by Leigh Barker
The bushes dumped water onto him as he made his way slowly through the undergrowth, but at least there were no leaves to hold more. By the time he’d covered fifty yards, his pants were clinging to him and water was running down his back from his hair. He should’ve waited in the warm SUV until the weather got better. Right, wait for the sun to come out and bluebirds to… to do whatever the hell bluebirds do. He pulled his coat tighter. It didn’t help.
The hit man would be thrown by turning up ready to shoot somebody and there being nobody to be the shootee. What would he do? Ethan thought about it while he moved very slowly now he was getting closer.
He’d get out and scout around. Yeah, maybe. Or maybe he’d assume they were coming and stay in the warm van. That’ll be door number two. He checked the mag was secure and squinted into the driving rain. Only an idiot would be trudging around the woods in this. At least it would be a surprise. He didn’t believe that. He had to expect the hostile to be set up and ready for him, anything less would be careless.
He came to the picnic area and stayed in the bushes. The van was right there across the muddy clearing, parked parallel to the road. Two things struck him. The glass was steamed up, and the driver’s window was down a few inches for ventilation. He eased back behind a beech tree and leaned his shoulder against its gnarled trunk. It was a trap. Every instinct told him so, and he believed them. He always had. For one mad moment, he thought about just spraying the van with nine-mils, but that would be nuts. If it was a trap, and it was, then the shooter wouldn’t be in the van, he’d be waiting for some idiot to sneak up and try to look inside.
He crouched and looked around. The shooter was out in the rain too. Waiting. But where? He studied the woods, but all he could see was rain. The shooter would expect his target to approach the van on the driver’s side, to check the open window, so that’s where he’d be. To the west. And in this weather, he’d want to be close enough not to miss. And there were trees. He looked at them. Yeah, trees, this being an urban forest. So he was across the road, probably no more than fifty yards northwest, with a good view of the van and a clear field of fire.
Ethan slipped back into the trees and circled the picnic area, heading north. He was going to have to flush him out. A frontal assault was just going to be noisy and very short lived.
His pocket buzzed and he froze, then realised it was his cell. He crouched behind some thin shrubs. “What?”
“You been shot yet?” Kelsey said.
“No, but I’m going to be real soon if some idiot keeps calling to ask stupid questions.”
“Excuse me for caring.”
He was sorry he’d snapped, but wasn’t about to say so. “I know where he is, but it’s going to be a bitch to smoke him out. He’s across the road and there’s nothing between me and him.”
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Thanks for the advice. Can I go and shoot the bad man now?”
She killed the call, and he looked at the phone for a moment. It was strange, but he was glad she’d called. One last voice before he got his head shot off.
He needed a diversion and looked around slowly, but all he could see was rain and trees, lots of trees. And a wide stretch of open road stretching away to the bend where the SUV was parked, and that was now way too far away. He should’ve crawled up to the van and… and… he didn’t know. Blow the fuel tank maybe. Yeah, great idea.
He could make his way another hundred yards or so and then run across the road. That would work. Right up to the moment a seven-sixty-two mill hit him in the—
The SUV swung onto the picnic area and pulled up ten feet in front of the van, nose to nose. His blood ran cold; then a voice screamed in his head, That’s your diversion. Move.
Kelsey opened the door and stepped out into the rain, drew her gun and walked slowly towards the van and the open driver’s window.
Ethan ran.
Christian smiled when Melissa answered his call on the second ring. “I’m in town. Unexpected visit. Are you free for lunch?” He looked out of his hotel window. “Great. I’ll pick you up.” He listened. “No, Baxter isn’t with me. I’m counting the minutes, darling.” He ended the call and dropped the cell phone on the bed.
It was a pity Baxter was overrunning on his… assignment. He usually handled all the messy work, but there was no time to waste now, and there was no telling when he’d be back. So he’d do it himself. The idea sent a shiver down his spine. It would be a buzz, like the old days. No more sucking up to fat men in suits and being nice to people who weren’t good enough to kiss his shoes. Yes, like the old days.
