“Wait another ten minutes just to be sure. Then proceed as planned. I’ll move into position to cover the front. Begin radio silence until you have him or the flag. Out.”
“Roger.” Hector looked over at Erik, who was waiting for instructions. “We’re a ‘go’ in ten minutes. Mark the time now.”
Erik adjusted his camouflaged boonie cover and turned back to train his eyes on the house. The countdown had begun.
* * *
John Quick moved smoothly through the water, producing no sound or ripples. He never expected that the years of operational experience in exotic locations such as Lagos, Nigeria, or the coast of Somalia would pay dividends in Helena, Montana. Life continued to be full of little surprises.
He had no idea who these men were, but he’d immediately assumed hostile intent. As a result, he operated under his own rules of engagement. I have guns too.
When he realized that all three sides of his home were likely covered by fire, he’d immediately dropped below the bottom of the picture window and crawled to his basement stairs near the hallway to his kitchen.
Once in the basement, he’d secured his M1911 in a Ziploc bag he’d grabbed from his basement workbench. He’d placed it in the back of his trousers in his waistband. It was his weapon of last resort.
If he hoped to even the odds and give himself a fighting chance, he had to operate as quietly as possible, which meant no gunshots until they were absolutely necessary.
He’d then exited the basement through a small window leading directly under the back deck. When he’d built the deck, there’d been at least two feet of clearance between the ground and the bottom of the deck surface. It was all he needed.
He’d slithered under the deck until he’d reached the cold surface of the lake and slowly submerged himself, careful to make no unnecessary movements.
There was no way any of the hostiles—as he thought of them—had seen him enter the lake and move underwater to his planned exit point 150 yards to the north of his house. It was 50 yards behind the two men he’d spotted.
So here I am again. Unbelievable . . .
He exited the lake as quietly as he’d entered. Once he was on dry ground, he unslung his crossbow and stalked his prey from behind. He used the night-vision scope on his crossbow to guide him.
He moved quickly and quietly. His eyes focused on the location where he’d last seen the two men stop and assume prone positions. There.
He saw the barrel of an assault rifle—it resembled an M4—approximately twenty feet in front of him. The figure holding it slowly materialized in the darkness.
John held his breath and tensed every muscle. He prayed he was still undetected. Nothing. He exhaled quietly, the water drying on his skin.
He needed to close the distance by at least another ten feet before he could act. He slowly placed one foot down at a time, ensuring each landed softly on the dirt.
His right eye focused through his scope on the figure on the right, while his left remained open and watched for any sign of movement.
He was within striking distance. He planned to move only a few more feet and draw his .45—he’d removed it from the plastic bag and reinserted it into its holster when he’d exited the lake—with his left hand and cover both men, the one on the right with the crossbow and his partner on the left with the M1911.
He never got the chance. As he placed his left foot down, it made contact with a twig on the forest floor, breaking it in half. Crack!
John froze midstride, the crossbow raised and aimed directly at the back of the neck of his target.
The prone man on the left immediately turned his head, but before he could finish the movement, John spoke quietly.
“If you continue to turn that head of yours, you’re not going to have it much longer.”
The man froze. His partner visibly stiffened in the darkness. The pale light from the crescent moon illuminated his hand as it reached in front of him for an object that John couldn’t see.
“Asshole, if you move even one more inch, I’m going—” John didn’t finish the threat.
The intruder on the right had hoped to catch John off guard by acting instead of allowing the situation to unfold. The move might’ve worked on an amateur, but John Quick was a trained killer who wasn’t surprised by much. It was stupid, but he’d seen other men make similar foolish moves, usually moments before they died. They always think they’re faster than they really are.
He pulled the trigger of the Excalibur crossbow, releasing the carbon bolt, which rocketed through the night with a swish at an incredible 330 feet per second.
The bolt covered the distance in the blink of an eye and pierced the left side of the man’s neck with a loud, wet thwack! The bolt missed the carotid artery but tore through his windpipe and trachea as it exited his neck. The man began to choke and suffocate on his own shattered windpipe, the high-pitched wheezing sound echoing through the forest like the cry of a wounded animal.
As soon as he’d fired, John knew his aim was true. He also knew he didn’t have time to draw his .45. So he made the only move he could. He dropped the crossbow and lunged toward the other man, who was struggling to turn around. John drew his KA-BAR from its sheath.
The man rolled away in an attempt to put some space between him and his attacker. John moved in at an angle and closed the distance.
He took one more step and then launched himself into the air, his left hand in a fist and his right hand holding the knife in a combat grip, blade turned down and parallel to his wrist.
He landed on top of the dark figure, his left forearm striking the man in the upper chest. The blow knocked him backward to the ground as John landed on top, pinning him underneath. He brought the knife up from his side to slash upward at the man’s left arm, hoping to sever the axillary artery.
The man instinctively anticipated the knife’s movement and brought his left arm down on top of John’s wrist, deflecting the knife attack to the side. He struck John on the left side of his head with his right fist, trying to knock him over and off him. Damn. This guy is good.
