Mafia III

by Marsheila Rockwell

  As it turned out, Pos came back with the information after only about fifteen minutes. He named a village that wasn’t too far away—along the spine of their mountain range and downhill a ways, it looked down on a more central section of the Plain of Jars.

  “Is he still there?” Lincoln asked.

  “Yes! He is there! He still is!”

  “Make sure he stays there,” Lincoln instructed. “Have someone disable his airplane. They’ll get a big reward. Lots of cash.”

  “ ‘Disable’?” Pos asked.

  “Break the engine. Slash the tires. Pour dirt in the fuel tanks. Burn the fucking thing, I don’t care. Just make sure Corbett can’t leave in it. I’ll pay you, too. You and whoever in that village destroys that plane.”

  “I will,” Pos said. He scurried back toward his hut.

  Lincoln couldn’t wait around to hear what the outcome of the conversation would be. He needed to be on the move. Once Corbett’s plane was wrecked—if it was—he would be on his guard. Lincoln had to get there before he was able to get out of the area, because once he knew Lincoln was gunning for him, he might never come back.

  41

  * * *

  Lincoln had already been tired, already operating on no sleep. But the image of Sho’s mangled corpse gave wings to his feet and new energy to his lungs. He quickly gathered what he would need and set off across the mountains. The path wasn’t straight or level—several times he had to climb a peak and then descend on the other side, only to find a taller one waiting.

  He forced his legs to keep working, carrying him forward. His arms and shoulders ached, his lungs burned with exertion, his stomach felt like it would gnaw through his insides.

  Still, he pressed on.

  The sun went down. There were tigers in these mountains and snakes that could swallow a human being whole. All he had to light his way was a right-angle flashlight, and its batteries died halfway through the night. He threw it aside, glad to be rid of its useless weight.

  The darkness made him want to lie down and rest. If Corbett was still in the village now, he would be there tomorrow.

  Instead, Lincoln kept going. One foot in front of the other, ignoring the pain and the exhaustion that threatened to drop him at any moment. Branches ripped his clothing and tore his flesh, and the wound in his left arm throbbed. It was probably infected by now, he guessed. Smelled bad, anyway. He couldn’t let that slow him down.

  He reached the village before first light, but not by much. The landing strip was much like the one at Vang Khom, a narrow gash in the jungle on the edge of the mountain. A pilot would have to be a madman to fly in and out of places like that. Lincoln guessed Corbett qualified.

  His U-10 sat at the end of the strip. Lincoln saw at a glance how someone in the village had disabled it: Both blades of the propeller had been snapped off, and the tires had been slashed to shreds.

  In case Corbett was inside, Lincoln approached it cautiously, his AR-30 at the ready. When he worked his way around to the cockpit, a motion inside startled him and he almost fired, but as his finger closed on the trigger he realized the face looking at him was Hmong, not white.

  He held his fire, and the airplane’s occupant opened the door, dropping lightly to the ground. “Lincoln!” he said. “I broke the plane, like you said!”

  “That’s great,” Lincoln replied. “Where’s Corbett?”

  “Pos said you would pay a reward.”

  Lincoln sighed, nodded, and reached into the pocket where he had stuffed a wad of Laotian currency. “Here you go. Where’s Corbett?”

  The man shrugged. “He left.”

  “Where? When?”

  The man shrugged again, and pointed in the direction of the Plain of Jars. “Down the mountain.”

  “In the dark?”

  “Before dark,” the man said.

  So Corbett had a big head start.

  But he was on foot and headed into the Plain.

  Corbett was a skilled, experienced Special Forces soldier who had survived some of the most dangerous action the Korean War had seen. It wouldn’t do to underestimate him.

  But he was a dozen years older than Lincoln, and if he had spent time in the Plain, he hadn’t said anything about it.

  If Lincoln could catch him down there, he could kill the man. He was sure of it.

  Anyway, he had to try.

  • • •

  Lincoln lost Corbett’s trail a couple of times before the sun rose. Each time, he managed to find it again, but without a flashlight it was a time-consuming process. With every minute Lincoln spent on his knees, looking for sign, Corbett was getting farther away.

