Jabo would face the music for the two RF men who the sniper had killed. An off the books Op, on US soil, by American soldiers, he'd be lucky to avoid jail time, much less keep his rank. A dishonorable discharge was as good as he could expect for pursuing his personal vendetta, but he'd do it again to feel the surge of relief that his family had been avenged, partially, safe from the stalking death of the sniper. The bigger fish still remained to be taken out, the ones who'd hired him, but not tonight.
“I have you on Thermals, but you're getting close to the horizon, at least as much as I can see from over here.” The Electricians had brought a thermal sight for the Barrett rifle, but it wasn't calibrated enough to be useful for hitting anything precisely at this range, and they couldn't shoot, worried a similarly armed sniper team from the DPS or Austin SWAT would start shooting at them. But they could look and provide information, constantly scanning for a man sized thermal bloom in the scrub oaks that covered the small hill he'd fired from, nearly ten minutes before.
Lucky for them, the SWAT team from the Austin Sheriff's Department had locked horns with the DPS SWAT team about who had tactical control, an idiotic squabble in a hot fire fight, but reasonable, since no one had shot since the loud warning had boomed out over the low valley. That gave them time to perform one more, off the cuff operation dreamed up by Jabo who was flying in, ready to flare his wing, uncertain how it would perform when he tugged the lines down to make it slow him down. It might rip open under stress and deposit him on the rocky ground after falling fifty feet at dangerous, but not lethal speed. That meant he'd have to delay his last, hard pull on the control lines until the final second.
It was a minor disaster comparatively, but everything so far had the same taint of near failure made right. As it turned out when he pulled the rear of the wing down, starting his flare, it performed fairly well, but suddenly deflated quickly, nearly twenty feet above the ground, instantly losing lift while throwing him sideways – the top of the canopy ripping down the middle to make two half wings that fell to the sides, deflating as they shed his protective lift
As if to show Lady Luck had ridden down on his shoulder, he caught one half of the wing in a tall oak tree's branches. Given his motion, nearly sideways to the ground as he jerked wildly on the parachute lines to regain control, Jabo swung around on his long traces, hanging from the tree, circling it like a tether ball hit with a hard smack to make it coil around the center pole, ending the game. As he circled the tree, the traces wound up, like the rope does on a tether ball pole, getting shorter and shorter...
Jabo's had to get free before he was drawn directly into the rough bark of the gnarly tree. Seeing what was coming, he released his parachute harness lock to slither out, thrown away from the tree by the centrifugal force to end up rolling out away from the tree before his head glanced off the rough bark of another nearby tall oak, banging into it nearly head on, happy he'd kept his diminutive jump helmet on since he'd made his first jump, as dorky as it made him look.
“Fuck, that was genius.” His momentum kept him tumbling and he rolled over a few times until he ended up on his back, looking up at the same dark sky he'd stared up at for a few seconds after he'd jumped out of the helicopter for the second time in one night.
Crazy! Standing up, staying half crouched, he looked out over the dark valley, only a few buildings lit by backup generators. The long wide valley was gaily adorned with flashing lights at either end – a pleasant sight before he had jumped, clinging to his damaged, folded parachute. On the ground, unhurt, he abandoned the harness and the half of the chute tangled in the oak, sure he could find it again. Swallowing, with a dry mouth that made him lick his lips, he was ready to restart his crazy man hunt – re-enter his personal first-person shooter game this evening's ordeal had become.
He stood, favoring his good leg, patting his pockets, missing a magazine he didn't have time to look for, leaving him with two, beside the one in his M-4 rifle he'd unfolded, checked and positioned in his hands automatically. He stared at the chute and its split up screaming eagle, a lucky charm that had brought him down safely – torn and bloody, like him,. He'd be back for it, a trophy to adorn his man cave ceiling and a story nobody from the Special Forces would ever believe. As smart as they all were, universally, they loved a good 'stupid move that worked' story most of all.
