"It's all right; just a snake."
"Where?” Firststrike peered ahead. Sunray came up close to him, and pointed.
"There,” she said before Temper could answer his question.
Her hand vibrated, and the snake became dimly illuminated, just enough for Firststrike to see. He looked back at Sunray and smiled. Temper saw the smile and fumed.
"Come on; we have a job to do.” She set off at a quicker pace.
Sunray walked close to Firststrike and whispered, “She is jealous."
"Of what?” Firststrike was genuinely puzzled.
"I thought you were blind in only one eye.” She shook her head with disbelief.
He looked at her for a second as she passed him and went after Temper.
"I see more than most people think,” he whispered.
* * * *
Lastshot, Skorpion, Ursa Major, and Susan Winters moved through the jungle as silently as a nightmare. The jungle birds and distant monkeys that seemed to squawk and yell all the time had quieted oddly and there was an eerie expectancy in the air. Skorpion stopped the group short pointing to the ground ahead.
Stretched across the path was a thin wire. Their gaze followed the wire along the ground, and up a tree, where it was attached to a grenade. Skorpion smiled and moved to step over the wire. Lastshot stopped her, picked up a stick and, reaching over the wire, pushed the ground.
Instantly, the ground dropped away to reveal a pit filled with sharp dung-covered sticks. Lastshot looked at Susan, and spoke in a far-away voice.
"Your Dad taught me to set these. He called them “The old one-two."
She looked at him oddly then, as if for the first time. “He taught me a lot of ways to stay alive.” He added in the same tone. “He was a good teacher."
They moved around the trap and continued their stealthy advance. They came around a stand of bamboo to see a large open area between the groves of rubber trees. The little group stayed in the tree line, hunkered down in the heavy foliage and watched. The air was less heavy with moisture and heat in the high valley between the mountains; exactly the right climate for the opium poppies that were growing in neat rows across the floor of the valley.
Among those neat rows there were several plantation workers dressed in drab gray outfits holding farm implements and moving slowly about. One turned so part of his face could be seen clearly. Susan went white when she recognized him.
"Oh, my God,” she murmured. “Daddy ... it's daddy!"
Lastshot felt as if a cold hand had reached into his chest and clutched his heart.
Before either Skorpion or Lastshot could stop her, Susan jumped up, and raced forward.
Lastshot followed her from cover, in an attempt to stop her and was immediately seen by the guards who yelled in Khmer.
"Susan! No!” Lastshot called out.
The woman reached the man she knew was her father, grabbed him by the arm and turned him to face her.
"Daddy, it's—"
She stopped herself, her vocal cords paralyzed by the sight of his face. It had indeed once been the face of Major Edmund Winters that she had so many pictures of as a young vital man. It had not aged, though; his gray skin hung on the bones, and his eyes stared back from sunken sockets.
He was no longer alive, no longer human. The Major Edmund Winters that stood before her, upright and walking, was exactly the man he had been twenty years ago when he had died.
Susan Winters screamed until she blacked out.
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Chapter 19
Matthew Stryker, who delighted in his public persona as Goldstrike, was sitting at the conference table with his head in his hands, mumbling softly to himself. His expression was not unlike a coyote caught in a trap that was contemplating chewing off its own leg to escape. He was in the ready room of The Bodyguard headquarters, seated at the table while a wall of video screens showed live feeds from all the major networks and some private military channels.
His companion in the room was the Exceptional known as The Veteran, a man who looked of indeterminate age in a sleek gray bodysuit. He was gray haired, with steely blue eyes, a lined face, and with a muscular build that seemed at odds with the age reflected in his eyes. He was walking around the room, pontificating.
"Hoover said, ‘Not while I can draw breath!’ Hoo-hah, there was a real man."
"Who wore a skirt,” Goldstrike said under his breath.
"What's that, boy?"
"Oh, nothing,” Goldstrike said. “Please, don't stop the stories..."
Just then, Echo entered the room and Matthew saw a faint hope of rescue.
