Zeb dove to the ground and rolled away, just in time, as rounds thumped the ground where he had been standing. He crawled desperately, seeking cover behind the hut, rounds whistling in the air and pinging off the corrugated sheets of metal that were on the hut.
‘It’s a trap,’ Mike, one of his team members, said laconically in his ear.
‘Casualties?’ Zeb demanded.
‘None. They are behind us. We are engaging.’
‘Engage carefully. And also retreat.’ Taking on a force of unknown size wasn’t a great idea, especially if they were outnumbered.
‘Roger. There are two or three hostiles at your two, pinning you down. I’ll flush them out. Gary will provide cover.’
Zeb peered around the hut, cursing himself for not bringing his NVG, and saw nothing but the dark shadow of the tree line. Flashes of fire emerged from it and while he was tempted to return it, caution prevailed. It didn’t look like the hostiles had night vision. They had somehow spotted his silhouette against the hut and had opened the ball. Too early, from the looks of it, otherwise he would’ve been peppered with rounds.
The firing increased in volume, indicating his unit had joined the fight. Zeb crawled as fast as he could, using all available cover, taking care not to rustle any undergrowth. The tree line was two hundred feet away; it felt like two miles. He zigged and zagged on the hard ground, perspiration streaming down his face and dripping to the ground.
‘We have you. Some of the unknowns are quiet. Maybe they’re down, or have run away. There are still others though,’ Mike told him.
A flare arced through the sky suddenly and landed on one of the thatched roofs and set it ablaze. Another followed and yet another house went up in flames. The night turned to orange, firing increased from both sides as each side realized they had lost the cover of the dark.
Zeb was fifteen feet away from much needed protection. He risked a quick glance but didn’t see anything. There were still rounds seeking him, but most of the action was between the hidden gunmen and his unit.
He rose warily and set out on a desperate run, swerving randomly. A yell sounded from somewhere and bullets came his way, thankfully not close. He plunged into the thicket he had identified, raised his gun, and sought targets. He was some distance away from Mike and the rest of his unit
The fire was at its peak and lit the tree line. His men seemed to be holding their own and Zeb knew they would be inching back to the rendezvous point from where they could hotfoot it back to their vehicle. He also knew they would take down as many hostiles as they could.
Movement!
Two shadows moved out from behind a tree, one murmured something and a torch flew into the sky. Zeb snapped up his M16 and let loose a short burst. The first one caught the flame thrower flush in his chest and he went down. The second man turned a startled look in Zeb’s direction, sprayed back in retaliation, and set off at a run.
Tall, bald, bearded! Zeb ducked and caught a quick glimpse of the surviving man. Adrenaline surged through him. Jama! He loosed off another burst, but the warlord was swiftly making his way between trees and short bushes. Away from Zeb’s unit, and towards the river.
Zeb set off in pursuit, ducking and darting through low hanging branches, his senses alert for another trap. There didn’t seem to be one; Jama, if that was him, seemed to be running in a straight line and when he reached open ground, Zeb could make him out clearly. Powerfully built, his legs were pumping as hard as they could, a rifle slung behind his back. That’s Jama for sure, Zeb confirmed when the fleeing man turned once to look back.
He’s out of ammo, that’s why he’s fleeing. Zeb thought of bringing him down with his rifle, and rejected the idea as swiftly as it had entered his mind. TFR would like him alive.
He could make out another tree line, three hundred feet away, on the banks of the river. Can’t let him get there. He’ll disappear into the darkness. He upped his pace, striding evenly, breathing easily despite the weight of his equipment.
Twenty feet separated them. He could hear the man’s harsh breathing. Fifteen feet. He could make out sweat on Jama’s head.
Ten feet. Zeb left the ground in a low dive and went for the warlord’s legs. Jama fell but twisted as quick as an eel, his rifle barrel coming up. Zeb slapped it away and punched the man hard in the stomach. Jama evaded and kicked out with a leg. It caught Zeb on the shoulder and its power numbed him for a moment.
Jama slithered away and scrambled to his feet and in the dim light, a gleam appeared at the end of his hand. A blade. He swung at the prone Zeb who ducked just in time. Zeb flung soil in Jama’s face, making the warlord retreat, allowing Zeb to rise to his feet.
Jama clawed at his eyes for a moment and surged forward. Zeb didn’t retreat.
The knife came up, Zeb clubbed the attacking hand away with a bunched left fist, punching Jama’s forearm. Zeb turned sideways and got inside Jama’s reach. His elbow shot out, seeking Jama’s throat. It found the man’s fleshy shoulder and gouged deep. Jama hissed and brought the knife up again. Zeb caught his wrist and tried applying a lock, but the man was covered in sweat. Or oil. Zeb’s grip slipped and for a second, the knife resumed its upwards journey to Zeb’s heart.
Zeb smashed his forehead on Jama’s nose. It shattered. Another head butt split Jama’s lips. Zeb lost track of time. The village disappeared. Sound vanished. Jama remained. That peculiar surging in Zeb remained. The surging that fueled intense attack and blurringly fast moves.
A concrete-edged hand clubbed Jama’s wrist. The knife fell. Zeb’s hand bunched again and rabbit punched Jama’s sternum. Jama, taller and larger than Zeb, was trying to wrap his hands around his opponent. The blow to his middle made him gasp. Zeb followed it up with more jabs, raining them so fast, and from so close, Jama had no time to recover and react. He raised his elbow again and shattered the warlord’s jaw.
A shout came to him from a distance and that strange surging in him accelerated. Krav Maga strikes, to the left of Jama’s body, dislocated the warlord’s shoulder. Another strike broke two ribs. Jama roared in agony and fell. An answering yell came from behind.
Zeb landed a hammer blow to Jama’s neck and rolled away, turning swiftly, his thigh-strapped knife rising to his hand instinctively. One second to focus on the approaching man. Not friend. Definitely hostile.
The running man was unlimbering his rifle while on the run. He was close enough for Zeb to see the whites of his eyes. Zeb’s knife flew in the air, silent and deadly, and pierced the man’s shoulder. Zeb powered himself off the ground and flung himself at the hostile in a low dive, making his body as compact as possible. His shoulder rammed into the attacker, his left arm twisted the man’s rifle barrel away and rammed it back into the man. The man went down, Zeb on top of him, and with a savage yanking motion, Zeb finished him.
Zeb spun around, ready to go at Jama, but Jama was out of it. The warlord lay wheezing, drawing tortured breaths through his mouth, his one hand flailing on the ground.
Jama wouldn’t be fighting anymore.