The GPS glowed, showing him the way to the top of the small rise and he powered it off, observing light discipline. He knelt, hiding behind the tree he'd wrapped the chute around, its welcome branches slowing his descent at the last moment, saving his body from a hard landing that would have guaranteed he broke or sprained something. He looked up, sensing his forebear again, approving his actions, telling him to get on with it and stop gloating.
“Yessir, Colonel,” he spoke quietly to the vast ebony space above him, thinking he smelled the smoke of battle, a different kind of powder, black? What Old Jim used?. He felt silly and awed, because it might be true, old Jim could be there in the velvet darkness. His final battle in San Antonio wasn't very far from here, as the ghost flies.
“What was that sir?” Parker asked, whispering even though he was nearly a mile away. He'd phoned his sniper team before he'd jumped, using the ear plug that made their side of the conversation silent to anyone near him.
“Nothing,” Jabo rolled his eyes, talking to his ancestor would have to wait. “You got any thermal?”
“Nope, which means he's laying low. I can see anything climbing the hills East of you, which is where he's got to go next if he bugs out, since the cops are spread out North and South. He sure as hell isn't coming our way. He's still there.”
“I got that, so nothing?”
“Nope, but we'll keep you posted, just don't hang up, okay?”
“You ready to bug out, when I tell you to go?” He waited, “don't get caught or spotted by the cops, okay?”
“Never happen. I want you to get that guy. I liked that RF guy ever since I met him a few years ago. It doesn't matter his security was a pompous hillbilly who couldn't keep his mouth shut, they stood their post and went out like heroes.”
“That they did,” He tried to remember what they looked like, but couldn't. “I'll get him, you keep me posted on any thermal. He doesn't know I'm here, I hope. This is our only chance to get him. Out.”
Jabo turned down the volume to kill off the static on the line. He needed to merge with the night. The US Army motto, 'we own the night' was true, but he couldn't use his night vision still crudely attached to his helmet, keeping it flipped up and out of the way. Not yet. Better for long approaches or hiding in an ambush, it gave off a low, eerie green glow that could light up his face, making him stand out then catch a round from the sniper who'd already demonstrated he shot off the hip pretty damned good, even from far away.
He'd have to make his way old style. He stepped out carefully, stalking through the woods, glad his natural, growing night vision revealed everything around him. His visual acuity was often as sharp as the latest light amplification devices. Jabo felt they were a crutch, a drawback in some situations. This was a perfect example. Man on man, sniper versus Ranger, at night.
It was no different from working up on a buck, what he'd done in the same scrub oaks – years ago, him and his grandfather – as a young kid. Starting at ten, walking along at his grandfather's side, a fellow hunter at last, absorbing his knowledge. He heard old Jonah whispering his advice as Jabo stepped carefully, as fast as his wounded leg allowed.
'Step here, move around that, let the brush ease back, slow, rest your boot on the ground, then lift, easy'.
He worked at an angle up the side of the hill, the traverse giving him a lesser slope his wounded leg demanded. He'd decided on that approach as he'd flown in. It provided the least number of troublesome large rocks that now randomly appeared out of the night as he made his way up the steepening slope, nearing the flat peak. He could smell the last vestiges of cordite from the explosive sniper rounds his team had dr
opped on the hill, making the sniper run and hide – somewhere.
Now that option, flushing him out, was gone, as well as the helicopter he hoped was flying West without stopping, out of the picture. That left up it to him and his dammed gimpy leg. He'd have to make the last few yards through the thick brush up the steep slope on his own. Shit! A bad step made his torn up calf scream, gritting his teeth. The sniper could get away by simply walking faster than Jabo, not difficult given his painfully slow pace, unable to hurry.
Vladimir was sticking with his plan, revised by the appearance of the police cars which were keeping away from his location near the hill, now about four to five hundred meters West of the blue warehouse below him. He'd moved off the top of the low hill, hurrying from cover to cover, heading North and East keeping his distance from the warehouse. It gave him more options. His last shot had been aimed at the opposition's two man over-watch team in the parking lot in front of the building, more a warning at this range but he'd still tried to hit the one clear figure in the front seat.
