Bunker hit the deck, watching the billowing flames tunnel into the smoke-filled sky. He realized one of the tanks had just taken out the Land Rover parked by the trench. The charges Apollo had stuffed into the rear of the truck added to the explosion, hopefully taking out any Russians standing close.
The tank commander’s decision to fire gave Bunker a fix on their location. He got up, set a course, and brought his vengeance to bear, sweeping a few degrees to the left to allow a rear approach.
He killed a few more soldiers along the way, most of them only half-alive. In reality, he was doing them a favor, saving them from a life of horrible disfigurement, or a painful death by asphyxiation.
The second tank was still buttoned up when he arrived. The tank commander hadn’t popped the hatch to man the machine gun, nor were its tracks moving. He figured they were covering the area ahead for signs of resistance—resistance being the tattooed man who dropped the General’s interpreter from the church tower.
Once again, he climbed onboard and planted the TH3-filled sock. He held the flame above the sticky bomb for a two-count, preparing himself for a quicker retreat. When he was ready, he lit the thermite and took off. By the time the intense chemical reaction melted its way through the hull, he was far enough away not to feel its explosive effects when the thermite ignited the rounds sitting in the autoloader.
“Two down, one to go,” he mumbled as the wind picked up again. Only this wasn’t a momentary gust like before. The change was sustained, roughly a moderate breeze, strong enough to push gas and smoke toward the entrance of the clearing.
Mother Nature had stepped up and was now protecting his team on the ridge. Unfortunately, there was a down side—he was exposed and without the cover of hovering smoke.
CHAPTER 51
Burt Lowenstein ejected a spent magazine, then grabbed another from the reserve stack of ammo. He jammed it into the lower receiver, pulled the charging handle back and let it snap loose to prime the chamber with a round.
This was the third magazine he’d loaded. Out of the dozens of rounds he’d fired thus far, he hadn’t missed many, easily leading the scoreboard in kills—assuming, of course, anyone was keeping track, other than him.
He did miss one Russian early on when the gun jammed. It only took a few seconds to clear the misfire, but it did cost him the chance at claiming the first kill of the day. Dicky won that award, sending the Russian to an instant death when the bullet tore a gaping hole in the side of his head.
Up to this point, that first kill had been the most important death on the books. It kept the soldier from unleashing any more rounds at Apollo’s position. Burt feared the Sheriff might have taken a bullet in that exchange. He hadn’t seen any sign of the lawman since.
Just then, another Russian appeared from the smoke cloud, looking dazed and confused like the others. Burt brought the rifle into position and fired, hitting the target in the neck. Blood and tissue shot out in a wide pattern, adding to the run of blood around the trench.
It was almost too easy, feeling as though he was locked inside a massive video game where the good guys got to do all the shooting, while the bad guys did all the dying.
His first kill had sent a charge of adrenaline into his body, the likes of which he’d never experienced before. It was even more intense than the rush he’d felt after his one and only skydive at the age of twenty-three. He was sure both of those firsts would stick in his memory until the end of time.
Burt peered to the left to check on Dicky. Even though the big man had racked up the first kill, Burt figured he’d taken down at least twice as many. Granted, he was burning through three times as much ammo, but in the end, all that mattered was how many bodies he piled up in the record book.
Rusty wasn’t much of a threat to the leaderboard. The Mayor’s grandson had fired a few sporadic shots, but Burt wasn’t sure the kid had hit anything. At least the boy was still dug in and trying.
Dustin bugged out shortly after the bullets started to fly, running away like the pencil-thin coward he was. Albert would have done the same, if he hadn’t chosen to hitch a ride back to camp with Miss Sugar Tits and the annoying kids.
When another flurry of wind roared past him, not only did it whistle through the trees, but it pushed the leading edge of the smoke cloud away from the front of the clearing. The Land Rover was still engulfed in fire, though only its melted tires and a section of the drivetrain remained.
