The Forgotten (45 page)

He found his spot and shimmied up a tree, coming to rest in the crook formed by the trunk and a sturdy limb. He settled his rifle into place and sighted along the scope, dialing in necessary adjustments to fit the wind, distance to target, and other factors.

There were six men. They came on in two groups of three. They were moving in a V shape, one leader and two followers. From Puller’s perch up the tree they looked like two arrowheads moving forward across the sand. They had some military training, he deduced, but not as much as they should have. He scanned behind the men, looking for reinforcements waiting to be deployed. He’d made that mistake at the Sierra; he didn’t intend to make the same error again.

No reserves—they were bringing their full force against one they presumed was a weaker foe.

Puller’s tactics had already been thought out. He didn’t just line up one shot. Like a chess match he was lining up four. Two from each group. That would leave it at two on two, odds he liked much better.

He observed Carson burrowed in on top of the sand dune. He knew she would see the oncoming enemy, but she was holding her fire, awaiting his first strike. Then he knew she would know what to do because she was a soldier just like him. On the battlefield stars, bars, and stripes fell away. You were just two trained fighters using that training to defeat the other side.

He glanced out at the water and saw a curious sight. It looked like a boat coming in. The navigation lights were steady red and green, so it was heading directly to shore.

This might be backup coming from the big boat out there. If so, he had to get this skirmish on the beach over with pronto.

He let out a breath, got his physiological barometer to cold zero, optimal for minimal muscle quiver, and lasered his crosshairs on target number one.

Bang.

Number one went down.

Bang.

Number two hit the sand.

Puller had known what the other four would do when the first two went down.

They scattered. But they scattered in a predictable pattern.

Bang.

Number three went down with one of Puller’s 7.62 NATO rounds blowing a large hole in the man’s chest.

Bang.

This kill shot came from a Glock.

Number four went down and stayed there.

Carson was emptying the clip from her Glock, spraying fields of fire both left and right, which were the only two directions worth aiming at, because it would also cover fore and aft movements.

She dumped her Glock and aimed the M11 but didn’t fire.

The two survivors down there had made it to cover, both from Carson below and Puller above.

But Puller had gotten most of what he had wished for.

It was now two on two.

The only unknown was the boat.

But for that, he would have just played a waiting game, keeping the two pinned down until they lost their patience and made a run for it.

It would have been a short run.

Puller would get one.

Carson would get the other.

But the damn boat was coming on fast, so Puller didn’t have the luxury of waiting.

He looked down at the same moment Carson looked up. He didn’t know if she could see him without the benefit of the goggles he had on, but she had obviously either seen or heard the boat.

He shimmied down the tree, landing quietly in the sand.

A minute later he had rejoined Carson.

“Two left,” he said.

“Right, but reinforcements are coming from the water.”

“I know. I saw.”

“Now what? Those two are between us and the road.”

“So we have to remove the obstacle.”

“We don’t have time for a standard pincer movement.”

He said, “What do you suggest, General?”

“So I’m back in command?”

“Superior rank is never really out of command. You earlier deferred to my judgment. Leadership defaults back to you.”

She looked around. “Feint, draw out, and strike. Speed and finality.”

He nodded in agreement. “I’ll do the feint and draw.”

“I was thinking the other way around. You’re better with the rifle.”

He shook his head. “We’re close enough range to do it with pistols. And I know you’ve kept your certifications up.”

“How?”

“You’re chasing the second star. You wouldn’t let something that simple trip you up.”

“I am damn good with a handgun at anything under twenty-five meters.”

“Then we’re well within your comfort zone.”

“But the feint will get shot at.”

“That’s the hope.”

She gazed at him. “Did you so readily volunteer for all the dangerous assignments in Iraq and Afghanistan too?”

“All the assignments over there were dangerous.”

Puller checked the water again. The boat was almost there.

“We’re out of time.”

“Let’s do it.”

It worked.

Nearly perfectly.

But anything less than perfection under the circumstances was problematic.

Puller took up position fifteen meters off the left flank of the targets, who had committed the tactical blunder of retreating to the same spot. It marshaled their firepower but also left them sitting ducks for the strategy devised by Carson.

Carson had taken up her strike position five meters off Puller’s left flank, down in the sand, the M11 positioned on the hard shell of a long-dead sea creature. She had the goggles on now. She had crystal-clear fields of fire.

Now it was up to Puller to do the feinting just right.

And he did, almost.

He sprinted out of seemingly nowhere, a nearly six-foot-four blur wide-stepping through the sand running a zigzag route as though traversing a minefield.

The shots rang out almost immediately from the two men.

Puller had chosen his angle well.

It had made the two men step out from cover in order to draw a bead on him.

Carson popped off four shots. They were well placed, compact rounds, designed for close-quarter battle and max damage.

Two shots hit one man in the torso. The other two hit the other man in the exact same spots.

Double tapped, they dropped to the sand.

But so did Puller.

“
J
OHN
!”

Carson raced forward through the sand.

She reached him in seconds. He had already risen to one knee.

“Where?” she said automatically.

“Left side. In and out,” he said. “I think it was the first guy who fired. He obviously knows how to grid shoot.”

“Let’s make sure it’s out.”

She pulled up his shirt, felt around for the entry and exit points, and found them both.

“You’re bleeding pretty heavily.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“We need to get you to a hospital.”

“I’m not arguing with that. In my duffel in the Tahoe I’ve got some medical supplies. I’ll patch myself up.”

