It may have been her guilt making the choice for her. Guilt for never having the guts to take a stand against anything insurmountable, or remotely dangerous. Either way, the decision was made and she had penetrated the sanctity of the all-man wilderness assault team.
“He’s late,” Stephanie said to Albert, forcing her mind to shift gears to something more productive than self-reflection.
Albert had his hands full with one of the blue water containers they’d brought along. “So are we,” he said after a grunt, leaning his body to the left as he carried the container to the others he’d already stacked.
Dustin was helping him with the chore, though his rail-thin arms looked like they were about to snap each time he took on the weight of the diesel inside.
“What if he was already here and left?” she asked, hating the fact that they were late for the rendezvous.
“He would have waited,” Burt said, carrying a chainsaw with a coil of rope around his shoulders. “Nah, we got here first.”
“He’ll be here. Gotta have faith,” Sheriff Apollo said from twenty feet away. The box in his hands was from the other truck. It had the letters TNT on the side.
She didn’t think they understood the severity of Bunker’s lateness. “What if he never shows? What if he’s dead?”
“Relax, Steph,” Apollo said. “We don’t know anything at this point. Give the man a chance. He’s never let us down yet. There’s no reason to think he’ll start now.”
“Where do you want this, Sheriff?” Rusty asked, his hands pushing the wooden spindle that formerly dispensed cable for the phone company. The kid had turned it on its side, rolling it like a wheel.
“Stand it up next to the tracer wire. Same with the other one. We’ll get them set up as soon as we finish unloading the trucks and horses.”
Dicky was customarily quiet, standing thirty yards away on a raised outcrop of rock with the futuristic-looking rifle in his hands. The man always seemed eager to sign up for guard duty, probably to get away from the smell of Burt, she mused.
Burt’s stockiness had a fragrance all its own. None of it good and all of it ripe, requiring those around him to become proficient at breathing through their mouths.
It reminded her of the time when she was at the employee appreciation picnic with her then-husband. Some of the men had just finished their shift in the Silver King Mine and had come straight to the festivities. She put on a fake smile and ignored the stench, welcoming the staff as the owner’s dutiful wife.
It worked then. It’ll work now, she decided, realizing she’d exchanged one asshole for another. Stephanie smiled, then gave the mechanic a wide berth as he carried a cardboard box with the word Bleach scribbled across its sides in black magic marker ink.
Burt stood it next to a plastic carton of roughly the same size—a carton her nose knew contained several bottles of ammonia. But the ammonia wasn’t half as bad as the carton of chlorine she was carrying.
Dallas and Victor were also onsite and inseparable as usual. They worked together as the little man team, doing their best to stay busy and contribute—a far cry from a few days ago when both of them were focused only on themselves. They had been tasked with the picks and shovels, hauling the equipment in multiple trips.
She was still amazed that Victor had run off on his own to get the extra horses. Horses they desperately needed for this mission to nowhere.
Allison’s son was evolving before her very eyes; at least that’s how it appeared. She knew the game all too well. Men or boys, it didn’t matter. Sometimes, they do or say exactly what they think you want, just to shut your ass up. However, this situation felt different.
The boys’ enthusiasm for the plan was infectious, giving her hope that the events of the day would turn out how everyone hoped. Well, everyone except the Russians.
The mere thought of those men, guns, and tanks made her heart skip a beat. So far, she hadn’t seen any of them up close and was thankful.
However, everyone in clearing at the moment knew that was probably going to change.
And soon.
CHAPTER 37
Colonel Orlov followed General Zhukov down the last thirty feet of wilderness trail. They’d been following the fresh tire tracks set wide in the mud. It had been a simple task thus far, but now the trail had run thin, bringing newfound worries to the surface.
Under normal circumstances, Orlov would have raised concern about how deep they’d traveled into the countryside. However, he knew the look of vengeance consuming the General’s face. His commander would never stop. This mission wasn’t about tracking down a member of the resistance. It had become deeply personal, inflamed by the fact that Valentina’s death occurred in front of everyone, including the General.
The crawl, as Orlov called it, had been slow and methodical, taking careful plotting to traverse the randomness of the uneven terrain. Rocks, dirt, and deadfall had challenged everyone, but the convoy found a way through. At least until the tracks came to a halt in front of a steep rise in terrain.
The stolen infantry vehicle was dead ahead. The GAZ Tigr sat abandoned, with its driver door open and engine running. He figured the driver ran off in haste after failing miserably to cover his tracks. Orlov didn’t think it would take long to find the target, given the assailant’s tactics thus far.
The oak trees ahead were thick and interspersed with a dense stand of pines and some other foliage Orlov didn’t recognize. The kind of trees didn’t matter—they were effectively blocking vehicle travel forward, including the tanks that were following a half-mile behind their position.
Despite what’s portrayed in the movies, tanks and trees don’t mix. In fact, tanks are typically useless in a mountain setting, unless you brought along almost endless ammo and planned to level the forest with a few hundred rounds from the main cannon. Other than that, firing a shell at a target buried within the trees was a fruitless endeavor. The round would rarely reach its target, getting detonated by one of a hundred tree trunks blocking its path.