  Once the sun had cleared the horizon, tracking was easier. Corbett had done a fairly good job of covering his trail, but he had made some mistakes, and he was heavier than Lincoln, so he left impressions in the rain-saturated ground. Sometimes he had left the existing pathways, but then he’d had to cut through jungle, leaving broken branches and disturbed undergrowth in his wake.

  Whenever Lincoln caught a glimpse of the Plain, he stopped and scanned with binoculars, hunting for his prey. If his willpower flagged, all he had to do was remember Sho’s face and that ragged wound across her throat. That image was burned into his mind, and it provided all the motivation he needed.

  Finally, with the sun sinking low, Lincoln most of the way down the mountain, he caught a glimpse of movement across the Plain. At first he wasn’t sure if it was a human being or an animal, some kind of deer or antelope, maybe. The figure was moving toward the northeast, which seemed like a strange direction for Corbett to go. Eventually it would take him into Vietnam, but the farther north he traveled, the more he risked running into VC or NVA or Pathet Lao troops.

  Lincoln broke out the field glasses and found the figure again. Focusing in, he recognized Corbett’s shape, his gait, and a bright flash of color that could only be his distinctive Hawaiian shirt. How long could Corbett last in a war zone wearing that?

  Lincoln didn’t want someone else to kill Corbett, though. He had set that task for himself, and he didn’t intend to share it.

  The pilot was miles ahead of him and moving along at a brisk pace. Lincoln would never catch up at this rate.

  So he had to pick it up. He took a couple of deep breaths and began to run.

  He moved along at a steady jog, not so fast that he winded himself or so slow that Corbett outpaced him. He covered ground quickly and steadily, and he felt like he could run this way for days without tiring.

  Of course, he knew that was an illusion. He was fueled by sorrow and fury. While those were inexhaustible resources, given the situation, at some point his muscles would simply refuse to work.

  He had to catch Corbett by then, or at least get close enough to shoot.

  42

  * * *

  Every time he reached high ground, Lincoln scanned for Corbett. The rain had softened the ground enough to make tracks impossible to hide, but at the same time, it filled and distorted them, so he couldn’t tell how much time had elapsed since they’d been left. He caught glimpses of his prey now and then and knew he was gaining on him. Whether it was enough remained to be seen.

  Corbett’s trail still trended northeast, but at one point it made a seemingly abrupt swerve due east, across the road that edged the Plain and into the jungle beyond. Lincoln swore. On the open spaces, he could make good time, but in the jungle he couldn’t run, couldn’t move much faster than Corbett. His only advantage would be that Corbett had already cut a path for Lincoln to follow, so at least he wouldn’t have to pick his way step by step like the pilot did.

  The understory was heavy here, dark and dripping rainwater in a kind of constant shower. Lincoln pushed through, becoming ever angrier with every scratch and cut and bruise he endured. What advantage could Corbett gain from this? His escape was slowed as well. Unless he had a particular destination in mind—maybe a village where he had friends, or some sort of defensible bunker. Did he even know Lincoln
was after him? He had to assume that, or he wouldn’t have run. The instant he saw the damage to his plane, he’d have known who was behind it.

  His mind racing with these thoughts, building rage, and the difficulty of progress through the thick forest, Lincoln didn’t see the trap.

  A wire stretched across his path, hidden by carefully placed fallen leaves and branches, caught his ankle. He stumbled forward, arms out to steady himself in case he fell. He caught the trunk of a small tree and kept his balance. Further enraged by his own carelessness, he charged ahead, straight into a sharpened bamboo shoot positioned at gut-level. The other end was wedged into the crotch of a tree, so it had nowhere to go when Lincoln ran into it. He spotted it at the last second and tried to halt his momentum. Too late, though, the makeshift spear sliced through shirt and flesh.