"Burst microwave transmission came through,” Echo said. “They're on the ground in Cambodia, in sight of their target and are going to wait until nightfall.” Matthew caught Caesar's eye and his expression begged for surcease.
"That reminds me of the case of the Cambodian Money Laundering Ring,” The Veteran began.
"Please, God, no...” Matthew whispered.
"That sounds so interesting!” Echo said with a sincere look, “Please, tell us all about it ... in great detail!” Matthew looked murderously at him.
"Kill me, now...” Matthew began, only to be cut off by The Veteran. “Back in nineteen and sixty four, I was with the Justice department in—"
"Oh, I'm sorry!” Echo said, looking at his watch.” I have a skydiving lesson with Floater! See ya!” He made a hasty exit, leaving Goldstrike alone with the Veteran.
"Or was it back in ‘62, when Jack was in the White House..."
Goldstrike slowly drew his gun from its holster and placed it on the table.
* * * *
"That was Susan. Winter's voice,” Temper said. The scream halted Temper, Firststrike and Sunray in their tracks.
Firststrike reached for his Com-unit, but, before he could key it, he saw on the pad a text message from Skorpion.
We're blown—code silent.
Sunray touched Firststrike on the arm.
"They've been seen,” Firststrike said. “We maintain radio silence. Let's move."
* * * *
Skorpion and Ursa Major were hunkered down in the bush at the edge of the clearing, helpless witnesses to what had happened to Susan Winters and Lastshot.
Immediately after the two had been taken prisoner, several of the guards had ventured half-heartedly into the jungle, but the two Exceptionals had avoided being detected and wisely chose not to fight with the guards.
Now, Lastshot was standing in the center of the compound, his hands over his head, being held at gunpoint by Khmer Rouge soldiers. His fingers looked as if he were wiggling them randomly, but in fact, they moved in a definite pattern. Skorpion watched them through field glasses.
"He's made and we are not. He says to fade.” She and Ursa Major melted back into the jungle. When they were out of earshot of anyone in the compound she keyed her Com-unit.
* * * *
Firststrike's Com-unit vibrated.
"All right, ladies, we go back to the staging point. Let's hustle."
They started off with Temper in the lead, Sunray and Firststrike behind. They moved swiftly, relying on Temper's tracking implants to keep them safe. Each of them was running through the hundred back-up scenarios in the event of being compromised in enemy territory.
Preoccupation was the only explanation for what happened next; it was not Temper, but Firststrike that saw the monofilament trip wire just as Temper stepped on it.
Firststrike pushed Sunray behind him and leapt forward to knock Temper away from the focus area of the explosion. A grenade exploded throwing Firststrike against a tree, and knocking out both Temper and Sunray. The one-eyed Exceptional was stunned by the explosion and deafened. He staggered against a tree and tried to get to the two women, but two Khmer soldiers came on the scene before he could get to them. Both soldiers tried to shoot Firststrike, but his instincts took over and he got both men with shaken throwing daggers.
He bent over the t
wo women to try and help them, but being deafened by the concussion of the explosion never heard the other two Khmer Rouge soldiers that appeared moments later and clubbed him unconscious.
* * * *
Skorpion and Ursa Major heard the explosion set off by Temper without knowing what it was. The Russian looked at the Scarlet Assassin.
"Aren't you going to call them?"
She shook her head. “If they're blown, pardon the pun, we're the only ace in the hole. Let's get back to the staging area."
* * * *
The interior of the plantation's main house was tastefully furnished in the manner of an old colonial mansion and quite comfortable. Paintings hung on the walls of the halls and of the large living room. Potted palms and hanging plants give the feel of a small indoor jungle, albeit carefully controlled and subjugated to the mind of man. There was a large sitting room off the main room. It was furnished as a plush office with more foliage and hunting trophies on display, occupied by two men sitting at a large ornate mahogany card table.
