by TR Kohler
Noises that don’t arrive as he turns his attention to the side, finds a narrow break between a couple of trees, and slips into the jungle.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Sweat streams down Mike’s face as he stands leaning against the base of a palm tree. Forearm raised to eye level, it is pressed firmly against the trunk of the tree, his forehead flush against the damp skin. Pitched forward slightly, he draws in air. Short, shallow breaths so as to not anger the last bits of soreness in his core.
Pain that resembles a cat trying to claw its way out from the inside, every step a new slash against his ribcage.
Based on the information shared by Eka and Intan, the rough distance from where he parked to Firash’s home is over a mile. Several minutes in a van bumping over a narrow path cut through the jungle.
The type of site someone doesn’t find and build on by accident.
Same as it sure as hell isn’t a spot where somebody would ever just happen upon it.
Given his best guess, Mike has covered more than half that. A quick sprint through the dense foliage that was nothing in terms of distance, the real limiting factor being his inability to fully expand his lungs.
The last tremors of the impact from the night before, his entire core seizing tight every few seconds. A lingering aftershock he could do without, especially given what he may soon be facing.
Shoving himself away from the base of the tree, Mike begins anew. Choosing to drop his pace to a walk, he picks his way forward, his gaze sweeping across the ground. A methodical march with his senses high, searching for anything that shouldn’t exist.
Spots where alterations have been made. Traps planted.
Additional means of protection from the outside world, especially for a man with the expertise and proclivities of Firash.
Glock still held at an angle before him, Mike picks his way in and out of sunbeams. Narrow shafts passing through the dense foliage covering the area. Constantly shifting rays that provide just enough illumination to light the way.
With each step, questions about whether or not he is doing the right thing increase. Wonderings as to if there really is a structure tucked out here in the dense vegetation. If there was any validity at all to the story shared by both Eka and Intan, or if it was merely a tale agreed upon before ever going near the General Motors plant.
A ruse put together in the event they happened to be nabbed.
A place that a couple of environmental zealots would be quite familiar with, using it to get him out of there. Namedropping Henry Rawit in tandem, a local businessman that had also earned their ire.
Methods for getting rid of him and Tania Lynch both. A way to buy them a bit of time. Make the abuse they were each enduring cease.
Ideas that gain more traction with each step that passes. Notions that cause the animosity Mike is carrying to increase, visions of returning to the Agency office and really having a discussion with the two young punks dancing across his mind.
All of that and more, dissipating in an instant.
A moment that sees his march come to an abrupt end, stopped as his focus settles on the ground before him.
Namely, the rough formation of rocks and palm leaves half buried in recently upturned soil. A spot that no animal or storm could ever create, planted directly in the center of the narrow footpath he is traversing.
A sight that causes his chest to tighten slightly, as sure a sign of a landmine as any he’s ever seen.
Twisting himself to the side, Mike presses his back into the base of a palm tree. Dropping a knee into the damp soil beneath him, he raises the Glock to shoulder level. Swings the front tip in quick, measured movements, checking the grounds around him.
A sweep looking for any place where someone might be watching. Any signs of a tripwire or rigging to set off the device.
Breath held tight, Mike remains in that position for the better part of a minute. Time spent scouring the grounds to find nothing, only then rising back to full height and considering the trap before him again.
Left blatantly out in the open, Firash would know that it is in a direct line of sight. That anybody with even a modicum of experience in the jungle would see the loose heap and recognize that it doesn’t belong.
A blatant tactic meant to get them to veer off to either side. Work their way into the denser foliage nearby before stumbling upon something potentially far worse.
A standard design going clear back to the Vietnam War, taught to EOD grunts like Mike just starting out.
A setup leaving only a couple of options, none of them particularly good.
The most obvious would be for him to backtrack out and try to find another way in. After that would be to keep trying places at random, hoping to slip through. Bringing up the rear, eventually trying to come directly up the driveway.
A trio with none being all that appealing, Firash likely to have constructed a seamless perimeter with the exception of a lone access. A singular place for him and Arief to sit and wait.
Realities leaving Mike with but a single remaining option, no matter how unsavory it might be.
Retreating a step back to his original hiding spot at the base of the tree, Mike lowers his focus to the jungle floor. A quick search that produces what he needs a moment later in the form of a chunk of broken bamboo. A piece no longer than eighteen inches, snapped away at an angle sometime before, the splintered ends already bleached by the sun.
An object that itself would be almost useless as a weapon, but is plenty sufficient for what he requires.
Hefting it twice in hand to get an idea for its weight, Mike again fixes his attention on the waiting mine ahead. Estimating out the distance, he draws in a deep breath, keeping his body close to the palm tree.
Using it as an impromptu screen to protect him from debris, he swings the bamboo stick down past his hip. The world’s most macabre game of horseshoes, he brings it forward in an underhanded grip.
A pendulum that reaches almost parallel before he releases, sending it flying.
