Cooper set the shears on the hoof as he’d seen Wilberson do, and squeezed the handles together, expecting the goat to squeal in pain. A thin curl of hoof sheared off and fell to the ground, but the goat didn’t even seem to notice.
Letting out the breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding, Kelleson watched Bolan cut twice more, then move to the other side, trimming that edge so that it was even with the first.
Wilberson nodded. “You’re a natural. Okay, just a bit more off there, and you’re ready for the other hoof, then we’ll plane them even. Nancy, why don’t you get in here and watch this, as well, then we’ll switch on the next one.”
Bolan did the same on the other foot, then Wilberson helped him hold them together. He let Bolan do most of the work, only stopping him by placing his hand in front of the plane. “All right, that’s enough. Now for the hind legs.”
They finished with the second goat and moved on to the next, working in tandem—Bolan holding each animal in place while Kelleson did the front hooves, then switching places with him to the back after the second goat nearly kicked her in the jaw when she’d tried to restrain it. When she was done with the back hooves, Bolan stopped her by placing his hand on hers over the carpenter’s plane. “Any more and you might go too deep. Let’s get some iodine on that.”
Kelleson was quite surprised at how comfortable his touch was—a far cry from the major’s roughness of the day before. In fact, it had been months since anyone had touched her like that. The natives were always very polite around her, but kept a respectful distance, which she encouraged. Shrugging off the sudden warm flush that spread through her, Kelleson concentrated on her work.
They were just moving on to their third one when Wilberson suddenly grimaced. “Uh—I gotta take a walk for a bit. You guys gonna be all right here until I return?”
“I think we can handle things until you get back, Paul,” Kelleson said, trying not to sound too eager about being left alone with the journalist.
“Okay, I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He didn’t so much walk as trot in the direction of the latrine.
Bolan watched him with a rueful grin. “Some folks just don’t adjust to the food and water down here as fast as others.”
“You certainly seem pretty comfortable here, Mr. Cooper.”
“Call me Matt. I’ve been around here and there over the years. That’s what I love about my job—it takes me to the most interesting places, and I get to meet the most interesting people.”
It sounded like exactly what a globe-trotting journalist would say, and yet Kelleson sensed something hidden under his words, another meaning that she couldn’t quite parse. “Well, we’re grateful to have you here, Matt.”
“Glad to be here, Ms. Kelleson.”
“Nancy, please. You’ll be here long enough that we might as well dispense with those kinds of formalities right away.”
“Works for me.”
Bolan didn’t break the companionable silence until they took a break after trimming half the herd. “Nancy, I know this isn’t any of my business, but about what happened yesterday—”
Kelleson held up her hand to forestall him. “Look, I appreciate you coming in when you did, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle—really.”
Bolan stared directly at her, and Kelleson got the feeling he saw right through her assumed bravado. The truth was that she hadn’t known what she would have done if Medina had pressed his assault. The journalist’s appearance had saved her from having to make that decision, but she hadn’t slept well that night, her dreams haunted by dark violence.
He crossed his arms. “Perhaps you could have, but remember the dozen other guys with the automatic rifles standing around in the village while he paid his little visit? Remember what you said to me about the pride of these people yesterday? Well, I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want to injure the pride of a man who could order the slaughter of the entire population of this place with a wave of his hand if he wanted.”
“I’ve been here long enough to know that Medina wouldn’t do that to these people—he couldn’t afford that kind of attention.” But even as she said it, a voice in her head nagged her, whispering, Are you sure about that? The fact was, the big American might have been right. Showing Medina up in front of his own men might have given him the excuse to take out his embarrassment and anger on the villagers.
“You’ve been here long enough to ingratiate yourself to the villagers, and I’m sure they’re grateful for the things and assistance you’ve given them. To the military, however—especially the likes of Medina—you’re one of two things, either a potential witness to any trouble he might be involved in, or a focal point to rally the village itself against him if necessary. Either one makes you a target.” Bolan dropped his penetrating gaze and looked at the ground. “Also, well, it sounded like Medina was trying to, I don’t know, blackmail you or something.”
Kelleson pulled away from him. “Just how long were you standing outside my hut?”
The journalist held up his hands. “Hold on now, I just heard him mention something about ‘your time here would be at an end sooner.’ Or something like that. But come on, when I saw you two in there it didn’t look like any kind of normal conversation—it looked like he was trying to extort something out of you.”
“Do you always jump to such wild conclusions on such little evidence?” Kelleson shook her head in disbelief. “Come on, we have to get the rest of the herd finished before nightfall.”
“Nancy, I know what I saw—”
“And I told you to forget it, Matt. If anything, it was a misunderstanding by both you and the major, and I’ll thank you to drop the subject, all right? Let’s get back to work.” She walked over and selected one of the goats they hadn’t worked on yet, guiding it over to him. “Ready?”
