CHAPTER 19
Ali could feel the drug soldiers coming their way, stalking them like bloodhounds. She kept blinking to clear her vision, the rain leaking down through her NVGs. Cursing to herself, she maintained the jog through the forest, keeping focused on putting her combat boots down solidly, trying not to get caught off guard and slip or fall.
Ram was like a dark shadow twenty feet to her left. The rain was coming down so hard she couldn’t hear anything, anyway. She missed having all her senses wide open, but she could still feel Azarola’s soldiers angrily hunting them—and they weren’t that far away.
Something told her some of them did have night vision goggles. They were now only two miles from the fortress. A man in good shape could do a ten-minute mile, no problem, even in weather conditions like this. And she knew the drug lord had trackers among his soldiers. The combination was daunting now because they were the ones being stalked. Her mind ranged from the hostages, to her sister, to Ram, and to their team.
Rear guard was the only safety for their floundering group. Ali had volunteered for this position during the last mission briefing. She liked being rear guard because she was good at it, with her wide open six senses—her “all terrain radar,” as she called it. And even though she could only hear the pounding rain and gusting wind whipping in and out of the thick stands of pine trees, she could feel the advance of the drug soldiers upon them.
“They aren’t far away,” she rasped in warning to Ram. She knew he’d believe her. Too many times in the past she’d felt an enemy hiding or coming at them from a particular direction.
“Which way?”
“Straight ahead of us.”
“Any sense of how many?”
Grimacing, Ali huffed out, “A lot, more than eight.”
“Then we need to take our positions.”
Ali knew what that meant. They would take up positions and wait on either side of the trail. She hopped off the path about ten feet, finding a sturdy pine tree with a girth of about thirty feet in circumference and crouched down behind it. She had a muzzle suppressor on her barrel so she couldn’t be easily spotted from her firing position. Ram knew to go at least a hundred feet up the trail from where she was presently located. That way, when they fired, they wouldn’t become friendly-fire casualties, shooting at one another.
“One-hundred feet west of your position, and ten feet off the trail,” he reported.
“Roger that.” It meant that she had an arc of fire in the plan they’d implemented. Ram would see them first, wait until they got close, and then fire if the drug soldiers were still on the path. That’s what they were counting on. For all Ali knew, the enemy could be in a fan shape, which would then potentially enclose their firing position, leaving them both vulnerable.
Bottom line, neither of them would find out until he could see them and give her a status report. She hunkered down on one knee, resting her shoulder against the tree, glad to have the heavy ceramic plates in place around the torso of her Kevlar vest. The rain eased slightly. Maybe the first band of the chubasco was finally passing by them. Ali hoped so, her heart banging hard in her chest. She flipped up her infrared gun sight, holding up the M4 against the steadiness of the tree trunk and herself. That special scope would allow her to see body heat of anything coming at her, man or animal. She’d see the heat outline of the enemy coming her direction and then fire.
Not everyone had such a device; only black-ops warriors were given these scopes. Most of their missions were at night, and they needed the expensive lens. Her gloves were soaked and her fingers cold, but she kept her finger just above the trigger until Ram contacted her. She didn’t want to shoot him by accident and in situations like this, in the fog of war, it could happen.
Ali heard Ram contact Dave Barnett, telling him he was in charge of getting the hostages to the meadow, that he and Ali would be rear-guard action and would be engaging the drug soldiers shortly. Dave was to get everyone on board the Black Hawks. If he and Ali survived the coming firefight, they would hoof it quickly to the meadow, get on board one of the two awaiting trucks, and take off. He wanted the rest of his team and the freed hostages, safe.
*
The waiting was driving Ali crazy. She’d rather engage the enemy any day! She pulled her NVGs down so that they hung around her neck and she could look through the sight of the infrared scope. Knowing patience was key, she continued to swivel her head, looking ahead, around, and behind her. If Azarola’s men were in a fan shape, they could hit her from the side or from behind her position. It was no time to assume anything.
“Tango on trail. I see ten men, armed, behind the leader. Eight o’clock.”
They were here.