Two of the three tanks were now visible from Burt’s elevated position. Their mangled hulls were ablaze, no doubt due to Bunker’s tactical skills and Albert’s prowess as a bomb maker.
Burt had felt the explosions and seen the flashes, but this was his first view of the actual results. Both Albert and Bunker knew what they were doing. Impressive to say the least.
He couldn’t see the third tank. Not yet, but the wind hadn’t finished its purge. The smoke’s rollback revealed wave after wave of Russian bodies, almost as if a curtain was being pulled back at the start of a show.
Not a single victim had a gas mask, leaving the troops to suffer the wrath of Jumbo and his bag of tricks. Some were nothing more than a pile of lifeless, bloody meat, while others writhed in pain. A few were missing legs. Others were without arms after discovering the toe-poppers and homemade bombs buried around the perimeter.
Burt raised the rifle and began to pick off the injured soldiers on the ground. There were dozens of them to finish off, but he was up to the task. Each round brought satisfaction to his heart, driving the pressure in his chest a level higher.
His new rule was if it moves, shoot it, and that’s exactly what he was doing. Each trigger pull sent more blood and guts into the air. Each subsequent death would add to the overall tally, earning him the title of lead badass.
Payback is a bitch when it’s served up by a mechanic who’s had enough of life’s relentless disappointments. Today was his coming out party, one that would earn him the right to carry the TrackingPoint rifle with distinction.
He was tired of being the sweaty jerk that nobody liked. If he stayed true and completed the mission, he’d walk the streets of Clearwater as a legend. Something he knew would make his deceased father proud.
When this ambush was over, the next step would be to rally a posse of his old buds from high school. Someone needed to take on whatever troops were left in town. Bunker told him earlier that he didn’t think it would be many, and judging by the bloodbath below, the man was right.
If the Sheriff had indeed taken a bullet, then the town would soon be in search of someone new to take charge. Granted, he didn’t know Apollo’s condition, but his gut was telling him the man was down. Permanently.
He’d still have to contend with Mayor Buckley, assuming the pressed suit was still alive after the stabbing. Burt had overhead Bunker and Apollo chatting earlier about the incident with Kenny King.
Even if Mayor Buckley pulled through, the man was a pussy and would never get his hands dirty. Not with the physical stuff. It wasn’t his style. Buckley preferred to sit in his office and pretend he mattered, spying on everyone through the plate glass window.
That left Dicky, Jumbo, Rusty, or Dustin.
Burt ran through an imaginary checklist, realizing none of them were worthy candidates. They each had at least one deficiency that would disqualify them from consideration by the townspeople.
Dicky was built like a supertanker but preferred to stand in the shadows, not lead the masses. He was too reserved—the people would never respect him. So no worry there.
Jumbo was—well, let’s face it, Jumbo. Nobody would ever take the fat-ass seriously. Sure, he had some smarts, even though he didn’t always show it. But in the end, he was a pacifist. A coward. A man who could barely climb a set of stairs without having a heart attack. Nobody would ever choose him for anything, other than as a favorite in a donut-eating contest.
Dustin would snap under the pressure, both figuratively and literally. Burt had crapped bigger than hi
m. It wouldn’t take much to back down the scarecrow, so he was out.
The Mayor’s grandson had promise, but the relentless athlete was much too young. If Rusty couldn’t grow a beard, then he couldn’t lead a town. Simple enough, Burt thought. In fact, that rule should be added to the town charter. Burt smiled after deciding that idea would be his first order of business when this was over.
A grin invaded Burt’s mouth as his trigger finger continued to send rounds downrange, making tissue pop, guts fly, and heartbeats vanish. Once he was in charge, there’d be nobody to stop him. Not after what he’d done today.
The only person who could match him was Bunker—a man whose eyes gave away his soul. Burt could see it bubbling just below the surface every time he looked at him.
Bunker had one desire—to wander off into the woods and never be seen again. Sure, Bunker was more than capable and a worthy competitor, but the man was nothing more than a down on his luck drifter who preferred solitude.
