Turnbull had gone ahead a bit to scout, moving carefully up and over the crest. There was a three mile wide valley on the other side, full of rocks and scrub trees, then another low ridge. Somewhere beyond that was Utah. At this rate, it was going to take them most of the day to get there.
Turnbull kept low coming over back west over the crest to link up again with the group, making his broken rib ache and hip hurt. They were still in the small clearing behind a clump of bushes. Inside it he found the group intently staring back towards the east.
“You got the binos?” Junior asked. “Look, there, by where we left the vehicle.”
Turnbull brought up the field glasses. Three black SUVs. At least 10 guys in black tactical rig, maybe more. Long weapons. And another one who didn’t quite fit with the toughs.
“Shit. Amanda, your boyfriend’s back and I think we’re in trouble.”
“How did they find us?” she asked.
“Yeah, I was just wondering that too, Amanda. How did they find us?”
“What are you saying?” Amanda demanded.
“I’m saying they know exactly where we are. Are you sure you didn’t forget to mention a cell phone, or maybe a tracker in your keister? Something like that?”
“Kelly!” said Junior.
“Fuck you,” Amanda hissed.
“Give me your pack.”
“I don’t….”
“Give me your fucking pack.” Amanda threw the brown backpack at him. Turnbull unzipped it and dumped it out in the dirt. There was a sweater, some food, her thick photo wallet. Turnbull grabbed the wallet and opened it. Photos of the Ryan family, her dogs, a trip to Hawaii before it became off limits to Americans.
And a small gray metal disc.
“That sneaky bastard,” Turnbull said, holding it up. “Your boy really didn’t trust you, did he?”
“What is it?” she asked.
“A tracker, a pretty primitive one. New ones are a lot smaller. They can even have microphones so they can listen in on your conversations. This one’s just good for a location. But that’s good enough for government work.” He slipped the tracker into the pocket of his jeans.
“What do we do?” asked Junior. “They’re coming.”
“We don’t do anything. You three beat feet east. They will be following the signal until they figure out I’m not you guys.”
“There’s a dozen of them,” Amanda said. “And there have to be more coming.”
“No, there won’t be any more. They’d be here now. No, your boyfriend wants to wrap up us loose ends personally and quietly. It’s just these guys.”
“They still outnumber you a dozen to one,” said Junior.
“They aren’t soldiers. This isn’t their house. It’s mine. Now, you get going. I’m going to hold them off. It should give you enough lead time, but don’t slow down, no matter what. You gotta get this cargo out, Junior.”
“I have the drive. I’ll get it out.”
“I mean them. These two. They’re the cargo. You get them out. You keep my promise for me, okay?”
Junior nodded, and handed over three 30-round magazines.
“Keep them,” said Turnbull.
“No, you take them. If it gets to the point where I’m shooting it out with them, I’ve already lost.”
“That’s probably true.” Turnbull took the spare mags. “Now get the hell out of here. Tell Meachum’s guys I may be coming east running, so don’t shoot me. Stay low over the crest of the hill, and when you hit the other side, haul ass.”
“Bye, Kelly,” Junior said. “See you tonight.”
“Sure,” said Turnbull, sounding unconvinced.
The trio scrambled up and over the hilltop as Turnbull remained in the space inside the clump of bushes, watching his pursuers begin moving his way. Whatever movement formation they were in, Turnbull didn’t know it. It wasn’t a wedge, it wasn’t a column. It was a clusterfuck. But it was still a clusterfuck with a lot of M4s.
They were at least 20 minutes away, but coming fast. They would only get faster as they acclimated to the rocky terrain. Turnbull took the suppressor out of his pack and screwed it on. Then he took a few other items out of his gear. He had time enough to prepare.
Time enough to welcome these bastards to his house.
Rios-Parkinson staggered and fell on the sharp rocks. No one laughed, but he felt like they were laughing at him. Not that any of them were doing much better. They had only gone a few hundred meters and already most of his tactical team was drenched with sweat. Perhaps black uniforms and black-covered Kevlar helmets were not the best choice for desert operations.
Larsen held the tablet and kept checking it.
“Where are they?” Rios-Parkinson demanded.
“Still there. Right up there just over the crest of the hill from where they were resting when we got here, not moving much. A little, back and forth, but they are pretty much sitting there, maybe out of the sun behind a bush or something.”
Rios-Parkinson grunted. “Can they see us?”
“They could if they looked back over the hill,” Larsen said with disgust. His attempts to cajole the others into something like a tactical movement formation and to use the natural cover had simply been ignored. “But if they had, they would have moved by now.”
Most of their force was ahead of them, picking their way forward through the bushes and over the rocks. Larsen and Rios-Parkinson held back, with a pair of tactical team members hovering nearby, weapons ready. Their radios, hooked onto their vests on the left shoulder, buzzed and crackled quietly.
They approached to about 200 yards from the crest, slowly moving forward. By now, they had spread, quite without consideration or coherent plan, into a skirmish line with a frontage of about 150 meters.
“This is Alpha team leader. We’re moving up the left and we’ll come over and take them from the flank, over.”
Larsen keyed his mic. “Affirmative.”
On the left, the Alpha team leader waved his men forward, then dropped out of sight. A high pitched wail of pain echoed over the desert.
Rios-Parkinson looked stricken, his head swiveling back and forth until Larsen pulled him down flat on the rocky ground.
“Oh God, I’m hit, I’m…I’m fucking shot!” cried the Alpha team leader.
Bravo team responded – the five of them rose as one and unloaded on the face of the ridge, firing long bursts. The remaining Alpha members joined them, their M4s tearing off long bursts in their general direction of travel. Lines of impacts scored the ground as bits of rock face disintegrated and puffs of dust erupted everywhere, in no particular pattern or order.
They stopped shooting when their weapons ran dry. At once, everyone seemed to be shouting “Loading!” as they slammed in fresh mags.
“Cease fire!” yelled Larsen into his mic. “Does anyone see a target?”
Again, the Alpha team leader cried out, “I need a medic, oh God!”
They had no medic.
“Did we get him?” Rios-Parkinson asked, his voice revealing his fear.
“I say again, did anyone see any of them?” shouted Larsen into his radio.
No one answered.
“Help me, oh fuck, fuck! It hurts. I need a medic!” the wounded man screamed.
“This is Sawyer,” came a voice from the radio. “I’m here with Collins and he’s hit bad in the gut. The bullet went right under his plate. He’s hurt bad, over.”
“Oh, mother fuck!” Collins screamed.
“Sawyer, you get Sanchez and you haul Collins back to the vehicles and wait for evac, do you read me? Tell him to put pressure on the wound while you two carry him out, over?”
“What if he shoots us while we’re carrying him, over,” asked Sawyer.