Orlov had raised concerns about the T-72s with his CO before the start of this hunt, but the man with the stars refused to listen, ordering a trio of vulnerable relics to join the pursuit.
Newer tanks rolled off the assembly line with reactive armor and upgraded weapons systems. The older T-72s were effectively naked, with only factory hulls to protect their crews.
Every commander desires the latest and greatest, not just in terms of manpower, but equipment as well. Unfortunately, that is simply an empty dream. No matter how big or powerful or determined an Army or its commanding officer truly is, they still fall under the control of the bean counters and their wallets. Every mission is about cost, which drives the choices for deployment. The numbers get even worse with occupations, since logistics become far more expensive.
Regardless of the aging T-72s, it was clear the General wasn’t processing objectives logically. Even so, Orlov’s duty was to carry out orders, no matter what the danger. Luckily, they were dealing with a rank amateur, a man who was now running for his life without much in the way of a plan.
Mortars could have been used to level the mountainside in front of them, driving the target into the open. Unfortunately, they were not an option. The General’s orders were clear: the tattooed man was to be taken alive and brought before him on his knees. That single directive was the driving force behind the operation.
The General bent down and inspected the footprints leading into the dense brush. His finger tested the freshness of the track with a light touch. Its edges held together. “These are fresh,” he said in Russian.
“Must have continued on foot, General. Up that hillside, I suspect,” Orlov said, knowing how ridiculous his comments sounded. Of course the target went up the hill, but he still chose to utter those words, regardless.
He’d come to realize over the years that when you disagree with a superior officer, whether it be on tactics or logistics, the best course of action is to state the obvio
us as long as it gives the appearance of loyalty. Not only can you sleep at night if the mission fails, you won’t have to worry about subsequent disciplinary action when the Kremlin reviews the mission report. “Orders, General?”
“Send in three squads. He’s up there somewhere. Find him! Bring him to me! Alive!”
“Roger that,” Orlov said, sifting through the choices of manpower in his mind.
* * *
Ninety minutes later . . .
Bunker slowed Tango’s trot when he reached the crest of the third mountain beyond Patterson’s Meadow. An hour ago, the horse, bag of drugs, and the microscope were right where he had left them, making his pickup clean. Thus far, his egress had gone smoothly, teasing the Russians with just the right amount of stupidity.
He figured they were scratching their collective heads right about now, wondering what to do with the steep terrain in front of the Gaz Tigr he’d left for them. Bunker imagined three to four search teams were combing the mountainside, following the initial tracks he’d made for them. He couldn’t help but snigger, knowing the trail would run inexplicably dry for them about halfway up the mountain, after his long walk upstream. They’d have to spend hours and even then, unless they followed his tiptoe jaunt over the nearly endless rock bed, they’d never find his trail again.
Bunker was thankful to be out of the wet civilian clothes, preferring the comfort of his camo-greens. They felt like home—a home he’d been missing for the better part of the last decade. A home that had welcomed him back without a second thought, ignoring all that happened only days before his tour ended.
He could have decided to hang around and watch their reaction when they found the Gaz Tigr with its engine running, but tactically, it would have been a mistake. All he could do now was bask in the theory that they should’ve come to the conclusion that they were chasing an untrained civilian who had run off in panic.
General Zhukov didn’t know he was dealing with a trained operator. Someone with the balls and the skills to make his enemy believe that he, a local tattooed miscreant, was leading them unwittingly to the secret hideout occupied by whoever was on the other end of the radio he’d left in the tower. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth.
Warriors are taught never to give the enemy time to rest or the opportunity to consolidate their forces and hit back in force. However, that’s exactly what Bunker needed—the Russians to consolidate and hit back hard. In fact, he was counting on it.
The beginnings of a grin took over his lips, turning the corner of his mouth up slightly with one of the seven deadly sins—pride. “Misdirection is key,” he mumbled.
Well, that and tapping into a man’s primal need for revenge. Specifically, a General’s need. When done properly, it fosters the deepest level of hate that consumes his soul with an evil that’s difficult to control. It also makes him blind to the obvious. And predictable.
Bunker stopped at a small creek to let Tango take a drink before they headed deeper into the woods. He let the horse finish, then nudged Tango in the ribs with his heels, sending his trusted comrade forward to what he hoped would be a reunion with a few more friends.
Friends with a number of items that could be classified as exotic and deliberate—a phrase Tin Man had coined before Bunker departed camp.
CHAPTER 38
Bunker led Tango down the mountainside, weaving his way through the terrain that had kept him alive thus far. He needed the woodland’s protection to continue for another twenty-four hours. Not only for himself, but for the others that should be waiting for him when he arrived. If his navigational skills were accurate, then a swarm of smiles and gear should greet him after a few more bends in the trail.
The wind had picked up in the last hour, working its way across the countryside with a determined steadiness. It wasn’t a gale, nor was it a breeze. It was something less, barely more than noticeable, yet sufficient to provide a much-needed cooling effect on his sweat-soaked skin. As good as it felt, he needed the wind speed not to increase; otherwise, it would put his plan in jeopardy.
