Frozen to the ground, the guards passed him by less than ten feet. As soon as they were thirty feet behind him, he stood up in a crouch and started to move. Suddenly, a searing pain shot through his right calf, followed by the loud crack of a gunshot. A guard on a tree platform had spotted him. Now he had no choice; he had to run. Continuing his zigzag pattern, he tried to keep trees between where he thought the gunshot had come from and himself. He had no intention of getting into a firefight at the moment. Escape was the only thing on his mind. Three more gunshots followed, and he heard the bullets crashing through the branches just above him. He kept going. His calf was burning like hell, but he wasn't having any difficulty in moving, so he guessed it was merely a flesh wound. On he went.
Styles was still making his way back to his Jeep when again he froze. Now that he was wearing his night-vision goggles as a precaution, the flare of a match lighting a cigarette up ahead in the trees was the equivalent of a strong flashlight being shown in his eyes. The bright mini-explosion calmed down, and he could see another guard perched approximately fifteen feet off the ground, his AK-47 held at the ready. This time he could determine it was a hunter's deer stand, an aluminum unit that could be easily transported and set up. These guys were not here last night — has to be the toxin! As before, he eased back and around this new threat. He skirted past on his highest mental alert. No doubt Ryyaki Ali had stationed security in the woods surrounding the property. The only question was how many? Silently, he continued his trek back to his Jeep. He did not run across any more sentries. The moon had come out from behind the clouds and was now shining quite brightly. Not quite full, it still lit the area up well enough that Styles comfortably discarded the night goggles. He reached the tree line and could see his Jeep less than a hundred feet to his left. Still cautious, he stayed just inside the woods until he was opposite his Jeep. He removed the small pack he was wearing that contained his gear. He walked up and opened the driver's door, intending on tossing the pack onto the passenger's seat. What he got was a gun barrel thrust in his face.
Styles put his hands out to his side and backed up two steps with the man dressed all in black following him, the gun barrel never wavering from his face. The two men didn't speak.
A second man came up from behind the Jeep. He appraised the man in front of him, dressed in full camo gear, including face paint, being held at gunpoint by his partner.
"Just who the fuck are you?"
Silence.
"I asked you a question."
Silence.
The second man nodded at the man holding the gun, who lashed out with his pistol and cracked Styles across the forehead. Styles flinched, but nothing more. Blood began running slowly down the right side of his face. Still he said nothing.
"Hard-ass, huh? Okay, I'll ask once more, and either you answer, or you lose a kneecap. Now who in the hell are you?"
Silence. Once again the second man nodded to the man holding the gun on Styles. The instant the gun started to move downward, Styles jerked to his right, reached out, and snatched the gun right out of the hand of the man holding it. He did not want the gun to go off. The gunshot would be as loud as a cannon in the still woods, and it was certain the guards in the woods would hear it. As the gun cleared the man's hand, Styles stepped up and punched the man viciously, directly in the throat, killing him. The second man had made a horrible mistake by not having a gun trained on Styles. As he was trying to draw his weapon, Styles delivered a hard palm strike to the man's chest, just below his heart, knocking all the breath out of him. Styles wanted him alive. The man fell to the ground gasping for air. Styles did a quick search and found some wire tie cuffs in his back pocket, and he secured the man's arms together by his hands behind his back. He quickly scanned the area and saw no sign of a vehicle. He went back to his Jeep, opened his small pack, and removed a roll of Gorilla tape. He ripped off an eight-inch piece, put the roll back, and walked back to his captive. He firmly placed the tape over the man's mouth, making it even harder for him to try to breathe.
"Relax. You'll live, for now."
He turned his attention to the dead man. Picking him up and slinging him over his shoulder, he walked into the woods opposite Eli's estate, about two hundred feet, and tossed him on the ground. As bright as the moon was, he had no difficulty in finding several branches and placed them over the body. If someone walked directly up on it, the corpse would be easy enough to see, but from twenty feet away, it would likely remain hidden.
Styles went back to his captive, who had now regained most of his breath. Styles could see the hatred in his eyes. Styles studied him. A man in his early thirties, excellent shape, and dressed in what would be considered a civilian black ops outfit, completely black. Styles picked him up and positioned him leaning against the driver's-side rear tire.
"Now I'm going to ask some questions, and you nod yes or no. Understand? If you refuse, it will not go well for you. I'll also tell you this. Cooperate and you live. That's straight. Otherwise, you join your friend. Now, are you CIA?" Searching the man had revealed no identification.
The man remained motionless, eyes spewing venom at Styles.
"I don't have time to waste. I think you're CIA. I can tell you we're on the same side. But I need to confirm. Last time, are you CIA?"
Still nothing.
Styles shook his head. "I gave you a chance. That's all I can do." Styles reached down and hoisted the man up onto his shoulder then started walking into the woods in the same direction he'd already gone. The man started squirming hard.
"Settle down; you're not going anywhere." He started making noises. Styles ignored him. After a short distance, Styles gently set him down. For a moment, his captive thought that just maybe he might live. Styles walked behind the man, grabbed a handful of his hair, yanked his head back and, with his knife, slit his throat from ear to ear. He wiped his knife on the back of the man's shirt. Blood was cascading down his shirt. He let the man fall forward. Once again, he tossed branches over the body and then turned and walked away without ever looking back.
Climbing into his Jeep, Styles began to slowly make his way back to the motel, while he was wiping the black camo paint off his face and hands. He started cruising parking lots of every business that was still open, mostly bars. He'd driven through four and still not found what he was searching for. He passed a couple of fast-food chains that were still open, but it would be too easy for him to be spotted in what he wanted to do. He kept looking. Finally, he found what he was looking for in the parking lot of a strip club: another green Jeep. He pulled into the far end and parked. Getting out, he paused for a moment at the back of his own ride. Then he headed straight for the second vehicle. Ninety seconds later, he returned to his own. Thirty seconds later, he was leaving the parking lot, with a different license plate on the rear. Somebody's gonna have a real hard time soon!