CHAPTER
16
Sparks danced and rose in the slowly dying fire as the burnt up husk of the pickup smoldered. Keeping their bodies crouched low, John and Curtis reached the halfway point to the truck with the mounted machine gun.
A pair of shadows crossed in front of the flames. John stopped as Curtis fell prone in the tall grass. The mercenaries exchanged a few barbs in their native tongue. After their raucous laughter, they split up, with one circling out to the tree line and the other heading to the intact truck.
“He’s going to drive that thing out of here,” Curtis whispered. “We need to get to him now.”
“I’ll go. Make sure the other man doesn’t cause any problems,” John said, pushing himself up to his feet.
“How am I supposed—” Curtis stopped and watched as John covered the remaining distance in a handful of bounding steps.
John made it to the driver’s side door just as the truck’s engine coughed and struggled to start. The man inside turned his head in time to see the beast bearing down on him. His eyes lit up and he struggled to reach for a weapon, not realizing that he had tossed his rifle at the foot of the passenger seat.
His shout came out in a short bellow before John’s hand clamped around his mouth. Grabbing the back of the man’s head, John slammed his head into the steering wheel. He reared the soldier’s head back again and rocked him forward, but the first blow had taken the fight out of him as his body slumped, causing his forehead to hit the horn.
The sharp blast pulled the attention of the other soldier, who spotted John and unslung his rifle.
“Hey! Stop!” the man yelled as he clutched his weapon to his chest, running to help his friend.
“Of course it can’t just go smoothly,” Curtis said under his breath.
He popped his body up to a crouch, timing his attack with the other man’s approach. Curtis pushed off the ground and bolted forward. He dipped his shoulders and struck the man’s midsection just as they crossed paths. Curtis scooped the man’s legs up and lifted him onto his shoulder before dumping the man to the dirt.
Grabbing the forearm of the soldier’s AK, Curtis pinned the man down with his own weapon as he drove a sharp left hand into his foe’s jaw. He pressed his bodyweight down and followed the first blow with two hard elbow strikes, rendering the mercenary unconscious.
John yanked the dazed man from the truck and climbed into the bed with the machine gun. Several more men jogged in their direction, trying to find out why the man honked the horn. They saw John’s massive frame behind the mounted weapon as he whirled it around toward them.
The FN MAG chattered and lanced out with a line of tracers as John rode the burst into the oncoming men. The unlucky soldier at the edge of the group caught three of the rounds in his gut and chest, dropping him. Another took a tracer round through his shoulder and spun as he fell. The rest scattered, avoiding the lead storm.
John cursed as the belt reached the end, his weapon running dry. He looked around for more ammunition, finding none.
“We’ve got more rushing us!” Curtis shouted as he grabbed the AK-74 from the man at his feet.
The soldiers John had been firing at regrouped, aiming at the truck. He leaped out to one side and pulled the door open, reaching inside for the weapon in the passenger side. Bullets punched holes in the thin metal body, tearing up the upholstery inside. John fell back, unable to reach the rifle in time.
Curtis stood and fired a burst at the closest man before helping John to his feet. “We gotta go.”
John snatched the Beretta 92FS from the holster of the man he pulled out of the truck, following Curtis as they ran through a clearing, toward a grove of trees. The soldiers shouted and fired their weapons wildly as they ran, their bullets zipping by.
Dirt peppered John as one of the rounds hit the ground near him. The whip crack of a supersonic slug let him know at least one of their pursuers had some discipline behind the trigger.
“We need to slow them down,” John said between breaths. “Once we reach the trees, find cover and return fire.”
Curtis only nodded as he continued sprinting ahead, holding the rifle against his body.
Shouts and enemy fire continued as they reached the tree line. John dug his boots into the ground, skidding as he pivoted around, crouching behind the burly trunk of an ash tree. Curtis turned a semi-circle, moving just a bit further into the grove before bracing the AK against the trunk of another tree.
“Now!” John shouted as his pistol bucked twice.
He adjusted his grip, shifted his aim and fired three more rounds, clipping the lead mercenary. The enemies’ bullets struck a wide area around them, ineffective as they tried to run and gun. Curtis fired his weapon in three-round bursts, each time making corrections.
Two more soldiers fell before the others scrambled, realizing too late that they were in the middle of a large clearing, with the only cover being where John and Curtis had hunkered down to initiate their counter-attack.
The men dropped to their stomachs, still trying to press the attack. They fired blindly from behind the tall grass. John worked the trigger repeatedly, sending several rounds before he turned to Curtis.
“More coming,” he said. “Let’s move deeper into the forest. If they’re foolish enough to follow, we’ll pick them off.”
Curtis saw the truck rumbling over the field, bounding in their direction. He nodded and flipped his rifle to safe as they faded into the darkness.
* * *
The bony crack of fist-on-cheek sent the crowd into another wave of frenzy. Russell Tatlock wound up and unleashed another hook, his fist digging deep into his opponent’s stomach. Blanchard didn’t know the name of the other man fighting, but knew that when he saw him working on the property, it would be an entertaining challenge for his head of security.
