The world around him was white and completely silent. It was December and winter had settled in on Kintla Lake and the rest of northwestern Montana. Every day seemed shorter as the weeks progressed but Michael had been kept busy. The view from his hunting stand against the base of a tree looked out on the stream that ran down to the lake and the vast snow covered ice pack.
Deer could not break through the ice on the lake to drink but here in the shallows of the stream there was still running water. Further up in the hills around him Michael had seen their tracks and the signs of where they pawed at the snow to reach the frozen grass underneath. The herd had not begun to strip the bark off the young saplings, not yet, but when the frozen months set in they would be desperate for food.
This would be his third deer kill and each time it was a chore. He would butcher the warm carcass and drag the meat back to the cabin. He looked over at the inflatable rubber raft and the bins he had brought along for the meat. It was messy work, but then the cleanup was the hardest part.
Michael was determined to leave no traces of his existence and so the butchered carcass was chopped up and slid into the stream where it would wash down into the lake as fish food. He was still going for the head shot since that left the least amount of blood on the snow, but it was difficult with this silly military rifle.
The 5.56 NATO round was meant to be fired in a cluster of single shots or on automatic which would empty a thirty round clip in seconds. Accurate enough to kill a deer at five hundred yards, but Michael usually chose his targets when they were closer. One shot was all he allowed himself and that was damn loud as it echoed across the lake.
The campground was isolated enough that he had seen no signs of other hunters but he had to assume they were out there. He was still cautious and kept a bug-out bag packed and ready. The shed had contained an ATV, one with big knobby tires and a carry-all deck on the back. The perfect workhorse for a campground with lots of power and range, it would take Michael deep in the woods and all the way to Canada if he so desired.
His eyes detected movement in the distant trees, the deer herd was on the move. Ten minutes later he had his kill and enough meat to last the rest of the month. He carried a tarp over to the carcass and flipped the buck onto it. It took him an hour to butcher the meat, store it in the bins and clean up the area. Then he dragged the heavily loaded rubber raft back towards the camp site some four miles away.
It was hard work but he needed the exercise. Running around the prison yard, lifting weights, or doing calisthenics had kept him toned, but he would get soft sitting around the cabin. All this rich meat and the calories in canned vegetables had to get burned off somehow. This seemed to do the trick.
The bins were stored on the flatbed deck of the ATV where the meat would remain frozen and locked in the shed to keep out predators. He had seen wolf and bear tracks around the camp area but they were wary of him, as they should be. Still, he never went anywhere outside without the rifle.
A pine branch was leaning against the side of the shed and Michael swept his footprints away as he made his way back to the kitchen door. He made a habit of this even if it seemed unnecessary. He stepped through the door and unzipped his snowsuit which he left to dry on the kitchen table, and then he realized it was Sunday.
The manager's office had a laptop computer which was very tempting to use in his search for Terrance. It would be slow on a dial up modem and a pain because he would have to run the generator. His enemies knew all his websites and if they found him using his accounts they would be able to backtrack him to the IP address of the campsite. That had puzzled him for a while.
In Unit 4 they used a whole range of stealthy communications for research on targets, but that had ended five years ago. Passwords changed frequently and Michael was sure he could not gain access anymore. In fact if he tried they would sense the intrusion and probably kill the laptop's access to the internet, they were nasty that way.
It had been several years since he had last communicated with Ducky, his partner on the team. Their relationship was still strong even after Michael's sexual orientation had become known. There was no DADT rule in Unit 4 and Saunders had regretfully shown him the door.
But Ducky had known all along and seemed fine with it. The one man in the outfit Michael lay beside in sleep and on watch for dozens of missions didn't care if he was gay, they were a good team. Michael looked at his watch figuring it would be ten o'clock in Northern Virginia and Ducky would be sitting down at his computer to read the news.
