He could hear yelling, followed by the sound of cars moving slowly up the road. He should be close, he thought, his pace hampered somewhat by his sore legs. Then he saw the big tree ahead. If he could get there, he could gain the advantage. He was sure of that.
Getting to the huge tree, Jake found what he was looking for — the plastic trash bag covered with ferns he had broken and placed on top. Keeping his eyes on the road, he ripped the bag open and grasped one of the Walter P99 handguns in 9mm he had gotten aboard the Norwegian Coast Guard ship. He had a full magazine of 16 rounds, plus one in the chamber, and a second magazine of 16, which he shoved into his pocket. Thirty-three rounds. Should be enough. But, considering the number of men following him, he wished he had also left one of the MP5s behind.
Jake shoved the plastic bag under some moss and slowly stepped back into the thickest section of alders. He was only about twenty yards from the box of gems now. He would get no closer than that.
When he heard the branch crack, he crouched behind a low spruce. It wouldn’t give him protection, but would give him cover.
He waited and watched. Sweat dripped down his forehead into his eyes.
Another slight crunch. Then nothing. Twenty yards?
Jake could finally see a flash of green. It was the military sweater of the coke-bottle Swede. Aiming carefully, he waited for the man to clear some underbrush. The Swede’s automatic handgun flowed back and forth as if scanning the forest for Jake.
One more step.
Aim. Squeeze. Jake’s gun fired and he saw the bullet strike the man in his right shoulder, dropping him to the forest.
Jake ran through the underbrush toward the Swede. He caught the man as he was trying to pick up his handgun with his left hand, but Jake was too fast, thrusting his foot into the man’s face, knocking him back into spongy moss on his back. Jake collected the man’s gun, an old Glock 19. Also 9mm.
“You better kill me,” the Swede said.
“No, Coke bottle, I think I’ll let you live.”
“You’re fuckin’ dead,” the man growled.
“You should have been,” Jake said. “This damn gun shoots high and to the left.”
“Mine’s right on.”
Really? Jake aimed it at the man, and fired once, shattering the man’s right knee. The Swede screamed loudly, his voice echoing through the dark forest. “You’re right,” Jake said. “It’s right on.”
Jake left him there screaming. He’d use him for bait. He moved closer to the road and found a hiding spot, lowering himself to the forest floor among high ferns.
He didn’t have to wait long. Scurrying. Shuffling. Two sets of feet. Ten yards apart. He lay in the cold, wet forest floor and listened carefully. Mosquitoes started to buzz his head, landing on his neck and ears and his exposed hands. He let them bite and tried his best to concentrate on the steps. The crunching forest.
When they were close, very close, he rose up, a gun in each hand pointed in opposite directions, and fired twice with each gun. One man dropped instantly, the other fired back at him with his submachine gun, peppering the ferns as Jake dropped flat to the ground. Damn it. One gun had fired high and to the left again. He’d need to compensate for that next time. If there’d be a next time.
He rolled to his side and then crawled through the ferns toward the cover of a larger tree. Bullets kept flying. Then they stopped. He had to change his magazine.
Jake raised up and saw only the top of the man’s head as he looked down at his rifle, changing the magazine. He aimed low and fired twice. The man dropped with a thud.
Three down. Three to go.
Hopping to his feet, Jake ran deeper into the forest. The first bullet hit Jake in his back left shoulder, knocking him from his feet to the ground. The second and third bullets whizzed by his head and blasted into a big pine trunk.
“I got him,” one of Petrova’s men yelled. The other Swede. “He’s down, boss.”
“Shut up,” Victor Petrova yelled. Farther back. Perhaps at the road.
Pain rushed through Jake’s body. His shoulder blade had been hit, the pain running all the way down his arm and back toward his chest. He could still breath, so the bullet hadn’t hit his lung. One good consolation. He rolled behind the large pine and put his hand on the exit wound. The bullet had bounced off his scapula, the exit the size of Jake’s thumb. Blood soaked down his jacket.
He thought quickly. He had to stop the bleeding fast. The pine. Fresh pine pitch flowed from various spots on the rough bark. Jake scooped some up and shoved it into the bullet hole, the exit wound, and then grasped some more for the entrance wound. It worked. Some blood still seeped around the sap, but that slowed in a few seconds. He rubbed the sappy hand on the bark and then shoved his hand into the moist dirt, removing as much of the sticky stuff as he could.
Now he concentrated on the task at hand. Three left, he said to himself again. Then, his head against the tree, he listened carefully for any sound out of the ordinary.
There. A twig snap.
Jake knew he was toast if he stayed there. A sitting duck. He had to move. Now.
Rising to his feet, Jake circled around toward the last man he had shot.
Two shots. He kept running. Two more shots.
He stopped suddenly behind a one-foot pine, his gun aimed toward the shots. When the Swede’s gun fired twice more, Jake had him. He shot three times. Heard at least two bullets hitting the man’s torso. He was down.
Two left. The little man with the white flat-top, and Victor Petrova. He guessed the two of them would be together. Out by the road.
But first Jake found the last little man he had shot. The man had taken a bullet through the nose, the back of his head with a hole the size of a baseball. Jake took the man’s un-used magazine with thirty rounds of 9mm intact. He shoved the magazine into his back pocket and slipped back into the woods.
Jake moved closer to the road. He could see one of the Volvos ahead. Just a piece of metal through the trees. The two last men, especially Petrova, would not wander far from his only exit.
Closer to the road now, Jake slowed his pace.
“There’s just the two of us left,” Petrova yelled. He was behind the car. “We can split the gems fifty/fifty.”
Jake thought back. Had he shot them all? Did he miss-count? No. Still the spike-haired little fellow. But Jake would have to call him out. Make the little man show himself.
“Why wouldn’t I just take all of them for myself,” Jake yelled. Then he aimed his gun and scanned the area around the car and to both sides. The little guy could be anywhere.
“You could do that,” Petrova said. “But what about a little professional courtesy? After all, they are rightfully mine. I acquired them in the first place. That was hard work.”
“Yeah, it’s hard being a murderer and a thief,” Jake said, trying to throw his voice to one side.
Nothing. Where the hell was that guy?
Then Jake caught a flash of blond hair to his left. Twenty yards. Maybe more. He crouched down behind a little spruce and waited.
“Hey, hey. Working for the old Soviet government wasn’t exactly a lucrative venture, Jake. The retirement plan sucks.”
One more sequence from Jake and the man would fire. He knew that much.
“Crime does pay,” Jake yelled.
There. Just as he saw the blond hair, two shots fired toward Jake. He returned fire with five shots and sunk to the ground. He wasn’t sure if he hit anything. Might have. He took the time to reload both guns from the bullets in the MP5 magazine. Now he had 34 rounds to go, plus a handful he shoved into his pocket. He set aside the empty magazine and waited.