The Suicide King (The Grave Diggers Book 2)

by Chris Fritschi

  “Two minutes to the LZ,” said the crew chief.

  Tate switched the helicopter’s intercom to the team’s channel. “You heard the man,” he said. “Loosen up and check your weapons.”

  “I think my right butt-cheek is asleep,” said Monkhouse, wincing.

  “I always knew you was half-assed,” chuckled Rosse.

  The Blackhawk banked left and began to descend towards a broad clearing in the bottom of a valley. The team’s objective was two miles away on the other side of a range of rugged mountains. Tate had mapped out a path, giving their approach a good amount of concealment, but at the cost of a steep hike.

  “I can’t think of a better way to work those stiff joints than to be point,” grinned Tate.

  Except for Wesson everyone chuckled as they got ready. Wesson was making sure everything was going by the numbers.

  The air in the helicopter warmed and the loamy scent of moist earth and grass filled the cabin as the wheels touched down. The window gunners swiveled their machine guns, watching for movement breaking towards them from the tree line. Tate took off his headset and put his goggles on with the team following suit. With a thumbs up he leapt out of the helicopter, going to one knee with his rifle at his shoulder. One by one the team exited after Tate, forming a defensive semi-circle. In a jumbled cloud of dirt and debris the Blackhawk lifted off. It circled twice watching for any Vix. Satisfied, the helicopter flew off, leaving the team alone in unknown territory.

  The Grave Diggers remained in position long after the dust had settled.

  Tate waited, listening until the natural sounds of the jungle returned. “Let’s go,” he said.

  They got to their feet began the two-mile hike to their target.

  The efforts the team had put into their training and conditioning were paying off. The hike up the mountain wasn’t long, but it was steep, with thick patches of bush.

  Eventually they made the peak of the mountain, with a clear vantage of the village roughly half a mile away.

  Keeping low, Tate scanned the village though his binoculars. It took a while for him to get his breathing steadied so he could see the village without it bobbing around; more evidence how badly he’d let himself go to pot. Getting fit was a real struggle, although, truth be told, he could be working harder at it. A cringe-inducing trickle of sweat running between his shoulder blades and down his back punctuated the frustration he felt with himself. With a renewed promise that he’d take his fitness more seriously, Tate turned his attention to the second leg of their trip.

  The village shimmered like a mirage though the heatwaves. Earth-tone buildings huddled on either side of a red-dirt road. There was no sign of movement.

  Their path would take them down the mountain within the cover of trees up to the edge of the village. From there, they would be forced to use the buildings to conceal their approach.

  “Anything?” Tate asked Ota.

  Ota only shook his head.

  There was no reason San Roman would send Tate into a trap, but he didn’t trust the snot nosed punk not to do it just for giggles. Tate considered his options before heading out. He’d split up the team on the approach and move with all due stealth.

  Swathes of vegetation blocked them from view of the village as they got closer, but worked both ways. It wasn’t a hot day, but everyone was sweating from the stress of moving quietly. Nobody understood why, but Vix were attracted to places of human habitation, even though they were abandoned.

  Whoever used this distribution site probably cleared out whatever Vix were here, but there was no way of knowing how many may have come here since then.

  Their cover came to an abrupt end a hundred yards from the edge of the village.

  Staying in shadow, Tate scanned the open ground separating them from the village. Something by the village glinted, and he snapped his head in that direction.

  “Looks like members only,” said Kaiden, as she brought down her binoculars.

  Tate looked in the same direction and then saw it. A chain-link fence and locked gate blocked off entry to the village.

  “Monkhouse,” he said over his radio. “Tell me you brought bolt cutters.”

  “I’m hurt you’d have to ask,” smirked Monkhouse.

  Wesson and the other part of the platoon were sixty feet away, at the other end of the bush that was concealing everyone.

  She’d been intently scanning down the barrel of her gun for any threats. Gusts of wind sighed across the open plains, rustling the tall grass and picking up clouds of dust. Her pulse would jump as she caught movement from the corner of her eye, only to see a scrap of weathered paper tumbling over the ground. Another flicker of movement tugged at the edge of her vision and her mind would blur with images of twisted menace that she might discover, but it was leaves catching the light as they riffled in the wind.

  “What’s our next move, Sergeant Wesson?” asked Tate, thankfully breaking the spell.

  “Climbing the fence will make too much noise,” she said. She was stating the obvious, but it was the first thing that came to mind as she sorted out her thoughts. “We form up at the gate. Monkhouse breaks the lock and we go in. We can secure the gate with a zip-cuff. We’ll still be exposed, but it can’t be helped.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Tate. “Everyone ready up. Wesson, you take it from here.”

  With her head back in the game, nobody had long to wait. There was nothing but open, flat ground between them and the gate, making that position very exposed.

  “On my ‘go’,” she said, “Monkhouse and Fulton move to the gate, fast. Fulton provides over watch while Monkhouse cuts the lock. The rest of us will act as security from our positions. Monkhouse, open the gate after you pop the lock then find some cover. We’ll move to you. Any questions?”

  “Since you asked,” said Monkhouse, “Fulton’s really not my type. Can Rosse come with me? I see the way he looks at me.”

