"Then this is farewell. May the road rise up to meet you." Thanatos quoted the first line of the old Irish blessing they'd used many times before.
"May the wind be always at your back. Whatever it takes," Asp replied.
Thanatos pegged him with a stare. "As long as it takes, my friend."
Asp hunkered down just shy of the top of the highest rise overlooking the valley. His weapon and tripod were camouflaged, as was he. He pulled out another damn protein bar and slowly unwrapped it. Five weeks of this tasteless birdseed shit. He could barely stomach another one, but he needed the calories. That bastard Halo had led him on a hell of a merry chase, but between him and Thanatos, they'd found the son of a bitch's camp. Now all he needed to do was to wait.
Wait and think. The ability to block out everything while lying prone for hours, or days on end, was an acquired talent...and he hadn't quite perfected that skill set yet. He balanced the need to stay sharp against his thoughts that shuffled through his past like a well-worn deck of cards. He'd been dealt a shit hand by the CIA. He called their bluff, and he won, after he lost...everything.
His parents had died without knowing he was still alive. The corrosive guilt that ate at him for allowing himself to be manipulated never took a break. He'd carry that one to the grave. When he agreed to the CIA's terms, he'd become hollow. He cut all tethers to the life he knew and worked. He did missions for his handler, and up until the end, he believed he was serving his country, was making the world a better place. He drew a deep breath and let it out, resetting his heart rate. He had been manipulated, so why did he feel guilty? Because there was no way of knowing how many innocent lives he'd taken. He had no illusions about what he did. He killed people. Strip away the membrane-thin belief he was working to make the world better and he was no more than a thug, a murderer—no better than Cavanaugh. That was the torment he’d carried for so long after he'd left the CIA. He’d expected to spend the rest of his life disenfranchised, drifting and alone. Instead, he had a tight group of people he would gladly die for—Anubis, Bengal, Thanatos, Lycos, Moriah and now Anubis' family. That little girl looked at him like he was a hero. Her big smile and tight hugs made him feel twenty-feet tall and indestructible. Seeing Anubis, Bengal, and even Fury happy and starting families, well, for a moment he wondered if he could have a family life.
In the FARC camp, a group of people moved from one structure to the other. Asp followed their movement with his scope. None of them were Halo. He moved his shoulder in a slow, deliberate stretch and breathed a sigh when the joint popped—his body's protest against his long hours in one position.
It was only a matter of time. He'd get the shot, and the motherfucker’s evil would end. Until then, he'd wait, be still and think. He longed for bygone days when he had a spotter with him. His mind shuffled again, and he played the memories of missions when he and Billy served together. His spotter and friend, Billy Pearson, was an excellent marksman, almost as good as he was, but they both knew who would be the one to take the money shot when the time came.
They’d shared a hell of a lot during those long ass hours. Whispered truths about life and the mistakes they'd made. Now Billy was gone, and Asp? Well, he'd started to feel like he was living again. Until five weeks ago when he read the name Halo One-One. Bitterness, resentment, and anger filled the places where he thought some light had seeped into his life. He had a chance now to right the scale and remove the man who'd betrayed him and so many others.
Asp moved with deliberate slowness. He took another bite of the horrid protein bar and glanced through his scope again. He avoided eye fatigue and took breaks from his observation of the area and camp. He'd been in his position for almost two days. When prone, he lay behind his match-grade M-21. The weapon had been crafted by the highest caliber gunsmiths to ensure its finite accuracy. His weapon, coupled with match-grade ammo, resulted in the seldom-found consistency Asp required.
During the last two days, he'd already calculated the distances by using static markers located in the camp. The only thing he'd need to adjust for was altitude, leading his target and wind conditions. His weapon was bolt fired, and he had to load a shell for each shot he took. He could fire it in semiautomatic mode, but he didn't. Personal preference. In the field, any movement could get you killed. If he used the weapon on semi-automatic, the brass ejecting out of the rifle could be what the enemy needed to zero in on his location, or for that matter, any movement he made after the shot could be used to tack a target on his ass.