The fools stood out, driving a luxury car. They'd quickly moved out of the front parking lot, taking them out of the battle, a win for him. He'd nearly got one, at nearly seven hundred yards, with a shot through the windshield, aiming at the driver. Probably a miss before they'd both dropped down, out of sight – a small failure that didn't matter. His fire had been harassment to drive them off, reduce the active members of Jabo's attack group.
He'd hoped the survivor in the luxury car had freaked out when his partner's head exploded – his blood and brains covering their upper bodies, but there was a chance his shot had missed. They'd both smartly dropped from sight if that was the case. Jabo's high caliber sniper team had replied with immediate counter fire. All those explosive rounds that kept coming forced Vladimir to race off, leaving his prepared position. He'd moved in a rush then froze, terrified of the explosions, reminding him of his laughing colleagues in the Russian army who weren't intimidated by artillery barrages he'd been forced to endure in training. Vladimir had shit his pants then acted like he'd fallen in a creek, taking them off to rinse out in the icy cold water before he rejoined his unit. It was better than humiliating taunts from his comrades he'd hated from the first day.
Reacting to the constant explosions after one nearly hit him, Vladimir had dropped on the ground, laying on his back, panicked and panting rapidly, hoping the rock he'd ended up behind was tall enough to stop the large heavy slugs they'd shot at him. When it was over, he quickly calmed down, chiding himself for being so upset. Scoping the parking lot he couldn't find the pair in the expensive car, meaning they must have shifted position. Out of sight, they weren't worth looking for, out of the fight, good enough.
In a few minutes he felt safer. Vladimir stuck to the thicket that grew down the side of the hill. It gave him good cover from the men with the big gun. He couldn't rule out some sort of starlight scope or thermal imaging, so moving in cover was absolutely necessary. Their explosive rounds had missed wildly except for one lucky shot, exploding a tree branch above him in an air burst. It had produced a cloud of wooden shrapnel, more an irritation than a threat. His yellow lenses, hardened glass, had shielded his eyes as his thick bush gear from South Africa had protected his body. All he'd suffered were some small shrapnel wounds on his face, and one hard impact on his shoulder, nothing worth his time to bandage, his blood had already coagulated and stopped flowing. They were scratches, not wounds. What did remain was his terror they'd start shooting more of them. He kept imagining the next round hitting his body and vaporizing him into tiny pieces. That dread wouldn't go away. Torture didn't scare him, being maimed for life did.
The police were taking their time, making him happy again to be in the land of the free with their haughty bureaucrats who loved to make all their decisions by committee. They were worse than the old Soviet system, with it's levels of vague power groups, filled with often deadly, always faceless men and women who could send you off to freeze your ass off for years or elevate you as a local hero, with a decent apartment and special shop privileges. In his country the carrot and the stick were heaven or hell on Earth, leaving the majority in the bleak, lifeless middle.
Their greatest reward, a normal, undisturbed life with comfortable circumstances, was nothing here in America. It was what everyone who applied himself in this soft country enjoyed. They never had to struggle day by day in a meager existence made worse by years of restless sleep, waiting for a loud knock at the door.
In ten minutes he'd start walking out, wearing his special thermal cape his friends in the Spetsnaz assured him was invisible to the current thermal imaging systems, both aircraft and handheld. It paid to have friends in the military back home. Their shitty salaries insured they'd give him anything he requested, since he paid generously.
Looking down his stolen starlight scope he scanned the area around him. It was a bulky unit he'd taken from the two men he'd killed in the armored military vehicle. He remembered seeing their faces as he'd popped up, wearing his black knit cap, telling them he was 'a friendly' then snapping their heads back, with a small caliber round in each forehead – force of habit. It was small change to Vladimir, cleanup like Grigor's man he'd killed next, left to guard the rear of the building, better dead so he wouldn't interfere at the wrong time – shooting him accidentally. Why take the risk? The fact he could have tied him up never crossed his mind. Human life didn't' matter. The men in the Humvee were technicians tracing calls, out of their element in this fight, compared to the man he was trying to kill, mere pawns to his King, not missed when they left the board.
