Cold Blue (28 page)

From Thorpe’s personal and professional experience, he knew good sex could be an excellent indicator of a woman’s mental fitness. It seemed the better they were in bed, the crazier they were. With that reasoning, Deborah must be loonier than hell. Hopefully she’d keep her promise and not expect any commitment from Thorpe; at this point in his life he wouldn’t be able to give it, and Deborah wouldn’t be at the top of his list as a deserving recipient. He’d needed that though; he’d had enough tension building up the last few days to power a small town.

Thorpe slipped out of his remaining clothes and into Under Armour Cold Gear. He covered the thermals with several layers of clothing, topping it off with a three-dimensional RealLeaf suit, a commercial hunting accessory that breaks up the human silhouette with realistic man-made leaves. It’s a watered-down version of the ghillie suits used by military snipers. Underneath, Thorpe wore a layer of Gore-Tex and a black balaclava to protect against the falling sleet.

He stashed most his equipment in a CamelBak HAWG. The pack could carry over 1200 cubic inches of gear and was equipped with a water bladder system. Thorpe checked his watch—1:52 a.m. He grabbed his weapons, slung the pack over his shoulders and pushed open the barn’s doors as he simultaneously pushed thoughts of Deborah out of his mind.

BEFORE ANDREW PHIPPS BECAME A
sniper with the Tulsa Police Department’s Special Operations Team, he’d been a “Dark Green” United States Marine. More specifically, he’d been a member of Force Reconnaissance or “Force Recon,” a special operations unit within the Corps, like the Navy’s SEALS or the Army’s Green Berets and Delta teams.

Tonight he found himself in a situation he’d been in countless times before, except he wasn’t miles behind enemy lines in some godforsaken third-world country. Instead, he was just outside Hicksville, USA, on a direct-action mission. He sat beside a gravel road with a bolt-action .30-06. The weapon paled in comparison to the rifle he carried in Recon or even with the police department but was more than adequate for tonight’s black op.

This mission’s HVI—High-Value Individual—should appear in his sights at a mere forty yards. Phipps’ far-from-optimal position was necessitated by the terrain and made acceptable by the fact that he didn’t have to worry about an enemy force returning fire. Upon arrival, he found the woods so thick that he decided to remove the rifle’s cheap scope and get up-close and personal. Unless already engaged in a firefight, he’d never take a similar shot while deployed in a military action.

No worries.
He’d drop Thorpe with one high-powered, well-placed round, then casually stroll out of the woods. Thorpe, the poor clueless bastard, would probably illuminate himself with his own headlights. Phipps only real concern was the man lying beside him.

Thadius Shaw was serving as his “spotter,” though Phipps didn’t plan on using him for anything other than as an accessory to murder; Shaw’s direct involvement would help keep the man’s mouth shut.

A few hours ago, Shaw would never have agreed to come along on this undertaking. But his attitude had changed when McDonald convinced him that Thorpe had murdered his best friend, Daniels—and wouldn’t stop until they were all dead. Shaw was unaware that the man who’d actually killed his friend lay beside him. Phipps hadn’t exactly enjoyed killing Daniels…or maybe he did; he wasn’t sure anymore. He’d always gotten satisfaction from killing the enemy in combat but now wondered if he just enjoyed killing—period. He knew one thing: he’d relish putting a bullet in Thorpe’s head, and his only regret would be that Thorpe wouldn’t see it coming. In the sniper’s world, death was like a light switch; you’re dead well before the sound waves of the shot reach your corpse.

Both men were dressed in cheap camouflage. Phipps didn’t want to wear his ghillie suit and risk tearing a piece off on a branch. He’d handled the material enough that his DNA was probably all over the suit. Instead, he lay concealed in the bush, wearing discount-store camouflage, looking through the sights of a deer rifle. He was here to kill a man who’d become a threat to his freedom, and Marines had always been in the freedom-protection business. Phipps didn’t know much about Thorpe; the man seemed cordial enough, but that didn’t mean a thing. McDonald appeared to be a nice guy, too, and one would never guess the shit he was into.

