by Vince Milam
“Two vehicles. North.” The words crackled over the radio. Marcus and I, fifty yards apart, locked eyes and joined at the lip of a deep coulee.
Scanning north, I caught a brief flash of a mirrorlike reflection. Two vehicles, a mile and a half away. Headed down the road. The road terminating at Marcus’s ranch gate.
I alerted Marcus. He shook his head, called Jake over. We sat below the rim of the coulee. Marcus retrieved an apple and slices of cheese, cut the fruit into pieces, and offered me a combination. I shook him off and fished small binoculars from the three-pocket game bag. I eased on my belly to the top of the draw and sighted the vehicles. Marcus remained below me, flat on his back, rubbing Jake’s chin beard.
The SUVs stopped, a half mile distant. I increased the magnification of the binoculars.
“They stopped.”
“Probably lost.”
Four men got out of the trailing vehicle and stretched. One of them stood to the side and peed. Hunters, maybe, checking the terrain. No weapons were visible.
“Four guys, back vehicle,” I said. “In camo.”
“Hunters.” The rasp of him scratching the wiry coat of Jake followed.
The passenger-side door of the leading vehicle opened, and a fifth man exited, followed by a sixth from the back seat.
“Two more from the lead vehicle.”
The number had grown too large, too strange for Marcus. He commanded Jake, “Down” and paid attention, waited for more input. The six men milled about, checked the lay of the land. The driver’s door opened.
I hadn’t seen or heard from him in years. Angel, big as day. Buzz-cut hair, stance indomitable. He hadn’t changed.
“And one William Tecumseh Pickett. Angel.”
Marcus didn’t comment. Instead, he extended his hand, demanded access to the binoculars. I complied.
“You two seeing what I’m seeing?” Catch asked over the radio.
“Roger that.”
Marcus eyeballed the scene through the high magnification. “Son. Of. A. Bitch,” he said, low and without inflection. “Son of a bitch.”
Chapter 34
“Let’s move!”
Marcus barked the order as he rolled from the lip of the coulee and took off at a dead run toward his vehicle, Jake at his heels. After one final glance through the binoculars, I caught up with him. Three minutes later at the Suburban, Marcus shoved Jake into the vehicle’s little-used dog crate. Marcus’s breath came steady, and his demeanor was grim, intent.
Angel. The sight of him flooded my memory banks, and his association with bounty hunters ratcheted up the question needle. But it didn’t lower the anger, the sense of betrayal. My mental shield partway lowered—time to kill or be killed.
Fighting against a brother warrior should have brought consideration of tactical elements, not personal feelings. Know the enemy, and Angel was as dangerous as they came. But my personal thoughts and remembrances intruded.
The six other men—Chechens. Had to be. Tough fighters and hired killers. Jules’s Chechens, and Angel.
Classic Russian mind-set. I’d screwed up their carefully planned Suriname ops. Russians don’t carry a grudge; they act on it. The Chechens—easy dots to connect. The reward money. Bo, Marcus, me. Three million bucks. Catch would be $1 million bonus if killed. Angel’s connection remained a mystery, an unknown, and intruded on my focus.
We stripped off the game bags and grabbed the Colt 901 rifles and HK45 pistols. Battle time.
“Catch, we’ll park at the house. Bait. Work the coulee east of the house,” Marcus said into the radio.
“Got your backs.”
Catch would move farther east, behind us, and cover our flanks. He made no commentary on the enemy, on Angel. As far as Catch was concerned, Angel was a dead man walking.
Marcus stomped the accelerator. We tore across the grassland and joined the ranch road. We hit a small washboard stretch of the gravel road, rattled the vehicle. The noise would carry to the seven invaders.
“Angel,” I said, letting it hang.
“Screw the whole ‘find answers’ noise,” Marcus said. He’d glommed on to my train of thought while he focused on the battle plan. “They’re not here for tea. Flip the switch, son.”
He had. The Delta team leader persona had taken over Marcus, the mission clear. The enemy had arrived. Eliminate them in the most efficient manner possible.
