Piranha Assignment (29 page)

Morgan had stopped and turned to face the behemoth. He seemed to grow out of the tall grass, his Randall #1 combat knife in his hand. His legs and arms were spread wide, as if he was waiting to embrace death. He bared his teeth and Felicity thought she heard two growls as the four legged engine of destruction closed on him. Had Morgan thought this through?

Ten feet from his prey, the giant boar launched itself into space, jaws spread wide and aimed at Morgan's throat. Its hot breath stung Morgan's eyes and for a brief instant he wondered if he had misjudged the rope's length.

Then the nylon line snapped taut, and the boar was brought up short. Felicity was thrown to the ground when the tree jerked. Foliage showered her but she hardly seemed to notice. Her eyes were on the boar, snapped into the air, spinning on the pivot point of its neck. Morgan and the ground hit the beast at the same time. His left arm looped around the thick creature's massive neck. He plunged his long knife deep into its throat and wrenched hard. The beast's death scream burst onto Morgan's face along with its hot life's blood.

Morgan rolled away from the thrashing animal and got to his feet. It was taking the boar a long time to die. The animal now had the rope caught in the gash in its throat. It gurgled and kicked, but it never gave up. It resisted death to the very end. Even with its throat ripped open, it roared its defiance.

Morgan wondered how much like a wild boar he would be when the grim reaper came for him.

Felicity showed a slight limp as she approached Morgan. Her hands were raw, one bleeding a little. But him! He was splattered with red - hair, shirt, pants, hands - and even he did not know how much of it was his own. The boar's spiny hide had abraded his arms. His jacket was in tatters. The stench of the beast's flesh and blood on him was overpowering. It seemed to bring the exhaustion out of him. He looked up into Felicity's tired smile.

“We've got to get you cleaned up,” she said. Morgan smiled with her but his mind was not on a shower. He was wondering where the helicopter went.

By the time they reached the shooting range, Morgan had abandoned what remained of his safari jacket, and the dried blood on him was caked with sand. He looked grim as he fitted the twenty-two caliber rifle together again.

“What I don't get is, what happened to the beaters?” Felicity said, pulling a bit of foliage from her hair.

“I figure when the copter split, they saw the job as over. They counted on the boars to finish us.” Morgan sat cross legged beside the storage shed, wiping the rifle with a cloth. “We can't expect them to make any more mistakes.”

“So we'll take this little gun, find their convoy to the sub and gun ‘em down, right?” Felicity mimed a Chicago gangster machine gunning a line up of rivals with a “rat-tat-tat.” Morgan rolled his eyes and collected his ammo.

The coast road followed the bay's contours at a discreet distance. A gentle slope rose up from the jungle creating, in some spots, a fairly steep drop. Morgan and Felicity sat at one such place, a dozen feet or so above the dirt road. Like stalking predators, they stared through the tall grass growing at the edge like a raised duck blind. A low breeze carried the smell of brine and crushed shells. It cooled them as it bent weeds into their faces. From their right, an over-torqued transmission announced incoming visitors. A
tractor trailer approached, followed by a huge cloud of dust. Morgan had not expected a line like this. From a quarter of a mile away he could see a supply train of nearly forty vehicles of all sizes.

“It's not much of a gun against all that, is it?” Felicity asked, not at all confident.

“It's not as bad as it looks,” Morgan said, settling into a comfortable prone position. “Almost every man he's got must be driving or riding in a truck cab. Reaction to an attack will automatically slow their progress. The road's real narrow too, which is to our advantage. And, I've got the right weapon.”

“Wait a minute. Before you said this wee gun was too low power for combat.”

“Not for this,” Morgan replied, pulling a stick out from under himself. “It doesn't throw a heavy round, but it's light enough so I can move fast with two hundred rounds of ammo. Quiet. No flash to speak of. It'll do.” He lapsed into silence, as did Felicity, but she kept looking into the grass, as if she heard something rustling through it.

