by Ty Patterson
‘You moved so fast,’ she said wonderingly.
‘I was careless,’ he replied bitterly. ‘I should have been alert.’
‘Where did he come from?’ She placed the HK on the ground and drank a swig from the canteen they shared.
‘A scout.’ Zeb closed his eyes and willed his control to return. ‘Namir must have sent him out in advance. That dude must have cast a wide loop. He probably heard us. He was too close to me. That was his mistake. Besides, he was reaching for his phone as well. And that was his death.’
‘You are hit,’ she breathed.
Her words reminded him. He looked down at his left shoulder.
His jacket was ripped. His T-shirt, too.
Both were dark and bloodied.
He could feel a growing patch of damp on his upper chest.
He probed lightly with his fingers and breathed an inward sigh of relief when he saw the wound.
‘The round scraped some flesh away. Less than a quarter of an inch. No great damage.’
He removed his outer clothing and took the canteen from her.
He wet his T-shirt with water and cleaned the wound. Tore a strip off the shirt and got the girl to bind it tight.
Donned what was left of his shirt and put on his jacket again.
Rotated his arm experimentally.
It hurt. But it moved freely.
Better than being dead.
‘We need to move. Namir might have sent more scouts.’
‘What were those shots I heard?’
The slope leveled off in front of their hide and became a large plain. It didn’t have much cover. Just knee-high rolling grass and bushes. The tree line started a mile away.
‘We need to clear that,’ he said, ignoring her question. ‘Fast. You good to run?’
‘You promised food,’ she whined, the way millions of teenagers did.
‘Once we are out of the open.’
She took off without a word, arms and legs pumping.
‘Not in a straight line,’ he called out.
She shot him a look, but started zigging and zagging.
Fifteen minutes later, they were sheltered by the forest, but she kept going.
He caught her by her hoodie to slow her down and shushed her when she swung back.
‘Smoke,’ he whispered, breathing deeply.
‘There’s someone else here.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Namir kicked his scout’s body savagely.
He and the rest of his men had arrived at the site forty-five minutes after they tracked his phone. They had discovered the other bodies, too. Scattered in the forest. A couple of them bent and broken. Most of them shot.
His plan had worked. To an extent. Stringing his men out with jammers and trackers had brought them into contact with the stranger.
But the result angered him.
‘Who is this man?’ he roared into the forest.
Not one of his men dared to reply.
He paced as his men grouped loosely around him, some of them looking down at their trackers.
The sight angered him.
‘That didn’t help,’ he said, grabbing one device, flinging it to the ground, and stomping on it.
‘Sayidi, he is just one man,’ Osman, one of his killers, said softly.
‘Not Arabic. Only English,’ Namir screamed, showering the man in spittle.
‘And how do you know he is just one man? That girl might not even be with him.’
He snatched a water canteen from one of his men and drank deeply. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘We need to think like him,’ he said, calmer. ‘This man is a fox. We need to be a wolf.’
‘He will go to Erilyn,’ he said, after several moments of thinking. ‘That’s the largest town near this godforsaken place. It has police. Her grandfather—he lives there.’ He snapped his fingers, remembering the background research on Kenton Ashland.
‘You know the route Khalid took?’ He glared at Osman.
Khalid was the dead scout.
‘Yes, sayidi ... yes,’ his man stammered. ‘It is on his tracker.’
‘We will backtrack that route. His last movement. This man is cunning. It is possible he killed Khalid somewhere else and dumped his body here. The place of the kill—it is from there he and the girl will go to Erilyn.’
‘Move!’ he yelled at his men when they remained motionless.
They scrambled to attention and started filing in the direction Osman pointed.
Namir brought up the rear, glowering. He didn’t bother to hide Khalid’s body. None of his dead killers were buried.
That’s what they get. For being killed by one man.
Doubts began to rise in him, however. Can one man kill ten of my men? My people are killers. Trained as terrorists. They are not ordinary men. Only someone exceptional could kill them.
The hut had held only one person’s possessions, however. One sleeping bag. The stranger’s computers had erased themselves when he had tried to use them. His sat phone had done the same.
No, it’s just one man. And the girl is with him. We found her hair.
He’s a soldier. On vacation. Some special unit. No one else will have that kind of equipment, he thought, recollecting the spare batteries, the wicked-looking blade, and the armored vest left behind in the hut.
It didn’t matter. The man’s luck would not last.
He still had ten cold-blooded murderers, some of the most wanted men, with him.
They would find their targets.
And then I will rape her in front of him. Let my men have their fun, too.
Only then will I kill him.
Slowly.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The smoke seemed to be right ahead of them.
Zeb peered between the trees. No wisps arising from anywhere.
He motioned for Sara Ashland to stay close as he moved quietly.
There came a splash and the sound of someone whistling.
He cocked his head.
Running water? A stream?
It felt like flowing water.
They were on a downward slope again. A gradual decline.
There could be water flowing at the bottom.
Would Namir’s men whistle, however? Would they be so careless?
There was a stream. A very small one, two feet wide. More like a rivulet.
Zeb watched in amazement from beneath a large bush at the bottom of the slope.
