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“Good luck is when opportunity meets preparation, while bad luck is when lack of preparation meets reality” — Eliyahu Goldratt
Sam
I switched the firing selector from burst to single shot. Only fourteen rounds left in the M4, and Bragg hadn’t brought any extra magazines. At this rate, I would run out of bullets before Bartlett ran out of henchmen... unless they all made it as easy as the last two guys. So far, I’d burned up an entire forest of lucky trees. The guys chasing us were overanxious or overconfident, but I couldn’t count on that lasting much longer. They’d been stung hard, and a cooler head would take charge and organize a more coordinated pursuit now that they had our position marked.
I said a prayer of thanks to Saint Rambo for my wild hipshot and another for sending the man they called Reuben barreling right at me with the situational awareness of a turnip. I let him get close enough that I could see the red veins in the whites of his eyes. I almost felt sorry for him. But I wanted his gear.
Reuben was sprawled less than ten yards away. All it would take was a couple of seconds to jump up, run to the other side of my rock fortress, and cross a few measly feet of open ground. Reach down, grab the backpack and rifle, and scoot back. Twenty, thirty seconds, max.
But if Reuben’s buddies attacked at the wrong moment, they would catch me with my butt hanging in the breeze.
Will they, or won’t they? And how can I find out?
“Hey,” I called out. “You still there?”
After a long pause, the guy who’d called for Reuben said, “Yeah, I’m here.”
I noted the singular pronoun. Only one guy? Where were the others? Maybe I had a chance to keep this guy talking and not shooting.
“You mind telling me why y’all want to kill Jade Stone?” The second after I threw out the question, I started a slow crawl forward, M4 leading the way.
“You’re in law enforcement,” the guy said. “You know what they do to cops in jail?”
“Uh-huh.” I had to be careful and not yak too much. If he listened closely, he might take note that I’d changed positions.
“Then you know why.”
I kept quiet and snaked through the gap between the boulders. My shirt clung to my back, soaked with sweat. Grit crunched under my elbows and knees when I moved, more felt than heard. I stared so hard at the bend in the arroyo, I thought I would burn a hole through the dirt.
Ten yards turned to eight... then six.
“Your name’s Cable, right?”
The guy’s voice spooked me, and I froze for a second. I was off the rock and into the sandy soil by the stream, almost to the halfway point. If they caught me now... well, in Rita Goldman’s words, I would be “fucked more than twin sisters at an Appalachia family reunion.”
“Yep,” I ventured. When nothing happened, I resumed my slow crawl toward the unfortunate Reuben. And his pretty rifle.
“You don’t have to die here, y’know.”
“How so?” I knelt by the body. Young guy, late twenties, Hispanic with a strong Indian influence, Reuben had a tomahawk nose, clear skin, and a strong jaw. He stared at the dirt and leaked blood from his mouth.
“Our little band of brothers makes a lot of money.” Reuben’s buddy didn’t seem too distraught over the loss of his friend. His voice carried clear and strong, more conversational, like we were two guys out for a day in the woods. I secured the dead agent’s Glock behind my belt at the back while the guy blabbed away. “You make—what? Fifty, sixty K a year? Risking your ass twenty-four, seven for a dishwasher’s money? Where’s the sense in that?”
“You tryin’ to recruit me now?” I had the backpack’s left shoulder strap off, but the right was pinned under his body. I leaned across the dead agent and caught a whiff of stale sweat, blood, and human waste.
“Why not, man? We could use a guy like you.”
“Like me?”
“You know,” Mr. Recruitment said. “You’re a tough guy, good in a fight. Good enough to take down a couple of federal agents. Shot up all those mobsters last year.”
I jerked the strap loose, and a fastener scratched on the rocks. I froze, holding my breath. Nothing stirred by the riverbank, and apparently, the guy liked his own voice too much to listen for signs of movement. I let him blather on while I shouldered Reuben’s pack and crawled toward his rifle, which had stuck, muzzle down, in the loose soil next to the stream.
“I mean, think about it.” He sounded like a salesman, into his pitch and pushing hard. Sign here, please. Press hard—you’re making three copies. And that’ll be one soul, thank you very much. “You gotta lot to live for, man. You’re outnumbered, outgunned... it’s only a matter of time before... you know...”
Sand drizzled from the barrel of Reuben’s gun when I pulled it free. Maybe it all cleared; maybe it didn’t. I couldn’t trust the weapon until I could check the bore myself.
I scooted back to my redoubt, hauling my loot like the Grinch coming back from Whoville. I climbed the boulders and settled behind the V notch.
“I don’t know. Why should I join you guys?” I called to the Recruiter for Crooked Cops. “Looks to me like I’m winning.”
~~~
Luksa
WHEN REEDER BARTLETT and Mack McKenzie jogged in from the north, Luksa waved a warning. Both men panted, dripping sweat. Reeder was red-faced and glaring, and Mack was scowling. He had three degrees of scowl. One: Not happy. Two: pissed. And three: “I’m going to rip your head off, shit down your neck, burn your body, and piss on the ashes.” At the moment, Mack’s look rated a high One, maybe low-Two glower.
Crouched for the approach, Reeder huffed to a stop next to Luksa and settled on one knee. Mack veered left and hunkered by Ray Fuentes’s lifeless body.
“Scenic route?” Luksa asked with a lifted eyebrow.
Reeder waggled his head. “Fuck, no.” He sounded disgusted and out of breath. “The trail hit a dead end... Had to backtrack... about a mile, find another way. Whew! No fun.” He puffed his cheeks and blew. “Situation?”
