Hard Target

by Zeke Mitchell

  I turn left and probe a dark study and find no one present. Damn it! If Yezov's fled the mission's a wash. It's FUBAR.

  I shut off the dismal thoughts and reach a spacious foyer with a grand curving staircase. Atop the staircase there's a broad landing with clear air. The riot gas hasn't reached that zone. Not yet.

  Two thugs appear on the landing and blast their AKs. The bullets punch wide but in another moment the troops will find proper angle and range. I swing the ATAC up and trigger two Stingers in rapid-fire.

  A blizzard of darts hurls the nearest gunman against a wall in a splash of blood. He rebounds and tumbles down the staircase and crashes onto the foyer in a twisted heap.

  The second gunner's injured by dart strikes but on his feet with his weapon raised. I aim the SCAR and hit the man with a Power Strike salvo. He reels through a drunken jig and topples out of sight.

  No one else appears to challenge me. I need to search the mansion's upper floor. If Yezov's up there I've got to pin him. Fast.

  I take the first step and a sound hits my ears and I freeze. It's the din of a helicopter engine winding up outside the house. Grim realization clicks in my head. Yezov's escaping. The bastard's about to soar off to parts unknown.

  I turn from the stairs and cross the foyer in a rush. I reach the open front doors and peer outside. Sure enough a helicopter's launching from its helipad. It's an Aero A1 Skyhawk.

  Rotors slice through the air and gain speed and in seconds the Skyhawk will complete its lift-off. I spit a vile curse. I missed the bird on my initial recon. I curse again and scowl but there's no time for self-blame.

  In front of me the Skyhawk rises faster. I can't let it go. I can't let Yezov win. I feed the ATAC an HE magazine and hit the launcher's trigger. My aim's off. Way off. The Dragon arcs over the Skyhawk's tail and falls and detonates amid the Pines. Damn!

  I drop to one knee and re-aim and loose another Dragon. An HE thunderbolt strikes the Skyhawk's engine pod dead-center.

  Flames spit from its shattered turbine and the stricken bird wobbles and slews. It plunges to an altitude of ten feet but somehow stays airborne. It swings to face me and the pilot's visible through the bubble windshield.

  I snarl and hit the SCAR's trigger and loose a 3-shot burst. Power Strikes drill the pilot's chest and pin him to his seat. Shattered Plexiglas explodes in his face and hacks his flesh and eyes into scarlet pulp.

  The Skyhawk tips nose-down and smashes onto the helipad with a screech of ruptured metal. Rotor blades strike concrete and snap off and hurtle into the trees. Other fragments batter the mansion's walls and roof and fracture windows.

  Through a rolling screen of smoke I glimpse the helo's passenger door fling open. A bloodied figure jumps out and stumbles from the wreckage. It's Boris Yezov and no mistake. He drops faceup onto the ground.

  I reload the SCAR and strip off my gas mask and move to kneel beside the ravaged mobster. He shivers and twitches and coughs bloody spittle. "I need to find Zorin," I tell him.

  "Zorin," he repeats. His voice is dull and weak and his eyes fade in and out of focus.

  I'm running out of time and I have to play a wild card. "Everything's gone, Boris. Everything you built, shot to hell. Zorin caused this. He betrayed you."

  Yezov frowns and his breathing's ragged and hoarse. I forge ahead. Relentless. "You're dying, dammit. Take Zorin with you. Make the bastard pay."

  Yezov sucks another ragged breath and something clicks behind his stricken eyes. "Glades." His voice is a hoarse croak and he mumbles something else but it's garbled. His mouth clamps shut and he shudders and goes stiff.

  There's nothing more to do and I kick off and bolt upslope. All I have's a single word from Yezov's bloody mouth. Glades. I take that to mean the Everglades. A vast swampland located in south Florida.

  It's a meager lead and Zorin's exact location's still a mystery. He's an elusive target but I won't quit. I'll press ahead and pursue him to the bitter end.

  I hit the treeline and turn to check my flanks. There's no sign of immediate danger. No one's left alive to challenge me. They're all gone. All dead. I turn through the tall Pines toward my waiting Jeep.

