The Amazon Job

by Vince Milam

“I’m with you. And if there are multiple vehicles?”

  “I’ll cut one of the fuel lines. Fire it up. They’ll come scrambling out the front door once the vehicle-on-fire alarm is raised. A turkey shoot ensues.”

  “Most vehicles have metal fuel lines. Not rubber. You’d know that if you’d spent an honest day working with me on the ranch.”

  “Well, here’s the deal, aged one. Someone I know insisted we buy bolt cutters along with a bundle of other crap not two hours ago. Those cutters will do.”

  He drained his beer, puffed the cigar.

  “You got a penlight?”

  “In my rucksack.”

  “Lighter?”

  “Same rucksack.”

  “It feels too Hollywood. Car fire, the enemy scrambles through the front door, we clean house. Is there a pretty girl involved who swoons into your arms at some point?”

  “I’ll stand here for a while so you can conjure up a better approach.”

  He stubbed the cigar into a large dirt-filled planter. Turned my way, stood closer.

  “Alright. It’s a plan. We’ll execute it. Now I want to go over a central issue. The one involving you and your trigger finger.”

  “Went over this at Archer’s place,” I said.

  Classic Marcus Johnson tactical redundancy. Address the perceived operational weakness, confirm solidity.

  “How many missions did we pull off in Delta?” he asked.

  “Plenty.”

  “And in how many of those did we state, ‘Hands up, you’re under arrest’?”

  “Zero.”

  “We went in hot. Every time.”

  “Yeah, and I get it. Message received.”

  My protestations had no effect. I didn’t mind, knowing Marcus would beat on the subject awhile.

  “I wouldn’t bring this up with Catch,” he said.

  “I know.”

  Catch engaged with a ferocity and surety few could match. No prisoners, no one left alive.

  “Or Bo.”

  At the mention of Bo Dickerson, I developed a smile. Marcus didn’t.

  “You might not bring it up with Bo,” I said. “But Bo would bring lots of things up with you.”

  “I’m not talking about cosmic ruminations, and you damn well know it.”

  “Fair enough. My head’s right, Marcus. Good to go.”

  An insufficient declaration. He edged closer.

  “The people at this cabin intend to kill thousands of citizens. Maybe hundreds of thousands. We’re talking about slaughter on a huge scale. Our fellow countrymen.”

  “Understood. Big time.”

  “They have full intent and malice. We stand between them and execution of their plan. You and me.”

  “I know.”

  “So we are clear on this mission’s resolution? None of this back-to-Switzerland crap?”

  “We’re clear.”

  Locked eyes, tight nods.

  “We saddle up at zero dark thirty,” he said. “Bring the hammer down on these bastards.”

  My gut knotted, nostrils flared. This was it. A long, strange trip, Amsler. At dawn tomorrow, it ends. You and Archer and whatever MOIS agents are with you. You might sense me again, but too late. Case Lee and Marcus Johnson have you on high ground. You’re trying to sow the wind, Amsler. Prepare to reap the whirlwind.

  Chapter 36

  A half-mile from Archer’s road I doused the headlights and found a semiclear patch of ground off the road. I eased into a conifer grove and parked. We’d walk the rest of the way. The wet gravel road indicated our pullout location, but we’d have to live with it. We prepped in silence; car doors closed without a sound. No jackets against the misty drizzle—it would introduce an extra element of fabric noise. Webbed battle vests, pockets filled with loaded rifle and pistol magazines. Marcus insisted we both carry the pistol suppressors within the vests as well. Contingency planning. I shoved the bolt cutters into my back waistband, confirmed the lighter and penlight inside cargo pockets. Rounds chambered in pistols and rifles, a final radio check. Tight nods, good to go.

  We stayed off the forest road, worked parallel. We both used the Elcan rifle sight, night-vision function flicked on, as a movement tool. Pitch black among the trees and rocks and boulders. A dozen steps, stop, scope, ascertain the terrain’s next short stretch. Night-vision goggles were perhaps preferable, but you make do. We made good time regardless. Quick, sure steps, movement through sense and feel, the pace eating ground. We halted at a rock outcrop near Archer’s private road turnoff. Used the rifles and scoped the area. Always a chance MOIS had placed an asset at the road’s entrance.

