by Gary Neece
No worries. He’d drop Thorpe with one high-powered, well-placed round, then casually stroll out of the woods. Thorpe, the poor clueless bastard, would probably illuminate himself with his own headlights. Phipps only real concern was the man lying beside him.
Thadius Shaw was serving as his “spotter,” though Phipps didn’t plan on using him for anything other than as an accessory to murder; Shaw’s direct involvement would help keep the man’s mouth shut.
A few hours ago, Shaw would never have agreed to come along on this undertaking. But his attitude had changed when McDonald convinced him that Thorpe had murdered his best friend, Daniels—and wouldn’t stop until they were all dead. Shaw was unaware that the man who’d actually killed his friend lay beside him. Phipps hadn’t exactly enjoyed killing Daniels…or maybe he did; he wasn’t sure anymore. He’d always gotten satisfaction from killing the enemy in combat but now wondered if he just enjoyed killing—period. He knew one thing: he’d relish putting a bullet in Thorpe’s head, and his only regret would be that Thorpe wouldn’t see it coming. In the sniper’s world, death was like a light switch; you’re dead well before the sound waves of the shot reach your corpse.
Both men were dressed in cheap camouflage. Phipps didn’t want to wear his ghillie suit and risk tearing a piece off on a branch. He’d handled the material enough that his DNA was probably all over the suit. Instead, he lay concealed in the bush, wearing discount-store camouflage, looking through the sights of a deer rifle. He was here to kill a man who’d become a threat to his freedom, and Marines had always been in the freedom-protection business. Phipps didn’t know much about Thorpe; the man seemed cordial enough, but that didn’t mean a thing. McDonald appeared to be a nice guy, too, and one would never guess the shit he was into.
Phipps looked over at a shivering Shaw and thought to himself, worthless. He’d told the dumbass to dress warm. There’s nothing colder than lying motionless on frozen ground waiting to ambush someone. He didn’t know if Shaw was shaking from the cold and sleet or from nerves; probably a combination of both. Phipps was glad this would be an easy kill because Shaw didn’t inspire much confidence. In addition, Shaw normally wore eyeglasses that Phipps had forced him to remove. He didn’t want light reflecting off the lenses and giving away their position. So, besides being an untrained, out-of-his-element shivering little bitch, he was also half blind to boot. Phipps wouldn’t be surprised to hear the man’s teeth begin to chatter.
If Phipps were to be perfectly honest, his own toes were starting to feel the cold. He wished Thorpe would get his sorry white ass home so he could put a bullet in it and return to his heated home and ESPN. While these thoughts swirled in his mind, he noticed movement in the darkness of Thorpe’s property. Two shapes ran toward the fence—dogs.
Where the fuck did they come from?
“What the…?” Shaw said loudly.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” Phipps whispered.
What the hell is this? They’d been here for two and a half hours and hadn’t seen a thing—and now dogs were roaming the fence line? One of the dogs paused and looked across the road and just to the left of where he and Shaw were lying. It began to growl.
“That fucking dog sees us,” Shaw said with obvious fear in his voice.
“He doesn’t see us; he smells us…and now he probably hears us. If you open your mouth again I’m going to slit your fucking throat.”
As soon as his words came out, the trees in front, above and behind them burst with light. Shaw immediately jumped to his feet and turned to run deeper into the woods. The crack of supersonic bullets parted the air over Phipps head. The rounds were followed by a short yelp from Shaw as he continued his flight for safety.
Fucking automatic gunfire—sounded like a three-round burst from an M-4 or modified AR-15.
Phipps fired a round toward where he’d seen a muzzle flash.
A second burst came in from a different location.
Goddamnit! The son-of-a-bitch was shooting and moving! Phipps hugged the earth and crawled away from the gunfire—some of which came too close to finding its mark. When he had cover between him and the threat, he stood and began making his way deeper into the woods. He had to find that fucking Shaw.
Or maybe he didn’t.
