Mercenary s-5

by Duncan Falconer

  As the liquid trickled down his throat he felt better. But it was not enough. The rain fell so hard that puddles formed around him. He stretched down against the bonds to touch the water with his lips and sucked. He coughed and nearly choked as the pain from the beatings returned, yet he exulted in the life that the rain was restoring and he stayed there, breathing, lapping up the water.

  Someone grabbed the back of his neck brutally and a weight fell on him, forcing his face into the mud. He struggled desperately, his hands fast about the pole behind him. His attacker was determined to suffocate him.

  Stratton mustered all his strength and fought to raise his head. He managed it just long enough to draw a breath. But his move only provoked his would-be slayer to double his own efforts. The assailant forced Stratton’s face back into the mud.

  Stratton was trapped between the man’s weight and strength and the bonds holding his arms around the pole. His eyes began to bulge and his heart felt like it was about to burst. He had to make one last effort or drown in the mud.

  He gathered his strength and gave an almighty heave while pulling against the pole at the same time. He lifted his face out of the mud but it was not enough to free himself. In a final act of desperation he lunged to one side. The attacker lost his balance and toppled over him. Stratton twisted his torso, raised a leg and brought it down with every ounce of force he could muster, striking the man on the side of his neck. The man was rocked by the blow and tried to roll away but Stratton hooked a heel over his head and held him in place, raising his other leg and bringing the heel crashing down on the man’s throat. His body spasmed. Gripped by a wild frenzy, Stratton struck again and again and again in the same spot.

  Stratton had crushed the man’s larynx with the third blow but he did not stop until exhaustion eventually brought him to his senses. The man lay still, on his back, unmoving in the mud.

  The rain continued to pelt down as Stratton sucked in air. He blinked heavily to help refocus his vision and looked around to check if anyone had seen him. Everyone was under cover, the fires extinguished, the darkness complete.

  Stratton leaned forward to look at the man, wondering who it could be. He wore the camouflage fatigues of the Neravistas. His eyes and mouth were wide open. It was the soldier whose brother had died on the bridge.

  Stratton remembered that the man had a knife and he quickly stretched out his legs, placed them over the body and dragged it towards him. Another effort brought it against Stratton’s backside. He shuffled his back up the pole until he could stand and used his bare feet to move the man’s jacket aside in search of the knife’s sheath. He could feel it with his toes but, when he exposed it, to his horror it was empty.

  The man must have had it in his hands.

  The ground was covered in puddles, the mud disturbed by their struggle. Stratton swept his feet around the area where the man had been standing. His toe hit something - it was the knife. Stratton looked around once again to ensure he had not been seen. There was a flash of lightning followed by rolling thunder.

  He curled his toes over the haft and dragged it close to the pole, turned around to sit back down and picked it up in his hands. He found the sharp edge, dug the tip into the wet earth against the pole, reached back so that the bindings were beyond the blade and slid them up and down it. The leather strap was severed in seconds.

  In his peripheral vision he picked up movement. A figure climbed out from under a poncho. The man walked towards him through the mud and sheeting rain. Stratton moved his hands back behind the pole and felt for the knife.

  The man stopped in front of Stratton, water cascading over the rim of his hat. Stratton looked up to see that it was the ambushers’ leader. When the soldier saw the body his eyes widened and his stare flicked to Stratton’s hands behind the pole. He crouched slowly beside the dead man to see who it was. Recognising the body, he flashed a look at Stratton again, his straggly soaked hair hanging out from under his hat. Closer now, he leaned to look at Stratton’s hands - and saw the cut leather bindings in the splashing mud beside them. In that instant he knew he was in trouble.

  He cried out as he turned to run away. But he slipped in the mud and fell to his knees. He reached for his pistol frantically as he looked back. Stratton was already coming for him. The man screamed but Stratton cut him short by driving the knife upwards into his throat. The man fired his pistol into the ground as Stratton forced the blade in all the way to the hilt and up into his brain. His last breath escaped as a gurgle through the hole in his throat, which quickly filled with blood.

