Nanny for the Army Rangers by Krista Wolf
Fifty-Two
JULIUS
The gunfire receded into the distance; short, staccato bursts that were getting less and less frequent now. I could make out the AK’s that belonged to the LRA. Grenade blasts that belonged to us. A few moments ago I could even pick out Demarco’s CZ 75, blasting away intermittently. The Czech pistol the ex-Navy SEAL always carried with him had a distinct bark to it, and I knew he was being surgical with every single round.
Judging by how outnumbered we were, I could only hope this was true.
I pumped my arms even harder, ducking my head against the leafy fronds of the thick, interior jungle. I’d only gone a quarter mile so far, but considering the terrain it may as well have been a marathon.
Shit.
My eyes scanned the next clearing, looking to pick up signs of anything. I’d lost the trail three times so far. I’d managed to pick it up again somehow, and had taken out two of the four men who’d bolted into the brush. The last two knew the trails — and the jungle — much better than I did. If they’d been alone they would’ve easily escaped, or at least gotten far enough ahead to set up some kind of an ambush.
Only these men were hampered. Slowed.
And that’s because they’d abandoned the firefight and taken off running… dragging the ultimate goal of our mission along with them:
The target.
It’s funny how one bad decision could undo a long series of good ones. So far we’d been incredibly lucky in not only isolating the particular column of LRA we were looking for, but learning the object of our search was still, miraculously enough, alive. He wouldn’t be for long, though. Not after the fuckup in Nagojje. The particular warlord we were looking for had been spooked by our presence. Instead of keeping what he had and playing it out, he could’ve just as easily put two bullets in our target’s head and left him on the trail for us to find. Especially knowing that once we did, we were all going home.
Right now such an event could happen at any moment. Which is why I needed to be fast.
I scanned the clearing again, looking for anything bent or broken that might indicate two men dragging a prisoner had passed through. The other three times, the signs had been obvious. This time they’d been a lot cleaner.
Damn…
And then I saw it, jutting only a few inches into my line of view… the flat black barrel of an M2 Browning. It was the same machine gun one of the two men had carried into the jungle, after firing it so thankfully poorly at our onrushing forces.
Just beside it I found the trail again, and more signs of movement. Only this time, two paths diverged instead of one.
They split up.
I examined both trails. Both bore signs of being recently used.
No, not split up. The guy who tossed the machine gun ditched his partner.
In a flash I picked the wider trail. My decision made, I ran full-tilt through the jungle again, heedless of the overgrowth that scratched at my face and the root systems that pulled at my ankles. Not even a minute later I broke into a smaller clearing, only this time the clearing wasn’t empty.
The target!
A man was lying on his back, covered in sweat and blood and God knew what else. His once perfect khakis had gone utterly black. His left arm was bandaged in several places, and his face was covered with a ragged, unkempt beard.
Holy shit.
He looked like he’d been dragged halfway across the fucking continent, much less the distance we’d just covered. But he was still breathing, and that was the only thing that mattered.
No sooner had I burst into the clearing than I threw myself to one side, ducking low and rolling with my rifle tucked tightly to my chest. Shots rang out, flying so close past my skull I could feel the vibrations of the rounds as they ripped the sound barrier.
But the ruse worked. It drew the initial fire I knew would inevitably come, and gave away my assailant’s position with a burst of silvery white.
I fired six shots. None of them missed. My attacker slumped forward and into the clearing, the air rushing out of his lungs in a very solemn and permanent way.
“Bradley!”
I spoke the target’s name, and he lifted his head immediately. I was beside him in a moment, propping him up with one arm. His eyes were wild and unfocused, like he was still in shock. But he was alive. Breathing. Even reaching my way.
“Don’t try to move yet,” I told him. “Wait until—”
No, not reaching my way. Bradley was reaching upward… to point at something over my shoulder.
FUCK.
I whirled, knowing already it was way too late. Two shots rang out in quick succession as I fell backward and sideways, draping myself protectively over the shell-shocked goal of our mission.
Pain exploded in my right shoulder, my rifle falling uselessly to the ground. The man standing over me was the machine-gunner — the guy who’d ditched the M2. Apparently he’d doubled back.
“Stupid!” the man grinned, through yellowed and missing teeth. He raised his pistol again, leveling at my face. “So, so stu—”
An explosion preceded the man flying sideways through the air. One second he was standing there smugly, the next he was just… gone.
The event was as dramatic as it was instantaneous, but I didn’t have to wonder what happened. I knew the Benelli shotgun that had caused the damage, just as I knew the man who owned it. Squinting up, silhouetted against the sun, I made out a shape so big and familiar it could only belong to one person.
“Duncan?!” I swore, unable to hide my astonishment.
My friend stood there in full jungle camouflage, face-paint and all. Before reaching down to help me to my feet, he assessed me with a slow shake of his head.
“I knew you’d screw this up,” he chuckled gruffly.