The punch succeeded, even though its impact was minimal. John rolled off the man and to his right. He landed on his feet.
He faced his opponent, who was now also standing and holding some type of blade that flickered in the moonlight. Great. So much for my tactical advantage . . .
Neither man spoke. There was nothing to be gained by it. Both men understood the stakes involved. This was a fight to the death. There was no room for negotiation.
John knew this man was extremely well trained, a professional soldier of some kind. Unfortunately, the fates had brought him to John’s home with bad intentions, which was all that mattered in the end. Kill or be killed.
Even though he knew it was pointless, John said, “One thing before we begin: your name?” The man paused, surprised at the question. He smiled in the dark, his white teeth flashing momentarily.
“Hector.” He paused and added, “You’re good, Mr. Quick, but I’m better” in a thick Spanish accent.
“Okay, Hector. We’ll see about that.”
Hector began to circle clockwise, and John moved toward him. Both men searched for an opening, trying to determine the other’s weakness. Hector acted first.
As John was still a few feet away, Hector threw a feint to John’s face with the knife. He immediately followed the feint with the real strike, which was a spinning back kick that landed flush on John’s chest and knocked him off his feet.
John rolled backward when he landed on the ground, springing back to his feet as his momentum carried him away. He stood up just in time to watch Hector charge him with his knife now in his left hand.
Now on the defensive, he waited until Hector closed the distance and moved to deliver a thrust to his chest. John spun to his right and caught Hector’s forearm. He turned violently and flung Hector face-first into a nearby tree. Hector’s face smashed into the bark, and his nose shattered, bleeding profuse
ly. In the dim moonlight, the blood formed a black mask.
John retreated to a safe distance as Hector pushed off the tree in frustration and leapt backward. He brought his right arm backward in a slicing arc, hoping to catch John with the blade.
John had expected something like this, and all Hector struck was thin air. As the knife sailed through the crisp Montana night, John stepped in under its arc, low to the ground. He placed his left foot outside Hector’s and delivered a crushing blow to Hector’s ribs. He felt at least two ribs fracture as the blow knocked Hector off his feet and flat on his back on the dark forest floor.
John pulled his right arm back, fully extended as if he were delivering a pitch. His arm reached the top of its arc as he bent his left knee and dropped the weight of his body. He lowered his center of gravity to gain momentum, the knife in his right hand flashing through the night, light flickering across the lethal blade. He plunged the knife into the center of Hector’s chest, piercing his heart and killing him instantly.
John waited until Hector’s body was still and the postmortem tremors ceased. He withdrew his weapon from Hector’s chest and wiped the blood on the dead man’s trousers. He moved to a tree in the direction of his house, crouched down, and waited.
He knew he wasn’t alone. He just hoped he’d evened his odds. The sounds of the fight had carried through the trees. Whoever else was out there likely now knew that their plans had gone horribly wrong. It would only take a few minutes to figure out exactly how.
* * *
As soon as Carlos heard the commotion, he knew the target had somehow eluded them and passed unseen through their surveillance perimeter.
He scanned the last location he’d seen Hector and Erik, one hundred meters to the north of the house. Through his night-vision goggles, he saw two figures circling each other in the middle of the sparse trees. He recognized Hector’s silhouette, but he didn’t wait to watch the fight ensue.
He knew Hector was superbly trained, but John Quick was just as lethal. It’s the perfect diversion. His thoughts were on the flag, not Hector’s welfare.
Without a moment’s delay, he sprinted through the woods toward the house. He prayed Hector could delay Quick for at least a few minutes.
As he ran, he heard a thump and a muffled grunt. Either Hector or Quick had just hit the ground, and hard from the sound of it. Still, perhaps the battle had bought him enough time to find the flag and rendezvous with Edward on the west side of the lake.
He hit the front walkway and suddenly halted at the base of the porch to stifle the sounds of his movements. He crept up the three steps to the front porch and tried the doorknob. Locked.
He knew it would be, which he found amusing considering the isolated location of the house. He pulled out his lock-pick set and opened the door after an easy thirty seconds of maneuvering the small tools. He smiled. Even a dead bolt was child’s play to a skilled professional.
He entered the house and paused, orienting himself to his surroundings. He stood at a small entryway. A faint glow from the smoldering fire emanated from the end of the hallway. Beyond was the kitchen and gigantic living room with the enormous window and view of the lake.
He walked down the hallway and entered the kitchen, moving quickly through and beyond it. He stepped into the center of the living room and scanned the walls. Nothing . . . as he’d expected. He turned to his right and entered the study.
Their reconnaissance hadn’t provided any intelligence on this room since the shade on the study window was always closed. The room was extremely dark. He turned on a small, tactical flashlight and swept the room from left to right. Jackpot!
Suspended on the right wall above a hardwood desk was a four-foot-by-six-foot Iraqi national flag. It had three horizontal stripes of red, white, and black in descending order, with three green stars in the center white stripe. It was the version that Saddam Hussein had created in 1991, with the words Allahu Akbar written between the stars, reportedly in Hussein’s own hand.
