Mark drove throughout the night, switching with Valerie for a few hours to catch some shut-eye. He couldn’t spread out in the cramped car and woke up with a stiff neck. In the morning, he took the wheel again. By that time, they had exited Appleton on the north end and Roy picked up Heather’s signature on the tracker.
From the current position and the city behind them, Roy determined the general route the transports planned to take and guided Mark to a winding road with sloping hills on either side. One part of the road was straight and they stopped there, meeting up with the other half of the convoy.
Lionel, Anton, and Sheila gathered with the others on the left side of the road on top of the hills, and Emeryl surveyed their position. In the distance, Appleton rested on the horizon.
“They’ll turn there,” he said, indicating where the road curved before the straightaway. “The hill will block them from seeing us until it’s too late.”
“And our view of them until they’re in front of us,” Lionel said.
“Right, which is why we need to be ready.” The trees in the surrounding area provided some cover for the mercenaries. A pair of Humvees and an RV were set up on clear spots at the edge of the hilltop on the other side of the road.
“We’ll back the other vehicles into the trees. That should camouflage them,” Emeryl said, pointing with the pistol attached to his hand. “Then we’ll roll out when we attack. Hit them hard and fast. We can’t dawdle. They’ll call the FBI the moment we start, and they won’t be far.” The mercenaries rushed around, setting up the gun turrets and stripping the RV exteriors for the APC guns.
Sheila shielded her eyes and pointed to the other side of the road. “What’s that? A mill?” Mark squinted. It looked like an old, small wooden sawmill perched in the middle of the trees on the opposite slope. No sound came from it, and he assumed it was shut down. A dirt road branched off from the main road, leading up to the entrance. Not a bad hiding place. If he and Heather lay low there until the shooting stopped, they had a good chance to slip out from under everyone’s noses.
“We’ll set a few people in there in case they try to make a break for it, darling,” Emeryl said. Mark’s shoulders sagged, his promising bubble burst. “How are we doing this?”
“Whyte texted me this morning. There’s four transports,” Anton said. “Heather will be in the second or third one. Can we hit the front and rear and close them off?”
Emeryl nodded and ordered the RPGs unloaded. “Martinez, Young, and Fulbright! Get to the road and be ready to shoot on my command.” Three mercenaries hopped to the task and ran off into the forest, laden with rifles and the rocket-propelled grenades, the RPGs. “Jones, Overton, and Henderson, back them up.”
Oliver, Anton, and Mark grabbed the cyclist and his motorcycle from the APC and carried them down to the road. The cyclist was in horrible shape and teetered on the verge of unconsciousness. Under his clothes, his ribs sank inward and his legs zigzagged from hip to foot, broken in different spots. His face resembled a large squashed tomato oozing from every crevice. When Anton dropped him in the middle of the road, he groaned and raised a weak arm.
“Thanks for grounding him,” Oliver said, missing Anton’s disgusted face. He accepted the man’s arm and shook it heartily. “And thank you for being a good sport about this. We’ve got a perfect role for you to play.” Anton climbed back up the hill and Oliver crouched next to the man’s ear. “Your part is a drunk victim of a hit and run. Can you do that?”
The man’s breath came in heavy rasps. Oliver twisted one of the legs and he cried out. Mark winced, nearly feeling the pain himself. “That right there! That’s perfect. You were born to play this part, uh, hmm,” he rubbed his chin. “I never caught your name. I’ll call you Jerry. You seem like a Jerry.” Oliver dragged the motorcycle over, setting it atop one of Jerry’s legs. “It’s showtime!”
Together with Mark, Oliver hid amongst the trees with other mercenaries, all of whom waited with rifles and weapons trained on the road. Mark leaned on a trunk, picking at the bark nonstop as his stomach tied into a tangled knot. His feet twitched and he constantly shifted, ready to move as soon as the transports were in view. Get Heather and run. Get Heather and run. His ears perked up. In the quiet distance, several engines rumbled. Here we go.
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Rogues of Overwatch Page 40
