by John Grit
Yule’s strained voice came back to him. “Thank you, Mikhail.”
“Let the matter die. We have important issues at hand. Now, is there any chance at all the CIA has turned on us? With American politics in turmoil as it is, some in power may have decided our money isn’t worth the risk any longer.”
“Sir, I don’t believe that’s the case. But if it were, the last thing you want is to discuss this over the phone.”
“Yes, you’re correct on both points,” Janowski admitted. “There ass is already in a sling. If they were to turn on me and the others in the organization now, it would leave them even more exposed. They need our cooperation and finances more than ever. There’s no profit for them to turn on us – yet. But the rats will abandon the sinking ship if that day ever comes. If they’re kicked out of office, those who replace them will probably be just as easy to buy, like so many whores.”
Yule seemed confused, and his worries didn’t end with his boss’s pardon. “That thing with the U.S. President had nothing to do with us, but that’s what the American public is most angry about. It’s fueling outrage over those other matters concerning the syndicate’s enterprises.”
Janowski walked over to the bar and poured himself a two-fingered drink. He threw his head back and dumped it down his throat. “Yes, Americans are myopic and fixated on their leader in the White House. While their eyes are on him, their pockets are picked clean by every other agency in their corrupt government. The fools. So upset over the killing of one woman and her unborn child, while millions die around the world.”
This was a disaster. Janowski poured another drink and walked to his desk. He sat down in his executive chair and slammed his fist down in frustration. “Maddox must die! If you can do that one thing for me, you’ll retire this year a wealthy man.” He looked around the office, raging hatred on his face.
The silence on the line was deafening.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes, Boss. I’m thinking about how to go about it. I mean, the CIA and our own people have been trying –”
Janowski’s voice bellowed, “I don’t want to hear excuses!”
“Of course not. I mean, no, sir.”
“And what are you doing to find them?” Janowski asked, through clenched teeth.
“Everything possible. But as you know, it’s extremely difficult when they are CIA trained.”
“I don’t care what it costs. I want him dead. The woman too. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“And Yule? I need not tell you that this South Carolina disaster had better be your last screw-up.”
“I understand. You can trust that I have taken this personally. I will be handling every aspect of the hunt for these two from this point on. You have my guarantee that they’ll be dead soon.”
“You’re at a crossroads in life, Yule. How you perform will earn you early retirement with a healthy income the rest of your life – or an early death. It’s all up to you now. You’re there in the States; I can’t supervise you every damn second, so get it done.”
“They cannot be allowed to make fools of us like this. I assure you, they’re not long for this world.”
“You’d better make that assurance more than hot air.” Janowski slammed down the phone, fuming.
A conference in the States, a meeting of many of the most powerful men in the world, like so many others the organization had conducted over the years, fully sanctioned by the CIA and many other bought-off American agencies, suddenly went south on them and became a massacre? He was stunned.
A team of the most lethal killers in the world bested by one man and a woman? Not only did they give them the slip afterwards, but stayed long enough to paint the compound with the blood of not one but several of the organization’s top bosses. What worried him was the two had reduced the guards to numbers so low as to be ineffective if another strike were executed before they could be reinforced and the VIPs gotten out of there. He downed another drink. No. After last night, he knows I’m not there. He’s probably deduced I’m not even in the States. He and his associate won’t strike again. Not in South Carolina.
~~~
Carla aimed the rangefinder at a black van parked on the other side of a two-lane rural road. She had seen the occupants in front through her spotting scope and was certain they were Mob killers preparing to escort their bosses out of the compound at Lake Marion. “Eighteen hundred yards,” she said. “Just over a mile.” She could see across an open farm field from her position on the military crest of a high, tree-covered hill.
“It’s been done before.” Raylan adjusted the elevation dial on the Leupold scope.
She got a calculator out of a pouch on the side of her backpack and punched in numbers. “Yeah, you can hit moving vehicles, but what about the passengers inside?”
He pulled the Berrett fifty tight against his right shoulder. “Well, let’s find out.”
“Hold on there!” Carla put her hand in front of the scope so he couldn’t see. “I thought we were after the big shots. Those are just thugs.”
“I expect the caravan will be arriving soon. Might as well take them out now. What’s the elevation setting? I bet I’m not far off.”
She smiled. “Getting cocky, are you? Did you forget the wind?”
“Of course not.” Raylan searched the sky for trouble. “We’ll probably have a chopper to deal with before we get out of here. The local cops will be ready. They’ve most likely been told we’re terrorists after honest businessmen to disrupt international trade or some other BS.”
She checked the wind. “We’re not so lucky as last night. Wind’s coming out of three o’clock, full value. Speed is ten miles per hour. It’ll blow that bullet a loooong way off target by the time it travels a mile.”
“Yeah, I figure ten miles an hour, too. Write the dope down and hand it over.”
She did some calculations and scribbled it on a notepad, then handed it to him. “You sure those aren’t cops in that van?”
He scanned the numbers on the paper. “Look like Mob thugs to me.”
Carla gave him a worried look. “No way to be sure. What does a Mob thug look like, anyway?”