An end over end toss that lands almost vertically on its target, barely touching down before being completely obliterated in a geyser of dirt clods and wood chips.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Firash knew the man wouldn’t come up the driveway. Thinking it to be too obvious, he wouldn’t want to give away his position, alerting whoever might be lying in wait of his presence.
An error in overthinking made all the more obvious by the rumble of the explosion to the northwest.
The instant the sound finds the interior of the cabin, Arief is back on his feet. Rising from his perch by the door, he turns to peer past Firash, nervous energy rolling from him in undulating waves.
An exact copy of how Firash had been the last time he and Mychalski met.
The very reason he is now confined to a damn chair for the rest of his days.
“Told you he was coming,” Firash says, his voice doing nothing to tamp down the coiled energy displayed by the younger man beside him. The one aching to push through the front door and move out onto the porch.
Beyond that even, heading into the jungle to meet his enemy head-on. Play out the deep-seated need to prove himself. Show that his removal from the military, or his abilities as a private contractor, or whatever other insecurities has made him practically salivate for Firash’s approval, are unfounded.
Issues that have served their purposes well, easily manipulated to achieve Firash’s ends.
Shortcomings he is about to harness one last time.
“Sounds like he is coming in from the west, just as you said,” Arief replies.
Grunting softly, Firash doesn’t bother walking the young man through how to avoid the mines that are lining the area. There with him through the installation of many of them, he has to assume that Arief knows the best way to spot them.
“Start out to the southwest,” Firash instructs. “A quarter mile or so, and then break due north from there. Use the cliffs beyond the edg
e of the forest to your advantage.”
Grunting softly, Arief bounces in place. A horse ready to charge from the gate.
A weapon that just needs to be aimed before firing.
“Go.”
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Mike can’t help the flashbacks popping into his mind. Snapshots from his former life. Moments spent tiptoeing through dense jungle foliage in places such as Burma or Laos. Missions that he was never to speak of in places that the United States would deny ever entering.
Body turned sideways, he eases his way forward. Alternating glances between the jungle floor and the path ahead, he watches for any other uneven pyres of dirt and debris.
Firash’s own personal welcome mats, laid out in anticipation of Mike’s arrival. Confirmation that he is dealing with the genuine article. Not some copycat trying to make a name for himself on the backs of the fallen. Not even someone that might have trained under him previously.
Details that only someone as sadistic as he would think to include.
Glock gripped tight in hand, Mike picks his way forward. A painstaking process moving along a couple of feet at a time. An achingly slow pace running counter to his every innate desire.
An active denial of the adrenaline coursing through him. The anger and hatred he feels, wanting nothing more than to sprint straight ahead. Cast aside any concern for his lingering pains or the encroaching jungle and go due east until finding the driveway.
From there, follow it directly to the shack housing the man.
A head-to-head confrontation. A conclusion to what he thought was done years before.
Thoughts spurred by his pulse thrumming through his temples. Mixing with the humidity in the air, it coats his features in a veneer of sweat. Heavy droplets that peel away against his palm as he runs a hand from his eyebrows back over his scalp.
Flinging the moisture away with the snap of his wrist, Mike returns his hand to the base of the gun. A two-handed stance as he creeps forward, his focus landing on yet another buried gift from Firash.
An intense stare interrupted by the snapping of a branch nearby. A clear sound much sharper than the usual noises of the jungle, most of it having receded to nothing more than background din.
A signal that jerks his attention to the side, allowing him to catch a glimpse of the man tucked amidst a clump of bamboo just an instant before the first shot rings out.
A bright muzzle flash that erupts in an orange blossom, followed in order by a second.
And then a third.
A trio of rounds that there is no way for Mike to protect himself from. No time to get out of their way and nowhere to go if he could.
Impacts that mash into him almost in unison. Three heavy, oversized shots from a hand cannon that slam into his torso, their combined energy driving him backward. Staggering steps off the small path he was following and into the thicker vegetation behind him.
A slow-motion retreat that ends with his calves slapping against a felled log. A shoot of bamboo or the trunk of a palm tree sitting a few inches up off the ground. Firm enough to knock his legs out from beneath him as he and the log both topple backward onto a mat of felled fronds.
Veiled covering for one of the secondary devices planted along the path, the sudden change in pressure enough to engage the sensor resting atop it.
A blast Mike has no way to prepare himself for as it goes off, pinwheeling him into the air in a shower of wood pulp and shredded leaves.
Chapter Eighty
To look at it rationally, Mike is lucky. The felled log he was knocked against was what actually set off the bomb. Reduced to nothing more than splinters, it took the brunt of the blast.
If it hadn’t been there, Mike himself would have almost certainly fallen on the hidden mine. Coupled with the abuse already endured at the Avon plant last night, there is no telling what state he would be in.
At the very least, escaping with consciousness would be nearly impossible. Subjected to another round of such heavy blunt force trauma, his body would almost certainly retreat to darkness in an attempt to protect itself.
Leaving Firash and his minions to do as they please.
