by Angela White
The wolf made it onto shore, stumbling toward the thicker foliage.
After holstering his weapon, Marc remained in the water, noticing the smoke was lighter, but the amount of wildlife and debris in the water had increased. Flames were everywhere. He could almost feel burning trees falling into this creek upstream to create wide ripples that would soon wash him away. He had to leave this small safety.
Marc scanned the surrounding trees and leaves, unable to see very far. He took stock of his injury, which was still bleeding into the water, but it didn’t appear to be serious. He chose to keep going to buy more time. Marc traveled downstream, mostly letting the current pull him along. His heart throbbed in time to the tempo of the water.
Behind him, an eerie howl split the air.
Distracted by the noise, Marc let the current pull him too far toward the bank and found himself washed up on a bed of sharp rocks. Struggling under the weight of wet clothes, he stumbled toward dry land with stinging knees and shins. While he tried to get his bearings, gunshots again sounded through the din of the fire.
Marc realized his pursuers were still too close.
A savage snarling echoed next, along with more gunshots, and Marc was grateful. Maybe the wolf had slowed them down.
Marc slipped into the trees at the edge of the road, not far from where his vehicle was waiting. He scanned the area, noting half a dozen fire engines crawling with yellow-clothed men trying to extinguish the fire.
Thick smoke blew over the dusty road. Marc seized the moment, leaving his cover to jog straight through the firefighters. He drew instant surprise from the men as he went by, coughing.
“Hey!”
“Where did you come from?”
Marc didn’t stop to answer them. They had work to do, and he needed to get out of here.
Marc ran down the side of the road, swerving around two fleeing deer. Behind him, the three walls of fire had finally merged to create one long bank of death that was destroying everything in its path. Marc wasn’t even sure that he would be able to use this road to get off the mountain.
As his jeep came into view, Marc ran toward it in relief. He slid into the driver’s seat, reaching for the keys that he’d left in the ignition.
Gravel crunched, alerting him to his mistake. Before Marc could react, a mercenary stood up next to the jeep. He’d obviously been underneath.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Marc stilled, sighing, “Figures. Prick.”
The man now unslinging a rifle, Jordan, chuckled. “We’ve missed you, señor.”
Marc didn’t need to scan the tall, thin figure to know who it was. He recognized the voice. “Is the boss’s wife still smiling? She was tight!”
The rifle butt hit took him by surprise even though he had instigated it. Marc slumped in the seat, dazed from the shot.
“We shall see who is tight, my friend. We shall see.”
Rough hands pushed Marc over and slid behind the wheel of his jeep.
Marc struggled to come out of the daze, but a fist smacked into his skull. Darkness came swiftly.
Chapter Two
1
The familiar movement of his jeep reacting to unfamiliar hands greeted Marc as he regained consciousness. He quickly figured out his mistake. He’d known someone might be waiting, but he had been in a hurry and forgotten to check underneath the vehicle.
Sucking in a breath against his roiling guts, Marc braced his feet. Before the driver knew he was awake, Marc used his elbow and all of his weight to slam into the surprised man. The move neatly shoved the shocked mercenary up and out of the vehicle.
Jordan hit the ground beside the jeep and skidded down the incline, screaming as his ankle snapped.
Marc didn’t waste sympathy. This enemy was ruthless. Thankfully, they weren’t very smart.
Marc pulled the jeep over and killed the engine. There were still half a dozen men tracking him, and he wasn’t about to lead them back to a hotel room. He would never get any peace.
Marc exited the jeep and took up a stationary position in the weeds around it. He didn’t think it would be long before someone discovered his new location. He was a prize target in a prime location. No longer protected by his team or society, as far as the mercs were concerned, Marc was just another animal in the wilderness. They were already underestimating him. Interrupting this vacation had been a huge mistake. The enemy hadn’t given him time to cool off or relax once he had returned to American soil. They expected a civilian. They were getting the Marine.