That’s what he was doing when he hooked up with Sugar Tits and her obnoxious kid—drifting, trying to stay off the radar.
Burt snickered while thinking about Bunker and Stephanie. Two prime examples of the kind of assholes who take fucking Amtrak. People who want to stay off the radar. Well, them and old geezers who hate to fly.
A better choice would have been the bus. Sure, it’s slower and less comfortable, but effective. Something a true drifter would do.
Well, that and hitchhike.
Shit. His reasoning kept unspooling the more he dwelled on it. In the end, it doesn’t matter how you disappear, just that you do.
Bunker was clearly running from something. Burt could sense it. That’s all that mattered. There was zero chance Bunker would stick around. Zero. Nothing to worry about, he decided. Bunker was gone the second this was over. End of story.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Burt continued firing at the wounded in the dirt, moving the scope from target to target with ease. The gas had devastated the troops, leaving Burt with only slow-moving targets to aim at. He kept his focus sharp, looking for a few more notches on his side of the ledger.
Something inside of him craved the next kill. He wasn’t sure if it was becoming an instant addiction or some kind of new compulsion. Either way, it felt glorious and he needed more—something to fill the deep emptiness in his gut.
Before the next shot, a new thought tore into his mind. It was a vision of Stephanie rubbing Bunker’s back while the group huddled together, reviewing the maps in Martha Rainey’s house.
Stephanie’s body language, eyes, and voice signaled her intentions—she was dripping wet, just aching to bed the man.
Burt knew that look. Her every thought was focused on one thing—Bunker slipping her the high, hard one—over and over—like some kind of street whore in heat.
He figured location didn’t matter, either. She’d do it anywhere and at any time. Just the kind of woman a man like Bunker would like. Sure, her reputation as a freaky slut may have been part of Burt’s assumptions, but it seemed likely, given all the clues.
Then there was Daisy. Serious, attentive, and easily engaged. The deputy seemed to go out of her way to spend time with Bunker. She was always standing close to the man with her eyes locked onto his, as if he was God personified.
It was disgusting to watch, but Burt didn’t give a shit. She wasn’t his type, either, but that didn’t change the fact that the Deputy was enthralled with Bunker. It wasn’t as obvious as Stephanie’s sexual overtones, but it was there, in every subtle gesture.
Burt’s conviction about Bunker taking off started to wane. He couldn’t discount the sensual allure of Stephanie and Daisy. Both were attractive in their own way, sending out vibes that would snare most men. Even a troubled drifter, like Bunker. A man who’d probably tapped more ass than a professional basketball player.
“Shit, he might just stay because of them,” Burt muttered between shots, realizing Bunker could be a threat to his plan after all.
He moved the scope up and to the right, bringing the reticle onto Bunker’s back. The man was heading away from the trench, moving toward the entrance as he sidestepped the fallen.
Burt watched Bunker wait for the smoke to pull back before he advanced again, taking down more of the targets as they came into view. Bunker held a rifle now, not the pistols, undoubtedly picking one up from the abundant supply lying about.
“What are you doing?” Rusty asked from his perch to the right.
Burt pulled his attention from the scope and peered at Rusty. “Giving Bunker cover. Why don’t you go ahead and head out? I’ve got this.”
“No, I’m not leaving until this is over.”
“Look, kid, Bunker told me to keep you safe. It’s time to bug out. I’ll finish up here. Take a horse and head back to camp. Dicky will go with you and make sure you get there in one piece.”
Rusty shook his head in defiance, his eyes cautious.
Burt shot him a look that said Go now, punk!
Rusty must have finally gotten the message. He slinked away from his position and began the crawl up the hillside, taking a direct path toward the horses waiting on the other side of the rise.
The wind increased again, doubling its speed. Its direction remained constant, aiming its force at Bunker’s position, pushing the gas cloud farther away.
Burt brought his eyes to Dicky. The big man must have sensed it, dropping the barrel of the rifle and looking back at Burt.
