Ky (In the Company of Snipers Book 13)

by Irish Winters

  Damn it to hell. Two men down and within seconds of each other? The TEAM had been cut in half, Hunter and Seth. Shitty odds on a good day, but if that was the hand they were dealt, Hunter meant to play it to win.

  Seth had gone silent, a good sign. Dread crept through the thick jungle’s underbrush with Hunter, compelling his number one ROE, rule of engagement. Stay angry. Let it simmer. Let it build. And just when all seems lost, let it out to obliterate anyone standing in your way.

  Someone on the opposing army was either one helluva sharpshooter or damned lucky. Hunter stifled another curse before it could fly, a burdensome feat for a wicked man with a prolific, combat-honed vocabulary at his disposal, crafted with explicit care and plenty of practice to artfully condemn a man to the lowest circle in Dante’s hell.

  Yes, he’d studied the epic poem a long, long time ago when he cared a fuck about English Lit. He’d even lived through a few of the tortures within the concentric levels of Hell himself, from Limbo to the most rancid, Treachery. He understood full well the Italian admonition at the gates where evil men like him were consigned for all eternity: "Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate.” That line was nothing more than the story of Hunter’s life—“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

  A twig cracked portside, jolting him out of his foolish self-recrimination. Crap like that could get a man killed. Not him.

  He took one quick step backward into the shadow of brush, a single tree at his back. Adrenaline spiked. Fight or flight. He chose fight. That’d be the day he ran from an enemy. Women maybe. Bastards never. Holding position, he stilled, hoping Seth kept his head and did the same. Stop breathing, Hunt. Hunker down. Wait for opportunity to come calling. Then—smooth and easy. Slow and sure. Line ’em up and waste ’em.

  Another movement caught his peripheral, but he didn’t turn to look directly at it. Male, female, or animal, it would have to come a lot closer before he’d risk firing the deadly short stock pressed tightly into his chest and under his chin. The custom made, bolt-action tactical rifle fit his steady grip perfectly. His intentions, too.

  A barely discernable ripple fractured the scenery in front of him. Leaves, light, and shadows shimmered. Hunter allowed satisfaction to lift the corner of his right upper lip into a snarl. That blur in the all-green landscape of Venezuelan jungle was the tell of an enemy soldier. Donned in the latest ActiveCamouflage System out of McCormick Industries, the bastard had to be the one who’d taken Ky and Eric down.

  Barely flexing his index finger, Hunter compressed the trigger. Once. Just once, and—

  Blam! Finally. One enemy combatant down.

  “Son of a bitch! I’m hit! One of them got me.” It seemed the enemy didn’t know when to shut up, either. The dead guy hit the dirt ahead and to the right of Hunter’s hastily selected sniper hide. Satisfaction added to the ferocious sense of competition in warfare. If I can kill one, I can kill two. Maybe more.

  He stilled again, fairly sure there were only three of the enemy left, certainly better odds, but the fact remained. Fire your weapon; give your position away. Hunter was now a target, but he chose not to move. Not yet.

  He let the jungle do its thing. Close him in. Hide him. Camouflage the lines and angles of his six-foot-three build. He kept his head on a swivel and waited, let his heightened senses magnify the sights and sounds in the rainforest around him. He’d stand for a damned long time before he gave his position away, before he tired. His arm could atrophy and drop off before he’d squash the mosquito on his sweaty cheek. Or the three long-legged bugs on his hand. Or whatever crawled up the back of his bare neck.

  This was what he did best. Hunter simply became one with the universe. He melted in and blended in to the lay of the land. He endured and he overcame. He was a USMC scout sniper, for God’s sake, a living devil of a man trained to win, not to simply try, damn it. Trying was for kids and losers. Let the enemy walk into his LOF and never know who’d waited in the dark, much less who killed him.

  The enemy would come looking for him if only because they’d made two kills and they were cocky. They thought they were winning. Guess again.

  The silence in a jungle stretched, eerily quiet. Hunter’s sniper sense tingled, alerting him to the quiet rub of clothing against a leaf at his six. It helped the leaf was a huge, rubbery banana leaf. Still—someone was coming up behind him, into his line of sight. Seth? Probably not. Seth knew better than to move.

