by Clay Martin
Off he went to clean up his trash. The last one took some time, but he eventually accounted for them all. Pulling the hatchet out of Johnson’s face took some doing, it had gone in deep. Probably never felt a thing, which was a shame. Just in case forensics became an issue, he went ahead and dropped the handler over the ledge to join his dogs. With a bit of luck, the birds and mice would clean up anything that the fall didn’t. The hatchet he would drop in a deep section of the river very shortly.
Work completed, Mike took a circuitous route back to the old camp. He had no doubt that is where the survivors were going. Habit made him move slowly enough to avoid an ambush, he arrived as twilight was setting in. The Sheriffs new car was gone, but the truck for the dogs was still here. Curious. He hadn’t thought to check the old fellows pockets for the keys. Observing with his binoculars, he couldn’t see the obvious trace of any people, which was mildly uncomfortable. In all the time he had been out here, he had known exactly the location and disposition of his enemies every moment since the hot springs saved him. It was possible they had all escaped, but he needed to be sure before he made his next move. Skirting the tree line, he moved toward the higher ground to the North of the desolated camp. From an elevated perch, he saw a dim sign of firelight to his West.
Carefully moving through the night, quiet as the grave, Mike followed the increasing signal of the flames. Every five steps, he would stop and listen. When he was able to barely make out shapes by the fire, he crouched down to make sense of what was happening. Had these clowns learned nothing? Laid up in the dark, they would have survived another night. He didn’t have night vision goggles, no way he would have found them without them. But here was a blazing fire, beacon to come find them. He settled in for a bit of surveillance.
He could hear snippets of conversation, but nothing helpful. Then, out of nowhere, one of the men stood up, cupped his hands, and yelled, “We surrender. We’re done. You win. Our weapons are stacked back at the old camp.” Then he sat back down. Conversation continued as normal, with the others alternately stoking the fire to keep it burning high.
This was curious. Not a turn of events he had anticipated. Most of the really bad dudes Mike had ever been after knew the drill. No quarter asked, and none given. A short time later, a man stood up and repeated the call. Mike checked his watch. Thirty minutes later, it was repeated again. These guys looked serious about the surrendering bit. He could go back and check for an arms pile at the old camp, but that wouldn’t tell him much. He had no idea how much hardware they had started with, nor what should be left. And why was the fire in a different spot? They knew he knew of the old camp. Why not just build it there? He doubted the fates of Bo and Robbie had enough impact to scare them out. And they could have turned all the vehicle lights on, that would have been sure to get his attention. Very interesting. Mike decided to cloverleaf around the area, see what else he could find out.
For two hours, Mike skirted the perimeter, learning what he could. Three of them were left, and from what he could see, they were in fact unarmed. They kept the half hour pace, probably wanting to ensure he didn’t have enough time to kill one of them without the message getting out. He could wait until the morning light, when he could see everything, but he didn’t like the idea of resting without finishing this. Holding his pistol in his right hand down by his leg, he walked into the firelight.
Zeke almost shit himself as a ghost appeared before his eyes. He barely kept his voice from saying “Tony!”, but this wasn’t Tony. It was going to work. After all this, his plan, his brilliant idea, was going to save their skins. Forcing down a smile, he sat, holding his hands up. In a serious tone, he started talking, if for no other reason to get the strangers attention.
“We give up. You bested us. We are unarmed, and we surrender.”
Mike wasn’t sure how to handle this exactly. It was new territory. “What makes you think I’ll let you? You guys had a bad fate in mind for me, and it hasn’t exactly been kittens and flowers since we met.”
Zeke continued to talk, while Garrett and Wade continued to toss twigs and pinecones in the fire. Just a couple of dejected souls, resigned to fate, occupying their hands. Just like the plan. Why the fuck hadn’t Tony taken the shot? The friendlies were sitting down, all he had to do was aim high. “ We know you were a Marine. Chief told us. So I don’t think you will shoot unarmed men that are giving up. And we are prepared to confess to our crimes. Turn States evidence against Bob. Bob is the local Sheriff, in case you didn’t see him. He wasn’t here much, except today.” Zeke slowly reached into his pocket for the tin of Copenhagen, showing the lid to Mike as he pulled it free. He didn’t want to get shot over moving too fast.
Mike noted the new object in play, his mind absorbing new facts. That meant Chief had run his plates, which made getting rid of him a little more difficult. But he must not have run them very well, or he would know the rest. Maybe he just decided to keep that to himself. Might also explain why he left his boys out here to their fates.
Zeke held the can of tobacco close to his mouth, pretending to take a pinch. This had better fucking work. Half a second after this flash bomb went off, the stranger was likely to plug all three of them on principle. The stranger was looking off into the woods, actually in the direction of Tony. Creepy. Did he have a sixth sense about danger? Now or never. Zeke gently tossed the can towards the open flames, closing his eyes at the same time. Mike reached out absentmindedly, left handed, and caught it.
