Cut Out

by Bob Mayer

  1:55 p.m.

  Riley had heard Hammer’s side of the conversation and redoubled his efforts to get loose. As he worked the garrote back and forth, the coarse wire was slowly cutting through the electrical tape. It was also slicing the flesh on Riley’s wrists and hands. He could feel the blood flowing across his skin. The pain was sharp and Riley used it to keep his focus.

  “How are you connected with these people?” Giannini asked.

  Hammer was moving around the tower, peeking over the edge and checking all directions. “I’ve worked with them at times. Most of ‘these people,’ as you call them, have some sort of special ops background.

  “Where else can you get such well-trained people who are used to doing shit jobs?” He glanced at Riley. “Correcto-mundo, buddy?”

  Riley ignored Hammer. He looked over at the fourth member of the group, who had not spoken since they’d arrived here. On the other side of Giannini, Lisa was slumped against the wall, head down, and he wondered if she’d fainted.

  “It’s kind of funny,” Hammer said, “but it was pure chance that I was in the right place at the right time. I didn’t know what was going on either until I spotted the surveillance in the post office at Bragg when we tried to turn her over.”

  “That’s why you terminated so quickly,” Riley noted. “You recognized someone.”

  “Yeah,” Hammer said, his attention now totally focused on the surrounding terrain. “I called my control from the trailer the other night to find out what was going on. They told me to hold—they wanted to get you all together, and now they have.”

  “But you helped kill those men earlier today,” Giannini said, not bothering to hide the disgust in her voice.

  “Risks of the job,” Hammer said. He glanced over his shoulder, then back to the outside world. “I wasn’t in charge of the situation and we were all split up. Also, the information about the money her husband hid away and the mob’s contract changed the complexion of everything. I made another phone call to some of my mob connections and found out that someone in Chicago is offering five hundred grand for the little lady, so I ended up with a little bit of a dilemma.”

  He pointed at Riley. “If I’d taken you down alone up at the Bald, then Master would have wanted to take control, and I couldn’t allow that. Besides, you held the clackers—I didn’t do a thing.”

  “That’s why you shot the wounded man,” Riley noted. “You didn’t want him to talk.”

  “Partly,” Hammer acknowledged. “But the bottom line is that as long as I have the lady here, I’ve got options.”

  Riley glanced at Giannini; she rolled her eyes and shook her head. He’s nuts, she mouthed silently.

  Hammer chuckled. “You both are so stupid. Don’t you know it’s all a game and you got to not only learn the written rules, but also the unwritten ones? There’s a whole ’nother world out there beyond the gray. It’s all black and you’re in it now. We make up our own rules, and the number one maxim is survival of the fittest.”

  “I still don’t understand why—” Giannini began, but a gesture from Hammer stopped her. He squatted down, just barely peering over the concrete.

  “That’s close enough,” he yelled.

  “There’s no negotiation,” Master’s voice carried clearly in the cool air. “Give over the targets.”

  “They didn’t give you background on the woman, did they?” Hammer called out.

  “Enough to do the job.”

  “You don’t know about the two million her husband hid away or you wouldn’t have wasted him in Charlotte. And you don’t know about the half million contract put out by the mob in Chicago or you might have entertained a competing bid,” Hammer said.

  “There are no competing bids,” Master replied calmly. “I do my job as contracted. Cobb was a criminal and was dealt with accordingly.”

  Hammer glanced at Giannini and Riley and winked. “How much does it cost the Program for each person they hide away? A hundred grand a year? Multiplied by all the years they got left? And how much are they paying you on the contract?”

  “I don’t know how much it costs them,” Master replied. “I don’t really care.”

  To the west of the Dome, Kramer unfolded the tripod and connected it to the bottom of the barrel hand guard. He set down the tripod and made sure the legs were secure. He was as close as he could get to the tower without being spotted—about a hundred yards away, hidden among the trees. The walkway made its 180-degree curve less than fifty yards from his position. He leaned his cheek against the guard on the stock and looked through the scope, confirming what he had feared when he first spotted the tower. He keyed his FM radio and spoke into the mouthpiece.