Phipps looked over at a shivering Shaw and thought to himself,
worthless
. He’d told the dumbass to dress warm. There’s nothing colder than lying motionless on frozen ground waiting to ambush someone. He didn’t know if Shaw was shaking from the cold and sleet or from nerves; probably a combination of both. Phipps was glad this would be an easy kill because Shaw didn’t inspire much confidence. In addition, Shaw normally wore eyeglasses that Phipps had forced him to remove. He didn’t want light reflecting off the lenses and giving away their position. So, besides being an untrained, out-of-his-element shivering little bitch, he was also half blind to boot. Phipps wouldn’t be surprised to hear the man’s teeth begin to chatter.

If Phipps were to be perfectly honest, his own toes were starting to feel the cold. He wished Thorpe would get his sorry white ass home so he could put a bullet in it and return to his heated home and ESPN. While these thoughts swirled in his mind, he noticed movement in the darkness of Thorpe’s property. Two shapes ran toward the fence—dogs.

Where the fuck did they come from?

“What the…?” Shaw said loudly.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Phipps whispered.

What the hell is this
? They’d been here for two and a half hours and hadn’t seen a thing—and now dogs were roaming the fence line? One of the dogs paused and looked across the road and just to the left of where he and Shaw were lying. It began to growl.

“That fucking dog sees us,” Shaw said with obvious fear in his voice.

“He doesn’t see us; he smells us…and now he probably hears us. If you open your mouth again I’m going to slit your fucking throat.”

As soon as his words came out, the trees in front, above and behind them burst with light. Shaw immediately jumped to his feet and turned to run deeper into the woods. The crack of supersonic bullets parted the air over Phipps head. The rounds were followed by a short yelp from Shaw as he continued his flight for safety.

Fucking automatic gunfire—
sounded like a three-round burst from an M-4 or modified AR-15.

Phipps fired a round toward where he’d seen a muzzle flash.

A second burst came in from a different location.

Goddamnit! The son-of-a-bitch was shooting and moving!
Phipps hugged the earth and crawled away from the gunfire—some of which came too close to finding its mark. When he had cover between him and the threat, he stood and began making his way deeper into the woods. He had to find that fucking Shaw.

Or maybe he didn’t.

THORPE LAY PRONE ABOVE THE
creek bed using the bank as cover. Two extension cords, now connected, stretched beside him. The hot end came from his barn and the other led into the woods across the road. Thorpe had picked a trough across the gravel and buried the cord. On the opposite side, he’d connected a three-way splitter. Those cords fed several different sets of lights concealed in the trees. Thorpe had even used clear Christmas lights in the branches well above the ground.

As soon as Thorpe connected the two extension cords, the tree line had come alive with a curtain of light, and he’d caught movement several yards to the right of where his weapon was trained—something moving fast. Thorpe had let out a burst from his AR-15 toward the distant figure, then tucked his head and rolled several feet to his right. As he did so, he’d heard the distinctive high-pitched flutter of a bullet tumbling through the air to his left—
ricochet
. The bullet probably struck a limb before reaching his location.

There were at least two of them.
One was fleeing through the woods and the other fired at Thorpe’s last position.
Phipps must have a spotter accompanying him
.

Thorpe raised up and let off a short burst near where he’d seen the first person rise. He fired these rounds lower anticipating that Phipps still lay on the ground. Thorpe tucked his head and moved again, noting the lack of return fire. He must have either hit Phipps or the man was retreating or relocating—waiting for Thorpe to let off another burst, a burst that’d be met with a rifle round between his eyes. Deciding he’d pushed his luck enough, Thorpe slid down into the creek bed and began running to the east. When he reached a wooded area east of his house, he left the ravine and made his way back to the gravel road, unsure if he’d struck either man with gunfire.

PHIPPS PICKED HIS WAY THROUGH
the trees, then stopped and considered his options. He could call out to Shaw in an attempt to escape this debacle together. Or he could locate Shaw, keep his distance, and use the man as bait. Surrounded by dead foliage, maybe Phipps would hear Thorpe approaching—then again the sound of the sleet might cover his footfalls.

Thorpe didn’t have a military background, but it sure as hell seemed like he’d received combat training somewhere—
and where the fuck did he get an automatic rifle?
The more Phipps considered Thorpe’s actions, the more concerned he became. Not only did the man anticipate an ambush, but he correctly anticipated from where the attack would be launched. Then he laid down some damn accurate fire on Shaw, who’d been a moving target at considerable yardage. Plus, Thorpe shot and moved. He didn’t get tunnel vision and even anticipated there could be more than one threat in the woods. Phipps had definitely underestimated the man.