THORPE LAY PRONE ABOVE THE creek bed using the bank as cover. Two extension cords, now connected, stretched beside him. The hot end came from his barn and the other led into the woods across the road. Thorpe had picked a trough across the gravel and buried the cord. On the opposite side, he’d connected a three-way splitter. Those cords fed several different sets of lights concealed in the trees. Thorpe had even used clear Christmas lights in the branches well above the ground.
As soon as Thorpe connected the two extension cords, the tree line had come alive with a curtain of light, and he’d caught movement several yards to the right of where his weapon was trained—something moving fast. Thorpe had let out a burst from his AR-15 toward the distant figure, then tucked his head and rolled several feet to his right. As he did so, he’d heard the distinctive high-pitched flutter of a bullet tumbling through the air to his left—ricochet. The bullet probably struck a limb before reaching his location.
There were at least two of them. One was fleeing through the woods and the other fired at Thorpe’s last position. Phipps must have a spotter accompanying him.
Thorpe raised up and let off a short burst near where he’d seen the first person rise. He fired these rounds lower anticipating that Phipps still lay on the ground. Thorpe tucked his head and moved again, noting the lack of return fire. He must have either hit Phipps or the man was retreating or relocating—waiting for Thorpe to let off another burst, a burst that’d be met with a rifle round between his eyes. Deciding he’d pushed his luck enough, Thorpe slid down into the creek bed and began running to the east. When he reached a wooded area east of his house, he left the ravine and made his way back to the gravel road, unsure if he’d struck either man with gunfire.
PHIPPS PICKED HIS WAY THROUGH the trees, then stopped and considered his options. He could call out to Shaw in an attempt to escape this debacle together. Or he could locate Shaw, keep his distance, and use the man as bait. Surrounded by dead foliage, maybe Phipps would hear Thorpe approaching—then again the sound of the sleet might cover his footfalls.
Thorpe didn’t have a military background, but it sure as hell seemed like he’d received combat training somewhere—and where the fuck did he get an automatic rifle? The more Phipps considered Thorpe’s actions, the more concerned he became. Not only did the man anticipate an ambush, but he correctly anticipated from where the attack would be launched. Then he laid down some damn accurate fire on Shaw, who’d been a moving target at considerable yardage. Plus, Thorpe shot and moved. He didn’t get tunnel vision and even anticipated there could be more than one threat in the woods. Phipps had definitely underestimated the man.
He doubted Thorpe would follow multiple adversaries into the woods alone at night. Most likely, he’d wait alongside the road, concealed, and hope to ambush them as they made their way out of the trees. That’s what Phipps would do if he were in Thorpe’s position. On the other hand, Thorpe might move in an arc to the north, in an effort to cut off their retreat.
Their extraction element—Brandon Baker—idled in a car a few miles to the east. Their intent had been to kill Thorpe, hike out, call Baker and get the fuck outta Dodge.
Well, that plan had gone to shit. Phipps decided his best bet at survival would be to trek north fast enough to ensure Thorpe didn’t get in front of him. Phipps might have to spend the entire night in the woods, but it wouldn’t be his first. As he rose and began picking his way through the underbrush, he heard Shaw screaming his name.
Fuck ‘im; that Gomer was on his own.
SHAW DIDN’T HAVE A CLUE what direction he was headed. Goddamn Phipps! His left arm was on fire. It hung like a piece of meat from the elbow down. A round had caught him near the elbow and had completely
disintegrated the joint. Shaw needed medical treatment but instead blundered sightless through the middle of nowhere in freezing temperatures with sleet pelting his face. His glasses were nearly useless; stashed in his breast pocket, they’d broken when he’d begun running and ricocheting off trees. All he had left was one cracked lens and no flashlight.
And Phipps…that motherfucker, wouldn’t answer. Shaw didn’t know where the man had gone or if he was even alive. Fuck, it was cold. Shaw, convinced he would die if he didn’t get immediate medical attention, withdrew his phone and called Baker.
“Is it done?” Baker said, answering his phone.
“Yeah…change of plans though. You need to come in his neighborhood and pick us up. We’re lost in the woods, but we’re close to the road.”
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?”
“Just get your ass in here and pick us up. You need to honk your horn when you get close to Thorpe’s house so we can follow the sound.”