Since Michael had left the outfit Ducky had been married. Active Unit 4 members had to get permission to do something like that but the Duckmeister had so much seniority by then that Saunders agreed. Now Ducky was probably wearing lieutenant's bars and was part of the home team in mission planning. Michael smiled, he must hate that.
It was time to see if their relationship was still strong. He turned on the laptop and noted that the battery had a full charge.
"Unit KO4MK," Michael sent to Ducky's Gmail address, using the new Yahoo mailbox he had acquired. Then he had to wait, but not for long.
"Hell on wheels…8793IDD/ebonykilz.us," was the response.
Ducky had given Michael his password into a Unit 4 stealth communications account. Now all he had to do was trust Ducky wasn't out to trap him. Michael typed the ID into the search bar and then realized he didn't have a headset with a microphone. There had to be something like that and he rummaged in the drawers of the desk until he found it.
He donned the headset and then looked up at the screen where he was greeted by Ducky's grim face. The red indicator light beside the laptop's camera was on, they were visually connected.
"Damn, Mikey…the world is looking for you," Ducky said.
"Then this better be ultra-secure," Michael responded.
"Of course it is…we don't exist."
Michael could see the tension on Ducky's face. There were a lot of questions behind those eyes but he wouldn't ask.
"I can read the news," Michael said. "Seems like a lot of speculation, nothing specific. I don't suppose they've been asking about me."
"Naw, no one knows the connection except me and the Colonel."
"Bastard got promoted, did he? I guess that was to be expected…so I touched base for a reason."
"Give it to me," Ducky said.
Michael went on to explain the escape and the sabotaged plane. Then he went on to talk about the kid who came after him. Ducky took it all in and then came to pretty much the same conclusions Michael had.
"You're still a target and someone is out there looking for you," Ducky said. "Tell me more about this Terrance."
"I don't know if Bolton is his real last name, probably wouldn't matter if I did…everything he's told me are lies. When he recruited me he seemed to know a lot about my background. There were eight missions planned although I didn't execute them all. He must have a B team working out there somewhere."
"Intelligence…CIA?" Ducky asked.
"That's a good bet but not even the Army knows our details. Perhaps a liaison in the CIA, they were closer to us than anyone else. But now he's gone private and working for these people he calls Principals. Their organization can't be too large but they have money to burn."
"You don't know how many soldiers this guy has, but then he wouldn't need a big army to do the things you've done. If he knows your skill set then he definitely had some connection to the unit…maybe he still does…and I don't like that."
"Help me find him, Ducky."
Silence. "That's going to take some time and you know it. CIA is not very helpful in providing details on their spooks. We need an image so you can confirm his identity. Tell me what you know about him…"
They talked about the details, the marriage, and Ducky's new job before disconnecting. Michael knew it would be hard for one man to track down someone like Terrance, but Ducky could not ask for help. He would have to wait for an email and their next chat.
December snow gave way to a January blizzard. Michael had replenished the supply of firewood by loading a chainsaw on the ATV and riding up into the woods. The view of the mountains across the lake was beautiful, but it only reminded him that he had about three months before the snow began to melt and the rangers would return to check out the campground.
As a fallback position he studied maps of the park and decided his best bet was down the fire road about ten miles and then out towards the north fork of the Flathead River. There were several trails that branched out that way, all of then heading towards Starvation Creek and points north. And then something caught his eye.
The Flathead was shallow and fordable in several places. Glacier Park pretty much ended at the river and across the water was private land. One cluster of buildings noted on the map was accompanied by a long straight stretch of cleared space, a landing strip.
This was fishing territory and the camps along the river were seasonal shelters which would be occupied once the snow was gone. Fly fishing for cutthroat and rainbow trout was an avid sport for thousands of fishermen so the area would get crowded.
It would not be hard to remain anonymous if he stayed on the park side of the river and built a shelter up in the forest. But perhaps that would not be necessary if Ducky came through with some information, and by late January he did.
They had swapped email every week since that first contact, and in February Ducky began to send Michael some photos. Terrance was in the third batch…there was no doubt it was him.
