Final Target

by John Gilstrap

  The boy drooped his shoulder and extended his arm to slip it through the dangling slings. “I will try. Where am I going?”

  “Follow me,” Dawkins said.

  Jonathan watched them stack up at the door. In Spanish, he explained, “You all need to leave this place and hide in the woods. Follow my friend Harry. He’ll take care of you.”

  “Are we going to die?” someone asked.

  “No.” Jonathan said the word with finality, the tone he hoped would dispel fear most efficiently. “You may hear shooting, but don’t worry. You’ll be safe. But you must go now.”

  “What about Nando?” Gloria asked.

  Jonathan imagined his hesitation conveyed his thoughts more accurately than his words. “I hope he’ll be fine,” he said. “But you must think of the children. You must move now.”

  The bud in Jonathan’s right ear popped. “They’re moving, Boss. Coming this way.”

  Jonathan pushed the back door open and ushered the kids and their chaperones forward. “Remember to be quiet,” he said. “And move quickly.” As an afterthought, he grabbed Dawkins by his sleeve. “You’re in charge out there till we join you. Don’t do anything you won’t be proud of later.”

  He spun back around and headed to the front of the building. “What’ve you got, Big Guy?”

  “I think the asshole ratted on us,” Boxers said. “They’re fanning out.”

  A cluster of men with rifles emerged from behind the front vehicle and then began spreading out in more or less even streams to the right and the left. Jonathan guessed the number to be ten, but he didn’t have time to count.

  “We can’t let them get to the back,” Jonathan said. “Not until the rest are clear and in the woods.”

  “Put that in the form of an order,” Boxers said.

  “Out the back door,” Jonathan said. “You head to the red side, I’ll take green, and we’ll see what unfolds.”

  “Lead and I’ll follow.”

  Jonathan retraced his steps to the back door, which still stood open, and stepped out into the overgrown backyard. Ahead, he could just see the back of Dawkins’s shirt as the jungle swallowed him. It spoke to the PC’s character that he had taken up the rear.

  Jonathan cut to the left and moved at a crouch toward the green-black corner—the left rear corner—to assess the status of things. Up ahead, near the white-green corner, he could make out the silhouette of an armed man dressed like a soldier. He moved with his rifle up and at the ready, but he was watching his flanks more than he was watching where he was going.

  Keeping his IR laser centered on the approaching enemy, Jonathan took the risk of moving out and away from the building to give himself more options. Being inside a structure that was under siege was a death sentence. Ditto being out in the open. But Mother Nature had provided him with infinite options for cover in the form of a jungle. If he and Boxers could make it that far, they could turn the tables on the other team and put them at a disadvantage.

  As Jonathan arrived at his tree line, his earpiece popped. “Hey, Scorpion. I’ve got some excellent shots here,” Big Guy whispered.

  “Are you under cover?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Let’s wait them out for a minute or two,” Jonathan said. “See what their intentions are.”

  “I bet I can guess,” Boxers said through an audible smile.

  The approaching team moved as if they expected to get shot at from inside the school building. They scanned the windows, upper and lower, but kept away, presumably in hopes of being less visible. As they surrounded the building, they all kept their backs to the jungle. They were that sure that their prey was inside.

  “Americans!” one of them yelled in English. To Jonathan’s ear, the shouter was in front of the structure, beyond his sight lines. “You are surrounded. You should put your weapons down and come outside. There are many more of us than there are of you.”

  Jonathan remained silent as he calculated who he would shoot first if it came to that. Not much to that calculation, actually. Start with the closest and move out.

  “Think of the children,” the man continued. “If we have to open fire, they will be in danger.”

  “Have I mentioned that I have some very good targets?” Boxers whispered.

  “Hold,” Jonathan said. The numerical odds didn’t bother him, but the tactics did. A running gunfight at night, with innocents potentially in the line of fire, was an option to be avoided if possible. Despite the foliage and the distance, Gloria and the kids could still be hit by a stray bullet. Plus, for the time being, he and Boxers enjoyed the advantage of invisibility. That was a lot to risk if the fight didn’t come to them first.