“I’m working on it.” We exchanged quick, hard stares.
He slammed the brakes, stopped inside the large attached garage, the bay doors open. The enclosure had two other regular doors: one to the house’s kitchen and the other to the outdoors and barn area.
“We’ll leave Jake in the crate. Move!” Like a shot, we were out the back door of the garage and kept the structure between us and the attackers’ probable approach. Thirty yards behind the house stood a large barn, home for his tractors, a bulldozer, and assorted ranch implements. We ran behind it, slid down a small steep coulee that ran parallel with these buildings, north to south. Our highway.
A hundred yards later, we stopped and peeked over the edge of the ravine. Ranch house and barn on our left, the winding ranch road dead ahead—visible for half a mile before it disappeared into the rolling hills of Marcus’s property.
“They’ll stop when they come over the rise and see the ranch house. They’ll spot the parked Suburban. Plan their attack.”
I couldn’t argue. We both chambered a round into the Colts. I flicked my scope to 4X magnification.
“In place,” Marcus whispered over the radio.
“Got you.” Catch, somewhere behind us. We waited, hidden, and watched.
Their black SUVs crept over the distant rise, stopped, backed out of sight. The dark storm line filled half the sky, roiling, ugly. The breeze had turned into gusts of wind.
“He’s on the wrong side of this thing. There’s a price to pay.” Marcus addressed my thought process, my doubts, before the action started. He knew me as well as anyone on the planet.
“I know. But shit, Marcus. Angel?”
He stopped scoping the distant area with his rifle sight, peeking through the prairie grass at the top of the coulee, and turned toward me.
“I have to know you’re on board. With the mission. Now.”
We locked eyes. A man I’d fought alongside in over twenty foreign countries, odds stacked against us, bullets flying. The Delta Force team leader, unfailing, resolute, hard beyond measure when the situation called for it. He had a right to know if I was fully committed.
He addressed the Angel issue one last time. “He’s no longer Angel. He’s the enemy. Either we kill them, or they kill us. Black and white.” His voice carried no animosity or hatred or gung-ho.
The internal warrior, vacillating, emerged from the shadows. Doubt washed away. The bloody scene in the Dismal flashed.
The switch flicked on.
I nodded back. “I’m there. Let’s do this.”
Satisfied, he scoped the far rise. Movement, quick and low, against the grass-covered hills. Six men, then seven, emerged from near where the road disappeared. Armed with combat weapons. The first four circled our direction, kept their profile hidden except for brief spurts, making their way toward the ranch house. The other three circled away from us, toward the other side of the house.
“Angel left,” Marcus said. His voice-activated mike on the earbud carried low affirmation and a time lag. In the gathering darkness, I could see his lips move across the dozen yards separating us. His voice came a half beat after.
“Got it.” Angel’s distance was over four hundred yards, closing on the house. His typical flanking maneuver, seen so many times before and used with remarkable effectiveness. The two Chechens followed.
The other four continued our way, spread fifty yards apart. One of them split off, circled farther north, away from the others. Their backdoor man. Their Catch.
The remaining three were three hundred yards away. They moved, stopped, assessed the
ranch house—moved again. The wind picked up, and twilight approached. The witching hour.
“I’ll take these three. Case, Angel and his two. Catch, TOO.” Targets of Opportunity.
“On it.” Catch’s voice came quiet, deadly.
“Roger that,” I said. It was the right call. My position afforded a better shot at Angel’s group. Four hundred yards pushed it, given the unfamiliar weapon and the gusting wind, but I’d make it a torso shot—and wouldn’t miss. Seconds passed; Marcus controlled the battle plan. Spits of snow joined the wind as daylight faded.
Angel dropped from sight, into what must have been a small coulee on the far side of the ranch house. He’d use it and stay hidden. Continue his movement toward the structures. His two Chechens followed suit. “He’s burrowed. No target.”
Marcus acknowledged the fluid reality. “Take my group. First on the left. At my shot.”
I shifted aim and acquired the farthest left of the other three men approaching, now over two hundred yards away. I locked the crosshairs on an attacker’s chest, the distance close enough for an instant kill.