Marc heard the slice and swish of a machete being used on the underbrush and prepared himself. He could have slipped off and called his commanding officer or even local law enforcement, but that would leave the threat to be handled in the future. Marc hated that about the military and the police. A bad guy was always a bad guy. They needed to go.
Muddy boots neared his hiding place.
Marc fired, shooting underneath the jeep to hit brittle ankles. Big men fell to the ground, screaming.
Certain that there were three more, Marc reluctantly slipped toward the smoky forest again, aware of the fire catching up. All sorts of animals were flooding from the forest and running down the main road. It was also becoming clogged with firetrucks and arriving reporters. It was amazing to Marc that none of them had distinguished the gunshots, but not one person had even glanced in this direction.
Some reporters, he thought. At the same time, he was glad of their indifference. These mercenaries would kill media crews and firefighters to get to him.
Marc started to vanish into the smoldering tree line to wait, but he was forced to abandon that plan as three sooty, red-eyed men dressed in Afghani clothing materialized through the smoke.
Nearly out of bullets, Marc palmed his knife and motioned eagerly. He needed this part of the fight to be on his terms. With three men and two bullets left, Marc didn’t want to press his luck further. He’d made some amazing shots over the years, but this was different.
“Shoot that sucker!”
The man in the middle, tall and scarred, wore the distinctive brown headscarf of enemy combatants in Afghanistan. Marc strongly disapproved of seeing it on American soil, no matter who was wearing it. In fact, it made him quite angry.
“What are you waiting for? Shoot him!” the scarred man ordered again. He was obviously the boss.
“I’m out. We all are, remember?”
“Then stab him!”
Marc waited for the right moment, noting that one of the men had the same knife that he did, and held it as if he had experience.
“How much did you pay to get my location?” Marc demanded, fingering the tip of his blade intimidatingly.
“Actually, they paid,” the scarred man boasted, moving closer. “Someone else wants you dead, too.”
Marc saw a wolf dart across the smoky road and wished it luck as he swung forward unexpectedly, throwing.
“Watch out!”
The blade plunged the deep into the nearest man’s neck.
Marc danced backwards as the first merc slid to his knees and then fell over, gurgling.
“Get him!”
The last two men charged forward.
Marc had drawn them out. He met their fury with a fast draw and his final bullets. One was a chest shot, but the second only hit an arm.
Marc quickly switched to his backup knife. He lunged toward the injured man and spun around, kicking the side of his knee savagely. Marc was hoping the bone would break.
Feeling the end coming, the screaming merc swung while Marc was recovering his balance. The punch knocked him into the flaming grass.
Patting at his head, Marc quickly rolled away from the heat, ends of his hair on fire. Heavy boots tried to put it out by stomping on his face.
Marc flinched at the crack as his little finger broke, and then rage took over the pain of the defensive wound. Barely feeling the knife that pierced his upper arm, Marc shoved upward and slammed his blade into t
he man’s groin. As the merc fell, screaming silently in agony, Marc stabbed again, getting a shoulder. He repeated the motion, much like a sewing machine, until he was covered in a grisly camouflage.
Marc didn’t stick around to clean up his mess or speak with the authorities. He wasn’t calm enough. He climbed into his jeep and drove away. The anger, bright and lethal, he tried to smother with the sight of his gory hands on the steering wheel.
He was hurt, but no longer being hunted. He would stop at a store, change clothes, do some first aid, and call his commander. It wasn’t the first time that a loose end had caught up with him, but it was the first time that it had occurred at home. His squad was often sent to dangerous places to do dangerous things. Not everyone cared for the results.
Pulling his sticky shirt over his nose, Marc weaved in and out of the fire line, noticing that the winds were beginning to push against the flames instead of adding strength. In another day or so, the firefighters would have this under control. Then they would find the bodies, but by then, his CO would have someone in place to handle that. No one witnessed anything except the firefighters, who were hopefully too busy to remember much of a description. That would make the cleanup easier.
