by Tom Wood
The only question was whether he suffocated first or drowned.
A slow, messy death either way.
Victor left him to it.
EIGHTY-ONE
Victor retreated as automatic fire came his way from the right. Bark tore from tree trunks. Leaves shredded. The forest was a thunderstorm of gunfire.
Multiple shooters.
Two. Maybe three.
He took cover behind a corner of jutting rockface. Watched as rounds blew away shrapnel of stone and plumed out a grey cloud of dust.
He changed positions during a lull in the shooting. He wasn’t counting the enemy’s bullets – there were too many coming his way from multiple shooters for him to keep track – but he guessed they were reloading.
At nine hundred rounds per minute, the SCARs would empty their mags in less than three seconds of continuous fire.
Victor dropped the first guy with a headshot when he rounded the corner of the rockface in a hasty pursuit and took a snapshot at the second as the corpse fell, but that bounty hunter was already moving out of the line of fire.
Shooting again to make sure he stayed put, Victor changed positions, not flinching as the bounty hunter popped out of cover to put rounds his way. They blasted holes in the rock. Debris peppered his arm.
A round thumped into the carbine and it jolted from his hands.
No time to retrieve it – and a good chance it was disabled – so he shuffled fast into a narrow gorge, knowing the third guy had to be flanking because it would be the easiest thing in the world to circle the outcrop while the other two had pushed forward. If Victor hadn’t made it through to the other side before the third guy had manoeuvred around the rocks, then he never would.
He drew the pistol on the move.
A compact SIG.
In close confines with many blind spots, he kept the gun in a double-handed grip near to his chest. Leading with a weapon further from the body increased the risk of someone taking it. At point-blank range he didn’t need to use the iron sights to hit a target.
Point. Shoot.
Kill.
He approached a junction in the ravine.
Corners were always dangerous – a gunman could be waiting unseen, ready to fire – but reaction was always slower than action.
Victor darted out fast but low, in a bent-over half-crouch, right arm across his chest, gun beneath his left armpit.
The guy waiting to ambush him saw Victor at the same time Victor saw him, but the bounty hunter was reactive, not active.
A double-tap hit him in the throat.
A third bullet tore a hole through his jaw.
He went down shooting, muscle spasms compressing his finger on the trigger. Rounds plugged holes in the side of the gorge until the magazine was dry and rock dust and fragments thickened the air, covering him in a pale burial shroud.
The gunfire drew attention, as Victor knew it would.
He was ready for the next guy, who took the same approach Victor had done, coming out at speed while low and relying on action being faster than reaction.
But he didn’t see Victor at the same time Victor saw him because Victor was prone on his stomach, hugging the rockface in the bounty hunter’s blind spot.
The guy rushed right past him.
Victor’s first trigger squeeze put a bullet in the back of the man’s closest knee before exploding the kneecap on its way out.
He screamed and fell straight down, providing Victor with a clear and easy shot to the back of his head.
Blood and brains painted the rocks.
Victor jumped back up to his feet.
Another three down meant only one remaining.
Garrett.
EIGHTY-TWO
Garrett approached with more caution than the others, moving away from the rockface to improve the angle. He had his right arm outstretched with his left bent at the elbow, left hand cupping the end of the grip to support his hold on the pistol.
A stable, effective stance, yet the pale sun was behind him and his shadow inched forward ahead, rounding the corner before he did and giving a split-second warning.
Victor never let an advantage go to waste. He dashed out of cover, deflecting Garrett’s pistol with his left hand as he went out shooting, gun near to his chest, aiming at centre mass. The muzzle barked three times in rapid succession, brightening the dark forest in a trio of yellow flashes.
The bullets struck Garrett in his body armour, none penetrating but hitting him with thousands of joules of energy.
He grunted and recoiled, releasing his double-handed grip on his own pistol to grab at Victor’s weapon before he could adjust his aim for a headshot.
Both guns went off as they wrestled for control of the weapons. One bullet struck the rockface and blasted debris into Victor’s face.
He felt warm blood on his cheek, but worse were the tears that flooded his eyes in response to the rock dust that entered them.
Blinded, he fought with touch, with instincts.
He twisted and wrenched the pistol from Garrett’s grip, who then batted it out from Victor’s hold and threw a downward elbow strike at the back of his other wrist to jolt the SIG from his hand.
Blinking in an attempt to clear his vision, Victor threw short punches to the body and palm heels to Garrett’s head to keep him from attacking with strikes he could not see to defend against.
Garrett backed away from them, then went low beneath Victor’s reach to tackle him around the waist and drive him back to the rockface.
The impact stunned him for an instant, and Garrett punched and elbowed him with blows that made his ears ring and his blurred vision darken.
Victor raised a high guard that caught and deflected the next strikes to give himself a second to recover.
His eyes streamed water, yet his sight cleared enough for him to glimpse Garrett loading up for a powerful right cross. Victor dodged, but not fast enough, and the punch caught him on the side of the head.
He staggered away, dazed, although his eyes were now free of dust, and he turned to catch the following punch thrown in the exact same way as Garrett sought to repeat the previous success.
