“Looks like you got him,” Matt said into the radio.
“Roger. Keep your PAQ-4 lit and turn it skyward. We’ll link up in thirty seconds.”
“Roger.”
Matt turned his muzzle skyward so that Hobart could zero in on the infrared beacon. Watching through his PVS-14s, he noticed the skill with which the veteran warrior led his wingman through the scrub toward his position. Hobart moved in quick, silent movements, like a bobcat.
He heard two whispers cut through the still Canadian night like a zipper closing. His stomach sank as he watched Hobart and his partner drop like shot quail. Unsure of their status, Matt quickly shut down his infrared aiming light, fearing Ballantine, or whoever, had night-vision goggles.
His caution was well-founded. Tree bark sprayed against his forehead. He rolled and then low-crawled toward the lake. He didn’t relish the thought of reentering the cold water but realized he might have no other option. Two more shots whipped through the trees from where he had just departed. He slowly inched into the dark water and moved quietly toward the dock. Finding the dock again, he rested.
Then it occurred to him that it was he, Matt Garrett, against Ballantine in the Canadian outback. He was, perhaps, the lone survivor of a commando raid to retrieve a compromised operative who also just might be his brother.
Freezing his ass off in a Canadian oxbow lake, Matt realized life was full of tremendous ironies. The surge of adrenaline served as a catalyst to remind him that it was a year ago that his brother rescued him from a revolution in the Philippines. Suffering near debilitating guilt since his return and Zachary’s death, could he really be facing an opportunity to save his brother? Could God be giving him this chance at redemption?
Deciding that it would be best to save Boudreaux, whoever he might be, he tucked away the blossoming hope and the pressure that would surely accompany the notion. He quietly pressed the magazine release button and surmised that, after his brief firefight, he had at least five rounds remaining.
Standing on the wooden ladder that thousands of tourist fishermen probably had climbed with coolers full of lake trout, Matt scanned the open terrain around the cabins less than a hundred meters away. Noticing movement near the tree line he had just fled, he watched as a tall man crouched low and scanned the lake. The man appeared to be backing away from the wood line and moving ever so slowly toward the first cabin. It had to be Ballantine.
Matt slid his magazine back into the weapon with a barely audible click, then raised his carbine in the general direction of his target. He could see through his own night-vision goggles that his target was wearing some form of night-vision device as well. Noticing this, he realized that he would only be able to turn on his infrared aiming device briefly before the target would be able to see it and respond.
He waited patiently as Ballantine finally turned toward the wood line again. Matt swallowed some dry spit and leveled the weapon to a height where he thought the infrared light would shine behind Ballantine, if it was Ballantine, so that he could walk it over to his target. His thumb felt absently at the safety selector switch, his mind registering that the weapon was in the fire mode. His other hand rested on the PAQ-4C selector, slowly rotating the switch to the on position to avoid any metallic click.
The infrared light appeared as a bright white streak, a laser beam of light invisible to the naked eye. The aiming light shone about ten feet behind the target. Matt slowly walked the light across the surrounding terrain until it pointed directly at Ballantine’s midsection. He knew a head shot would kill him instantly, but he wanted the certainty of a torso shot.
Matt steadied his aim, the light dancing in tight circles. He slowly exhaled and then held his breath as his finger began to squeeze against the hair trigger.
He saw Ballantine’s head drop quickly and then snap back up, looking directly down the beam of Matt’s aiming light. Matt’s shot kicked the weapon back into his shoulder. The brief flash of flame emitting from the muzzle momentarily blanked out his field of view, causing him to lose sight of Ballantine.
Once his goggles came back into focus, he could see a figure slumped over on the ground, slowly inching into the wood line. Matt had hit him but had unfortunately not killed him. He trained the light on the crawling body again, which was moving more quickly toward the trees.
Matt’s second shot struck Ballantine in the leg just before he disappeared into the trees. Determining that he had little time to waste, Matt pulled himself up onto the dock and began moving quickly to the first cabin. He kept his carbine trained on the scrub area where his prey had disappeared while he sprinted to the side of the first cabin, gun up, elbow out, sighting along the infrared laser through the green kaleidoscope of his goggles, legs pumping, lungs working at max capacity, adrenaline cycling through his body like raging rivers.
Matt Garrett. Back in the game. Alone.
In search of his brother.
CHAPTER 31
Leaning against the wood frame, he caught his breath. Acting purely on instinct, he moved toward the back of the house, realizing this could expose him briefly to Ballantine.
Not knowing if anyone was guarding the cabin, Matt felt it would be best to try to enter from the top floor. He surveyed the deck, which had stairs leading up to the second floor balcony. Moving swiftly and quietly, he ascended the stairs and crouched low.
Reaching up with his free hand, Matt slid open the heavy glass door. He felt the warmth of the cabin brush against his face. He stayed low to avoid reflexive fire from anyone who might not welcome his entrance.
He was in. A weak light shone below the loft so that he could see on his level an unmade bed, a chair, and a television. There were a few clothes strewn about the dusty hardwood floors.
Matt crouched low in the corner behind the door and rested. He could hear his heart racing and thought it might actually explode. Crashing thoughts, extreme physical activity, and danger all combined to release adrenaline and lactic acid into his body, pushing his heart to its limit. As he rested, he could hear muted voices from the first floor. They became clear as he caught his breath.
“So where is it?” Matt heard a female voice ask.
“Where is what?”
The second voice was a man’s. And it was a familiar one. Matt leaned his head closer to the crack in the door so that he could hear more clearly.
“The backpack. Ballantine’s backpack. You stole it from him, perhaps as a war trophy?” It was the female voice again.
Ballantine. War trophy. These were all clues and indicators to something, yet they were pinging off his wall of denial, his massive defenses, like tennis balls off a tank.
“Why is Ballantine concerned about a stupid backpack?” the man said.
Matt’s mind was reeling. The voice, the inflection, the tone were all so familiar. Images of Zachary’s face began swirling through his mind, breaking his concentration.
“You didn’t find the tape?” the woman asked.
“What tape?”
“Never mind. You know he told me he saw you when you were watching them in the prisoner of war interrogation room. The colonel came out and talked to you,” she said.
“Yeah, who was that guy, anyway?”
“The colonel?”
“Yeah, him.”
“Someone I think you should know very well, actually,” she said.
“Really? I can’t quite recall him.”
Matt stood slowly, moving toward the door, and accidentally kicked a heavy brass door stop.
“Is that you, Jacques?” the woman called.
Matt quickly repositioned to the entertainment center, which sat next to the stairway leading up to the loft. From that position, he could ambush someone moving upstairs unaware.