Soaked, hurting, bleeding and still very angry, Marc kept driving as the sun rose. The scenery ahead was colorful and soothing, but blood was all he could feel, taste. That took time to wear off.
2
Marc pulled into the deserted 76 station a couple of hours before sunset. The clerk inside stared at his injuries, his burnt, ripped jacket and his dog tag the entire time that Marc shopped, paid, and then pumped his gas.
Must look rough, Marc though. He’d stopped and cleaned up a bit before pulling in, but it clearly hadn’t been enough. He motioned toward the bathrooms at the side of the small brick building, spotting what he wanted. “Do I need a key?”
The pimply clerk shook his head, now gaping at the gun he could see on Marc’s lean hip.
Marc sighed. “Thanks.”
He didn’t go into the restroom. He strode to the phone next to it and placed a two-minute call that ended with him swearing furiously. His commander was sending his team to escort him back.
“All I wanted was a few days of peace and quiet!”
He stalked back to the jeep, where the clerk immediately resumed staring.
Tired, the Marc spun around.
The kid behind the counter cringed as Marc flung the door open and stomped to a nearby display. He snatched a jar from the shelf, then took it to the counter, glaring at the scared kid. He didn’t speak until it had been paid for.
“Do you know why I use this?” Marc demanded.
The clerk gawked at the jar of Noxzema. “No. You don’t have zits.”
Marc rolled his eyes, growling, “I use it so that I don’t get them, boy! Wash your damn face. Every day. And pull your pants up!”
Marc stormed back to the jeep, leaving the jar. He squealed tires out of the lot.
As the cool wind soothed the rest of his anger, Marc laughed. Ten years ago, he could have been the youth being yelled at by the Marine. His world had certainly changed. As a grunt, Marc had worked hard and played even harder, but taking lives for a living as a sniper had given him an entirely different perspective on the world. The kids today needed to toughen up, as far as he was concerned.
The trend toward self-sufficiency should have been encouraged more, he thought. We’re going to pay for that at some point.
Marc increased his speed as the adrenaline flowed, now from his thoughts. He was employing the same method as while on duty, but he’d perfected it long before he’d joined. His home life hadn’t ever been easy, and sleep that was restful had often been hard to come by. Staying awake was where he thrived, though the occasional pill didn’t hurt. As long as he controlled the substance, it was okay. When he couldn’t, it would be time to let it go, something Marc didn’t understand about his fellow men. Some of the people he’d served with were addicted to everything they tried. They spent their entire checks and leaves abusing themselves. Marc much preferred to be sober, in a natural setting, away from the cause of his turmoil–people. Camping up here was his favorite thing to do after a rough mission.
“And I’m going to,” he muttered, steering north against the pain in his swelling hand from the broken finger he’d already reset and taped. “I’m going to have that few days, even if it kills me.”
3
Dawn found Marc’s jeep parked at the bottom of another steep ravine. He had taken his spare kit and gear from the jeep. He couldn’t drive over the huge boulders or trees, so he had climbed. Marc didn’t mind the soreness in favor of the good view and the flat area for his camp. This was wild country and it wasn’t made for convenience. In fact, it wasn’t made for most people. If you didn’t know anything about survival out here, you were in trouble from minute one.
Aware that his team would be arriving in the next few hours, Marc set up a base camp. Maybe they’d be busy and leave him alone to think and sleep.
He quickly devised seating on logs and stumps around a large rocked-off, self-feeding fire. He was trying a new setup now that was probably against regulations, but Marc didn’t care. He’d already encouraged his team to be open about using it. If the uppers had an issue, he would take the punishment. If they didn’t, he was golden with another problem solved. He employed tactics that worked. The bosses might not like it, but his men did. Marc had gotten them out of plenty of scrapes by using methods that weren’t approved. That type of bond had allowed them to be one of the most successful teams in their battalion. Marc didn’t take credit for it. He was sometimes good at bringing out the best in a man. He liked that feeling. As long as he also did his share, it was a good setup.
