by Matt Rogers
His first thought was instant panic, but he didn’t allow himself to physically react. It took every ounce of restraint in his body to stay calm. Any sudden movements would cause stirring at the water’s surface. He had to float still and pray that it had been nothing but a stray shot.
There were no further shots. He had no way of knowing where the three Phantoms were above him. Everything stayed shrouded in darkness. He couldn’t see up or down or left or right. Nothing to do but continue swimming.
A tightness began to snake its way into his chest. He felt the restriction of air starting to take effect. He’d only been under for perhaps a minute and a half, but the conditions were less than perfect. When he’d held his breath for four minutes in the SEAL training facilities, it had been in big pools of crystal clear water. No-one shooting at him, looking to end his life. No unstable conditions. Just him and the water and intense concentration.
This warzone was vastly different to the training pool.
Mapping his course in his head using nothing but his memory, he powered on. Kicking steadily, hands slicing through the murky water ahead. Slow, controlled movements. The restriction of air started to bother him. Severely. He tried not to let it faze him. With his throat burning and chest expanding he continued to swim forward, always forward, never stopping, never slowing.
The opposite riverbank had to be here somewhere. It felt like he had crossed the length of the river a thousand times. Still, nothing but darkness and muddy water ahead. He couldn’t resurface. They’d see him. They’d pick him off with ease. He had to fight against his lungs, now screaming for air.
Keep going.
He reached out blindly, feeling, searching, fingers reaching for anything that could be the riverbank.
Just as black spots appeared in the centre of his vision his hands plunged into mud. He took a second to feel around. He had come to a steady slope that reached diagonally toward the surface. The shore.
With his wrist and his lungs both in equal amounts of pain, he fumbled up the underwater hill until the surface was right there above his head. It was paramount that he avoided taking a loud gasp of air when he broke out. The enemy boat’s engine and the noise of the flowing river would more than likely drown out any sound he made, but one could never be too cautious.
He exited the water and crawled up the muddy banks, inhaling quietly. Water dripped off his khakis. He turned to see the three-man boat patrolling the opposite side of the river, one man steering and the other two peering down, trying to spot any sign of movement underneath the surface. The other three boats drifted slowly along the river, carried by the current, all empty except for the one Phantom coming out of unconsciousness. If King counted correctly, there were five men at the bottom of the river.
And three left to take care of.
Unarmed and gasping for breath, it would be hard to achieve anything in his present state. He needed the duffel bag.
Was there time to retrieve it?
The three Phantoms still on the hunt had yet to spot him. They weren’t looking in his direction. None of them had expected him to cover the distance he had, and as such they were searching in entirely the wrong location. He still had time to return to his shelter.
He got to his feet and crept up the riverbank, heading for the rainforest. Once inside, they would never find him. He would disappear. But it was urgent that he return to finish them off, or they would head back to Mabaya and raise the alarm.
Then the two remaining hostages would be slaughtered.
King passed between two trees and entered the jungle.
CHAPTER 20
The shelter was exactly how he’d left it, small and hidden and scattered with the litter of his mid-afternoon meal. His duffel lay open. He hadn’t had time to close it before the three-man search party had crept up on him and everything had gone to shit.
The natural sounds of the rainforest had returned in all their subtle details. Calls and shrieks of wildlife sounded all around him, some close, some far in the distance. The jungle had returned to its status quo as the conflict raged elsewhere.
King withdrew the FN-SCAR-L rifle from the bag. The L stood for light. There was a heavy model too, complete with higher-caliber ammunition, but that model didn’t suit close quarters combat in the rainforest. He’d requested something agile and reliable. Nothing better than the SCAR. Designed for SOCOM, there was no reason for him to use anything else. They’d offered him brand new, state-of-the-art gear reserved for the special forces. He’d declined. The SCAR had everything he wanted. It was a chunky beast of an assault rifle, currently used by more than twenty countries. He didn’t have time for expensive accessories.
He slung the strap connecting the SCAR’s magazine to its stock over his shoulder, snatched a few more supplies, zipped up the duffel and set off for the river.
It was a strange experience being in such a desolate part of the planet. The only human activity within a hundred miles was a gang of drug dealers looking to end his life. Other than that, he was alone in a dense, inhospitable region that spanned entire countries. He felt awe every time he considered the size of the Amazon Rainforest, so much of it unexplored. It was likely that if he chose a random direction and set off, he would find himself in a patch of jungle never touched by humans.
As he strode for the last location he’d seen the boats, he took a look at the wound on his wrist. Adrenalin had numbed the injury, but for now the bleeding had ceased. The superglue had dried, leaving a yellow layer caked over the wound. He would let a doctor patch it up properly when he was back in safe hands.
Sure enough, the enemy boat still patrolled the waters as he reached the section of rainforest nearest the docking poles. King dropped to one knee and raised the SCAR, resting the stock against his shoulder. The stock gave him a platform to steady his aim, which was accurate enough regardless. He exhaled and held still. He did not move a muscle. He aligned the SCAR’s optics with the boat on the other side of the river.
