by Matt Rogers
King’s plan had worked flawlessly so far. There was just one boat left, still a fair distance away. Three hostiles were perched within.
He dropped his guard for a single second.
That was all it took.
One of the thugs in the final boat fired a round from his automatic weapon, probably a Kalashnikov. A single round shot across the space of the river before King had time to blink and buried itself deep in his left wrist. A white hot burst of pain flooded his senses and he instinctively dove to the floor of the boat.
Blood began to pour from the wound.
CHAPTER 19
King was prepared for injuries, but it didn’t change the pain associated with such a grievous wound. The bullet had embedded itself deep in his skin. It was a grisly sight, already dripping crimson.
He recognised the pain associated with a 5.45x39mm round. They were often labelled “poison bullets” from those hit by them. They fragmented and tumbled upon impact, causing massive damage to tissue. King wasn’t sure of the severity, but he needed a temporary fix for the problem before the final boat caught up to him and filled him with lead.
He withdrew two items from a small pouch on the side of his belt. Thankfully, both were untouched by the chaos of the morning. One was a sterilised set of tiny pliers, and the other was a minuscule canister of superglue. The two things King had found most effective for quickly stopping blood flow on the battlefield. He’d experienced his fair share of combat wounds in the past. He stayed level-headed as he got to work.
Being the most effective method did not make it the least painful. In fact, King found it quite the contrary. He dug the pliers into the wound, crushing his teeth together in an attempt to combat his screaming nerve endings. Each tooth of the pliers locked onto either side of the bullet and he ripped it free. He let out a roar as fire flooded his brain. The pain began to verge on the edge of unbearable. Any worse, and he would pass out from the agony.
The hole in his wrist needed patching up, fast. Thankfully King had the other item. He unscrewed the small lid to the superglue and upended the container into the wound. It came out as a clear liquid and instantly began to set. It stung like all hell. King clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. A feeble attempt to ride out the pain.
He heard the last boat closing in.
He snatched up the unconscious driver’s AK-74 and fired a blind volley of shots over the edge of the frame, aiming in their general direction. A simultaneous burst of fire greeted him back, splintering the wooden hull of his boat. One round punctured the flimsy frame and whisked past his face, close enough that he could feel the displaced air against his forehead.
He panicked. The boat was a death trap. These men had watched their comrades get shot to pieces. They were ready for any assault King threw at them. They had their aim locked on. There was no way he could win this one.
King managed to stay alive in these types of situations partially because of his combat skills, but mostly because he could recognise when it was time to retreat. By the time he rose out of cover and managed to achieve any sort of decent aim on the enemy boat, they would riddle his body with bullets.
Time to go.
King sucked as much air into his lungs as possible and held the breath for five long seconds. Then he exhaled slowly, forcing the precarious situation he was in from his mind, doing everything in his power to calm down. He would need it for what lay ahead. He ignored the sound of the final boat droning steadily toward him. It would do no good to worry about that. Reducing his heartbeat was the only thing on his mind. He let the adrenalin of combat flow out of his system.
He took a final inhale, deep and full, letting it resonate throughout his body. Then wrapped one hand around the frame. Got his legs underneath him. Rolled over the side. Dropped silently into the murky river.
They would have seen him enter the water, but he would be impossible to locate. The river was filthy, and as King plunged into it his vision turned to black. Nothing was visible under its surface.
To guarantee he wasn’t spotted he swam a few feet straight down. Now they would be clueless as to his location. Underneath the water, there was no sound. It was eerily quiet in contrast to the constant gunshots and the screaming of outboard motors.
King set off, his pace measured. A year of training with the Navy SEALs at the very beginning of his military career had left him with the ability to hold his breath for up to four minutes. He hadn’t spent long with the SEALs. Even as a novice in terms of military experience his potential had quickly been realised and he had shot through the ranks, eventually contracted to a division that the public wasn’t aware existed. But the training stuck with him.
All his training stuck with him.
He tried to forget that three hostiles were somewhere above his head, their guns most likely trained toward the water. It would only take one fluke shot to kill him. He forced the thought from his mind and focused on a steady breaststroke, aiming for the opposite riverbank. His current priority was making it ashore without any of the three remaining Phantoms realising.
Then a bullet sliced through the water less than a foot beside him.
His first thought was instant panic, but he didn’t allow himself to physically react. It took every ounce of restraint in his body to stay calm. Any sudden movements would cause stirring at the water’s surface. He had to float still and pray that it had been nothing but a stray shot.
There were no further shots. He had no way of knowing where the three Phantoms were above him. Everything stayed shrouded in darkness. He couldn’t see up or down or left or right. Nothing to do but continue swimming.
A tightness began to snake its way into his chest. He felt the restriction of air starting to take effect. He’d only been under for perhaps a minute and a half, but the conditions were less than perfect. When he’d held his breath for four minutes in the SEAL training facilities, it had been in big pools of crystal clear water. No-one shooting at him, looking to end his life. No unstable conditions. Just him and the water and intense concentration.
This warzone was vastly different to the training pool.