  FIVE

  Florida Everglades

  Nineteen hours later

  I drive south past the lower edge of Lake Okeechobee on County Road 86. My headlights tunnel through midnight darkness. After twenty minutes my GPS squawks. "Turn left in fifty feet."

  I veer the Jeep off the main road and follow a rough and rutted trail. I'm guided by my GPS and after several miles I reach my destination. The waterway's calm and glassy and sawgrass and bullreeds line its banks.

  I park the Jeep and go EVA and spend a moment probing for danger. Nothing's visible.

  I pull a Zodiac dinghy from the Jeep's roof rack and lift it overhead. The Zodiac's carbon fiber construction makes it ultralight. I lower the sleek black boat and ease it onto the moonlit water and tether it to the bank.

  I prep my guns and gear and I'm rigged for war. Like always.

  I lock the Jeep. It's hard to think of car thieves operating in the middle of a swamp but I won't take chances. If anyone tries to hotwire the SUV its engine will cycle once then shut off.

  In that case the HEMI won't restart without a special code. A transmitter will beam a warning signal to my wrist-mounted GPS and it'll alert me to foul play. I'll know there's trouble even if I'm far downrange.

  I make another scan again for danger and find none. I board the Zodiac and crouch low and grasp aluminum oars with my gloved hands. The setup's designed for quiet efficient rowing.

  I shove off and urge the sleek black boat on with determined strokes. I need a balance of speed and stealth. My direction's due south and I hug the dark shoreline and use it for cover.

  My combat senses probe the floodplain's murk and the surrounding jungle. It's a primeval domain and insects buzz and night birds squawk and critters leap. Moonlight filters through palmetto trees and water tupelos. The light illuminates mist that boils from the water's surface.

  I row on and keep my strokes smooth and quiet. I track my progress with my GPS and after three miles I reach my waypoint.

  I stop rowing twenty feet out and drift to the shore and scan the dark trees for danger. There's no turning back and no easy way to abort. I can't dodge supersonic bullets and my Jeep's beyond quick reach.

  At last I reach the shallows and again I scan for danger. There's a large splash upstream and I freeze. Nothing moves except for ripples on the water's surface.

  I scan for several moments and I satisfy myself nothing human's stalking my position. There's another splash and it's impossible to say what's moving beneath the dark water. It might be a ten-foot alligator or a fist-sized snapping turtle.

  No matter. I can't control the unknown. Likewise I have to remain vigilant. I can't betray myself through simple negligence.

  I quit the Zodiac and press ahead in a fighting crouch. Water swirls knee-deep as I drag the dinghy behind. Mud sucks at my feet and I fight to keep my balance. I haul the Zodiac beneath drooping foliage. A dangling vine twists and curves in front of my face.

  It's not a vine. It's a swamp viper and it hangs from a low-hanging branch. It's colored dark green with large rough scales and black glistening eyes. If it bites me I'll perish from bloody vomiting and acute diarrhea. No thanks.

  I draw my Tanto knife in self-defense. The viper curves its sturdy neck in an S-shape. It hisses and exposes massive fangs and droplets of hemotoxic venom leak from its open mouth. It doesn't attack. Instead it coils up and retreats from sight.

  I stow my knife and wish the awesome reptile good luck and good hunting. As always I've no quarrel with the creatures of the wild. My fury's directed at two-legged beasts. Savages and cannibals who poison the world with greed and hate and twisted ego.

  I secure the Zodiac to a cypress root with a nylon line and stow the oars. I scramble onto the bank and pull my Nitefinder LED flashlight. The Nitefinder's red beam won't give my p
osition away like a standard white light. It won't ruin my night vision.

  I sweep the beam across the mud and search for human footprints and find none. It's no surprise. I don't expect enemy patrols this far out but there's no point taking chances.

  I pull my Bushmaster machete and hack off several verdant limbs and use them to shroud the dinghy. That should keep it hidden until the mission's complete. Assuming it's afloat. Assuming I survive.