  “Fuck!” he shouted. That was a mistake, a momentary lapse in judgment. Corbett had set this trap, so he knew that Lincoln was dogging his trail. He might have stayed close, to finish his pursuer off once the bamboo stake had weakened him.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain, he backed off it, carefully. Blood flowed at once, running down his belly and into his pants. He listened for any sign of Corbett’s approach. Hearing none, he shrugged off his pack and sat down, panting heavily. There was a first aid pouch on his belt, and he pawed through it for the benzalkonium chloride tincture. Swabbing some of that on the wound and wincing at the sting, he slapped a bandage over it and wrapped gauze around his midsection to hold it in place. When that was done, he allowed himself a couple of swallows from one of his canteens.

  Still no sign of Corbett. Lincoln lurched uneasily to his feet—the wound hurt like a son of a bitch—and continued on his way, sidestepping the bamboo spear and watching more cautiously than ever for more booby traps.

  Eventually, the pilot’s trail wound west again, and Lincoln saw the end of the jungle ahead. Beyond it lay the Plain. So all of this had been meant to slow Lincoln down, draw him into that single trap? It didn’t make sense.

  He paused at the edge of the trees. Out there, on the Plain of Jars, the rain had stopped but the sky was low and leaden and ominous. They had reached another jar field, one Lincoln had never seen—he had never been so far north, and he wondered where they were in relation to any Pathet Lao elements. The jars were arrayed over rolling hills like an army on the march, more than he could begin to count.

  Once his vision had acclimated to the brighter world beyond the jungle, he stepped out from the trees. Still a little unsteady from his wound, his boot slipped in the mud and his balance shifted to his right.

  That probably saved his life.

  The shot came from somewhere out among the jars, but Lincoln didn’t see where. The bullet whipped past his left ear and crashed into the trees behind. He darted back into the cover of the forest and hit the dirt, facedown in the mud. More rounds pelted the trees, but they flew over him. When they finally stopped, he rose to a crouch, AR at the ready. He scanned the jars, breaking the space ahead into imaginary squares and studying each one, front to back and side to side.

  No sign of Corbett.

  He didn’t want to use the binoculars. That would take both hands, and if Corbett did appear, he wanted to be able to shoot. Besides, any stray sunlight on the glass could give away his position.

  All Lincoln could see were the jars. Corbett was out there somewhere, taking cover behind one or lying flat on the ground, sighting toward the spot where he had left the jungle, knowing that was where Lincoln would emerge as well.

  Lincoln had very nearly fallen into that trap. Now he had to fade back into the jungle and work his way north or south, in order to leave the forest at a point Corbett couldn’t anticipate.

  He decided to try north. With every kilometer they progressed in that direction, they were heading into more dangerous country. For that reason, he figured Corbett would expect him to backtrack to the south instead.

  Unless Corbett had reasoned in the same way and so knew Lincoln would choose the unexpected northern approach. That was the trouble with going up against someone who’d had the same kind of training; if the more experienced Corbett knew every move Lincoln would make before he made it, there would be no way to beat him.

  Instead of relying on his Green Beret training to make decisions, then, Lincoln had to forget everything he had learned since his days on the mean streets of New Bordeaux.

  Screened by the trees, he moved north as quickly as he could, pausing only occasionally to eye the jars, looking for Corbett. When he felt like he had gone far enough from the site of the pilot’s ambush, he approached the tree line again. This time, he waited and watched for long minutes before showing himself. He would have to cross a road and thirty yards of open space before he reached the first of the jars, and he knew that would be Corbett’s killing ground. Speed and stealth would be his only allies here.

  Taking one long, last look and seeing no sign of the pilot, Lincoln dashed as fast as he could at a crouch, holding the rifle in both hands in case a target presented itself. Every second felt like it might be his last. The sodden ground made running even more difficult, and the sucking sounds made silence impossible.

  Still, Corbett didn’t shoot. Had the man moved on? When his first two traps had failed, had he given up and chosen instead to put more distance between them?

  There was only one way to find out. Lincoln had to work south, staying among the jars for what cover they could provide, and find Corbett’s tracks again. Or better yet, the man himself.

  Then he spotted the brilliant red of Corbett’s Hawaiian shirt. This time, he had spotted Corbett first. It was the advantage he needed to put an end to the chase.

