by Louis Scott
His eyes filled with the reality of the most exciting woman he’d ever known. Heart racing, he wondered if it was too soon to tell her how he felt. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her since the first time they met two years ago. The hours of talking and gazing into each other’s eyes that night had never left him, and now it was his chance to say what he would’ve said back then.
“Krystal, can I tell you something?”
“Sure. Is it about the mission, cause it’s been very quiet.”
“No, personal.” His fingers twisted, jittered, danced along the jeep's metal skin, baring agony over confessing emotion. He’d only ever been encouraged to bottle them up—no room for feelings in his line of work. He sucked in gulps of humid air, swatted at the gnats that bombed his nose and mouth and tried to figure out how to begin. “Umm…”
“You okay? I understand you being nervous and all, but this isn’t your first undercover op is it?” Her inked art came alive as her right arm slid around his shoulders. “I’ll protect your paper pushing booty.” She closed her eyes and drew him in for a kiss.
His skin razed at the electricity of her mouth against his. His right hand released the pistol beneath his thigh as fingers dove into her curly, leaf-smattered hair. The greyish-green crown of foliage and deep line of swampy forest became their oasis. A timeless location that held all of life’s secrets—the right time and place to open his heart to her.
“Voodoo—I mean Krystal—don’t think I’m nuts. We just met, again, and I realize how soon it is, but…” His chest heaved, making the yellow, green and purple Mardi Gras colors on his t-shirt come alive. He wiped the moisture from both hands across his tattered denim jeans.
He'd known two years ago when they first met how he felt about her. That single kiss never left his lips. And here she was, again. It had to be destiny. His heart was full and he didn’t care.
“What is it?” She glowed as if she already anticipated his confession, but was it mutual? How could it be in so short a time?
“I, umm, I just want to say that…” He heard nothing but felt a change. Started to turn to tell her exactly how he felt.
“Put your hands in the air or I’ll blow your brains out,” Demanded a camouflaged figure that pointed a long barrel shotgun at them.
Chapter Nine
Pike struggled. Tape stretched his shoulders apart and fused his hands together. His left eye stung. The strip of industrial adhesive smashed across his face had caught the eyelid halfway open. He stumbled across lime-covered terrain with only a loose hand to guide him. There was no sound of Voodoo.
I know better. Let my guard down and these bayou boys snuck up on us.
He tried to speak, but tape sealed his lips shut. He recoiled as his left shin crashed into what felt like a cypress knee that shot from the murky soil. Soon, he felt still-chilly March waters soak his boots. He lurched forward across wetland waters that submerged each thigh. He shivered at the nip of the cold brackish bayou.
The sounds of two others—one along his side, the other to his rear—moved quickly and whispered quiet through this marsh. They were locals. Possibly even knew Voodoo. Pike didn’t know if that would hurt or help their chances for survival. If these were the Serpent’s disciples, how could they have detected him so quickly?
Birds beckoned along with teeming wildlife, so Pike assumed the waters were still too frigid for snakes and alligators to have fully awakened from winter slothfulness. He grunted as a tangle of gnarled vines tore at his neck. Crap, if he could only see. He stopped once his feet were slanting down. How deep was it going to get? The thought of walking into a watery grave wasn’t appealing.
Hands shoved against his back. He fell face first. Pike rocked his shoulders side to side once submerged. He needed a point of reference. Which way was up? No air in his lungs. Navy SEALs were best equipped in a water environment, and a quick panic eroded as BUD/S training became instinct. The hours of deep-end pool drills and drown proofing could be the difference this day.
Finally, he touched a bottom—mushy and soft—but a bottom. Careful not to drive his feet into the muck with a hard push off, he tapped the soil to begin a path toward surface. His body pulsed rhythmically until he felt the fresh flash of air break surface tension. He gasped and cursed behind the duct tape while fighting for breathes of air through his nostrils.
Finally, hands snatched him up by the hair. He was dragged forward until he skidded against soil. Pike forced himself to remain calm. Their intent wasn’t to drown him, which meant he had more time to figure this out, more time to rescue Voodoo. Just keep a cool head he repeated. They jammed his body onto his knees.
