Hunter (In the Company of Snipers Book 14)

by Irish Winters

  There was that name again.

  Jonesy grunted. “Reason isn’t Burdette’s strong point. He just wants the girl. All this other stuff is just one big smokescreen. You know that as well as I do. He’s kissing Teach’s butt, big time. Thinks bringing Flynn in alive will make him indispensable.”

  Masters chuckled darkly. “He can think all he wants. Teach doesn’t care much for Burdette or Flynn. He’d just as soon see a picture of her dead body than have to deal with her alive.”

  Hunter’s spine stiffened. Whoever Teach was, he needed to die.

  “Yeah, well, this ghost guy is pissing me off,” Clark growled. “I get my hands on him and I’m gonna throw a barbecue in his honor. Then I’m gonna ram a bamboo stick up his ass and grill him over a nice bed of hot coals. I’d like to hear him scream for a change.”

  Masters tapped a finger to his lower lip. “You’ve got to admit that poisoned dart was right out of the guerilla warfare playbook. Johnson never knew what hit him.”

  Hunter’s ears perked up again. Until now, he’d thought Johnson was the man he’d killed after he ran the panther off. But someone was out there using poison darts? Good to know.

  Jonesy pushed out of his seat. “You sound like you’re on his side, Masters. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Not at all.” Masters lifted a palm to placate his aggravated partner. “I just respect a fellow warrior who’s taken the time to understand the game and his opponents. Don’t worry. Whoever this ghost is, he’s on the losing team. We’ll get him sooner or later. He might be smart, but he’s outnumbered.”

  Yeah, by a team of morons.

  “Damned right we will,” Clark muttered. “Come on, Jonesy. Bring a couple more body bags. Let’s get Hoffman and Bauer back to camp so I can take a shower. I stink and so do you.”

  Jonesy shook his head, his nose wrinkled in disdain. “I say we let ’em stay where they are. They’re downwind. No sense dragging more corpses into camp. These two are already stinking up the joint, and they just got here.”

  “Good thinking.” Masters nodded. “Why don’t you two park these guys with the rest of the dead? Burdette’s right. We don’t have enough cold storage to haul everyone home.”

  Jonesy stuck his thumb in his chest. “Me? But you’re the a-hole who told me to go get these guys. Now you expect me to haul them up to the dump? I don’t think so.”

  “But you will,” Masters said with authority. “While you’re out there, watch for Fergusen and Hansen, too. They should’ve been back by now.”

  “Where’d they go?”

  “They hauled Wilkinson up to the dump at first light.”

  “Wilkinson too?” Clark asked in disbelief. “Man, we’re dropping like flies.”

  “Stop whining. It won’t take long now,” Masters reassured. “We’ll get this guy. He’ll make a mistake. Trust me. They all do.”

  “But I got a bum leg,” Jonesy complained.

  “Yeah, ’cause you got shot by a girl,” Clark snickered.

  “Give it a rest,” Masters growled. “She only creased you, Jonesy. Go with Clark. Make it quick.”

  Jonesy squared off with Masters, his fists clenched. “No. I’m tired of all this shittin’ grunt work.”

  Masters jumped to his feet. “You heard me. Get ’em out of here.”

  When Jonesy didn’t move, Masters took a step forward. “You got something to say?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait,” Jonesy shot back at him, “but Burdette better be serious about that bonus.”

  Masters stood down, his fists still clenched. “Don’t worry. You’ll get what’s coming to you. Quiet…” he hissed, glancing over his shoulder.

  Hunter knew how to count. He’d eliminated two men at the body dump—no doubt Fergusen and Hansen; two more with the booby trap—Hoffman and Bauer; as well as Big Guy and Fat Bastard who he suspected were Stevenson and Daggett. Plus, he’d ended the bastard who’d stabbed him after the panther attack. Could have been Wilkinson. Hunter didn’t care, but he’d only killed seven, none with a poison dart. Genius. Hunter wished he’d thought of that one.

  Khaki Pants, aka Burdette, exited the tent, wiping his red-stained hands on a white towel.

  “Any luck?” Masters asked politely, his hands clasped behind his back like a well-trained attack dog.

  Hunter tensed, straining to hear every last word.

