Returning to hand signals, they worked out their revised plan. Ethan tried to hand over an Eagle, but Jack refused, patting the P8 contentedly. Shaking his head in silent exasperation, Ethan forced a tactical knife on him instead, revealing a second one tucked away in his boot. Taking the knife to keep the peace, Jack slid it through his belt.
Before they moved, Ethan griped the back of Jack’s neck and pressed their foreheads together. His gaze locked onto Jack’s for a full ten seconds, intent and grim, then he was gone, slithering off the track and into the thicker foliage without a sound.
Jack lost sight of him within seconds. He listened keenly, both to try to catch a hint of Ethan moving and to make sure there wasn’t a change in the noises from their quarry. Negative for both, Jack eased away in the opposite direction.
It took nearly five minutes to move close enough to hear the pair of mercs clearly. The men showed no signs that they heard him, both of them more concerned with whatever it was they were discussing. Heads dipped toward each other, they were talking in soft voices in a language he didn’t fucking understand.
Shit. He was going to have to get closer, which increased the chances of being discovered exponentially.
Jack crept around a wide tree trunk and, placing his feet with exceptional care, moved. The men would pause every now and then in their conversation, heads tilting as if listening to something. Freezing in the pauses, it took another couple of minutes to get close enough to use the implant. With a directed thought, he turned on the audio recording. Conveniently, the mercs found something interesting to chat about and Jack got a solid minute of recording before flicking it off and putting some distance between them.
Back to a tree trunk, a safe distance away, Jack slipped sideways, and the implant overlay appeared behind his eyelids. Opening one of his favourite apps, he translated the recording. The original language was Burmese and the translation was about sixty percent gibberish, probably due to the quality of the recording, but several words and phrases leaped out at Jack.
. . . who killed Rindone . . . Khun Sein . . . that Indian bastard . . .
Fuck. It wasn’t Ethan they were after. It was Jack. Even bigger fuck, he was the reason Ethan’s associate’s safe place was about to become a warzone.
Before Jack could even contemplate what that meant, his ten minutes was up.
Boom! Boom!
The unmistakable thunder of the Eagles had Jack’s two mercs spinning, looking for the danger, then diving into the cover on either side of the track. Another crack of a firearm reverberated through the trees followed by a wild yell in Burmese.
Jack had one clear shot, so he took it. The light was shit and the presence of armour meant small, inconvenient target points if he wanted to kill. His bullet took the mercenary through the neck and he collapsed without uttering a sound. The gunshot sent the second man rolling even deeper into the ground cover. Uphill, Ethan and at least one other merc were exchanging shots, both of them on the move as they fired.
Sending a shot in the direction of the other merc, Jack leaped across the open space of the track and back into the thicker vegetation. He had to conserve ammo, limited by the fact he only had two mags, fifteen rounds each, and he had no clue as to how many bad guys there were. The latter part of the problem seemed like it was going to be solved pretty quickly, though. Thanks to the open gunfire, whoever else was out there was most likely already on their way.
Jack slowed right back down to a cautious creep, hunting for any sign of his quarry. The man couldn’t have gone far. Slinking through the undergrowth, he scanned constantly, senses on high alert. Of course, unwanted memories started flashing at the edges of his concentration.
The nightmare running battle in Chota Nagpur, his team unravelling around him as the insurgents hunted them down, scattered them into smaller and smaller groups, picked them off one by one. Watching men he’d known for years run right into a wall of bullets, or step on a trigger and be impaled on a rack of stakes. Stealing clothes from one of the dead enemy and pretending to hold two of his fellow SAS soldiers prisoner just so they could get past the perimeter and run for their lives. The relief of reaching the extraction point and hauling Nigel and Lionel onto the waiting chopper. The utter defeat when Lionel died right there, in his arms, just as they were safe for the first time in days.
Shaking those memories away, Jack prowled through this new, different, oh so similar, jungle and determined to be the hunter this time, not the prey.
They caught sight of each other at the same moment. Jack fired and instantly rolled away, the merc’s bullet cracking into a tree behind him. Coming up on one knee, Jack sent another shot in the same general direction, looking for movement. Seeing a sharp motion of the merc flinging himself sideways, Jack fired again and shifted his own position.
His foot hit a slippery patch of leaves and went out from under him. Jack tumbled downhill, automatically tucking into the roll. A couple of rotations and he fetched up against a solid trunk. He came up on one knee and braced against the tree. Spying a short, half-rotten log, Jack kicked at it, uncaring of the noise he made. Two hard impacts dislodged it and a third sent it crashing down the slope.
Believing Jack was still tumbling, the merc popped up and tracked the sound with his rifle. Jack fired and the man jerked back, rifle flying out of his hands. The second bullet hit his body armour, pushing him the rest of the way over. Jack sprang to his feet and crashed through the clinging plants toward the merc. Down but clearly not dead, the bad guy pulled a handgun and, yelling wildly, began emptying its magazine in Jack’s direction. Spinning behind a wide trunk, Jack returned fire with single rounds, just to keep the man pinned down until the merc ran out of ammo. The deadman’s click came seconds later and Jack rushed him.