Even dazed, Victor controlled the arm and threw elbows into his enemy’s face, splitting his lip, opening up his cheek.
Garrett turned his face away, shrugging his shoulder to help defend it, and grabbed hold of Victor’s shirt to pull him closer and twist him off balance.
They pivoted on the spot, Victor on the back foot and Garrett exploiting that to put knee strikes into Victor’s abdomen.
He slipped and went down to the ground, using that sudden shift in weight to drag the bounty hunter down with him and throw him over his head.
Victor scrambled from his back to his front, rising slower than he was used to because of the weakness in his left leg. Garrett was faster to his feet, attacking Victor before he had risen fully upright, but the ground was uneven, the gradient made worse with the earth churned to mud.
They both staggered, both unbalanced, pushing and pulling until they fell.
They tumbled down the sloping gorge, Garrett’s arms around Victor, pinning Victor’s arms to his torso until they hit a tree and came apart, Victor winded and Garrett dazed. They slid in the mud, Victor on his back and the bounty hunter on his front.
Garrett recovered first but was unsteady as he climbed to his feet. There was no hill behind him, just empty air. The lake far below.
Diaphragm paralysed and gasping for air, Victor could only watch as Garrett rose and then turned on the spot to collect his bearings. He reached out with his arms, as if seeking handholds in the empty air, and shook his head in an effort to regain his senses quicker.
When he did, his gaze locked on Victor.
He grunted as he approached, kicking for Victor’s head, which he jerked to the side, before rolling away from the heel that propelled downwards at his face.
‘Why won’t you just die?’ Garrett growled.
His chest
heaved for air and he didn’t go after Victor. Garrett was happy to take a rest and shake off some of his disorientation.
With space between them, metal glinted as Garrett drew a combat knife with a serrated back edge and a hooked point.
Victor’s knife was dirtied with mud and blood. He took it into his hand as he rose.
Garrett attacked with fast slashes and faster thrusts. Short movements, precise and considered, as he used his left hand to ward off counter-attacks or attempts to disarm.
Victor kept his blade moving in fluid diagonal arcs, a relentless rhythm – high low, low high – seeking to slip past Garrett’s parries.
The bounty hunter had too much speed and experience to leave himself open. He fought with restraint. He preferred to move his own knife along the horizontal and vertical planes in short, quick slashes. A thrust was faster, the point travelling in a straight line, but that line offered almost no defence of its own – unlike a cut, which blocked lines of incoming attack as it attacked.
Their blades clashed several times with dull clangs.
Victor blocked a slash to his face with the back of his wrist.
Garrett accepted a cut to the shoulder to spare his neck.
Victor matched him move for move. Garrett fought in a Kali-inspired style. Short, fast moves perfected in the Philippines over generations. Fluid, effective. Victor fought with no style. He subscribed to no methodology. Violence was violence. He used what worked, what beat and maimed and killed in the most efficient manner. Fluidity was nothing without efficacy. Style was synonymous with martial arts, yet art had no place in combat. Sometimes the ugliest move worked best. Often, a martial art was only effective because both parties adhered to the rules.
Victor had only one rule.
Garrett was not prepared for that savagery.
‘It’s like that, is it?’ Garrett said, dabbing the back of his hand against the frayed skin of his cheek that Victor had ripped with his teeth when they had been close.
It was impossible to dodge or parry every attack. Victor’s wounded leg halved his speed and dulled his reactions. For every cut he landed on Garrett, Garrett sliced him three times.
There was only one outcome for that kind of exchange.
He could not exploit the terrain because there was none. They fought on an outcrop overlooking the lake. There were no trees. No escape except back up the steep gorge down which they had tumbled.
When Garrett next moved in, Victor dropped his knife to go for Garrett’s arm. It took the bounty hunter, expecting a counter-attack with a weapon, by surprise.
Victor caught the incoming arm by the wrist, moving to take control of the knife, but Garrett slammed him before he could apply the lock, driving Victor back into the rockface.
Water erosion had smoothed away any sharp protrusions, so no new wounds opened, but air rushed from his lungs and his ribs burned from the impact.
He maintained his grip on Garrett’s wrist, keeping the knife immobile, and hit him in the side of the head with his left hand, an open palm strike, followed by an uppercut to the guts as Garrett’s free arm rose to ward off an expected second blow to the head.
Victor threw more body shots, lefts and rights, hitting Garrett’s ribs, his sternum, his abdomen in a relentless barrage.
He wanted to hurt him, but more than that Victor wanted to attack with the body shots to leave his own head exposed long enough that his enemy couldn’t resist throwing a punch that—
Victor slipped.
Garrett’s left fist collided with the rockface.
He cried out, multiple bones in his hand fractured. Maybe his wrist too.
In that moment of weakness, Victor batted the knife from Garrett’s other hand, and the bounty hunter retreated, face pinched and contorted in agony.
Victor, exhausted, only remained on his feet because of the rockface behind him supporting some of his weight. He couldn’t feel his left leg any longer.
He realised he had taken a knife slash above his knee and not even noticed.
Garrett had his left arm bent at the elbow so the broken hand was cradled near his shoulder. He was exhausted too.