  Master was standing on the tar walkway, less than a hundred feet from the tower. He couldn’t see Hammer or any of the prisoners, and when Kramer’s voice came into the small receiver in his ear he wasn’t surprised at the message.

  “I can’t get a clear shot unless they stand up. I can’t see any of the targets, and if I move any closer I’ll be spotted. I do have some clear space along the walkway if they try to come down.”

  “Hold position,” Master whispered into the radio. “Break, Dewar, double-time down to the van and bring up the two-oh-three.”

  “Roger,” Dewar replied from his hidden position around the curve farther down the path.

  “So what’s the average life expectancy?” Hammer yelled to Master. “You got to figure that in ten years the Program saves a million on each person that really disappears. With the Cobbs you were looking at two for the price of one.” He shook his head. “I don’t think we’re making enough on this deal.”

  “It’s not just the money,” Master replied. “It’s the concept.”

  Hammer turned to Riley and Giannini and lowered his voice. “You’ll like this—I’ve heard it before.”

  Riley wondered about all the talking—something wasn’t right. Why was this Master fellow stalling for time? Riley glanced down the walkway, half expecting to see some men sneaking up on them. His hands were now entirely drenched in blood but he continued the awkward sawing motion.

  “What’s the concept?” Hammer called out.

  “The idea that criminals should be rewarded simply because they agree to testify to save their ass. You know what I mean, Hammer. We served our country and it spit in our face, yet these people break the law and then get rewarded for it.”

  “He’s got a point, don’t you think?” Hammer said to his prisoners.

  The blood-covered garrote slipped out of Riley’s fingers and fell to the floor behind him. He put both palms together and pressed—he could feel some give.

  “I don’t think—” Hammer’s next words were cut off as the sharp crack of an explosion sounded close by. He popped his head up and peered out. The smoke from a grenade round floated by.

  “Again!” Master hissed, as Dewar popped open the grenade launcher barrel slung underneath the M-16 frame. As soon as Dewar had fired the first round, Master joined him. Both were hidden on the far side of the path from the tower, on the beginning of the downslope leading to Forney’s Creek. The expanded cartridge slipped out and Dewar rammed home another high-explosive (HE) round.

  Five miles to the west, flying five hundred feet above Andrews Bald, Ferguson saw the puff of smoke on Clingmans Dome and wondered what it could be. His trip with the couple who’d arrived in the Mercedes had started in the west, and he was working his way east along the spine of the mountains. Whatever the smoke was, he would see shortly.

  “Son of a bitch!” Hammer exclaimed, hitting the deck. “Guess they aren’t going to negotiate.”

  “Why the hell did you even try?” Riley said.

  Hammer looked at him. “Because I thought Master would be reasonable, and I’m tired of working for peanuts. If I get this to go down, I could retire and be done with this crap. Guess that’s not going to be possible.”

  Hammer stood, hands held up. “All right, Master. You’ve got—”

/>   The 7.62 x 51mm round entered just under Hammer’s left eye, glanced off the cheekbone and tore through his mouth, and exited through his right jaw. The impact threw him against the concrete wall, then he toppled to the floor.

  Riley heard the report of the sniper rifle even as Hammer’s blood splashed over him. He made one final surge with the tape and the last strands parted. With the knife from Hammer’s combat vest, he sliced through Giannini’s and Lisa’s bindings. Then he scuttled around the deck, keeping low, to the pile of weapons and gear; he threw on his combat vest, resecured both his pistols and his FA-MAS, and handed Giannini her revolver.

  “He’s still alive,” Giannini said, kneeling next to Hammer.

  Riley slid next to his former partner and checked the wound. Hammer’s eyes followed him above the bloody mess the round had made. They all flinched as another HE grenade exploded, this one against the outside of the concrete wall; the concussion made their heads ring.