  “You do not want us coming in there to get you!” the man in charge shouted.

  The shooter closest to Jonathan cast quick glances over his shoulder and then advanced on the nearest window. He moved in a low crouch, scissor-stepping to a position against the wall and under the sill. He rose cautiously and popped up quickly for a test peek before dropping down again. The second peek lasted for a full five seconds, and then he stood to his full height. Pulled a flashlight from a pocket on his shirtsleeve and shone it through the screen. He straightened and yelled in Spanish, “There’s no one inside! He lied to us!”

  A scuffle arose from behind the vehicle that still blocked Jonathan’s view. Nando begged, “No, please! Please, no! I swear—”

  His words were cut off by a single gunshot.

  “Well, that’s one bullet I don’t have to waste,” Boxers whispered.

  Jonathan ignored him.

  The shooter from the window turned and scanned the woods line. Jonathan stayed very still and kept his IR laser centered on the other man’s face. If he had to end this, he would end it quickly.

  “Oscar and Miguel!” the commander called.

  Jonathan’s target pivoted toward the front. “Here!” he yelled. Jonathan wondered which one he was, Oscar or Miguel.

  “Stand guard while we gather the guns and ammunition.”

  “But they’re getting away,” the target said. “Are we going after them?”

  The commander finally showed himself. Tall and skinny, he appeared to be in his early thirties, and he was trying to grow a beard that didn’t want to be grown. He wore blue jeans and a short-sleeve button-down shirt. The color was hard to tell in the night vision.

  “Where can they go, Miguel? There are miles and miles of jungle and only one road. They cannot get far.”

  “But the Americans.”

  “If they are soldiers, like Nando said, then we do not need to be chasing them in the darkness.” He scanned the edge of the jungle with his eyes, looking directly at Jonathan, but without recognition. “My brother will catch them and take care of them. When he does, they will wish they’d let themselves die here tonight. Now, watch for them and yell out if you see anything. Oscar will be on the other side.” With that, the commander spun on his heel and disappeared again around to the front.

  Five seconds later, Miguel was alone at his post at the side of the building. He held his rifle at low ready, and he glared at the tree line. Jonathan figured he had to be wondering why he’d been singled out to be a perfect target.

  Jonathan whispered, “Hey, Big Guy. What do you see?”

  “I’ve got one sentry in plain view. Everyone else appears to be inside, shopping for weapons. This is a bad idea, Boss.”

  Jonathan agreed. They needed to do something here. The smart play was to remain quiet until these goons left and then reunite with the kids and their PC. Problem was, if they followed the smart play, his enemy would be much better armed than when they had first arrived, and they would have that much more time to change their minds about searching through the jungle. And as unpleasant as a running gun battle was when the enemy was in the open, it was way worse when the enemy had as much cover as you. They had to do something.

  And an idea appeared.

  “Hey, Big Guy. How many GPCs do yo
u have?” General purpose charge. A block of C4 with a tail of detonating cord.

  “Plenty. And I love whatever idea you just had.”

  * * *

  First things first: Miguel had to die. Jonathan settled the IR laser on the bridge of the target’s nose and pressed the trigger. On a hot, muggy jungle night like this, a suppressed rifle shot sounded a lot like an unsuppressed pistol shot. After he dropped the sentry, Jonathan sprinted toward the front of the building and then beyond it, to the clutch of vehicles. He was halfway there when the first of the bad guys appeared at the front door to the school.

  Jonathan switched his selector to full auto and fired a short burst on the run. From the way the guy twitched, Jonathan thought he might have winged him, but it wasn’t a kill shot. That was okay. He just needed everybody to stay inside for a little while.

  Another burst of gunfire rippled from the back of the building, and Jonathan figured that Boxers had had to get someone’s attention. Finally at the vehicles and the relative cover they provided, he glanced around quickly to verify that he was alone—save for Nando’s corpse, whose brain had been excavated by the shot that killed him—and he crouched behind the wheel well of the vehicle that was farthest from the school.