Without a word, he bent over the animal and starting trimming. Kelleson alternated glances between him and the goat underneath her and knew this conversation probably wasn’t over yet, as much as she wanted it to be.
Working diligently, she kept her gaze on the goat hooves, avoiding her partner’s eyes as much as possible. When Wilberson returned, he didn’t comment on the silence, but began working on another goat.
The three continued this way until a shout from the other side of the village raised all of their heads. Seconds later, Etienne came running toward them.
“Nancy, come quick. A boy from the next village just came into town, looking half-dead!”
11
“We’re ready for you, Mr. Hachtman.”
Hachtman took the offered headset with its attached microphone from the mercs’ communications man and slipped it on, adjusting it on his oblong head. “Testing, testing, one, two. Mr. Kapleron, can you hear me?”
“Yeah, and that better be all I hear from you till we’re finished, understand?”
“Unless I feel the situation warrants it, I will leave the execution of this mission entirely in your hands. On the ground, you are in charge.”
Over the security leader’s objections, Hachtman had ordered him wired for video and sound, saying he wanted to keep an eye on the mission as it unfolded. Kapleron had grumbled about the idea, but as Hachtman had suspected, he went along when he saw there was no getting around the orders. The businessman hadn’t even had to wave his big stick of a bad performance review affecting the man’s bonus—he knew the South African’s bloodlust would outweigh any protest he might have—and had simply waited him out.
He watched as the squad of ten armed men drove through the jungle, their vehicles’ headlights barely illuminating a few yards through the foggy jungle. The village they had picked for their test was ten miles away, and as soon as Kapleron had been given the go sign, he’d selected his men and they’d set out for their target within the hou
r.
Although the distance wasn’t that great, the condition of the road varied from passable to almost impossible, and even the tough four-wheel-drive Range Rovers had their work cut out for them on some of the more washed-out sections. Twice the men had needed to get out and winch one of the SUVs free from the axle-deep mud bogging it down. The trip had taken just over two hours—about as long as Hachtman had estimated. But once they’d finally reached the outskirts of the village, Kapleron pulled both Rovers to the side of the dirt road and cut the engine. After making sure his team was ready to go—including distributing the carved wooden spears that would be used to disguise their assault—he led them into the rainforest toward the village.
Hachtman made sure the digital recorders, a primary and two backups, were all running perfectly, then turned his attention back to the over-the-shoulder view he had of the men as they cut their trail, as if he was walking right beside them.
After a few minutes of quick, silent movement, broken only by the rhythmic rise and fall of the men’s machetes, Kapleron held up a fisted hand. All of the men stopped immediately. He pointed at one man with a hard rifle case over his shoulder, then pointed into the canopy. The man trotted to a suitable tree, attached something to his combat boots and scrambled up the branchless trunk like a monkey.
When he reached a suitable height, he leaned back. Hachtman saw spikes on the bottom of his boots digging into the trunk. Reaching behind his head, the man took out what looked like a small seat with nylon straps attached to each end. Looping the strap around the tree, he cinched it tight, the seat resting at a ninety-degree angle to the trunk. The man tested it carefully, holding on to the tree in case the seat failed, then put all his weight on it. When it held, he uncased his rifle, affixed a long silencer on the end of the barrel, uncapped his scope and turned it on, then made one final adjustment to his position and gave the men on the ground a thumbs-up.
Kapleron signaled the rest of his men forward. They traveled about thirty yards before the target village could be seen—just as the daily rain began to fall. “Right on feckin’ time,” Hachtman heard Kapleron mutter.
There was no movement around the scattered huts. The rain intensified, soaking the motionless men, but Kapleron and his men didn’t seem bothered in the least. The quartet of killers just hunkered down a few yards from the clearing and watched.
“What the devil are they waiting for?” Hachtman asked under his breath, making sure the mute on his microphone was engaged.
The comm man monitoring the recordings, a hardened youth of twenty-six, blinked in confusion. “They’re taking stock of the situation, making sure there are no surprises when they make their move. Standard operating procedure.”
“But there’s no one there now. They could be in and out in just a few minutes.”
The merc leaned back and stared at Hachtman. “I am sure Mr. Kapleron knows exactly what he is doing…sir.”
“Hmm, yes, I suppose so.” Hachtman also waited. Five minutes passed. “That rain isn’t going to last forever.”
“Do not worry—he’ll move when he is ready.”
Hachtman didn’t move a muscle, waiting for the signal to be given by the chief of security.
Finally, with a simple flick of his hand, Kapleron signaled his men to take their positions. Three pairs of men fanned out, two going left, one going right to flank. Kapleron and another man waited until the first pair were both ready to cover, then the two men moved into the village square, staying low, silenced pistols out and held at their sides.
Like most villages fortunate enough to have one, the water tank was off to one side, near the jungle, mounted on a framework of poles. Kapleron had designated it as the launch and meeting point for the men handling the operation. The two men leapfrogged through the village, one man advancing while the other covered him, and reached the tower without incident. Kapleron stood guard, glancing around the village perimeter, watching for any potential trouble.