  Hammer muttered something, spitting out blood, broken teeth, and splintered bone. Riley ripped open the field dressing from Hammer’s vest and reached up to wrap it around the man’s head. A bloody hand came up and grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip. Riley met Hammer’s look, and the man again attempted to speak through his damaged mouth. Riley tried to put the bandage on, but Hammer wouldn’t let go, and Riley finally desisted. Hammer then picked up the FA-MAS and got to his knees. He pointed to the ramp.

  Riley understood what Hammer was doing. He turned to the two women. “Let’s go. Down the ramp.”

  Hammer stood and fired a long sustained burst, first at where Master had been, then around to the left, toward the sniper. When the bolt slammed forward on an empty magazine, he smoothly slipped another one home and continued firing, ignoring the pain and the blood that flowed from his face. Giannini grabbed Lisa by the arm, and Riley pushed them onto the ramp.

  As they started down, an explosion behind them threw them all to the ramp. Riley turned and looked. Dewar had finally threaded the needle; the round had passed between the upper cover and the concrete wall, exploding less than four feet from Hammer. Riley caught a glimpse as the blast blew Hammer’s shredded body over the wall to the ground forty feet below. Riley shook his head to clear the ringing from the blast’s concussion. “Let’s keep going,” he ordered the two women.

  Riley knew that the sniper was directly ahead, but he didn’t know if the man had an angle on the walkway. It was a chance he had to take. To stay up on the observation deck was suicide.

  Kramer twisted the focus on the PSG1 and scanned down from the deck. Three figures appeared; their lower bodies were below the concrete wall on either side, but their upper bodies were totally exposed to his direct vector. Kramer let the red dot of his laser sight flicker from one to the other to the third, then he settled on his first target.

  Ferguson had seen the last explosion on the tower and could only interpret it as some sort of distress signal. He got on his radio and called the Park Service for help as he maneuvered his aircraft in closer.

  Master heard the helicopter but it didn’t concern him. “Finish them,” he ordered Dewar, who obediently blooped another round onto the observation deck.

  The round exploded thirty feet behind Riley. “Keep going!” Riley yelled at Lisa. He was surprised when she jerked backward against them, almost knocking Giannini to the ground. The echo of the sniper rifle confirmed his fear as he bent over the woman. A pool of blood was spreading from the wound in her throat.

  “Oh fuck,” Riley muttered, meeting Giannini’s eyes over the body. He reached forward and threw her to the floor, behind Lisa’s body.

  “Shit,” Kramer muttered, as the two dipped below his line of sight. “I got one of them,” he reported to Master over the radio. “One of the women. They’re about forty feet down the ramp and they’re on the floor, out of sight now.”

  “Got that?” Master asked Dewar, who was lying next to him.

  “Yeah.” Dewar loaded another HE cartridge, shifted his sights along the walkway, and fired. The round just barely missed, flying over the walkway and exploding in the trees on the far side.

  Riley could see the red laser dot flickering against the concrete just above their heads. He estimated they had about a six-inch safety margin that was keeping them from getting their heads blown off. He watched the dot for a few seconds, gauging its movement. Then he heard the chatter of helicopter blades coming closer.

  He leaned his head next to Giannini’s. “How is she?”

  Giannini was searching vainly for a pulse. “She’s gone.”

  “How high do you think we are above the ground?”

  “Twenty—thirty feet, maybe.”

  Riley’s hands had begun moving even as he asked her. He unhooked the coiled twelve-foot length of nylon rope that was attached to the right shoulder of his combat harness and swiftly tied a fixed loop on one end. He reached up and flipped it over the metal railing bolted to the inside of the wall. A shot chipped concrete splinters less than four inches from Riley’s hand, informing him that the sniper was still on station and alert.

  Riley slipped the free end of the rope through the loop and pulled it tight as another HE round flew overhead. Riley grabbed the fixed end of the rope, pressed it into the snap link on the front of his vest, and did two twists. He tapped Giannini. “Here’s the plan . . .”

  “He’s doing something,” Dewar reported.