“Bullshit. You trying to get us all arrested?”
“Look, ain’t nobody the fuck out here! It’s colder than shit so people’s windows are closed; they’re not going to hear you.”
“Fuck that!”
“If you don’t come get us, and the police pick us up, the first person I’m going to throw down is you. Now get your white ass in here and pick us up.”
Shaw terminated the call. Hopefully Baker wouldn’t phone Phipps before driving in; no way he’d come if he knew Thorpe was still alive and engaging targets with an automatic weapon.
THORPE HEARD THE SCREAMING BEFORE he reached the road. Someone was yelling Phipps’ name.
“Phipps…I’m hit…where are you? Phipps!”
Concerned it was a trap, Thorpe resisted the temptation to follow. He did cross the road but kept well south of the commotion. He hid behind a fallen tree and waited in the black. Thorpe removed the SID-supplied night vision device from his pack and secured it to his head. He knew he should use his dogs, but he’d become too attached. Better he die in these woods than Al and Trixie.
The thrashing and yelling to the north ceased, and Thorpe tried to attune to the sounds of his environment over the falling sleet. Several minutes later he observed the wash of headlights on the branches above his position. Behind him, a vehicle approached from the east. A minute after the car passed, Thorpe focused on a faint glow of light moving through the trees ahead.
SHAW CAUGHT THE FLASH OF headlights and began picking his way toward the road. He again called Baker.
“Where you at?” Baker answered on the first ring.
“Did you just drive by?”
“Yeah, I’m passing Thorpe’s house now.”
“Turn around and come back the way you came. You don’t have to honk your horn; I could see your lights. Stay on the phone, I’ll tell you when to stop.”
Shaw was having a hell of a time navigating through the trees. It was impossible to see, particularly with only one cracked, sleet-covered lens. After a minute, Shaw picked out Baker’s headlights approaching from the west.
“Stop. Stay where you are and cut your lights. I’m heading your way.”
Shaw couldn’t wait to get out of the woods. To help avoid losing an eyeball to a tree branch, he decided to use the light from his cell phone’s LCD screen to illuminate his way. Holding the phone straight out, he picked up the pace toward the waiting vehicle.
THORPE SAW THE VEHICLE APPROACH from the west, stop twenty yards behind and to his left and cut its lights. Then he watched the glow slice through the woods toward the waiting automobile.
What the hell? Thorpe lifted the goggles away from his eyes. The approaching light cast a blue haze. This is too easy…has to be a trap.
On the other hand, the car on the road was a sitting duck. If Thorpe wanted to step out and fill the windshield with .223 rounds, there was nothing to stop him. Perhaps it wasn’t a trap after all.
They’re actually that stupid.
Thorpe lowered the goggles and plotted an intersecting course with the wielder of blue light. Footfalls audible over the cascading sleet, his target crashed carelessly through the woods. Thorpe timed his steps to those of his prey.
The glow grew near. Whoever he stalked was using a damned cell phone to light his way through the trees. The display might provide a couple of feet of visibility but would totally wreck the person’s night vision beyond that distance. Thorpe propped his AR against a tree and retrieved a Sig Sauer .357 caliber pistol from his side holster. He didn’t really want to use the weapon because he’d purchased it himself, and it was registered in his name. If forced to use the weapon, he would be disappointed in having to destroy it—he was already going to have to dispose of parts of his personal AR.
Thorpe held the pistol in his left hand and a large black knife in his right. If given the opportunity, he’d use the blade.
He stood behind a large tree as his target passed eight feet in front of him, moving right to left. The man held the phone out in front with his right hand—his left arm dangled at his side, hand empty. Was this idiot really walking without a weapon at the ready? Thorpe again checked to see if his target was being followed. He doubted someone would willingly sacrifice himself as bait, but Thorpe was genuinely perplexed with his quarry’s carelessness. To make himself less of a target, he decided to take the man to the ground.
