“Is Phipps still alive?”
“I don’t know, I…”
Thorpe ended Shaw’s sentence, cutting deep into muscle and cartilage with the razor-sharp knife. He was up and moving well before Shaw’s heart stopped pumping steaming blood onto the frozen ground.
Thadius Shaw…that meant Phipps was dead, injured, fleeing or stalking. Thorpe reattached his night vision goggles and located Shaw’s phone a few feet south of his gurgling body. Retrieving the phone and his AR, Thorpe found cover and listened. He heard nothing except for the sound of sleet striking the trees and the idling engine of the vehicle on the road.
Good fight, son. One thing: you didn’t breathe until I paid Levi his money. Thorpe often heard his father’s words. He went about regulating his breathing while simultaneously considering his options.
He could approach the vehicle from behind and eliminate Baker up close. Or he could just step out onto the road and permeate the vehicle with .223 rounds. If he were Phipps, he’d sit in a locale where he could see the vehicle and take out his opposition when and if it moved in. Thorpe decided taking down the vehicle at this location presented too much risk. He quickly came up with a plan he figured had an above average chance of success and offered better protection from a counterattack.
Thorpe moved into a position of concealment that provided a limited view of the vehicle, a dark SUV.
He retrieved Shaw’s cell phone, covered the light, and found the last dialed call—Brandon Baker. Thorpe tracked east, being careful to keep low, stop, look and listen. Beyond view of the vehicle, he dashed out onto the road and sprinted to a place of concealment. If Phipps were in fact watching the car, Thorpe would be out of visual range at this location. He withdrew Shaw’s phone, retrieved Baker’s number and punched the send button.
“Where in the fuck are you?” Baker answered, obviously thinking he was speaking to Shaw.
“Looking at you,” Thorpe answered.
“Who’s this?”
“That’s a nice vehicle you got there, Baker. Too bad I’m about to decorate the interior with your brains.”
Thorpe heard the roar of the engine and the spray of gravel. Baker might drive with his head down at first, but he’d rise up when he thought he’d reached a safe distance. Thorpe could see the dark form of the vehicle approaching. Then the headlights flashed on—that meant his head was up. Thorpe was positioned at a bend in the road, so he would be firing at a ninety-degree angle into the windshield.
The .223 isn’t much of a penetrating round. Thorpe knew the first few bullets would be deflected—counterintuitively—downward. He selected semi-auto and placed the Aimpoint’s red dot just above head level. He systematically began pumping rounds into the windshield, aiming lower with each successive shot.
BRANDON BAKER HAD BEEN SITTING with his lights off for what seemed an eternity. His nerves had caused him to break into a sweat, and even though he wasn’t moving, his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. And then he got the phone call.
Fucking Thorpe was still alive and getting ready to put a bullet in his head. Baker ducked down in his seat, pulled the gearshift into drive and stomped the gas pedal. He drove blindly before realizing he would probably leave the road, strike a tree and die at the hands of that crazy fuck.
Baker peered over the dash and turned on his headlights to make his way through the darkness. Shit—he still couldn’t see. He activated the windshield wipers to clear the accumulated sleet, only to find a quickly approaching right-hand turn. Baker rose fully in his seat to better handle the high-speed maneuver when the windshield exploded into an opaque plane of fractured glass. Fragments tore into his eyes. He ducked and yanked the wheel to the right, anticipating where the turn should be. He felt the left front wheel dip into the ditch, then lost complete control as the Durango left the road. The SUV came to a violent stop. Bleeding from the eyes, Baker lay across the center console and awaited death.
PHIPPS HAD WORKED HIS WAY northward, unsure of his precise location or future destination. His sole plan was to survive the night. Occasionally, he’d stop and listen for unfriendlies over the deluge of sleet. It was during one of these pauses he’d heard the distinctive report of a high-powered rifle being fired at a steady cadence. The shooter had to be Thorpe, who was apparently still at work behind him—a safe distance away based on the sound of things. Phipps’ good news likely indicated the demise of Shaw, however.
Probably for the best, Phipps thought. The man was a walking Charlie Foxtrot.
With the gunfire well behind him, Phipps decided it’d be safe to use his cell phone to make Baker aware of recent developments. He’d have Baker look for a road that intersected Phipps’ northerly path. He retrieved his silenced phone and discovered two missed calls from Baker within the last few minutes. Phipps returned the calls.
AS THORPE PLACED ROUNDS IN the windshield, the SUV entered the turn at too high a speed. It left the roadway and struck a stand of scrub oak. Thorpe slapped in a fresh magazine and fired into the driver’s side door. Reaching the wrecked vehicle, Thorpe knelt behind the door and yanked it open. Stepping to his left, he illuminated the interior of the cab with the rifle’s attached flashlight. Brandon Baker lay in a heap, stomach down, his head in the passenger seat.
Thorpe fired two additional “insurance” rounds into Baker’s upper back, slung the AR, and ran to the passenger side. He pulled open the door, hoisted Baker onto the ground, and shone a flashlight into his vacant eyes—no dilation. Two fingers across a stagnant carotid artery confirmed death.
Baker no longer a threat, the vehicle presented Thorpe’s most pressing problem. He needed it gone. The engine was still running. Hopefully he’d be able to dislodge the SUV from the trees.
Thorpe opened the rear passenger door and, with considerable effort, managed to stuff the body inside. He hurried to the driver’s seat, put the vehicle into four-wheel drive, and was able to reverse the Durango. He cut the wheels, shifted into drive and got back onto the gravel road. Driving the SUV away from his home, Thorpe heard a cell phone ringing near his feet. He retrieved the device off the floorboard and saw the name displayed on the lit LCD screen. Phipps.
Thorpe accepted the call and let out an indiscernible grunt.
“Baker?” Phipps asked.
“Baker is feeling a bit under the weather at the moment; would you like to leave a message?”
“Thorpe?”
“And I believe they call you Mr. Phipps.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
“You’re a funny motherfucker—even when you’re about to die,” Phipps finally said.
“I am a funny motherfucker. But you’re a little confused on who’s going to die.”
“You know who you’re fucking with, motherfucker?”
“I do, but you obviously don’t. Otherwise I wouldn’t be talking to you on your dead buddy’s cell phone. Would I, Recon?”
“I’m still standing, motherfucker!”
“No, I think you’re running scared, but I’m sure you’ll call it ‘tactically retreating’ to make you feel like less of a pussy. In fact, I bet you take some R & R for a few weeks like a good little bitch,” Thorpe said, purposely pushing the man’s buttons.
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“Well then, come on back, and we’ll finish this like warriors.”
“I’ll finish this on my terms, motherfucker, but I ain’t goin’ nowhere—you can count on it.”
“If you do leave, we’ll both know you’re the biggest gaping pussy this side of the Grand Canyon…by the way, is ‘motherfucker’ the only four syllable word you know?”
“Fuck you.”
“Way to improvise, Marine.”
Marines are a proud bunch, and Thorpe figured the insults had cast the man into a mild rage, hopefully mad enough to stick around to try and finish the job. It’d be nerve-racking if Phipps were to take a long vacation. Thorpe would have to worry if the man was really out of town or actually the new bush in his backyard.