by John Grit
Ken looked over at his wife, who sat six feet away. “You’re in advertising, what do you think?”
Rebecca opened her eyes so wide it wrinkled her forehead and lifted her hands into the air as if she didn’t want any part of the conversation, but her words proved otherwise. “I’m still trying not to throw up. You know, someday, these bastards are going to run out of young Americans willing to die for this country in unnecessary wars they get us involved in for their own hidden agendas.” She bit her lower lip. “Then a real foreign enemy will show up to defend against, but there won’t be anyone willing to fight for a country so full of assholes like those we have in power. When that day comes, it’ll be the sorriest day in American history.”
Trey rubbed his beer on his forehead. “They use the military to kill en masse and the CIA to kill individuals. I feel a strong kinship with those two spooks; they’ve been used just like us veterans.”
Ken had not taken his eyes off his wife.
She sat in her wheelchair and looked back. “What?”
“I think you’re right; that’s what.” Ken’s face showed more years than his chronological age of thirty-five would suggest. He had been taking care of his wife since she came back from Afghanistan more dead than alive. “If we don’t let this one be buried under some fabricated event or a mass shooting in a first grade classroom to distract the public or whitewashed with a show investigation and some hand-picked committee that shits out a report devoid of real facts, the corrupt assholes just may be flushed out of office.”
“We’ll never get them all,” Trey said. “And if we did, there will always be more running for office, financed and controlled by those who stay in the shadows. After the Justice Department tapped hundreds of reporters’ phones and computers, putting the fear of government in their ass, and making it clear the First Amendment means nothing, they’ve backed off from reporting government corruption even more than usual. And after the public was informed about how certain political groups have been intimidated by the IRS for years, threatened with denial of legitimate tax deductions and subjected to audits for no reason, many who would have joined grassroots organizations have been reluctant to stick their necks out.”
Ken’s eyes became slits. “They’ll play hell intimidating combat vets. There’s not enough room in their prisons to lock all of us up for tax evasion. In fact, if they’re going to sic the IRS on us we might as well stop paying taxes.”
Trey set his empty beer down. “No. That would give them a legal excuse to put you away.”
“They don’t need a legal excuse; they have plenty of illegal excuses.”
Rebecca wheeled her chair closer. “As you can tell, Ken is upset about all of this. I think it’s more about what happened to me and the condition I was in when I came home than what the bastards have done to the country.”
Ken held her hand. “It’s both. And yes, I’m pissed.”
~~~
South Carolina, on the shore of Lake Marion.
The killers guarding the perimeter of the lakeshore compound only yards from the white sand that had been trucked in from Florida wore light journalist vests over T-shirts for comfort in the hot summer weather, yet the vests hid their pistols and compact submachine guns they carried under them. Even though South Carolina was known for its heat and humidity in summer, these men couldn’t have possibly acclimated themselves to it over the nine days they had been there preparing for the arrival of underworld VIPs — not when they came from Russia, a land of snow and ice, and this night was one of the hottest on record. They kept nervous watch, as their lives depended on it. One mistake, one second of carelessness… and if potential attackers didn’t kill them, their Russian Mafia employers would.
On the other side of the compound, Americans patrolled the perimeter, guarding their American Mob bosses, their sweaty hands on submachine gun grips. They had been told a professional killer from the CIA had gone rogue and it was likely he and an equally deadly friend would show up to settle old scores.
In addition to the compound’s guards, most of the guests had brought their personal weapons, resulting in an uneasy atmosphere within the lodge. Intimidating figures in expensive suits with haphazardly concealed weapons eyed competitors and outright enemies as they passed in the halls and jockeyed for a table in the larger conference rooms. A temporary truce had been agreed on, but no one was willing to bet their life on it.
Every light surrounding the massive lodge was aimed outward in an attempt to blind any sniper that might be lurking in the distance and to render night vision useless. The extensive grounds and huge swimming pool were only illuminated by discreetly mounted weak lights to deny snipers a shot, yet allow guests to see well enough not to stumble in the dark.
