wood of the shack walls. Caine felt the boat tip. He flailed his arms, grabbing for anything he could find to steady himself. His fingers grasped one of the loose mooring ropes. He wrapped it around his arm as his body whipped through the air.

  The metal hull groaned in protest. It tipped over and spun, tearing through the remains of the shack like a wrecking ball. It exploded out the other side, sending a rain of wooden planks and debris flying through the air. Then it crashed to the ground and rolled over, landing upside down in the mud.

  The engine continued to roar. The top of the propeller housing was wedged into the mud. The blades still spun inside, sending a fine mist of water and earth into the air. The hull sloped back at an angle. The bow faced the remains of the shack and sank into the soft ground.

  Caine groaned and lifted his face out of the mud. The roar of the spinning propeller drowned out all other sound. He paused, taking a quick mental assessment of his injuries. Some bruises, some pain, but nothing broken. He felt pressure on his left leg. Looking back, he saw it was wedged between the muddy earth and the overturned hull of the boat. He tugged at it, but the metal hull was too heavy … he could not pull free.

  Looking forward through the spinning blades of the propeller, Caine saw a blurred landscape. Twisted, desolate trees silhouetted against the setting sun. Then, in the distance, he saw motion. The mercenary, thrown clear from the crash, staggered to his feet.

  The man wiped dirt and blood from his face. He shook his head, then turned towards the roaring boat engine. He stared at Caine through the blur of the spinning blades. He took a step forward and winced in pain. Then he took another step and continued moving towards the overturned boat. Based on his lopsided gait and grunts of pain, Caine guessed the man’s leg was broken.

  The Tavor automatic rifle, crusted in dirt and mud, still hung from his shoulder.

  Caine looked left and right. His fingers clawed at the mud, searching for his pistol. The Beretta was nowhere to be found.

  “Jesus, looks like you took care of Blayne for me!” the man called out, shouting over the noise of the spinning propeller. “That man does not look good. Guess it’s only fair I take care of you in return.”

  Gunfire ricocheted off the rear of the boat. Caine winced as bullets thudded into the earth next to his face.

  The rifle clicked empty. The man stopped walking. Caine watched as he ejected the spent magazine from the rear of the weapon.

  “Goddammit!” the mercenary cursed as he slipped a new magazine from a pouch mounted to his vest.

  Caine looked up and scanned the hull of the overturned boat. He needed a weapon … something, anything. Once the mercenary reloaded his rifle, Caine knew he would not get another chance. H
is eyes darted to the tool bin mounted next to the driver’s seat.

  He reached up and flipped the latch. The upside down lid flew open, and a barrage of tools pelted his head. He remembered Blayne going over the contents … the words played back in his mind.

  Some epoxy, a hammer, flare pistol …

  Caine looked back and saw the mercenary slam the fresh magazine into the butt of the rifle. He pulled back the charging handle. The weapon was ready to fire. He continued stalking towards the boat.

  Caine’s grasping hands wrapped around a small plastic case. He yanked it out of the mud and popped the lid open.

  Box of nails!

  The mercenary raised the rifle again and stared at Caine from behind the flip-up sight mounted on the barrel. He took a step to the left, beginning to circle around the propeller for a clear shot. “You know, some of those men were my friends, you son of a bitch,” he shouted.

  “No accounting for taste,” Caine snarled.

  He tossed the open box at the propeller. A cluster of four-inch galvanized nails struck the spinning blades, piercing the air with a high-pitched shriek. Caine covered his head with his hands and dropped back down into the mud. Several nails ricocheted off the hull of the boat, knocked backwards by the immense force.

  The airboat’s propeller spun at nearly the speed of sound. Sparks popped and flew from the engine as the whirling blades melted some of the nails into slag. The remaining shards of metal shot out from the back of the engine with the force of bullets.

  The mercenary’s body jerked as the barrage of high-powered projectiles slammed into him. He dropped his rifle and took a step backwards.

  The propeller coughed and groaned and finally sputtered to a stop. Caine looked up … the other man was only about fifteen feet away, and he was still standing. It seemed like his Kevlar vest had managed to deflect most of the impacts. But three crimson streams dripped down his face and spattered into the gray, muddy earth at his feet.

  A pair of nails protruded from his forehead, and one jutted from his right eye socket. The man opened and closed his mouth, but only a low, quiet groan escaped his lips. His remaining eye blinked twice, then rolled back. He fell to his knees and tumbled forward into the ground with a wet thud.

  Caine watched the man for a few seconds, but he did not move. Using all his strength, Caine managed to rock the heavy metal boat hull back and forth. Finally, he was able to slip his leg free. He rolled out from underneath the wreckage of the airboat and staggered to his feet. He stood still, panting for breath. Then he used his shirt sleeve to wipe the muck from his face. He looked up and examined his surroundings.

  Blayne lay motionless in the mud several yards away. The man’s leg was bent backwards at an unnatural angle. Caine walked past the mercenary’s corpse and knelt down next to Blayne. Grabbing the body’s torn shirt, he rolled him over and placed two fingers on the man’s neck.

  He felt no pulse. Blayne’s skin was pale and streaked with blood and dirt. His chest did not rise or fall. He was not breathing.

  He was gone.

  Caine stood up and took a deep breath. He stared at the dead body before him. He felt no sympathy for Blayne. The DNI was corrupt … Dirty. But the man had been in his custody, however briefly. He was an asset. Assets had to be protected.

  Caine had failed to protect him

  Ted Lapinski, a compromised director at the NSA, had implicated Blayne in a conspiracy that reached the highest levels of the intelligence community. Caine had gone renegade to track him down, hoping the DNI could lead him to Allan Bernatto, and others like him. Men who had betrayed him. Men who had hurt Rebecca, his former lover, and his superior at the CIA.

