by Angela White
Marc found the water by following the animals. The twisted, narrow creek was dotted with small lives taking cover from the fire. A large fox and his mate; a tiny squirrel carrying a pup; a herd of deer farther upstream, noses high in the air in uneasy awareness. There were also raccoons and possums, even a bear and two cubs near the opposite bank. It would have been amazing if not for the situation.
Marc plunged into the middle of the cold chaos and sank down, hoping the trackers might be inexperienced enough to overlook him among the furry bodies. He stayed ready to defend himself from the beasts if he needed to, but he didn’t. Animals shied from him, but they didn’t attack or run back into the flames. Between him and the fire, they knew which one was the bigger threat.
“In the water!”
“What?”
“Get in there!”
Marc couldn’t make out the words from under the distorted blur of the creek, but he knew what it meant. He pushed off the rocky bed and let the stream carry him off. Maybe it would bring him out closer to the vehicle he had waiting, but it would definitely protect him from the fire and conserve his energy. After driving straight through to get here, he’d already been beat, and the fire coming had only allowed him a few hours of sleep. He would probably be running on reserve before this was over, but it wasn’t the first time he’d had to push this body to its limit to survive. It wasn’t a burden to be carried, though. In fact, it was an advantage. With every run, he got stronger.
Behind him, men plunged into the small creek, firing wildly, but the rushing water carried Marc downstream and out of sight. He used the lead on his attackers to form a plan in case there were more combatants waiting for him at the bottom of the hill. Only a few people had known he was coming up here, but those few knew his routines well enough to make it likely that information on his location would also have included that he liked to park his jeep and hike to his favorite campsite. He and his team had spent several weekends here over the past few years. The isolation made it a perfect place to get drunk but not get in trouble.
Marc winced as the rocks on the bottom of the stream scraped his side, thighs and stomach, but he didn’t try to slow down. He needed every few seconds that he could get.
When the creek deepened, Marc used his legs to help push forward, lungs starting to burn. The grunt didn’t let the risk of traveling without control through the murky water send panic through his mind. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel the adrenaline surging through his body. He just knew how to control it.
The roar of the fire suddenly grew louder through the water and Marc realized the stream had brought him back into the path of the blaze. He rose long enough to take a quick lungful of air, then plunged back down into the cold liquid, bumping into fallen debris and animals. The water was moving faster now, washing some of the scared animals from their huddled safety by the banks.
As he scraped over another patch of sharp rocks, Marc felt a furry body slam into his legs. Unexpected, it shot him up out of the water, where he gasped for air and spun around to see what large animal was in the water at his hip.
The wolf, paddling and covered in scars that Marc admired, immediately snapped at him. Sharp teeth almost tore through the material of Marc’s jeans, coming close enough to skin that he could feel the tips of teeth.
Reacting instinctively, Marc used the Colt that was still in his hand to hammer the wolf in the skull.
Not waiting for the whining animal to recover and retaliate, Marc took stock of the situation while easing away.
The wolf struggled towards the bank, slipping and sliding. The hit had clearly stunned it.
Marc had dealt with wolves–actually wild dogs–and lost two members of his squad. He had no love for them.
The wolf made it onto shore, stumbling toward the thicker foliage.
After holstering his weapon, Marc remained in the water, noticing the smoke was lighter, but the amount of wildlife and debris in the water had increased. Flames were everywhere. He could almost feel burning trees falling into this creek upstream to create wide ripples that would soon wash him away. He had to leave this small safety.
Marc scanned the surrounding trees and leaves, unable to see very far. He took stock of his injury, which was still bleeding into the water, but it didn’t appear to be serious. He chose to keep going to buy more time. Marc traveled downstream, mostly letting the current pull him along. His heart throbbed in time to the tempo of the water.
Behind him, an eerie howl split the air.
Distracted by the noise, Marc let the current pull him too far toward the bank and found himself washed up on a bed of sharp rocks. Struggling under the weight of wet clothes, he stumbled toward dry land with stinging knees and shins. While he tried to get his bearings, gunshots again sounded through the din of the fire.
Marc realized his pursuers were still too close.
A savage snarling echoed next, along with more gunshots, and Marc was grateful. Maybe the wolf had slowed them down.
Marc slipped into the trees at the edge of the road, not far from where his vehicle was waiting. He scanned the area, noting half a dozen fire engines crawling with yellow-clothed men trying to extinguish the fire.
Thick smoke blew over the dusty road. Marc seized the moment, leaving his cover to jog straight through the firefighters. He drew instant surprise from the men as he went by, coughing.
“Hey!”
“Where did you come from?”
Marc didn’t stop to answer them. They had work to do, and he needed to get out of here.
Marc ran down the side of the road, swerving around two fleeing deer. Behind him, the three walls of fire had finally merged to create one long bank of death that was destroying everything in its path. Marc wasn’t even sure that he would be able to use this road to get off the mountain.
As his jeep came into view, Marc ran toward it in relief. He slid into the driver’s seat, reaching for the keys that he’d left in the ignition.