  “That’s clever,” grumbled Rosse. “How funny are ya with my boot in your face, huh, funny guy?”

  “Both of you, can it,” said Wesson. “Any real questions?” She let the pause hang momentarily. “Monkhouse and Fulton, go.”

  The two men broke from concealment with their rifles shouldered and quickly headed to the gate. Fulton continued to crane his head, looking for any threats, trying to keep his gun pointed in the same direction he was looking. His nervousness showed in his stiff posture and jerky movements. Exposed, out in the open, time slowed down as he waited for Monkhouse to cut the lock, but in reality it was only a few seconds. With the latch free to move, Monkhouse pushed it out of the way and swung open the gate. He tapped Fulton on the arm, motioning for him to follow, and they moved inside.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ZEN MASTER

  Leaving the gate open, they crouched in the shallow alcove of the building, just inside the fence.

  “We’re good here,” said Monkhouse into his mike. “No sounds, or movement.”

  “Copy that,” replied Wesson. “Rest of the team, we’ll move out in staggered formation and meet up with Monkhouse and Fulton. Move fast and keep your eyes open.” She paused a few seconds for the rest of the team to get ready. “Go.”

  The team came out of the shadows of the tall plants, heading directly for the open gate. The only sound was the soft crunch of their boots and the quiet rattle of the odd bit of gear.

  One after the other slipped through the gate until they were all inside.

  “Close it up, Rosse,” said Tate.

  Rosse pulled a thick plastic zip-cuff from his pack and threaded it around each gate. He fed the tip of the strip through the eyelet and cinched it tight. For good or bad, they were locked inside the village.

  The wide street was mostly hard-packed dirt, with a meandering gully snaking its way down the center, carved by years of rain. Bordering the street was a jumble of weathered, mismatched buildings of mud, brick and cinderblock. A couple had been painted in bright green or blue, but had faded t
o a chalky dullness long ago. Others had been white-washed, with the rest left with their naked red brick and grey mortar. Most appeared to be homes, with an occasional shop-front littered among them.

  The team stayed to the sides of the street, walking around piles of junk, and scattered abandoned cars. Here and there, a window was covered with rusty bars in patterns that failed to lessen the ugliness of their purpose.

  As the team moved up the street, Tate noticed that all of the doors on every building were closed.

  The people using the abandoned gas station for their distro site must have done that, he guessed. It would keep the Vix from hiding inside, but… isn’t that what the fence is for?

  “I don’t like this place,” said Rosse.

  “Yeah,” said Fulton. “Like it’s haunted.”

  “Kinda,” said Rosse. “There’s nothing here, but the nothing’s watching us.”

  “Keep the chatter down,” said Wesson.

  Tate didn’t believe in ghosts, but he felt what Rosse was talking about. He glanced over his shoulder at Kaiden, whose expression told him she was feeling the same. There was something softly pulling at the edge of his instincts that made him grip his HK-98 tighter.

  The road ahead was lost from their view as it made a bend to the left, giving the illusion of a dead end. The buildings around them were jammed together, leaving no view of the outside world. There was only the sharp, blue sky above, but it only added to the sensation that they were seeing it from the bottom of a hole. The entrance to the village felt much further than the hundred yards to the closed gate.

  Without warning, Tate brought up his right fist, signaling the team to halt. Everyone stopped and quickly dropped to a knee with their weapons up. The only sound was the scrape of dead leaves pushed by the wind.

  “What is it, Top?” Wesson asked, looking around. All she saw was hard-scrabble road and the blank faces of buildings around her.

  Tate didn’t answer right away. He tried to pull apart the confusing knot of his sensations what were coiling in his chest.

  Am I letting paranoia get into my head disguised as intuition, or is there something really there?

  Seconds ticked by as his senses blindly groped at something constantly shifting beyond his touch. He was aware the longer he paused, the twitchier the team was becoming.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Let’s go people. Stay sharp.”

  The team rose to their feet and continued moving up the street.

  Deep in the musty dark room, behind a pile of broken and tattered furniture, eyes peered from the shadows, watching the team gradually pass by the sun-drenched window.

  Across the street, pools of blackness hid another figure looking down on the team from an upstairs window. Trickles of sweat ran down their arms and seeped between their hand and the pistol grip of their assault rifle.

  As the team moved deeper into the village, more and more eyes watched and waited as anticipation stretched and pulled at their nerves.

  As the team reached the bend in the road, they saw a line of cars, eighty feet ahead, blocking the road. Further down the road they could see their objective: the abandoned gas station.

  Tate signaled the team to stop.

  “Fences, blockades,” he said. “Someone’s got a lot of time on their hands.” The wind blew a puff of dust in his mouth and he took a sip from his hydration bladder before spitting it out. “Okay. Monkhouse, check out that barrier for trip wires, traps. You know the drill. Everyone else keeps an eye out for bad guys.”

  The eyes watched from the shadows as one of the team moved cautiously towards the cars. The lone figure would stop and glance around, sometimes looking right at his observer and not seeing them. He kept moving until he was twenty feet from the cars, then started to crouch.