One was Johann Briejer who appeared to be in his late fifties with thick white hair, an antique goatee and mustache and a robust complexion. He was dressed in spotless riding gear with a holstered pistol on his right hip. He was having tea with a middle aged Cambodian man who looked like a benevolent shopkeeper with a jolly aspect and roll of fat around his middle; he was in fact, Tamok, successor to Cambodian leader Pol Pot. In his time, he had helped the Khmer Rouge kill over two million of his own people, a fourth of the whole country.
The two men were playing poker, a weekly game they had played for some time. It had long ago become boring to play for money or chips so they now used human fingers as the markers of currency. A Cambodian man, dressed like a traditional English butler, was standing un-moving in the corner.
"I'll see your three and raise you four,” Tamok said.
Briejer looked down at the small pile of fingers before him. He gestured to the butler, who lurched slowly over. When the man stood beside the table, it was clear by his sunken cheeks and dark and empty eyes that he was what traditionally would be called a zombie.
Briejer reached up, grabbed the zombie's hand and dragged it down, without resistance, to the table. He took up a meat cleaver from where it rested on the table, hacked off the zombie's hand. He then tossed it onto the pile of fingers. The butler showed no reaction to the amputation and there was no blood.
"Can you make change?” he said with a slight Dutch accent.
Both men laughed uproariously. The zombie staggered back to his place in the corner.
There was a knock on the door. Briejer made a face. “Please to come in."
Lastshot and Susan Winters, their hands tied behind them, were hustled through the door by three Khmer Rouge soldiers. The soldiers kept their guns trained close on Lastshot.
"Ah, I see we have company,” Briejer said in a cheerful voice. “Corporal, there is no need to be rude; I'm sure the young lady will not make a scene. Untie her."
One of the soldiers untied Susan while the second walked up to Tamok and handed him Lastshot's smart gun.
"He was carrying this,” he said. The soldier was holding the gun by the barrel as he handed it to Tamok.
The smart gun was a cyber pistol and as such Lastshot, through his implants, could control the gun from up to fifty feet away. He could choose caliber, load and whether to unleash single shots or an automatic burst of fire. The Exceptional team leader chose to have the weapon load a single fifty caliber round and commanded the gun to fire. The roar was deafening in the quiet room as the slug hit the soldier in the chest slamming him backward and off his feet. The soldier dropped the gun, which bounced and came to rest pointing at the second soldier. Lastshot commanded it to fire a 9mm automatic burst, hitting the second soldier that was covering Lastshot in his ankles. This dropped that guard to the floor with a wail of agony.
Lastshot, his hands still tied behind him, hit the last soldier with an axe kick that broke his collarbone. He slammed his foot into the fallen man and crushed the soldier's chest. He turned to make for Tamok, but froze when he saw Briejer leap to his feet, placing the meat cleaver against Susan's throat.
"Please, stop,” the Dutchman said calmly. “I don't want any more stains on the rug."
Lastshot glared at him, as the soldier with the leg wound picked himself up and put the barrel of his rifle roughly against Lastshot's head. Tamok took the Exceptional's smart pistol and put it on the desk, barrel facing the wall.
He walked up to Lastshot. “I know you,” he said.
"I can't say it's a pleasure to see you alive, Tamok,” Lastshot said, his voice dripping with hate.
"So, you know me, too.” The Cambodian spoke with a calm detachment. “I can assure you it won't be a pleasure, Mr. Lastshot.” He yelled for more men, even as guards raced into the room reacting to the gunfire. “Take this gun and destroy it ... carefully.” He walked directly up to Lastshot when the gun had left the room and slapped the American across the face as hard as he could. He took delight when Lastshot spit out some blood. “I promise you will feel much pain before you beg to die."
He moved to Susan. “Now, for you, I can guarantee a pleasurable experience.” He ran a hand along her cheek and down to her breasts which he took the liberty of squeezing. “What is your name?"
She turned her eyes away from the old Cambodian's face and saw the pile of fingers and the hand on the card table. She gasped and choked off a scream, then pulled herself together and faced him again with anger in her eyes.
"What have you done to my father?"