As he labored, Marc let go of his anger over their last deployment. He did love his men...he loved most of his men, and he tried hard with the others. Having them around was a comfort, in many ways. Now that he had been attacked on American soil, it was best that they stay together. There could be more mercenaries around, waiting for the opportunity to kill his team.
With that thought in mind, Marc stayed alert and got set to fight his way out again if he needed to. His men would bring ammo and attitude, but they were all limited here at home. His CO would have to cover what had really happened. Marc expected to hear it announced that several unknown persons had been caught in the wildfire and died from smoke inhalation.
Marc settled next to the fire and opened his kit to finish caring for his injuries. Two of them needed stitches, but he’d only bound them until he could make his call and get settled somewhere. It would take a bit.
Marc was scrubbing off layers of dirt and mud when he heard the raucous voices of his squad. He didn’t bother to cover himself. They’d lost all modesty a while back. There was no time for it during combat situations where naked bodies were the least of their problems.
“Whoa ho ho! Marcus!”
Chris, who had the nickname of Crisp because of his dark tan, came over and slapped Marc on the butt cheek while he rinsed his hair with water from his kit.
Marc, listening for the right moment, stuck his foot out and sent the man to the ground.
The other Marines busted guts laughing, some impressed that Marc had been able to do it while covered in soap. There was no way he could see from under that many suds.
“Where’s the beer?” Kenn demanded, dropping down on one of the fallen logs. He wasn’t impressed.
“No beer, no broads,” Marc stated, slinging water toward Kenn. The Ohio man was a sullen, dangerous tool that Marc was still trying to get comfortable using.
“Figures.” Kenn grunted, dropping down against a tree. He didn’t care about Brady’s newest bruises and breaks, didn’t study them the way the other Marines were. “Prick.”
Marc snickered, turning his dirty shirt inside out to dry off. As he pulled on a clean outfit–jeans and a camo shirt–the men around him settled into place as if he hadn’t left them
in anger. At this moment, Marc was glad of it. He was sorry for taking his emotional issues out on his men, but he wouldn’t ever apologize–at least, not with words. That would hurt the respect he’d built. He would show them with actions.
Marc dropped down on the log next to Thunder, his XO, who was also quiet. The name had come from the sound of the man’s huge feet when he’d first joined their team. Now, it fit because of the noise he made during combat with his gun.
Marc didn’t speak. Just joining them would get attention. When he handed his pouch of tobacco to the saw gunner at his side, all of the men exchanged glances and jabs, but they didn’t mention it or insist on talking it through. They understood he wasn’t mad anymore. Later, if it came up in another conversation, he might try to explain to them how ugly it had felt to watch that villager die. The feeling had followed him onto the bus, the transport plane, and then onto American soil. He’d even been considering leaving the Marines as they touched down. His enlistment was up at the six-year mark in February and his commander knew it. Captain Palmer had sent Reggie to tell Marc about the composite scores as a reminder that there were options available for his objections. The next time they were in a bad situation, his men would have to kill him or at least knock him out before they could disobey his orders. He would outrank the entire squad, except for Reggie, in just a few months if he passed the classes.
Tensed up from the memories, Marc forced himself to let it go. They were right to eliminate any threat to the mission and yet, they were wrong to murder. Marc hadn’t considered that quandary when he’d chosen to become a Marine. He’d thought only dangerous criminals would be in his crosshairs. He’d personally been able to keep to that so far, but he dreaded being in a position where he had to pick between killing an innocent person and protecting his men, because his men would come out of it alive. Like them or not, he’d never been closer to any other males in his life and he never expected to be again.
“Where are the others?” Hips asked, tying up his pants with his infamous green sash. He’d gotten it from a girl in Iraq who had claimed she would marry him the next time they met–if he still had the silken token.