The driver would be the easiest target. He stood fully upright while the other two men squatted low, peering off each edge of the boat into the flowing river water. Still trying to locate King in the river, when in actuality he was a hundred feet away, lining up to put a bullet into each of their skulls.
King squeezed off a volley. The report in his ear was deafening, but there was no ear protection out here in the field. He would just have to put up with it. Four 45mm rounds spat out of the barrel and covered the space between them in less than a tenth of a second. Three hit the driver. The fourth shot away into the rainforest on the other side. Not that King saw any of that. He simply tapped the trigger and watched through the sights as the driver jerked off his feet, crumpling to the floor of the boat and disappearing from sight.
Either dead, or very close to.
The other two promptly jumped a foot each, startled by the sudden turn of events. King saw them both dive for cover. He gave them credit. They’d reacted with animalistic fervour. Survival mode had kicked in. He hadn’t had time to fire at them.
Ears ringing, he watched them reach for the tiller and swing the boat around so the bow was facing his side of the shore. Then they accelerated. Just as he had done. A smart move. He had nothing to shoot at.
For a moment, he hesitated. He’d picked up an extra magazine for the SCAR before he returned. But it would do no good to waste all the rounds in his current one firing at the boat, hoping to hit a target through the wooden hull with a stroke of blind luck. The likely result would be that he ran out of ammunition just as the boat ploughed onto the shore. Which would be disadvantageous, to say the least.
The pair had made a smart move, he had to admit. King had expected panic, retreat, terror. The sort of uncoordinated reactions that came with seeing a close ally picked off from a distance. But they’d quickly assessed where the threat had come from and subsequently charged toward it.
Exactly what King would have done.
Perhaps these two would put
up a different fight to the rest of them. So far the mercenaries’ actions had been predictable. Tough to deal with, but predictable. The type of behaviour King had seen a million times before. Which was what had allowed him to stay alive.
So far.
He decided to retreat deep into cover and wait for the boat to crash into the riverbank. When the pair rose above the frame, he would be ready. He would shoot them dead. Then he would move on.
Water frothed at the bow of the boat as it speared horizontally across the river toward his position. For a man steering blind, whoever had control of the tiller was incredibly precise. It would run aground directly in front of King. He began to doubt himself. Maybe they knew something he didn’t. He’d expected a quick and painless execution of the three men, from far away. Now the two left alive were threatening to turn the fight into a close-quarters gunfight. Something which he always strived to avoid unless absolutely necessary.
The bow slammed into the mud, tossing up a wave of it. King kept his eye planted against his sights. Searching for a fraction of movement. Anything to shoot at. He would open fire as soon as he saw either of the two men. He hoped his reflexes were faster than theirs.
Nothing happened. The boat slid to a halt and silence lapsed over the river. The engine died as the propellor clogged with mud. King didn’t hear a peep from inside its frame.
What’s happening? he thought. Unsure how to react.
A pair of hands darted into view. Clutching a Kalashnikov rifle. This one an AK-105. King caught a glimpse of the gun and abandoned his SCAR. It wasn’t worth risking his life to shoot his enemy in the hand. He just got below a fallen log before a wild spray from the rifle ripped through the vegetation all around him.
Even after years of service, King hated getting shot at, no matter how safe he considered his cover to be. It came with the unpleasant knowledge that it would only take a single stray round to ricochet off something hard and catapult into his vital organs, and that would be that. He rode out the feeling of terror until the gunfire ceased.
Back to silence. Now, his position was even worse. They could be aiming at the last place they’d seen him. Just waiting for him to stick his head out into the open so they could blast it apart.
He could either act now, or never act at all.
He gripped the SCAR tight and shot out from behind the fallen log. The riverbank came into view. An empty boat. Both men were in the process of vaulting out of it. Both wielding assault rifles. They’d assumed King would stay in cover, fearing more shots. They’d decided to take advantage of the tables turning and get out of their vessel.
They’d assumed wrong.
King reacted in a split second. He swung his aim round to the man on the left, who was mid-leap. Still airborne. He held the trigger and lit him up with at least five or six bullets. They exited the gun too fast for him to count. Whatever the case, the man died. Fast.
King released the trigger and turned to fire a similar volley at the man on the right.
Then he realised he’d misjudged it.
Which proved disastrous.
The last Phantom left alive on the river had already landed on shore by the time King took aim. He already had his Kalashnikov up, barrel locked on.
He pulled his own trigger and shot King in the chest.
CHAPTER 21
Inside the compound, Mabaya’s radio squawked to life. A sharp burst of static followed by a couple of sentences, short and sharp. He recognised the voice. Deep and confident. It was Armando.
‘Boss, I hit the American. He’s down.’
Mabaya snatched the satellite phone off his belt and thumbed a button on its side.
‘Is he dead?’
‘He’s wounded. But I’m in control. Want me to bring him in?’
‘Yes. Let’s hang him up and cut him until he’s dry. Slowly. Fucking pig. How many of you are there?’
A short pause. Mabaya didn’t like the sound of that. Then came the reply. ‘None.’
He wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Perhaps Armando had said nine. There was no inconceivable way that a single man had slaughtered more than half his men.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said none. He killed them all. I…’
Mabaya heard something that sounded very much like a sob. He didn’t blame the man. Out here in the uninhabited rainforest, the Phantoms were the only humans for miles in any direction. Friendships formed quickly. And this fucker had stripped them all away.
‘If you want to kill him now, Armando, do it. I don’t care.’
‘Thanks, boss. See you soon.’
Static, then silence.
A slight grin spread across Mabaya’s face as he imagined what Armando would do to the American. It would be long and drawn-out and painful, fuelled by the deaths of his friends. That thought quickly wiped the smile away. As dawn broke earlier that morning, twenty-two Phantoms had occupied the facility. The maximum amount of men they kept in this place at one time. Now fourteen were dead. The two who he’d sent to tend to the boats earlier that morning had never returned, so he counted them out. After he’d killed the bald hostage he’d sent out a search party of three men to look for the American. Next came a cacophony of gunfire, meaning they’d made contact. Also meaning they were probably dead. So he’d sent out the bulk of his forces. Nine men.
There was one left alive.
The day’s events would leave a sizeable hole in his operation. Perhaps it would be compromised forever. Mabaya didn’t know how many more Americans would come, and what this one had achieved was already devastating. He did not know where he would go from here.
Anger swelled within him. He rose off the rickety chair he had been perched on and lashed out, kicking it across the room.
Thankfully, there were two hostages in the back room he could happily take out his anger on.
He turned and walked down the hallway to their cell.
CHAPTER 22
The bullet hit King like every other battlefield wound he’d sustained did.
So fast he didn’t see it coming.
It was a strange feeling. One moment he had his aim locked on, ready to kill the final Phantom on the river. The next he felt a searing pain near his shoulder and before he knew it the SCAR had dropped from his hands. He lost his footing and fell into the undergrowth. It probably saved his life. As he collapsed, a cluster of AK-105 rounds flew over his head. They would have killed him instantly had he still been standing upright.
In the heat of battle, King’s first instinct was always to act. No matter how dire the situation. Forward momentum was critical to survival. So despite the wound he urged himself to get to his feet, before even calculating the severity of the injury.
When his body didn’t respond, he knew it was bad.
The shock of getting hit shut down his system. The pain had yet to come. But it would. Even though it wasn’t instantaneous, it would surface shortly. After the shell-shock wore off.
The SCAR had fallen into a cluster of plants, just out of reach. King made a move for it, urging his muscles to act, but before he could get hold of it the man who had shot him stepped over a log and planted a boot into his chest. Pinning him into place.
King took a look at the man who would probably end his life. He’d shaved his hair on the sides and let the top grow long and straggly. It looked like it hadn’t been washed in months. He had beady eyes, a weather-beaten face lined with contours and a thick scar running down his left cheek. The expression on his face was one of fury. He aimed the barrel of his weapon right between King’s eyes. King knew any wrong move on his part would be met with a bullet in the brain.
‘I call boss,’ he said in stunted English. ‘Then I kill you.’
‘Sounds good,’ King said.
The man put more pressure on King’s chest, causing him to cough violently. ‘Think you’re funny, huh, American?’
King didn’t reply. He could already feel blood begin to seep from the wound in his
shoulder. It flowed down his arm, hot and wet.
The man withdrew a thick satellite phone from his back pocket and thumbed a few buttons. King felt a slight stab of hope. If he could make it out of this situation somehow, someway, then he would be able to contact reinforcements.
The man began to converse with someone on the other end of the line, speaking fluent Spanish. He spoke too fast for King to decipher each word but he managed to translate a few in his head.
Specifically, ‘Kill him now, Armando,’ from the other end.
The man named Armando smiled as he hung up. There would be adrenalin flowing through him as he prepared to kill. King knew exactly what that felt like.
He also knew it made you careless.
Armando took the pressure off King’s chest as he hung up, his mind elsewhere. It gave just enough room for King to shift his weight and slide his good hand behind his back. Reaching for the back of his belt. Fingers searching desperately for the object he’d placed there not ten minutes earlier. The object that had been pinned under his bulk the entire time.
With a flood of relief, he found it.
The spare Glock 19.
King ripped it free and swung his arm out, barrel pointed at Armando’s forehead. The mercenary had made a fatal mistake. He’d let his aim wander. He’d thought King was defenceless. The AK-105 now wavered in his hand, aimed just a few inches past King’s head.
A careless and stupid mistake. One that would cost him dearly.
King shot him in the face without a shadow of remorse.
Armando fell back, relieving King of his weight. He crashed against the log he’d stepped over and came to rest in a sitting position. Stone dead. King saw blood pool from his forehead, thick and viscous. The same colour as the liquid currently leaking from his shoulder.
He rolled over and clambered to his knees. Renewed with a newfound determination. The mission was still salvageable. There was still hope, no matter how slim. The agony in his shoulder made his nerve endings scream, threatened to break him. He wouldn’t let it.