  He still had sight of the school’s front door, but it wasn’t much. Just enough to plink a few shots at anyone who was ambitious enough to take a peek.

  “Fire in the hole,” Boxers’ voice said in his ear. “Ten-second fuse.” Jonathan could tell from his partner’s tone that he was running hard and fast. Despite his hulking size, Big Guy could hustle with the best of them when the motivation was right.

  And motivation couldn’t come much more right than this.

  Per the quickly hatched plan, Boxers had tossed his GPC through a ground-level window in the basement stores. When it went off—

  It seemed as if the entire jungle erupted in the blast. The earth shook and the vehicles bounced from the shock wave as the night transitioned to day for just a fraction of a second. As he’d said a thousand times over the years, when it came to explosions and gunshots, if you were around to hear the bang, you were halfway home.

  The other half was surviving the gravity storm when all the shit you blew into the air rained back down. Jonathan stripped the NVG array from his head and sheltered it as he dropped to his belly and wormed his way under the same vehicle that had provided him protection from the blast.

  The deadly raid storm started a few seconds later. The heavy stuff landed first. Something crashed into the vehicle that was his shield, rattling it on its chassis. Glass shattered. He kept his eyes closed tight to protect them and listened as the debris shower slowed and finally stopped.

  “Hey, Boss. You okay?” Boxers asked in his ear.

  “Holy shit,” Jonathan said.

  “Was that cool or what?” Boxers laughed like a little kid.

  Jonathan pulled himself back out from under the truck and looked around. The extent of the devastation was stunning. The school building itself had been reduced to a crater and rubble, scattered bits of furniture, bricks, books, and body parts. And lots of fire.

  “Must’ve been more one-point-one shit in the basement than I thought,” Jonathan mused aloud.

  “Can we do that again, Dad?” Boxers said.

  Jonathan could finally see him on the far side of where the building used to be. He was walking funny.

  “Are you limping?”

  “I got a boo-boo,” Big Guy said. “It’s nothing.”

  Jonathan didn’t bother to check for casualties. Whatever bad guy wasn’t dead yet soon would be, and he was disinclined to render aid, anyway. Goddamned drug dealers deserved whatever suffering came their way. The longer and more miserable, the better.

  Instead, he strolled warily toward his friend. Boxers was a tough guy—the only person he’d ever known who survived a hit, albeit a glancing one, from a .50 caliber bullet and lived to tell about it. It cost him a chunk of his femur in exchange for a titanium rod, but he’d requalified for the Unit after only a couple of months of rehab. But Big Guy also prided himself on a stupidly high threshold for pain. For him to be limping could mean anything from a bruise to a bullet wound.

  “What happened?” Jonathan asked when they were close enough to speak in conversational tones, off the air.

  Boxers made a noise that sounded like piff. “I caught a little shrapnel, is all. Not a big deal.”

  “Let me see it,” Jonathan said.

  “How many times have I told you that I’m not pulling down my pants for you?”

  Jonathan lifted his NVGs out of the way and clicked on his white-light penlight to get a better look. “You’re bleeding,” he said. Boxers’ right pant leg was wet and shimmering around and below what appeared to be a through-and-through wound in his thigh, just above his knee.

  “Bleeding is that thing that occurs after you’ve been hit by a bit of shrapnel. It’s not that bad. God knows I’ve had worse.”

  “Sit,” Jonathan said, and he adjusted his rifle to allow himself to take a knee.

  “I’m telling you it’s not a big deal.”

  “Good,” Jonathan said. “I’m convinced. Now prove it. If nothing else, we can bandage it up and get the bleeding stopped.”

  “This is ridiculous, Boss.”

  “That last word said it all. I’m the boss. Expose the wound and have a seat. You’re no good to me if I have to carry your giant ass. We’ve got a long way to go, and I need to know what we’re getting into.”

  “When you figure out that last part, please clue me in.” Boxers unfastened his trousers and let them drop.

