JET, no. 3

by Russell Blake

  The irony of his being the prey wasn’t lost on him. This had been a seek-and-destroy mission, the target a relatively easy, if elusive, one. Gordon had carried out similar operations in Afghanistan, the Balkans and the Middle East with no complications. He was the predator. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  The sound of men crashing through the trees trailed him, but at a greater distance now.

  Maybe his gambit had worked. But if so, he’d need to get away from the stream soon. It had served its purpose but was too easy to follow.

  A barely-discernible path forked off from the water to his right, and after a moment’s hesitation he threw himself headlong down the trail, willing his legs to greater speed even as he felt light-headed from the blood loss. He’d have to stop soon and try to clot the gash or it would do the gunmen’s job for them.

  Shouts echoed through the jungle behind him, but far enough back to afford him a momentary glimmer of hope. If the dog had lost the scent at the stream then they were as blind as he was, and it was a big area.

  Vines tore at his skin as the trail narrowed. At that moment he would have given anything for a machete and an M4 rifle. He would have made short work of the amateurs who were tracking him, even with just the machete.

  Shots rang out in the distance, but there was no accompanying shredding of vegetation. So the armed men were now shooting at phantoms.

  A stirring in one of the trees stopped him in his tracks – a pair of glowing eyes burned into him. He squinted in the dim light and then started. There on a branch was a spotted leopard, capable of taking down a deer.

  The big cat hissed as it watched him edge cautiously away while maintaining eye contact so it wouldn’t think he was afraid. Animals could sense fear, Gordon knew. His fight wasn’t with the hungry leopard, but he didn’t want to provoke it in any way. At seventy pounds it could inflict real damage, especially in his weakened state. He backed off, but the leopard seemed intent on challenging him. It could obviously smell blood.

  The two stared each other down, twenty feet apart, until the cat decided that there was easier prey in the jungle and leapt gracefully to another branch, then worked its way down to the ground before loping off into the foliage.

  Exhaling a sigh of relief, Gordon resumed his push down the path, more than aware that the gunmen were still hot on his tail. He estimated by the sound of the last shots that they were a quarter mile or more away, but he wanted that to be several miles by dawn if he could manage it. As long as the dog didn’t pick up his scent again it was achievable, provided he didn’t bleed to death or get eaten.

  As he eased down the hill he entered a thick layer of ground fog that seemed to hang like a cloak over the valley below. He had a rough idea of where he was, but after having been moved from where he and Doug had been captured, it was only approximate. A handheld GPS would have come in handy.

  Cries from up the hill, followed by a bark, told him everything he needed to know. The dog had caught the smell of blood on the wind and was leading the men straight to him again. The baying of the hound seemed to grow closer with each passing minute, and he pushed himself, picking up his pace to a flat-out run.

  A trailing vine tripped him and he tumbled, rolling down the slope, gathering speed as he slid down the slick side of the muddy hill. He reached out with both hands trying to slow his fall but it was no good. Gravity had the best of him, and the rain made the surface as slippery as an ice rink.

  He thudded into the base of a tree, abruptly stopping his descent, and felt something in his chest snap. At least one, possibly two, broken ribs, he guessed. The simple assignment had now become an ordeal that he doubted he would escape with his life. Blood continued to leak from his head and his hands were shredded into hamburger. The only good news was that his slide had taken him at least another hundred yards down a steep section of the hill, which no sane follower would attempt. If he could find another trail and maintain any kind of speed, he might have a chance.

  Forcing himself to his feet, he felt like he’d gone ten rounds wrestling a bear. His breath wheezed and a band of pain stabbed into his chest with each inhalation, but as far as he could tell he was still viable.

  Gordon shouldered through the brush, careful of where he was stepping, aware that there were other dangers besides the gunmen. Leopards, an occasional tiger, Burmese python…all of which hunted under cover of darkness. He was wounded, bleeding, unarmed, starved and exhausted, which made him vulnerable to anything that wanted to try its luck with him.

  And worst of all, for the first time in his career, he’d failed.

  He’d lost his partner. Been captured. Had learned nothing that he hadn’t known before the disastrous sortie.

  The drizzle stopped and the trees around him watched like silent sentries as he stumbled aimlessly, searching for any sort of route that would distance him from his pursuers. Insects clicked and buzzed in the surrounding grass, and an occasional rustle greeted his trudging as some unseen animal scurried away. The mud sucked at the soles of his boots and his legs felt leaden with each step, the effects of sleep deprivation and no food taking their toll, sapping his energy even as he demanded more from his battered body.

  As Gordon emerged into a small clearing, the clouds parted just enough for the moon to leer through, its ghostly glow enabling him to see a gap in the undergrowth on the other side.

  Then the fog drifted across the open space, closing in on the seeming mirage. Gordon staggered toward the trees, confident that he hadn’t been imagining the vision. Another bark sounded in the distance from behind him, urging him forward.

  There.

  Just a few more yards.

  For a moment he thought he’d mis-stepped, and then the crackle of dry branches accompanied his body falling into the dark.

  Blinding pain stabbed through him. Intense, searing agony from his abdomen, chest and legs.

  His vision blurred as he gazed skyward, the moon mocking the sight of his body impaled on sharpened bamboo stakes in the bottom of the pit, his blood seeping black around the lethal spears in the eerie luminescence. A disembodied part of him wondered whether the trap was designed for wild boar, deer or some other prey, and then the pain receded as his consciousness seemed to float above him, observing his pathetic state, his existence brought to an abrupt end in a trench in an unnamed hell hole somewhere in a jungle time had forgotten.

  Time seemed to compress as a simultaneous rush of regrets and memories overwhelmed him, and his last thought was that it wasn’t supposed to end this way, that he still had more to do. Even though he’d personally released many from their mortal coil and watched impassively as they died, his own passage surprised him, and he finally understood the puzzled look in the eyes of his victims when their moment had come.

  With a last involuntary shudder Gordon strained against the stakes, and then he stiffened, convulsed and went limp, his ultimate breath escaping with a burble as blood filled his lungs and his heart gave up its pointless struggle to beat.

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