Hard Target

by Zeke Mitchell

  HARD TARGET

  Zeke Mitchell

  I did what I had to do.

  —Audie Murphy

  ONE

  Upstate New York

  I surge along a dark and winding road toward a rendezvous with death. I'm behind the wheel of my Jeep Apache SUV. The Jeep's fitted with a supercharged V-8 HEMI engine. I've got 600 horses and 600 foot-pounds of torque under the hood. That's muscle.

  The road tightens and I'm flanked by deep dark woods. My destination's Battle Creek. It's not marked on Google Earth. Soon it'll run red with blood.

  I tighten my grip on the Jeep's wheel and forge ahead. In the near distance the mighty Adirondack Mountains dominate the moonlit horizon.

  My GPS squawks. "Turn left in fifty feet."

  I crank my wheel and hit a rugged trail. My off-road Maxxis Mudclaw tires dig in and kick loose dirt. The woods grow deeper and darker as I progress and soon I'm engulfed in murky shadow.

  I reach the end of the trail and brake to a halt and kill the Jeep's rumbling HEMI. I sit in silence and scan through narrowed eyes and let my combat senses probe.

  I search for threats and seek any sign of a trap. Any sign my enemies have detected my presence.

  My sidearm's in my fist. It's a massive autoloader. A Desert Eagle .50 Magnum. The gun's custom-tuned and black-coated and I call it Warhammer. Its seven-shot magazine's loaded with tactical ammunition. That means reduced flash and blast.

  Each cobalt-tungsten bullet delivers 1250 foot-pounds of impact energy. That's more than enough to stop a charging enemy soldier. In my trade there's no such thing as too much firepower. There's no such thing as overkill.

  I keep scanning and find no imminent danger. Yet. I stow Warhammer and quit the Jeep and circle toward the SUV's hatchback. I pull the rest of my gear and prep for action and after final checks I'm ready.

  I lock the Jeep's doors and arm its anti-theft system. I'll return to the SUV when the mission's complete. Assuming I survive. If I'm KIA it won't matter. Dead's dead.

  I turn toward my waypoint and shove off. Time's short and the job's crucial. I have to strike with maximum aggression. In my bitter experience there's no other way.

  That said I get no pleasure from killing. Excessive blood lust's a weakness. A soldier needs to control his emotions on the battlefield. Any fighting man who loses his cool's an easy target for his opposition. Unfocused rage means failure. It means death.

  I check my Tactix wristwatch with its built-in GPS. My target lies one mile ahead and six degrees due north. My ETA's thirty-five minutes from now at my present speed. Barring sudden disaster.

  If anything goes wrong there's no backup team on call. There's no Plan B and no option for rescue. I'm working solo. Like always. It's a grim way to fight but at my core I'm a lone-wolf hunter. A specialist in search and destroy. Emphasis on destroy.

  I stalk through the trees and shift upslope. I'm dressed to kill. I wear tactical cammo and a SWAT-type Kevlar helmet and Nomex fire-resistant gloves. Polycarb goggles shield my eyes and a tactical mask hides my face.

  ALICE webbing supports my gun ammo and MOLLE webbing holds my knife and other gear. I carry an OD duffel bag that holds a special weapon.

  The loadout gives me flexible combat power. Everything's slung against my body in a specific sequence. That way I can locate each item by touch alone in the heat of battle.

  I angle through the woods with caution. I have to stay undetected and strike my enemies before they realize their danger. The element of surprise is crucial to my plan.

  As I move foliage brushes against me and dead leaves crunch under my boots. I'm reminded that no soldier can move with total stealth. No soldier's a gliding ghost. It might happen in dramatic works of fiction but not in real life.

  Again I check my GPS and adjust my course and press on. A gray moon glows overhead and casts eerie dappled shadows. Mist oozes and coils from the ground. It's like a scene from a horror movie. Except this is no movie. The horror's real and the monsters are real.

  I pause and probe again for danger. I sweep each flank with my Ultimax Commando light machine gun. The Commando's fitted with a short barrel and an ACOG scope. It feeds from a 100-round drum that's loaded with Power Strike ammo.

