When he finished he sat back and remained quiet, waiting on a response from the Indian that never came.
And then: “It’s really peaceful here, Hawk. The way the stars shimmer, the quiet of the surroundings.”
“It’s the land of my ancestors,” he finally said. “It’s my home.”
Kimball sighed. “You’re disappointed?”
“You were an Elite,” he answered. “But if your inner spirit cannot commune with the spirits that show you a path you truly do not wish to take, then there is disharmony. Your inner spirit must find its place by following a journey that leads to inner peace. Without that, a man is never whole.” The Indian turned to Kimball. “I can tell you that you are still on your journey.”
“I am.”
“With age comes maturity and wisdom. And I am not without the mindset that we did horrible things, Kimball, things that should never have happened now that I have been wizened by the spirits of my ancestors.” The large Indian hesitated, staring out at the scenery. “On most nights the spirits show me the errors of what I was,” he said, “of the things I’ve done. And every night I see the faces of those I killed, the faces of those who are now the spirits who haunt me.” He turned back to Kimball to punch his point home. “But I never ran.”
Kimball nodded. “I didn’t come here to seek forgiveness, although it would be greatly appreciated. What we did, we did a long time ago. We need to move on.”
Hawk turned back to view the landscape, his chin raised; something about him stoic in the way he sat. “Then I will ask you once again: Why are you here?”
Kimball reached for the files sitting on the table between them and grabbed the top folder. “I’m here,” he said, “because we’re being hunted.”
“Hunted?”
Kimball opened the folder and grabbed the top photo. It was of the Pieces of Eight. The faces of those on the top row were circled with letters etched over the faces, I-S-C-A. Hawk was the first one kneeling on the left side of the bottom row, a machete in one hand and an assault weapon in the other.
Kimball handed Hawk the photo and grabbed the next photo in the folder. “A few days ago,” he began, “Walker was hit in the Philippines.” He handed the Indian the second photo, that of Walker lying on the table, an ‘I’ cut into his back.
“He has no legs,” the Indian said simply.
“He lost them in an attack while serving as a mercenary. In fact, he worked for a militant group that was seated on top by Arruti and Grenier.”
Hawk accepted the third and forth photos, that of Arruti and Grenier lying face down with the letters ‘S’ and a ‘C’ notched into their backs.
“Both dead obviously?”
“Within a day of Walker’s murder.”
“They were in the Philippines. It can be a dangerous place.”
“You know as well as I do that Arruti and Grenier were at the top of their game. Yet someone had the military sophistication to take them out.” He pointed to the first photo in Hawk’s hand — that of the Pieces of Eight lined up in pose. “Whoever is doing this is choosing their targets sequentially from left to right, top row first, and presumably the bottom row next. And you, Hawk, are next in line.”
“But why now?”
“I’m not sure. But it’s somebody who obviously has the connections to send forward an elite military unit as a disposal team. Politicians, a government insurgency group, anyone who believes that we can be a detriment because of the things we know.”
“Then my guess would be the powers that be who applied our skills to better promote their rankings. But that was so long ago. So why now?”
Kimball shrugged before falling back into his seat.
The Indian examined the photos for a long moment before setting them aside. And then he looked over the landscape with a keen eye, nodding every once in awhile as if communing with his inner self. “He’s here,” he finally said.
Kimball looked out at the desert, seeing nothing but the shadows of distant mountains and the darkened shapes of cacti and saguaros. In the far distance to the west, thunderheads were gathering and the sky grumbled. “How do you know?”
“I know with this,” he said, pointing to his nose. “And also with this.” He then patted his chest over his heart with the flat of his palm. “I was ‘The Ghost’ because I know the skills of a hunter. I know stealth. And I know every hunter watches his prey before he strikes. Even prey is wary of what he cannot see.”
Kimball chalked it up to Apache instinct, the man simply spouting off since it was truly impossible to tell if anyone was out there or not. But Kimball also knew that Hawk was truly amazing with his skills of intuiting what others could not.
“He’ll watch, and then he’ll strike when it’s opportune.”
“Are you prepared for a defense?”
The Indian looked at him quizzically. “Are you kidding? What I miss, Dog will pick up. And if he — or they — should break the first line of defense, then I’ll be there waiting for them. I may be old, Kimball, but I haven’t lost my skills.”
“I have no weapons.”
“I’ve plenty. Wait here a sec.”
The Indian got to his feet and went into the house, the hinges of the screen door whining in his wake as Kimball was left to view the desert wondering if he was caught in the crosshairs of an NV scope.
When Hawk returned he did so with a minor arsenal. Strapped to his leg was his Bowie, a knife he cherished due to its size, always saying that a sizeable blade provided a psychological edge; bigger was always bad, he would say. Seated on his head was a pair of night vision goggles with a monocular lens. And in one hand he carried an assault weapon with an attached suppressor that was as long as the weapon’s barrel, an MP-5, and in the other hand was a top-of-the-line rifle used by snipers, the CheyTac M200, which was effective for up to 2000 meters.
“This only scratches the surface,” he said. “In the back is a hidden room holding all the toys I covet.”
He handed Kimball the CheyTac, which had heft to it but was extremely manageable.
“And with these,” Hawk lowered the monocular lens over his eyes and switched the unit on, the goggles powering up as the batteries whirled the apparatus to life, “I’ll be able to see him coming no matter what point he wishes to attack from. The CheyTac will then take him down the moment he steps out into the moonlight.”
“I know I’ve lost credibility in your eyes, Hawk, but I need to fight by your side on this one.”
The Indian smiled. “Like old times?”
“Like old times.”
Hawk nodded in approval. “But right now you need rest. How long has it been since you slept?”
“Over thirty hours,” he said.
“You’re no good to me unless you’re sharp. Get some sleep. Dog and I will watch the compound.”
“But if you’re right about him—”
“I’ll be fine, Kimball. I’m ‘The Ghost,’ remember? I know what to look for in a predator since I am one myself. If he comes, I’ll know it. And once I know he is here, then I’ll make sure that you’re fighting by my side.”
“We’ll need him alive, Hawk. Or them. I’m not sure how many there are since I find it hard to believe that one man is capable of taking out Arruti and Grenier.”
“We’ll soon find out, won’t we?”
“I just need a couple of hours, maybe three.”
Hawk smiled, a wide grin, the wage of pride. “I’m ‘The Ghost,’” he said. “At first you would see nothing but jungle, then the flicker of a shape, and then you were dead by my hand. That’s me, ‘The Ghost.’”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Then don’t worry and get some sleep. I’ll need you at the top of your game.”