by Vince Milam
“Gimme five minutes. I’ll gather a few tools.”
I dropped below deck and readied two Colt 901 assault rifles, swapping red dot scopes for Elcan Specter scopes wired for night vision. The sun would set within an hour. I attached noise suppressors to the barrels of both weapons. If hitters, they'd strike as soon as we entered lonely turf. That wouldn't be long. Once we entered the North Landing River, Currituck Sound lay a short hop south. A spillage area filled with marshes, swamps, sloughs, and isolated tree-filled hummocks of dry land. I wrapped a blanket around the rifles and toted them up the steps and into the wheelhouse. No point showing our hole cards.
The entire exercise accepted there was a chance their boat represented no danger. A logical explanation for their activities clear and evident for those not imbued with bounty-fueled paranoia. But Bo and I had faced bounty hunters in the recent past. And my well-founded suspicions were mixed with awareness that the Caribbean job could also manifest this type of activity. Killers. Killers sent to stamp a period at the end of the Case Lee sentence.
“Swapped scopes,” I said and uncovered the weapons alongside Bo. “Night vision.”
“Good on ye, goober. You do have a fine nose for nefarious activities. Our buddies display a keen interest regarding our progress. They view us through binoculars.” He lowered the binoculars and glanced my way. “Any other handy tools downstairs?”
Cold resignation that these were bad guys ratcheted up. “Yeah. But I wanted these ready. There’s a quiet stretch of river coming soon. They may goose it and make a play.”
“If so, welcome to their final curtain call.” Bo grinned, eyes glittered. The warrior began shedding his husk.
“You want full whisper on the handgun?”
I'd attach silencers to two H&K .45 semi-automatic pistols. My question was whether Bo wanted sub-sonic ammo. Regular high-velocity ammo—my preference—spit a muted sound signature. Sub-sonic ammo emitted only a light pop and the near-silent mechanical slide of the weapon's autoload mechanism. An up close and personal configuration. The way Bo worked.
“If you would be so kind,” he said. “And I've got my own knife.”
Bo preferred the Bundeswehr combat knife. Another working-close tool. I stuck with a KA-BAR knife, since my personal preference was killing the bastards long before knife-range.
Collected pistols and associated battle gear were toted into the wheelhouse where we'd change clothes, visible to the following boat. Fatigues, lace-up boots, webbed vest. A statement. One not needed if they were benign travelers, and a potential dissuader if they held ill-intent.
Shadows lengthened and the sun approached the horizon. We turned onto the North Landing River, headed for Currituck Sound. A few short miles and then the estuarial area where swamp and marsh and sloughs presented an uninhabited patchwork of wilderness.
“Bounty hunters or gentlemen associated with your current endeavors?” Bo asked as he laced a boot. “Or do they hate us because we're beautiful?”
“No telling. Suspect the current contract.”
“Snared us at the Clubhouse?”
“Better than even money.”
It stunk of spooks. An Abaco playhouse member might have clicked a cell phone photo of me. Then passed it on to the head honcho. Possible. Which meant the Caribbean conspiracy mastermind would have clandestine ties with knowledge of the Clubhouse. It played into Jules’s murky assertions.
Or plain vanilla bounty hunters, fed through clandestine operators who already possessed photos. A collective play for quick cash.
Or the Russians. Still mightily pissed and with a strong tendency—second only to the Sicilian Mafia—toward exacting revenge.
Or four guys out for a boat ride as nightfall approached. Where there were no towns and no riverside burgs within twenty miles.
Block it out, Case. Deal with the situation. Mull over who sent them later and get real. These guys weren't selling personalized bowling shirts.
The act of gear prep unlocked the kill switch protective cover. These weren’t two-bit killers taking a hit job. Another level, an escalation. A firefight. Unlike my former teammates—Bo, Catch, Marcus—who owned the ability to flow from workaday life into full-tilt battle violence, I required commitment time. Marcus, our team leader, termed it my clinical assessment. Whatever the attribute, I kept the requisite mindset, the ferocity, tucked well away. Pulled from deep hiding when called for and shaken to remove wrinkles. Done with something different than hesitancy—a reticent knowing, an acceptance. An acceptance the killing would start soon, so time to throw the switch. My teammates long ago internalized my personal preparation and accepted it without comment. They did so for a simple and single reason. Once the switch was thrown, I delivered with the best of them.