  The sound of a plastic zipper shattered the deadly calm, the trickling spatter of fluid spraying into shrubbery. You’ve got to be kidding me. Some guy’s taking a leak? Now?

  The smallest smirk tweaked Hunter’s lips. His target had a nervous bladder and a bad sense of survival. Had to be a civilian, certainly not a spec ops guy. Did he think just because he was invisible, he couldn’t be killed? The fool. His zipper went up with the quiet buzz of plastic against plastic, not the type of sound Mother Nature created. Not even close. The idiot moaned in typical guy relief of a job well done. Holy shit. Hunter nearly grunted. To make it worse, the enemy passed so close to Hunter’s position, he pushed a branch out of his way, the tip of it making contact with Hunter’s elbow.

  This kill seemed too easy. Too cruel. Hunter had never shot a person in the back before, but fair play didn’t apply in war. Squeezing off another single round, the second enemy combatant fell. At least, he didn’t have to worry about wetting his pants any more.

  Two down, two to go.

  Fifty-fifty odds ratcheted up Hunter’s confidence. Maybe he and Seth could win this no-win situation after all. He willed the thought away. Stupid thinking jinxed an operation. Thinking you were invincible or untouchable for even one split second, and that was the day a guy met his maker, call him God, Allah, or the Great White Spirit. It didn’t matter. Over-confidence and stupidity brought the same kind of bad luck. Bang. Bang. You lose. You’re dead—and Aljazeera boasts how easily American soldiers die.

  A large part of being a good sniper depended on the covert operator’s internal mind game. Is that idiot in the bright red and white striped shemagh going to bob his dumb head up one more time looking for you? Oh yes he is. Wait for it. Squeeze the trigger. Pink spray in the evening sun and another lying insurgent gone to claim his fifty virgins or whatever those guys told themselves they deserved for killing good American men and women.

  Damn it. Eric shouldn’t have died today. Ky neither. There was a time Ky was a mess, not any more. Alex Stewart, the owner of The TEAM, seemed to collect broken men and turn them around. Like Ky.

  And me...

  The telltale crush of a light footfall interrupted Hunter’s melancholy repast. He eased his mind back to zero. Concentrate. Focus. Only breathe if you have to. Only kill when you’re ready. Don’t waste a single round. Make ’em all count.

  It didn’t take long. This soldier moved too quickly. Too confidently. When the blur of man-made camouflage halted several yards directly in front of Hunter, for one split second, he experienced a tremor. He panicked. Also included in the ActiveCamouflage System was one damned fine weapon. At that precise moment, its sights could be aimed directly at him, but he’d never know it until the round struck.

  “Teague? Is that you?”

  No idiot, it’s not. Quickly and smoothly, Hunter squeezed off one round before the invisible soldier had the chance to fire. Bright red blossomed where he’d estimated the man’s head was. The bloody red looked odd, the droplets suspended in the air like they were, the trace evidence a ghastly crime against God. The body fell without any verbal expression, most likely because Hunter had shot the man in the face.

  He didn’t waste time on compassion, not for an enemy intent on killing him, not now when the odds had just gotten better. But being good spelled trouble. He also now had three dead bodies in a tight circle around him. They gave him away. It was time to re-locate. On the double.

  Where the hell is Seth?

  Another shot rang out, definitely not one of theirs. Birds screeched. “Damnit
, I’m dead,” answered Hunter’s unspoken question. Great. Only Seth would go down with a one last proclamation on his lips for all to hear. He was another one of Alex’s rejects. Weren’t they all?

  Now the game changed. One-on-one made for an intense wait—or a heart-pumping hunt if the opposing team’s last killer was anything like Hunter. Shit, this could take days. Hunter opted for vigilance and the patience of a saint. It was better to wait the guy out than hastily relocate. Force him to come courting. Let him double down, play his ace in the hole, and go for broke.

  Or die trying....

  Meredith Flynn crouched in the dense foliage, sure The TEAM’s last-man-standing was right ahead of her and to her left. He’d been quiet taking that last shot, but bodies were stacking up in one specific quadrant of the playing field. Teague Horton, her lead engineer and favorite weekend warrior, had gone down without a sound only minutes earlier. Too bad he was the only one of her team who’d taken her up on a solemn oath of silence when, or if, they were shot. The others should’ve. Maybe they’d still be alive.