He chuckled and dialed the rifle scope in. “You’ve seen as many as me. Last night certainly gave you a chance to see an eyeful.”
“That’s true, and I still can’t guarantee those two in the front seat of that van aren’t cops. They don’t even look Russian.”
“Okay. I’ll take out the engine. It’ll be a good sight-in shot. Watch where the round hits.” Something caught his attention down the road toward the compound. “They’re coming. Get ready.”
She hunkered down behind the spotting scope. “Ready.”
He squeezed off a shot. An explosion of gravel, followed by a cloud of sand to the front of the van, told her he was off by four feet. “Ten clicks right.” The wind was blowing stronger than the two had thought. “Elevation looks good.”
Raylan hurriedly made the rifle scope adjustments. He had the Berrett back on target in seconds. The muzzle belched flame. It wasn’t easily seen in daylight, and they had plenty of time before their enemies would locate them. The longer range also provided extra safety compared to the night before.
The massive bullet punched through the near side of the van and slammed through the oil pan.
“Looks like the engine is finished. Oil is pouring out the bottom. But were you aiming that low?”
“Nope,” Raylan answered. He dialed more elevation.
Carla scoped the leading SUV in the caravan. “First vehicle’s full of guards.”
Raylan took the driver’s head off.
Carla glanced at him. “Thought you were after the VIPs.”
“I’m clogging the road.” Raylan fired again, killing the driver of the second car in the entourage, a black Mercedes, as he tried to maneuver around the leading vehicle. Just what Raylan wanted. He had the road totally blocked with those two vehicles. The deep,
water-filled ditches on both sides would prevent the others from going off-road and getting around the disabled cars. While swinging the barrel of the Berrett to fire at the last vehicle in the entourage, he barked, “Dope the last car!”
She had a little trouble getting the laser rangefinder aimed.
“How high should I aim?” he demanded.
She did some fast calculations in her head. They both spoke at the same time. “Two feet high.” He had estimated the range and calculated the elevation correction in his head, also. The bullet would be dropping fast at that range.
Raylan aimed and fired while the last luxury car was in the process of turning in the road and speeding back toward the compound. Raylan fired four more times, disabling two cars in the rear of the caravan and blocking all the others in. He realized he had eight vehicles full of underworld kingpins and professional killers stuck on a stretch of isolated road. In seconds, he had the first magazine emptied. He reloaded. Carla took up the empty magazine, stuffing more of the powerful rounds in. They both had a chance to strike back in a big way. All the years of being used and lied to, all the frustration and hurt of knowing their love for their country was just a tool for corrupt officials in high office. Nothing on earth could stop them from venting their anger through that fifty caliber monster of a rifle, she reloading, he firing as fast as he could aim. The world is taking a shit today, Raylan thought, as he fired again and again. He knew many of the men on the road were slave traders like Janowski, but it was the image of Janowski’s face that flashed before his eyes every time he pulled the trigger. In Russia, he had seen a truckload of teen girls Janowski was shipping to the States, packed in like sardines, and he had never forgotten their faces. The fifty’s barrel smoked as he kept firing, again and again.
Carla’s screaming voice caught his attention. “Police chopper!”
Raylan slammed a fresh magazine in. He lifted the heavy rifle up and took aim at the rear rotor on the helicopter, knowing they could still land safely, if the pilot was skilled. He squeezed off a shot and missed. The second shot hit its mark but did little noticeable damage. The pilot took evasive action and flew over the hill. That was good enough for Raylan. He scanned the road, by then full of smoking vehicles and dead men. A few down there were firing blindly at the hill with full auto weapons. They were kidding themselves. “Time to bug out,” he yelled.
They snatched up their equipment and raced down the reverse slope of the hill. Near the bottom, they stopped and removed the cut brush they had previously covered their motorcycles with.
Carla jumped on her bike and turned the key, then hit the starter button. The engine roared to life. Before kicking it into first and taking off, she turned her head to see where Raylan was. The helicopter had returned, and Raylan had the fifty shouldered, aiming. She put the bike back in neutral and swung down the kickstand. Jumping on Raylan’s bike, she turned the key to on position and pressed the starter button. The one-cylinder engine came to life after her second try. The bike would be ready for him when the time came. She left it idling and returned to her bike. There, she sat waiting, her MP5 slung across her chest.
Aiming for the rear rotor again, Raylan fired. Sparks flew off the rear of the helicopter and the rotor stopped. Immediately, the helicopter’s tail began to turn in the opposite direction the main rotor was spinning. The pilot cut the power and struggled to keep the craft from going into a death spin, lowering altitude as fast as possible without crashing into the trees below. There was no safe area for the pilot to land on the tree-covered hill. The crash produced a tremendous crunch of shredding metal, but no fireball. Raylan worried he might have just killed people he didn’t consider his enemy. The fact that he had no choice because there was no way they could outrun the helicopter and its radio did little to ease his conscience.
Raylan slung the fifty and jumped on the motorcycle. The two raced downhill. They had to put distance behind them and stay out of sight while doing it. In their pre-mission planning, they had worked out an escape route through private land. Earlier, they had cut several barbed-wire fences. Raylan slowed his motorcycle to race through the prepared gap of the first cut, skirting the edge of a farmer’s field, where they entered an adjoining parcel of tree-covered land by rushing through the second cut. Certainly, no police cruiser could follow, and the helicopter was down. Barring more aircraft, they would soon make their escape.