He lifted the brown leather briefcase off the bed and laid it on the desk in front of the window. It was the same case Baxter had carried when he met Senator Wakeman. He opened it and took out the Beretta, held it up to examine it and nodded his satisfaction. Baxter’s eye for a fine weapon was impressive. The Beretta 92FS was magnificent. He turned it slowly in his fingers, as if caressing a thing of beauty.
There was a soft knock on the door, and he put the Beretta back in the case and closed it before calling to room service to come in. It was late for breakfast, but a man shouldn’t go to work on an empty stomach, even if that work was also a pleasure.
Ethan didn’t crouch or zigzag, he just raced across the road as fast as he could and tore into the undergrowth, cut left and dropped to his knee. If the shooter was tracking his movement, then there was a good chance he’d shoot for his chest and that shot would now go over his head. He hoped.
He peered through the slanting rain at the SUV. He couldn’t see Kelsey, but from his position she’d be hidden by the van. Stupid. Stupid. But as brave as any marine he’d ever known. He hoped to god she had enough sense to keep her head down now she’d provided the diversion.
There was no shot, not at him or at Kelsey, and that was both good and bad, but mostly good. The bad count was it would have pinpointed the shooter’s position, but the price could well have been too high. So he’d have to do it the hard way. And wasn’t that what he’d trained for at vast cost to the American taxpayer? Right. Time to pay some of it back.
The shooter would have seen where he entered the woods, so he’d be waiting for a mistake, maybe for him to stick his head up so it could be shot off.
He looked around slowly. There were two ways out of the copse he’d jumped into. Any other way would shake the bushes and invite a big hello. One trail led back to the road, and the other deeper into the woods, but at right angles to the direction he’d like to take. That being straight at the enemy. A bit blunt, but that had always been his style. Straight down their throats.
He moved off down the narrow trail into the woods, keeping low by walking like a damned chimp, a style that played hell with his damaged knee. But he kept crouched low, because the alternative would cure his knee, and all his other problems.
The shooter would maintain his position, that was almost a given. He would have selected his perch carefully, with an angle on the van, the road and all other approaches. Ethan gave him that much credit, but based on the ambush on the office block roof, it was a safe bet this guy knew what he was doing. If Rayford hadn’t stepped into the bullet, there would be no creeping about in the wet bushes. He put the thought aside and concentrated on what he was doing, even though it was second nature. He’d flushed out and killed more snipers and ambushers than he cared to recall. Every one had been the same. He thought about that. Right, except that every one had also been different. Position, topography, weather, and the man. But in the end it always came down to the same thing.
He stood up behind an old tree and flexed his knee.
Who wants to live the most.
He looked around the tree and pulled his head back. Yeah, the jihads wanted to throw their lives away for some bullshit cause, but what appeared to be their greatest strength was in reality their greatest weakness. They were eager to die and get to the virgins. Ethan wanted to stay alive and did everything he damn well could to
make it happen. So he was always ahead of the curve, and happy to oblige them with their martyrdom. Something they frequently ran into with open arms. He took a long breath and started to move, but this time upright. Walk like a man. This guy is no martyr high on the idea of jihad. This is a stone killer. Keep your fuckin’ wits clicking.
He wiped the MP5 on the sleeve of his overcoat, not because the water would affect it, but just to remind himself what he was carrying. Every weapon handled differently and this was no M16. He’d set the selective fire setting to match the three-round burst of the M16, just to keep things familiar.
The narrow trail intersected a much wider one used for runners and bikers that led southwest back towards the shooter. Okay then, that was the route. The shooter would be watching it, but he’d also be watching Kelsey.
He crouched again, felt his knee telling him that was stupid, and stood up behind another tree, and took out his cell.
“Hey, you in heaven?” he said.
“No, but the pneumonia I’m catching will get me there,” Kelsey said.