  The vague outline of a large hinged gate, closed, nested between two eighteen-inch posts—one to hang the gate, the other for wrapping a secure chain. No movement, no noise other than a few birds sounding predawn chirps. The smell of rich earth and wet conifer needles and wild country rain filled our world.

  “Wait ten.” Marcus, positioned thirty feet away, spoke low into the earbud radio.

  His voice arrived both assured and reassuring. Yeah, I had no issue performing this assault solo and would have committed without hesitation or concern. But there’s an operational comfort blanket present with a blood brother at your figurative side. Someone to share the foxhole with. Someone I’d worked with in more tight spots than we’d care to think about.

  “Roger that.”

  I knelt near a large boulder, leaned against it, and waited. Such moments afforded the opportunity to become part of the environment, a living component, nonintrusive. Primal synapses reengaged, senses tuned. Whole-being integration with earth, vegetation, other hunters, and prey. A place few visited with regularity. I sensed Marcus’s presence, and the absence of other two-legged critters.

  “Let’s move.”

  Marcus. His statement marked the end of our progress together. He’d cross the road and advance along the north side, parallel to Archer’s half-mile private road. I’d do the same along the south side. The vaguest outline of a dark figure disappeared into the woods. Odds were high that I wouldn’t see him again until it was over, although radio communication with whispered voices would remain active.

  Fifteen minutes later I positioned above the cabin, hidden among rock outcrops and conifer trees. Collected drips from overhead limbs landed on my head and neck as I positioned seventy-five yards away, wet pine needles as a cushion. A nearby owl sounded low night hoots and confirmed my quiet approach.

  We’d caught a break. The long covered front porch light remained on. It provided more than sufficient light for a detailed riflescope situational scan. One glaring fact didn’t require the scope. A MOIS agent sat, smoked, and drank coffee on a front porch bench. An AK-47 automatic rifle rested alongside him.

  Three SUVs and a sedan were parked across the open area in front of the porch. If Amsler and Archer accounted for one vehicle, that translated into six to ten MOIS agents resident. The SUV farthest from the porch and closest to me constituted the initial target. More of a challenge with an enemy on outside watch, but the proper angle and low quick movement would afford undetected access. As long as the porch guy stayed put. So ingress was covered. Egress was another story. Once I lit gasoline, porch guy would snap upright and come running. And maybe start yelling.

  I scoped the wider surroundings. The garage roof displayed a large vent. It hadn’t appeared in the Google Earth image. A new addition. An exhaust vent for the homemade lab. A dim light inside—high odds it was low kitchen illumination as the night shift made coffee. No interior movement. No exterior movement other than the enemy on the porch. Steam from his coffee and cigarette smoke rose in the cool predawn air. The nearby owl continued its soft hoots.

  Timing had become critical. A semblance of daylight was thirty minutes away. Given the vehicle fire objective, darkness was my friend. And with night-vision scopes we held a distinct advantage once the shooting started. I checked with Marcus.

  “I’m set,” I said, a kick-off plan formulated.
I could handle the porch enemy with minimal fuss.

  “Give me five.”

  “Roger that. Three vehicles. Night-duty target on the porch, AK visible.”

  “Can you pull it off?”

  He referenced the car fire.

  “Roger.”

  Enough said, no elaboration required. I waited five minutes as he gained a northern position with a rear view of the cabin. I gave a silent thanks for Marcus’s fixation with preparedness. The pistol suppressor I’d seen little point carrying was now attached to the HK45. The front porch target yawned.

  “I’m go,” Marcus said.

  His declaration acted as a starter’s pistol. The watchman yawned again, stood, and walked to his right. He faced Marcus’s direction and peed off the porch.

  “How’s the view?” I asked into the ear mic. Couldn’t help it.

  “Shut up and execute.”

  I did. Fast and low with rifle, pistol, bolt cutters in hand. Dashed across the open area and hunkered down at the nearest SUV’s front grill. With the wet earth, the crunch of road gravel was minimal. The night guard wandered back to his coffee and smoke. The porch’s wooden planks sounded light creaks in protest.

  I stretched out alongside the vehicle and scooted halfway underneath near its rear. Small rainwater rivulets dripped off the SUV’s side as the vehicle’s body collected the ongoing drizzle. I sighted along the ground. Another SUV and part of the sedan blocked any view from the porch. Important because the penlight, while casting a minimal light, would be evident within the enemy’s line-of-sight.