  Again I sweep with my finger on the Commando's trigger. A sixth sense tells me I'm not alone. Something's waiting. Something big and fierce. I'm about to turn and there's rustling and a flash of motion. I grit my teeth and hit a defensive crouch.

  Thirty feet away there's a black bear. A fine and noble creature. He stands on all fours and he's six feet long. Make that seven. He can crush my skull with a sweep of his massive paw.

  We lock eyes for a moment then the bear blinks and snorts and bolts for cover. I wish him good luck and good hunting.

  I've no quarrel with beasts in the wild. They cause me no anguish. It's human predators who make me wary. It's human predators who cause the terror and desolation.

  I turn and forge on and soon I reach a stony bluff. Around me there's silence and it's deep and ominous. I crouch atop the bluff and set down the Commando alongside my gear bag.

  I scan ahead through narrowed eyes. There's a dirt clearing downslope. It's three hundred yards long more or less.

  I check my wristwatch. It's time for my opposition to arrive. Assuming my intel's correct. I hope so. I'm counting on it.

  As if on cue headlights flash and flare downrange and a vehicle emerges. It's a black-painted Cadillac Escalade SUV and it brakes and parks at the edge of the clearing.

  The Escalade's doors snap open and four men emerge while the driver stays at his wheel. The men step toward the clearing and stand and wait.

  I pull my Nikon tactical binoculars and study the men's faces. I'm searching for my target. His name's Anton Zorin. He's a vicious Mob Boss and I mean to kill him. I scan the men's faces again and my gut pulls tight. Zorin's not present.

  I scan again and it's a no-go and I mouth a silent curse. My intel's faulty and I've blown my shot at Zorin. My gut knots harder and the weight of failure hangs heavy on my shoulders.

  I breathe deep and sort my options. I won't retreat. There's no way. Instead I'll press my attack and strike Zorin's machine. I have to stay proactive and I have to stay on the offensive. There's no damn choice.

  I'll use every weapon and tactic at my disposal. But I'm realistic. I can't defeat an entire army in one strike. I'm not John Rambo.

  I scan the men again. It's Zorin's crew for sure. They're hard-eyed cutthroats. They're Russian mobsters and they call themselves Bravda Stalin. That means Brotherhood of Steel. These men head Bravda business operations on U.S. soil. They maim or murder anyone who gets in their way.

  I lower the Nikons and check my wristwatch. If the rest of my intel's correct a cargo plane should arrive soon. Any minute in fact. Sure enough a sound hits my ears. It's a metallic drone from the sky.

  I peer up. A boxy shape appears over the treetops and descends. It's a Russian-made Sukhoi SU-129 and it's built for STOL. That means short take-off and landing. It's a rugged military design. I admit it's perfect for this kind of job.

  The Sukhoi's hauling a load of opioids from a private airfield outside Chicago. The pilot's flown low and fast to avoid detection. He knows his job and he's an experienced Bravda drug-runner.

  The opioid shipment weighs 500 pounds and the wholesale value's five million dollars. The street value's fifty times that. A cool quarter billion. A toxic plague of misery and death for maximum profit. The Bravdas will fight to the death for that much cash. So be it.

  I raise the Nikons and keep my eyes on the Bravdas. There's an urge to grab my fighting kit and open fire at once. Instead I bide my time. Payback's coming. It's more than a mission. It's a personal crusade.

  There's
a bolt of anger and my jaw tenses. The Bravdas don't care how many lives they snuff. They're driven by twisted ego and raging greed. They're fueled by an insatiable lust for cash and power. They'll expand their evil empire at any cost and feed it with human blood.

  I don't hate the Russian people. I hate the Bravdas. I hate that Russia's top exports are global crime and terror. Year after year. Decade after decade. Damn.

  The Sukhoi's landing gear drops and it swoops onto the clearing. Its engines spool down and it halts in front of the waiting men. The pilot disembarks and gives a crooked grin and shakes hands with his Bravda cohorts.