The boat traffic thinned and sunset loomed. The Ace entered an area of expansive marsh, swamp, and trees. A set-aside nature preserve. We slid past a large sign stipulating, Notice: The Preserve is now closed due to increased illegal activity and DCR’s lack of funding. Yeah, well, illegal activities would soon escalate exponentially.
“This damp and primal turf holds promise,” Bo said, assessing potential battle grounds.
“I know this area. An offshoot of the river turns right at the southern end of the preserve.”
“Let’s take it. And see who wants to join our picnic, Boo-Boo.”
We did. Pines and scrub brush filled the preserve’s center, the ground a few feet higher than the surrounding marsh and sloughs and swamp. If they followed, then game on.
“Your kind of turf, Bo.” His former home within the Dismal Swamp held such surroundings.
“It’s all my kind of turf. Tighten your jockstrap. The party starts soon.”
Dusk settled, night edged. As we curved up the river’s narrow arm a deep slough appeared on the right. We turned and eased our way in. Egrets roosted among the scattered trees and the v-wakes of fish rushed past the Ace, escaping our intrusion. The slough made a slight curve and dead-ended. We nudged onto a muddy bank. End of the line.
Engine killed, we listened. The idle rumble of a high-powered outboard followed our trail up the river arm and came to a full stop at the entrance to our slough. Out of sight, silent, three hundred yards away. They’d stopped and either anchored or pulled onto the shore.
“Two by two,” Bo whispered. “Headed toward the ark.” He handed me bug dope—mosquitoes swarmed full force, buzzing around our heads and arms.
His battle assessment—two would take one side of the slough, two on the other. The four would work our way, toward the Ace, and take care of business. Collect their fee and maybe the bounty. Well, the collection plate started at the end of my rifle barrel, boys. So kiss your butts goodbye.
Battle commenced, silent stalks, no quarter given or expected. I threw the switch and became all fight.
“Stealth and vigor, my brother,” Bo whispered as he slid over the side. Wild eyes crackled with energy, his face tight. “We shall meet anon.”
Bo pointed toward the preserve's hummock of high ground a hundred yards in the distance and signaled that I should take it. My nod of agreement committed Bo to the slough’s opposite side where marsh grass, knee-deep water, and thick mud reigned. Where two of them stalked our way. Welcome to Bo’s playground.
I slid over the side and hunkered. Paused and rubbed marsh mud across my face, neck, and back of hands. Then I moved fast. Long wet strides, hunched over, no splashes. The elevated patch of trees and brush were my destination and hunting blind. Night draped, moonlight shone. Each silent step brought the smell of decayed vegetation and brackish water. The enemy would assume we’d hold a defensive posture and make their way toward the Ace. They'd fall short of their goal.
Hand and knees into the brush, I worked my way toward a collection of pines, low scrub thick at their base. Finding a home and belly-crawling to the edge of the brush, I held the rifle's night scope at the ready.
The forty second crawl afforded final entry of contrition and
remorse—short, fleeting, and dismissed. I didn't ask for this, didn't want this, and wished it didn't have to happen. But it did. They were here to kill me. Me and Bo. The insanity of the act stood tall. And any guilt over their soon-to-be deaths departed as whispered wings of night flight, passing. Previous battles and encounters flashed—death the common platform. Motivations varied, time passed, my personal outlook more disillusioned. Rusty hinges protested, but the Case Lee castle door slammed shut on such thoughts. Time to live, or die.
Bad news across the landscape. No movement. None. Either these guys remained with their fiberglass fishing boat and reconnoitered the situation or they were former operators, hunting. Retired Special Forces and take your pick of origin. British, French, Israeli, Russian, Czech. Or US. Nationality bore no meaning. What did matter was these guys, if coming, moved low and slow and silent. I shouldered the rifle and relied on the night scope. Naked eyeballs failed to identify hostile actors.