The merc had scrambled back to his feet and was turning to run when Jack caught him. Launching into a flying tackle, he caught the merc around his waist and they hit the ground hard. The merc cried out, obviously hurt, but he fought. Not well enough, but he tried.
The short, dirty fracas ended with Jack on his back, calves locked around the man’s neck, strangling him even as he kept punching and kicking. Jack twisted his legs and clamped down harder on the man’s neck. Eyes bulging, the merc panicked, reaching up to pry at Jack’s feet, trying to find some leverage to pull himself free. Jack found the knife Ethan had given him and rammed it into the merc’s armpit, aimed into his chest. The black, seven-inch blade found something important in there, the man’s struggles weakening almost immediately. Barely half a minute later, he was hanging dead in the tangle of Jack’s legs.
Pushing the body aside, Jack rolled in the other direction, coming up into a low crouch. Barely even giving the dead guy a second look, Jack wrenched the knife free and gathered up his P8 and the merc’s fallen rifle. P8 in his waistband, knife hastily cleaned and slid into his boot, Jack settled the rifle into place, quickly giving it a once over. It was an AKM, well used but not well cared for. The 30-round magazine was close to empty, so Jack scavenged two more mags off the body and tucked them into the pockets on his pants.
Around him, the jungle had returned to an eerie quiet. The wildlife had been scared off by the firefight and all Jack could hear was the wind through the leaves. Thankfully, the rain hadn’t reached them yet. Wondering what the hell had happened with Ethan, Jack set out.
He moved quicker now, going for a balance between speed and noise. Heading back uphill, Jack aimed for where the other mercs had been. He found a dead merc first. Single gunshot to the face. Jack moved on, following the direction he thought the running gunfight had gone—towards the house. He found the second man about two hundred yards along, throat cut and stripped of his rifle and mags.
Five minutes later, he spotted movement. Stilling, he tracked the dark shape moving through the trees. In the gloom Jack could make out a rifle slung across the man’s back and a long-bladed knife in one hand. The man moved quietly, focused on something further away. Jack tracked ahead of him and found a shadowed shape that looked like a man crouched in the cover of a large fern. Back to them, the man was perfectly still, a rifle held to his shoulder, barrel hidden in the ferns. Jack wasn’t certain, but he thought the crouched man’s shirt was Ethan’s dark-blue flannel. Which meant the first man was Jack’s target.
Finding the merc, Jack settled his sight on him and followed his slow progress, waiting for the perfect opportunity. The AKM was unfamiliar and he had no idea how it fired, so he needed the best chance he could if he was going to keep the bad guy from reaching Ethan’s position.
“Come on,” he mouthed, wanting the shot, wanting Ethan to finally realise he had a stalker and move. Between them, they could catch this guy no worries, but right now, it was entirely up to Jack and his options for a good shot weren’t getting much better the longer he waited. Fuck it. He resettled the rifle and pulled in a slow breath, finger starting to pull on the trigger.
A dark shape dropped out of the branches and landed on the creeping merc. He went down with a startled grunt, trying to roll free of the sudden weight, but his attacker clung on like a leech and they both crashed through the undergrowth.
“Shit.” Jack raced forward, slinging the rifle, and pulling the P8.
He lost sight of the combatants, seeing only violently rustling foliage as they grunted and shouted. Then it all stopped as quickly as it had started. Everything went quiet and still. Jack skidded to a stop, P8 up and aimed. He waited for movement or sound and got neither.
Jack risked a hissed, “Saint?”
“All clear, Jack.” Slowly, Ethan rose out of the undergrowth, bloody knife in one hand.
“Christ.” Jack lowered his gun and stepped up to him. “You good?” He looked him over as he asked.
Ethan was shirtless and covered in dirt to camouflage his pale skin. There was blood on his chest and neck, but as there were no gushing wounds, Jack decided it wasn’t Ethan’s.
“I’m fine. You?”
“Yeah, good. How many have you found?”
Taking the AKM from the dead guy, Ethan said, “Four so far.” He headed toward his decoy.
“I got the two I went after, haven’t seen any others.”
Ethan swiftly removed his shirt from the body he’d propped up and slung it back on. Doing up only a couple of buttons, he retrieved the rifle as well. “There are four more. This gentleman was kind enough to tell me that before he expired.”
Eyebrow cocking, Jack asked, “You speak Burmese?”
“No, Jack. He spoke very poor Mandarin, which I do speak.” He gave Jack a direct look. “They’re here for you, I’m afraid. Sent by—”
“Khun Sein,” Jack finished for him. “Yeah, I got that bit. Sorry. I really thought no one had followed me.”
“They may just as easily have followed me.” Ethan moved out. Like Jack had, he went quietly but not silently.
“Do you really think so?” Jack kept his voice low.
Ethan carefully picked out a path through the jungle, still heading toward the house, rifle tracking to their south. “No plan is ever fool proof, Jack. Shall we finish this?”
Jack grunted the affirmative and followed him.