“Fucked. Ray’s dead, Reuben’s down, probably dead. The guy—the Ranger—is holed up around this bend. Looks like he’s digging in for a fight.”
“How do you know that?” Reeder kept his voice soft, blue eyes burning plutonium fuel.
Luksa pointed at the swollen spot on his cheek. “See this? I poked my head out and nearly caught a bullet. It hit a rock near my face, blew chips everywhere.”
“Poor bay-bee.”
“Screw you, Reeder.”
“You wish,” the older man murmured with a twinkle in his eye.
Luksa couldn’t help the tiny smile that broke out at Reeder’s playful tone. Bartlett was patronizing him, no doubt, but the man’s charm got to him more than he’d expected it to.
Reeder keyed his mic. “Six to Eagle.”
“Eagle, go.” Lazzari’s voice came back with a hash of static.
“Subs headed south. Repeat, south. Keep an eyeball peeled.”
A double click indicated acknowledgement.
“So what are we going to do?” Luksa glanced back in the direction of Ray’s body. “I mean, three federal agents dead. How’re we going to explain that?”
Reeder nodded and scratched at a faint dew of snowy beard stubble on his cheeks. He raised his voice to include Mack. “Been thinking on that. Remember those two smokes from Sunnyside, Nyquil and Jimmamaya-something... Hey, Mack, how do you say those gangsta names?”
Mack’s stare was deader than Ray’s. “Fuck and You.”
“Naqueil and Jemahya,” Luksa supplied.
“Yeah, them.” Reeder sat with his back to the arroyo’s slope and dug out a bottle of water. “Always bitching about the product, the delivery—speaking of which, Donny’s bringing some more cigarettes over to the warehouse tonight; we need to move those out soon. Gettin’ full.” He took a healthy swig from the bottle.
Luksa kept a wary eye on the surroundings and noted Mack doing the same. Reeder might seem unconcerned, but Luksa wouldn’t put it past the Ranger to sneak up and blast them all where they sat.
“Anyway,” Reeder continued, “we take Ray and Reuben and Lee back with us. Have to get ’em past the charter pilot somehow. Then we pick up Nyquil and Jemima, take ’em all out to the bayou, and stage a scene. Big shoot-out, everybody dead. By the time they’re found, forensics will be fucked because of the water.”
A chill soaked into Luksa. “Is that what happens to the rest of us when we get killed? We rot in the swamp?”
“Don’t worry.” Reeder slapped him on the knee, showing horse teeth in a big grin. “Gators and coons’ll eat you up before you rot.”
“Jesus, Reeder.” He looked at Mack for support, but the black man brooded, crouched motionless. Whatever he thought, he kept it locked behind an unreadable expression.
“Enough of the girl talk,” Reeder ordered in his command voice. He swigged the last of his water and put the bottle away. “Let’s get this prick and finish the mission. Mack, flank wide left. Dan, take right. I’ll keep him occupied while you guys move into position.” He swatted at a whining gnat. “I’m tired of this jungle adventure.”
“Roger that,” Mack rumbled.
Luksa nodded. A shot of acid bubbled up, and he grimaced.
“Click twice when you’re in position,” Reeder said. “I’ll give the go order, but don’t wait. If you get a good shot, take it.” Hefting his MP5 sub gun, Bartlett grinned with all his teeth again. “Kill ’em quick, boys, and we’ll be home for breakfast.”
~~~
Sam
A SERIES OF MUTED POPS echoed behind me, sounding like an overgrown woodpecker with a steel beak. I picked up the pace, hopping from boulder to rock, avoiding the damp soil of the streambed. It wouldn’t take them long to figure out I had retreated, leaving Reuben’s empty M400 poking through some brush piled in my V-notch fort. I’d stripped the ammo before leaving it behind. When they did take the position, they would come on fast but hopefully not as fast as before.
The sun touched the top of the mountain to my right. Already, deep shadows filled the sheltered spots, and golden tinting colored the sunlit ones. In another hour, we would have the cover of night.
Vee are children of zee night! The bad Dracula voice spoke in my head, making me smile even while I sucked wind, panting like a front-porch hound. I ignored my hurting feet, cramping calves, burning thighs, and all the other aches and pains.
I recognized the bend in the river where I’d left Jade and Marlon. I slowed to a fast walk, thinking we should have arranged a duress code word before I left, in case one of us had a gun to our head.
“Hey, Stone, don’t shoot! It’s me, Ranger Obvious.”
She didn’t answer, and a sick feeling twisted my stomach. Did the bad guys get around me? Or the sniper? Did he find an angle from a new position? Or did she run off?
“Jade Stone, sing out.” I pitched my voice to carry no farther—I hoped—than where I’d left Marlon and the woman.
Nothing.
I angled wide right, bringing the M4 to my cheek and panning the riverbank as I moved. I saw Marlon first, or at least the bag he was in, a blue-nylon tortilla rolled around a stick.
I stumbled and nearly fell; stress or hunger was making me dizzy. I clamped down on it, blinked the sweat away, and slid forward until I reached Marlon. Pain fogged his eyes, which fixed on me with a stupid-groggy expression.
I scanned a complete arc before crouching next to him. “Dude, where’s Jade?”
He thought about the answer for a long time, long enough that I repeated the question. He focused on me and whispered so low, I had to read his cracked lips to understand. “Jade?”
“Jade Stone, our prisoner. Where is she, buddy?”
He swallowed hard and in a stronger voice said, “She took off.”
Well. Hell.