“Just relax, cooyon. This won’t hurt if you do as you’re told.” The tape lifted, and tore beard hairs from his face. He gasped, filling his lungs with air. Screw the mosquitoes that got in. They’d have to deal with the hot fury boiling inside.
“What are you doing, dude?” Pike’s temper raged like a volcano.
A hard-knuckled fist smashed against his chin, sent his skull up and backward. Light speckled behind his eyelids. He wobbled off balance until he toppled from his knees.
“T-Boy what you doing, dummy? We need his face to show up.”
“Forget him. I told him to cool. Curse at me and I’ll crack his pretty face again.”
T-Boy. So this was them.
Pike flinched again at the jerk of tape from his brow. The glue and yank tore at his left pupil. Floaters danced in his left eye. He blinked them into a corner, but the damage was done.
“Where’s the girl?” Pike squinted, scanned the dense foliage.
“You here alone boy. Now smile pretty.” The short, thin hillbilly wore a tank top with ripped woodland camouflage BDU pants. Not military, but hunter’s type. His muscled arms were covered with a mixed mash-up of homemade and probably prison tattoos.
“Smile?”
“Yeah, just do what I tell you and you might not get killed.”
The other one, older and much larger, captured his image on a Wi-Fi laptop computer. He also wore the camo pants but had a BDU blouse to match. Military surplus. The original names had been crossed out with Marks-o-lot. A symbol was drawn on his shoulder where an embroidered patch would have gone. It was smeared but Pike made out the bold print – Carvaka militia.
“Why would you kill me for answering your ad? Ain’t you looking to hire a marksman? Stupid up application process.”
Thick fingers clawed into Pike’s face to force it still for another angled photograph.
“Just wait mister. We checking your picture in a database. We know all the undercover cops. If you in it, well…I’m sure you can guess what’s next?” He jabbed his thumb deeper toward the woods.
Pike’s gut wrenched. He saw a corpse bound with barbed wire against an oak tree. Its head hung by the spine, the bottom torso mauled by wildlife. Pike mashed his mouth together. He assumed it was another federal agent.
His pulse spiked—Voodoo was being vetted elsewhere, he was sure of it. She’d been an undercover Task Force agent in Louisiana for years, which meant she was at higher risk. SEAL training had included reading people’s involuntary reactions such as eye and mouth movements. He strained for clues as the man's face glowed from the computer screen’s flicker. His mind darted, trying to recall if his identity might somehow be in the database. He tried to detect reactions but gained no response from their cold, dead eyes.
“Where’s the girl?” He demanded in a guttural bark that snapped their attention. It was the voice of the hard-ass warrior he used to be, back before he allowed someone else’s notoriety to force him underground.
“Let’s worry about you right now, mister.” The other one, referred to as T-Boy by his partner, meandered between the laptop and Pike. He tapped a long serrated blade against his palm.
“Who’s that tied to the tree?”
“Secret agent man. Thought he’d answer our ad and slip in here to spy on us. Joke's on the feds—we know who you are.”
>
“I’m just a retired grunt looking to make quiet cash.”
Pike’s eyes burned what description he could of the corpse into his mind. He was sure the government had a missing agent investigation already in process. He’d bet Alex knew about it too. Why hadn't she shared that information?
“Bingo,” popped between thick greasy lips. The one called Tater laughed as his torso clenched rigid,
Pike prepared for the gunshot.
“Last chance, mister. Fess up and we might make it hurt less.” The blotches of cheap ink needled across T-Boy’s exposed arms twitched under the strain of the pistol aimed at Pike’s head.
“You’re making a mistake. I’m just a soldier looking to pay bills and avoid the V.A. Either one of you in the service—we’re brothers. You know how hard it is. I’m not a fed.” He smashed his eyes shut at the press of the barrel against his temple.
“Last chance.”
“Screw off, you got the wrong man.” He sat straight off his knees, pushed his taped palms together in prayer and said, “Please let the girl live.”
