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“Only John can make somebody that crazy.” — Holly Gennaro McClane, Die Hard
Sam
The ground in front of me erupted, and something hard smacked my forehead. It made a damp thumping sound inside my skull, like hitting a pile of wet newspapers with a baseball bat. A spike of pain split my head, my legs quit working, and I tasted dirt for the second time in as many minutes.
Panicked and blinded, I fought the urge to curl up in a ball and scream. I scrambled in the darkness, clawing earth. The sniper had me in his sights. Move. There was a short drop-off to my right that—
I hung weightless for a split second before gravity caught. I plummeted through a screen of bushes and belly-flopped hard enough to hammer the wind from my lungs. The world spun. The smell of dust and weeds tickled my nose. I tasted blood from where I bit my tongue.
Somewhere in my head, an alarm rang with a steady beat of sniper-find-cover-sniper-hide-sniper-crawl-away. I could no more move than a cat could drive a car. I’d had the wind knocked out of me enough to know what to expect, though experience didn’t help recovery. I could only hope the rock at my side sheltered me from the sniper’s view.
Remember to breathe. Simple. Open mouth, suck air. After several seconds of not being blown to bits, I managed the first lungful of air, then the next. The ringing in my ears receded, and my vision came back into focus.
I’d dropped from a six-foot-high rock bench into a tangle of bracken. My hands were scraped raw, and wetness—correction, blood—trickled from a stinging lump over my left eye.
I crawled closer to the man-sized bluff and squeezed against the cool stone. The night was too dark for me to tell how far in either direction the projection extended. In the run from the sniper, I’d become disoriented and had a hard time placing myself in a spatial relationship to the terrain. In other words, I was lost. For the moment.
A breeze ruffled the weeds, and their acrid scent made my eyes water. I wanted to sneeze. But relief pulsed through me when I touched the walnut-checked grips of my Kimber in its high-rise holster. At least I wasn’t completely helpless, cowering in the dark, waiting to see which would find me first—a sniper’s bullet or Bartlett’s band of douches.
I blinked my eyes wide open and scanned the darkness for threats. The sniper fire had ceased, so I was probably hidden for the moment. The shooter was no doubt moving to another position and would reacquire my heat signature, sooner rather than later. Once he did, Bartlett could zero in on me based on the sniper’s report.
Time to move, Sam. Need to get back to Marlon. But... which way is the mineshaft?
~~~
Dominic
IN THE SECOND BEFORE the scope blinked off, Lazzari saw the white ghost of his target spin sideways and fall, disappearing into the terrain of trees. The scope blinked once then died. Lazzari pulled his eyes back to reality. Downslope, he saw nothing but a faint outline of pines, aspen, rocks, and wilderness in the moonlight. He only knew the trees were pines and aspens because he’d seen them earlier. At night they became “tree, black, type one.”
Might as well try to find a light switch in a basement as see a human figure at a quarter kilometer in the wilderness. From the way the guy had tumbled, it looked like the last shot had hit, but Lazzari had no way to know for sure. Well. Shit. Bartlett’s gonna be pissed.
“Eagle to Six.”
“Six!” Bartlett came back like he had his finger poised over the talk button. “What the fuck, numbnuts?”
“Target down. Status unknown. Same relative position as earlier reported.” Grimacing, Lazzari waited for the biting comeback. For all his Coach Lombardi bullshit, Bartlett could be a real prick when annoyed, running a guy down in front of the squad with sarcastic comments.
No wonder Tommy moved to Dallas, with a brother like Reeder.
Nothing came for a long time.
“Copy, Eagle. Go back to the bird and await further. Six out.”
“Huh,” Lazzari grunted to himself. “Await further what, asshole? Instructions? Genius thoughts from our fearless leader, the dick-sucking sack of shit?”
Lazzari engaged the rifle’s safety and levered himself off the ground with a huff of effort. He patted his pockets and took a mental inventory. Leaving anything behind for other law enforcement types wouldn’t be wise. His XM500 had a brass catcher attached, so at least he didn’t have to wander the forest, looking for shell casings.
Fucking Bartlett. Lazzari didn’t know why he put up with the guy. Besides the money, of course. He could never forget the money.
Lazzari shouldered his rifle and followed the hooded beam of his flashlight to the game trail he’d followed to his overlook position. Stars washed the sky, and a glowing half-moon rose over the eastern range of the Mogollon Mountains.
Bartlett thought no one knew he was gay. What a joke. Everybody knew he and Luksa were fucking. Nobody gave a shit. It was creepy, but as long as they kept it private, Lazzari didn’t care. Not like I gotta shower with them.
No, Bartlett’s whole persona might have been copied from a wall of motivational posters and have as much depth. Well, screw Bartlett and his dick-breath buddy. If the fake fuck wants to chew on Mamma Lazzari’s boy, he’s gonna find the XM’s muzzle stuck down his throat. See how he likes sucking on that.
There was nothing else he could do tonight. Time to get back to Toby Glenn and his helicopter, eat some chow, and grab a few hours of shut-eye before dawn. Lazzari found the stack of rocks marking the main trail back to the helicopter. He turned left onto the path and quickened his pace.