  Her senses reached out through the jungle, feeling for any unnatural sound that didn’t belong—the brush of khaki against khaki, the squeak of leather or the jingle of a belt, anything that would mark her target once and for all. Her ears became radar, listening for human noises made without thought. A burp. A sniff. A scratch. The slightest exhalation of breath.

  Her eyes widened to detect horizontal lines where none should be, shadows that didn’t blend, the shiny glisten of sweat on a hidden forehead. Her nose twitched to inhale shaving lotion or body wash, the signs of an arrogant guy who thought he was tough. But darn. Nothing but nature came back to her on the breeze. This last guy was good, but he needed to die before she did. She owed Teague that much.

  Suddenly, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck lifted. Her gut clenched. Her inner alarm system roared. Meredith held her position despite the panic climbing up her spine like a little kid on a sugar high. The dastardly assassin had to be close enough to touch and watching, but he couldn’t scare her. Meredith gritted her teeth, determined he would die. But where could he be? And who was he?

  A brightly colored macaw screamed overhead, startling her, but not enough to make her jump. Meredith allowed her eyes to scroll upward without tilting her head. The cursed birds were pretty enough, but not the sweetest music makers in the jungle. They were big and boisterous, more like the rowdy boys from a Delta Phi frat house. The macaws roved the highest upper branches of the tallest trees in giant flocks, blessing everything below them with layers of slippery droppings and raucous racket. With another squawk, the scarlet gold flew off to torment some other creature. Thank heavens. One surprise was enough.

  “Don’t move,” a deep voice rumbled from behind.

  Darn! He’s got me. She froze, the barrel of his gun jabbed sharply into her spine where his shot couldn’t miss. How had he gotten so close? She’d been alert. She hadn’t missed the signs, the crushed grass from heavy boots, the tiny bent tips at the ends of the branches, all proved he should have been ahead of her, not behind. How’d he get back there?

  “Name, rank, and serial number,” her soon-to-be murderer ordered.

  Meredith swallowed hard, her throat day and her doom sealed, darn it. This guy had to be black ops as stealthy as he’d been. As good. She could feel his body heat, something else, too. It rolled off of him. Pure male power. Raw masculine strength. His heated breath on her collar. Even concealed beneath her camouflaged facemask, she could smell him. Clean sweat. Just a hint of deodorant. The tiniest whiff of cigarette smoke.

  She stiffened as a large male hand reached around her without coming into contact with any part of her ACS suit. Adeptly, he lifted the invisible automatic rifle from her hands—like he knew precisely where it was and which way it pointed. A black tattoo extended from the sleeve of his OD T-shirt, a snake of amazing detail wrapped around his forearm, the wedge-shaped head flat on the back of his hand.

  She nearly shrieked as an ungodly shiver arced up her spine. The tattoo looked alive, the scales of the reptile glistening as if the snake slithered along this guy’s very tan rippling muscles. More ink stretched around his wrist and under the cuff of his black and green cammie long-sleeved shirt. Its red inky eyes stared unblinking at her from the back of his hand, its matching red forked-tongue stretched to the end of his middle finger in a continual obscene gesture. The blade of a knife pierced the serpent’s head, the handle grip declaring USMC.

  Ex-Marine, huh? Well, didn’t that just figure? She’d been bested by one of America’s best. The good guys.

  Her heart set to pounding. Thinking she could delay her inevitable surrender, she whirled on him with her elbow cocked high and hard, intent on bringing him down, going for his Adam’s apple. It could happen. She was agile and light-footed. Fast thinking. The rules of engagement clearly established death as the only end to the conflict. There was still the possibility she could wipe the smirk off his—

  “Stop it,” he hissed. That same heavy hand caught the back of her neck in a solid grip, his thumb just below her ear, his fingers turning her to his lips. He had her dead to rights. He was all man. Solid. Deadly.

