Now they were gone.
Victor glanced to the side. The light had poisoned his eyesight. Black suns dawned in his gaze. His direct vision was dead in the darkness, but he still maintained some of his peripheral vision. Looking directly at something in the darkness was next to impossible anyway.
“They made us,” Fat Mike whispered from Victor’s left.
“You just now gettin’ that particular newsflash, Fat Mike?” Victor growled irritably.
Fat Mike cursed. Then he calmed himself. “We outnumber them, and we know the jungle. They don’t stand a chance.”
Victor wondered about that, though. The NCIS agents had moved too easily, and they’d known exactly what they were going to do. For the lights to be out, someone had to have seen them creeping through the brush.
Fat Mike started to get up.
Victor grabbed the man’s arm and yanked him back. “Stay down,” he hissed. “They’ve got a sniper in the brush.”
“What makes you-?”
“Someone saw us. How else would they know we were here?”
Fat Mike cursed again. “Doesn’t mean he’s a sniper.”
“Go ahead and get up,” Victor told him. “You let me know how that works out for you.”
“I believe I’ll just sit here a spell,” Fat Mike said.
Victor grinned.
“Why are you grinning?” Fat Mike asked.
“It’s always more fun when the people you’re hunting know you’re coming.”
A strong voice rang out. “Victor Gant. This is NCIS Commander Will Coburn. Throw down your weapons and give yourself up.”
Victor peered through the darkness. His night vision was starting to return. “That’s funny,” he yelled back. “I was about to offer you the same deal.” He tried to pin the location of the voice.
“This is the only offer you’re going to get,” Coburn said.
“Well, I got to give it to you,” Victor said. “You sound awfully convinced for a man who’s about to die.”
One of Victor’s men suddenly stood up about twenty yards away. Victor started to yell at the man to get down; then he noticed how the man was holding his neck. The man turned suddenly, showing black fluid running between his fingers. Then the sound of a rifle shot rolled over Victor’s position.
Another man next to the first man suddenly jerked and lay sprawled. Another rifle report sounded.
“Sniper,” Fat Mike breathed. He kicked his feet and jammed his back up against the nearest tree.
“You think?” Victor demanded harshly. In the space of a drawn breath and he was down two men. Whoever the sniper was, the man was good.
Moving slowly, careful to keep the tree between himself and the unmarked grave, Victor hefted the M14 he carried as his lead weapon. He’d never liked the M16 and had never carried one throughout his career in Vietnam.
“Cover me,” Victor told Fat Mike.
Immediately, Fat Mike popped out with his M60 machine gun and fired downhill into the grave area. The sudden roar cannonaded between the hills.
Victor sprinted to the two dead men and face-planted on the ground. A bullet zipped by over his head.
“Take cover,” Victor yelled.
Fat Mike pulled back in behind the trees, but now the other men opened fire. Assault weapons on full-auto lit up the night.
Victor grabbed the M79 grenade launcher one of the dead men had been carrying, checked to make sure it was loaded and ready, then rolled onto his belly and looked down the stubby barrel at the bowl depression.
Sporadic return fire lit up the darkness around the grave area.
Calmly Victor ignored that. The guy he was looking for-the sniper-would be shooting with measured deliberation, not just shucking rounds and hoping to hit something.
The wet earth beneath Victor seemed to suck him down, like it was calling to him. His elbows threatened to slide out from under him as he scanned the ranks of his enemies. Then he found the sniper. He was certain of it. The man fired calmly and steadily.
Smiling to himself, cursing the unknown man’s parentage, Victor took up trigger slack on the M79, then pulled it through. A 40 mm grenade thumped from the abbreviated launch tube. Years of practice had taught Victor that the grenade would travel in a parabola, at first breaking free of gravity, then getting pulled back into it.
Victor was too experienced to stick around and see the results of his handiwork. The grenade traveled relatively slowly. Just as he rolled back to cover, a bullet chopped a small tree in half right beside his head.
Downhill, the grenade hit and exploded. The bright flash of light tore through the wooded landscape and ripped away the night for a heartbeat.
Once more under cover, Victor broke the M79 open and loaded another grenade. This time he rolled back to the other side, once more framing himself on his elbows as he took aim.
The grenade round left flames draped through the trees and brush. Evidently the launcher had been loaded with an incendiary high-explosive grenade. The flames helped reveal the area.
Victor scanned the countryside quickly, knowing full well that he might be equally exposed in the flames. He swept the trees, not seeing anything. Then his subconscious pulled his attention back to his left.
There in the shadows, Victor saw the big Marine. Shel McHenry had leaned into the tree with enough skill that he looked like-at first glance-just another layer of bark.
Victor took aim, then sensed with an animal’s instinct that Shel McHenry had also spotted him. Victor pulled the trigger more quickly than he wanted to, and he wasn’t certain of the shot. It didn’t matter.
In the next instant, the grenade exploded in midair as Victor rolled for cover. The concussive force shivered through the trees and raked the grass. For a moment Victor forgot about being wet and muddy and was just thankful to still be alive.
Evidently Shel McHenry’s bullet had, fortuitously, struck the grenade and set it off prematurely. That also meant the Marine had had Victor in his sights long enough to put a bullet in him. They’d both gotten lucky on that score.
Victor pulled the M14 to his shoulder and clambered to his feet. He abandoned the M79 as he awaited Shel McHenry’s next onslaught.
But it didn’t come.
Cautiously Victor peered out around the trees with one eye. Only a true sharpshooter could have picked him off in the night.
Flames burned in the trees around the grave. Ropes of fire dropped to the ground and fought against the drumming rain brought in by the season. There were no other lights, but every now and again lightning would strobe the sky.
Victor thought he detected movement.
Then he was certain because he saw someone easing through the brush and headed away from him. Whoever it was wasn’t going to have much luck, though. Victor had brought enough men to circle the area and cover every inch of landscape.
A bullet ripped across the tree trunk less than an inch from Victor’s eye. Splinters stabbed his face. He pulled his head back and raised the radio he carried to his lips.
“Close in,” he directed. “They’re pulling back, heading toward the west. Don’t let them get away. And I’ll give a reward to the man that brings me the head of that Marine before we get out of here tonight.”
Then he stayed low and moved through the darkness of the night. He and the shadows were old friends, and it was time to introduce Shel McHenry to how dangerous the darkness could be.
61
›› Eleven Klicks Outside Qui Nhon, Binh Dinh Province
›› Socialist Republic of Vietnam
›› 1917 Hours (Local Time Zone)
Shel abandoned his spot and cursed the luck that had put the grenade in his way. Just for a moment there, he’d had Victor Gant perfectly framed in his rifle’s sights. If the grenade hadn’t intercepted the bullet’s path, he was certain he would have shot the man.
The explosion of the grenade had temporarily robbed Shel of his night vision. He blinked against the exploding black spots that Swiss cheesed his sight.