The hair on the back of his neck rose and he froze. He surveyed the area around him in a strip and grid pattern, searching for whatever he'd sensed. He trusted his gut. Something or someone was out there.
It wouldn't be Thanatos. He was in the lower valley. Thanatos would take Halo out if he had a chance, but Asp was the primary. Asp swept the camp below him again and then used the scope tracing the ridgeline across from him. Thanatos had been warned to stay out of the hills. Any movement would be a target, and he didn't want to kill his friend by mistake. One shot, one kill. He continued to search the hills. He couldn't see the threat, but someone was out there. He knew it. He'd been trained to trust his instincts and every last fiber of his being told him he wasn't alone.
The sun reached its zenith. Sweat streamed from his brow down his face, and into his t-shirt. He was soaked, but he remained still except for the constant movement of his eyes. He looked for bulk at the base of formations he'd searched in the past two days, a clump of grass that wasn't there yesterday. Attention to detail was a requirement, and it had saved his life more than once.
The long low drone of vehicle motors approaching the encampment set his nerves on fire, but within seconds, a self-imposed blanket of calm floated over him. Asp slipped forward two inches bringing his shoulder snug against the weapon. He glanced at his scope and noted the wind before he adjusted his weapon to compensate for the breeze. He rested his cheek against the stock of his rifle and waited. The vehicles rumbled into the clearing and stopped. Asp focused on the middle vehicle. Training and experience said Halo would want a lead and trail vehicle to protect his worthless ass.
His target exited on the far side of the Jeep. Fuck, yes! That bastard was going down. Asp drew a quick, shallow breath and held it, pushing his immediate excitement down and away from his thoughts. He could rejoice after the son of a bitch met his maker.
Halo moved quickly to the back seat and pulled something out. Asp drew a breath and released it in a slow exhale. The natural figure eight motion of his rifle barrel was minuscule due to the tripod, but it was there. Breathing moved his body. His body moved the weapon. He stopped breathing after exhaling. That moment of calm provided for the smallest amount of movement and optimum precision. His crosshairs found their mark. Asp squeezed the trigger in one, slow, steady movement.
Time slowed as Asp followed the trajectory of the bullet. He watched through the scope as Halo's head exploded, spraying his brains back and out. Asp didn't move. Training and instinct froze him to the spot. He continued to watch the encampment through the scope and what he saw in the camp confirmed what he'd known earlier. A man dropped behind the jeep. He had a radio held to his mouth and was looking up at the hills across from where Asp was positioned. He motioned with his arm and then turned in Asp’s direction and pointed to the ridgeline where he was located. If he so much as twitched right now, he'd be dead. Asp closed his eyes for a brief moment and calculated the hours until dark. Too much time. He’d never manage the absolute stillness required for that number of hours. In less than a minute, he’d gone from predator to prey.
Chapter 4
Asp watched, using his peripheral vision to stretch his field of sight. Someone positioned in the opposite hills searched for him at the same time as he was scoured the terrain for them. Asp was at a disadvantage. He needed to reload. He waited as the sun moved across the sky dropping his position into a shadow. With infinite care, he moved millimeter by millimeter until his hand reached the bo
lt of his weapon and retracted it. The small sound of the well-oiled mechanics echoed in the silence. He held a bullet in his hand and slowly exchanged the spent casing for a fresh round of ammunition before he started to move the bolt forward again.
He'd stopped sweating, a sign of dehydration from baking in the hot Colombian sun. His muscles shook from the rigors of the insanely slow movement he was forced to use. For a minute or two, extending your arms parallel to the ground wasn't hard, but after thirty minutes, preventing any betraying shake wandered into the territory of exquisite torture. Asp chanted the same word over and over in his mind as his eyes scraped the distance across from him. Steady...steady...his eye caught a flash of movement. He reacted.