  “It won’t take long now.” Burdette glanced at the tent behind him. “He’s ready to talk. Don’t take any chances. Record everything he says.”

  “That’s what you said last time,” Masters muttered, “only he ain’t said much we didn’t already know. I’ve got to be honest—I don’t think this game with the tape’s working.”

  Burdette shot a sharp glance past Masters to the jungle beyond the camp. “It will now. His friend is out there. I can feel him.”

  What tape?

  Masters grabbed the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders. “You can, huh?”

  Burdette nodded, scanning the perimeter. “Trust me. We’re not alone.”

  Count on it, Hunter promised.

  “Mr. Burdette, sir.” Masters tipped forward on the balls of his feet. “You might as well know that the men are getting antsy. We’ve lost eight guys that we know of and three others are missing, but we’ve only killed two and we’ve only spotted Flynn the one time. Those aren’t good odds.”

  Burdette stuck the towel in his back pocket as he turned his back on Masters and headed into the first trailer. “I don’t give a shit what your men think. I’m not leaving until we find her, alive, damn it. Tell them there’s a five-thousand-dollar reward to whoever gets her first, and I’ll double it if they bring her back in the next twenty-four hours.”

  Hunter hefted his pistol up from the holster on his hip. Not if I get you first.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Meredith heard them before she saw them. It had to be monkeys. Nothing else could make that much awful screeching, howling, and racket. One of them let go of an ear piercing, “Woot. Woot. Woot,” as the entire monkey gang descended to the lower branches of the trees across the river.

  She couldn’t help but smile. Monkeys were smart, and the trees they’d settled in were filled with fruit. Her stomach gurgled. She might just have found tonight’s dinner. Wouldn’t Hunter be surprised?

  The second she thought of him a shiver rippled up the backs of her bare legs and over her butt. She rubbed her arms to warm herself from the chill. Darn him anyway. He wasn’t even there, but he’d affected her. How had he gotten under her skin so quickly?

  While the monkey gang dropped or decimated every piece of the globe-shaped fruit they touched, she ducked under cover and watched. She knew better than to make her presence known to these noisy marauders, but what a sight. Courtney would’ve loved seeing these busybodies.

  The long-armed force swinging through the branches was pure magic to behold. Agile and strong, the gang moved like high-wire trapeze artists one moment and thieving scallywags the next, stealing fruit from each other as they swooped by on vines. Babies clung to their mothers’ backs and bellies while youngsters wrestled each other in midair.

  When another shrill howl rent the jungle, the entire gang chattered noisily as they split. One moment the jungle was filled with rowdy simian banter; the next, they’d scrambled out of the high treetops and vanished. The eeriest silence reigned.

  Goose bumps lifted on her arms. She glanced over her shoulder to the shadowy jungle behind her, suddenly aware she was as much prey as the monkeys.

  Hurry, Mean Girl prodded. Grab some fruit before they come back.

  Meredith worked up her courage to take that first step. What if this was a trick and the monkeys were waiting for her?

  You can do it. Mean Girl could be pretty snarky when she showed up, and pushy, always testing Meredith’s faith in herself.

  “Maybe,” she said out loud, considering how badly she wanted to be a mighty hunter–gatherer. She was on her own and her waterfall
sanctuary was all the way across the river. What if she had to run? What if she fell in?

  Then don’t fall in.

  Meredith hurried into monkey land, but she was no more than beneath the trees when she spotted a curtain of pink and purple flowering vines hanging from above. The fragrant vine weaved into the forks of neighboring trees, and she would’ve liked to sample the pleasant fragrance, maybe taken some of those flowers back to the cave with her. God knew it needed something sweet smelling to hide the smell of wet dirt and sweat.

  She would have snagged some of those flowers if the ants in them hadn’t made her think twice. Beauty and danger seemed to walk hand in hand throughout this jungle.

  Determined to prove useful to Hunter, she gathered the front of her smelly, borrowed shirt into a pouch and collected a weighty armful of fruit. If monkeys could eat it, so could she and her guys.

  A creepy feeling that someone was watching made Meredith glance over her shoulder. Nothing stirred but the breeze through those ant-infested flowers and vines. Was she being watched or was she just paranoid? She hurried.