A white, bearded man in a sleeveless T-shirt and jeans was standing outside a tent. Dirty sneakers on his feet.
His camp was in a small clearing on the other side of the flowing water.
Around his waist was a gunbelt. Zeb thought his handgun was a Sig Sauer.
Something was cooking on a portable stove. Giving off wisps of smoke.
‘Who is he?’ the girl whispered.
I don’t know every person on the planet. Zeb bit back his retort.
One pm on Wednesday.
The absence of campers had bothered him.
Now, he seemed to be looking at the first hiker.
Stay back, he mouthed at the girl, and stood up.
He stepped out carefully toward the stranger.
The man didn’t notice him until he was out of the woods and approaching the small clearing.
‘Huh?’ the man gawped when he noticed Zeb.
His eyes went wide when they took in the HKs.
His hand blurred towards his Sig.
‘No!’ Zeb dove at him and brought him to the ground.
Clamped a wrist around his gun hand.
The stranger twisted and punched him in the face.
Zeb’s head rang, but he didn’t let up. He absorbed all the blows, a few falling on his wounded shoulder and sending fire racing through him.
He kept on squeezing, however, until the man groaned and let go of his weapon.
Zeb applied an armlock and twisted the man’s shoulder.
The stranger tried to kick
back.
‘Don’t,’ Zeb warned him.
The man reared back and stunned him with a sharp elbow. Then, Zeb dislocated the man’s shoulder.
He got up and dusted his hands as the man shrieked in agony.
He tested his jaw. No damage. But it hurt.
His shoulder was bleeding again, but it would heal. More importantly, the wound didn’t restrict his movement.
The stranger cursed, got up gingerly—and made a run at Zeb.
Who slapped him and knocked him to the ground.
‘Who are you?’ Zeb kneeled over him.
‘Who the f—’
Zeb slapped him. ‘Language.’
‘Who are you?’ the man asked, sullenly.
‘I asked first.’
The stranger looked at him, and then at Sara Ashland, who came out of the forest.
‘You’re in trouble,’ he said, his lips parting in a wicked smirk. ‘You just walked into a big heap of it.’
‘Trouble? What kind?’
The man started to gesture with his hand and broke off in a grimace. ‘Behind me,’ he jerked his head, ‘Are several acres of pot. I guard it.
‘Dude, you just stumbled onto the Tavez Cartel’s farm.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Sara Ashland’s face turned ashen.
The Tavez Cartel was one of the most vicious drug gangs in the world—Mexico-based, but with a growing network in the U.S.
It wasn’t as large as the Cali Cartel or the Sinaloa gang, but it was fast acquiring a reputation as the most vicious.
Joachim Tavez wanted to take over territory. He was more than happy to wage war with other gangs.
There was a video of him on the Internet, executing shooters from the Cali Cartel after first torturing them.
‘This is too far for that gang,’ Zeb said, scorning the stranger.
‘That’s exactly why Tavez has this farm. Right here. No one will suspect it,’ the stranger cackled.
Zeb knew illegal pot farms were a growing menace in the forests of the country.
The areas involved were remote, usually uninhabited but for visitors.
Their inaccessibility played right into the hands of drug gangs.
‘Why should I believe you?’
‘Don’t, buddy. Hang around for a few hours. A bunch of cartel shooters will arrive. Accompanied by the boss man himself. He takes a personal interest. Which you’d know if you have heard of him. He will come with laborers. To harvest the farm and carry it away. Just stick around. You will see.’
‘If I were you,’ he snarled, ‘I would run. Get away and never speak about this. Otherwise, you and your lady—you might get some unwelcome guests.’
He had risen while speaking and taken a couple of steps toward his tent.
Suddenly, he dived toward it, his uninjured arm reaching inside.
It came out with a Mossberg shotgun.
Its barrel started swinging. Turning in the visitors’ direction.
Zeb waited until the last split-second, then leaned forward and grasped the barrel. Twisted it up and slammed the shotgun back against the stranger.
Its stock caught him flush on the chin. The angry crack of the blow was drowned by his scream.
The stranger fell back, clutching his jaw, all fight leaving him.
‘We should go,’ the girl said, putting a tentative hand on Zeb’s shoulder.
He read her fear.
First Namir killed her father. Now this, a deadly cartel.
‘We will,’ he assured her. ‘But not until we get some supplies.’
‘What supplies?’ the guard moaned.
‘Food. Water. We are taking your stock. You have a cellphone?’
The man gaped at Zeb, tried to laugh, and winced.
‘Cellphone? There’s no coverage here. Not for miles.’
‘Where’s your phone?’
He dug it out and threw it at Zeb. ‘See for yourself.’
No bars. He’s right.
‘Listen carefully,’ Zeb told him sternly. ‘There is a bunch of terrorists in the wilderness. Hunting us. Get out of here. Go to the cops. Tell them. Warn any hikers you see. These guys are bearded. Carry HKs. They can’t be mistaken.’
The cartel man chuckled. ‘Some story. You expect me to believe that? You’re just a pair of thieves.’