“You got your gun in your purse?”
There was silence for a long time. “You think I carry my gun in my purse? What am I, some N’ Orleans hooker with a Saturday night special in a spangly bag?”
Ethan smiled at the phone. “Dunno, don’t know you that well.” He let her swear if it made her feel better.
She stopped.
“So, I put the shooter north of your position, about thirty yards.”
“You can’t know that. You’re making this up,” she said.
“No. Well, maybe a bit. But it’s where I’d be. You see the high ground up on your left. With the fallen trees?”
She was silent for a moment while she located it. “I see it. You want me to rush it?”
“God, no.”
“Good, because I wasn’t about to.”
“Point your weapon at it and squeeze off a couple of rounds.”
“Will I be able to do that without a big strong man to help me?”
Her voice had an edge and he wondered if he’d said something to annoy her.
“Just do it, will you?” he said.
“Wait up while I get my thirty-eight out of my purse.”
He looked up at the heavens for inspiration, but just got cold rain.
“Okay. Say when,” she said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “We could stand out here in the rain a bit longer and just chat.” He held the phone away from his ear and close to his mouth. “Just shoot your—”
Off to his left Kelsey’s Glock cracked three times. He lifted the submachine gun and took off down the trail. Two things were working for him; the shooter would be looking at where the shots came from, he wouldn’t be able to help that, and the rain was pounding down through the trees, hiding him and masking the sound of his approach.
He hoped.
Kelsey fired another three shots at the fallen logs on the low ridge then got back into the SUV out of the rain. “Okay, hotshot marine, you’re on.”
She took a long, slow breath, let it out in a sigh and looked up to heaven, via the vehicle’s padded roof lining. “God, you haven’t heard from me for a while, but hey, it was your fault I got stuck in that convent school. But I forgive you. There’s a friend of mine out there doing the Lord’s work, your work. Take a quick look at him, will you? And keep him safe.” She looked out of the window at the rain. “Amen.”
Ethan would’ve said a prayer too, if he’d had time, but right about then he was working his way up the incline from the west, the opposite side the shooter would expect to see him. That was the plan.
He held the MP5 against his shoulder and wherever he looked, the muzzle looked too. He could feel the cold rain on his face and hear it thumping against his shoulders, but ignored it and just put one foot in front of the other, and tried not to step on the dry branch that always gave away the stalker’s location in the movies.
He was icy calm and breathing slowly as he always did in combat; it wasn’t practiced, it was just the way he was. People who knew about it told him it was a sign of a true warrior, and he always nodded. And thought, Bullshit.
A few yards from the top of the hill, he stopped and stepped behind a tree. If the shooter was there, he’d know in about three seconds. Time to test it.
He ran up the last few yards, dropped to one knee and pulled the MP5 up under his chin, ready to do the business.
There was nobody there. No shooter squinting through his scope at Kelsey. Nothing. He didn’t stop to think about it, he just pushed off his knee and dropped back behind a tree. And a supersonic round said howdy.
A tenth of a second, that was all that had saved him, but a tenth of a second or a day and a half, the end result was the same. The shooter had missed. And even though the rifle was suppressed, Ethan knew where he was.
The round had passed by high to low, which meant the shooter was higher, and the only thing higher than the hill he was sitting on were the trees. He smiled. The shooter thinks he’s a monkey.
He climbed to his feet, keeping the tree trunk between him and the direction of the shot. Nobody in his right mind would step out on the side the shot had passed, so the shooter would be lined up on the other side of the tree, waiting. Shame to keep him hanging around in the rain.
Ethan gripped the trunk with his left hand, pushed his torso out from behind the tree, and wrenched it back as fast as he could. He heard the thwack as the .50-cal round smacked the air where his head had been, but ignored it and pushed himself off the tree and out the opposite side. He jumped a fallen trunk, cut right and then left and was in the woods again before the next round tore off a chunk of bark the size of his head. But it was a foot wide to his right. Okay, that was cool. Not being dead was a plus.
