One Rough Man - Brad Taylor [155]
I scanned the hillside and picked up a glint of metal in the sunlight at the top. It’s time.
I dropped the half-empty magazine from the Glock, loading in a full one and laying out the other full one on the ground. I waited for the fight.
“They’re at the top of the hill. Hold for about five rounds before running. Once you start, do not stop. Don’t look back at me. Don’t worry about the gunfire. Do you understand?”
I could hear Jennifer sobbing, ripping into my soul. Jesus. Don’t cry. It’s okay.
“Yes ... I understand. Pike ... don’t die. I ... I ... Please don’t die.”
As I formed my answer, knowing that these words would be my last on earth, my pager began to vibrate. What the hell? The screen said: Mark your position. Mark your position. Coming in hot. I stared at the pager for a split second before the truth sank in.
“Get out from underneath the truck! Take off your headscarf and start waving it. Hurry.”
She wiggled out, ripping off the scarf and waving it back and forth like she was in a lifeboat in the middle of the ocean.
“What’s up? Why am I doing this?”
Someone else is God’s entertainment. Someone who fucking deserves it. “It’s the cavalry. Stand by. These assholes are dead.”
The pager vibrated again with a single word: Marked.
The world had returned to level, all doubt and fear banished by that simple message. I had been given an incredible gift. A miracle.
The feeling of relief was short-lived as the air around us snapped with supersonic rounds puncturing the steel of the Pajero. Shit. We’re out of time.
“Get back underneath the truck. Move!”
I shoved Jennifer bodily backward, then began raking the hillside with the Glock, hitting nothing but hoping to suppress the incoming fire. Bullets were chewing up the ground around us, causing a feral fear to surface. So fucking close. Not fair. I got Jennifer behind the wheel well, jammed underneath the axle, and turned to fight. The two men were coming fast, one firing while the other moved, flip-flopping down the slope. I snapped off the remaining rounds in the first magazine and reloaded, traversing the hillside to draw the fire away from Jennifer’s position. I dove behind the cover of a large tree, the ground around me exploding in pops like someone was working a Weed Eater against the trunk. Where’s the fucking cavalry?
I could tell who was moving and who was shooting because there was a pregnant pause in the fire each time they transitioned. I waited for it, then rolled to the right, attempting to keep them from flanking me or closing on Jennifer. I knew it was ridiculously stupid, but if I didn’t even up the odds, we were both dead, and the small gap was all I had in my favor. If I did it right, I’d be facing the man on the move, and he’d block the shot of the guy providing the suppressive fire.
As soon as I aimed the Glock, I knew I was dead. I had picked the wrong side. The man to the left was moving, and I was facing the barrel of the man to the right, aimed directly at my head fifty meters away. Too far to hit with the pistol, but easy for the assault rifle. Fuck.
No rounds came my way. Instead, the man turned and aimed at the crest of the hill. For the first time I felt the deep thump of rotor blades. A Bell 427 helicopter sliced across the top of the hill, incongruously painted in bright yellow and white, with a logo emblazoned on the side reading Epeius Oil Exploration. The helicopter’s blades bit into the air as it rotated violently, the open door facing the earth. I could see the team inside, held in place by the centrifugal force of the rotation, three holding SR-25 sniper systems at the ready. I couldn’t hear the gunshots due to the rotor blades but saw the muzzles flash, two times each.
“Yeah, motherfuckers. Eat that.”
The helicopter immediately circled around to the other side of the car hiding the single man. He jumped up and began to run, only to be cut down by the precision fire of the men inside, the 7.62 match-grade rounds flying unerringly toward his head as if it was a giant magnet.
Finished shooting