It came in the form of two people slipping out of separate huts at the far end of the village. A young man and woman, giggling to each another, snuck through the silent clusters of homes, holding hands as they flitted from shadow to shadow.
The squad froze. Hachtman listened to the conversation between them.
“Leader, I have visual on both approaching targets. Permission to fire?”
“Negative, keep them covered, but let them approach. We’ll take them out if necessary. All teams, hold your positions—do not move except on my order.” Kapleron melted into the jungle, holding his pistol in front of him with both hands as he disappeared into the thick foliage.
The couple drew closer, and Hachtman saw that it was a native man and woman. They both took shelter under the tower, and the man tilted the woman’s head up for a long kiss, his hand stealing down to cup her breast. She moaned and pressed her body against his, her mouth opening to him as he leaned against a strut.
Lost in each other, they didn’t notice Kapleron slowly stand, aim his silenced pistol and fire two carefully placed shots, one into the head of each. The couple, still locked in each other’s arms, collapsed to the ground. Kapleron strode over and put one more bullet into each unmoving form.
“They’re down. I’ll remove the bodies. Left, Right, Longshot, keep your eyes open for others and sing out the moment you see anyone.”
As Kapleron hoisted the woman’s body over his shoulder, the faint whine of a small cordless drill could be heard in the background. He walked a dozen yards into the underbrush to dump the limp form, hacking a few fronds to cover her before going back for the other one.
Waiting for the cry of alarm that could come at any moment, Hachtman scarcely remembered to breathe while Kapleron picked up the other body and hauled it into the brush. When he was done, he signaled his partner to move left while he circled the village perimeter, joining up with their man on the left flank.
“Right Flank, are you in position and ready?” the South African merc asked.
“Affirmative.”
“Rear Team, are you in position and ready?”
“Affirmative.”
“Longshot, are you in position and ready?”
“Affirmative.”
“Remember, everyone, no head shots, to the chest only. Execute.”
With that Kapleron and his teammate moved to the nearest hut, a large, tent-shaped affair made of woven palm fronds. Leaning a pair of their spears against the wall near the door, the second man took up a position on the far side and waited until his leader gave the signal. Kapleron raised his silenced pistol and nodded.
The other man burst in through the door, tracking the nearest villager over the sights of his gun and firing. Kapleron was right behind him, catching the family by surprise and putting three of them down with shots to the chest before anyone else could move. Screams and shouts came from men, women and children as they tried to escape the brutal killers in their midst. Their efforts were in vain, for the two gunmen swept through the room in an efficient process, tracking down each and every person. One of them tried to escape by squirming through the frond wall, but no sooner had he gotten out then his body jerked and went still.
“This is Longshot, I have movement from middle huts. Am commencing fire on outside targets.”
“Copy that, Longshot. Good hunting.” Kapleron took a second to reload, then checked with each team. The rear team was taking out anyone that tried to flee into the jungle. When their sniper had taken out all targets outside, Kapleron and his partner continued their sweep through the village, dispensing death with each whispered shot from their pistols.
A few minutes later the main deed was done. Kapleron assembled his men on the ground and dispatched them to a hut, taking the spears with them. As they stepped inside, Hachtman realized what they were about to do and turned away as
the spear points began stabbing into cooling flesh. His stomach churned as he watched Kapleron and his partner hide all evidence of their merciless assault on the village.
When they were all finished, the two-man teams retraced their steps to their leader, who led them all to their sniper’s position and waited for him to disassemble and stow his weapon and gear, and climb down. The five men disappeared into the foliage, heading back to the Range Rovers.
“Mission accomplished, Doctor.” Kapleron must have switched off the camera on his shoulder, for that monitor went dark right afterward.
Hachtman straightened, easing his kinked back muscles and aware of two urgent matters that needed attention—his full bladder and the strong possibility that he might vomit after seeing the slaughter so casually carried out in front of him.
“Make sure I have a copy of that video file,” he said to the communications tech as he trotted out of the tent toward the latrine.
12
Bolan led the rush toward the large group of villagers at the other end of the village, with Kelleson, Wilberson, Morgan and Etienne all close behind. They came across the trio of college students clustered around a skinny boy of about twelve years old. Thomas Bonell had just picked him up and was carrying him toward the nearest hut.
“No, take him to mine,” Kelleson said, pointing Bonell toward her hut, which had a corrugated metal roof. He headed for it, with her at his side.
Inside, she had Bonell lay the child on her bed and knelt beside him. “Everyone else out.”
“All right, you all heard the lady.” Bolan herded the rest of the volunteers toward the door.
“That means you, too, Cooper.” She didn’t look up as she checked the boy’s pulse. The child stared at her with wide eyes, not moving a muscle. His arms and legs were covered in scrapes, insect bites and shallow cuts.
Jungle Hunt Page 9