“Dwight Harriman.” Tater gasped. “I remember the news stories and reports in the paper. You’re freaking Dwight David Harriman.” He clapped his hands together and stomped around in the small clearing. “T-Boy, you know who this is?”
“Dwight David Harriman is what you said.” T-Boy rubbed his calloused palm over his nicked up shaved scalp. “Who’s he?”
“This is the man that shot Osama bin Laden.”
“What?” T-Boy’s eyes exploded from their sockets. His face drained pale.
“As I live and breathe, this is the greatest American hero. Oh my, goodness, Mr. Harriman, it’s an honor to meet you. Please, we’re so sorry. The job’s yours.” Overwhelmed, Tater danced until he bumped the computer.
T-Boy sprung up to grab Tater by the collar of his BDU. “Dang it fool, Rougarou gonna skin you alive if you break another computer.”
“Cut my hands free, now,” Pike snarled. Half pissed at his blown identity, and half glad his identity wasn’t on the Serpent’s list, he was fully anxious to save Voodoo.
“You really shoot that bin Laden?” T-Boy looked with a slanted skepticism.
“Right between the eyes.” Pike pointed his right index finger and simulated a pistol.
“Rougarou going to be pleased I discovered him,” Tater boasted. His weak-handed salute to Pike was an insult to anyone who’d ever attempted to salute another for honor or respect.
“What is a Rougarou?” Pike asked.
Both men shifted uncomfortably, “The boss, that’s who.” Tater snarled.
“Take me to the girl.” Pike commanded.
Chapter Ten
“Voodoo, baby did they hurt you?” Pike ran to her. Rougarou’s people stood in awe and saluted the hero. Except for Cranston Stone.
“I’m okay. I was drug through my backyard like a trawl net and photographed to see if I was a snitch.” Her eyes were wild with adrenaline—not fear. Pike’s wrath abated. He knew she was all right.
“This is da man in the flesh, and I found him.” Tater pointed Pike out like a flea market discovery. “Dwight David Harriman, the greatest American hero that ever lived.” Tater’s enthusiasm was more about promoting his status in the network.
“How I know you him?” Stone asked, tobacco juice trailing along his crusted lips.
“How do you know I’m not?” Having been touted as a mythical warrior, Pike figured he might as well play the role of an Achilles.
“I saw the movie, Cranston, and I asked T-Boy to look him up on the computer.
“He’s in the federal agent database?” Stone screamed.
“On the googler. His picture’s everywhere. Until he went into hiding that is.” Tater defended his prize.
“Till that traitor JW Colt sold out SEAL Team 6 by writing that movie,” flirted the scrawny woman that escorted Voodoo.
“Why the heck would a man who’s in a movie need to do stuff like this for money?” Stone challenged. His fingers squeezed an old flip cell phone.
“Cause JW Colt beat the rest of them SEALs to it and cashed in with his own movie. This dude had to disappear because them terrorists had a bounty on him.” She was convincing for sure, except for one error.
“Thanks honey, but let me clear up one thing. None of us would’ve ever considered becoming a traitor and releasing classified information about the mission. That is sworn to our grave. It’s not about money. It’s about honor.” Pike’s fierce defense of himself and his SEAL Team 6 brothers wasn’t an act—he bled red, white, and blue.
“Well, you still have to shoot to prove you can do the mission we paying you for.” Stone reminded. “Since we not hundred percent you is the hero, I got a great idea.” His sneer was sinister.
“Cranston, is it? I’ve proven myself enough in this life, and I’ll be darned if after your people nearly drowned me in the swamps that I have to further prove myself to you. I’m an American hero. I proved myself when I killed bin Laden. If that ain’t enough, then screw this mission and you.”
Pike’s voice commanded everyone’s attention, even Cranston. The old man, perched atop an old farm tractor, clapped his grizzled palms together.