“ That sounded too full when you packed it to be throwing away, unless you dip a whole can at once.” Turning to face Zeke, he tossed it back. “Besides, I killed your sniper an hour ago.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
An hour ago, when Mike was walking the cloverleaf of his recce, a thought occurred to him. He didn’t know exactly how many were left, but it was a pretty good chance the Sheriff ducked out alone. He ran first, odds were he left by himself. That left four, not three. And he could only see three. Slim chance that the car was a ruse, and the Sheriff had doubled back on foot as well, but not likely. Most men can’t navigate very well in the dark, that is an acquired skill. And nothing from the last seventy-two hours made him think anyone here had the touch. That still left one missing though. Chances were exactly zero that he got lost in the woods and didn’t make the rendezvous. So what would Mike do in this situation, how would he set up?
With iron sights, shooting in the dark at any kind of distance is difficult. Shooting downhill is harder, you lose your target against the ground shadow, if you can even see them at all. The easiest way is to shoot uphill; your target stands a much better chance of sky lining themselves, with either natural light or fire light. On top of that, people tend to follow the path of least resistance. If you were going to walk into a circle of people that might be hostile, would you plan your escape to move uphill, or downhill? Downhill let you accelerate from danger quicker. Both of those things pointed to a triggerman, if there was one, being on the downhill slope. Mike decided to check that side first. Carefully moving at just beyond what he would have considered shooting range given the light, he was rewarded with an unmistakable sound. Snoring. The trigger had been very well camouflaged, mostly buried under branches, a bed of pine needles on top. He looked just like a lumpy piece of ground. Mike might have missed it completely without the sawing of logs. His designated killer had gotten cozy in his nest of straw, no doubt comfy and warm, and had nodded off to sleep. Mike gently removed the rifle from his hands and cut his throat. The razor sharp Randall had killed him before he knew what happened.
Continuing his conversation with Zeke, Mike picked up where he left off. “Next time you pick an assassin, pick one that doesn’t snore.”
Zeke’s face went white with shock. Garrett and Wade stared at Mike like he had just grown a unicorn horn. Wade pushed off the log he was using as a chair and bolted. One handed, Mike shot him twice in the back. Turning his attention to the oth
ers, Mike spoke again.
“Let me tell you two the universal law of beheaders, torture cell members, and IED makers. You don’t get a chance to go quietly. There are some crimes so heinous, there is no possibility of redemption. You fucking clowns, with your ritual sacrifices, are well past that line. Did any of your victims get the chance to give up? You assholes show any mercy when you had the option? I didn’t think so. Besides, you angered the God of War. You pretended to be warrior caste, when you’re weaklings. Slimy, soft, pathetic little men, trying to pray to a God you couldn’t fathom. It’s why he sent me to test you. And I judge you to be, unworthy.”
With that, Mike shot each of them in the head. Pushing the bodies out of the way, he sat down on the log they had previously occupied, warming himself by the fire. It was a luxury he hadn’t enjoyed for quite some time, and felt all the better for being earned.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Rising the next morning from a well needed sleep, Mike recovered his shell casings again. He also went ahead and rifled the wallets of the departed, spoils of war. You never know what you will need next, and cash is always handy to have for contingencies. Next, he recovered his rifle, stripping it down and applying oil recovered from one of the dead engines. Not what the SAKO manual recommends, but it would do in a pinch. He was happy to see that his scope had not leaked any moisture. He decided to wait one full day, to see if any other shenanigans were in store, before he walked out. He set up at the high edge of the clearing, just inside the cover of the forest.
Around noon, a shiny F-350 he hadn’t seen before rolled up the road. The driver parked and exited, wonder in his eyes. Who was this, but his old friend Tim. The sneaky little fucker that had dragged him into this whole mess. Behind his rifle, Mike waited for a clean shot. The second Tim cleared the front of the truck, Mike dropped the hammer on his custom tuned long action. The 230 grain Berger bullet took Tim’s left leg off at the knee, dropping him like a screaming pile of mush. Mike hurried down before he bled out.
Stanching the flow with a makeshift tourniquet, Mike introduced himself and asked the questions he still needed answers to. Where was his Bronco? Who else was involved? Why him? How often had this happened?
Satisfied with the answers, Mike unceremoniously tossed Tim in the back seat like a trussed pig. He found his Bronco in a large barn outside of town, owned by one of the men he killed earlier in the week, keys still in the ignition. The engine hummed to life without missing a beat, and Mike noted he had three quarters of a tank. Plenty to get him away from here, but he topped it off with cans in the barn to be sure. No telling where these men had friends, best to get as far away as possible while the getting was good. He pulled Tim out of the backseat by his neck, letting him drop to the ground, eliciting a scream of agony as his new stump hit the dirt, muted by his gag.