  Beneath the vehicle’s fuel tank, I flicked on the light and found the fuel line. Transferred the penlight, held it with my mouth, and slid the bolt cutters toward me. The bolt cutter’s open position gap was small and wouldn’t reach around the entire metal fuel line. No worries. A pinched cut would be more than adequate. I ensured my body position remained well clear of the soon-to-be gasoline flow and nipped the line. A small, steady fuel stream developed, soon enough sufficient to light as it pooled beneath the vehicle. I sliced a cloth strip from my pants leg and soaked it with fuel. Scooted back from under the SUV, penlight off, and waited. The minimal sounds of my ground movement were well covered by both distance from the porch and the light rain.

  Wait time. The porch remained quiet; the enemy sipped coffee and smoked. The owl called with soft hoots, a gentle rain fell, and in moments I would kill a man. My lone concern was his potential hue and cry as he ran toward the fire. Others dashing out the front door as I handled close-quarters business would create an OK Corral scenario. Not good, and not much I could do about it other than ensure my initial shots delivered an immediate kill. Fuel continued flowing. The smell reached me perched near one of the front tires. It was time.

  Delta execution—perform with ultraviolent impact. Strike with full fury and terminal intent. With a flick of the lighter the gas-soaked cloth strip torched. I tossed it under the SUV. The universal swoosh of a gas fire igniting was followed with two rapid footfalls on the wooden porch. No yells, no cries. Then wet, pounding steps approached as I waited with a two-handed pistol grip. The footfalls sounded a hundred feet distant, seventy, fifty. At thirty feet I popped up from the burning vehicle’s front grill. Took calm aim and delivered a double tap to the running figure. Two rapid chest shots. He staggered, AK-47 still in hand, crumpled. I put another one in his head. To be sure. Not a soundless five-second event, but damn quiet.

  Pistol shoved into my waistband, I dashed for the body. Dragged it, and the AK, around to the front of the torched vehicle. The next targets dashing from the front door wouldn’t key on anything but a car fire. I hauled ass, full speed, away from the cabin’s clearing and up among the rocks and trees. Unscrewed my weapon’s suppressor, stowed it, and holstered the pistol. No more silent shots—big bang would now rule. Still no movement from within the cabin. That would soon change.

  Vehicles on fire don’t explode. Except in Hollywood. But they do burn like a high-octane torch. Plastic, rubber, upholstery, wiring—crackles and pops and the ongoing escalating roar of an out-of-control fire. The cabin’s inhabitants would awake in short order if they hadn’t already. A quick glance out any front window would send them running outdoors. Didn’t take long.

  The first flung the front door open and scrambled outside, followed by two more. Each held AKs. The first called out a name—the porch watchman no doubt. The three circled in different directions toward the flaring vehicle, yelling for their comrade and at each other.

  “Two exited the back door. Armed. Working their way toward the tree line,” Marcus said, his electronic voice calm, factual. “They won’t reach it.”

  Translation—he’d begin shooting in seconds, take out the back two targets before they gained the cover of trees and rocks. It also highlighted at least two of them had military experience. Gain the high ground, fire and maneuver.

  “Roger that. One down, three active in front.”

  Six enemies accounted for. I held one in my riflescope’s crosshairs and hoped more from the cabin would join the party. Split seconds before either Marcus or I fired. My trigger point would be the discovery of their comrade’s body tucked under the blazing vehicle’s front bumper. So far, their awareness was limited to a strange and alarming car fire. The discovery of their dead comrade would kick their actions into a different realm. They’d take cover. I’d squeeze the trigger prior to that happening.

  Marcus’s first shot kicked things off. His second came as I squeezed the trigger. My target went down hard. Acquisition of the second target a split second later prompted my second shot. He crumpled, dead. A safe assumption the two at the rear had met the same fate. The third target ducked behind one of the SUVs and sprayed automatic fire in my general direction. Hot flashes of light in the predawn black. Bullets slapped trees and foliage ten yards away from my position.

  Three down in front, one alive. Two down in back. Six targets. Couldn’t be many more. I scooted through darkness on my left, low and sure. Skirted boulders, kept among the trees. Headed for a clear fire position.