“Rules is rules, son. We had all the others shoot one of them corpses that tried to sneak into the mission. They tried from five hundred yards. No need wasting a great hero’s talent on that short spell. We gonna tie up your lady friend and put a target next to her pretty head. You shoot that and you can be anybody you claim to be. You miss, and you ain’t nothing but a murdering piss-poor shot.” He cackled, hands covering his skinny belly and exposed ribs.
“No.” Voodoo ran into Pike’s arms. He welcomed her touch, but thought her behavior was odd.
Maybe she’s playing out her undercover role?
“Baby, I can shoot five hundred yards with my eyes closed.” He forced a smile.
“Listen,” she whispered in his ear. “Where is our back up? I don’t even see the surveillance plane. I know the body wire was working. What happened?”
She kissed him to cement the undercover role. Pike’s hand fell from her hips. Wow, he admired her grace under pressure.
“Oh no, I shut the system off so we could talk. Then they caught us off guard. It’ll be okay.” He couldn’t face her, so he clung to her in hopes she’d forgive him. Their captors were just out of earshot, so he had to be careful.
“Okay? You serious? When’s the last time you made a shot at five hundred yards, hero?” She pushed him away, but this wasn’t acting.
“Krystal, can I tell you what I wanted to say earlier?” His mouth dry, he jabbed his tongue over his lips but found no moisture. He glanced to see their captors busying the rifle range for his shoot. He sensed a deviant energy about them.
“Don’t break cover,” Voodoo warned. “You’re acting like an irrational teenage girl before Sadie Hawkins. And for Christ sake don’t mention my name, I’m from back here.” She gave Pike a determined look as a couple of the men approached.
“Let's move, baby girl, or should I say, Ms. Target Practice?” Tater seemed to now share Stone’s skepticism.
“Harriman, it’s an honor to have a real hero with us,” Stone said without sincerity.
“Thank you.” Pike smirked while rubbing at his left eye. It burned like fire and it was still blurry from the tape’s adhesive.
“It’ll be a pleasure watching you demonstrate your sniper craft to us regular Americans who’d rather stay domestic to fight political tyranny than tramp across the globe murdering pretend dictators.”
“It doesn’t matter the place, as long as you’re willing to fight for what you believe in.” Pike looked at each of the Carvaka members. They nodded in agreement.
The rag-tag band numbered seven that he could see. Old bullet casings and whiskey bottles in the grass told Pike this was where they practiced shooting. Firewood and food wrappers made it look like they spent more time talking than training.
/> “I figured a distinguished shooter like yourself would laugh at five hundred yards. Being that you murdered bin Laden from what, about ten feet?”
“I’d love to see you try.”
“I don’t have to, son. This is all about you. You make the shot, you get the job. Simple as that. We can’t get anywhere close to take out our target—cops on high alert. They've focused every resource on catching and killing us. Even down to the dogcatchers. Yessirree, we’re public enemy number one.” Cranston pounded his meatless chest then turned to scoop more chew from the brown pouch.
Pike surveyed the layout. He’d never heard a word about these nut bags until now. He hated to break it to them, but no cops were looking for them.
“Target is secured,” an anonymous voice scratched across a walkie-talkie.
“Let’s do this.” Stone clapped his hands. He hopped down from an old, rusted flatbed trailer. Most of the crap looked like scrap heap.
“Sounds easy enough.” Pike started for the hard plastic rifle case.
“Hold steady, hero.” Stone’s voice had an I’m about to screw you over tone.
“What now? I’m gonna be blindfolded?”
“No, but we found an extra few yards. Five hundred more, to be exact. Take a peek—she’s even smaller.”
“That’s over half a mile, Cranston. What the heck am I shooting with? A revolver?”
“I wish. While this is entertaining, we got an afternoon deadline. We need a shooter, so you’ll use the actual rifle.”
T-Boy kicked the rifle case across the uneven dirt. His eyes widened with anticipation as Pike cracked open the box.
“Not bad,” he said. He held the Remington 700 in both hands and visually inspected the barrel, bolt, and stock. “No bi-pod?”
“Nope, looks like you gotta steady her on your own knee.” Stone snaked his way through the overgrown grass and onto a wooden bench.