Lethal Savage

by Dave Edlund

  March 3

  It was cold, bitterly cold. Frigid air from Canada had dipped south and settled over central Oregon, dropping temperatures fifteen degrees below normal. Wrapped in a down-filled jacket and flannel-lined cargo pants—both black as night—she felt comfortable in her concealed position except where the icy air assaulted the exposed flesh on her face, as if someone was pricking her skin with needles. She rose to her feet; it would feel good to move again.

  Avoiding the moonlit clearings—preferring to hide in the shadows cast by mature pine trees—she could easily hear the cheers emanating from the barn standing about a hundred yards to the front of her position. Through binoculars, she’d watched about eighty people, mostly men, enter the barn more than two hours ago. Given the early morning hour—approaching two o’clock—this fact confirmed her suspicions. The raucous cheering started soon afterwards. It was punctuated by periods of relative quiet, during which two men would exit the barn and retrieve one or two dogs from the kennels. Three times she watched motionless animals being dragged from the barn and roughly dropped in a separate caged pen.

  The kennels were clustered at the far side of the barn from the main entrance. It wouldn’t be good for business to have the spectators pass too close to the combatants. The dogs’ snarls and aggressive lunging in the cages could be most frightening. And the owner of the operation certainly didn’t want his guests to linger over the mortally and hideously wounded losers.

  During the moments of silence, if she listened carefully, the soft whimpering of the injured canines carried across the still night air. She’d occasionally heard about dog fighting rings—how they mostly used pit bulls and trained them to be monstrously aggressive and vicious. But not all dogs responded to the training the same way. Some dogs, the ones naturally timid, or those smallish in stature, became bait for the more combative and larger males to hone their fighting skills.

  She wondered if that’s what had been going on. Bait dogs being sacrificed to the fighters? Spilling blood to amp up their trained aggression? A grotesque warm-up; a prelude to the main event? She shivered, but not from the cold, and lowered her hand to the SIG Sauer P226 holstered on her thigh. Slung across her back was an FN Mark 1 tactical shotgun, modified with a folding stock. With the muzzle pointed down alongside her thigh, the weapon could be swiveled up in a fraction of a second and fired. Completing her armaments was her vade mecum—a combat tomahawk sheathed to her belt at the middle of her back. A nearly indestructible and wicked weapon with the head forged onto a high-strength steel handle, the tomahawk had a razor-sharp blade on one side that tapered to a hardened steel spike on the other side.

  By placing discrete inquiries that circulated through the petty criminal element populating the many small cities in this part of Oregon, she’d learned about the opportunity to wager on dog fights. In hushed voices, she was told that this was the place—a remote, isolated barn on one thousand forested acres of private land north of La Pine.

  Danya Biton had been living a shadowy existence off the grid. No bank account, no tax returns, no official employment, no permanent address. She used an evolving list of aliases and lived in a travel trailer, never staying in one place for long. Spurning credit, she conducted all transactions using cash.

  Which is what brought her to this barn.

  Having grown very proficient at liberating illegal gains from various drug cartels within Mexico, she needed to change her modus operandi. She was becoming too well-known south of the border. Word of her raids on the Sinaloa Cartel, the Juarez Cartel, and Los Zetas was fast becoming the stuff of legends. And with that notoriety came a huge bounty on her head—preferably alive, but dead would suffice.

  Danya advanced to a cluster of young trees and slid her body between the flexible branches. Nestled within the copse of trees, she felt secure. The branches broke up her silhouette and blocked out the moonlight, creating dark shadows that swallowed her form. The door from the barn to the kennels opened again. Through the binoculars she watched as a lone man looped a line attached to the end of a catch pole around the neck of a dog. The canine had retreated from the man to a far corner of the kennel, and now was being dragged back to the arena inside the barn. Cheers erupted from the spectators in anticipation of another round of the blood sport.

