Mercenary?
He’d served with men who’d gone for the green, flag be damned. His right hand twisted the focus, closing the visual distance until he was next to the man.
The man reached inside his jacket and pulled out a cigarette. A flash of gold. A badge.
The Sniper pulled back from the sight. “ID the man on the left?”
“He has a badge,” the Spotter replied. “But I don’t recognize him. I think the badge is DEA but hard to tell at this range.”
The Sniper keyed the satellite radio. “Falcon.”
“Roger?”
“I’ve got an American agent here in the village with the target. Possibly DEA. Over.”
“Wait one.”
A minute passed. The Sniper leaned forward and looked. Two of the armed men had pulled an old man forward, forcing him to kneel in front of the center man. The Sniper knew what was coming. It was as inevitable as the sun coming up. The silence in his ear stretched out.
“Falcon?”
Silence.
The fact that neither of his teammates spoke either was a testament to their training as they dealt with a situation that was deteriorating with every passing minute.
In the village, the center man pulled out a pistol, pressed it against the old man’s forehead and pulled the trigger all in one movement without hesitation. The blossom of blood and brain was highlighted in the scope as the body slowly fell backwards, landing awkwardly, the knees still tucked under. The Sniper had seen much death and it was never dignified.
“Red.”
The word from the satellite radio hit the Sniper almost as hard as the shot had the old man. “Say again. Over.”
“Red. I repeat. Red. This is no longer your Operational Area. I say again, not your OA. Over.”
A woman was dragged forward. The Sniper could see her mouth open, screaming. The center man put the muzzle of the gun against her forehead. The Sniper could see her speaking quickly, telling the gunman whatever it was he wanted to know.
After a minute the man turned to a couple of his cohorts. Two came forward, grabbed an arm each and dragged the woman into a hut. Again, what was going to happen was almost pre-ordained.
“Sir?” The Sniper said the word as if it were a question.
“Command Authority says red. They’ve redrawn the lines. DEA has this area. Over.”
The Sniper watched as a young man broke from the cowering group running toward the hut and was gunned down with a burst of automatic weapon fire. “You know what’s happening, sir?”
“I can imagine.”
“This is our mission. We owe these people. They did what was asked of them.”
“Somebody’s running something. Something high level. This mission is the DEA’s now with no interference. Politics.”
“That’s bullshit,” the Spotter said, the voice picked up by the satellite radio and transmitted. “People are dying. People who trusted you.”
“Orders,” the Colonel repeated. “The line has been drawn. You’re out of your area of operations. Exfiltrate immediately. Out.”
Other women were being dragged into huts to be raped. Sunlight glinted off a machete as one of the invaders brutally beheaded a cowering old man. That released them all like sharks smelling chum and the blood flowed.
“We need to go,” Spotter said.
The Sniper shifted the scope away from the rape and carnage to the far hill. He adjusted the thermal sight to accommodate the growing sunlight and then turned it on. He searched, the sight penetrating the jungle until he spotted the two small red dots. He scanned the space between the escapees and the village, freezing when he saw three men moving in the jungle. Professionals. He knew that. Making sure there were no witnesses to the massacre. These were a different caliber from the men raping and hacking in the village.
“Hammer?” The Colonel’s voice had an edge to it. “Are you pulling back? Over.”
“In a second,” the Sniper replied.
“Damn it, Hammer. Don’t screw this up. This is bigger than you.”
“Let’s go,” the Spotter said, echoing Spotter.
The Sniper centered the reticules on the trail man’s head. He then adjusted ever so slightly for the lateral movement. He let out his breath, didn’t inhale, felt the rhythm of his heart. In between beats he squeezed the trigger. The round was just out of the muzzle as he shifted to the second, waited as his heart surged once, became still, pulled the trigger, shifted, heart-beat and then fired for the third time.
“Pulling back now. Send in our ride. Out.” The Sniper tugged on the antenna wire and the satellite dish toppled out of the tree into his hands. He folded it and slid it into his rucksack with one practiced movement. He could hear yells and knew the men below were heading his way, reacting to the shots. He pulled the ghillie suit off and shoved it into a stuff sack, which went inside the rucksack. He placed the three bullet casings in the sack.
His fingers were steady as he knelt and unscrewed two butterfly nuts holding the bulky barrel to the gun’s receiver. He slid the two parts into padded plastic containers on either side of his rucksack, and then retrieved an MP-5 sub-machinegun that had been strapped to the top. There was nothing left at the site as he threw the sixty pound pack holding gun, radio and other gear over his shoulders and set off into the jungle at a controlled sprint, the Spotter and Security falling in beside him without a word.
They could hear shots as the mercenaries fired wildly while giving chase.
The Sniper’s right hand held the MP-5, finger resting on the trigger guard, the safety off. “Falcon, this is Hammer. Over.”
The helicopter pick up zone was less than a kilometer ahead. The chopper was supposed to be on station just over the border in Panamanian airspace. Less than five minutes flight time. If the Colonel, who was on board the chopper, had ordered the pilot to move when the Sniper had asked, it should be in FM range.
He heard only the slight hiss of static indicating the radio was on.
“Falcon, this is Hammer. Over.”
“You screwed up, Hammer, damn-it.”
The sniper abruptly stopped. The other two men came to a sudden halt also. They heard some more shots. Closer now. And from the noise they could tell a large group was moving through the jungle about three hundred meters to their left.
“Say again? Over.”
“I ordered you not to take action. We can’t cross the border now. Orders. We’re returning to base. You’re on your own. Out.”
“Falcon? Falcon, this is Hammer. Over.”
There was no reply.
The Sniper considered their options. The pickup zone was no longer a viable destination. The mercenaries were between his team and the border. But any other direction took the three of them further into Colombia.
Both men were watching him, waiting.
“North,” he ordered.
They turned to the right, for the sea, and began running.
The 5.45 mm round hit the Sniper just behind his left temple at such an angle that the bullet ricocheted along the skull and exited off the back of his head without penetrating.
The Sniper fell to the jungle floor, blood pouring from the wound just as a Claymore mine exploded, knocking the other two men down.
CHAPTER ONE
Emily Cranston was tired. It was the last night of spring break, and even returning to class seemed bearable as long as she could get some sleep. She watched her friends, and wondered again where they got the energy. All three of them were dancing in what appeared to be a huge conga line of pressed bodies. You couldn’t have slid a toothpick between any of the dancers, except the occasional couple of guys who had poorly timed their rush to join, and found themselves without a female buffer. Emily noticed Lisa waving her over, but she pretended not to see. Lisa was sweet, really the best one of her friends, but even she couldn’t inspire Emily now.