Mapping his course in his head using nothing but his memory, he powered on. Kicking steadily, hands slicing through the murky water ahead. Slow, controlled movements. The restriction of air started to bother him. Severely. He tried not to let it faze him. With his throat burning and chest expanding he continued to swim forward, always forward, never stopping, never slowing.
The opposite riverbank had to be here somewhere. It felt like he had crossed the length of the river a thousand times. Still, nothing but darkness and muddy water ahead. He couldn’t resurface. They’d see him. They’d pick him off with ease. He had to fight against his lungs, now screaming for air.
Keep going.
He reached out blindly, feeling, searching, fingers reaching for anything that could be the riverbank.
Just as black spots appeared in the centre of his vision his hands plunged into mud. He took a second to feel around. He had come to a steady slope that reached diagonally toward the surface. The shore.
With his wrist and his lungs both in equal amounts of pain, he fumbled up the underwater hill until the surface was right there above his head. It was paramount that he avoided taking a loud gasp of air when he broke out. The enemy boat’s engine and the noise of the flowing river would more than likely drown out any sound he made, but one could never be too cautious.
He exited the water and crawled up the muddy banks, inhaling quietly. Water dripped off his khakis. He turned to see the three-man boat patrolling the opposite side of the river, one man steering and the other two peering down, trying to spot any sign of movement underneath the surface. The other three boats drifted slowly along the river, carried by the current, all empty except for the one Phantom coming out of unconsciousness. If King counted correctly, there were five men at the bottom of the river.
And three left to take care of.
Unarmed and
gasping for breath, it would be hard to achieve anything in his present state. He needed the duffel bag.
Was there time to retrieve it?
The three Phantoms still on the hunt had yet to spot him. They weren’t looking in his direction. None of them had expected him to cover the distance he had, and as such they were searching in entirely the wrong location. He still had time to return to his shelter.
He got to his feet and crept up the riverbank, heading for the rainforest. Once inside, they would never find him. He would disappear. But it was urgent that he return to finish them off, or they would head back to Mabaya and raise the alarm.
Then the two remaining hostages would be slaughtered.
King passed between two trees and entered the jungle.
CHAPTER 20
The shelter was exactly how he’d left it, small and hidden and scattered with the litter of his mid-afternoon meal. His duffel lay open. He hadn’t had time to close it before the three-man search party had crept up on him and everything had gone to shit.
The natural sounds of the rainforest had returned in all their subtle details. Calls and shrieks of wildlife sounded all around him, some close, some far in the distance. The jungle had returned to its status quo as the conflict raged elsewhere.
King withdrew the FN-SCAR-L rifle from the bag. The L stood for light. There was a heavy model too, complete with higher-caliber ammunition, but that model didn’t suit close quarters combat in the rainforest. He’d requested something agile and reliable. Nothing better than the SCAR. Designed for SOCOM, there was no reason for him to use anything else. They’d offered him brand new, state-of-the-art gear reserved for the special forces. He’d declined. The SCAR had everything he wanted. It was a chunky beast of an assault rifle, currently used by more than twenty countries. He didn’t have time for expensive accessories.
He slung the strap connecting the SCAR’s magazine to its stock over his shoulder, snatched a few more supplies, zipped up the duffel and set off for the river.
It was a strange experience being in such a desolate part of the planet. The only human activity within a hundred miles was a gang of drug dealers looking to end his life. Other than that, he was alone in a dense, inhospitable region that spanned entire countries. He felt awe every time he considered the size of the Amazon Rainforest, so much of it unexplored. It was likely that if he chose a random direction and set off, he would find himself in a patch of jungle never touched by humans.
As he strode for the last location he’d seen the boats, he took a look at the wound on his wrist. Adrenalin had numbed the injury, but for now the bleeding had ceased. The superglue had dried, leaving a yellow layer caked over the wound. He would let a doctor patch it up properly when he was back in safe hands.
Sure enough, the enemy boat still patrolled the waters as he reached the section of rainforest nearest the docking poles. King dropped to one knee and raised the SCAR, resting the stock against his shoulder. The stock gave him a platform to steady his aim, which was accurate enough regardless. He exhaled and held still. He did not move a muscle. He aligned the SCAR’s optics with the boat on the other side of the river.
The driver would be the easiest target. He stood fully upright while the other two men squatted low, peering off each edge of the boat into the flowing river water. Still trying to locate King in the river, when in actuality he was a hundred feet away, lining up to put a bullet into each of their skulls.
King squeezed off a volley. The report in his ear was deafening, but there was no ear protection out here in the field. He would just have to put up with it. Four 45mm rounds spat out of the barrel and covered the space between them in less than a tenth of a second. Three hit the driver. The fourth shot away into the rainforest on the other side. Not that King saw any of that. He simply tapped the trigger and watched through the sights as the driver jerked off his feet, crumpling to the floor of the boat and disappearing from sight.
Either dead, or very close to.
The other two promptly jumped a foot each, startled by the sudden turn of events. King saw them both dive for cover. He gave them credit. They’d reacted with animalistic fervour. Survival mode had kicked in. He hadn’t had time to fire at them.
Ears ringing, he watched them reach for the tiller and swing the boat around so the bow was facing his side of the shore. Then they accelerated. Just as he had done. A smart move. He had nothing to shoot at.