"Terrance Bolton, age forty-nine," Ducky said when Michael identified the photo. "Middle East Department in CIA covert operations until five years ago, but he has an Army intelligence background. I guess that means he was on to us from the very beginning when we hit Pakistan."
"Why did he leave?"
"Says he was caught up in an information exchange with an NGO…some private outfit. Maybe those are your Principals but I'll continue to dig."
"Do we know where Bolton is now?"
"Not yet, we may have to flush him out of a hole…he could be anywhere."
"Try looking at militias," Michael said. "The kid he sent after me wasn't ex-military but he had some basic skills that a militia could teach, and he mentioned Boise."
"Idaho militia, they're pretty widespread," Ducky said. "Uh oh, they have been associated with the Aryan Nation people and that is not good. I just Googled Idaho militia and they have a training facility in Sandpoint."
"Shit, that's less than a hundred fifty miles from here."
Ducky laughed. "Giving yourself away, old buddy."
"Doesn't matter, I won't be here much longer. The minute it thaws I'll have unwanted company. If we locate Bolton what kind of assets do we have that can fly?"
"Money begets all kinds of stuff, what are you thinking about?" Ducky asked.
"I may have access to a dirt strip runway so something small with a fixed wing will do. I have about fifty thousand of Terrance's money with me, but I have no idea when I will be able to get my hands on what I have stashed."
"Save your money, we'll run a tab," Ducky said. "I have, uh…suppliers who will front what you need."
"Don't get yourself in trouble," Michael said.
"Who me…trouble? So how much more time do we have before you have to scram?"
"I have about six weeks before the road in here starts to open up. Communication will be difficult after that."
"Then I need to airdrop you some gear," Ducky said. "Give me your GPS coordinates and I'll have something there within twenty-four hours."
Michael had not used the fancy GPS unit, never even turned it on because he knew exactly where he was. A flick of the switch and the device took only seconds to give him the position which he relayed to Ducky. The battery had a full charge but since he didn't have any new ones he turned the unit off. He would need to send the coordinates of the airstrip later on.
Michael had always been amazed at the possibilities a good organization offered. In the military when someone with high enough rank ordered something to get done it did without question. Unit 4 had a code designation that made orders seem like they had come from God or a four star general, which in the Army amounted to the same thing.
The snow was still some two feet deep when Michael heard the roar of aircraft engines echoing across the lake. There was no mistaking the sound of a military cargo plane but the overcast was so thick Michael couldn't see the plane's approach. It was flying low, no more than a few thousand feet as it lined up for the drop.
It was a laughable moment because Michael could only wonder what orders the crew had been given. But Ducky would have made sure the package was assigned to the next available aircraft so the plane was probably headed for Seattle or points north. He heard the pitch of the engines change and then pick back up as the drop was made and the aircraft banked away on a new heading.
Out of the clouds came a dark camouflage decorated canopy with a good sized package strapped to a wooden pallet underneath. It glanced off a tree, hit a light pole beside the road and then bounced to a landing about two hundred yards from the cabin. Michael was always amazed at how accurate these drops could be, but now it was time to go see what Ducky had sent.
He cut away the webbing around the shrink wrapped boxes, grateful that there were no solid parts to the load that would be difficult to hide or burn. One by one he carried the five boxes up to the porch and then went back for the parachute which would make a good shelter if that became necessary.
The boxes contained clothing, both civilian and battle dress uniforms zipped up in waterproof combat packs, how thoughtful. It would soon be spring and all Michael had was winter gear. There was a box of emergency rations, the much disliked MRE. "Meals Rarely Edible," was one of the polite phrases troops in the field often used to describe them, but they were lightweight.
A pair of binoculars which was greatly appreciated since Michael could not find a pair anywhere in the cabin. A watch with a built in compass was another thoughtful gift…and then there was the satellite linked phone. The device sent an encoded voice signal, something civilian sources could not detect.