“I can patch you up, Puller.”

He looked over her shoulder.

“Okay, but right now, keep low, get your gun ready, and turn around.”

She flinched, but just for an instant.

“The boat?”

“The boat,” he replied.

“Shit.”

She turned and saw what he had already seen.

The boat was beached on the shore. There was no one in it.

“Looks like the opposition has already deployed,” said Puller.

“It’s not a RIB. Maybe fewer people.”

“More than two is problematic. We’re clearly not at full strength.”

“Can you manage?” she asked.

“Not the first time I’ve been shot.”

“I know.”

Puller took off his shirt and wound it around his middle to try to stanch the bleeding. He gripped the rifle and stood.

“How many rounds do you have in the M11?” he asked.

“Ten. You?”

“Five and then I’m out.”

“How do you want to do this?”

“Seek and destroy. I go left and you right. You see me fire, you fire at whatever I’m targeting. I’ll do the same with you.”

“Let’s manage our ammo carefully.”

“We need to kill what we can when we can, General. Hand-to-hand after that if it comes to it.”

“They hit you one time on your wound you’re going down.”

He turned to stare at her and said quietly, “It’ll take more than one time.”

Her lips parted, she eyed the bloody shirt and said nothing before looking away.

They split up. Carson moved toward the water, Puller the opposite way. Fifteen meters apart they stealthily advanced, their gazes rotating side to side, up and down.

Puller stopped when he smelled it.

Sulfur.

It was coming from his right, meaning Carson’s left. They were up ahead. The stench on the clothes of whoever was out there was being driven into his nostrils by the breeze.

And then Puller realized what that entailed. He and Carson carried the exact same stink. The wind changed, carrying their smell the other way.

“Down,” he roared as shots flew overhead.

He sank into the sand but did not return fire. He had no clear target and with only five rounds left he had none to waste.

He just hoped that Carson had heard his warning in time.

He waited, his heartbeat hammering in his ears.

He wanted to call out to Carson, but that would do neither of them any good. He had already told the other side there was more than one of them by calling out to her.

He gazed ahead, sweeping the area in grids. Carson had the goggles. She would be able to see things he couldn’t.

He decided to play off whatever she did.

He looked over and saw Carson on her belly gliding forward. The sound of the breakers covered this movement.

He did the same. Her movements became faster and Puller, shot up as he was, was hard pressed to keep up with her. Then it occurred to him that she wanted to get there first, to absorb the attack or counterattack before he would be in harm’s way.

“Screw that,” he muttered and redoubled his efforts.

It all came to an end several seconds later. Carson jumped to her feet and aimed.

Puller got there a millisecond later and did the same, his rifle finding and fixing on the target.

One gun was pointed at Carson.

One gun was pointed at Puller.

Mecho faced Puller.

Chrissy Murdoch confronted Carson.

Mecho and Puller recognized each other at the same instant.

Carson and Murdoch did not have the same advantage.

Puller said, “Who the hell are you?”

Mecho looked back at him, his finger a bare millimeter from the trigger of his weapon.

Murdoch kept her gaze dead on Carson. The women’s gun muzzles were barely six feet apart.

Murdoch said, “Who the hell are you?”

“Brigadier General Julie Carson, United States Army.”

Puller said, “Special Agent John Puller, Criminal Investigation Division, United States Army.”

Mecho did not take his gaze off Puller.

Puller did not take his gaze off Mecho. He said, “Now who the hell are you?”

Mecho again said nothing. Puller eyed Murdoch. “The last time
I saw you, you were in your bathrobe at Lampert’s estate and your name was Christine Murdoch.”

“That is my cover name. I’m actually Lieutenant Claudia Diaz with the Colombian National Police. I’m assigned to a joint task force between my country and yours.”

“For what purpose?” asked Puller.

“Antislavery efforts. It has been authorized by your State Department.”

“And him?” asked Puller, motioning at Mecho.

“He’s assisting me.”

“He doesn’t look Colombian to me.”

“That is because I am not Colombian,” snapped Mecho.

“But you saved my butt the other night,” said Puller. “Why?”

“I didn’t like the odds. Too many against one.”

“Did you know who I was?”

Mecho shook his head.

“Why are you helping her?” Puller asked.

“That is my business,” replied Mecho.

“Can we all show some creds?” said Carson.

Puller, Carson, and Diaz pulled out their badges.

Mecho pulled nothing.

“Where are you from?” asked Puller.

“Not from here,” said Mecho.

“You’re making this a lot harder than it has to be.”

“That is not my problem.”

Diaz said, “We were attacked by a half dozen of the slavers.”

“Seems to be going around,” said Carson. “So were we.”

“And you obviously survived,” said Diaz.

“As did you,” replied Carson. “We carried the bodies out to the ocean. I would recommend we do the same for you,” said Diaz.

“Why?”

“To cover our tracks. So the big fish do not get away.”

“I’m afraid they already have,” said Puller. “The truck with the people got away.”

“Damn,” said Diaz, and she was the first to holster her weapon.

Carson followed suit.

The two men did not budge; their guns remained pointed at one another.

Diaz said to Mecho, “Stand down, Mecho. They’re obviously not with the slavers.”

“Puller, lower your weapon,” said Carson.

“Screw that! Him first.”

“The same,” snarled Mecho.

Carson and Diaz looked at each other with exasperated expressions.