The lodge was isolated and sat between the man-made lake and lush green lowlands and treed rolling hills that stretched to the horizon. Unmarked black SUVs blocked both roads leading to the vacation lodge. They all sported U.S. Government tags and contained heavily armed men who worked for the CIA and several other government agencies that didn’t even have a catchy three-letter handle for the public to roll off their tongue whenever they wanted to speak of government conspiracies they knew nothing about. Farther down the road, local sheriff deputies manned another roadblock, believing they were helping the feds protect America from terrorists or foreign military threats. Sheriff patrol cars were also stationed at both ends of the artificial beach to ensure that nobody disturbed the guests.
Most of the underworld’s string pullers were having a conference over what to do about the recent flap of news reports exposing U.S. Government ties to a world-wide crime organization that included capitalists, aged ex-communists, fascists, oil-rich Mideast monarchies, and strong-arm banana republic thugs, not to mention drug warlords. Everyone agreed on only one thing: First, they had to kill those two rogue CIA agents. Then they would handle the fallout from the revelations. Their puppet politicians’ motto was deny, refute, rebuff, and refuse to give any credence to the accusations. “Fine,” their employers said, “but first kill the two operatives.”
The radio ear phone crackled in Carla’s ear. “Ready?”
She screwed the suppressor onto her MP5 submachine gun as she answered. “Roger that.” She spoke so low that she barely heard her own voice. Using a throat mike made it possible to speak without making a sound, because the mike was able to pick up her vocal cords’ vibration before any sound waves left her lips. “You in position?”
“Negative. Need a few more minutes. This fifty is heavy.” Raylan set the extreme long range fifty caliber rifle down and moved closer, keeping in the shadows. The moon wasn’t up yet but would be in another hour. Still, the sentries guarding the water tower were equipped with night vision monoculars, and he had to be careful. The two men were there to prevent exactly what Raylan and Carla planned to do: use the tower as a sniper’s nest. It was the highest object within a mile of the resort where their targets were gathering for a conference. He hoped Janowski would be there, but there were a host of other monsters he wanted to unburden the world of before he and Carla left the country. The night’s hunt promised to be good.
Raylan knew of the gathering place from intel he received while still working for the CIA and hunting Janowski. It was an annual event, and he deduced they would be gathering there soon to discuss how to put the lid back on a large can of worms involving two rogue CIA agents.
Carla’s voice came over the air. “Target coming danger close. I can’t wait much longer.”
Raylan thumbed the selector switch on his M4 to semi auto and aimed at the second sentry. “Take him.” He fired. The sentry’s head ejected a red mist. He fell where he stood, just as the whack of the bullet strike reached Raylan’s ears.
Carla’s machine pistol burped its suppressed muzzle blast, producing the same results. “Target down,” she whispered.
The two ran for the hurricane fence, she carrying a bolt cutter, he carrying the fifty caliber rifle. They bo
th wore their backpacks, loaded with extra magazines and ammo. In two minutes, they had the gate open and were running for the stairway.
Raylan slung his M4 across his chest and grasped the heavy fifty with both hands. “Climbing up is going to leave us winded.”
She forced her way around him. With a smile, she said, “You’re getting old. I’ll have the spotter scope set up by the time you drag your butt up there.”
“Yeah, okay. Have the extra mags set out for me too.” He stayed on her heels all the way up. They were both huffing by the time they reached the platform encircling the water tank.
Working with experienced skill and speed, they overcame the climb up, willing their heartbeats and blood pressure down while they prepared. They had three ten-round magazines for the fifty caliber Browning Machinegun long range rifle, so Carla would have to keep reloading them while he shot, and she would have to spot for him at the same time. The rifle was a Berrett semi-auto with a massive recoil reducer on the end of its twenty-nine-inch-long barrel. It weighted thirty-one pounds unloaded.