Although marsh grass obscured the view, the Ace's upper deck railing and wheelhouse were visible. The scene held elements of a Homer Winslow painting—marsh water reflected the quarter moon and starlight. A small animal, rabbit or possum or weasel, scuttled nearby my position. Mosquitoes droned.
I spotted one. He belly-squirmed near the slough's bank, headed for the Ace. He performed an incursion, a violation not tolerated. I'd take him first. A game trail provided an opportunity. The attacker continued sliding along the slough's bank, made his way toward my boat, and offered minimal glimpses through the thick grass. That is, until he crawled a hundred fifty yards away across a twelve-inch wide path beaten down by assorted critters. Too late for a head shot, his body was already a quarter way across the line of sight. Crosshairs fixed on his exposed side, lungs and heart shot attainable. Trigger squeezed, a low rifle crack, and he flinched, attempted a crawl, and died. No exaltation, and no remorse. A clinical dispatch that kicked off the battle. Three left.
Whether they moved among the vegetation and stagnant water toward me or were split with one or two on the other side of the slough as Bo assumed remained unknown. A bullet whipped above my head and popped foliage, followed by a suppressed rifle crack. Bogey number two. He’d keyed on the brief glint of my muzzle flash. Two more rapid shots hit close—too close—and his muzzle flash shifted in the night. A classic setup—fire and maneuver. He'd try and keep me pinned while his cohorts worked their way into a kill shot position.
Screw that noise. Belly-flat, I scooted backward and sought temporary sanctuary deep into the brush, under the copse of trees. A collection point and opportunity to reposition. I stomach crawled forward again to my right and established another fire position. The shooter continued popping rounds into my former location. His comrades, unseen, headed my way as I scoped, searched. The first among us to be seen, died.
The fire toward my former position stopped. The shooter changed tactics. Or met Bo. I bet my life on the latter. Meaning all four adversaries attacked from my side of the slough. Bo, grasping the reality, swam the slough and hunted at their backs. Adios, dude shooting at me. No noise accompanied the cessation of fire, so Bo used either his knife or the silenced .45 pistol. Two down. Two left.
A breeze picked up. It helped keep the mosquitoes at bay, but hindered sighting the enemy. Marsh grass waved and camouflaged non-natural vegetative movement. A fish splashed, unseen but close, the sound carrying. Every sense maxed, breath steady. Two operators hunted me, stalked my position. I hunted them, static, searching. And Bo as a marsh ghost at their backs.
Chapter 15
Time doesn't stand still. It compresses. Twenty minutes of intense searching passed as five. Sounds, sights, smells accentuated. A hyper-focus on movement, irregular shapes, splashes, animals of the night disturbed.
Nothing. Nada. These guys were good—operators, without doubt. Flat against the ground, my movements were minimal. Slight shifts of the weapon, scoping waving grass and moving water and moonlight shadows. Another compressed fifteen minutes passed, the tension meter pegged.
One of them made a mistake. It cost him his life. Fifty yards away, as chest-high grass moved with the breeze and standing water amongst the vegetation rippled, a larger ripple presented. Slight, barely discernible. A ripple pushed, forcing its way through the small breeze-induced water movement. I focused there and scoped a small patch of swampy marsh. Waited.
The barrel of his shouldered weapon peeked through the marsh grass first, its progress in inches. Slow, cautious. Then a hand, gripping the weapon’s forestock. The world blocked out and acute concentration reigned. His head appeared. I didn't hesitate and squeezed the trigger. His body splash sent small waves through the immediate section of marsh.
One left, assuming Bo took out the shooter who fired at my previous position. I scooted backward, flat against the ground then forward again and assumed another firing position, thirty feet to the right of where I'd last squeezed the trigger. And waited, searched.
The breeze moved pine needles overhead, their aroma mixed with marshland. Time condensed again. I was dead still, filled with awareness a bullet could drive into my innards any second. A loon called, another answered. No sign of Bo. Or the fourth shooter. Bo might have taken him down, done his invisible stalking thing. A possibility. But I wasn't counting on it and was prepared to remain, scoping, hunting, until daybreak. Anticipatory movement meant a bullet, death. I'd wait. If one remained, he knew my general area. He'd come.