He doubted Thorpe would follow multiple adversaries into the woods alone at night. Most likely, he’d wait alongside the road, concealed, and hope to ambush them as they made their way out of the trees. That’s what Phipps would do if he were in Thorpe’s position. On the other hand, Thorpe might move in an arc to the north, in an effort to cut off their retreat.

Their extraction element—Brandon Baker—idled in a car a few miles to the east. Their intent had been to kill Thorpe, hike out, call Baker and get the fuck outta Dodge.

Well, that plan had gone to shit
. Phipps decided his best bet at survival would be to trek north fast enough to ensure Thorpe didn’t get in front of him. Phipps might have to spend the entire night in the woods, but it wouldn’t be his first. As he rose and began picking his way through the underbrush, he heard Shaw screaming his name.

Fuck ‘im; that Gomer was on his own
.

SHAW DIDN’T HAVE A CLUE
what direction
he was headed.
Goddamn Phipps!
His left arm was on fire. It hung like a piece of meat from the elbow down. A round had caught him near the elbow and had completely disintegrated the joint. Shaw needed medical treatment but instead blundered sightless through the middle of nowhere in freezing temperatures with sleet pelting his face. His glasses were nearly useless; stashed in his breast pocket, they’d broken when he’d begun running and ricocheting off trees. All he had left was one cracked lens and no flashlight.

And Phipps…that motherfucker, wouldn’t answer
. Shaw didn’t know where the man had gone or if he was even alive.
Fuck, it was cold
. Shaw, convinced he would die if he didn’t get immediate medical attention, withdrew his phone and called Baker.

“Is it done?” Baker said, answering his phone.

“Yeah…change of plans though. You need to come in his neighborhood and pick us up. We’re lost in the woods, but we’re close to the road.”

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

“Just get your ass in here and pick us up. You need to honk your horn when you get close to Thorpe’s house so we can follow the sound.”

“Bullshit. You trying to get us all arrested?”

“Look, ain’t nobody the fuck out here! It’s colder than shit so people’s windows are closed; they’re not going to hear you.”

“Fuck that!”

“If you don’t come get us, and the police pick us up, the first person I’m going to throw down is you. Now get your white ass in here and pick us up.”

Shaw terminated the call. Hopefully Baker wouldn’t phone Phipps before driving in; no way he’d come if he knew Thorpe was still alive and engaging targets with an automatic weapon.

THORPE HEARD THE SCREAMING
BEFORE
he reached the road. Someone was yelling Phipps’ name.

“Phipps…I’m hit…where are you? Phipps!”

Concerned it was a trap, Thorpe resisted the temptation to follow. He did cross the road but kept well south of the commotion. He hid behind a fallen tree and waited in the black. Thorpe removed the SID-supplied night vision device from his pack and secured it to his head. He knew he should use his dogs, but he’d become too attached.
Better he die in these woods than Al and Trixie
.

The thrashing and yelling to the north ceased, and Thorpe tried to attune to the sounds of his environment over the falling sleet. Several minutes later he observed the wash of headlights on the branches above his position. Behind him, a vehicle approached from the east. A minute after the car passed, Thorpe focused on a faint glow of light moving through the trees ahead.

SHAW CAUGHT THE FLASH OF
headlights and began picking his way toward the road. He again called Baker.

“Where you at?” Baker answered on the first ring.

“Did you just drive by?”

“Yeah, I’m passing Thorpe’s house now.”

“Turn around and come back the way you came. You don’t have to honk your horn; I could see your lights. Stay on the phone, I’ll tell you when to stop.”

Shaw was having a hell of a time navigating through the trees. It was impossible to see, particularly with only one cracked, sleet-covered lens. After a minute, Shaw picked out Baker’s headlights approaching from the west.

“Stop. Stay where you are and cut your lights. I’m heading your way.”

Shaw couldn’t wait to get out of the woods. To help avoid losing an eyeball to a tree branch, he decided to use the light from his cell phone’s LCD screen to illuminate his way. Holding the phone straight out, he picked up the pace toward the waiting vehicle.