  Danya silently moved from her position of concealment. She needed to complete her reconnaissance of the building. With large sums of money being wagered, there would be guards outside as well as inside. Earlier, she spotted two men at the main door that provided access for the onlookers. She watched as each person was searched with a metal detector before entering the arena.

  Reason dictated that there would also be at least two roving sentries, and farther from the barn, where the private gravel drive split off from a public forest road, there would be one or two men. All would have hand-held radios to report any suspicious activity, as well as give warning of an imminent bust.

  Holding the barrel of the FN tight against her side to avoid any rattle that might alert others to her movements, she crept forward in total silence. This is what she had been trained for, and she was very skilled at her tradecraft, honed to near perfection on clandestine battlefields around the globe. But that was another time, another life, when she’d been one of the best killing machines of her former government.

  It was when that realization had dawned on her, like an epiphany, one day during an operation not far from her current position in the Cascade Mountains of Oregon—that she was nothing more than a machine, lacking any moral checks and balances—that she quit. But in her profession, no one was allowed to resign.

  You served, until you died.

  As she neared the kennels, the whimpering of injured dogs became louder. In a crouch, she edged closer, using the available foliage, which included bitterbrush and rabbit brush in addition to the evergreen trees, for concealment. Glassing the kennels, she saw three badly injured canines, barely moving. The shiny, black wetness on their fur suggested they were all bloodied. The head and neck of one of the dogs had severe lacerations, and blood was freely dripping from the horrendous wounds.

  The crunch of dead pine needles and twigs drew her attention. Someone was nearby.

  She lowered the binoculars and concentrated on listening. There it was again, but the sound indicated the person was moving at a normal walking pace, and not trying to be stealthy. Danya surmised that the sentries were likely amateurs, and that this dog-fighting ring was a second-tier criminal outfit—unlike the drug cartels.

  The footsteps grew nearer, and then she heard the sound of a zipper. Seconds later, the tinkle of water. It was close, maybe only ten to twenty feet away. Wishing she had night-vision goggles, she reached for the tomahawk and grasped it firmly by the leather-wrapped grip. She launched forward before the man finished draining his bladder. On the third stride, she saw the shadowy figure in front of a large tree.

  Two more strides and she rammed her shoulder into his back. The guard had turned his head a fraction of a second before the collision, so the side of his face slammed into the rough pine bark. He let out a grunt and reached for his holstered weapon. Before he could draw, Danya swung the tomahawk, planting the spike into the center of his back. The steel pierced through muscle and lodged in his heart. She raised the handle, causing the spike to further rip the heart tissue, which was now contracted tightly in a death spasm. Without uttering another sound, he sank to his knees and then fell to the side, dead.

  Danya placed her boot on his torso and yanked out the edged weapon. She wiped the blood and gore off onto the man’s jacket, then returned the weapon to its sheath. She removed his Glock pistol and stuffed it into her waistband. Lastly, she grabbed the radio he’d stashed in a jacket pocket. It was on, and she turned the volume down.

  Circling around the kennels to the far side of the barn, she came across a large tree stump conveniently nestled in deep shadows. It was about three feet in diameter with an uneven cut at a height of about four feet—
most likely an old-growth tree logged a hundred years earlier. The center of the stump had rotted away decades ago. She squeezed into the opening, knowing the stump would break up her outline from any viewing direction.

  Resting her elbows on the stump, she resumed glassing the barn and the surrounding forest. The roving guards would be out there, not too far from the building but far enough to offer warning should law enforcement or a rival gang attempt to approach from the woods.

  So far, Danya had been lucky. The sentry she’d just dispatched was careless. But she didn’t count on luck. It was planning, the element of surprise, and, above all, ruthless skill that allowed her to prevail time and time again in life-and-death contests that had played out around the globe.

  Another roar of cheers and whistles erupted from within the barn. The obvious joy that so many found in such a cruel event—she didn’t accept dog fighting as a sport—sickened her. She reflected on how she could easily kill another person and yet be repulsed by this barbaric cruelty to the animals she viewed as innocent. Often, when she lay awake at night, she would see the faces of those she’d killed, eventually arriving at justification. They had it coming. Guilty of murder, rape, torture—all at the behest of the cartel. Or they were enemies of the State; responsible—directly or indirectly—for the slaughter of civilians by the hundreds.