Gravel crunched, alerting him to his mistake. Before Marc could react, a mercenary stood up next to the jeep. He’d obviously been underneath.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Marc stilled, sighing, “Figures. Prick.”
The man now unslinging a rifle, Jordan, chuckled. “We’ve missed you, señor.”
Marc didn’t need to scan the tall, thin figure to know who it was. He recognized the voice. “Is the boss’s wife still smiling? She was tight!”
The rifle butt hit took him by surprise even though he had instigated it. Marc slumped in the seat, dazed from the shot.
“We shall see who is tight, my friend. We shall see.”
Rough hands pushed Marc over and slid behind the wheel of his jeep.
Marc struggled to come out of the daze, but a fist smacked into his skull. Darkness came swiftly.
Chapter Two
1
The familiar movement of his jeep reacting to unfamiliar hands greeted Marc as he regained consciousness. He quickly figured out his mistake. He’d known someone might be waiting, but he had been in a hurry and forgotten to check underneath the vehicle.
Sucking in a breath against his roiling guts, Marc braced his feet. Before the driver knew he was awake, Marc used his elbow and all of his weight to slam into the surprised man. The move neatly shoved the shocked mercenary up and out of the vehicle.
Jordan hit the ground beside the jeep and skidded down the incline, screaming as his ankle snapped.
Marc didn’t waste sympathy. This enemy was ruthless. Thankfully, they weren’t very smart.
Marc pulled the jeep over and killed the engine. There were still half a dozen men tracking him, and he wasn’t about to lead them back to a hotel room. He would never get any peace.
Marc exited the jeep and took up a stationary position in the weeds around it. He didn’t think it would be long before someone discovered his new location. He was a prize target in a prime location. No longer protected by his team or society, as f
ar as the mercs were concerned, Marc was just another animal in the wilderness. They were already underestimating him. Interrupting this vacation had been a huge mistake. The enemy hadn’t given him time to cool off or relax once he had returned to American soil. They expected a civilian. They were getting the Marine.
Marc heard the slice and swish of a machete being used on the underbrush and prepared himself. He could have slipped off and called his commanding officer or even local law enforcement, but that would leave the threat to be handled in the future. Marc hated that about the military and the police. A bad guy was always a bad guy. They needed to go.
Muddy boots neared his hiding place.
Marc fired, shooting underneath the jeep to hit brittle ankles. Big men fell to the ground, screaming.
Certain that there were three more, Marc reluctantly slipped toward the smoky forest again, aware of the fire catching up. All sorts of animals were flooding from the forest and running down the main road. It was also becoming clogged with firetrucks and arriving reporters. It was amazing to Marc that none of them had distinguished the gunshots, but not one person had even glanced in this direction.
Some reporters, he thought. At the same time, he was glad of their indifference. These mercenaries would kill media crews and firefighters to get to him.
Marc started to vanish into the smoldering tree line to wait, but he was forced to abandon that plan as three sooty, red-eyed men dressed in Afghani clothing materialized through the smoke.
Nearly out of bullets, Marc palmed his knife and motioned eagerly. He needed this part of the fight to be on his terms. With three men and two bullets left, Marc didn’t want to press his luck further. He’d made some amazing shots over the years, but this was different.
“Shoot that sucker!”
The man in the middle, tall and scarred, wore the distinctive brown headscarf of enemy combatants in Afghanistan. Marc strongly disapproved of seeing it on American soil, no matter who was wearing it. In fact, it made him quite angry.
“What are you waiting for? Shoot him!” the scarred man ordered again. He was obviously the boss.
“I’m out. We all are, remember?”
“Then stab him!”
Marc waited for the right moment, noting that one of the men had the same knife that he did, and held it as if he had experience.
“How much did you pay to get my location?” Marc demanded, fingering the tip of his blade intimidatingly.
“Actually, they paid,” the scarred man boasted, moving closer. “Someone else wants you dead, too.”
Marc saw a wolf dart across the smoky road and wished it luck as he swung forward unexpectedly, throwing.
“Watch out!”
The blade plunged the deep into the nearest man’s neck.
Marc danced backwards as the first merc slid to his knees and then fell over, gurgling.
“Get him!”
The last two men charged forward.
Marc had drawn them out. He met their fury with a fast draw and his final bullets. One was a chest shot, but the second only hit an arm.
Marc quickly switched to his backup knife. He lunged toward the injured man and spun around, kicking the side of his knee savagely. Marc was hoping the bone would break.
Feeling the end coming, the screaming merc swung while Marc was recovering his balance. The punch knocked him into the flaming grass.
Patting at his head, Marc quickly rolled away from the heat, ends of his hair on fire. Heavy boots tried to put it out by stomping on his face.
Marc flinched at the crack as his little finger broke, and then rage took over the pain of the defensive wound. Barely feeling the knife that pierced his upper arm, Marc shoved upward and slammed his blade into the man’s groin. As the merc fell, screaming silently in agony, Marc stabbed again, getting a shoulder. He repeated the motion, much like a sewing machine, until he was covered in a grisly camouflage.
