Danger Close

by Allen Manning

  “Stone must have made it farther than we expected,” Damien said. “I want your men out there, at the other end of this clearing.

  The big man shrugged his shoulder, adjusting the fuel tanks on his back. “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t want our quarry doubling back and reach his friends.”

  Retief nodded with a grunt and passed the orders along. His men reformed the line and jogged ahead, moving deeper into the hunting grounds.

  “Make sure you get some food and rest,” Damien said to Retief. “We hunt at first light, and I don’t want to hear any complaints or excuses.”

  Damien readjusted the revolver in his shoulder holster and walked to his truck. He climbed into the bed where he had an air mattress set up underneath his sleeping bag. Unlacing his boots, he pulled them off and set them to the side, sliding into his bed, setting the alarm on his watch for one hour.

  Lacing his fingers behind his head, Damien stared up at the stars in the night sky. His body resisted sleep, but he did his best to keep his breaths even and relaxed. Thoughts of the hunt played out in his mind. He had to push them down, suppressing the excitement enough to get what little sleep he could.

  After almost twenty minutes, his breathing finally slowed and eyelids grew heavy. Before his body could fully relax, a scream snapped him out of his slumber. Unsure if it was his subconscious or something he had actually heard, Damien bolted upright. The screaming continued. It was faint but all too real.

  He looked down at the other men in his hunting party as they searched for the source of the sound. Damien scrambled to pull his boots on, not bothering to lace them up before climbing down to join the rest of his team.

  “It’s coming from over there,” Retief said, pointing to a faint glow in the forest, from the same side the soldiers had emerged when Damien and the others first arrived.

  * * *

  Measuring off several paces, John found the spot he liked.

  “Right here,” he said, jamming the tree branch into the dirt. “It’s the most likely path someone would take. The ground also has enough slope to hide the hole.”

  Curtis got onto his knees and started gouging at the ground with the broken branch in his hands. “Are we adding spikes to the bottom?” he asked, the amused tone evident in his voice.

  John joined him, tearing away chunks of dirt and rock. “We just need it to slow the man down. Maybe twist an ankle or knee.”

  “And what if he comes down one of those other paths between the trees?” Curtis waved his stick toward the crest of the small hill.

  “Then we’ll be there waiting,” John said with a grunt.

  They dug for another ten minutes, John testing the depth of the hole with his own leg until he was satisfied. He wedged one of the thick branches along the front lip of the pit, creating a hard edge. Curtis used smaller twigs to cover the top, until there were enough to spread some leaves and pebbles on top, matching the surrounding area.

  “What are we using as bait?” Curtis asked, looking down at their trap. “Please don’t say it’s me.”

  John brought the monocular up, scanning through the foliage. “Blanchard’s got sentries on patrol, surrounding his camp. We wait for one of them to pass by and get his attention.”

  “I can shake some branches. Walk around like Bigfoot, maybe,” Curtis said. “Hopefully he won’t think I’m some wild game and shoot first.”

  “We’ll build a fire,” John said, looking at the ground. “Not too big, but enough to get someone’s attention if they’re halfway competent.”

  Curtis patted his pockets. “I gave up smoking years ago.”

  “Did you forget your training?” John asked with a smirk.

  He gathered the supplies necessary for a fire, tinder, small twigs, sticks, and branches for the fuel.

  Curtis looked back toward the edge of the forest then back to John before he helped gather more wood. “I was hoping you were going to say you came prepared.”

  John kept his eyes fixed on the task as he tapped a finger to his head. “I did.”

  “What are you, a Boy Scout?” Curtis mumbled.

  John tested the fit and function of the thicker branches he had prepared for use, unlacing one of his boots to fashion a bow drill.

  “Wow, you really are a Boy Scout.”

  Ignoring Curtis’ musings, John focused on his task, working the wood with the right amount of pressure and speed until he saw the faint wisps of smoke trailing out. He checked the progress and continued until he had a small coal to start the fire.

  Curtis stood back, arms folded across his chest, watching as John nursed the ember, providing the additional oxygen it needed until the tinder ignited.

  “Okay that was impressive,” he said.

  John built the flames up, adding the smaller sticks until it grew hungry enough for the larger branches. “Now we wait until our unlucky customer gets close. Hopefully, this is big enough for him to spot as he passes.”

  “And not too big for the rest of the camp to see,” Curtis said.

  John undid the cord from the branch and threaded it through the eyelets on his boot. “We need to get into position in case he doesn’t take the direct route.”

  Curtis pulled the pistol from his waistband and checked the chamber.

  “No guns,” John said. “We don’t want the noise to alert the rest of them.”

  “Are you serious?” Curtis tucked the Beretta away. “Do you think our friend is going to politely grunt when he sprains his ankle in that hole?”

  “We want them to hear their man in pain. But a gunshot is only going to bring them running, armed and ready for a fight,” John said.

  “I don’t think I’m following your plan one hundred percent, but I’m going to go with it,” Curtis said.

  John held a finger to his lips, mouthing the words someone is coming.

  Curtis pressed his body against a tree, his hand instinctively dropping to the grip on his pistol before coming away and forming a fist.