Their surveillance equipment didn't impress him, some sort of radio frequency stuff – sniffers, trackers, recorder – what his side had as well, made to monitor radio and cell phones. The superb sniper rifle they'd had, with a big starlight scope had proved useful. He'd removed the optics, since it worked as a stand alone telescope. It let him scan the landscape then find and zero in on the silver car with two people studiously watching the front of the data center. It had been the only car with people sitting in it, all the identification he required to take them down, clearly part of the dead soldiers' team.
It was a bonus, killing the two men in the vehicle behind the building, letting him demand more money for disrupting their enemy's plans and erasing a few members of his team. The other unlucky man hiding in the garbage area was part of his fussy personality that liked to keep his fighting area tidy. The shot at the car had made them cautious, ruining their utility as observers, but it didn't solve his problem. The man Jabo, that he'd infuriated by killing his grandparents was his only real target. It was an error to kill so many to get at the young girl who'd escaped him, driven by anger he rarely felt and never on a job. That little minx had excited him then denied him his pleasure, requiring he punish her, the object of his rage and desire.
Otherwise Vladimir was troubled only because it set a dangerous man on his tail, someone who might be crazy enough to track him down back in Russia, where his reputation made him visible, for the right price. None of his fellow, highly pragmatic Russians had anything close to the strong moral fiber of these idealistic, naive Americans. A hundred Euros could buy anything you liked in Moscow, or anywhere else in Russia, from the latest military weapons to the address of a well known killer with a special perversion, that involved young girls, tied up and naked...
That had made it easy cancel his escape plans and return when asked – for lots more money, of course. He had collected enough information through his own channels to get a good idea of how this Jabo Bowie was responding to the murder of his family members, mostly from Grigor, an associate of the LazaRuss bosses who lorded over him like he was running things. A mere street thug with a big responsibility, the crude man was puffed up but not competent, which his quick death had demonstrated. Vladimir didn't like having a target on his back, put there by a man of Jabo's abilities. He was the one who did that to others.
Jabo worked his way along the No
rthern rim of the military crest of the small hill, bigger than he'd assumed from a distance. It had a graded, flat top, about two hundred meters across, with a large metal foundation from an old radio or navigation tower at the peak, taken down years ago, for scrap probably. He skirted the top, staying in the brush that was thicker on the North side, common in the dry, arid heat of central Texas.
The oaks and scrub brush were even thicker on the low hills outside of his family's modest homestead in the Texas 'Hill Country' further West, where streams rose up from the limestone to run year round. It was supposed to be the last residence of his forebear, Jim, but he doubted it, the stone house had been built long after he'd died in the Alamo. It was a pleasant, familiar retreat in the hot summers, a place to escape the hustle of modern life.
He sat on a low rock, pleased his slow panting quiet, like his grandfather had taught him, never going fast enough to make a sound with his breath. Sounds traveled farther in the quiet, cool, dry air of the night, something Jabo was struggling to use against the Russian sniper who'd be as good at stalking as he was. But here in the rough, oak forest Vladimir was out of his element, unlike Jabo, who felt right at home.
A snap made him turn his head slowly, listening like his ears were two radar dishes, trying to localize a far away airplane that had produced a tiny return. He made out a low rustle that sounded exactly like a light wind running through the dry leaves of the oak trees surrounding him, but there wasn't a lick of wind. It let him firm up the direction. His prey was there.
'Got ya,' he said to himself, not letting his lips move. Getting up off the rock he started moving slowly in the direction of the sound he'd heard, aware the man was moving, but unable to know which direction only that he was there, and nearby. He might even be coming directly at him.
Hell To Pay Page 36