“Roger.” Ali sighted through the infrared scope, the rifle steady against the tree trunk.
“I’m going to let the first five pass by me and come your way. Then, I’ll take out the last five.”
“Roger that.” She swallowed, her finger caressing the light, two-pound trigger. Each mag held plenty of ammo. If they could surprise this group, that would be good. But she knew the soldiers would scatter instantly, making them harder targets to take down.
She never heard them coming, but she saw the red heat of each man coming her way in a crouch, carrying M4s, jogging hard and fast toward her. They were strung out about five feet apart. That was good. Ali drew in a slow, deep breath, reaching that still point between inhale and exhale.
Ram’s M4 fired, the sound cut off, drowning in the sound of the rain.
Ali saw the leader suddenly jerk upright and twist his head toward the sound.
She fired, dropping him. She shot to kill, center mass, not to wound.
The other four soldiers threw themselves off the path, hitting the ground, fanning out. She fired again. The muzzle suppressor could hide her up to a point. But that’s all it did: suppress the firing of the bullet—it wasn’t foolproof. Sooner or later, they’d locate that subdued flash from her M4 barrel.
Bark exploded above her head.
Ali winced, but returned fire.
More gunfire erupted. Ram was fully engaging the other five soldiers.
More bark flew off, striking her. She felt warm blood trickling down her neck as the splinters, like hypodermic needles, scattered into her neck, but she ignored it, returning fire. The M4 bucked heavily against her shoulder, the harsh bark of the gun filling her ears. She took out the fourth soldier.
The fifth soldier fired at her.
Bark flew in all directions around her head, making her duck.
Ali looked up.
The soldier was gone!
Dammit! Where’d he go?
She scrambled to her feet, relentlessly looking around to find him.
Nothing.
Grimly, she moved against the tree, holding her M4 up. If only she could hear him coming—he was definitely stalking her!
A hand grabbed at her shoulder, yanking her off her feet. Grunting, the man hurled Ali to the ground. She hung on to her rifle and a flash of a knife entered her vision.
No time to react! She fired point blank up at the soldier lifting the knife to kill her. The rifle bucked heavily, brushing her shoulder where she lay at an angle on her back, the pack on her shoulders making it impossible for her to lie flat.
The man screamed, thrown six feet backward by the bullet, and the knife dropped out of his lifeless hand.
Ali scrambled to her hands and knees, panting. No more gunfire.
“RAM!” She called into her radio mic. “Ram!”
No answer.
No! NO! Ali got to her feet, hating the heavy pack weighing her down. She quickly unstrapped it, dropping it where it was, digging the toes of her boots into the wet, muddy ground. She had to find Ram! Was he dead? Wounded? Were there drug soldiers still in the area he didn’t kill?
Quickly, she placed the NVGs over her eyes, flipping them on, the world becoming a grainy green once more. Rushing down the path, she said, “Coming your way! Don’t shoot!” in case he was conscious, but down.
She took a slight turn on the path and found five men lying dead on it.
“Ram! Where are you!” she called urgently, watching to see if any of the drug soldiers who were down, moved. If they did, she’d put a bullet in their heads. She’d fought drug smugglers too long and knew they’d do the same if she was in their position. The Geneva Convention definitely didn’t exist out here.
She heard a sound, between a mumbled word and a groan. Ram! Running hard, leaping off the path and looking for him, she saw him slowly trying to roll on his side, arm flailing weakly. Terror shot though Ali as she raced to his side.
“Ram, it’s me! Lie still. Where are you hurt?” She kept looking around, one hand on his shoulder, her gaze raking in the vicinity. There could be other soldiers on their way here. Her fingers dug into his heavy canvas vest across his shoulder as she anchored him in place. She saw he’d gotten rid of his pack, which lay nearby. Anxiously, she swallowed, her breath ragged and hard from the run. The rain began to ease off even more.
She cupped her hand beneath his armpit and helped him sit up. “Talk to me!” she urged. “Ram? Where the hell are you wounded?”
Lifting his hand, he touched the side of his Kevlar helmet. “Took bullet to the head,” he muttered, sitting up, his fingers fumbling with the chin strap, releasing it.