  I zoom the Nikons and watch the Bravdas as they get to work. They open the plane's cargo door and off-load their filthy loot. Fifty plastic-wrapped bags of opioid poison. I draw a sharp breath. It's time for action.

  I lower the Nikons and unzip my duffel bag and pull my special hardware. An M-153 SMAW. That means Shoulder-Launched Multipurpose Assault Weapon. It's a high-tech bazooka. The SMAW's shaped-charge projectile can destroy damn-near any hard target. Or roast a parked Sukhoi.

  I shoulder the SMAW and thumb its trigger-selector from SAFE to FIRE. I aim through its optical sight. At 3.8 magnification I frame the Sukhoi in the sight's cross hairs. There's nothing left to do but unleash my assault. Uncage my wrath.

  I count down silently from five and reach zero. I squeeze the SMAW's trigger and an 83-millimeter rocket stabs from its muzzle. It thunders toward its target at 720 feet per-second and it's propelled by a solid-fuel motor.

  Through the SMAW's optical tracker I watch the rocket hurtle downrange. In the dark its seething exhaust looks like a drop of incandescent blood. It strikes the Sukhoi and its HE warhead detonates an instant later.

  There's a white-hot flash and a roar of thunder and an epic fireball rises fifty feet high. It grows thicker and longer like a giant phallus.

  On the ground below there's chaos. Men reel and scatter in terrified disarray. Burning fuel engulfs the pilot and he screams and lurches and topples facedown. His corpse shrivels into a smoking black husk.

  One Bravda thug's decapitated by a broken propeller blade. Blood gushes like a busted fire hydrant and the headless corpse tumbles and its legs twitch and kick. Its severed head bounces like a gruesome soccer ball with eyes bulging.

  I reload the SMAW and target the Escalade SUV. I center my reticle on the SUV's polished grill and hit the SMAW's trigger.

  Another rocket hurtles toward impact and strikes the Escalade dead-center. There's another flash and the SUV shudders and its metalwork swells. It's devoured by seething high-explosive plasma and heat waves ripple and flames gush.

  Another blast rips through the Escalade and smoldering debris hurtles into the sky. The driver screams and thrashes at his wheel and the firestorm engulfs him and he shrivels in his seat.

  Shock waves loft the wreckage twenty feet into the air then it slams down on melted tires. A cowering Bravda's caught under the mangled hulk. He's crushed into scarlet froth. It's a gruesome spectacle. It's hell on earth. As intended.

  There's erratic gunfire and bullets hurtle overhead. The three surviving Bravdas are shooting back with pistols and submachine guns. Doubtless they spotted the SMAW's muzzle flash. The incoming fire's increasing but I won't retreat. I have to finish the job.

  I drop the empty SMAW and grasp the Commando and stalk downslope. There's more opposing gunfire and I zigzag to throw off the shooters' aim.

  I reach a shallow gully and scan through the Commando's ACOG optic. A Bravda grips a bright-chrome .45-caliber pistol and bolts toward me at full speed. It's a brash head-on charge but it won't work. I won't let it work.

  I draw the Commando's trigger and loose a 3-shot Power Strike salvo. The 5.56-millimeter Power Strikes don't mushroom like hollow-point pistol bullets. Instead they tumble end-over-end and plow long and devastating wound channels.

  All three Power Strikes drill the Bravda and he spews blood and tips into a boneless sprawl. The shiny .45 tumbles free and clatters onto the ground.

  There's zero time to waste and I press my attack. I leave the gully and move ahead in a fighting crouch. Smoke wafts around me and I use it as a cloak. But it also obscures my opposition. I shift sideways and the smoke clears and there's motion.

  A Bravda scuttles in reverse and fires a hasty unaimed subgun burst. He shouts, "Vashik!"

  Bastard. Yeah. That's me.

  The Bravda's weapon empties and he fumbles with its reload magazine. Now's my chance. I surge with the Commando leading and target the Bravda through my ACOG. I frame his sternum in the ACOG's ring-dot reticle and hit my trigger.

  Power Strikes bore in and rip through the man's chest like a chainsaw. He screams and vaults back with arms akimbo.