Carlos yanked the flag off the wall, laid it flat on the floor of the study, and looked on the back of the lower left-hand corner. A wave of relief washed over him as he found the ultimate object of the operation. It was really there. Thank God.
He radioed Edward. “I have it. I’m coming out and moving toward you. Do you have eyes on Hector, Erik, or the target?”
“Negative. I can’t tell what happened at this distance. When the fighting stopped, there was only one man standing, but I can’t tell who it is.”
“Roger. Neither Erik nor Hector has checked in, which tells me it’s probably Quick. I’m coming at you full speed. I need you to cover me. If you see any movement from their location, shoot to kill. We’re running out of time. Be there in a few minutes. Out.”
Carlos jogged his way back to the front of the house. He paused—he’d forgotten something. He looked down and then back toward the kitchen. He completed one last task, opened the door, and sprinted down the steps and into the woods toward Edward.
He never looked back, but as he was approximately 200 meters from the house, he heard a succession of shots from Edward’s location. He hoped his school-trained sniper had hit his target.
* * *
John watched his house, deliberating his next move. He was crouched behind a tree, blocking the line of sight of any shooter who might be watching from the other side of the lake. He had to assume there were more men, but he also had to be cautious or he’d get himself killed.
After a few minutes of no sound or movement, he heard his front door open. The sound of faint steps reached him as they made contact on his porch and then the gravel driveway, moving quickly away from him. Someone had just been inside his home. What in God’s name do these people want with me?
He decided to move closer to the house. He was certain that there were no more men left on this side of the lake. He’d have detected them. Most importantly, he needed to identify the additional threat and eliminate it.
He moved slowly, creeping his way toward the front of his house
Crack!
He heard the gunshot across the lake a full second before the bullet ricocheted off the tree immediately to his left at the approximate height of his head. He dove to the ground as bark splintered in all directions from the round’s impact.
He looked to his right. He saw a second muzzle flash and heard another shot. This time the round struck the tree in front of him but lower. Motherfucker’s bracketing me, figuring I’ll be near the ground.
He maneuvered his body as low as he could. A third shot scattered dirt from the forest floor two feet behind him. He realized the shooter couldn’t actually see him, a small relief given the circumstances.
Even though he was on the ground, he was still in perilous danger. The sniper was hoping to hit him with a lucky shot, and John knew that if he remained in this location, the sniper would likely get it. So he did the only thing he could and began to low-crawl as quickly as possible, not stopping to look in any direction but forward—to his house and cover.
After twenty harrowing meters, he realized that the shots were still striking behind him. He thinks I’m still there.
He didn’t wait to see if the shooter would discover he’d moved. Have to get to the front left corner of the house. Then I’ll be out of his line of sight.
The only problem was the last thirty feet between the edge of the trees and his home. The area was cleared because it was where he parked his Ford F-150 pickup truck, which was there now. Other than the car, there was no cover or concealment in this small no-man’s-land.
He reached the edge of the trees and paused to catch his breath. His adrenaline was pumping furiously since it’d only been seven or eight minutes since his initial encounter with Hector and his partner. He forced his breathing to slow.
He looked across the lake and saw several flashes as more rounds impacted his previous position. The shooter was several hundred yards away, but he thought the shots might be moving closer to
the house. He didn’t think he was in immediate danger—at least for the next thirty seconds.
He knew that if he could reach his study and his gun rack, he’d turn the tables on the shooter across the lake. His modified Remington 700 rifle was loaded and ready. His plan was to move upstairs to his bedroom unseen, open a window just enough to provide a clear line of sight to the sniper, and end this cat-and-mouse game.
First, he needed his cell phone from his kitchen counter to dial 911. He hadn’t even thought about it before he left the house through the crawl space.
He took one last deep and slow breath, crouched into a semi–runner’s starting position behind the tree, and leapt from cover. I’ve had better ideas than this one, he thought as he sprinted across the gravel driveway.
He waited for a bullet to knock him to the ground and send him plummeting into oblivion. Neither happened.
He reached the front of his house, steadied himself, and crept along the wall until he saw his porch and front door. The door was ajar.
He immediately realized it could be a trap. There could’ve been two men inside, one of them sprinting away in order to draw him back to the house, only to be ambushed by the remaining man. Or the house is empty, the assholes got what they came for, and I have no fucking clue what that is.
At this point, John figured it was fifty-fifty either way, but in order to find out, he was going to have to go inside.
He drew his M1911 from its holster and moved up the steps. He stopped outside the door, realizing the shooter on the other side of the lake had ceased firing.
Were they on the way back here? He had to get to his rifle and his cell phone. He’d been relatively lucky so far, but he didn’t want to push it.
He shoved open the door and saw varying shades of black. The glow from the embers had vanished since the fire was almost completely extinguished. His front hallway was pitch-black. He could see the light of the night sky entering through the picture window in his living room. He stepped into his hallway and moved toward the living room.
Overwatch: A Thriller Page 8