Concoct some ending that even being impervious to bombs or bullets could not help him survive.
Even knowing all that, not one part of Mike actually feels lucky. Not as he lays flat on his back on the jungle floor, the busted remnants of the log pressing against his spine beneath him.
Atop him rests a heavy layer of wood chips and dirt clods and shredded leaves. In the air is the scent of gunpowder and sawdust. Charred wood.
Items that he registers one at a time, shaking his head to clear away any fog resulting from the bomb going off so close to him.
A move that he has just barely had a chance to complete before the sound of his attacker finds its way to him. Heavy, flailing strides pushing through the jungle, this time making no effort to mask his movements. No attempt to slip through unnoticed, hoping to hit Mike with more bullets from afar, keeping him off-balance.
Rolling against the flat of his shoulder blades, Mike scans the ground around him. Uneven sweeps through the assorted detritus left behind from the bomb blast, searching in vain for his own gun. The Glock that was ripped from his hands by the blast, now buried amidst the debris strewn across the jungle floor.
An effort that turns up nothing, cast aside as the man that shot him draws closer. Most likely the Arief that Eka had alluded to, picking his way through the jungle.
The person that either planted the explosives or was instructed by Firash on how to avoid them, taking a very deliberate path forward. A meandering way that gives Mike just a few extra seconds, allowing him to roll over onto his side and draw his legs up beneath him.
Every rib the length of his torso screaming in protest, he drags himself up to his knees. Grabbing for the busted length of wood that was pinned beneath him, he wrenches the makeshift club from the soft earth as he pulls himself to his feet.
A sideways stagger that ends with his shoulder mashing into the base of the tree beside him. A hard jolt that sends more angry shockwaves through his body.
Pops of light flashing before his eyes, Mike’s mouth gapes. Pulling in all the air his aching torso will allow, he slides around the far side of the tree, putting as much of a divide as possible between himself and his attacker.
A move that shields him from the first of two more shots that ring out. Another of the same heavy rounds, this one mashing into the soft flesh of the palm tree, sending shards of wood across Mike’s shoulder.
Sawdust that clings to his damp t-shirt, effectively painting a target for the next shot. The fourth direct hit in just a few minutes, his ninth in the last couple of days.
One more painful stab at what is already throbbing.
A blow that bends him forward at the waist, assuming what he’s heard referred to as the tripod position. A pose to try and draw in as much air as possible without inflating the lungs too far.
A way for him to hide behind the thick base of the palm tree. Make himself as small a target as possible while pulling in several quick, shallow breaths. Bits of precious oxygen with lights of various color popping across his vision.
Fuel to try and push aside the waves of agony coursing through him. To make his mind get by the shock in his system and try to focus on the sounds of Arief drawing closer.
Noises that grow less pronounced as he proceeds, his pace slowing. An effort, Mike imagines, to try and track where his prey might have retreated to.
A blessed opening, no matter how small.
A chance to get in a few blows of his own.
At the very least, separate the man from the enormous handgun he is carrying.
Drawing in one more large lungful of air, Mike keeps his body pitched forward at the waist. Rotating his head to the side, he puts his entire focus on the man creeping nearer.
An approach performed one step at a time, trying to peer through the dense foliage of the jungle.
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His grip tightening on the length of wood, Mike waits. Little by little, the pain he feels manages to fall back, replaced by adrenaline seeping into his system. Chemicals spawned from mental images of the person now just a few feet away.
The enterprise he is a part of. The man he is there to represent.
Things that force Mike’s molars together as he makes himself count out five more seconds. One handful of moments that is nothing short of torture before finally he allows himself to move.
Staying lowered to half his usual height, Mike pivots out hard to his right. A tight rotation on the ball of his foot, his boot digging into the softened dirt.
A quick move that spins him back in the opposite direction, the makeshift club unfurling behind him. Centrifugal force whips it across his body, even as every muscle and nerve ending from his knees to his shoulders screams in protest.
A shot that is almost halfway through its intended path before its target even comes into sight.
A goal that is a little lower than Mike anticipated, the man holding it standing with knees flexed. A drop in height increasing the disparity between them, forcing Mike to shift on the fly. Change the trajectory from a scything arc into an overhand chop.
A switch that happens in an instant, bringing the wood down across the man’s wrist. A clubbing blow that snaps the narrow ulnar bone on contact, pushing the barrel of the gun to the side at the exact moment the man pulls the trigger again.
A round driven just past Mike’s knee, burying itself into the dirt behind him.
The last one the man will be firing as his fingers open wide. A muted grunt slides out as the gun slips away, his mangled hand no longer able to support it.
Body still poised in a crouch, Mike sees the weapon hit the ground. A brief flash of light across metal serving as a beacon. A call to him as he pitches his body forward, diving for the gun.
An attempt that sees him get as close as feeling the hard outline of it before Arief swings in. Lashing with his right foot, he drives the toe of his boot at the butt of the weapon, sending it skittering into the tangle of brush brought down by the last explosion.