Michael was also happy to find the brand new Glock 20 he'd asked for among the clothes, and noted it had no serial numbers making it a clean weapon. The HK was a good combat weapon but it was hard to conceal even with the stock folded back. It would be nice if he could get close enough to use a knife since shooting attracted so much attention, but the bad guys all seemed to have guns these days.
He dispersed the items between his various bags and backpacks, always aware that he might have to leave on a moment's notice. It would be difficult to hide the fact that someone had wintered in the cabin. Food in the pantry would be missing, the stack of firewood would be diminished, and Michael was still deciding if he should take the ATV.
He could carry a good deal of the supplies to a secluded campsite in the woods nearer to the river, but then if Ducky came through with a plane much of it could be buried and left behind. So he decided to take the ATV and send the camp manager an anonymous email describing where it had been hidden. That would be the polite thing to do.
By the end of February Ducky had run a deep background check on Terrance Bolton. It contained classified files on his CIA activities and operations which revealed that the man had never worked beyond the role of a field operative, a glorified desk jockey. Michael didn't read much into that because even the planners could be dangerous people.
In his military days, Bolton had held the rank of major in a battalion intelligence unit stationed in Bagdad. He had attended the Army War College in Pennsylvania where it came to the attention of his superiors that his religious views were extremely anti-Muslim. He spoke several languages and could use his Arabic skills to interrogate the Islamist prisoners.
One of his fitness reports noted his skill at obtaining information, which was just another way of saying he understood the finer points of torture. But for many in that particular intelligence gathering position being seen as cruel was just part of the job.
Interrogators were well versed in psychology, and that made Michael take a hard look at the missions they had worked up and the targets Terrance chose for assassination. Some of them had seemed to be mere businessmen, high ranking officials in several companies, but there had to be more behind choosing them.
Michael's ambivalence towards his targets as a whole was often buried in the details of their lives that Terrance gave him. He was never allowed the luxury of questioning why the target had been chosen…soldiers just followed orders, it was their job.
An assassin was a step beyond a sniper who only saw the target from a distance and rarely stuck around to judge the aftermath of a kill. Assassins worked up close, profiled the target, planned the attack and the withdrawal, and often came in close contact before and after the kill. It was more than a hunt, more than viewing a target through the scope.
Terrance had always wanted the death to seem like an accident or suicide whenever possible and that was reflected in the planning. Michael would have to perform a careful analysis on Terrance, his most dangerous target, and perhaps the principal players surrounding him.
The name Principals meant nothing, a construct by Terrance to mask the identity of the group who funded the assassinations. That would not be the Aryan Nation, at least not directly. Named as a terrorist organization by the Feds, they were nothing more than a Christian-Nazi hybrid that wallowed in the past glory of Adolph Hitler. In America even lunatics had their place.
It was time to leave the isolation of Kintla Lake and return to civilization where Michael could review the years since he had left the military. There had to be some connection between Terrance and the past targets, some financial or ideological aspect of what he assumed were just businessmen.
Just knowing that Terrance had another assassin at work, and that he was a certain target, gave Michael an edge, the impetus to return to the game. Canada had seemed like a good place to rehabilitate, but not now. He would head for Seattle, a place he had not been in years, because he knew how to be invisible there until it was time to pursue Terrance.
The month of March swept in with another blanket of snow, but it would soon be warmer. Revisiting every room in the cabin he wiped down anything he might have touched. There was no reason to give the authorities a means of tracking him and just knowing he had been here would renew their search. No, Michael Pruitt needed to vanish and remain a mystery.
He spent two evenings burning everything in a barrel behind the cabin that was not necessary to his survival. He sent Ducky a final email saying he was on the move and would be back in touch by phone, then he fired up the ATV and left.
The nights were still below freezing but the daytime temps were in the low forties and the characteristics of the snow changed to mush. He drove the ATV down the middle of the road and clocked the distance to the trail he planned to take towards the river. He saw the trail marker and drove right on past it.