  Several men clambered from under their ponchos.

  Stratton sprinted away.

  He did not know in which direction to go nor did he particu larly care as long as he got out of there. He slammed into a body under a poncho in the blackness, kicking it so that the man yelped in pain. Stratton sprawled in the mud, got up and kept on going. He saw the lights of the main tents ahead and veered away. Flashlights came on through the pouring rain and he ran from them too. A shout went up.

  He heard loud bangs, saw muzzle flashes in the dark, but the gunshots were hopeless efforts. Someone was hit by a bullet meant for Stratton and screamed. Another man shouted abuse and yelled for the shooting to stop.

  Stratton smashed into a soaking bush and ran straight through it. The thorny branches cut into his bare flesh but he felt nothing. He was running on pure adrenalin. Where the foliage was thick and he couldn’t push through it he went under or around it, scrambling through the soupy mud, which was knee-deep in places.

  The bushes gave way to a rocky incline but he did not slow down as he scrambled up it, careless of the jagged stones cutting the bare soles of his feet. His heart pounded in his chest, his lungs sucked in air, but he pushed on, finding hidden reserves of strength and will. He had his freedom back and he was not about to give it up again, knowing this was probably his last chance for escape.

  As the ground levelled out Stratton found himself running through grass. He had gone a good distance from the camp and stopped to catch his breath and listen for pursuers. He put his hands on his knees and sucked in air. The rain made it difficult to hear much but that was to his advantage too.

  He looked back and could just make out his deep muddy footprints in the soft ground. It reminded him that he could still be easily tracked and he set off once again, not as fast now but at a pace he felt he could maintain for several miles.

  Stratton began to think where he should head for and how to work out where he was. He also thought about Louisa. Ideally he should look for his emergency stores. But without the GPS he was not confident that he could find the location in the darkness. He would have to aim in the direction of the camp and then, once he knew where he was, make his way back along the route to where the rebels had been hanged. He doubted he could make it back to the camp by dawn, though.

  Concern for Louisa now overshadowed his relief at escaping. He feared he might not get to her in time. The Neravistas had been moving into position all day and a dawn attack seemed most likely. Stratton pushed on with renewed determination.

  In the HQ tent Steel, Ventura and several army officers were enjoying drinks and cigars. They had heard the shots and shouting and were waiting patiently, knowing that they would learn what the noise meant soon enough. Steel had a sudden uncomfortable feeling about it and got to his feet.

  Before he reached the tent’s entrance a young officer wearing a soaked poncho pushed aside the flap. ‘The Englishman has escaped,’ he said, out of breath, his face dripping wet.

  ‘Goddamn it!’ Steel shouted, losing his usual control. ‘How the hell did he do that?’

  ‘There are two dead men where he was tied up,’ the officer replied. ‘He fled into the jungle.’

  ‘What are you standing here for?’ the American shouted. ‘Take that company of men out there sitting on their asses and go find him!’

  The officer glanced at Ventura for confirmation. Ventura nodded.

  S
teel tossed his cigar to the floor. ‘Son of a bitch!’

  ‘Quite a resourceful individual,’ Ventura said smoothly. ‘I’ve never seen you this riled before.’

  ‘That guy pisses me off, that’s all. I should’ve killed him when I had the chance.’

  ‘Does it really matter? He is insignificant. He’s wearing nothing but his shorts. He probably won’t even make it to the border.’

  Steel reined in his anger. ‘I like to keep things clean.’ He slumped back into his chair and stared ahead thoughtfully.

  ‘Why does he bother you so much?’ Ventura asked, curious at Steel’s reaction.

  ‘He doesn’t.’

  Ventura was not convinced.

  Stratton went at an easy jog through the jungle. As suddenly as it had begun the rain stopped and he could hear only his own breathing and his feet slapping on the mud. He caught another sound behind him, like a snapping stick in the distance. He stopped in his tracks and listened.