‘What’s it going to be, Fish?’ he asked. ‘Are we going to keep doing this until we’re both dead?’
Victor said, ‘What do you suggest?’
‘If we carry on like this, neither of us walks away. Last man standing will never make it out of the forest. Victory doesn’t taste so sweet when you bleed to death a few minutes later.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I can cut you in,’ Garrett said. ‘We can split the payday. Walk away rich men. That kid is worth a truck of money. I don’t know why those two old creeps want that grandson for themselves so much and I don’t care neither. But they’re richer than sin. I’m talking retirement money. I’m talking never having to work another day for the rest of our lives.’
Victor said, ‘I don’t need the money.’
‘What is that boy to you? He’s not yours. You don’t know him.’
‘I said I’d teach him to fish.’
Garrett waited for more, and when none came, he said, ‘You have got to be kidding me. You said you’d teach him to fish? This is a joke. It has to be. You’re going to die here in the rain for nothing.’
‘I made him a promise,’ Victor said.
EIGHTY-THREE
‘I try not to make promises,’ Victor continued, ‘because I don’t like it when I can’t keep my word. I told Joshua the same thing. I told him that in the absence of true virtues I tend to hang on to what’s left.’
‘I get it,’ Garrett said. ‘I could have killed you before at the house. But I didn’t. I acted with honour. I showed you mercy.’
‘You did.’
‘You remember what it was like to have honour?’ Garrett asked. ‘You wore a uniform once, just like me. I bet you miss it too, don’t you? I know I do. Not the rules, not the bullshit. I miss the camaraderie. Nothing comes close to it on the outside. Not friendship. Not love. When you fight shoulder-to-shoulder with your teammates it changes you. You’re never the same again. I was never the same again.’
‘Me either,’ Victor said.
‘Then you and I are as good as brothers because we understand one another. You’d never kill a man you fought alongside, would you?’
‘Never.’
Garrett said, ‘You kill me, you kill one of your brothers.’
‘They’re all dead.’
‘Who are all dead?’
‘My teammates,’ Victor answered. ‘My squad. I was the only one who made it.’
Garrett listened.
‘Ambush,’ Victor explained. ‘We walked straight into it. They had the flanks. Higher ground. We were trapped with nothing but dirt and dry grass for cover. We called for air support. Jets were already in the sky. Six minutes out.’ He paused.
‘Felt like a lifetime, did it?’
‘Those six might as well have been sixty. Heavy machine guns. Mortars. Sniper fire would have ended it in seconds had the mortar shells and machine-gun rounds not turned the air into a giant dust storm. They couldn’t see us, but we couldn’t see them either. We were shooting blind at the hills, counting the seconds, praying those jets could break the laws of aerodynamics and get to us sooner. I don’t know who died first, but I know it was a mortar. There was an explosion so close to me the shockwave popped the buttons on my fatigues. I heard a scream. Saw a pair of legs with no torso attached. I had seventeen pieces of shrapnel in my back and I didn’t feel even one of them. We’d been fighting for maybe thirty seconds at that point. Five and a half minutes still to go until air support arrived.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Fought. Put so many rounds into those hills I ran out of ammo and had to scoop up another rifle. I didn’t know who was dead and who was alive in that dust storm, but it didn’t matter. The mortar was picking us off. I couldn’t see it but I knew how fast a good team could launch a shell and they were raining down on
us like clockwork every nine seconds. Seven-second flight time meant three hundred metres away. Two hundred metres of ground to cover and I could get a bead on them. I could buy a reprieve.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes,’ Victor said. ‘I killed the mortar team.’
‘But?’
‘Enemy rushed my team’s position. Overwhelmed them.’
‘Then you’re lucky to be alive.’
‘Unless I had stayed in position,’ Victor said. ‘Maybe with another friendly we could have driven them back until the jets reached us. Some could have made it. Instead of just me.’
‘You don’t know that for sure.’
‘You said I was lucky to be alive,’ Victor said. ‘Do you believe in luck?’
‘No.’
‘Neither do I, but sometimes I wonder.’
‘Why?’
‘Because there are more than seven billion people on this planet and of those seven-plus billion people to which to show mercy you picked the absolute worst one.’
Garrett said nothing.
‘Even for the two of us, neither of whom believes in luck, that seems pretty unlucky, doesn’t it?’
‘You don’t have to kill me.’
Victor said, ‘You might be right.’
And tried anyway.
He charged Garrett, and together they toppled over the edge of the outcrop.
They twisted as they fell, Garrett’s greater strength forcing Victor around, and he sucked in a hurried breath an instant before he hit the lake first.
A sudden thump of resistance jolted him before the water parted in a huge splash and the lake swallowed both men.
The water, freezing cold, was a second jolt of pain, but Victor already knew it well and had survived it once already. Now, the cold was more intense, the pain more profound. Deprived of blood, his body had less ability to fight the temperature.
With their combined mass they sank fast, a tumble of limbs and violence. Bubbles all around. Water coloured with blood. Muted sounds. Pain and anger.
Garrett went for Victor’s thigh, for the wound he had created. He punched it, grabbed at it with desperate fingers until he found the compression tourniquet and unhooked the fastening.