  Minutes passed as one of the sentries walked by on his route. The man’s footfalls stopped as he came into the tree line. John leaned out to watch his actions. If the man radioed for backup, the trap wouldn’t work. John counted on the fact that Blanchard’s men were more afraid of reporting a false alarm than any real danger.

  The man brought his rifle around and made his way into the trees, slowing his pace. He reached the top of the small incline, opting for the easy way down, where John and Curtis had set their trap.

  At the bottom, the sentry’s boot passed straight through the small covering, sinking all the way to the bottom as his body pitched forward from his momentum. With an audible crack and pop, the man’s knee dislocated as his ankle spun ninety degrees in the hole.

  His shrieks of pain pierced the silence, almost adding a glow to the darkness around them. John and Curtis pounced.

  John clamped a hand around the man’s mouth, barely able to contain the cries as he pulled the radio and revolver from his belt. Curtis retrieved the rifle the man had dropped when his body hit the ground.

  “Let’s go,” John whispered as he removed his hand, letting the man continue his incoherent screams for help.

  CHAPTER

  22

  “Don’t let them reach that truck,” Millie said. “If they get that machine gun up again, we’ll lose the advantage.” She fired another burst.

  The mercenaries approached slowly, ducking behind anything they could to avoid the sniper dealing death with every round that spiraled out of the barrel. They fired blind, or snapped off quick, impatient shots, crawling forward when they could, trying to gain ground.

  Travis looked down the sight of his rifle, propping it on the armored vehicle’s hood as he pressed his earpiece with his finger. “I said we could use some support right about now.”

  Frustrated, he set the weapon down, pressing a hand to his other ear as he crouched behind cover. “No, we don’t have time for you to consult someone else. We’ve got
almost two dozen heavily armed men knocking down our door. If you don’t send help now, you’ll be sending people to pick up our bodies.”

  The chorus of rifles on his side of the fight made his conversation that much harder. Jimenez fired the Remington from the gunner's turret in the Mamba, working the bolt with practiced precision.

  “Chambers, tell them we need some close air support right now,” he said.

  Travis straightened his posture. “Yes! Yes, that’s perfect. What’s the ETA?” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “Ten minutes? I don’t think we can hold out that long.”

  Millie ejected the magazine from her MP5, looking for a spare. All of the pouches on her belt and vest were empty. She dumped the SMG into the open window of the vehicle and grabbed the Vektor R4 dropped by an injured ally.

  “What did they say?” she asked Travis before popping back up to rejoin the fight.

  Travis picked his rifle up and fired several single shots at one of the braver enemy soldiers making a run for the truck parked in the middle of the battlefield. “They’re putting a couple of Predator drones in the air for us.”

  “A couple of Predators?” Jimenez asked. “We need some choppers.”

  “This is an off the books operation,” Travis said. “We were lucky that they had a few drones in line for decommissioning. It’s going to take some time to arm them up and get them airborne.”

  “How long?” Millie asked as she leaned out for a clear shot.

  “Ten minutes.”

  “That’s going to be pretty tough,” Millie said. “Jimenez, do you think you can keep these guys pinned down long enough for those drones to make it?”

  “Uh, that’s going to be difficult,” he said, making a minuscule adjustment in the position of his rifle before pressing the trigger. “That was my last three-oh-eight round.”

  “They don’t know that,” Millie said. “You’ll have to keep that rifle pointed in their direction until they realize it.”

  “It won’t take them long to figure that out,” Travis said as his rifle thumped into his shoulder.

  “Every second counts,” Millie said. “Until then, we need to keep them off of that FN MAG. When they make their move, switch to this and pour on the fire.” She set her rifle on the roof next to the marksman.

  “Don’t you need that? What are you going to do?” Travis asked.

  She pulled the Glock 17 from Travis’ holster. “Whatever I can.”

  Before either man could protest, Millie darted to the side, out from behind cover as she made a break for the bushes along the road, sliding as the pool of darkness swallowed her up.

  “The charade is up,” Jimenez said, dropping the Remington into the vehicle and grabbing the R4.

  One of the soldiers stood, shouting and taunting, thumping his chest with a fist. When a bullet didn’t strike him dead, several more joined in the ritual. Soon the entire group was on their feet, rushing forward, weapons roaring. Two fell from the volley of fire, but it didn’t take long for the mass of mercenaries to reach the pickup truck.

  Most ran by, taking up firing positions only a few dozen meters from the convoy, their rounds striking much closer to Travis and the others. The soldiers with him did their best to continue the fight, but the blitz drained the morale of the defenders. Kofi shouted orders to his men, doing what he could to keep them focused.

  A group of enemy soldiers took cover at the truck, firing at the Mambas. Two of them climbed into the bed, reloading the mounted machine gun in the back.

  It’s going to take a miracle to survive this, Travis thought.

  * * *

  The cries of pain continued even after two of the men reached the source. Damien pushed his way past the group, watching as Retief ordered a nearby soldier to help the screaming man. Two others joined the effort, easing the sentry up, one guiding his leg from a hole dug into the dirt. The trap had done a number on the man’s leg, dislocating it at his knee and twisting the ankle.