  Stratton found it hard to believe that anyone had followed him this far but there was definitely something out there. He heard it again, in the same direction. And it was getting closer. It might have been an animal but that was unlikely. A jaguar, possibly. Either way, Stratton did not want to find out. He got going and increased his pace.

  He ran as stealthily as he could but did not let up on his speed. After a couple of hundred metres he paused again to listen, trying to control his breathing.

  There was nothing.

  Just as he was beginning to think that he was not being followed, he heard the sound of feet running through wet mud. A bolt of fear shot through him. He was indeed being pursued.

  Stratton broke into a hard run. The foliage thickened but he drove through it. He dodged between trees and leapt over fallen logs. The sound of something pushing through the undergrowth behind him revealed its presence. Stratton began to doubt he could shake it but he could not risk stopping to ambush whatever or whoever it was. If there were several armed men he would be screwed.

  The ground dropped away and he ran downhill. He let gravity aid his speed, controlling it enough so as not to run headlong into a tree. He sidestepped obstacles nimbly in his bare feet.

  The sound behind was constant now. They were gaining on him. Stratton burst through a thicket and the ground disappeared suddenly beneath his feet as he dropped onto a steep muddy slope. He fell onto his backside and slid downhill out of control, crashing through bushes like a runaway cart. He side-struck a tree, rolled onto his back and tumbled through some bushes to become airborne for a second before hitting water. His back struck the bottom of a shallow stream but he did not wait to check his surroundings. He was up and running through the knee-deep water as fast as he could. He searched both banks for an exit but thick bushes bordered the sides and they did not look easily penetrable.

  The stream ran straight, a problem for Stratton if the pursuers reached it soon and had a rifle. A crash and splash behind warned him that his hunter had found the water. Stratton could feel the weapon’s sights zeroed on his back as he ran. He had to get out of there and he dived for the bank, scrambling up it. But it was steep and as he clawed desperately he lost his footing and slid back down. He grabbed at anything to stop himself but the mud came away in his hands.

  As he hit the stream again he caught a glimpse of a figure coming at him and heard the loud splashing of running feet. He grappled for anything he could fight with, grabbing a branch. The figure came at him relentlessly in the darkness. Stratton raised the branch and summoned all his strength. As he was about to lunge, the tip of a spear stopped an inch from his throat. Both men stopped dead in the stream, each one poised to strike.

  It was Yoinakuwa.

  The Indian lowered his spear and stood back, breathing heavily. It was the only time Stratton had ever seen him grin.

  Stratton went limp and fell back into the water, dropping the branch. ‘How the hell did you find me?’ he asked, looking up at the Indian and not expecting an answer.

  ‘I track,’ Yoinakuwa said.

  ‘You tracked me? How did you know I’d escaped?’

  Yoinakuwa held his spear up like a rifle and made as if to fire it several times. Then he mimicked Stratton running right past him.

  Stratton began to laugh, mostly in relief. He stretched out his hand. Yoinakuwa looked at it a moment, then took it. ‘Thanks,’ Stratton said, getting to his feet. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  Yoinakuwa pointed in the direction the stream ran.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Stratton asked.

  Yoinakuwa simply looked at him.

  Stratton had no idea where they were or where they were headed but at least Yoinakuwa was not the enemy. ‘Lead on,’ he said, gesturing to indicate that the old man should go on ahead of him.

  They went quickly but before they’d gone a kilometre Stratton had to stop to inspect the soles of his feet. They were badly cut in places. With his adrenalin gone, the discomfort was intense.

  Yoinakuwa hacked two large leaves from a nearby plant and after trimming the ends he deftly wrapped and secured one around each of Stratton’s feet. Stratton stood and tested them. They felt remarkably comfortable. What was more, the leaf seemed to have a cooling effect on his skin.

  Yoinakuwa handed Stratton a couple more leaves, suggesting to him that the current ones would not last for ever, and off they went again.

  The footwear lasted well on soft earth but rocky surfaces took their toll and after a couple of kilometres they needed replacing. By the time the leaves needed changing again Yoinakuwa had found some more.