"If you are referring to one of my employees, then if he was your father, rest assured, he is no longer.” He turned to his Cambodian associate and smiled pleasantly. “Tamok, my friend, I have an idea. We haven't had anyone fight in the pit for quite some time."
"An excellent suggestion, my comrade.” Tamok clapped his hands to summon one of the soldiers that now lined the room. “Double the patrols; I am sure these two are not alone, and have the current guards executed for their incompetence.” He watched with interest as the dead and wounded guards were taken out of the room. “Take Mr. Lastshot to the guest room. Take her to my quarters."
The soldiers ushered them out, with Lastshot kept docile with the knowledge that the guard that had a gun to Susan's head had no compunctions about killing her.
"I hope your men find more of them, Tamok,” the Dutchman said. “He looks quite formidable."
"So does she,” Tamok observed. They both laughed. There was an explosion in the distance.
"Pity, it's getting so noisy in this neighborhood,” Brierjer said.
They laughed again and went back to their cards.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 20
Lastshot was shackled to a wall by leg and wrist irons in a large metal shed with a stout door. He had no opportunity to test his bonds—which, with the adrenaline derivatives the implants could pump into his system, he could probably break free of—because two Khmer guards sat in the shed with him. The guards idly commented on whether they would be visiting the village women that week and if the boss would let them skin the big white man. They had no idea the American spoke a number of the local dialects.
Less than a half hour after he had been strung up, the door opened and Tamok entered with three soldiers who were half-dragging the unconscious Temper, Firststrike, and Sunray. All three were shackled to the wall like Lastshot.
"It seems we will have a full evening's entertainment,” Tamok said in English.
"What, no interrogation?” Lastshot said. They had left his neural glasses on him, not realizing their import or purpose and he used them to scan his team member's vital signs. He was relieved to see they were not seriously hurt. “Don't you Khmer Rouge like to torture helpless prisoners anymore?"
Tamok smiled pleasantly. “We are not at war. Besides, we will have moved on from this location in a week, to re-establish somewhere in South America.�
� He made a point of examining Sunray and Temper as if they were cattle he had purchased. “I have captured your team, I know what I need to; you are not dangerous to me!"
Tamok and all but the original two soldiers exited. Lastshot looked at his awakening team.
"Oh, yeah,” he said. “We're real dangerous!"
* * * *
Skorpion and Ursa Major returned to the staging area and were considering their options.
"It has been sometime, now, Madame Skorpion. Our comrades are not here. What shall we do?"
"I guess we wait for Temper, Firststrike and Sunray,” she said with rare indecisiveness. “If they show, we scope out the guards, and start taking them out after nightfall. If they don't, we do it ourselves."
Ursa Major checked his watch. “We have a little over twelve hours until the bombers destroy the valley. Nightfall is, how you say, cutting it a little close?"
"I know,” Skorpion said. She remembered Lastshot's odd reaction on the trip out and thought about the tense chemistry she had seen with Firststrike and the women. She felt a chill up her spine, a premonition of something terrible about to happen. “I know,” she repeated.
She sat down on a fallen log with a sigh and rested her back against a tree. Ursa Major pulled out and donned his metal mesh glove. Then got out his compass. He hummed Prokoffieve's Theme from Alexander Nevsky and activated his microwave implants.
"What are you doing?” Skorpion asked.
"Shhh, I'm listening,” he said. He got a serious expression on his face then, “Damn!” He put his equipment away and sat down beside Skorpion.
"Well ... what?"
"The Czars lost 7-5!” the Russian said with a shrug of his shoulders.
"You're kidding!” she said.
"We are temporary,” he said with hundreds of years of Russian philosophers’ wisdom. “Baseball is eternal.” The two of them shared a laugh; professionals at one crisis in the midst of another. For a time they sat in silence, listening to the sounds of the jungle. They were comfortable with silence as so many warriors were and each went over all the events of the day in their mind examining every scenario that could have gone wrong with their teammates. They thought about what they could do to complete the mission. Their fear for their teammates’ safety factored in, but they could not let it control their thoughts.
The Measure of a Man [The Exceptionals Book 1] Page 10