  Danya had encountered scores of truly evil people, and she had no qualms about eliminating them. It’s not that she enjoyed it, but she viewed it as necessary. She thought of herself as a warrior protecting the innocent, those who could not protect themselves. And on rare occasions, she prayed that the good in her deeds outweighed the bad.

  Although she came tonight to steal money from illegal betting, she now found herself wanting to end the lives of these men. Seeing the mauled dogs in the kennel and hearing the screams of agony as flesh was ripped from bone, the pitiful whimpers as the survivors clung to life by the thinnest of threads, these men had it coming.

  The binoculars amplified the ambient light somewhat, and with a full moon, she easily spotted another roving guard about fifty yards away. He was bundled against the cold and walked with hunched shoulders. He seemed to be moving along a path that was easy to traverse, rather than trying to remain concealed in the shadows.

  She continued to watch, and before long, the sentry turned and began ambling toward Danya’s location. He held a short, pistol-grip shotgun in one hand. In the darkness, with only her shoulders and head rising above the stump, she was confident he would not recognize the threat he was approaching.

  After several minutes, the guard walked through a break in the thick forest. In the moonlight, Danya could make out his facial features. He was looking mostly straight ahead, failing to show much interest or concern in what might be secluded amongst the trees.

  Definitely second tier. These jokers are amateurs, not the professional mercenaries the drug lords hired. Still, she knew better then to relax her discipline.

  He steadily approached, passing behind a dense grouping of young pine and fir trees. Danya took advantage of the cover to tuck away the binoculars inside her jacket. She didn’t want to chance that he might notice her movement. Then she grasped the tomahawk and crouched.

  Another minute ticked away, and then two. Danya was beginning to fear she had miscalculated, when the guard emerged from the far side of the young evergreens. He hadn’t seen the assassin, clad in black and concealed within the hollow stump, and now he was walking directly toward her. He approached at a constant pace—just a bit faster than an amble, but still lacking any evidence of being alert. Whatever was going through his mind, she doubted he had any thought about his job.

  From within the barn the cheering from the crowd reached a crescendo. Although Danya had no way of knowing, the final battle was nearing an end. This was the main event that drew the heaviest wagering, and the spectators were alternating cheers and boos.

  Danya steadied her breathing, taking deep but slow breaths, exhaling fully but being careful not to make a sound. And then, only ten feet away, he stopped. His head twisted from side to side. Something had spooked him.

  She watched as his grip tightened on the shotgun. Then he looked straight at the stump where she was hiding.

  For several agonizing seconds, he just stared in Danya’s direction as if he had some visual acuity that allowed him to see her in the blackness of the shadows.

  Suddenly, his arm jerked the shotgun upwards. At the same instant Danya propelled herself from the stump. She collided with the guard before he could fully bring his weapon to bear. The impact of her slim but muscular frame knocked him backwards. He stumbled but remained on his feet.

  Danya felt the impact too. This guy was solid muscle. She recovered her balance and swung the tomahawk blade in a vicious slice across his chest. The razor-sharp blade lacerated deeply, but with the addition of several layers of thick winter clothing, it was only a superficial wound. Painful, but not lethal.

  He pumped the shotgun to chamber a shell. Before he could aim the muzzle, the edged weapon came down again in a powerful swing. The blade clanged on the barrel and knocked the gun from the guard’s grip.

  He reached through the slice in his jacket, trying to remove his sidearm from a shoulder holster. At the same time, he took several steps backwards to increase the distance from his attacker. Danya pressed forward, closing the gap. She swung again, and he immediately twisted defensively. The blade buried deep in his left shoulder. He gasped. Had it not been for the thick muscle, the blow would have broken his humerus bone.