The villager had worked to bring food and medical supplies home to his family, but when offered a large sum of cash to fight in Blanchard’s arena, he could hardly turn down the offer. Especially since it wasn’t so much of a request as it was a command.
Damien loved flaunting his power and wealth when other influential people made their way to his home. Three government inspectors had stopped by for a meeting, hearing that Blanchard had returned. And now they all gathered around, watching the two men in the arena exchange blows. They placed bets not on who would win, but how fast Blanchard’s man would emerge, victorious, and how many more men he could defeat tonight.
The battered man from the village held himself up on wobbly legs, hurling his fist like a ball on the end of a rope, lacking any control, but loaded with power. Russell dipped underneath and buried another fist into the man’s ribs.
His weakened opponent stumbled forward with a left hook. The poor man’s eyes widened when he watched the predator in the arena with him absorb the blow to the jaw and smile in return. The man fired two more punches in desperation, only to watch as both were equally ineffective.
He let his hands fall to his sides, slumping his shoulders. The man struggled to pull in another breath as a mixture of saliva and blood dripped from his mouth onto his torn and dirty clothing.
Russell shuffled back, almost dancing as he utilized his footwork to measure off the distance to his foe. The crowd, comprised mostly of Blanchard’s personal army, cheered and shouted in anticipation. The skilled combatant took a step forward, pivoting as he turned his body around before leaping into the air. He spun a full 360 degrees before lashing out with a roundhouse kick.
His foot struck the villager in the side of the head with tremendous force, sending him reeling to the dirt as Russell landed. His back turned to the downed opponent, he raised his fists high in victory as the room erupted. Money exchanged hands fulfilling wagers. Small amounts between the soldiers and small fortunes between the inspectors.
But Damien Blanchard had missed the grand finale, having his attention focused on his assistant standing off to the side, holding his mobile phone c
lutched to his chest. With the fight over, he offered polite smiles and excused himself.
“Is this something that couldn’t wait for ten more minutes?” he hissed, snatching the phone.
The assistant looked away and left the room. Blanchard bored holes into the man’s back with his stare before taking the call.
“This better be important,” he said.
“Stone wasn’t with the convoy.” Gabriel’s voice was casual. Unconcerned with Blanchard’s ire.
“What do you mean he wasn’t there? Did he escape during the fight?”
“He wasn’t with the others when we ambushed them.”
Blanchard clenched his jaw, feeling the pressure in his molars. He took in two short breaths and pressed a hand to his forehead. “Well then, where is he?”
Gabriel spoke with someone else on the other end, continuing the conversation far too long for Blanchard’s liking. “We were pressing the attack on the convoy when he and another man attacked the men that stayed behind. They fled to the east, but Micah and I are heading back to continue the pursuit.”
Damien felt his pulse in his temples and rolled his head side to side to crack the vertebrae in his neck. Anger threatened to take over, but after another few breaths, a sudden inspiration replaced the emotion.
“Stay on him, but don’t engage,” he said.
“Don’t engage? Are you sure?” Gabriel asked.
“I want Stone’s head mounted on my wall,” Damien said. “But I’ll go and get it myself. Track them down and send me their position. I will be joining you with a few men to hunt this dog myself.”
Damien thumbed the button to end the call and tucked the phone into his shirt pocket. Upset initially at the thought of John Stone escaping his men, he now saw it as the perfect opportunity to bring down his biggest trophy.
You wanted me, Stone? Come and get me.
CHAPTER
17
“Talk to me, Jimenez. What do you see up there?” Travis watched the road where it rounded the bend through is binoculars.
“It looks like they’ve stopped. Maybe we hurt them too badly.”
Millie watched through her own binoculars. “I don’t think that’s it,” she said. “I can’t see anything from here, though. I’m going to move closer.”
“No, hang back,” Travis said. “We can’t risk splitting up and walking into a trap.”
“They’ve already sprung their ambush,” Millie said. “As long as we sit here, we’re only giving them time to set up another one.”
Travis cursed, looking down at the screen on his phone. “They’re not answering their phones. Come on, John, you need to contact us.”
Millie reached into the Mamba and pulled out the MP5, hanging the sling around her neck and shoulder.
“What do you think you’re doing? Get back here.” Travis stepped out of the passenger seat.
“All due respect, Mr. Chambers, but I don’t work for you.” Millie stood toe-to-toe, coming up to his collar bones as she looked up at him.
“You’re putting lives at risk by just waltzing right into the enemy’s position.”
“I don’t see it like that. Right now there could be more mercenaries arriving to bolster their numbers,” Millie said. “ John and Curtis are on the other side of that line, and if we can’t find a way to break through, they’re done for.”
“The road tightens up to a bottleneck,” Travis said. “Anyone foolish enough to drive through is going to pass through a fatal funnel.”
“Not if they approach on foot,” Millie said. “Through the trees.”
“She’s right,” Jimenez said. “Another truck just rolled up, adding another half dozen to their ranks.”
“And what do you expect to do, Millie? Are you going to sneak in and kill them all while we just sit around?” Travis asked.