In the dark of night, the blood looked shiny and black. Ali saw it dripping down along the right side of Ram’s temple. She also saw where a bullet had creased the area of his helmet, but his protective Kevlar had saved his life. Relief shot through her. “Can you get up? Walk?” Warily, she stood up next to him, her leg against his back, bracing him so he could sit upright. She watched for more enemies coming their way. Ram was groggy and dazed. Ali was sure the bullet had knocked him unconscious for a while. That was probably why he hadn’t answered her initial radio call.
“Dizzy,” he muttered. “Call Barnett on our headset?”
“Roger.” Ali switched to another frequency, calling Dave, giving him a sit rep, situational report, of what had just happened.
“Roger that,” Barnett said, worry in his tone. “We’ve got the Black Hawks on the ground. Hostages on board. We’ll wait for you.”
“No!” Ali rasped. “Take off with them. We have no idea how many more drug soldiers are coming our way, or even if they are. We’re a mile from you. Torres is groggy, head wound, and he’s slurring his words. I can’t carry him. Right now I’m going to pull back. There’s a nearby cave I know about. I’ll give you the GPS once I get him in there and we’re safe for the moment. It’s imperative you leave. Get the hostages out of here! Over.”
Ali waited and she knew Barnett was weighing everything. He came back and said, “Roger that. Lifting off. Ram has the sat phone. Call us at the Marine base frequency when you have your cave and GPS position. Over.”
“Roger that. Out.” Ali put it back to the private frequency between her and Ram. He was still sitting, his head in his hands, leaning forward, hunched over. She was sure he was dazed, his brain scrambled but good. Luckily, although there was plenty of blood on his temple—head wounds were always heavy bleeders—she didn’t see his scalp peeled back from his skull. Nor did she see where the skull was fractured or caved in. Both were good news.
She knelt down, urgency in her tone as she placed her hand beneath his jaw, lifting it to take off his NVGs. He still had them on and she couldn’t assess his eyes. “Ram? Can you stand? I have to get you out of here.”
Nodding, he sat up a little more. “Yeah, where to?”
“Nearby cave. I don’t think anyone knows about it. I found it two years ago. It’s pretty well hidden, has a small drip of water in the back of it, so we’ll be able to stay hydrated.” She looked around, the rain now soft, the wind little more than a strong breeze around them every now and again.
Helping him up, he leaned on her heavily, disoriented. His arm went around her shoulders and she slid one arm around his waist, the other holding her M4 ready. As soon as she got him to the cave, she’d run back here and pick up both packs, erasing all the evidence of them being in this vicinity so they couldn’t be discovered by a tracker.
It took fifteen minutes to get Ram to the slit opening of the cave, the narrow mouth covered with thick brush. He was less bumbling, more alert, and less dizzy by the time she got him inside it. The place was pear-shaped, the rocks jagged along the walls. The soil was dry to sit on, and she helped him get situated near the entrance. She’d left his rifle with his pack. “Here,” she said, placing her weapon across his lap, guiding his hands to it, “take this. I’m going to retrieve our gear and your rifle. I’ll be right back.”
Ali saw him nod, his mouth tight with tension. He probably had one helluva headache coming on about now. Turning, she slipped out of the slit, through the heavy, ten-foot-tall brush wall, crouched on the other side, freezing and listening.
The rain had stopped. It was suddenly silent in the forest, with hardly a whisper of breeze. Taking her time, Ali knew this was the most dangerous part because she was alone, with only her .45 on her. She’d kept her ammo vest on, but had shed the heavy Kevlar vest, leaving it behind on the cave floor.
She ran silently and quickly, weaving like a ghost in and around the trees toward the objective. She knew Azarola could have sent more men after them. She was sure that if he’d sent these ten out after them, sooner or later they would be found by a second party searching for them. If they had radio communications—and she was sure they did—then the drug lord knew that none of his initial party was answering him. He’d know something had happened and would send out another group of soldiers. And then they’d spread out, looking for her team after seeing ten of their men killed along the trail.