Carla aimed a rangefinder at the main building of the resort. Its infrared laser hit the near wall and bounced back to the rangefinder. “It’s a little more than we judged by checking the map. Range is twelve hundred and twenty yards.”
Raylan had the rifle setting on its bipod, buttstock pressed against his shoulder, as he dialed the Leupold scope in, adjusting the elevation. “Dope the wind for me.”
She used the spotting scope to check the affect the wind had on trees between them and the building at several different ranges. Then she aimed the scope at a flagpole where the Stars and Stripes flew above the South Carolina state flag and judged the wind. “Coming off the lake at three miles per hour at twelve o’clock. Zero value. There are some variable winds between here and the targets that come out of ten o’clock in short bursts.”
“I better factor that in,” Raylan said. He looked through the scope. “I already see one I want, but we’ll wait until more come into view. The conference room seems to be just starting to buzz. Must be a meeting planned tonight. I just hope I get Janowski.”
“At least there are plenty of windows to see through,” Carla commented. “I doubt you’ll get more than two of them before they hit the floor, though. All this extra ammo for the fifty is a bit ambitious.”
“Maybe,” Raylan said. “I’ll take out some of their bodyguards before we go. If we can make them short-handed, we might be able to hit them again tomorrow or when they decide to leave.”
“Ambush them on the road?”
“Maybe.” Raylan got into shooting position. “We’ll decide when the time comes. First, we must survive tonight.”
“You know,” Carla said, “they’re going to find us up here after about three shots.”
“Yeah, this monster throws a flame that can be seen a long ways. Nothing we can do about it. Keep searching for any snipers. I’ll take them out first, if you find any. They’re not going to hit us at this distance with submachine guns and pistols. If we take their snipers out first, we’ll be safe for a while.”
Carla scanned with the spotting scope, dialing the traverse gearing on the stand, as she could never hold the twenty-power scope steady enough free-handed to see much at that range. The image would be too unstable and blurred. “It looks like the gathering is starting in earnest.”
“Great. How many guards?”
“Exterior, a dozen on this side of the compound alone. Inside, it’s hard to guess.” She stopped turning the traverse dial on the scope stand. “Hold on. I found our sniper. He’s on the roof of the main building. Left end, where the roof pitch is almost flat. He’s exposed as hell there. Guess that’s the best place he could find.”
Rayland aimed the fifty at the location she described. “I can just make him out. The glare of all those lights aimed outward makes it difficult to see back there. The moon will be up soon, then I’ll take him. Check the other end of the building, then the other end of the compound. Chances are they have at least two snipers in place.”
She scanned every inch of the roof on the main building and two smaller buildings to her right. “No, I don’t see any more snipers.”
“Check the upper floor windows. The unlit ones. Try to see into the dark rooms, if you can. That’s where a good sniper would be, not on the roof. Any open windows you find, that’s where sniper number two is.”
Carla dug into her pack and pulled out a fourth generation night scope that worked in the infrared spectrum and was capable of seeing body heat. She scanned the upper floor windows with the spotting scope, finding one open. “Got a possible.” She changed to the night scope. “Yep. Sniper number two in the second window from the right, third floor. Can’t see much, but he’s there.”
“He’s the pro,” Raylan said. “The other one’s bait, but doesn’t know it. When the moon comes up, I’ll take the window sniper first. Then I’ll kill the primary targets. If the roof sniper presents a serious threat, I’ll take him afterwards.”
Carla continued to search for more snipers.
Fifteen minutes passed as they watched the conference room fill with underworld kingpins. The three-quarter moon climbed over the tree line behind their left shoulders.
“Damn it,” Raylan hissed. “Janowski hasn’t showed. We can’t wait any longer. They’re bound to radio the guards we killed at the gate and ask for a situation report anytime now. Get ready to spot for me.”
“Roger that.” Carla focused the spotting scope on the window the sniper was in. “I can see him better now.” Her voice rose. “He’s got a fifty.”