  “What is it?” Master asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Master rolled his eyes. “Give me that damn thing,” he said to Dewar, grabbing the grenade launcher out of his hands.

  Riley jumped up and rolled over the concrete wall, the rope screaming through the snap link, barely slowing him. He slammed the hand holding the rope against his chest, braking barely a foot from the end of the rope.

  Kramer snapped off a hurried shot, then tried to settle in on the target hanging on the rope, when the other woman appeared in the corner of the scope, firing on automatic with a FA-MAS. Kramer ducked down as bullets cracked by overhead.

  Riley released the brake, the free end of the rope passed through his hand, and he free-fell the remaining fifteen feet to the ground, doing a reasonably good parachute landing fall on the pine needles. He hopped to his feet and immediately ran to the west, 9mm pistol held out front.

  The last piece of brass flew out of the ejector port of the FA-MAS, and Giannini turned around and sprinted back toward the observation deck, reloading as she went.

  Kramer rolled back to his stomach, put his eye to the scope, and stared in surprise at the empty rope dangling. Then he swung the scope up and spotted Giannini running back up the ramp. He was centering the red dot on the middle of her back when his entire field of vision was blocked out by something close appearing in the scope. Kramer pulled away from the eyepiece and was greeted by the sight of Riley charging toward him, less than thirty feet away. Kramer reflexively snapped off a wild, unaimed shot. Riley halted, swung up the 9mm, and smoothly fired off two shots, the first one hitting Kramer in the shoulder and punching him back, away from the gun, the second hitting him on the point of the nose, killing him instantly.

  Riley hurriedly made up the remaining distance and claimed the PSG1 for his own use, grabbing two extra magazines off the dead body.

  As Master reloaded the grenade launcher, he had watched Riley execute the short rappel and then disappear beyond the curve of the hill. Master fired at the point where the rope hung over the edge of the wall and was gratified to see that his aim was true as the round landed in the walkway.

  Giannini heard the explosion down the walkway and popped up with the FA-MAS to let off a quick burst in the direction of the grenade firing. The sound of the helicopter had gotten louder, and she peeked out. The aircraft was no more than a mile away and heading directly for the observation tower. She sat down, pressed her back against the wall, and waited.

  “What are you doing?” the man in the backseat asked Ferguson.

&
nbsp; “I think someone might need help,” Ferguson answered as he closed on the tower. “It looks like someone is setting off some type of signal up ahead.” He slowed down as he approached, trying to figure out what was happening.

  Master could see the helicopter closing. About the last thing he needed right now was witnesses. He briefly considered firing on the chopper with the M-203, then just as quickly decided that was a bad idea. He hunkered down and lay low.

  Ferguson came to a hover less than twenty feet away from the tower and about ten feet above it. He spotted a body at the base of the tower and also one on the walkway.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, taking in the carnage. He added some more choice curses as a woman suddenly appeared on the observation deck with an automatic weapon aimed directly at the cockpit.

  “Get us out of here!” the man in the backseat screamed into his headset.

  Through the windshield Ferguson locked eyes with the woman. At this range she could put at least one magazine into his bird without much trouble at all. And he knew that a helicopter was an intrinsically delicate piece of machinery—never mind his body also being somewhat vulnerable to bullets. The woman gestured with her free hand, making very clear to Ferguson what she wanted. He wasn’t sure he could do it, but looking directly into the muzzle of her gun, he decided he had no choice. He looked again at the sprawled bodies. This woman obviously wasn’t afraid to use that gun. He flew closer to the tower.

  Through the scope of the PSG1, Riley scanned the trees next to the path below him. He was lying in the prone position about midway between the tower and the spot where the grenades had been launched. He spared a quick glance back at the tower and could see the helicopter pilot maneuvering in close. So far, so good.

  Giannini kept the FA-MAS at the ready until the last moment. She felt extremely exposed as she balanced on the rim of the concrete wall, one hand holding onto the overhead, but she had to trust that Riley had her covered. The pilot was slowly edging in the right skid, the blades coming dangerously close to the overhead.