Mike had a decision to make, which he war-gamed as he wiped down the interior of the truck he had touched. Killing Tim put one more witness out of the picture, effectively making Sheriff Bob the only one that had seen him around here. He had only kept him alive this long in case his first set of answers were lies. And he deserved a killing, same as the others had. But there was some power in keeping him breathing. For one, Bob might have a soft spot when push came to shove about his friends. He had left them to die the day before, but that could be argued as self-preservation. In the end, it was an Officer-thing to do, in the military sense. Sometimes people have to be sacrificed. Mike had done it leading indigenous allies, and it left a smudge on your soul. Necessary, but not the easiest thing to live with. It was one thing for the Sheriff to abandon his men to their fate, it was quite another to let one bleed out when he could prevent it. If that was the case, leaving Tim hurt but alive would cost the Sheriff time. He would have to concoct a story and get him help before he could focus on Mike.
Secondly, Mike knew he couldn’t kill the Sheriff. To risky. He loathed the thought of leaving him still breathing, it was like fire in his veins. He needed to die more than anyone, but it just wasn’t possible at the moment. He had felt the same way with some of the Warlords his team had to use in his other life. Monsters, all of them. In desperate need of a dirt nap. But it just wasn’t feasible, they were needed to fight bigger monsters. The taste it left in his mouth was like licking an ashtray, but sometimes you just have to soldier on. Sheriff Bob was the same way. But maybe him seeing Tim walking around on a prosthetic leg would serve as a reminder, he got off easy. And best not to go looking for the man that did it. It was funny, the way things worked. The dead can be forgotten, but the mangled? Walking wounded among you doesn’t fade the same way. Let him chew on that before he decided to play cowboys and cannibals again.
Third, if Sheriff Bob did let Tim live, and this went to a legal showdown, some kind of frame up, Tim was another liability. One man can keep a story straight, but two rarely works out under close scrutiny. Mike seriously doubted anyone wanted to drag this week’s events into a courtroom, but it was a contingency to mitigate. That settled it. It was counter to his nature, and a long way from what he wanted to do, but it was the best move. At the moment he would rather eat broken glass than let either of his last two targets live. Pragmatism won out over emotion though. That is how you stay alive. He was out of options, at least if we wanted any chance of walking out of this unscathed.
Slapping Tim to get his attention, he held up Tim’s mobile phone. “Call the Sheriff. Personal line. Right now.”
Tim had regained some defiance it seemed. At least enough to shake his head no. Mike sighed, went to a nearby workbench, and returned with a set of tin snips.
“ Look Timmy, I’m done fucking around. We can do this the easy way or the bloody way, and I think a look at your legs tells you which I prefer. Call him, or I am going to start snipping off fingers. I’m feeling a bit impatient today, best not to fucking test me.”
Tim decided he felt cooperative after all. He dialed a number from memory, and Mike snatched the phone out of his hands while it was still ringing.
“Tim, I’m fucking busy. I’ll be by to see you later.” Bob answered his phone by way of greeting. He was at home, ironing his uniform for tomorrow. Business as usual, nothing to see here.
“Sooner would probably be better. I have your man.” Mike retorted in a detached tone. The momentary silence was deafening.
“Who is this?” Bob demanded.
“You know who it is. The question is why are we talking? So do you want that answer?”
Bob sat, suddenly afraid his knees might give out. The hot iron burned away at his uniform, forgotten in the change of priorities. “Why are we talking?”
“You are a harder man to get than the others. Your position dictates that. At least if I want to keep the heat off me. I want you to understand that. Your badge is the only thing keeping you from joining your pals. And I did say more difficult. Not impossible. Are we quite clear?”
Checking the load in his revolver, Bob answered like the weasel he was. In case this was being recorded. Bob might not be rocket science material, but he wasn’t stupid. “I don’t know what you are talking about. What friends?”
Mike read between the lines, pacing as he talked. “Good enough. I saw you yesterday, so you know your little housedog with me didn’t sell you out. We could be meeting face to face, but I don’t think either of us wants that. Feelings tend to run high at times like this, and I’ve had enough excitement for one week. I also understand your reluctance to speak on an open line. So I will do the talking. I am willing to call a cease-fire if you are. This can be over. But if you try anything, anything at all, from this point forward, even if you get me, it won’t be enough. I already phoned a friend, one that owes me his life. If I’m not home in forty-eight hours, you’re the one he’s going to come asking questions. Do you understand? Our bonds run deeper than a cockroach like you can fathom. So either we are done, or you can spend the rest of a short life looking over your sho
ulder. Are we done?”
Bob absorbed this new information. All of it was true. Killing a law enforcement officer brought out the heavy guns. No one in the state would rest until they solved it, and there was enough to pin it to Mike. At least enough to make him worry. Bob was safe behind his tin shield, as long as he let this go. The friend part might be a bluff, but the last thing Bob wanted was investigators combing the hills. “I understand. I accept those terms.”
“Your buddy from the bar is with my Bronco. He needs some attention, but I am sure you can think up a plausible scenario. I am leaving, right now. I will be out of your town in ten minutes. If I see you, I am going to assume our deal is off. I believe firmly in judged by twelve instead of carried by six. Are we clear on that as well?”