by Matt Rogers
King made his way over to the shelving. It towered above him, reaching high toward the roof, almost touching the steel beams criss-crossing overhead. The supplies rested in timber cartons. Perfect for setting alight.
He found what he was looking for next to a discarded outboard motor. King guessed it came from one of the boats he had used yesterday. Adjacent to it lay a fat canister of fuel, full to the brim. He wrapped his good hand around the plastic handle and lifted. The fuel was heavy, but motivation lent him strength. He upended its contents over one of the lower shelves, soaking most of the wood. Next he retrieved a blowtorch from the nearest workstation and fired it up.
This will draw some attention.
He threw the lit blowtorch onto the bottom shelf.
As soon as the blue flame touched the puddle of fuel the whole area caught alight. Even as he retreated, King felt the heat searing his back. It spread faster than he thought possible. Within half a minute the far side of the warehouse roared with flames, fuelled by the heat of the warehouse and the mountains of timber.
King took cover behind one of the steel countertops. He knew what was coming. Someone would come running in, surprised at the sudden turn of events, unsure of what was happening.
In fact, it was two men.
A pair of Phantoms were the first to arrive at the scene. From a narrow crack between the tables, King watched their faces fall as they hurried through the doorway and gazed upon their destroyed supplies.
He burst out of cover and fired a pair of shots from the Taurus before they had time to realise he was there. One caught the man on the left in the chest and the other hit home, sending a bullet between the second man’s eyes and tumbling into his brain. He was killed instantly. The chest shot probably did the trick also, but King made sure by taking a step forward and finishing the first guy off with a quick headshot.
Twelve bullets left.
Six men left.
The others would be smarter. Mabaya would be directing them, and it seemed he was the only man in their gang with combat training. King snuck up to the doorframe …
… and fell back as a volley of shots pinged through into the concrete.
They were ready for him.
Suddenly, he realised his mistake.
Mabaya had effectively capitalised on the situation by surrounding the main entrance with his men. The warehouse had become stifling from the inferno on its far wall. King felt sweat dripping off his face, splattering the dusty concrete beneath him. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he would either burn to death or suffocate from the smoke. He hadn’t anticipated that Mabaya would surround the building so quickly. Now he was trapped.
He fired three shots out the open door, and the gunfire ceased momentarily. It wouldn’t be enough. As soon as he stepped out onto open ground he would be torn to pieces by automatic gunfire.
Nine bullets left, a voice reminded him.
Leaving through the front door was no longer an option. King turned and started with shock as he saw the blaze eating away at the workstations, lighting instruments and material on fire. The air grew thick and heavy. Smoke cascaded down from the roof, surrounding him. He had perhaps thirty seconds to move.
There were no windows. No way to escape.
The hallway.
He looked for the sub-section of the warehouse. There it was in the far corner, already shrouded in black smoke. Flames licked at its timber walls. It was his only chance of getting out.
He took off at a sprint, darting between countertops and twisting machinery. As he ran he watched the flames begin to swallow the entire area. It didn’t matter. He would have to run straight through them if he wanted any chance at survival.
The entrance to the hallway still lay open. A tongue of fire licked across the ground in front of the door. King pumped his legs harder and flew across the fiery surface, feeling a slight twinge as the flames seared his khakis. Thankfully, they didn’t catch alight. The mud he’d smeared earlier served as a temporary flame repellent, just enough for him to pass through without burning alive.
Now he was in the hallway, his face beet red. It felt like a furnace inside the narrow room, but King ignored it and kept running. The pain was unbearable, but if he did not push through it he would die. He felt the searing blaze eat away at the material all around him. He saw the window at the end, still broken. He wondered if it was being guarded. He dismissed that thought. A bullet in the brain was preferable to being burnt alive.
Five more steps.
The flames licked at his back.
Four.
He felt them consume him.
He jumped with three steps left.
It was an all-or-nothing move, a leap of faith that he hoped had enough momentum behind it to send him through the window. Surrounded by fire he passed through the small opening, missing the ledge by inches. Then, just like that, he was out. He hit the cool mud outside on his back and rolled to his feet, still shocked by how close he had come to death. He looked back at where he had come from and saw the hallway was nothing but a blazing inferno. The entire warehouse had been consumed by flames.
A shot rang past his ear.
He spun again and rolled to the side, creating distance from his last position. An instinctive motion. Throwing off whoever was shooting at him. As he gathered his wits he saw a Phantom out of the corner of his eye. Just one man. Aiming a handgun at him. His eyes were wide, his complexion undeniably startled. He hadn’t expected King to come through the window, especially followed by flames. He’d had one chance to put him away and he’d failed.
King levelled his Taurus and shot twice. He didn’t even have time to see where he hit the Phantom, but the man dropped regardless. Out of the equation. Either injured or dead. It didn’t matter which.
He turned and made for the trees as fast as humanly possible. It wouldn’t be long before they were all on him. He had seven bullets left. It wasn’t enough.