  “No wires that I can see, so far,” said Monkhouse. He crouched, but he wasn’t low enough to see all the way under the cars. He squinted as the wind changed direction, blowing dust in his face. The wind carried a faint tang and then it was gone.

  Monkhouse got down on his hands and knees to look for anything attached to the underside of the cars. “Well,” he grunted, “nothing here but cars.”

  Then he noticed that strange tang in the air again. It seemed the shadows the cars were casting on the ground were oddly dark, but he quickly changed his mind when he saw the ground under the cars was wet.

  “What the…?” puzzled Monkhouse under his breath. He moved closer for a better look and bent over again. Under each car, the dirt was dark with large, wet puddles.

  The wind gusted into his face and his senses were overwhelmed with the stench of gasoline. The cars were surrounded with a huge vapor cloud of gas and that could only happen if the cars had been drenched in fuel.

  Monkhouse heard an enormous roar as he sprinted from the cars. There was a tremendous flash of light and Monkhouse was punched into the air.

  “Cover,” yelled Tate as Monkhouse’s body rag-dolled through the air and landed in a motionless heap.

  The rest of the squad bolted to the buildings on either side of the street when, one after another, those buildings boomed into flames.

  The squad scrambled in confusion, seeking some form of cover. Tate’s mind raced as he quickly took in the chaos around him. He saw structures further behind them weren’t burning.

  “Ambush. Everyone down!,” he yelled, just in time as the windows of the buildings, not in flames, let up with gunfire. Spouts of dirt kicked up all over the street and bullets knocked off pieces of burning buildings.

  Wesson had dropped to her belly with a grunt and yanked on the trigger of her light machine gun. The recoil knocked the butt of the stock into her shoulder and she quickly got the bucking weapon under control.

  Kaiden fired a burst at the flash of light from a window. The shooting stopped, replaced by frenzied screams.

  Rosse was bent over Monkhouse, ignoring the sizzle of bullets ripping past him. The heat from the raging fires around them was pushing them into the middle of the road as the gunfire from the buildings was intensifying.

  Somebody knew exactly how to make this kill zone, thought Tate. As he peppered one of the windows with suppressing fire, he heard a tortured groan as the walls of a burning building buckled and the building collapsed into the street.

  If they stayed there, they were going to be shot, crushed, or burned alive.

  Laying prone, Tate squeezed himself against the road. Out of desperation, he looked back at the line of burning cars, hoping to find even the smallest gap in the flames. He was so surprised he had to look twice. Next to the blockade of cars was a squat building made up of sheets of corrugated steel that wasn’t burning. He didn’t know why and didn’t care, because it was all they had.

  “Squad,” he shouted. “Fall…”

  A bullet hit the street in front of Tate’s face, kicking dirt and grit into his eyes and mouth. He angrily rubbed at his eyes as he hacked up grimy spittle until he could talk.

  “On me,” he croaked.

  By the time he got to his feet, he could see everyone else quickly closing on him. Leading the way, he ran to the squat building and drove his shoulder into the door.

  On the other side of the door was a piece of wire hastily wrapped several times around the doorknob. The wire snaked up the face of the door and threaded through a bent nail in the door frame and ended; tied to the small ring of a pull-fuse detonator retaining pin.

  The slim, pencil-long detonator disappeared through a hole in a coffee can, duct taped above the door. Aside from part of the detonator, the can contained some coins, some rusty nails and screws and a brick of Composition C, or C-4.

  Bullets ripped the air as Tate threw the full force of his bulk into the door. The impact smashed the door’s latch and the door flew open.

  The sudden force of the edge of the door on the trip-wire was a hundred times greater than its tensile strength, and the wire snapped before pulling the retaining pin free of the detonator. The jolt knock
ed some of the tape lose from the wall and the coffee can hung suspended over the door.

  The squad charged into the darkness of the squat building, tumbling over dusty furniture and junk.

  Their gazes quickly adjusted to the shadows and Rosse laid Monkhouse on a musty couch.

  Wesson slammed the door closed, which only swung open again. She pushed it closed and Fulton wedged a chair against it.

  “I’m fine,” said Monkhouse. “Just a little groggy.”

  Rosse gently rolled him onto his side, grimacing in anticipation of the charred, cracked flesh left behind from the gasoline explosion. To his surprise, there were no burns. The shock wave must have propelled Monkhouse ahead of the fireball, saving him from being flash fried.

  The shooting outside had all but stopped and Tate knew they had a couple of minutes breathing room.

  “Kaiden?” he said.

  “I’m on it,” she said, as if reading his thoughts, and disappeared into the back of the house for a way of escape.

  “How is he?” Tate asked Rosse.

  “Nothin seems to be broken,” said Rosse, as he finished checking. He gently pressed on Monkhouse’s abdomen. “Does that hurt?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “He’s gonna be deaf for a while,” said Rosse. “Good bet he’s got a concussion, but damned if I know how he ain’t dead.”

  “I think the wind dissipated the gas vapor enough to weaken the explosion. Otherwise he’d be jelly. Can he move?”

  “Yeah,” said Rosse.

  Tate bent close over Monkhouse’s face whose eyes went wide.