  I check my GPS and find my bearings. All right. It's time to move. I step through the trees in the direction of my waypoint.

  I carry a Heckler & Koch UMP. It's pronounced U-MP. It means Universale Maschinen Pistole. That's German for Universal Submachine Gun.

  The compact and lightweight UMP's a fine choice for jungle warfare. It's stacked with .45 Auto Black Talon ammo. On impact the Black Talons expand to a massive .80-caliber and pulverize flesh and bone. I carry a mix of explosives and sidearms and edged weapons for backup.

  Firepower's half the battle. Concealment's also essential. I wear jungle camouflage garb and a ripstop boonie hat. The garb's vented for cooling and it's made from water-repellent T420HT nylon. I've smeared my face and hands with camouflage warpaint. Green and brown and gray in alternating bands.

  I wear TacOps Strider jungle boots. The Striders are low-profile and flexible and designed to vent excess water and repel mud. That makes for easier maneuvering in waterlogged terrain. Valor Polycarb goggles protect my eyes. The Valors are sleek and light and their lens coatings sharpen my night vision.

  I check my GPS again and shift two degrees northeast. My target's a paramilitary camp carved into the bowels of the swamp.

  Aerial recon found the camp six hours earlier. A U-2 spy plane pinned the site with infrared sensors. HQ ordered the recon stat. That was after I relayed that Anton Zorin might be hiding in the Glades.

  It's my job to scout the bivouac and verify Zorin's presence. If he's in place I mean to kill him. Search and destroy. Yeah. Emphasis on destroy.

  I turn one-point-five degrees southwest and forge ahead. The undergrowth presses in and it's tangled and claustrophobic. The shadows thicken and the murk's smothering. The swamp's a perilous realm. Sure. But I'm undeterred. My usual habitat's one sort of jungle or another.

  I pick my way through a maze of trees. Underfoot the waterlogged ground sucks at my boots and slows my pace. I slog over marshy turf and my muscles strain and my respiration grows deeper. I press ahead. Wraithlike. Determined.

  Ten feet ahead the undergrowth and trees clear and the ground turns to bubbling black mud. It's a quicksand bog. Mosquitoes churn over the bog and cloud the air but they don't assault me.

  I've sprayed myself with DEET insect repellent. DEET also repels ticks and gnats and biting flies. I've inserted a Traxol suppository into my anus to prevent Zika and malaria infection. That's in case the DEET fails and I'm bitten by disease-carrying bugs.

  I take another step and something brittle crunches under my boot. I pause and scowl and glance down. The ground's littered with grayish white objects of differing shapes and sizes.

  I let my eyes adjust to deep shadows and peer closer and my gut pulls tight. The objects are bones. Human bones. Skulls and femurs and ribs and broken spinal columns. Some bones lie scattered and others lie in jumbled piles and others protrude from the bog.

  I kneel to examine one skull in detail. Mud fills its empty eye sockets and its jaw gapes wide. There's a ragged hole in its left temple and it's a bullet entry wound.

  My scowl deepens and I realize what's around me. A bone yard. A dumping ground for execution victims.

  I picture the dead thrown into the bog for disposal. It's a ghoulish plan and it's also effective. There's a natural process and it happens fast. Microbes and insects and other scavengers devour blood and soft tissue. Only bones remain.

  The stench of death's minimal. The swamp's one massive waste recycling unit after all. It's nature's ultimate reclamation project.

  I give the skeletons one last look and shove upright. Instinct tells me this is Zorin's work. It's how he deals with intruders and captured rivals. But I can't be one hundred per cent sure. I need to confirm. Then I need to isolate and exterminate.

  I shift left and step onto firmer ground and keep moving. High overhead the moon gleams. Its light filters through the trees and scattered glowing shafts hit the ground.

  I let the natural illumination guide me and after fifty paces I pause and check my GPS. I've reached my final waypoint and that means my target's in range.

  I scan 360. I'm surrounded by cypress trees and I need to climb for a better vantage point. I choose a tree with branches hanging low enough to reach with an easy jump.