As he powered into the foliage once again, he heard a familiar sound nearby. The booming, ear-splitting throbbing of helicopter blades. And not just any helicopter blades.
The CH-53E Super Stallion had a distinctive sound that King had come to memorise over his years of service. It sounded unlike any other chopper in the U.S. military. It was the largest, the heaviest and the most powerful behemoth in the armed forces. You could hear one coming from miles away.
He checked his watch. 0620. The sun had yet to fully rise.
The Delta Force soldiers were early. Very early. Nevertheless, he welcomed their presence. His lungs ached and his skin tingled from the close call in the warehouse and his shoulder burned and his wounded wrist was numb.
It was time to get out of the jungle.
CHAPTER 30
The Super Stallion came into view, a glorious sight amidst the carnage.
Its massive rotor blades span faster than the eye could see. Its bulk roared over the treetops and came to a halt above the clearing, hovering effortlessly.
Instantly, shots from the Phantoms on the far side of the warehouse pinged off its hull. It stayed in place. Kalashnikov bullets were nothing but toothpicks against its bulletproof undercarriage.
From its position above the warehouse, King made eye contact with the pilot. He saw the hesitation in the man’s face. The warehouse was now fully ablaze. There was no clear area to land, apart from directly on top of the remaining Phantoms. That was doable, but it would most likely result in a friendly casualty or two.
Something King was determined to avoid.
He waved an arm in the direction of where he’d left Norton, instructing the pilot to find somewhere else to land. That way, Norton could follow the sound of the rotors until he happened upon its landing zone. King would find them later.
He had unfinished business.
With a curt nod, the pilot ascended and powered the Super Stallion directly over King, heading toward Norton’s last known position. The kid was safe, at least. His work with Norton was done.
As the almighty drone of the chopper faded into the distance, King burrowed down into the fronds once more. Hopefully for the last time.
It didn’t take long for the last four Phantoms to enter his sight. They rounded the corner of the blazing warehouse in a tight-knit group. Panic creased their faces. There was no sign of Mabaya. Their leader gone, their compound ablaze, their supplies destroyed.
They were stranded in the heart of an inhospitable jungle, hunted by an American they thought had been defeated when they’d captured him. Now they seemed terrified, a feeling that had caused them to cluster together.
Like shooting fish in a barrel, King thought.
He raised the Taurus, but something stopped him. A noise in the bushes behind him. Someone crashing through the jungle. He spun fast, but there was no-one there. Just endless rows of trees, now lit by the rising sun creeping through the branches above, casting a golden glow over everything. He turned back. Swore under his breath. Realising he had missed his opportunity.
The four men fanned out into the clearing, now ten paces away from each other, weapons raised. He would never be able to put them all down without exposing his position and leaving himself completely open to returning automatic gunfire.
Gut tightening, he realised one was getting close. So close, in fact, that he couldn’t move without highlighting his position in the bushes. The man had a slight frame, around five foot nine and skinny. He was not the problem. The AK-74 in his hands was the problem. It would only take a quick pull of the trigger to send King into oblivion. He didn’t dare move.
The Phantom was looking away, for now. He took another step, so close he was within touching distance. King decided it was time to act. Otherwise, he risked getting shot to pieces.
He leapt to his feet, less than two feet in front of the Phantom. The man jolted so violently that the aim of the AK-74 strayed to the side. King used the moment of surprise to his advantage, knocking the gun away and wrapping his other arm around the man’s neck. With one swift motion, he dragged him down into the bushes.
The burning warehouse let out a deafening racket, which meant that the other three Phantoms hadn’t heard a thing. King burrowed deep into the vegetation and squeezed with every ounce of power in his arm, choking the Phantom into unconsciousness, a burly forearm tight across his throat. It only took ten seconds. He made sure the man was out, then released his grip.
The other three had no idea. They were switching between staring at the burning warehouse and gazing far off into the jungle, searching for nothing in particular.
King knew utter demoralisation when he saw it. They had certainly not expected their day to turn out like this. Even if they managed to kill him, and all the reinforcements coming in his wake, they were still screwed. No supplies. No means of contacting whatever friends they may have in Iquitos.
King knew he was looking at broken men.
For a moment he thought about leaving them be, but decided against it. They would either run off into the jungle and die a slower, more painful death. Or they would choose to stand and fight the Delta Force soldiers, perhaps resulting in a casualty or two. Either option was less ideal than a bullet in the brain.
He would give them that.
He lined up the Taurus’ aim at the nearest Phantom and let out a long exhale. Calming himself down. Letting his hands become still. It would do no good to miss the mark and cause any additional pain than was necessary. He wanted his shot to put the lights out.
Then something happened he wasn’t expecting.
The Phantom’s gaze darted over and spotted King instantly. The two men froze, making eye contact.
Before King could pull the trigger, the Phantom brought his AK-74 up and unleashed the magazine in his direction, screaming simultaneously.
King fell back into the shrubs as bullets tore up the ground around him. As he dove for cover, he let two rounds fly.