The lingering humidity had left the air unstable after the storm. The heavy scent of dampness from the oak leaves and pine needles was unmistakable, bringing a warm solace to his heart. The sensation sparked a recent memory, one from the night he spent in the sleeping bag on the ridge overlooking the river. The frogs had kept him up for hours, despite his complete exhaustion. He remembered complaining initially, but it was pointless. Nature’s splendor wasn’t going to adjust its schedule or its cadence simply for his personal comfort.
After Tango stepped over a rotten log, his legs came to a sudden stop without any direction from Bunker. The steed’s ears began to twitch, twisting like spastic radar dishes attempting to lock onto an incoming missile.
“What is it, boy?” Bunker asked, leaning forward to run his hand along his friend’s neck.
That’s when Bunker heard it. A faint voice to the left, drifting through the trees in an intermittent mumble. The person’s tone was light and airy, almost high-pitched. Even though he couldn’t make out the words, he thought the speech pattern was familiar.
Bunker didn’t want Tango to worry because a confident horse is much more reliable than a frightened one. He gave his friend a double pat on the neck. “It’s okay, buddy. Those are our friends. It means we’re almost there.”
He assumed the voice belonged to one of the younger boys, based on the pitch. However, there was a chance it wasn’t a friend. It could have been a foe, laying a lethal trap for his arrival.
If the sudden rise of paranoia was justified, it meant Albert didn’t follow his directions, allowing the Russians to beat him to the rally point.
Bunker ran it through his head again and came up with the same conclusion. Albert was a man who followed his own agenda, even when he agreed to do otherwise. The meth cook may have only been pretending, uttering the words he wanted Bunker to hear.
Let’s face it, saying he was part of the team was much different than actually delivering, especially after their heated face-to-face in the barn. When you’re dealing with a career criminal who’s adept at surviving in the shadows of anonymity, you never really know where he stands. Words are cheap and meaningless for those with a secret agenda.
Bunker had met his share of sociopaths over the years. Most of them were easy to read, with their emotions leading the charge. But not Tin Man. Albert was clearly brilliant and carried a unique skillset, allowing him to use his intelligence to manipulate, all the while hiding his true self.
Albert reminded Bunker of many of his old riding partners in The Kindred. At first blush, everyone appeared to be working together toward a common goal. Yet under the surface, personal agendas were actually in control.
To the uninformed, being a member of The Kindred might appear to be very much the same as being a member of the Marine Corps. Both outfits were tight-knit brotherhoods who wore the same colors, battled the same enemies, rode together, ate together, fought together, and bled together, everyone striving to win the day.
Nevertheless, at the core, they were vastly different in the one area that mattered most: integrity. Personal agendas destroy integrity, eroding the foundational belief in one another. If you don’t have integrity, then you can’t carry yourself with honor, courage, and commitment. They are intertwined and mutually dependent.
He’d lived in both worlds, sacrificing parts of himself for those who stood alongside him in the heat of combat. His past gave him a unique perspective—one few could match. Riding with The Kindred was the polar opposite of his days humping the dusty trails of Afghanistan.
Bunker stopped the mighty steed with pressure on the reins, then dismounted in one smooth lift of his leg. He stood nose to nose with his mammoth ride. “You hang back, Tango, while I do a little recon. Don’t want to put you in harm’s way, if I’m wrong about this.”
Tango twisted his head and let out a blow from his muzzle. He shook his head, then sent his tail into an
all-out offensive against a regiment of flies that had been tracking him for miles.
Bunker wished he could help conquer the relentless, buzzing creatures. Animal or human, it didn’t matter—everyone has their own swarm of demons that seem to follow them everywhere.
He tied Tango to a nearby tree and crept ahead, blending into the greenery with his camo for cover.
Just then, he heard the snap of a twig. The sound wasn’t from his movement. It was ahead, somewhere beyond a pair of pine trees surrounded by bushes reaching shoulder height. One of the trees had a broad-leafed vine spiraling up its trunk, resembling the stripe on a barber pole, only this stripe was lime green instead of the customary red and white.
Bunker moved silently to investigate. When he peered through the bush, he saw Stephanie squatting with her pants down.
She looked at him and screamed.
He stood up in a flash, his hands out to the side. “Wait! Steph, it’s me! I’m sorry!”
She spun away in a sudden flash of legs, crotch, and butt. “Oh my God! Bunker! Quit looking!” she said in a harsh tone, tugging at her pants in a panic.
He turned his head, slamming his eyes shut.
“What the hell are you doing?” she asked, grabbing his arm after a dash around the bushes.
He brought his head forward and locked eyes with her. “I didn’t know it was you, Steph. It was an accident. There weren’t supposed to be any females on this mission.”
“Well there is one—me. So quit sneaking around like some kind of perv.”
“I said I was sorry. I heard a twig snap, so I came to check it out.”
“What did you see?”
“Nothing. Really. I swear,” he said, not wanting to admit he saw everything.
She paused, her eyes digging deep into his soul. “All right, don’t do it again.”
Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 4 and 5) Page 30