Asp cowboy'd his weapon and shot at the movement a split second before he rolled. It was that movement that saved his life. Two shots rang out. Searing pain detonated in an explosion of acid-based lightning bolts that tore down his left hip and leg. He didn't know if he'd hit the motherfucker who shot at him. He rolled down the small embankment and earned a few precious seconds. Asp whipped his belt off and pulled the waistband of his woodland camouflage pants down. The bullet had entered at top of his thigh and exited lower about six inches above his knee. He glanced at the amount of blood flowing and said a silent prayer of thanks. No spurting arterial bleeds, but he could still bleed to death if he didn't find a safe place and get his shit stitched up. Asp oriented himself, grabbed a dressing from his cargo pockets and tied it to his hip with his belt. He used a torn piece of his uniform shirt to bind another clump of gauze over the wound on his inner thigh. The triage and self-aid took far longer than he would have liked, but bleeding to death wasn't on his agenda. Then again, neither was getting shot. He pushed up to his good leg and did the only thing he could do. He put one foot in front of the other and moved—until he couldn’t.
Asp grabbed a small tree and sucked in ragged breaths trying to clear his mind enough to find a place to hold up. He swept the area where he was and glanced up at the dark sky. Fuck, he had no idea which way he'd gone or how far he’d moved away from the camp. He leaned against the tree and ground his teeth to stop a guttural growl at the agonizing pain searing through his hip and thigh. Blood saturated his pant leg. The way his mind fogged over, he had no doubt he'd lost too much. Asp slid down the tree trunk, extending his injured leg.
With difficulty, he pulled his canteen from his web belt and unscrewed the top. His hand shook wildly, forcing him to grab the cool plastic with both hands. He managed to drink several large gulps without spilling it, which given his condition was no easy feat. Asp carefully resealed the container and tried to reinsert it into its carrier only to drop it. It tumbled down an embankment. Embankment? No, that was a steep-ass ridge. Asp dropped his head back against the tree. Of fucking course, the motherfucker fucking dropped farther than he could fucking reach. He should just fucking sit here and go to fucking sleep. Fucking son of a bitch canteen. Asp snorted a laugh at his fuck spewing diva moment and blinked back to the problem at hand. The easiest way down the ridge was on his ass, so he scooted forward, trying to keep his injured leg from being jarred unnecessarily as he slid down on the loose dirt that covered the slope. He snagged the canteen as he passed, out of control and gaining momentum down the steep grade. He landed at the bottom with little fanfare and writhing in pain. Fucking canteen.
He dropped his head and rested on his back facing the dark sky. Instinct told him he needed to move, but dammit, he was tired. The motherfucking hill still trickled loose gravel down its slope, occasionally pelting him with small clots of dirt. He rolled his head to the left and took in the floor of the small valley he'd landed in. The trees and foliage indicated he hadn't descended as far as he'd believed. Dammit He needed to be farther down, closer to civilization. A breeze ruffled the leaves, and he blinked at the brief glimpse he was able to see when they moved. Drawing on strength that shouldn't be there, Asp lifted up to his elbows and craned his head to get a closer look. He didn't trust his eyes and his mind to interpret what he thought he saw, so he rolled onto his stomach, making sure his rifle and pack were still attached to his back. It was probably two hundred feet across the meadow. Child’s play until he'd been shot. Dammit.
The short distance morphed into a gauntlet of pain. He ground his teeth together and drew the last vestiges of strength he had and low-crawled across the meadow. The breeze moved the leaves of the bushes again, and this time Asp knew he'd seen correctly. He pulled his body weight forward on his forearms and elbows, using his good leg to help kick himself forward. The mouth of a small cave was so close. It was exactly what he needed. That dark space, cleverly tucked behind several flowering bushes, was his sanctuary. A place he could rest. He pulled himself arm over arm toward the bushes, over the rock and then hopefully into the small cavern. Training told him he should have wiped out any indication of his trek, but he was too tired to give a shit if he left a blood trail to the cave's entrance. If the bastard was tracking him, well then, the son of a bitch could have him. He was done. Asp dug his fingers into the ground again and again. The desire to stay alive kept him going far longer than his energy should have lasted. He pulled himself into the cave, moved his rifle from his back into his hands, propped himself up against the wall, and shifted the weapon so it was pointed toward the door. He dropped his head back against the rock and closed his eyes, depleted and damaged—a condition he was unhappily familiar with. This shit never got easier.
