by Ty Patterson
The picture came blurry initially and then cleared, like a live video feed. The guns had gone quiet, and in the distance they could see the three who had fled had stopped and were gesticulating at one another. One of them, the driver, came running back and said something to those behind the tree, and head shakes and furious hand gestures followed.
After another round of furious hand waving, backed up by some shouting from Diego and Cruz, the driver ran backward, his hand cradling his automatic rifle. They could see heads bobbing up and down behind the log, and twin bursts of firing followed, providing covering fire for two hitters darting out, bent double, and disappearing in the shrub at opposite ends.
Bwana raised his hand and shot blindly in their direction, but knew he had missed. Broker and he crawled swiftly away, but they didn’t draw fire.
‘Bogeys coming your way, one each, maybe two,’ Bwana said in a low tone in his mic.
He got two acknowledging clicks.
‘I think all four have left the tree,’ Broker told him in a low voice.
Bwana risked another quick leap and saw no bobbing heads. He crouched down and looked as Broker scanned his camera and shook his head. He hustled a few feet at an angle, in the direction of the tree, and raised his head again, gun ready. Nothing.
Cruz and his companions were making distance, and Bwana, after motioning to Broker, set off after them, his Glock held high and ready.
Bear paused and lay prone, the pungent smell of wet soil and the vastness of silence surrounding him. Another slow day in rural America to savor the sun, but for the hitters out to get them.
The hitters would know roughly where they were, and if their training was still with them, would search in sections, but keep each other in sight. Ten minutes, Bear reckoned and started counting down.
In the ninth minute, he heard something move, a long pause, and then another movement. The undergrowth wasn’t one thick wall, but patches of thick and thin, and occasional bare earth sections, though from a distance, it was one rolling green wall.
Bear was in one thick pocket of green next to a small bare earth space, and if the hitters were good, they’d be coming at him at an angle, about fifteen feet apart. Closer than that and they would be one target; farther than that and they wouldn’t be able to eye-signal effectively. They would come to brown earth and would be undecided which section to search. A slug crawled across slowly, came across the cold metal of his Glock, didn’t like it, reversed and ambled away, enjoying the day.
The smell came to him first, cigarette smoke and sweat, clinging to the clothes of the hitters, and then came a footfall and another, and then a couple more, and a shadow fell across the opening, and then a barrel poked through the green, and a face appeared behind it, thirty feet from where he lay.
He’ll be the more experienced; the second guy will be backing him up, or parallel to him, and to his right; the human eye tends to look to the right first.
Bear searched without moving and saw a slight darkening in the green, looked to the left of it, and through the edge of his eyes saw the shape of the other hitter. Another barrel poked out twenty feet away, and Bear and the two hitters made a crude upturned L, Bear the angling tail.
The hitters peered cautiously at the open space and at each other, and took a cautious step forward. Bear clicked his earbud, and Bwana, who was chasing Cruz and Diego, spun round in a full loop, firing blindly.
The hitters started and looked back, and Bear rose silently, a pillar amidst the foliage, and shot the nearest in the head. He snapped a shot at the other, missed, and dived in the thicket, ducking below the spray of bullets.
The second hitter ducked down, and silence and sunlight beat on them again. The hitter fired again blindly through the undergrowth in Bear’s direction.
Bear wasn’t there.
He had rolled and moved forward as soon as he’d landed and was now behind the hitter’s right shoulder.
The hitter stopped firing suddenly when he realized it would give him away. He crawled cautiously around the open space and through the stalks of grass, saw the undergrowth bend forward and straighten slowly as weight moved over and away from it.
He fired a long burst, directing his barrel in an arc to cover the shape of a man.
From behind him, Bear rose and tripled-tapped him.
He double-clicked his mic and got acknowledgements from the others, untied the long cord attached to the thicket, and waited for Roger.
The sun, the smell of grass, the stillness made it a good day for death to come visiting.
A bird flying across the blue sky swerved suddenly, and Roger knew where they were before they came in sight. Swarthy, unshaven, the two came abreast cautiously, and he saw that the taller man was the more experienced of the two and had good tradecraft.