  Meredith snagged three more too-pretty-to-be-left-behind pieces of fruit, thankful for the first time since she’d put it on, for her over-sized men’s wear. At this rate, she wouldn’t need to leave the cave for days. Hunter might even be proud of her. But she’d been exposed way too long. It was definitely time to get back under cover.

  Intelligence gathering was a lot like assembling a puzzle with some of the pieces missing. Burdette had at least one TEAM agent inside that tent. Another agent was working outside the wire, the one Clark called a ghost, but the third was missing. It would’ve been good to know which agent was which.

  Hunter crept nearer the gate, tracking Burdette as he climbed into the first trailer and slammed the door behind him. Masters ducked inside the tent. The camp emptied as the corpse detail, Jonesy and Clark, headed out of camp, complaining and dragging Hoffman and Bauer behind them.

  Before the gate whooshed closed behind the body bags, Hunter slipped inside the enemy camp and ducked to the rear of the first tractor/trailer rig. Both rigs were large enough to house more mercenaries, but he wasn’t leaving without his man. Or men.

  Keeping low and out of sight, he skirted the back of the first trailer and ducked between the two parked rigs to crouch alongside the one tent. He checked the other tent, the one Burdette hadn’t bothered with, first. Hunter needed to be sure he wasn’t leaving any of his guys—or their bodies—behind. Cautiously easing the flap aside with the back of his hand, he confirmed his suspicion. The place was empty but for a couple cots and some gear.

  “Why don’t you wise up, tough guy? Tell me where she is and I can make all this pain stop.” Masters’ voice drifted from the other tent, followed by slapping sounds. Groans. High-pitched whines of a man in distress.

  Revulsion rankled deep in Hunter’s gut. The torture ended now. With one quick slice of his blade, he angled inside the tent and lunged. His arm and knife were at Masters’ throat before the bastard could cry for help or inflict more pain on the man strapped to the metal table. A shiny scalpel fell to the floor and—

  Gawddamnit! Seth McCray lay stripped to his Jockeys on that table, his wrists and ankles cuffed, and his sweaty body covered in bloody nicks and cuts. He’d clearly been beaten. His face was bruised. Silver duct tape sealed his lips, but his desperate eyes widened when he caught sight of Hunter.

  Masters gripped Hunter’s forearm in a pathetic try for defense, but didn’t the tattoo, SEMPER FI, on the back of his hand, incite a sickening wave of disgust? A USMC brother had been torturing Seth for information, but not allowing him to talk? What kind of bullshit was that?

  Revenge flamed to life. Hunter tightened his arm around Masters’ neck and walked him to the edge of the table, his knife ready to do the deed. “Unbuckle him, you son-of-a-bitch.”

  Masters turned politician. “A brother Marine? Well, isn’t this a coincid—”

  “Unbuckle him!” Hunter hissed, not playing the game. In a lightning fast move, he traded his blade for his pistol. Masters was stalling for time and maneuverability. He’d get neither. “I’ll let you loose, but you’d better not try anything.”

  “Sure. No problem.” Smart enough to comply, Masters freed Seth’s bloody ankles, but craftily eased a hand behind his back. Predictable move.

  Hunter growled. “Go ahead. Pull that blade out of your side sheath or that pinkie pistol out of your pocket. You think I won’t fucking blow your head apart?”

  Masters’ upper lip lifted into a sneer. “You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that, but you, my comrade-in-arms, are outnumbered and outplayed. My men will be all over you the minute you step outside.”

  “Not if you’re going with me, dirtbag. And I’m no comrade of yours. Release him. Now.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Hunter Christian. Corporal out of the Two/Four.” The Two/Four being the Second Infantry Battalion, Fourth Marine Regiment, garrisoned out of Camp Pendleton. Second to None. The Magnificent Bastards. Stick that in your eye.

  Masters grunted. “You’re one of them, huh? What if I refuse? All I have to do is—”

  “Try me,” Hunter purred. “You know damned well what I can and will do. That’s my friend you’ve been carving on. Go ahead. Call your guys. You’re a trained killer like me. I’d love to see one of those jerks try to save your punk ass before it hits the dirt.”

  Enough said. Masters unbuckled the wrist restraints. Slowly, Seth swung his legs over the edge of the table, his knuckles white. Grimacing, he peeled the sticky tape off his mouth and spat. Bloody drool ran over his chin, but he wiped it with the back of his hand. “Hey, Hunt,” he rasped, leaning too far forward, swaying like he was dizzy. “Damned good to... see you.”