Chapter 5
Lyric Gadson pulled her thick brown hair up and off her neck and tried to catch a breeze, but the wooden wall of the shed behind her blocked what little air movement there might have been. Her muscles, stiff and sore from bending over the stone grinding wheel all afternoon, protested the movement, but the effort had been worth it. She'd finished sharpening all the implements she'd gathered and held the machete her father favored in her hand. She'd been especially careful to sharpen the blade he would use during the banana harvest next week. Testing the edge one more time, she chuckled to herself. The banana stalks didn’t stand a chance.
Slowly standing to ease the tight, cramped pull of her back, she rolled her shoulders several times, forward first, and then backward. Vertebrae in her back cracked when she arched backward. The relief was instantaneous and delightful. Lyric lifted up on her toes several times as she gazed around her grandfather's farm, her gaze stopping on the herd of goats, the tilled fields with corn and the lines of banana trees—all with the backdrop of the towering, snow-capped, Andes Mountains. A sudden movement caught her attention. Jo-Jo, the most cantankerous, mean and bull-headed donkey that ever lived, lunged after one of the milk goats, chasing it away from a lush patch of grass. The goat moved about two feet and lowered its head. The typical daily standoff between the two animals. The chickens cackled in their enclosure, scratching the ground in search of the feed she'd given them earlier. She glanced beyond the house to her garden. The tomatoes needed to be harvested again. She'd spend the weekend canning the bounty from the large plot. Everything was normal, as it was yesterday, and the day before.
She again wondered for the millionth time at the unlikely set of events that had uprooted a happy yet extremely irresponsible teenage girl from Jacksonville, Florida, US-of-A and deposited her in rural Colombia. Her gaze dropped to her chipped nails with ingrained dirt. No amount of scrubbing could remove the hard work from under her nails. She grimaced, remembering all her teen angst over her choice of nail color. Had her life really been that trivial? Yes. Still…what she wouldn’t give…
She shook herself from her pointless mental ramblings and moved to put away the tools she'd sharpened. The sound of a motor drew her attention to the main road. She groaned and dropped her head, muttering swear words under her breath when she recognized the National Police vehicle that bounced down their gravel driveway. Ricardo Castro de la Mata.
The car pulled to a stop. Ricardo unfolded from the front of the vehicle and leered in her direction. Far from intimidated, she st
ood eye-level with Ricardo's less than macho, five-feet-nine-inches and returned his sneer. Ricardo faced her and gave her his full attention.
The hair on her arms rose in reaction to the man's predatory stare. As he took off his mirrored sunglasses and meandered over to where she stood, the sensation of being violated rippled through her. Lyric gripped the handle of the machete, taking comfort in the knowledge she held a keen blade.
By anyone's standards, Ricardo was handsome. He had dark hair, dark brown eyes, a square chin and a trim body. His uniform stretched tight around his well-muscled physique, but no number of attractive physical attributes could overcome the ugliness of his sadistic nature. Lyric had witnessed the way he treated his younger brothers and sisters. He was brutal and a bully, sending his siblings cowering with a look. The man had laughed and smiled when he kicked a small dog. The poor thing had simply been lying in the sunshine. Her stomach revolted at his attention. No, Ricardo would never be a welcome suitor.
She'd never seen any compassion from the man, not that she'd stuck around to watch him. He was toxic, and she avoided him. When he settled his attentions on her months ago, she steeled her resolve and rebuffed his every advance. The problem was, the man had an ego the size of Colombia. Being rebuffed angered him. He was vicious. He was evil, and he was unwelcome. Period.
His stare pinned her as he moved closer and leaned into her personal space. His eyes evaluated her much like a woman examined a piece of beef at the market. Lyric held her stance, tightened her grip on her machete, and waited.
"Why do you try to run from me, beautiful one?" Ricardo cupped a hand at her waist and tugged her toward him.
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