One missed.
The other punctured the Phantom in the stomach and he dropped to his knees, still roaring at the top of his lungs.
Now the other two were onto him.
‘Fuck,’ King whispered, his heart racing.
He had to do something right now, to stop the Phantoms shooting him to shit. Gritting his teeth in panic, he fired the Taurus in all directions until it clicked dry. He didn’t hit anything but the pair ducked instinctively, delaying their gunfire.
As the Taurus’ magazine clicked dry King knew he had to flee. There were no other options. He’d had ample chances to finish off the last remaining Phantoms, and he’d blown it. With regret and fear coursing through his body he spun on one heel, frantic, and ran off in the direction he’d seen the Super Stallion head.
With cries of bloodlust, the two non-injured Phantoms gave pursuit.
CHAPTER 31
For as long as he lived, King would never grow used to the feeling of running for his life.
It was unbearable. He had no time to throw a glance behind him, so he could do nothing but presume that he was being followed. Every step he took he expected to feel a bullet hit him in the back. Or the head. If it hit him there, would he even feel it? Or would there just be sudden darkness? The unknown of the situation terrified him. When he could face his enemies, he was able to remain calm. Whatever happened, he would see it coming.
But this was hell.
A shot whisked past his ear, so close he could feel it. It thwacked into a nearby tree, puncturing the wood to splinters. He zigzagged, taking wild lateral movements in an attempt to throw off the aim of his pursuers. It worked well enough. Another few rounds passed him by, but these were much further from their mark. The disadvantage of chasing someone with an assault rifle was that if you wanted any hope of hitting them, you had to stop and take aim. Handguns could be fired on the move. AK-74s couldn’t, unless they were spray-and-praying, which would do nothing. Every time they paused to fire off a volley of shots, King increased the distance between them.
By the time he made it back to Norton, he’d carved out a sizeable lead.
‘King!’ Norton cried. ‘I thought—’
‘Ben, let’s fucking move!’ King roared as he closed in on the small inlet, legs still pumping. ‘Right now! Did you hear the chopper?’
‘Yeah, it went that way but I wanted to wait for y—’
‘Here I am. Let’s go!’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Now!’
To demonstrate his urgency, another cluster of AK-47 rounds burst through the trees to their left.
‘Oh, fuck!’ Norton cried.
The pair bolted in the opposite direction to the compound, away from the last Phantoms giving chase. Now there was no time to worry about turning ankles. They couldn’t slow down. If they did, King knew they would get hit. He only had to give the Phantoms one decent chance to aim and they would capitalise on it.
The further they ran, the thicker the jungle seemed to grow. King didn’t often get claustrophobic, but the jungle seemed to draw it from his bones. As he squeezed through narrow gaps between tree trunks and powered through low-hanging branches and knocked aside overgrown ferns he found his chest constricting. Fear reared its ugly head, sending a shiver down his spine. If they got stuck…
He couldn’t imagine how Norton was feeling. The kid ran behind him, waiting as King muscled a path through the jungle, his breath heavy and thick with fear. King thought he heard a sob at one point, but he ignored it. There was all the time in the world to worry about Norton’s state of mind later. First he had to get the kid out of these parts alive.
The noise of the Super Stallion grew louder. The incessant thwack-thwack-thwack of the rotors was now coming from somewhere directly ahead. Not from the sky.
‘They’ve landed somewhere,’ King told Norton. ‘Hurry.’
The pair burst out into a large clearing, almost the same size as the Phantoms’ compound. The Super Stallion sat in the centre of the flat area, rotors
still spinning full-blast, wheels perched on the clearing floor. Its tail faced toward them, the rear rotor pulsating, sending waves of wind rippling their clothes.
King grabbed Norton’s shirt to make sure he stayed behind him and didn’t venture too close to the chopper’s blades. He set off across the clearing…
… and the Super Stallion took off.
King watched in disbelief as it rose off the clearing floor and began to hover above the treetops, sending a mighty downdraft billowing into the clearing. The wind almost knocked King off his feet. It battered him like an invisible fist. In the confusion he let go of Norton’s shirt and the slight boy clattered to the dirt, unable to withstand the power of the downdraft. The chopper dipped its nose and headed further south of the Phantoms’ compound, passing over the trees and disappearing from sight. The din faded once more.
Once voices were audible, Norton swore in disgust.
‘What the fuck was that?’ he said. ‘Where are they going?’
‘Maybe they thought we were Phantoms. I’m covered in mud. There’s nothing to clearly signify that I’m a friendly.’
‘They were right there…’ Norton’s voice quaked as he realised how close they had come to rescue.
‘Don’t worry,’ King said, even though worry had begun to creep into his own mind. Something wasn’t right, but appearances were everything. He had to calm Norton down. ‘We’ll meet them further along. Follow me.’
He took off running again. There was no time to waste. In seconds the men pursuing them would reach the clearing. Then there would be nothing but a wide open shot between their barrels and King’s head. He couldn’t let that happen.