Sara Ashland sprang forward and slapped him. Hard.
His head snapped to the left. A dull flush spread over his face. He reached out to grab her and fell back when she kicked him in the belly.
‘Those terrorists tortured my father. Killed him in front of me. Yesterday night. You’d better believe that. Because they will do the same to you, if they find you.’
The guard was lost for words for several moments. His mouth opened and closed like a fish’s, while he nursed his shoulder.
‘I don’t care,’ he blustered. ‘My job is to protect this pot farm. Joachim takes a direct interest in it. Besides, no terrorist is going to mess with the Tavez Cartel.’
‘And, I ain’t going near any cops,’ he squared his shoulders defiantly. ‘Or anyone else. Wait. What are you doing?’
Zeb didn’t answer. He turned the man around roughly and pulled out his wallet. He rifled through it rapidly until he found a driving license.
‘Scot Koeman.’ The picture matched the man in front of him.
He tossed the wallet back and went inside the tent.
He came out with a backpack stuffed with food and water canteens. Coffee, mugs, a pan. Matches. A long length of climbing rope.
A piece of rubber hose and several strings went into the bag’s pocket. Because one never knew when those would be needed.
Koeman’s hunting knives, two of them, were strapped to his thigh.
Sara Ashland grabbed the bag from him while he destroyed the Mossberg and Koeman’s Sig.
‘You’re leaving me unarmed,’ the guard cried out in protest.
‘The Tavez Cartel—surely they’ll protect you.’
Koeman turned mean.
‘You had better run hard. Because they protect their own. They will come after you. And it won’t be a friendly visit.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
‘You believe him?’ Sara Ashland mumbled around a mouthful of sandwich.
‘About the cartel growing that pot?’
‘Yeah.’
They had left Koeman’s camp cautiously and then had watched him from a distance.
The guard made no attempt to follow them. He stomped around in anger, yelled at the sky, but stayed put.
‘Yeah,’ Zeb replied as he maintained a fast pace. ‘I found a ledger in his backpack.’
She looked over his shoulder as he flicked through pages. ‘Those are records of pot harvested. Taken away. See those notes at the bottom.’
She sucked in her breath sharply when she made out Koeman’s handwriting and read aloud. ‘“Joachim is not happy. Says there should be more pot. Will cut off my hand if he finds I am cheating.”’
‘Does the cartel head get involved in something like this?’
‘Yes. This one does. He is a micro-manager.’
She looked up with a stricken face. ‘He said they will come after us.’
‘For taking Koeman’s food and water? No, they won’t.’
He looked in her eyes and hoped she believed him.
The cartel will come after us. Because Tavez has a reputation for not letting go of any slight or insult to him or his gang.
His face turned bleak when she upped her pace and overtook him.
Bad enough that we have to deal with a terrorist. Now there’s a cartel involved.
They covered twenty miles, Zeb pushing them hard, resting for only short breaks of five minutes.
Detouring past open flats. Going through wild, beautiful country that he would have taken time to enjoy. If he was alone. And no terrorists were behind them.
‘They are well behind us,’ the girl panted during one fast trot.
�
��No. We lost some time at Koeman’s. Namir will not let up now. Besides, we need to put distance between us and the cartel.’
‘You said they wouldn’t hunt us.’
‘That doesn’t mean we should linger around.’
The sooner I can get to Erilyn, the quicker I can hand her over to the cops. And come back, to hunt Namir. And Tavez, if he shows up.
His plan was to cover as many miles as possible that day. Sleep that night. Travel the remaining distance the next couple of days and reach Erilyn either on Saturday evening or early on Sunday.
His plan hit a setback.
It was four pm.
Sara Ashland was doubled up. Her chest heaving. Sweat pouring down her face.
Zeb had opened a canteen and was offering it to her, when the four men came from behind them.
All wearing baseball caps. Two bearded. Two clean-shaven. Of North American or European descent.
All armed, carrying AR-15s or some Chinese rip-off.
‘Evening,’ said a burly man, who tipped his cap. And stumbled.
‘Chuck’s had too much to drink,’ said the clean-shaven man who caught him before he fell.
Chuck shook him off. ‘I am fine. I want to talk to the lady.’
‘Not now, Chuck. Let’s go,’ Clean Shaven urged him, the other two men making similar noises.
‘Dammit, Jake. I told ya, I want to talk to her,’ the drunk yelled.
He lurched forward.
Zeb stopped him with a palm to his chest.
Chuck growled and raised his AR-15.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Zeb had had enough of amateurs.
He twisted Chuck’s rifle away easily. Tripped him and shoved him onto his ass.
The burly man’s face reddened. He scrambled to his feet with an oath and charged at Zeb.
Who punched him in the gut, rolled him across his hip and sent him sprawling—a move from judo, a martial art that uses an opponent’s energy and speed against him.
‘Don’t,’ Zeb warned Chuck, one of his HKs coming up to cover all of them, in a seemingly casual manner.
‘Jesus. Who the f—’ Jake began, moving forward. He stopped when the HK moved an inch.
He friends backed down, too, keeping their hands well away from their weapons.