  Marcus would assume I’d hunt the last outdoor shooter. The SUV blazed as the undercarriage—still fed gasoline—powered roasting flames across the gravel and up the vehicle’s sides. The cabin’s entire front face was now illuminated with wavering, flickering light. My target remained hidden behind his chosen SUV. Voices called from inside; the front door slammed shut. Shattering glass sounded as windows were broken outward to allow firing. At least one if not several more MOIS agents remained inside.

  My outside target screamed at the cabin’s occupants. Voices, in Farsi, called back. Two AKs from two different windows spit fiery lead across the hillside I traversed. Cover fire. I dropped to a knee, focused on the space between my target’s hiding spot and the cabin’s front door. Ten yards to the porch, two more flying steps would make the door. He broke cover under the gunfire delivered from his comrades and headed for the cabin. He didn’t make the porch, landing face-first in wet gravel, dead. In response, the AKs inside pointed toward my muzzle flash and sprayed lead. Bullets thwacked ground and rocks, ricocheted off boulders. I hugged dirt until they quit. Shifted position back toward my original location with a view of both the cabin’s front and the south side of the garage. The flames from the car licked higher, roaring, as four dead men occupied the fire’s illumination ring. A post-apocalyptic scene and deliverance of what we’d been trained to do.

  As I repositioned under the cover of darkness and terrain, movement came from the structure’s south, a garage side door. A figure with an AK-47 dashed full speed toward the adjacent rise with its trees and rocks and boulders. I slammed on the brakes, assumed a standing aim. Gained then lost the target as it disappeared into the covering hillside. But I’d seen enough, had captured a sufficient glimpse through the night-vision scope. Kirmani, exhibiting the exact behavior he’d shown at the opera house in Manaus. Cut and run, save his skin. Too late, asshole. You’re next on the hit list.

>   No sign of Amsler or Archer. But their fear, their certainty that death knocked, was emphasized with each shot Marcus and I took. With each MOIS agent killed. Amsler and Archer’s fate was sealed, their precious time on this good earth reduced to minutes. I felt no sympathy, no empathetic reaction toward them. And no remorse.

  Chapter 37

  “Status?”

  Marcus required a tactical update and confirmation I remained vertical.

  “Two enemies with AKs inside. Along with prime targets one and two. Another target on the hillside, south side. I’m headed his way.”

  “Roger that. I’ll shift west.”

  He’d move his firing position and cover the cabin’s front where the lion’s share of the action emanated from. Cover the lone viable escape route. I tapped a forefinger against the earpiece mic. Two taps—an electronic “Roger that.” No more spoken words while I hunted. Wet pine needles muffled my footsteps, my pace rapid as I covered the hunting grounds. I knelt under a large tree and scoped, the occasional needle-collected rain droplet hitting my head and neck.

  Kirmani wouldn’t travel far. There was a chance his group would overcome our attack. Kill us. So he’d hunker down nearby, wait for daylight and outcomes. The bastard was smart enough to comprehend that his best bet for immediate survival was stillness. Zero movement. Situate himself against a large boulder and wait. From the battle noises he’d grasp the nature of my weapon: semiautomatic, one shot each trigger pull. Reliance on accuracy. He held a different tool. The AK-47 would spit a large number of bullets with a single trigger pull. No great accuracy, with reliance on the sheer volume of killing lead filling a general location. A tool best applied up close and personal. So he’d hide, motionless, until a nearby target appeared.

  I scoped for movement along the hillside. Nothing. He’d gone to ground and waited. The sky’s eastern rim displayed signs of the new day. The overcast rainclouds toward the east were lighter, defined, as the sun rose. The advantage of darkness slipped away.

  I angled uphill and kept among the thicker vegetation. Five or six cautious steps, dropped to a knee, scoped. Repeated until I covered another forty yards. Ahead and downhill was a large cluster of boulders. If I’d been Kirmani, I would have headed for those. So I eased toward them and stopped at their edge, a ten-minute trip. Crouched against a truck-sized boulder, its surface rough and wet. He’d blast away at any movement or sight of me, but I required his exact position. Take him out with a well-aimed single shot. No time for cat and mouse, and no sense of his current rabbit hole location. As daylight increased I pressed against stone and opted for a long-odds tactic.