  His torso dipped to the left, a reflexive response to the wicked wound. Blood was already flowing freely down his useless arm. He fumbled with his right hand, still trying to remove the holstered pistol.

  Without hesitation or remorse, Danya swung the tomahawk again. The blade sliced horizontally, cleanly severing both carotid arteries. Gurgling, the guard placed his hand against his throat in a vain attempt to stem the flow of blood. He fell first to his knees, then forward onto his face as the life-force drained from his body.

  Danya hoped the metallic clangs and the other sounds of conflict had not been noticed by any other guards. The cheering from the spectators had just reached its peak, and now settled to a disorganized rumble.

  She picked up the pistol-grip shotgun and jammed it into the hollow tree stump. Then she ripped open the jacket on the corpse, found his radio, and turned it off. She removed his pistol, another Glock. The grip was covered in blood. She ejected the magazine, which she pocketed, and placed the pistol within the tree stump. If she hadn’t been concerned about making more noise, she’d have heaved both the pistol and the shotgun into the forest.

  In the distance, Danya saw people filing out of the barn. Some were slapping others on the shoulder, likely congratulating one another on their winnings. Others wore scowls, shaking their heads in disappointment at the outcome.

  The door adjoining the barn to the kennels opened. A man led a large dog to an empty pen using a catch pole, the cable loop firmly cinched around the neck of the creature. The dog appeared to move freely but was bloodied on the neck and had drool coming from its mouth. It’s snarls and growls were easily heard by Danya. After loosening the cable and releasing the animal in the kennel, it spun around and snapped aggressively at the catchpole.

  She held her position, carefully scrutinizing the activity, wary of other guards that may have heard the commotion and might be seeking out their compatriot to ensure everything was good. One minute passed… and then two.

  After what she judged to be about ten minutes, the last pickup drove away from the barn.

  As the forest returned to silence, save for the moans and occasional yelps from one or two dogs, Danya knew it was time.

  Cautiously, she advanced on the kennels using the shadows for concealment of her approach. No guards were visible, but that didn’t mean no one was looking. With practiced skill, she gently placed each boot on the forest floor, feeling for resistance that mig
ht indicate a twig or loose stone before transferring all her weight to that foot. It helped that it was early spring and the duff covering the ground was still limber from its moisture content.

  Soon, she was at the kennels. In total there were six, all fenced to a height of eight feet using chain link and steel poles. Three kennels were on either side of a wide, muddy path that led to the back of the barn. Corrugated metal sheets covered most of the kennels offering meager protection from rain and snow. Inside each pen was a rickety plywood box, closed on three sides and the top, some weathered straw thrown inside on the dirt for bedding. Plywood covered the bottom four feet of each shared fence to provide a visual barrier and deter combative behavior of neighboring dogs.

  A sliver of light escaped around a door in the weathered wood wall of the barn. In the moonlight, she saw three motionless carcasses in one kennel, and wounded dogs in three other enclosures. They cowered away from her approach, their bodies trembling in pain and fear. The sight sickened her. The putrid odor of feces and urine was rank, even in the frigid temperature, and only added to her revulsion.

  The large dog that had been led out only minutes earlier was growling and pacing at the far side of one of the kennels closest to the wall of the barn, fearful of Danya. She had no doubt that the dog, obviously trained to fight, would be equally aggressive toward people.

  She removed her gloves to improve dexterity and reached for the door latch. Suddenly, the door opened, nearly striking her. Instinctively, she stepped away and to the side, holding her breath and melting into the black shadows. A man dragged a bloodied dog behind him, the steel cable loop of the catch pole dug deeply into the folds of flesh on the animal’s neck. He exited the barn with the carcass in tow. The door slowly closed behind him. Silently, Danya watched as he opened one of the kennels and kicked the motionless body inside. He removed the catch pole from the dog, hung it on the chain fence next to a slip leash, and closed and latched the gate. He took three steps toward the doorway into the barn when he nearly walked into Danya’s SIG Sauer pistol, only inches away from his nose.