  Meredith melted, suddenly damp and hot for all the wrong reasons. She didn’t even know this guy, yet her feminine side responded on an elemental, animalistic level. The urge to rub against him like a cat came out of nowhere. The minty scent of spearmint wafted out of his mouth. Spearmint and tobacco. Like an impala on the Serengeti, she inhaled deeply, committing that unexpected male odor to memory for the inevitable death match. It would come. Maybe not today, but soon.

  “Go ahead. Make my day,” he taunted, his voice hard, his nose nearly at the edge of her face shield. “Are you man enough? A shot this close will hurt like hell, but I’m game if you are. Where do you want it, head or crotch like you bagged my first guy?”

  She bit her lip at the threat. A dare? A promise? Who did he think he was, Dirty Harry?

  “Name or yield, either way works for me, Sally.”

  Sally? Was that how he belittled his adversaries? Huffing her disgust at his caveman tactics, Meredith pressed the pad in the middle of her gloved palm to shut down her ACS. This moron needed to know who he was dealing with, and it wasn’t some idiot weekend gamer.

  Section by section, the densely woven, metallic fabric of her all-in-one invisibility suit blinked into view. Each sensor-impregnated panel now reflected nothing more than the charcoal gray cloth of the uniform and the matching helmet. Still, there was a chance she could prove she was more than that ridiculous name he’d tossed at her. She wasn’t anyone’s Sally.

  Slowly, Meredith lifted one booted foot sideways to give him something to think about, and—

  His fingers clenched her neck, twisting her head to the side as if he meant to snap it to get compliance. “Say it or die,” he demanded, the barrel of his rifle now stuck in her ribs, hard enough to really hurt. “I’m good either way.”

  She rolled her eyes beneath her visor, but belted out the requisite, “Yield!” for all still standing on the battlefield to hear. That would be just him, Mr. Tough Guy, the winner she hadn’t yet seen.

  Meredith meant to congratulate him for a job well done. Well, sort of. Half of her still wanted to shoot him between the eyes, the other half to kick his legs out from beneath him and knock him to his arrogant ass. Easing her visor up, she shrugged his grip off and turned to meet the only man who had bested her in a while.

  Surprise sucker punched her hard. She leaned in to make sure her eyes weren’t lying. What were the chances of running into an old friend in the middle of a South American rainforest?

  “Hunter? What are you doing here?”

  But it wasn’t surprise glowering on Mr. Tough Guy’s chiseled face. More like disgust. Hunter’s top lip curled. He grunted, but offered no sign of recognition or welcome, just a quick nod and a polite, curt, “Ma’am,” before he jerked away from her, performed an abrupt military-style abou
t-face, and walked away.

  “Wait,” she called after the wide shoulders angling through the curtain of vines and away from her. “Don’t you recognize me? It’s me. Meredith Flynn.”

  But he’d literally vanished—just like last time.

  About the Author

  Irish Winters is an award-winning author who dabbles in poetry, grandchildren, and rarely (as in extremely rarely) the kitchen. More prone to be outdoors than in, she grew up the quintessential tomboy on a farm in rural Wisconsin, spent her teenage years in the Pacific Northwest, but calls the Wasatch Mountains of Northern Utah home. For now.

  The wife of one handsome husband and mother of three perfect sons, Irish divides her time between writing at home, and travelling the country with her man while writing. (Seriously, what else?)

  She believes in making every day count for something, and follows the wise admonition of her mother to, “Look out the window and see something!”

  To learn more about Irish and her books, please visit http://www.IrishWinters.com.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, I thank God for the supreme gift of being born in America, the land of the free because of the brave. He’s blessed me with a little bit of talent and an over-abundance of imagination and inspiration, but—He’s the one who made these stories possible.

  To my faithful fans and good friends the world over, I wouldn’t be where I am today without you. You’ve touched me with your patriotism and dedication to our country. I’ve heard from so many of you willing to share stories from your military experience, your love of country and spouse, and honestly, that’s been the best reward of all. You’ve made me cry at what you’ve suffered, and how much you love America. I love America, too. Thank you for taking a chance on The TEAM.

  As always, I end with my husband, Bill. My real hero. Because of your patience and understanding, sweetheart, my guys and gals from The TEAM live. Love you!