  I sling the UMP across my back and grasp a limb and scramble into thick foliage. That creates extra noise but nothing undue. I settle into position with my back against the tree's upper trunk.

  I pull my sidearm. I call the big pistol Black Thunder. It's a Heckler & Koch Mark-23. Like the UMP it's loaded with .45 ammo. In this case FMJ. That means full metal jacket. The FMJs work smartly with a sound suppressor.

  I fit Black Thunder's suppressor and hold the big pistol ready. I narrow my eyes and scan my target.

  The camp lies one hundred yards ahead. It's oblong in shape and covers two acres. Its south edge borders a brackish waterway. Its north edge reaches a narrow trail that grants vehicle access.

  Multiple guards are visible. Some pace their patrol routes and others stand at assigned lookout posts. I count twenty men in total. All wear cammo garb and heft AK-47s.

  There's no fence around the camp's land-side edge. Doubtless the occupants think the camp's isolation is its own form of security. That's fair enough. Assuming the sentries are on full alert. Assuming they're primed to defend themselves from surprise attack.

  I spot no dogs or cameras. That's a tactical mistake but I can't get overconfident. I accept that penetration of the camp will be a risky proposition. Any mistake will mean disaster. Like always.

  I keep scanning. Inside the camp there's a radio shack and it sprouts vertical UHF antennae and a SATCOM dish. There's a corrugated metal storage shed and several prefab Quonset huts.

  There's a covered vehicle shelter with a pickup truck. A Toyota Tacoma. It's painted dark green and equipped with a lift-kit and chunky off-road tires.

  The camp's layout makes effective use of natural and man-made cover. There's overhanging foliage combined with camouflage nets. Olive drab paint covers the structures to blend them with the terrain. It's effective concealment and it makes the site easy to miss from ground or air. It's a cunning design.

  At the camp's water-side there's an airboat. Make that two. They're Triton Air Rangers and they're tethered to the shore. The Air Rangers provide excellent maneuverability across waterlogged terrain. Their hulls are light-alloy and flat-bottomed and they're driven by giant caged fans.

  I peer closer. Another vessel's tethered to the shore. A dark green dinghy. A Hydro-Force Marauder. It's powered by an outboard motor.

  I scowl. Three vessels available to my opposition. Three vessels on call to hunt me if the mission goes to hell. I consider disabling the boats but discard the idea. It's too much risk and work and I need to focus on the main goal.

  I'm about to leave my perch and move out when there's motion. I glance down. Two sentries approach. They shift along a narrow game trail and peer straight ahead. Not up.

  I grip Black Thunder and tighten my trigger finger. The guards step under my perch and don't see me. I stay immobile and silent and let the men tread on and keep going.

  After a few seconds I draw a breath. All right. I'm unseen.

  The taller guard halts and pivots and peers up toward my perch. He's detected my presence. It's impossible to guess how and it doesn't matter. I've got to neutralize the threat. I hit Black Thunder's trigger and it coughs in response.

  An FMJ bullet hurtles downrange. It cores the target's left eye and bores through and exits in a shower of crimson. The ma
n topples onto the trail. His comrade lifts his rifle but it's too late. An FMJ drills his forehead and he quivers and drops facedown.

  I level Black Thunder and watch and listen. There's no more danger. No gunmen heading my way. Not yet.

  I stow Black Thunder and scramble to reach level ground and study the fallen men. Bravda tattoos cover their arms and necks and throats. Stylized scorpions and daggers and Cyrillic script. That's not unexpected.

  I pull my Nitefinder redlight and search the bodies for anything that aids my mission. Any useful intel. I come up empty and that's too bad.

  Meantime I need to conceal the dead men. I lift the first corpse and haul it over my shoulder. I shut my mind to leaking brains and blood. It's the grim reality of war.

  I step a short distance toward the bog I discovered earlier. I dump my flaccid human cargo onto the ground and roll it over into the mud. There's an ugly sucking sound and the corpse sinks head down into the fetid sludge. After a moment the body's lost to sight.