His eyes were ceaselessly scanning left to right, then right to left, but his partner was jumpy. His partner kept drifting closer to the senior man and retreated jerkily when the tall man gestured angrily at him.
Roger slithered back slowly, sliding through the grass rather than over it, so that from the top, the grass looked as if it swayed with the wind.
A gnarled, stunted bush, its leafy shade stretching above the canopy of the field, trembled in the sun, drawing the attention of both.
They stopped. The tall one looked at it, then around it, trying to see through the depth of the growth, looking for patches of dark and light. The other nervously licked his lips, his barrel pointing straight at the shrub, finger on trigger.
The bush jerked forward suddenly toward them as if attacking them, and the nervous one fired his Uzi wildly at it till his magazine was empty.
The tall hood placed methodical shots ahead and behind the growth – and then his gun fell silent as Roger shot him, a double-tap through the chest and a third through the head. The nervous hood went down seconds later as Roger’s Kimber rolled thunder in a cloudless morning.
Roger went to the bush and freed the cord he had used to control it, rolled it up and jammed it deep in one of his pockets. He double-clicked to signal his companions and searched the bodies. He found one phone on the bodies, which he pocketed, and found no identities or papers of any kind.
Bwana and Broker were gaining on the three hoods when the last one, the driver, swung back and fired a spray-and-pray burst. They dived to the ground, and Broker raised himself to his elbow, grunted, ‘Go,’ and fired back at the hood. The range was too long for accurate handgun shooting, but it was enough to deter the driver, who stepped back and resumed running, ignoring Cruz’s curses.
Bwana covered ground rapidly, the undergrowth bending to his will; the driver looked back at him and gaped at the sight of the tall, big, black form speeding remorselessly after them.
One hundred feet away, the driver turned back again, his barrel coming up, and Bwana dived to his left, a long sail in the air, his gun coming straight, eye to the sight, sight to the driver, and punched a hole in his shoulder. The hitter stumbled and fell, losing his rifle, and Bwana circled him wide and took him out.
Two hundred yards to the tree line and Diego and Cruz, risking a quick glance behind them, coaxed more speed from their legs.
Bwana picked up the fallen man’s AK-47, looked over it swiftly, thumbed it to semi-auto, kneeled down in a classic shooter stance, and sighted. The first shot was for range, the second was range again, the third shot went into Diego’s thigh and brought him down sprawling.
Bwana shifted and fired a shot over Cruz’s shoulder; he kept on running still. He fired another, over his other shoulder, no effect. Cruz was weaving erratically to throw off his aim; Bwana waited and then creased his shoulder, more by luck. Cruz stumbled, recovered, and then hugged the ground and lay there when Bwana shot over his head.
Broker reached them, circling cautiously, keeping behind Diego’s back. His caution was justified when Diego whirled on his back and came up with his gun, pressing the trigger. Broker shot him in his right shoulder, shooting his other thig
h for good measure.
Bwana had restrained Cruz, a knee on his back, one hand pressing Cruz’s right hand deep in the ground. Cruz thrashed on the ground, nearly unseating Bwana, a stream of curses filling the air. Bwana slashed his head with his gun barrel, and that drained his resistance. He removed plastic ties from his belt, and Cruz struck.
Using his grounded hand as a pivot, using the force Bwana was bearing down on him, Cruz twisted sideways and jerked back with his head, catching Bwana on the bridge of his nose. Bwana, his grip loosened, reared back as Cruz whipped a foot-long blade from an ankle sheath, twisted around on his right shoulder and slashed at Bwana.
Sharp, so sharp that it cut the light, the blade swept from left to right, a neat horizontal line appearing in Bwana’s shirt that turned crimson and then black. Using the twisting motion to free a leg and get it under him, gaining leverage, Cruz swept back the blade in a wicked arc, aiming for Bwana’s throat.
Bwana, half falling back, losing his balance, deflected the strike with his right hand and, with his left hand, bunched Cruz’s shirt, put a knee to his middle and heaved him over his head, and threw him behind.