Thorpe holstered his Sig and rushed his phone-wielding adversary. His prey heard death descending upon him and turned—too late. Thorpe tackled him with a well-placed elbow to the jaw, both men crashing to the ground with Thorpe on top. Thorpe secured the man’s right wrist and ignored the noodle-like left arm that slithered about the leaf-strewn forest floor. He pressed his knife across the man’s trachea and looked down into a pair of wild eyes.
Thadius Shaw. Thorpe lowered himself to within inches of the man’s face, partly to instill fear, but mostly to get his head closer to the ground and out of danger.
“How many of you are there?” Thorpe hissed.
“Just me and Phipps…and Baker’s in the car,” Shaw declared without hesitation. “Please don’t…”
“Is Phipps still alive?”
“I don’t know, I…”
Thorpe ended Shaw’s sentence, cutting deep into muscle and cartilage with the razor-sharp knife. He was up and moving well before Shaw’s heart stopped pumping steaming blood onto the frozen ground.
Thadius Shaw…that meant Phipps was dead, injured, fleeing or stalking. Thorpe reattached his night vision goggles and located Shaw’s phone a few feet south of his gurgling body. Retrieving the phone and his AR, Thorpe found cover and listened. He heard nothing except for the sound of sleet striking the trees and the idling engine of the vehicle on the road.
Good fight, son. One thing: you didn’t breathe until I paid Levi his money. Thorpe often heard his father’s words. He went about regulating his breathing while simultaneously considering his options.
He could approach the vehicle from behind and eliminate Baker up close. Or he could just step out onto the road and permeate the vehicle with .223 rounds. If he were Phipps, he’d sit in a locale where he could see the vehicle and take out his opposition when and if it moved in. Thorpe decided taking down the vehicle at this location presented too much risk. He quickly came up with a plan he figured had an above average chance of success and offered better protection from a counterattack.
Thorpe moved into a position of concealment that provided a limited view of the vehicle, a dark SUV.
He retrieved Shaw’s cell phone, covered the light, and found the last dialed call—Brandon Baker. Thorpe tracked east, being careful to keep low, stop, look and listen. Beyond view of the vehicle, he dashed out onto the road and sprinted to a place of concealment. If Phipps were in fact watching the car, Thorpe would be out of visual range at this location. He withdrew Shaw’s phone, retrieved Baker’s number and punched the send button.
“Where in the fuck are you?” Baker answered, obviously thinking he was s
peaking to Shaw.
“Looking at you,” Thorpe answered.
“Who’s this?”
“That’s a nice vehicle you got there, Baker. Too bad I’m about to decorate the interior with your brains.”
Thorpe heard the roar of the engine and the spray of gravel. Baker might drive with his head down at first, but he’d rise up when he thought he’d reached a safe distance. Thorpe could see the dark form of the vehicle approaching. Then the headlights flashed on—that meant his head was up. Thorpe was positioned at a bend in the road, so he would be firing at a ninety-degree angle into the windshield.
The .223 isn’t much of a penetrating round. Thorpe knew the first few bullets would be deflected—counterintuitively—downward. He selected semi-auto and placed the Aimpoint’s red dot just above head level. He systematically began pumping rounds into the windshield, aiming lower with each successive shot.
BRANDON BAKER HAD BEEN SITTING with his lights off for what seemed an eternity. His nerves had caused him to break into a sweat, and even though he wasn’t moving, his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. And then he got the phone call.
Fucking Thorpe was still alive and getting ready to put a bullet in his head. Baker ducked down in his seat, pulled the gearshift into drive and stomped the gas pedal. He drove blindly before realizing he would probably leave the road, strike a tree and die at the hands of that crazy fuck.
Baker peered over the dash and turned on his headlights to make his way through the darkness. Shit—he still couldn’t see. He activated the windshield wipers to clear the accumulated sleet, only to find a quickly approaching right-hand turn. Baker rose fully in his seat to better handle the high-speed maneuver when the windshield exploded into an opaque plane of fractured glass. Fragments tore into his eyes. He ducked and yanked the wheel to the right, anticipating where the turn should be. He felt the left front wheel dip into the ditch, then lost complete control as the Durango left the road. The SUV came to a violent stop. Bleeding from the eyes, Baker lay across the center console and awaited death.