Morgan had hoped to see the white Land Rover leading the convoy, but no such good fortune appeared. He waited patiently until the first truck, an eight wheeler, came within a hundred meters. A blade of grass tickled his neck and he brushed it away. He hugged the warm wooden stock to his face and opened fire. The first tiny twenty-two long rifle bullet spread spider webs over the lead truck's windshield. The next two smacked into its left front tire. As the vehicle swerved left Morgan put two shots into the right front tire. The driver huddled down on the seat a good three minutes waiting for more.

Morgan allowed himself a broad grin. His simple plan had worked. The road was effectively blocked by the lead truck. Changing those tires would be a long, tough job. He
could harass the workers with gunfire and keep them there all day.

Herrera ran from somewhere down the line, yanked the front truck's cab door open and dragged its driver out. After a heated discussion in Spanish, Herrera jumped up into the cab. One glance at the windshield confirmed that they were under fire. He put a finger on the hole, checking its size.

“Can you get him?” Felicity asked close to Morgan's ear.

“I'm sure going to try.”

Herrera climbed down, scanning the edge of the cliff. A bullet ricocheted off the truck an inch from his eye and he dropped, rolling with astonishing speed through the dust. Back on his feet he ran an evasive course to the middle of the convoy. A hundred meters away, Morgan cursed under his breath.

“Not used to seeing you miss,” Felicity said.

“There are limits,” Morgan said. “Even this mild breeze is enough to drift these light bullets four or five inches at this distance.” He patted Felicity on her arm and they crawled back from the edge, then moved twenty-five meters away to set up another ambush point.

On the road, Herrera reached Bastidas' Land Rover, knocking dust off himself. His leader sat, clutching a riding crop. Frustration creased his face.

“What is this delay?”

“We are under attack,” Herrera said. “A small caliber rifle. One man. The lead truck has two flat tires. The road is blocked.”

“Where's it coming from?” Bastidas could barely contain himself. His fists shook without his even being
aware of it.

“The gun is between fifty and a hundred meters away,” Herrera said. “It is too quiet to pinpoint the direction by sound. I saw no muzzle flash when I was fired on. He will be difficult to find.”

“You say one man?”

“Stark,” Herrera said. “It can be no other.”

“Stark is dead!”

“This could be no one else,” Herrera insisted.

“Then let's bring them together.” The riding crop cut the air with a loud whoosh, but Herrera did not notice.

At the head of the convoy, a four man team worked to change the front truck's left flat. Sweaty hands hauled on a giant lug wrench. Two men stood close to them waving AK-47's at nothing in particular. They were stern looking men with long hair and alert faces.

A sound like corn popping began as Morgan emptied a magazine. The workers dived and scattered. The guards hit the ground, spraying the rim of the cliff. Morgan reached his next planned firing point before the noise died down. He had fired ten times. Truck number two, a ten ton, now had a flat on the left rear. One submarine crewman held a painful hole in his arm. Another cursed about being shot in the leg. No one looked as if they felt like changing a tire right now.

“Look.” Felicity pointed while Morgan settled into firing position again. Over the rifle's iron sights, he saw Barton being dragged down the road. He was barely on his feet, shuffling along with his hands cuffed behind his back. Bastidas stayed close behind him, guiding him by his arms. The pair stopped at the third truck. Barton's head lolled.
Bastidas' cape flowed around behind him. A white arm came up, pressing a big automatic to Barton's head.

“Come out now,” Bastidas shouted. “Come out or I'll spray his brain all over this road.”

“If only he'd make a break for it,” Morgan said under his breath.

“Look at his movements,” Felicity said. “He's sluggish, dazed. They must have drugged him.”

“Come forward, Mister Stark,” Bastidas said, yelling in his shaky voice. “I won't mind killing him. He has already cost me much. We caught him trying to catch a ride to Panama City. He was almost ten miles from here. A truck full of my people bringing in last minute supplies found him, quite by accident. They had to chase him through the brush. Bastard killed two of my men with a knife, and hurt two others rather badly.”

“Good for you,” Morgan said, then to Felicity, “Any ideas?”

She patted his shoulder. “I've always got ideas.”