He rolled immediately, getting to his feet and turning around, and Cruz was up, attacking, not giving him time. He had run almost half a mile, but he was breathing normally, the knife weaving in his hand, catching the sunlight in tiny streaks.
He feinted, withdrew, feinted and attacked, a quick in an out at Bwana’s stomach, and Bwana stepped back. He darted forward again, and this time the blade went horizontal and upward, a smooth controlled flow, and Bwana swayed out of reach again.
Bwana reached down for his knife, but stopped when Cruz feinted again, a long sweep of his arm, Bwana following it with his eyes, and the arm swerved suddenly up, Bwana moving just his upper body and his head, the sharp edge catching the tip of his ear.
Cruz bared his teeth in a feral grin, attacked rapidly, thrusting in short fluid motions, and as his right arm was cutting the air, the left hand, which was stretched for balance, cocked and swung at Bwana… who was ready for it, sailed under it, and the knife came back, lightning fast, parting the air, aiming for his throat.
Bwana bent back, making room and then following the blade, grasped Cruz’s wrist in a lock that had crushed bricks, pulled Cruz forward, kicking him in the groin, his leg curling up in the same motion to knee him in the face, swayed to the side, still holding his wrist, twisted and dislocated his shoulder.
He threw Cruz to the ground and grasped his hair to pull his head back and break his neck.
‘No,’ Broker said quietly.
Bwana paused, looked silently at him, Cruz’s harsh breathing punctuating the seconds, and slowly released his head, and finally cuffed and gagged him.
He stood up, breathed deeply once, twice, then thrice, to rid his head of the adrenaline and combat instinct, and caught Broker’s smile.
‘You could’ve shot him and saved me the trouble.’ He grinned.
‘I thought it was high time you took a shower, and this now gives you the reason,’ Broker bantered back. He’d guessed, correctly, that the two swipes were more blood than cuts, and would heal in no time.
‘Were you slow, or…?’ Broker asked.
‘Nope. I wanted him to draw blood, make him confident. Overconfident.’
He walked over to Diego, crouched down, and looked in the hate-filled eyes. The feared enforcer stared back and spat at Bwana, who ducked and smiled at Broker.
‘Feisty fella, ain’t he? Let’s see just how long he lasts.’ He pressed down on the wound in Diego’s thigh.
Diego cracked ten minutes later and told them what they wanted to know.
They looked up as steps came their way – Roger and Bear, who had finished searching the bodies and stacked them together.
‘What?’ Bwana demanded, seeing something in their eyes.
‘Chloe, she’s not answering. Tony too. Eric doesn’t know where they are. He thought they would be here by now.’
Chapter 37
The Watcher had been following Tony at a sedate pace, knowing Tony would eventually take him to where the rest of them were going. He knew they were planning to take out Cruz and Diego; the where was unclear to him.
As they headed out of the city, he figured it would be somewhere on the highway, and once they were on the US 130, he knew.
He held back, shielded from Tony’s mirrors by the dark around him, his headlights doused, and was enjoying the feel of air and speed when he saw Tony’s brake lights come on, slow down, then pick up speed. He drifted to have a clearer view of the highway ahead and didn’t see anything.
That was his first inkling of trouble.
When Tony veered off the highway, the Watcher idled to a stop, dug out his night vision and scanned. He saw Tony step down from his vehicle and approach Chloe. When they bent over her bike, four figures sprang from behind the undergrowth and surrounded the two.
They were bundled in the Patriot. He followed them.
He shook his head at the hitters’ stupidity. They should’ve shot the two, but then the end result would have been the same.
Traffic was increasing now; on this highway, a couple of cars half an hour apart was the definition of heavy traffic.
Onward they went, down US 130, the SUV maintaining a steady pace, down an exit, then another, more tarmac and miles, and they entered Gloucester City shrouded in predawn mist, its red traffic lights blinking at emptiness.
Klemm Avenue and Market Street fell behind, and Southport loomed, power pylons and cranes reaching up in the sky like Godzillas.