Finally, she made it to the area. She slid into her pack, and then went to where she’d left Ram’s rifle and slung it across her chest. There was no way she could heft one-hundred pounds right now, so she hid his pack from view, and would come back for it later.
When she reached Ram, he was leaning against the wall, head tipped back, his NVGs off, eyes closed. His head snapped up, his gaze locked on her as he reached for the rifle in his lap.
“It’s me,” she said, breathing heavily, unloading the pack and setting his rifle next to where he sat. “How are you doing?”
“Feeling like shit.”
She grinned. “You’ll live then, Ram.” Ali suddenly realized that she’d been calling him by his first name. His eyes were dull and dazed. “Can I get you anything before I leave? I need to get your pack in here.”
“No . . . I’m okay.”
“Spoken like a true SEAL,” she deadpanned. Crouching down at his side, she placed her hands on his head so she could see if the bleeding had slowed. It had. And it had clotted. “I think the bullet creased your flesh and bounced off your thick skull, Torres,” she joked, giving him a slight smile of relief. She saw his eyes narrow on her, more alert, focused.
“I liked it better when you called me Ram.”
Ali didn’t know whether to laugh or remain serious. She released his head, wiping her hands on the sides of her wet trousers. “You got it, badass. I’ll be right back.” She stood, turning and quickly slipping out of the ten-foot-high cave entrance.
Ali’s heart lifted with hope as she ran through the darkness, into the forest muffled with that pine tree silence she loved so much. Always wary, always looking around through her NVGs, Ali retrieved the second pack, shouldering it across her back, tightening the straps to fit her body instead of Ram’s, and began her jog back toward the cave.
Once she arrived, she saw that Ram was sitting up and looking far more alert, as if he’d crossed a threshold from groggy to being more like his old self. He was drinking water when she pushed through the brush and into the cave. Placing the pack next to him so that it was within his reach, she sat down cross-legged in front of him, lifting the NVGs off her head.
“Water?” he asked, holding it out toward her.
There was no light, just blackness, but Ali heard his roughened voice and put her hand out, finally touching his fingers that held the water bottle. “Thanks,” she said. It was a quart of water and she drank half of it. Keeping her voice low so that no one passing close to the cave could hear her, she told Ram what had happened, that the Black Hawks had taken the hostages and his team away, and that they were to call in their position to Captain Gomez once they were safe.
“You can call in our GPS,” Ram said. “I’ve got the headache from hell.”
“Want ibuprofen?”
“Yeah, can you find me some? It’s in my medical pack.”
“No worries, I’ll get it for you.” She knew where her first-aid kit was located. She always kept a small flashlight in her vest, with red cellophane over it so it didn’t alert any prying eyes that might be passing nearby. She retrieved two large, white oblong tablets. “Hold your hand out, Ram.”
She didn’t want to admit that she looked forward to touching him again. A ripple of pleasure moved through her fingers as she dropped the tablets into his open palm. “Two ibuprofen. High dose. It will also take away the swelling, which is probably what’s giving you that headache.”
“Thanks. How safe are we here, Ali? You know this area a helluva lot better than I do.”
She heard him chugging water. The ibuprofen would probably knock him out. Sleep was a good thing under the circumstances. “Safe as we can be. I don’t believe anyone, not even the locals, know about this cave. It has a small pool of water and best of all, an exit at the other end. If we do get compromised, we can make a run for it, exfil, and leave this joint.”
“Good,” he rumbled. “Are you okay, Ali? I can’t see a damned thing without my NVGs, but wearing them is hurting my head.”
“I’m fine,” she lied. Touching her left upper arm, the thick material was wet from rain, but she could feel the warm trickle of blood from the site of her gunshot wound. That was to be expected. She didn’t want Ram to worry, so she lied. It would be okay and would stop leaking blood now that she was sitting still and no longer in a firefight.
“I’m lying down,” he said. Pulling over his pack, it became his pillow.
“I’ll stay on watch,” she assured him. “Rest, Ram. That’s what you need right now.” She reached out, touching his thigh briefly to comfort him, hearing the raggedness in his low tone.
Snorting, Ram mumbled, “What I need is you . . . ”