Burt pointed at Rusty. “Keep him safe. I got this.”
Dicky nodded before a quick spin and climb up the hill.
Burt laughed, watching Dicky disappear over the rise.
Gotta love a Neanderthal who takes orders without question.
Burt got back on the scope, locating Bunker in the bedlam below. The smoke peeled back another twenty yards, revealing Russian vehicles parked parallel to each other. The antennas on the two center trucks swayed erratically in counterpoint to each other.
Bunker dropped to a knee with the rifle in a ready position, the barrel swinging from side to side in search and destroy mode.
The doors on the vehicles were open, but Burt couldn’t see anyone inside. His direct line of sight was through the windshield, but the seats were empty. He couldn’t see much else.
If a head popped up, he would fire, aiming a few mils higher with the scope. He figured the 7.62 rounds would easily penetrate the glass. Even if his adjustment for distance was off, anyone hiding behind the seats would still take one in the chest.
Bunker crept closer to the truck, weaving his way around the bodies, the rifle tight against his shoulder. His steps were deliberate. Predator-like.
Bunker made it to the lead vehicle unharmed, then moved to the open door on the driver’s side. He moved with caution around the perimeter of the vehicle, looking for targets hiding inside.
Burt thought Bunker should shut the doors as he went, marking his progress. Closed doors would make a surprise assault from inside the vehicle that much harder. Then again, Bunker may have decided to leave the vehicle as-is, fearing a bomb inside—one that might be triggered by movement.
Bunker aimed the sights of his rifle to the second vehicle—the truck sporting all the antennas. The twenty-yard trek was filled with an assortment of corpses, some stacked three high, as if they were in the middle of a group hug when their last breaths were taken. He pressed on, adjusting his path to avoid the dead, with the rifle sweeping from point to point. His strides were short, taking a slower, more deliberate route than before, as if he sensed a nearby threat.
Just then, a portion of Burt’s scope blurred out with a shadow. He lowered the rifle to adjust the focal point, allowing the image to render clear. When he brought the optics back into position, he saw a soldier running at Bunker wearing a gas mask. He must have been playing possum under some of the bodies.
Before Burt could blink, the camo-covered Russian flew in the air and landed on Bunker’s back.
The attacker’s gas mask flew one way and Bunker’s rifle the other as the combatants tumbled together in a heap.
CHAPTER 52
Bunker spit out a mouthful of dirt, then crawled to his knees with a heavy weight on his back. It must have been a Russian, pounding at his skull from behind. The impacts were sharp, but not rapid-fire, giving Bunker an opportunity to react between blows.
He twisted a shoulder and threw a series of elbows at his attacker. The first two hit muscle, but the third blow found something solid, making a loud crack.
The attacker’s clutch weakened, allowing Bunker to work himself free. He got to his feet and turned with hands fisted, ready to fight.
The gray-haired man across from him stood quickly. He was slender but appeared to be in good shape, his forearms the size of Popeye’s. His face ran red with blood, as did his uniform.
A gas mask sat in the dirt a few feet away, which explained the pressure crease across the man’s forehead. He must have been lying in wait, probably covered by the bodies of his fallen comrades.
Bunker looked for a name and rank, but the man’s greens offered neither. The very next instant, his mind tapped into a recent memory from the church tower, when he was observing the activity on the stage.
The vision was of an older man about to shoot Stan Fielding. Bunker’s vantage point wasn’t the best at the time, but it did offer additional data he could use. Given the man’s gas mask, obvious age, and the details from the memory flash, Bunker guessed at the soldier’s identity. “General Zhukov, I presume.”
He waited for Zhukov to respond or pull the holstered pistol from his hip. Zhukov did neither, growling something in Russian after his face pushed into an angry snarl. The man raced forward with his arms extended.
Bunker ducked the attack, then wrapped his arms around Zhukov’s waist. He kept his shoulder centered in the groin area for leverage, driving the General back.
Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 4 and 5) Page 40