My target paused, knelt, and hand-signaled his partners. They also took a knee. The three stopped moving, paused. Big mistake.
Marcus’s weapon boomed, and mine followed. The recoil moved the riflescope crosshairs off the chest target but stayed with the larger picture. The body collapsed, a fine red mist suspended where the bullet hit before a gust blew it away. One of the three remained. Marcus, as expected, hit what he’d aimed for. The third man threw himself flat, hidden. The prairie grass waved, obscured, and neither of us could identify his hiding spot. The tactic didn’t save him. A crack, explosive, sounded behind us. Catch. A brief flailing in the grass where the third had hidden. Catch had the elevation advantage and could spot into the blowing grass stems.
I threw my aim toward the last known spot of Angel’s. No doubt Marcus did the same. Nothing. I scanned the lip of the distant coulee, followed it toward the ranch house. Still nothing. The wind blew; the dark rolling clouds dimmed the remaining light. The prairie grass leaned, stood, leaned with each gust of wind. Thirty seconds passed. Angel hunted us, and we him.
“They’re headed for my house.”
“Yeah.”
“They’ll want to finish this up close and personal. It’s their best chance. Eliminate our advantage of terrain.”
Bullets ripped across the top of our coulee, kicked dirt. It had its intended affect. Marcus and I both ducked from the covering fire. I popped up, attempted to acquire a target. On our left, Angel and one of the Chechens raced into the open garage door. They’d made their objective. Marcus’s house. We’d come after them, close quarters fighting.
Another retort boomed behind us. “All clean, here,” Catch reported. The fourth Chechen, attempting a circle maneuver, had met his match.
The third member of Angel’s troops, having delivered the covering fire, dashed to join the others in the garage. He didn’t make it. Marcus and I both fired. Dead before he hit the ground.
“Two left,” Marcus reported. “The house.”
“Roger that,” Catch replied. He’d reposition, cover the structures. Cover our backs.
We both dashed along the coulee and scrambled up the side behind the large barn. The wind buffeted as we exited the coulee, sleet spitting, the day now dark. Circling to the far side, the thirty yards of open ground between us and the back door of the garage presented the most danger. An interior bedroom window afforded a perfect view of that stretch of ground. I didn’t wait for Marcus’s decision and hauled ass across the killing zone. Neither Angel nor the Chechen had made the bedroom. Thank God. I covered the window. Marcus sprinted and joined me.
We had no idea if they’d entered the house via the garage entrance. Or if one had entered and one remained in the garage. We stood still, listened. Waited for a telltale noise, the shift of a boot on the concrete floor of the garage, the creak of a house floorboard. Nothing. Still, we waited, sought advantage. Sleet blew against my neck, melted, ran inside of my shirt. Five minutes passed. Wind howled.
Darkness, and Marcus signaled. Circle, position at the open bay doors of the garage. The safe spot. One of us would enter through the standard door before us, enter a garage filled with uncertainty. The other would come around the corner through the garage’s bay door, more protected.
A headshake, a gesture in his direction, instructing him. You circle. I’ll take the danger door. Eyes locked, he’d broach no argument. Mexican standoff. Neither of us giving. He bent at the waist, mouthed a fiery, “Go!” Marcus, the leader. A disappointed headshake, a pissed look tossed his way. I went.
I turned the corner, movement slow to negate the crunch of sleet covering the ground. The long side wall of the garage afforded a view of the circular gravel drive. The Chechen who’d delivered the covering fire lay sprawled on the gravel, blood pooled.
Paused at the corner, ready, finger pressure on my rifle’s trigger. Waited for the first of a three-step process. Marcus would fling open his door, stand aside, avoid immediate fire. Wait a half second. At the sound of the door, I’d step into the garage, eliminate threats. Eliminate threats while he charged through, head-on. I held his life in my hands.
The door flung open, hit a doorstop. I entered the garage, sought targets. Nothing. Marcus flew through the opening, sought as well. They’d moved into the house. Waited for us.