“Right now we just need more information,” she said, stepping around him and heading for the bend. She turned to face him again. “And that’s kind of my specialty.”
Travis breathed through flared nostrils as he watched her disappear into the darkness, making her way to the enemy line. He wrapped both hands around the back of his neck and looked up, trying to pull some of the tension from his muscles.
“Dammit, Jimenez, keep an eye on her,” Travis said.
“Uh, I’m trying, but I lost her as soon as she reached the trees along the far side of the road.”
* * *
Twigs and leaves crunched under John’s boot as he turned to face the rear again.
“Did we lose them?” Curtis asked, looking down the sight of his rifle.
“Blanchard’s men don’t know where we are, but they’re still giving chase,” John answered. “Looks like they’ve got few more men with them too.”
“Can we thin them out a little?”
“Not without giving away our position.” John stood taller and looked to his left and right. “They’re spreading out.”
“Like you said, they don’t know where we are,” Curtis said.
“They’re pushing us back,” John said. “None of the men are searching for us, only walking forward, keeping their eyes locked ahead. They want us to head in that direction.”
“Why? What’s back there?” Curtis asked.
“Blanchard’s compound is that way,” John said. “They’re flushing us toward him.”
Shouts of panic ended the enemy’s eerie silence as one of the mercenaries fired his weapon. More voices called out, none speaking English. Two more gunshots rang out before someone was able to regain control of the situation.
John dropped to a knee and peered around a tree.
“What do you think that was all about?” Curtis asked, shifting his aim toward the commotion.
“Panic fire,” John said. “Someone must have thought he saw us.”
“We can’t stay here much longer,” Curtis said, rising to his feet.
“Over there!” someone shouted as his weapon cracked.
“They spotted us.” Curtis pivoted back behind the tree and leaned out to take aim. Before he could press the trigger, John’s Beretta popped twice. He stood and fired his pistol three more times, all five rounds punching through the man’s chest.
Several more men rushed through the trees in their direction. Curtis unleashed a pair of bursts from the AK-74, discouraging the men from getting too close to the action. The mercenaries ducked behind nearby trees for cover before returning fire.
“Let’s move,” John said, heading deeper into the trees.
Curtis fired one more burst and followed.
“Don’t engage,” John said over the mercenaries’ weapon reports. “Their muzzle flashes are blinding them and masking our movement.”
Dipping his head down and shrugging his shoulders Curtis trusted the Ranger, following on his heels as they zigzagged through the forest.
After another half mile, they slid into a ditch behind several large rocks. John ejected the magazine from his pistol counting the rounds he had left. Curtis peered up over the rocks.
“I’ve only got a handful of rounds left,” John said. “Ball ammo at that.”
“You got too used to those fat forty-five slugs,” Curtis said, easing the bolt back with his left thumb. “More good news. I’m out completely.”
He dropped the empty rifle in the ditch and slid down.
“We can’t let them push us back,” John said as he reinserted the magazine. “Travis and the others need our help. Our only choice is to break through this line and reach them.”
“Are you nuts?” Curtis fished his phone from his pocket. “That sounds like a suicide mission. Wonderful. No signal.” He put the phone away.
John looked at his own mobile before stuffing it back into a pocket. “You saw that ambush site. They were waiting for the convoy.”
“Judging by the condition of that flaming wreck, it looks like they did some damage before pulling back,” Curtis said.
“One of the Mambas was still there,” John s
aid, looking at him. “They must have suffered a significant loss before escaping. We need to get back to help.”
Curtis rubbed his hands together. “Well then, hand me a sharpened stick so we can get to work.”
John noted the sarcastic tone and handed him the pistol. “We’ve been in this kind of situation before. Picking up a few weapons on the way isn’t new to us.”
“Evading lions and tigers and bears while we do it is a pretty new variable, though,” Curtis said, inspecting the Beretta.
“Perfect. Our odds have already improved,” John said. “There are no tigers or bears here.”
* * *
Torches and fires lit the grounds as Damien Blanchard watched his men preparing for battle. With John Stone separated from his team, his mercenaries were able to further drive the wedge and push his quarry deeper into the hunting grounds. Still, even with limited support and ammunition, John would prove to be a dangerous adversary.
The thought of the trophy filled Damien with a renewed vigor, turning what was a bad situation into a promising one. He kicked the lid of an ornate wooden trunk open, reaching inside to retrieve a leather shoulder holster. He pulled the loops around his arms, securing a strap across his chest.
Damien’s hand found the custom ivory grips of the revolver as he drew it to examine the weapon. Chambered in .454 Casull, the handgun had the power to bring down large and powerful game. His fingers rotated the cylinder one full revolution before pulling the loading gate open. Each of the five big bore rounds dropped into place with a satisfying clink before Damien re-holstered the revolver.
Russell, his head of security, pushed one more round into the tube magazine of his Remington 870. He pumped the action, loading a shell into the chamber.
Off to his right, Zane adjusted his outback hat as he worked the leather of his bullwhip with his thumbs. He coiled it up and secured it to a loop on his belt. Though he carried the exotic weapon, the man also favored wheel guns.
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