Thirty minutes, an hour. My movement of the rifle was deliberate, miniscule. Both eyes open—one sited through the scope, sussed detail. The other captured a wider field of dark vision, movement-focused.
Bad, bad news arrived. I smelled him. The breeze crossed from right to left, and he'd approached from the right. Crawled, inch by inch. And now, with his weapon aimed my general direction, stopped and sought. The aroma of pine needles, decayed marsh grass, and the sweat of human exertion. Close, close. I ceased all movement. My cheek rested against the rifle's stock. A slow, slow head twist of an inch or two. Eyes strained toward my right and sought his position. A vague shape hugged the ground through the lower limbs of scrub brush. A darker area, nebulous, unmoving. Could have been a log. A log that appeared in the last thirty minutes. Seven paces away and pointed my direction. Pointed toward my side profile. My movement meant death. Any movement. A quick snapshot to the right mandated I first shift my weapon his direction. And he'd cut loose with high velocity lead prior to me firing a shot. Son of a bitch.
No motion from either of us. I'd identified him. The reverse wasn't true. Otherwise I'd be dead by now. So he remained still, quiet, and hunted me. He may have reciprocated—stared straight at me, another dark log-like shape, wondering if I was a recent addition to the landscape. Mosquitoes hovered between gentle gusts of breeze. Wing flaps slapped water as a pair of ducks hustled away from a perceived predator. Seven paces. Twenty feet.
I considered my options but damn few presented. Waiting him out gave the best odds. He'd move again, crawl again, hunt forward. Toward me. But a crawl required assistance from shoulders, arms. And each shift, each progression, took his weapon’s aim off my location. The rifle barrel pointed either to my right or left as he crawled. It offered the lone opportunity to strike. It would be close. My weapon would swing a wider arc before firing a snapshot. Odds in his favor, but no other option presented. He was headed toward me, inch by inch. I rested, shallow breaths, head faced right, and pressed against my weapon's stock. His move.
A light pop and metallic snick of finality. A silenced .45 with subsonic ammo cycling a round. Bo. My adversary displayed the slightest of movement. The log-like shape relaxed, lowered even more into the ground. Dead.
“Goodnight, Irene.” Spoken, not whispered, less than ten feet from the dark shape. Oh, man. Relief flood gates opened.
How he did it, with both myself and my adversary so intent, so focused, would remain a mystery. Our Delta teammates had experienced his ability across a wide swath of settings and locales. Bo
's cloak of invisibility. No freakin' clue how he pulled it off, but he sure did, and it couldn't come at a more opportune time.
“You take care of another one?” I asked, voice low.
I didn't want a conversation among the pines without knowledge the battle—this stealthy silent battle—was over.
“Did indeed.” His shadowed figure loomed over his latest victim. The Bundeswehr knife appeared, shining in the moon and star light. He leaned over and removed a body part. Likely an ear. He'd make use of it as a weird Bo totem.
I rolled onto my back. The adrenaline pump eased off. My mouth’s metallic taste evidenced how jacked my body was the last hour. Oh man. Bo appeared above me, backlit with moonlight through the trees. He squatted, holding the knife.
“Operators,” he said. “Good ones.”
“Not that damn good.”
He wiped the knife against his soaked fatigues and sheathed it. He'd swam the slough and crawled through marsh and now hovered next to me drenched.
“Felt a twinge or three. From New Guinea. Wonder if the universe is signaling?”
Bo's injuries during our last adventure were the worst of our bunch. If I'd been shot up as much as him, I'd sure have felt more than a twinge or three hunting through the swampy marsh.
“Maybe it's signaling we should shunt aside this peculiar way of life,” I said.
“Peculiar?”
I lifted my head off the ground and stared into his shadowed face. He'd cocked his head, questioning.
“You don't find this peculiar? Right now? Four dead bodies sprinkled about an isolated marsh? A freakin' battle before supper?”
“What are we eating?”
My head rested back on the pine needles and dirt. It was over. Thank God.
“What did you collect, Bo?”
I required recovery time. Allow body and mind to return, embrace, a state of normalcy. Pull back on the throttle. Bo wasn’t hindered with such requisites.