For a moment, he hesitated. He’d picked up an extra magazine for the SCAR before he returned. But it would do no good to waste all the rounds in his current one firing at the boat, hoping to hit a target through the wooden hull with a stroke of blind luck. The likely result would be that he ran out of ammunition just as the boat ploughed onto the shore. Which would be disadvantageous, to say the least.
The pair had made a smart move, he had to admit. King had expected panic, retreat, terror. The sort of uncoordinated reactions that came with seeing a close ally picked off from a distance. But they’d quickly assessed where the threat had come from and subsequently charged toward it.
Exactly what King would have done.
Perhaps these two would put up a different fight to the rest of them. So far the mercenaries’ actions had been predictable. Tough to deal with, but predictable. The type of behaviour King had seen a million times before. Which was what had allowed him to stay alive.
So far.
He decided to retreat deep into cover and wait for the boat to crash into the riverbank. When the pair rose above the frame, he would be ready. He would shoot them dead. Then he would move on.
Water frothed at the bow of the boat as it speared horizontally across the river toward his position. For a man steering blind, whoever had control of the tiller was incredibly precise. It would run aground directly in front of King. He began to doubt himself. Maybe they knew something he didn’t. He’d expected a quick and painless execution of the three men, from far away. Now the two left alive were threatening to turn the fight into a close-quarters gunfight. Something which he always strived to avoid unless absolutely necessary.
The bow slammed into the mud, tossing up a wave of it. King kept his eye planted against his sights. Searching for a fraction of movement. Anything to shoot at. He would open fire as soon as he saw either of the two men. He hoped his reflexes were faster than theirs.
Nothing happened. The boat slid to a halt and silence lapsed over the river. The engine died as the propellor clogged with mud. King didn’t hear a peep from inside its frame.
What’s happening? he thought. Unsure how to react.
A pair of hands darted into view. Clutching a Kalashnikov rifle. This one an AK-105. King caught a glimpse of the gun and abandoned his SCAR. It wasn’t worth risking his life to shoot his enemy in the hand. He just got below a fallen log before a wild spray from the rifle ripped through the vegetation all around him.
Even after years of service, King hated getting shot at, no matter how safe he considered his cover to be. It came with the unpleasant knowledge that it would only take a single stray round to ricochet off something hard and catapult into his vital organs, and that would be that. He rode out the feeling of terror until the gunfire ceased.
Back to silence. Now, his position was even worse. They could be aiming at the last place they’d seen him. Just waiting for him to stick his head out into the open so they could blast it apart.
He could either act now, or never act at all.
He gripped the SCAR tight and shot out from behind the fallen log. The riverbank came into view. An empty boat. Both men were in the process of vaulting out of it. Both wielding assault rifles. They’d assumed King would stay in cover, fearing more shots. They’d decided to take advantage of the tables turning and get out of their vessel.
They’d assumed wrong.
King reacted in a split second. He swung his aim round to the man on the left, who was mid-leap. Still airborne. He held the trigger and lit him up with at least five or six bullets. They ex
ited the gun too fast for him to count. Whatever the case, the man died. Fast.
King released the trigger and turned to fire a similar volley at the man on the right.
Then he realised he’d misjudged it.
Which proved disastrous.
The last Phantom left alive on the river had already landed on shore by the time King took aim. He already had his Kalashnikov up, barrel locked on.
He pulled his own trigger and shot King in the chest.
CHAPTER 21
Inside the compound, Mabaya’s radio squawked to life. A sharp burst of static followed by a couple of sentences, short and sharp. He recognised the voice. Deep and confident. It was Armando.
‘Boss, I hit the American. He’s down.’
Mabaya snatched the satellite phone off his belt and thumbed a button on its side.
‘Is he dead?’
‘He’s wounded. But I’m in control. Want me to bring him in?’
‘Yes. Let’s hang him up and cut him until he’s dry. Slowly. Fucking pig. How many of you are there?’
A short pause. Mabaya didn’t like the sound of that. Then came the reply. ‘None.’
He wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Perhaps Armando had said nine. There was no inconceivable way that a single man had slaughtered more than half his men.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said none. He killed them all. I…’
Mabaya heard something that sounded very much like a sob. He didn’t blame the man. Out here in the uninhabited rainforest, the Phantoms were the only humans for miles in any direction. Friendships formed quickly. And this fucker had stripped them all away.
‘If you want to kill him now, Armando, do it. I don’t care.’
‘Thanks, boss. See you soon.’
Static, then silence.
A slight grin spread across Mabaya’s face as he imagined what Armando would do to the American. It would be long and drawn-out and painful, fuelled by the deaths of his friends. That thought quickly wiped the smile away. As dawn broke earlier that morning, twenty-two Phantoms had occupied the facility. The maximum amount of men they kept in this place at one time. Now fourteen were dead. The two who he’d sent to tend to the boats earlier that morning had never returned, so he counted them out. After he’d killed the bald hostage he’d sent out a search party of three men to look for the American. Next came a cacophony of gunfire, meaning they’d made contact. Also meaning they were probably dead. So he’d sent out the bulk of his forces. Nine men.