~~~
Bartlett
THE SECOND TIME LUKSA fell face-first into the creek, Bartlett called a halt. After an hour of splashing through freezing water, stumbling over the uneven streambed, exploring dead-end trails with eyes peeled to cue-ball size, they hadn’t found jack-all.
“Huddle up, men.” They gathered by a fallen pine. Luksa, sodden and dripping, plopped his butt on the tree and hung his head. Bartlett’s spine crackled when he stretched to relieve the tension. “This effort, my friends, is class-A stupid.”
“Agreed,” Luksa said.
“No shit.” Mack faced outward, scanning the forest, though Bartlett doubted he could see a foot past his nose.
Bartlett checked his watch. “It’s two or three hours till dawn. You boys find a spot and catch some shut-eye. I’ll stand watch until we have enough light to see what the fuck we’re doing.”
The hair on the back of Bartlett’s neck tingled when he found Mack staring at him, two disembodied eyes in the surrounding darkness. The big man stood as silent as a totem pole.
“Roger that.” Luksa groaned and limped to a sandy spot, where he dumped his pack and stripped out of his wet clothes, which he hung on nearby tree limbs.
“What?” Bartlett demanded when Mack said nothing.
The black man matched stared at him for a long moment. Mack snarled up a wad of mucous, leaned to the side, and spit. “Nothing. I’ll see you in the morning.”
After Mack vanished into the forest, Bartlett seated himself on the fallen tree and slipped off his pack. From a side pocket, he pulled a flask of brandy and took a hit. The fiery burn soaked through his bloodstream like water into a dry towel. He capped the flask and put it away.
Not far away, Luksa snuffled and grunted, settling into his sleeping bag. A few minutes later, he quieted, and Bartlett had the night to himself. The smell of pine and sage, carried by a light breeze, washed over him. A fish plopped in the stream. Bartlett vacuumed air into his lungs through his nose then expelled it through his pursed lips. He did it over and over, until a slight dizziness tickled the edges of his consciousness.
How did it come to this? Itchy and tired, hiking a forest beyond the back of nowhere, hunting the skinny bitch who’d shanked his brother. Two guys left he could count on, and he wasn’t so sure about Mack.
Best case: they find Stone and her detail early, right after first light, and manage to drop Stone and the Rangers... something they hadn’t been able to accomplish all day, despite their best efforts. Then they would have to pack out six bodies, bury Stone and her bodyguards, and somehow get his guys back to the swamps to stage a crime scene that would stand scrutiny. All without being seen by anyone.
This mission had crumbled like dry cake. Had the woman already spilled her guts? Was there already an investigation underway? Their operation was covered by the thinnest of tissues, hiding in plain sight. It wouldn’t take much to cut through the skin and find enough evidence to land them all in jail.
“What was I thinking?” Bartlett murmured.
Luksa grunted in his sleep and rolled over. Bartlett glanced at the mounded shape. Too bad. Dan’s the one thing I’ll miss. Bartlett uncapped the flask and sipped again. But not for long.
~~~
Sam
NO MORE PESKY CANNON shells tore up the quiet night while I hugged the ground, breathing dust and weed pollen, trying not to sneeze. Bugs buzzed, and leaves rustled. No rogue alpha male federal law enforcement agents stalked the night. I nearly blew away an armadillo who snuffled out of the bushes without warning. He scuttled across my field of vision and vanished into the weeds.
It was so peaceful, I almost dozed off. I waited a solid twenty minutes before I moved from my little patch of Sam-shaped New Mexican dirt, inching through the brush as carefully as a naked man climbing a cactus. Every few feet, I paused and listened. The same bugs buzzed, and the same leaves rustled.
My back muscles clenched tight, in expectation of a bullet the size of a cruise missile. I burrowed into the incline on my left, following the base of the drop-off until it petered out and rejoined the main trail I’d followed earlier. Then I paused for another listen. Bugs buzzed. Leaves rustled. No bullets cutting the air. No feds sneaking around.
I scrabbled up and sprinted—hobbled, really—across a bare patch to the shelter of an oak. Pressing into the rough bark, I panted harder than the effort was worth. The run had made me dizzy, and more blood trickled into my eye. The cut hurt like hell, had for a while. I tuned it out, crouched under the oak, and waited for my head to clear, listening hard.
Nothing.
Either the sniper had run out of ammo, or he’d lost me in the clutter when I went over the edge. I had to accept as a given that the shooter had some form of radio or sat phone and had given his buddies my approximate position. Bartlett’s gang of misfit agents couldn’t find me in the dark, despite the sniper’s report.
Adrenaline ebbed as I waited with my back against the tree. My eyes drooped, and a whole can of tired poured over my head. I wanted nothing more than to sit there and take a nap. Somewhere on the slope above me, Jade Stone was climbing for her life—for all our lives—and the odds of her making it to help in time were... not good. My partner was down, held together with nothing more than a ton of guts.
Back in the old days, when a Comanche warrior was up against it, his back to the wall and facing impossible odds, he would sing his habbe we-ich-ket, his death song.
If I’d known a good death song, I would’ve sung it right then. I yawned. Maybe Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper”?
The molasses of drowsiness seeped into my muscles, and I yawned again. What about... My head snapped up, and I jerked awake, looking around. Bugs, leaves, yadda-yadda. Nothing else moved. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. What other good death songs are there? “Stairway to Heaven”? Would that one count? “Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald”? How did...