  “Jesus, Big Guy, does your skin ever see sunlight? If I knew your legs were this white, I could’ve left the spare batteries at home.” Jonathan could sense the building anger, and he loved it. “And blue briefs? They got any little animals on them?”

  “They’re boxer briefs, and if you keep going, I’ll feed your ass to the little animals.” He lowered himself to the ground and turned slightly to give Jonathan better access to his injury.

  The wound was ugly but not serious—a chunk of avulsed flesh and fat dangled by a hinge made of skin—and it was bleeding pretty aggressively. Nothing life-threatening, but enough that it needed care.

  “It’s gonna leave a mark for sure,” Jonathan said.

  “Don’t waste a pack of QuikClot on this,” Boxers said. “Seriously.” Big Guy had always been the better combat medic.

  Jonathan’s hands found the first-aid kit on his assault vest by feel. He rooted around for the supplies he needed. “I’m just gonna give you a squirt of Neosporin and then do a pressure bandage with a four-by-four and some Kling. What do you think?”

  “I think you should do it quickly,” Boxers said. “Our PC and the chilluns are gonna be freaked out by the big bang.”

  It took only a couple of minutes to get it all in place. “How’s that feel?”

  “It feels like a guy with dirty fingernails just did surgery on my leg,” Boxers grumped. As he stood, he gave Jonathan enough of a shove to knock him back on his butt. “I rock these blue boxer briefs, asshole.” As he fastened his trousers, he said, “Now we just need to hope some of these vehicles still work.”

  Jonathan rose to his feet, adjusted his equipment. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he said.

  Boxers finished with his belt. “What, the vehicles? How the hell else are we going to get out of here?”

  Jonathan winced a little as he thought it through. “We just made a hell of a lot of noise,” he said. “Attracted a lot of attention.”

  “From who?” Boxers exclaimed with a laugh. “There’s no one around to hear it.”

  “That was a lot of bang, Big Guy. And now we’ve lit the skies with fire. Sooner or later, these assholes are going to be missed and people are going to come looking.”

  “All the more reason to get going fast.”

  “Fast isn’t an option,” Jonathan said. “First, we’ve got to collect
the PC and the kids—”

  “I’m telling you, those kids and the lady are a mistake.”

  “Duly noted.” Boxers was right, and Jonathan knew it. Their mission at this point was simply to get the hell out of Dodge with their precious cargo in tow. Given the events of the evening—the body count of the evening—time was their single greatest enemy. The only rational plan was to boogie out of there and leave behind the dead weight that the school population represented.

  But this was not a night for rational behavior.

  Jonathan explained, “I’ve been in this game for at least as long as you have, and I know the rationales and rules. I also know that I can’t leave a bunch of children to be tortured and killed. And you can talk tough all you want, but you couldn’t do that, either. So let’s move on.”

  Boxers just looked at him.

  Jonathan continued, “Our first step is to gather everyone together from the jungle. From there, we have to think of an option that does not involve driving. This deer trail of a road is a kill zone. It’s not just the only route in and out of here, it’s also indefensible. One vehicle across both lanes would create an ambush we can’t escape. And we have to assume that those would-be ambushers are on their way already.” As he heard his own words, he doubled down on his decision. “These vehicles are out. We have to think of something else.”

  Boxers wanted to argue—Jonathan could see it on his face—but that was hard to do when you knew the other party was right. “Let’s discuss our options while we hunt down some terrified kids,” he said in the end.

  CHAPTER 8

  Marlin Bills pressed the illumination button on his watch and was genuinely surprised that less than a minute had ticked by since the last time he’d checked.

  There’d been a time in his life when he would have grooved on this cloak-and-dagger bullshit, but those days had flown past long ago. Over the past decade or so, he’d learned to cherish the days that ended early and allowed him to hit the sack before midnight. Those nights had grown rare since his boss had gotten himself elevated to the chairmanship of the Senate Committee on the Judiciary, the lofty official name for what the rest of Washington called the Senate Judiciary Committee.