  I forge on and there's brand-new motion. The final surviving Bravda dives and rolls behind the mangled Sukhoi. I palm an M-67 and spring its pin and toss the frag grenade. It soars overhead and falls and hits the far side of the wreckage with a dull thud.

  There's a two second pause then the grenade's M-5A1 time-delay fuse blows its HE filler. There's a flash and a crack of thunder. Shrapnel sprays and pummels the Sukhoi's metalwork.

  The Bravda screams and lurches into view. There's an ugly gash across his face but otherwise he's intact. He's a lucky SOB but his luck's about to end. I won't let him escape. I won't let a savage go unpunished.

  The Bravda stays in motion and grasps a short slim autopistol. He fires two hasty shots with no real hope of scoring then spins and lopes toward the treeline.

  I level the Commando and trigger a short precision burst. The runner stumbles and sprawls headlong in a crimson blur and twitches and goes slack.

  There's sudden ringing silence. I keep my finger on the Commando's trigger and narrow my eyes and scan the kill zone. All the Bravdas are dead and their opioid poison's burned to ash. Blown to hell.

  Granted I failed to nail Anton Zorin but I'll take this result in consolation. It's one victory in a war against organized crime. It might be an unwinnable war but I won't quit the fight.

  There's a flash of headlights and a roar of auto engines. I scan downrange and spot two SUVs. They're charging in my direction. They're black Escalades and I'm certain it's a Bravda backup team.

  A cold knot forms in my chest and I realize I've overplayed my hand. I've overextended myself on the battlefield and left myself vulnerable to interception. I've no means of easy escape and my Jeep's beyond quick reach.

  There's one chance for survival. I have to shift my posture from attack to defense. First I need cover. In the open I'm dead.

  I surge behind the Sukhoi's crumpled fuselage and drop into a low crouch. I'm concealed and that buys time.

  I sling the Commando and pull Warhammer and thumb off its safety. I need mobile artillery. I need to stop the advancing vehicles before they flank me and mow me down. I can't falter and my timing has to be perfect. Easy. Sure. Like dying.

  The Bravda Escalades slow to a crawl and their LED headlights scour the darkness. Doubtless they're hunting.

  I stay behind cover and level Warhammer and wait for a target. An Escalade angles into view but its driver hasn't seen me. Not yet. He's peering in the wrong direction and that's a fatal mistake.

  I ignore the blazing headlights and grit my teeth and focus on target acquisition. I level Warhammer in a firm grip and center the Escalade in my sights.

  The SUV rolls closer. I hit Warhammer's trigger and it roars and breathes foot-long muzzle flame. A .50-cal bullet screams in at 1270 feet per-second.

  My aim's true and a fist-size hole opens in the Escalade's windshield. The driver's head snaps back and his skull explodes above the jawline. Blood paints the SUV's interior in thick gouts. I survey the devastation. The ammo's working as designed. Props to Magnum Research.

  I keep Warhammer up and squeeze off two more shots in rapid succession. The Escalade's grill erupts and its hood bursts open. It rises on a cushion of flame and falls back across the shattered Vortec V-8 engine.<
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  There's another flash and a whooshing hiss. The crippled Bravda SUV bleeds gray vapor and slews hard right. It noses into the Sukhoi's battered fuselage and shudders on impact.

  The Escalade's front passenger-side door flings open and a survivor leaps free. He grips a compact subgun and he swings it in my direction. But it's too late. A .50 Magnum slug drills his gut above the belt line. Explosive impact hurls him through a sloppy somersault and he sprawls chest down.

  Another Bravda leaps from the Escalade and triggers a shotgun. Buckshot pellets hurtle overhead with no chance of hitting. Again I squeeze Warhammer's trigger. My bullet whirls the man like a drunken dervish and he thumps against the Escalade. He slithers down and a second bullet cores his screaming face.

  A final thug emerges from the SUV. Before he can raise his pistol I hit Warhammer's trigger. Thunder rolls downrange and reverberates off the Escalade's metalwork. The Bravda takes the hit center mass. He drops like a puppet with its strings slashed and crumples.