Marc didn’t stick around to clean up his mess or speak with the authorities. He wasn’t calm enough. He climbed into his jeep and drove away. The anger, bright and lethal, he tried to smother with the sight of his gory hands on the steering wheel.
He was hurt, but no longer being hunted. He would stop at a store, change clothes, do some first aid, and call his commander. It wasn’t the first time that a loose end had caught up with him, but it was the first time that it had occurred at home. His squad was often sent to dangerous places to do dangerous things. Not everyone cared for the results.
Pulling his sticky shirt over his nose, Marc weaved in and out of the fire line, noticing that the winds were beginning to push against the flames instead of adding strength. In another day or so, the firefighters would have this under control. Then they would find the bodies, but by then, his CO would have someone in place to handle that. No one witnessed anything except the firefighters, who were hopefully too busy to remember much of a description. That would make the cleanup easier.
Soaked, hurting, bleeding and still very angry, Marc kept driving as the sun rose. The scenery ahead was colorful and soothing, but blood was all he could feel, taste. That took time to wear off.
2
Marc pulled into the deserted 76 station a couple of hours before sunset. The clerk inside stared at his injuries, his burnt, ripped jacket and his dog tag the entire time that Marc shopped, paid, and then pumped his gas.
Must look rough, Marc though. He’d stopped and cleaned up a bit before pulling in, but it clearly hadn’t been enough. He motioned toward the bathrooms at the side of the small brick building, spotting what he wanted. “Do I need a key?”
The pimply clerk shook his head, now gaping at the gun he could see on Marc’s lean hip.
Marc sighed. “Thanks.”
He didn’t go into the restroom. He strode to the phone next to it and placed a two-minute call that ended with him swearing furiously. His commander was sending his team to escort him back.
“All I wanted was a few days of peace and quiet!”
He stalked back to the jeep, where the clerk immediately resumed staring.
Tired, the Marc spun around.
The kid behind the counter cringed as Marc flung the door open and stomped to a nearby display. He snatched a jar from the shelf, then took it to the counter, glaring at the scared kid. He didn’t speak until it had been paid for.
“Do you know why I use this?” Marc demanded.
The clerk gawked at the jar of Noxzema. “No. You don’t have zits.”
Marc rolled his eyes, growling, “I use it so that I don’t get them, boy! Wash your damn face. Every day. And pull your pants up!”
Marc stormed back to the jeep, leaving the jar. He squealed tires out of the lot.
As the cool wind soothed the rest of his anger, Marc laughed. Ten years ago, he could have been the youth being yelled at by the Marine. His world had certainly changed. As a grunt, Marc had worked hard and played even harder, but taking lives for a living as a sniper had given him an entirely different perspective on the world. The kids today needed to toughen up, as far as he was concerned.
The trend toward self-sufficiency should have been encouraged more, he thought. We’re going to pay for that at some point.
Marc increased his speed as the adrenaline flowed, now from his thoughts. He was employing the same method as while on duty, but he’d perfected it long before he’d joined. His home life hadn’t ever been easy, and sleep that was restful had often been hard to come by. Staying awake was where he thrived, though the occasional pill didn’t hurt. As long as he controlled the substance, it was okay. When he couldn’t, it would be time to let it go, something Marc didn’t understand about his fellow men. Some of the people he’d served with were addicted to everything they tried. They spent their entire checks and leaves abusing themselves. Marc much preferred to be sober, in a natural setting, away from the cause of his turmoil–people. Camping up here was his favorite thing to do after a rough mission.
“And I’m going to,” he mu
ttered, steering north against the pain in his swelling hand from the broken finger he’d already reset and taped. “I’m going to have that few days, even if it kills me.”
3
Dawn found Marc’s jeep parked at the bottom of another steep ravine. He had taken his spare kit and gear from the jeep. He couldn’t drive over the huge boulders or trees, so he had climbed. Marc didn’t mind the soreness in favor of the good view and the flat area for his camp. This was wild country and it wasn’t made for convenience. In fact, it wasn’t made for most people. If you didn’t know anything about survival out here, you were in trouble from minute one.
Aware that his team would be arriving in the next few hours, Marc set up a base camp. Maybe they’d be busy and leave him alone to think and sleep.
He quickly devised seating on logs and stumps around a large rocked-off, self-feeding fire. He was trying a new setup now that was probably against regulations, but Marc didn’t care. He’d already encouraged his team to be open about using it. If the uppers had an issue, he would take the punishment. If they didn’t, he was golden with another problem solved. He employed tactics that worked. The bosses might not like it, but his men did. Marc had gotten them out of plenty of scrapes by using methods that weren’t approved. That type of bond had allowed them to be one of the most successful teams in their battalion. Marc didn’t take credit for it. He was sometimes good at bringing out the best in a man. He liked that feeling. As long as he also did his share, it was a good setup.
As he labored, Marc let go of his anger over their last deployment. He did love his men…he loved most of his men, and he tried hard with the others. Having them around was a comfort, in many ways. Now that he had been attacked on American soil, it was best that they stay together. There could be more mercenaries around, waiting for the opportunity to kill his team.