The Watcher, holding way back now, blending his ride with dark surroundings wherever he could, followed them down to the port on potholed tracks that had forgotten what tarmac was, and saw them turn into a factory site.
He turned off his bike, and in the distance he could hear iron grating rolling, the entrance to the site being shut.
He gave them another fifteen minutes as he pushed his bike closer to the site and laid it on its side in the cover of stunted undergrowth. Stripping off his leathers, he donned a lightweight backpack that he tightly secured, and resumed the chase on foot.
Hunt, he corrected himself. It was no longer a chase.
The rolling gate across the site was ten feet tall, rusted, and went from left to right where it got padlocked to securing clasps. There was no padlock on the gate, but one glance at the condition of the gate and the Watcher ruled out rolling it a foot back to slip in.
He approached the left pillar, took a running jump, levering himself off it, over the gate and inside.
Inside was a flat expanse of tarmac littered with broken crates, old containers in a corner, run-down trucks, forklifts… what one would expect to see in a factory site, except they were all still and old.
The structure in front of him was huge, as large as an aircraft hangar, with a gaping entrance large enough for a midsized plane to wheel in and out of, and through the dim light inside he could see gantry cranes and machines.
The structure didn’t have windows, but had skylights, and the only way inside was through that enormous maw. Ruling it out, he ran along the side of the structure, left of the entrance, to the far end, peering cautiously around the corner and saw another large entrance in that side, two hundred yards down. The rear probably had another such exit.
He pulled a black ski mask over his head, donned dark shades and thin feel-through gloves, and paused when he heard the noise.
A woman’s voice cut off abruptly by a sharp sound, a slap, and then another man’s voice that, too, got cut off. The other voices started shouting again, talking over one another, their individual voices echoing in the cavernous interior.
He made out that they were at the side entrance and, if they were smart, would be in the deep interior where the light didn’t reach. He couldn’t risk putting any eyes inside, not even a fiber camera, without knowing how alert they were and which way they were facing.
Their shouting wa
s a good sign, though. They don’t know where Cruz and Diego are, haven’t been able to make contact, don’t know if their bosses are dead or alive. He heard further shouting, slapping sounds, and what sounded like a groan. Shouting also meant they were thinking less.
He looked round and saw a couple of barrels in a far corner of the site. He ran toward them, saw they were empty, and lifting one easily, brought it back to the corner of the building. Placing it on its rounded side, the flat top parallel to the side of the structure, he assessed the lengths of the sides of the building.
Less than two minutes to get to the opposite side.
He pulled the barrel back a few feet and set it in motion toward the open mouth and took off down the length of the building.
Three hoods were arguing loudly among themselves, the fourth trying Diego’s phone for the umpteenth time as he walked circles around Chloe and Tony. Tony had fallen to the ground sideways, a deep gash on his forehead, his teeth broken, his eyes half closed. Chloe, her lips cut, stared at the circling hood steadily through her swollen eyes.
Phone guy stopped suddenly, looked at his phone, jammed it in his pocket, and gestured urgently for the others to keep quiet. They heard it then, a soft metallic, grinding sound outside. He mouthed at the driver, ‘Anyone follow us?’
Driver shook his head. Phone guy motioned at him to go look outside. Driver hesitated and then took a couple of steps to the sound, now growing louder. Phone guy beckoned at another hood to follow him.
AKs gripped in their hands at the ready, they edged to the entrance, the second hood covering the first from behind. Phone guy and the last hitter took cover on either side of the entrance, their captives in plain sight through the opening.
Driver took a quick look to the right, his rifle following his sight. Nothing. He whipped to the left. Nothing. His eyes slipped lower and spotted the rolling barrel, which was a few turns from coming to a stop just at the edge of the entrance.
Driver shouted a warning and darted backward in the shadow of the factory, keeping the barrel in sight. He fired at the barrel, and bullets pinged and whistled in the air, some of them making holes in the empty barrel. It shuddered and came to a stop, jerking sporadically as bullets hit it.