Before emerging from the woods, they stopped long enough to sling their long guns under their arms and hide them with a light, loose-fitting shirt that they had to button to keep the wind from blowing them open and revealing the weapons. Raylan disassembled the heavy fifty and stored it in a separate soft case that he attached to his backpack. The barrel had cooled somewhat but was still warm. The rifle case appeared to be just an accessory to the pack and there was no way anyone would guess what was inside of it.
As a precaution in case a drone was circling above, they kept enough distance between them that it would appear to be a lone rider. Since the CIA and police were looking for two riders, there was a chance they would pass over just one. So, Carla stayed more than a mile behind. She knew the escape route as well as Raylan and would even take an alternate road on the last leg into a small town they planned to rest up in, where they would rendezvous at a set location.
Late that night, Carla checked in at a motel, using one of her fresh fake identities and its corresponding credit card. She claimed to be alone and to have taken a cab, while Raylan stayed with the motorcycles, hidden behind a closed garage down the street. After checking in, she joined him, and they went to a restaurant to enjoy a badly needed meal. Just after midnight, they snuck the bikes into the room and turned out the lights. There was only one bed, and they didn’t get to sleep until two in the morning.
Chapter 9
Raylan was up before sunrise. The clamor of traffic just yards from their door woke him. Slipping out of bed without disturbing Carla, he headed for the bathroom. He shaved and took a shower, noting that his hand was free of infection when he pulled the bandage off. He opened a penknife and cut the fishing line stitches. They should’ve come out long before. A tug on each of the cut stitches removed them with no problems. It felt good to get cleaned up. A T-shirt and a thin baggy shirt over it to hide his pistol, complimented the slacks he wore. The bathroom door swung open, and he noticed Carla standing behind him. He spoke while looking at her through the mirror. “I’m done. Go ahead.” He turned and touched her bruised and scratched face, and then edged past her. “Didn’t notice that last night. Looks like you slammed into a limb during our wild ride through the woods yesterday.”
“I’m okay.” Carla eyed him. “You know we can’t stay here long.”
“I know. Take a shower and be ready to travel. I’ll be packing. We’ll grab something to eat on the way out of town.”
She stood in the bathroom, staring at him. “What exactly are your plans now?”
He saw something on her face that made him wonder if she was asking an entirely different kind of question that demanded an entirely different kind of answer from the one he planned to give her. “Dump the bikes and get a new ride. Evade until we can get out of the area and break any trail that can lead them to us again. I think we’ve struck back enough now. Hell, we’ve cut the crooked politicos’ cash flow drastically by killing most of their clients. They still, of course, have the deepest pocket of all – the American taxpayers, but their backdoor payoffs from the Mob have been really hurt.”
“That’s not what I meant. What about after we’ve shaken them off our trail and we think we’ve survived to live a little longer?”
“Well, that’s up to you. I hope you decide to stay with me. Together, we have about ten times as much of a chance as we do separate and alone.”
She had kept her eyes on him while he talked. She nodded and swung the door to close it, until he put his hand out. They stood there and didn’t say a word for several seconds.
Raylan broke the sil
ence. “The way I see it, well, why should we be alone? I like you, always have. And you’re not hard on the eyes. We’ve gotten along okay under stress without going at each other’s throat. Besides, who else am I going to find who understands what I’ve been through and why I’ve done what I’ve done? You’re also the only one I can talk about my past with.” He motioned with his hand between them. “And that last part works both ways.”
Her face softened, and she reached out and lightly touched his. “I agree. We’re kind of stuck with each other.” She kept her eyes on him as she slowly closed the door, a smile on her face.
He spoke through the door. “And you’re not bad in the sack, either.”
Carla could hear Raylan loading magazines for the heavy fifty and his M4. She looked in the mirror. The discoloration on her cheek was noticeable, and probably would be for at least another couple of days. The scratches were deep enough it would take longer to heal. She’d need to get some makeup from her kit to cover it. She showered fast and emerged from the shower looking refreshed, but bone-weary from their fight for survival. The last few days had been especially hard on her. Being hunted required twenty-four/seven vigilance, and there was no way to prevent it from wearing her down over time.
She opened the bathroom door.
Raylan looked up from putting the last magazine in his pack. “There’s a newsstand at the other end of the parking lot. I’ll go get a paper, and we can check on the big lie of the day.”
She finished dressing and then packed. A quick peek in the motorcycle’s tanks told her they had plenty of gas to get out of town.
Raylan returned and scanned the front page of the paper while standing at the closed door. It had extensive coverage of the road ambush and the attack on the compound before. All painted as Mob violence, with speculations about Mob kingpins battling for supremacy. There was no mention of CIA involvement, and no questions were asked as to why local law enforcement was providing security for international Mob syndicates. Another blaring absence that Raylan noticed was no mention of Carla or him as the culprits. The reports claimed a small army of mobsters was involved in the attack.