Both of them pushed sponge earplugs into their left ear canals and prepared to kill men. Their right ears were protected by the small earphones.
Raylan aimed. “Yeah, I see it. It’s too big to be anything else, unless it’s a Berrett chambered in one of the newer, flatter shooting rounds.” He inhaled, then let half of it out. The recoil wasn’t all that bad, but the muzzle blast shook the steel platform they lay on, penetrating their bones and echoing in the water tank behind them, producing a dull but powerful ringing sound.
“Six inches low,” Carla said, “but the bullet went through the wall and killed him anyway.”
Raylan repositioned to shoot into the conference room. Adjusting his aim, he fired and killed two men with one shot, then moved his aim to a man taking cover behind an upturned table two yards to the left. He squeezed the trigger. What seemed like an eternity later, the bullet struck, and the man’s torso was ripped apart by the massive bullet. The downward drop of the bullets’ path forced Raylan to fire at men close to the window. Those in the back of the room were safe because of the bullets’ trajectory, as he had only the height of the windows to drop bullets into, and those slugs were dropping fast by the time they got to the targets. Aiming and firing as fast as possible, he kept the slaughter up until the lights were switched off in the conference room. By that time, someone had noticed the Berrett’s muzzle blast and was pumping bullets into the water tank behind them.
“The roof sniper has found us,” Carla warned.
Raylan moved the muzzle of the Berrett over and aimed. The fifty roared.
“Roof sniper is good,” Carla barked out.
The last rounds in the first magazine were expended on men running to vehicles in a vain effort to get to the tower.
Raylan reloaded. “Watch for company from the road. Cops will be here soon.”
Carla got up and ran to the other side of the tank to keep watch.
The second magazine went fast. Raylan disabled four vehicles, blocking the drive leading out of the compound. He reloaded and killed four guards, missing twice. While packing up to leave, he yelled, “Grab your stuff. Time to bug out.”
Carla answered with one word, “Cops!”
Raylan switched positions and prepared to fire at the sheriff cruisers racing down the dirt road towards the tower. “Pack up and get down the stairs.”
She stepped over him and
stuffed items into her pack. After slipping into the shoulder straps, she grabbed his heavy pack.
Raylan fired twice into the grill of the first cruiser and then the second. Steam and smoke billowed out from under the hoods of both cars, three hundred yards away. The Berrett empty, he snatched it up as he stood, careful not to touch the hot barrel. There was no time to take his pack from her, so they raced down the stairs, spurred on by bullets bouncing off metal all around them. The deputies were firing pistols and couldn’t hit anything in the dark at that distance. Raylan and Carla both knew well enough, though, that a stray bullet was just as deadly as a well aimed one.
At ground level, they sprinted through the open gate and into the woods, stopping just long enough for Raylan to slam his pack on. They ran on, heading for their motorcycles.
Chapter 8
Moscow, Russia.
“What? How in the hell did this happen?” Janowski screamed into the phone, his voice bouncing off the walls of his office. The lights of Moscow flickered below him. As the realization that it was only pressing business that prevented him from joining the conference and dying in the attack raced through his mind, he became dizzy and sat down at his desk. Several of the most influential underworld bosses were gone, wiped off the ass of the earth. It could have been him. He turned pale. It was Maddox! I was his real target, and when I didn’t show he took the others out while he was there. He had trouble catching his breath. A voice on the line intruded into his thoughts.
“We lost so many.” Yule Keevlof was a seasoned professional who had been under the employ of Janowski for years, yet he was stunned by the results of the attack and how it was carried off.
Janowski paced to the window, stupefied. “A team of two…one of them a woman…did this?”
“Hindsight tells me I should have placed more than two guards at the water tower.”
Janowski’s blood boiled for a moment. Hold off on killing him. I still need a man I can trust in the States. “You have never failed me before. I won’t forget all your years of fateful service. This once, your failure will be overlooked. There were others there in charge of security also, so the fault isn’t just on you.”