  But now the trail was cold. Lapinski was in CIA custody. Blayne was dead. There were no more moves left on the board.

  The hunt had come to a dead end.

  Or had it? Caine squinted. In the dim light, he noticed a cellphone clenched in Blayne’s left hand. He knelt down again and pried the fingers open.

  The phone’s screen was glowing white … Blayne must have unlocked it before he died. Caine knew that a dead finger could not activate the sensor in the phone’s fingerprint scanner. He slipped the phone from the corpse’s hand and held it up.

  He scrolled through the contacts app. It was empty. The same was true of the call log, the email, text messages … all data on the phone had been erased. There were certain techniques that might retrieve the lost data, but right now, Caine had no access to such technology. He was in the country illegally. He had disobeyed Rebecca. And thanks to Bernatto’s treachery, the rest of the CIA believed him to be a traitor … A man who had murdered his partner and sabotaged a crucial operation for his own personal gain.

  Caine continued searching the phone. There had to be something, some reason why Blayne had unlocked it. Finally, he opened a note-taking app. At first, it too appeared to be blank. But then Caine scrolled down and found a single file. It was unnamed, marked only by a date. Today’s date.

  He opened the file and found a single phrase typed into the memo … two words: PUFF ADDER.

  Caine gritted his teeth. Those words … a jumble of memories flooded his brain, like sand rushing through an hourglass. Hot, humid wind blowing through his hair. Endless green plains, blood-red sands … and her. The girl. Those eyes looking up at him, pleading. Begging.

  Someone else he failed to protect.

  He snapped his eyes shut tight. It’s a coincidence. That mission, that girl … PUFF ADDER. All dead. Ancient history.

  He banished the ghosts of memory from his mind. Coincidence or not, it would have to wait. He had to get out of here. Even this far out in the bayou, the gunshots and explosions might attract attention. Whoever had built these shacks might return. He had to get clear, get to safety. Buy himself some time to investigate the phone, decipher exactly what that file meant.

  Whatever the cryptic phrase referred to, Caine knew one thing: It was another link in the trail. His hunt had resumed.

  The last burning embers of sunlight sank behind the black horizon. The chirping rasp of insects and the screech of bird calls filled the air. Caine slipped the phone into his pocket and trudged into the dark, twisted trees. The shadows seemed to embrace him as he disappeared into the night.

  Chapter Five

  A shadow descended across Rebecca Freeling as the motorized stretcher hummed to life. She closed her eyes and exhaled. The mechanical bed began to move backwards, sliding her into the dark interior of the MRI machine.

  She felt naked and defenseless despite the blue hospital gown draped over her body. Her sleek designer suits, her expensive jewelry, even her makeup … all had to be forsaken so as not to interfere with the sensitive Magnetic Resonance Imaging machine.

  She kept her eyes closed as she moved backwards. She lay still on the sterile white table surface. Her fiery red hair cascaded down her shoulders. A specially shaped pillow positioned her neck and spine at the optimal viewing angle. The curved, pristine white ceiling of the machine hung a few inches above her nose.

  Her heart began to race. She imagined becoming trapped in the tight, claustrophobic tube.

  She knew her fears were groundless. The MRI technician had given her a small, white remote that acted as a panic button. She could stop the session and remove herself from the machine at any time. Of course, doing so would ruin the series of pictures the machine was taking. That would mean another session in the machine, thus prolonging her restless captivity.

  Just get through it, she told herself. Get it over with.

  She tried to relax her jaw and stop gritting her teeth. A pair of Sennheiser headphones covered her ears. The hospital pumped in music of her choice to make the experience more pleasant. At first, she had limited it to a selection of classical compositions … Mozart, Beethoven, Vivaldi. But the light, relaxing melodies were unable to mask the harsh, grinding noise the machine’s camera made as it rotated around her. So she had requested a change. Now, soothing but fast-paced electr
onica played through the headphones.

  But even the deep bass and pulsing rhythms of her new music could not completely mask the disturbing sounds the machine generated. It sounded like a jackhammer was pummeling the tube. It vibrated through the curved white walls, drilling its way towards her skull …

  She took a series of rapid, shallow breaths. Her chest was heaving and beads of sweat broke out on her forehead.

  “Please, try to breath normally.” The technician’s voice crackled through her headphones.

  She forced herself to calm down, slow her breathing. She kept her eyes closed and focused on the music. As she relaxed, a memory crept across the empty canvas of her mind. A hot, sweat-soaked night in a private gym. A late night sparring session … the crinkle of smiling eyes. Rippling muscles, arms wrapped around her, embracing her …

  Josh Galloway.

  She had to get through this, had to get back to work. She had to find him.

  She lay still as the machine buzzed and clanked around her. Then, with another electronic hum, the table slid back out into the light of the examination room.

  “That should just about do it. Sorry, I know it can get to you inside there,” said Isaac, her MRI tech, who wore blue scrubs and thick glasses over his warm, kind brown eyes. He helped her sit up, then rolled her wheelchair over to the table.

  Rebecca took a deep breath. She ran a hand through her copper hair, pushing it back behind her ears.

  “Ninety minutes sliding in and out of a two-foot-wide dark tube? Sounds like an enhanced interrogation technique to me,” she said. She shimmied off the table and lowered herself into the chair.

  Isaac grabbed her charts from the wall. He walked alongside her as she rolled out of the MRI chamber. They moved through a short corridor towards the administrative wing of the hospital.