  Hunter steadied him with a palm to his bicep. “Stay right there, buddy. Don’t move. You’re going for a ride.” With another wave of his pistol, he backed Masters against the table. “You’re going to pack him. Should be easy. You’re already an ass.”

  Seth balked at climbing onboard the man who’d just been torturing him until Hunter nodded toward the scalpels lined up in surgical order on a side table. “If I was you, I’d want a few souvenirs. Take all you can carry. This donkey might need a reminder who’s boss.”

  “Hell, yeah.” Taking the hint, Seth grabbed the nearest blade and clutched Masters’ neck from behind. “Bend over,” he ordered. It took him an unsteady minute to climb on, but then it was his arm around Masters’ shoulder, a nice shiny scalpel to his adversary’s throat. “Damn it, Hunt. He was going to kill me. Sure glad you showed up.”

  “It’s your turn now, buddy. If he so much as grunts, you end him. Hear me?” Hunter backed away, keeping an eye on Masters.

  Seth nodded his shaky head. He’d said the right words, but he was in damned bad shape. And weak. Masters needed more incentive.

  “This is how it’s going to go down,” Hunter explained as he pressed his pistol to Masters temple. “If you so much as make my buddy breathe heavy, you’ll wish you died on your last deployment. Understood, Sally?”

  Masters’ lip curled, and that was a good enough answer.

  Hunter nodded to Seth. “Get a good grip. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

  “Damn straight.” Seth leaned heavily onto Masters’ back. “Giddy up, asshole.”

  Masters accommodated his passenger by hooking his hands under Seth’s thighs and hoisting him higher to balance their weight. “Now what, genius?”

  Hunter pointed his chin to the door. “Now we go home, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll make sure we get there. If we run into any trouble, you die first.”

  Masters grunted, but ducked his head as he stepped out of the tent. As expected, a grumbling roar went up from his men.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Mr. Burdette demanded. “You can’t—”

  Hunter ducked out of the tent, his pistol in Masters’ neck. “Back the hell off. Now.”
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  “You gotta let us pass,” Masters wisely advised. “He’ll kill me if you don’t.”

  By then, several other armed men had gathered, their weapons drawn. Hunter nudged Masters forward, ready to prove his point should one of them try to be a hero.

  “How’d you get in here?” Burdette asked, like Hunter would waste time explaining.

  Stopping in front of the man who’d thought he was in charge, he snapped his fingers. “Sat phone. Now. I know you’ve got one. Hand it over.”

  Burdette complied, dragging a satellite phone out of his belt holster with shaky fingers. “Are you MI or one of those bastards Alex Stewart sent?”

  “Bastard at your service,” Hunter stepped into the corporate operator’s comfort zone to grab the phone, using his body size as an absolute threat, the blunt barrel of his weapon digging into Masters neck. “Did you enjoy cutting on my buddy? My friend? Did you, huh?”

  A good foot shorter and at least a hundred pounds lighter, Burdette took a full step back. “I... I...”

  “Exactly,” Hunter hissed. “You don’t have the balls for a face to face fight, do you?”

  Just then, Jonesy and Clark reappeared at the gate without the body bags. They obviously hadn’t been to the dump. Jonesy snapped his pistol out of his holster, but before he could aim, the tiniest whirring sound zipped through the air. Jonesy slapped his neck as if he’d been stung. His legs turned to jelly as he slid in a half-spin to the dirt.

  Clark jumped clear of his suddenly prone buddy, performing a damned near perfect pirouette, his rifle aimed into the jungle. “It’s him! That damned ghost is back. He just killed Jonesy!”

  Well, I’ll be damned. Hunter was as dumbfounded as Burdette’s boys, but a genuine smile tugged the corners of his mouth. One of his guys was out there in all that jungle green and he—or they—had his back. He didn’t waste the opportunity. Backing away from Burdette’s restless army, he kept one eye on Masters, the other on the gate. Clark stood there, his weapon drawn. He was the jumpiest of the rapidly decreasing army of buffoons. The rest seemed frozen in place, unwilling to move lest they risk the wrath of the ghost.