  As dawn broke, the general direction in which they were heading became more clear. But Stratton still had no idea where they were. Yoinakuwa marched decisively. Experience had taught Stratton in some situations not to ask and simply to follow. But his anxiety grew with every step. He had to get to the rebel camp and Louisa.

  As they left the forest and the early-morning light grew over the horizon the terrain became familiar. Stratton felt sure he had seen the hills before.They began to climb up a steep incline into another forest. Among the trees the ground was rocky and they crossed a track where he noticed some spent AK47 casings. They were shiny, indicating the possibility of a recent firefight.

  As they went up the hill Stratton scanned around, trying to recall why he thought he had seen the place before. When he saw a shattered tree, its top half on the ground, he realised where they were. It was the site of the failed ambush, where they had found the hanging rebels.

  Stratton ran past the rebels’ ambush position to the top of the rise. He kept on going between the trees, leaving Yoinakuwa behind, to find where his emergency stores were hidden.

  The tree with the mark cut into its bark was there and he reached between the roots at its base. He pulled away the earth and leaves and, to his immense relief, found his pack. He looked over at Yoinakuwa who was stone-faced. The old man had known about the pack all along.

  Stratton opened it up, untied the waterproof bag and pulled out the pistol sitting on the top, a pair of trousers, shirt, underpants, socks, belt and camouflaged trainers. A side pocket contained a plastic bag with a passport and money, another a medical pack, GPS, compass, water-sterilising bottle, some food and matches.

  Stratton took off his dirty underpants and quickly pulled on his clean clothes. As he laced up his footwear he heard movement through the wood. He glanced at Yoinakuwa who was clearly aware of it but had not responded. Stratton picked up his pistol and moved to where he could see the source. Kebowa and Mohesiwa were walking towards them. Behind them was Victor.

  Stratton was pleased to see the Frenchman who looked no worse for wear than himself.

  Victor grinned broadly on seeing Stratton. They hugged briefly in celebration of their survival.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Victor asked.

  ‘I was looking for you when the wrong people found me. What about you?’

  Victor sighed as he sat heavily on a fallen tree trunk
to take the weight off his sore legs. ‘I made the mistake of accusing Hector of trying to kill Sebastian.’ Victor looked around, recognising the place himself. ‘I wondered why they were bringing me here.Yoinakuwa and his boys seem to have everything worked out.’

  Stratton threaded the belt through his trouser loops and attached the holster that his pistol fitted snugly into. A ray of light pierced the treetops as the sun rose over the distant hills. ‘Neravista’s soldiers are going to take out Sebastian’s camp.’

  ‘Hector has betrayed him.’

  ‘Steel’s the real manipulator.’

  Victor nodded. ‘I always suspected as much. What are your plans now? You want to take me along?’

  ‘Sure,’ Stratton said, pulling his small pack onto his back. ‘You up to a brisk march?’

  ‘Why brisk? We have all the time in the world.’

  ‘They’re going to attack today, Victor.’

  Victor looked at Stratton, suddenly aware of his intentions. ‘You’re not going to the border, getting out of this country?’

  Stratton realised they had been at cross-purposes and was somewhat disappointed in Victor. ‘I’m going to the camp.’

  ‘You’re crazy! Neravista will hit Sebastian with everything he has. He’ll kill everyone.’

  ‘That’s why I’m going.’

  ‘They’re probably attacking as we speak.’

  ‘Then there’s no time to waste.’

  Victor felt confused. ‘You’re going to get Louisa.’

  Stratton checked his compass. He was ready to go but stopped to look at Victor, understanding the Frenchman’s dilemma. ‘I don’t expect you to come. It’s over for you now. You take care of yourself,’ Stratton said, offering his hand.

  ‘You’re not mad at me?’ Victor asked.

  ‘Why should I be? There’s nothing you can do. Enjoy France - if that’s where you’re headed.’ Stratton turned to go.

  ‘Wait,’ Victor called out. ‘Wait. Just one moment.’