Silent, both rifles placed against a garage wall and pistols pulled. Tight environment combat. We eased our way toward the door leading to the interior kitchen. Listened for movement inside the house over the buffeting wind against the garage. The thin wooden door separated us from our adversaries, a chasm wide and deep. The Chechen bounty hunter and our blood brother. A brother gone bad.
Chapter 35
We stood on either side of the door to the kitchen, pistols at the ready. Sleet blew sideways across the door opening Marcus had come through. Full-on Delta mentality. Zoned. People would die in the next few minutes. My job—our job—was to make sure it wasn’t us.
Marcus hand-signaled “slow open.” I nodded back.
We had two choices. Burst in, guns blazing, unsure if the targets were visible. Or silently open the door, enter, assess, hunt. Marcus wanted the latter. Angel would reside at the periphery, guarding the flank. With this enclosed environment, he’d cover ingress and egress points. Protect the flanks, protect his team. A team consisting of him and the lone remaining Chechen. He’d cover the kitchen door at intervals, but the house was large. He’d move, drift, cover threats.
The Chechen, an unknown. A stone-cold killer, for sure, but tactical skills unclear. He’d killed up close, direct. I had little doubt. The question of the moment was how he would handle an enclosed-space firefight. We’d soon find out.
I turned the handle, stopped. No squeaks, no noise. Crouched, left hand overhead on the handle. I pushed it open sufficient for an inside view.
The Chechen stood at the intersection of the kitchen and great room, assault rifle shouldered. Pressed against a knotty pine support pillar. A quick glance at Marcus and a tight motion of my head toward the door indicated I had a target. I was going in. Marcus’s job, one I knew he’d fulfill with absolute professionalism—follow me by a hair’s breadth. Take out anything other than my prime target. I relied on him to kill Angel.
Coiled, I pushed the handle, eased the door open sufficient for a shot. The blast of wood splinters in my face sent me backward, pulling the door shut again. The crashing boom of a handgun filled the air.
Angel. Patrolling the flanks of their stand, he must have entered the great room and seen the slight movement of the door, fired offhand, protected his teammate. His forced snap shot saved my life. Angel wouldn’t miss given a half second to aim.
Two more shots rang, cacophonous, and jagged small holes appeared through the wooden door. The Chechen. He’d followed Angel with two shots of his own.
I scrambled to my feet and assumed a position near the
doorjamb. Marcus pressed against the other side, lifted his chin toward me. I felt my left cheek, removed two large wood shards embedded there, and nodded the “okay” back.
We thought as one. Angel would press the attack. Not a full frontal assault. He’d probe, hunt our flanks. The open garage bay door facing the front of the property. Or the back side of the house and garage.
“Case! We need to talk!”
Screw that noise. He needed killing. But Marcus nodded. Reply. Let him talk, expose his position. Occupy him while Marcus hunted.
“No, we don’t, Angel. Got nothing to say to you.”
“You have to know a few things. About Bo. About you.”
Marcus, crouched low, eased toward the small open door leading outside.
“Don’t need to know shit. Except you killed him.”
“I was there to recruit him.”
Angel’s voice carried empty, disconnected. Wrong. He’d changed for the worse.
“Helluva recruiting strategy, asshole.”
“Big Suriname assault coming. Nika sent me. Sent me to see if he’d join. Join the cause.”
I remained silent. Too crazy, too messed up.
“Things went sideways quick. You know Bo. Didn’t want it going down like that,” he said.
“And you needed muscle to recruit him?” Crazy. He’d gone crazy.
“A fallback. I admit it. The bounty makes finding these guys easy.”
Marcus peeked around the edge of the open door, worked his way outside, disappeared.
“Then why are you here? Other than being batshit crazy.”
“She wants revenge.”
Nika. No doubt. Twilight Zone stuff, Angel performing hits for a Russian spy.
“You must want to die bad. Speaking of which, shoot the Chechen, then yourself. Save us the trouble.”
Three quick shots splintered the door. The Chechen understood English. Too bad for him. Marcus had made his way to a window, sought a target as the Chechen fired at me, at the door.