  They set him down on his back, discussing what to do about the mangled limb. The sentry continued screaming in pain. It took all three men to hold him down as he kept trying to sit up and grab his busted knee.

  “His weapons are gone,” Zane said, wiping a handkerchief across the back of his neck. “The radio too.”

  Damien looked around at the other sentries. “Did anyone see who did it? Who took this man’s weapons?” He paced around the group, locking eyes with a tall, skinny man darting his eyes side to side, hoping to avoid attention. “Was this Stone?”

  “I do not know, sir,” the skinny sentry said. “I only heard the yells for help.”

  “What are we going to do about his leg?” another soldier asked. “He needs medical attention.”

  Damien closed his eyes and pressed his hands to his head, unable to block out the incessant shrieking. Retief knelt to get a closer look at the dislocated joint. One of the other sentries gathered sturdy branches, removing his belt to begin fashioning a splint.

  Gabriel and Micah stood off to the side, talking in quiet, almost hushed whispers. Damien’s anger boiled over as the injured man’s cries grew when his leg had been moved to secure the splint. He turned and drew his revolver from the shoulder holster, pushing past the men gathering around the scene.

  The handgun thundered, causing everyone in the hunting party to flinch, several reaching for their rifles expecting an ambush. The .454 Casull round tore into the man’s chest, shredding his heart silencing his cries permanently. A stunned silence fell over the group.

  Damien shoved the revolver back into his shoulder rig and jabbed a finger into Zane’s chest. “This was Stone’s doing. I don’t know how your men missed him, but get all of them back right now. Have them set up at the edge of the forest and don’t let anyone get by.”

  “What about Stone?” Gabriel asked.

  “Retief, get your tracker here,” Damien said. “We end this hunt right now.”

  Retief nodded and whistled, calling one of his men out by name. The stocky soldier slipped between the others, pulling the strap of his Sterling submachine gun over his shoulder.

  Damien pointed to the trap dug into the ground. “Find out where our prey went.” He looked at the rest of the hunting party. “Nobody move until he gets the trail.”

  * * *

  Just at the edge of the man’s screams, John watched through the scope of the rifle they had taken from the sentry. Curtis knelt next to him with his eye pressed to his monocular. Both men tensed as Blanchard’s weapon boomed in the distance.

  “Wow, that was very compassionate, giving him mercy like that,” Curtis said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Did you expect any less?” John asked.

  “Remind me not to stand in front of that hand cannon,” Curtis said.

  “The Alphas are there,” John said, shifting the weapon to his left.

  “You think we have a chance at ending this right now? Dropping the assassins and finishing off Blanchard?”

  John pulled the stock tighter against his shoulder, lowering his body to one knee, bracing his arm against the other leg. With the gun’s action, he knew there would be no way to getting all three targets at that distance.

  He had no doubt he could hit one, but working the bolt of the weapon would give the rest enough time to scramble for cover. They would also be giving up their position with inadequate firepower to fight back once the hunting party rushed them.

  “We need to stick to the original plan,” he said. “Pick them off one at a time. Let them make all the mistakes.”

  Even knowing it was the right call, John still kept the crosshair on Blanchard’s head as he increased the pressure of his finger against the trigger, almost to the point of breaking the shot. He took three deep breaths, in and out through his nose until his hands relaxed.

  “What’s all this now?” Curtis asked. “Looks like Blanchard’s got some kind of crime scene investigator.”

  John swept the scope over the group, spotting
a man crouched next to the dying fire they used to draw in the sentry. The mercenary looked at the ground, turning his head side to side until something grabbed his attention. He stood up and pointed at something further away. Finally, he said something to Blanchard, gesturing in the general direction, not far off from where he and Curtis were crouched, watching the hunting party.

  “He’s a tracker,” John said.

  “That’s going to be trouble for us,” Curtis said. “They’re coming our way right now. Maybe we can lose them and wait for another chance to strike.”

  “I don’t know enough about counter-tracking to shake this guy,” John said. “Unless you do, I think we’re going to have to think of something else.”

  “Should we split up?”

  “Not sure,” John said. “But we can’t stay here. It’s going to take some time for them to reach us, so we’ve got a few minutes to come up with a plan.”

  * * *

  Millie could hear the enemy taunts and shouts before they rushed forward, rifles unleashing a hailstorm as they surged ahead. She kept her body low, still moving along the bushes and trees along one side of the road. She gripped the pistol and straightened up for a better view.

  The soldiers with the convoy started their counter-attack, returning fire. The mercenaries took cover; some forced to drop prone. Her stomach clenched when she watched the enemy soldiers at the pickup truck. Two jumped into the bed, preparing the machine gun with another pair using the vehicle as cover.

  Millie sucked in a deep breath and ran through the shadows, hoping the firefight would keep anyone from spotting her. She needed to cover ground fast if she wanted to help the others.

  The roar of the FN MAG stole the wind from her lungs as she slid to a stop. I don’t have time to circle all the way around, Millie thought. She broke through the trees, pistol in hand, running toward the nearest mercenary as he leaned out near the front bumper, firing his AK-74.