Larsen low crawled over the ridge about 200 meters south of their positions, then slowly worked his way down the eastern face on his belly through the brush line down to the dry wash that ran parallel to the hill to the east. In the sandy soil of the wash, he got up into a squat and observed north. The guy had to be up there, somewhere. Larsen was almost certain the round that took down the Alpha team leader had come from the north side. Carefully, deliberately, he began working himself north along the wash, scanning the brush for signs of the enemy. After all, if it had been him ambushing the PBI team, that’s where he would have put himself.
At about where the tracker was reading, Larsen paused and observed. Nothing. No one. It was a diversion. The tracker had to be over there in the bushes somewhere.
If he hadn’t run away, the enemy had to be to the north. And in Larsen’s experience, sons of bitches like this guy never, ever ran.
He went another five meters, gun up, ready to engage. The guerilla had to be close – Larsen could feel him up there ahead.
Speed, aggression. Those were his allies. He checked and confirmed that his M4 was set to “Auto.”
His left hand came off the fore grip to key his mic; Larsen had muted his speaker before coming over the top so that Rios-Parkinson would not get him killed by sending some damn fool radio traffic.
“Go. I say again, go!”
Rios-Parkinson looked up at his five men.
“Go! Go now!”
They stood up as one and charged over the crest as Rios-Parkinson watched them from the safety of the west side of the hill.
Out of nowhere, five black shapes crested the ridge, silhouetted against the morning sky. Turnbull sighted on the first one who appeared in his optic – it happened to be the south most one. He squeezed the trigger twice, the first round kicking up a puff of fabric and dust over the target’s chest plate, the second slicing through his neck and out the back after severing his spine at the C2 level. The man fell like a black bag of Jell-O, his carbine flying out of his grip, his body rolling down the hill.
The other four opened fire on full automatic, initially randomly. Yet whether they had heard a sound or seen dust or simply guessed well, they began to direct their streams of lead in Turnbull’s general direction as they charged down the hill.
Turnbull shifted his aim. This time the dot came to rest over the face of one who was screaming something – you couldn’t hear anything over the roar of the guns. Turnbull squeezed, the M4 kicked, and the man’s black helmet flew off to the rear, along with a healthy portion of the back of his skull. He managed to take two more perfectly normal strides, still firing his weapon, before he collapsed in a jumble of his suddenly limp arms and legs.
Larsen was charging now at full speed, not yet firing, but seeking a target. To his left, the other five had crested the hill, one dropping before he got a meter over. Yeah, the enemy was here, somewhere ahead.
Larsen pressed forward. Rounds were shredding the brush ahead of him. The enemy had to be there.
A round took most of the head off another man in black, but that left three. Three targets for the enemy to focus on while Larsen came up unseen from the side. He ran faster, his eyes scanning the bushes to his left.
A shape, there, amidst the hurricane of lead from the survivors. The enemy.
As he ran across the wash, he brought the M4 up to follow his eyes, which were locked onto his target. He felt something catch his legs, just for a moment, before it gave. He took another step, distracted, and his eyes turned downward.
550 cord, stretched across the wash. He had run through three trip wires which were now tangled around his legs and trailing little metal rings.
“I’m a fucking idiot, too,” he thought as the three hand grenades detonated.
The trunk in front of him exploded in a cloud of wood chucks and splinters. Turnbull shut his eyes tight. Rounds hit the dirt right before his position. There were sparks in front of his face as rounds tore into his M4’s receiver assembly. He crawled backwards. There were three more coming.
This was it.
The grenades in the wash’s south approach exploded each within a split second of each other. They were 40 feet away, but he felt the concussion and so did the three shooters, at least for a moment. His ears roared, and he rolled over on his stomach, the pain from his rib like a bayonet in his kidney, and began to crawl back toward the wash.
The closest one fired again, one round striking his rear trauma plate and shattering it, the second slamming into the plate’s left edge, driving a piece of it down into the back of his ribs, breaking them too. Turnbull collapsed on his belly with a grunt.
It felt like a dozen bayonets jabbing his kidney.
The shooting stopped for a moment and Turnbull rolled onto his back. It hurt so bad it actually stopped hurting for a moment, as if his brain simply could not process that sheer volume of hurt. The bastard who shot him was pushing in a fresh mag as Turnbull drew his Glock with his right hand and raised it.
Instinctively, he ordered his left hand to come and join the grip. But his left hand simply declined, and lay flopped on the dirt. One handed, Turnbull fired. The round hit the PBI officer’s chest plate. He fired again, then again, both into the chest plate. He continued firing, losing count, the man in black staggering backward, until it occurred to Turnbull to try shooting him in the face, which he did and which worked.
Turnbull scrambled to his feet, dizzy, his ears ringing, seeking the other two targets. One was lying on his face 25 yards away. Turnbull stumbled west, up the hillside. The other one lay on his back, headshot. Had he shot them? Had they shot each other?
Where was Rios-Parkinson?
Turnbull staggered up the hill, forcing one foot forward, then the next, pushing himself upward. He spit out a coppery, salty wad of red blood. Lung puncture from broken ribs. He didn’t have much time. But that didn’t matter now.
That little fucker had to die.
The pain came back and, unimaginably, it was worse than before. He gasped, nauseous, the pain fighting to dominate his mind and force him into a fetal position until it might fade. But the pain was wrestling with his desire to finish the job. In agony, Turnbull crested the hill and fell to his knees, the blood spurting out of his mouth and over his chin as he coughed and sought to regain his breath.
A little man in black, down there, running west, back to the vehicles.
Turnbull lifted the Glock and fired as best he could aim. The man kept running. He fired again and again, one handed, until he squeezed the trigger and nothing happened and he realized the slide was locked back on his empty gun.
Down below, Rios-Parkinson was still running.
Turnbull fell face first onto the rocky ground. He coughed, and blood splattered the dirt. Something grabbed his shoulder and turned him on his back; it hurt way too much to cry out.
A bear hovered overhead, blocking out the sun.
No, a man.
“Kelly, Kelly, you still with me?”
“Shoot him,” sputtered Turnbull, “Shoot him, Meachum.”
“I can’t,” Meachum said. “Orders. I was supposed to stop you from doing it too. Looks like I almost blew that.”
“Shoot him,” Turnbull said. Meachum’s face was spinning now.
“Nope, Clay would not like that one bit,” Meachum said, before saying more words that Turnbull at first could not understand and soon could not hear at all.
19.
“I’m guessing I’m in a hospital,” Turnbull said to Clay Deeds, who put down his tablet when the patient began stirring. A variety of machines surrounded his bed. There were a number of lines running into his arms. It hurt to breathe.