  43

  * * *

  The pilot had not left the area. He was hunkered down behind one of the jars, watching the tree line. He clearly didn’t know that Lincoln had already emerged. Lincoln was surprised; he had hoped for more from Corbett’s years of experience.

  It was going to be a long shot, and most of Corbett was hidden by the jar, but enough of his shirt showed that Lincoln thought he could hit his target from here. He rose to his full height, shouldered the weapon, and sighted on that stupid red shirt. Corbett hadn’t budged. Lincoln breathed in, then blew out the breath and squeezed the trigger.

  His gunfire seemed incredibly loud on the quiet plain. The rounds streaked across the distance and found their mark, shredding the shirt and knocking Corbett over. Probably not dead yet, but badly injured anyway, so Lincoln would have to approach cautiously.

  Lincoln took a few steps closer. Corbett hadn’t moved. Maybe he was dead?

  Dropping to a squat, Lincoln set down the AR and pulled the binoculars for a closer look.

  Through the glasses, he found Corbett’s red shirt—and the jumble of sticks that had been inside it.

  He dropped the glasses and grabbed for his gun, but too late.

  Corbett bolted out from behind a jar upslope from Lincoln, slashing at him with a machete.

  Lincoln scrambled away from the attack—and his rifle—his feet failing to gain purchase in the mud. Corbett—shirtless and barefoot, his face and torso streaked with mud like war paint, wielding a machete with a twenty-two-inch blade—looked like a demon from the nether reaches of hell. Lincoln’s feet went out from under him and he fell onto his back, then quickly rolled to his hands and knees. Corbett had closed the distance, though. As Lincoln tried to stand, he reached for the pistol on his belt. Corbett’s machete sliced toward the holster, and Lincoln had to move his hand or lose it. The machete bit into the holster and gun, which was a good thing, or it would have taken a big chunk out of Lincoln’s hip.

  It stuck there for a moment, giving Lincoln the chance to snatch at the pilot’s arm. He caught it, but the mud made it too slippery to hold. Corbett lurched back, tearing the machete free.

  When he did, Lincoln made another grab for his pistol. Once it was free of its holster, Lincoln saw that the hammer had been damaged by the mach
ete, and the barrel was packed with mud. It might fire, but it might just as easily blow up in his hand.

  Instead of risking it, he hurled it at Corbett. The pilot swatted it out of the air with his free hand—Lincoln was pleased to see the gun open a cut on the ball of his thumb. It bled just a little, but he was tired of being the only one bleeding.

  The throw only bought him an instant’s respite. Then Corbett was coming at him again, blade swiping through the air. Lincoln yanked his knife from its sheath and sprang to his feet. As Corbett charged down, Lincoln pushed up to meet him. He ducked under Corbett’s swing and thrust the knife forward.

  The point jabbed into the meaty part of the pilot’s upper thigh. Corbett screamed and flinched away, bringing the machete down in a series of wild strokes to keep Lincoln at bay. The knife was still stuck in his leg. When he tugged it free and hurled it aside, blood spurted from the cut, and Corbett seemed to swoon a little.

  “Listen, man,” Corbett said, his voice shaky with pain. “There’s no need for this shit. We’re on the same team, man. I’m sorry about that chick, but you know, business is business. You can find another slant chick anywhere. You can have Mai, brother. She’s a good lay. You’d like her.”

  “Fuck you,” Lincoln said.

  “Come on, Lincoln, be reasonable. I mean, you got no weapons left. I used all my ammo on you and missed, but you’re already hurt—you’re bleeding bad from the gut, man—and I still got my steel. So let’s call it a draw and get the hell out of here. We can be rich, the two of us, if we work together.”

  Lincoln saw the jars standing in disorderly rows behind Corbett. If he were to die here, in a country where he had no official presence, in which no one would acknowledge that he had ever set foot, he supposed that in the midst of ancient funerary casks left behind by strangers like himself was as good a place as any.

  “Fuck,” he said. “You.”

  With that, Lincoln attacked, forging uphill, dodging the ever-wilder slashes of Corbett’s blade. He had to get that machete away from the pilot or die trying.