The rain stopped, no get-set, it just stopped. The trees continued to pour water from their bare branches, but the torrent was gone. The shooter would have a clearer view, but so would Ethan, and he could move. The shooter had a big .50 cal and that was not a hit-and-run weapon; it liked to be still and stable. Like an anchor.
Ethan kept moving, ducked under a low branch and stepped immediately to his left, then stopped and turned back and to his right.
Another round hit the tree he was standing next to with enough force to shake the rain down in a cascade, but he was already soaked to the skin, so another drenching didn’t count. And the shot had been a little bit wild. He was rattling the shooter. He rolled his left shoulder around the tree trunk and used it to slingshot out the other side; then he ducked low and ran four steps before stopping suddenly and breaking left.
Baxter watched the man in the raincoat coming, but couldn’t keep him in the scope long enough to take the shot. What the hell was this prick doing? Keep bloody still.
Ah. He squeezed the trigger and the bullet went right where the target had been. He swore and clenched his jaw. He needed to relax, to anticipate the man’s next move, but this was all new to him, people he shot usually just stood there and died. This chap was moving like a kid in a game of tag.
Left, he would go left. He squeezed off a shot and saw Ethan had stopped. He hoped it was a hit, but knew a .50-cal round didn’t let the man stay on his feet, no matter where it hit. A voice in his head told him to get on with it. But he knew he was trying his best, and he knew it wasn’t good enough. The target was getting closer.
He wiped the water from his face, closed his eyes for a second to calm down, and settled back against the rifle stock. The Barrett M107 was his preferred rifle for hands-off work, but it had been a mistake to use it for this, and he knew it. It was designed for extreme long range, two thousand yards or more, but at this distance, he could almost hit the cop with a stick. Too close for the M107. Shit.
He eased away from the stock, reached into his jacket and pulled out his Glock 17 and laid it on the branch next to the one he was lying on. And even as he did so, his heart skipped a beat. It was physical recognition that the hit was go
ing wrong.
With a thought that chilled him more than the rain, he realised he shouldn’t have climbed the tree, because now he couldn’t get down, not without exposing his position. Stupid beyond belief, but he’d thought it was going to be an easy kill. The cops would drive up, stroll over to the van for a look-see. And he’d blow their heads off.
The cops. Two of them. He looked a little to his right at the SUV next to his van. There was another cop, a female. He glanced back at Ethan as he disappeared behind a tree less than a hundred feet away. He made his decision. Even if killing the woman didn’t stall the marine, at least he’d take one of them with him.
He shifted the rifle a little to his right, squinted through the scope and fired. Then he adjusted his aim a little lower in case the woman had thrown herself into the footwell, or been blown there.
Despite TV cops hiding behind their car doors, Baxter knew from experience that a standard 9-mil round would penetrate a car door and kill whoever was on the other side, so the .50 cal wouldn’t even be slowed down by the bulk of the SUV passenger door. Disabling vehicles was one of the primary missions of the M107.
Kelsey looked down at the fist-sized hole that had appeared in the door and in the passenger seat and frowned. Training, self-preservation or just raw fear grabbed her and she wrenched open the door and threw herself out into the mud, scrambled to her knees and crawled to the rear and squeezed herself against the back wheel. Whatever had punched that hole in the door might just have trouble with the axle and wheel. But she knew it wouldn’t. She had to get out of there. She looked across the thirty feet of open ground to the woods. She was going nowhere, except to hell.
Christian tapped his driver on his shoulder. “Pull over here, Spencer. That’s her.”
His driver eased the big Merc to the curb and got out to open the rear door for the woman waiting in front of the newsstand. She gave him a quick smile as thanks, and that told him she was a commoner and not used to the life she was trying to scheme her way into. He closed the door behind her and walked slowly back around the car to give his boss time to greet her. Some things are not spectator sports.