Four miles down the road he reached the river and saw several camps across the water. No cars, no smoke, it was too early to find them occupied. He turned back and reached the trail where he turned up the track. He rode for several hundred yards and stopped. With a pine branch in hand he walked back down to the road and returned to the ATV, sweeping away the tracks made in the snow.
The first employee heading up to the campground might see his tracks on the road but they would not know he had turned off on the trail. Michael wanted to delay the search for the ATV as long as possible. Now he could disappear into the woods and establish a camp, then he could run a recon on that landing strip.
The trail wound through the trees to avoid the obstacles of sudden steep hills and the occasional pile of rocks. After several miles Michael came to a fast moving creek which was just beginning to swell with snowmelt. This had to be Starvation Creek so he didn't need to cross although the trail went on up the hill on the far side.
He dismounted and slung the rifle over his shoulder…it was time to follow the creek and go see the river crossing. The first of the cabins were on the other side and about a half mile further was the landing strip. He stepped into the trees and unconsciously slid back into sniper mode.
The north fork of the Flathead River was fast moving water that had carved lazy loops as it followed the contours of the land. Standing back in the trees he could see the nearby cabins quite clearly through the binoculars, and still there appeared to be no activity. Good, he would establish his camp and tomorrow he would ford the channel below Starvation Island where it looked shallow.
Michael had just turned away from the water when he heard a rifle shot in the distance. He crouched down in the snow and became part of the tree next to him. Another shot, a large caliber…someone was having a bit of target practice in the distant cabins. That called for a change of plans.
He wanted a view of the landing strip in daylight, the only way he could determine if it was usable or just an old relic that had gone soft and was full of potholes. With people in the area he would have to approach with stealth and that meant under cover of darkness. Then he could move close enough to avoid detection and wait for dawn when everyone would be asleep.
Perhaps there was a year round resident over there and that did not bode well for what he had planned. Visitors would come for the hunting and the fishing but a resident would more than likely have dogs who could detect his presence…dogs were a sniper's nemesis.
The teams in Unit 4 did not bathe for several days before a mission. No soap, no shampoo, no deodorant…nothing that might alert someone to their presence. Even bug repellant was banned which often caused the most discomfort. Moving slowly through brush and tall grass to reach an objective was a sure way to pick up a host of crawling insects but they were trained to ignore the discomfort.
Depending on the natural surroundings to hide their presence a sniper often wore a ghillie suit. Michael always made his own from camouflage netting with strips of cloth and twine tied in random patches and augmented with the local brush, grasses and leaves. They were hot, uncomfortable and provided a lovely home for all the bugs. But none of a sniper's tricks would fool a dog.
Michael and Ducky had spent most of a night in a slow stealthy approach to a mountain village in Afghanistan. CIA sources had spotted armed Taliban fighters with a high-flying drone and judged this group was gathering for some kind of meeting. But they needed eyes on the ground to see if there were any important and most wanted leaders in attendance.
The helo dropped them off eight miles from the target and they had to hike the mountainous landscape and approach the village from the south. Nestled in the ridges of rock, the hills behind the village gave the Taliban a good vantage point to overlook the surrounding area. There was no way in except to crawl.
They spent three hours on the approach dressed out like bushes and following the low points in the rocky soil from a dry creek bed. Ducky spotted the tiny bunch of brush on a slight rise and they dug in behind it. The key to surveillance was to break up the silhouette of the human body and mask the shape of weapons and the spotter's telescope.
When dawn arrived the village slowly came to life and Ducky turned his lenses on various figures as they exited the houses. With a photographic memory, he was the one who would remember a face from the rogue's gallery they had stored in the small hand held computer tablet. At issue was that most of the men looked alike swathed in head wraps and robes.
Bin Laden was out there, but Michael seriously doubted if he would ever get that bastard in his sights. Abdul Zakir, Mullah Abdul Kabir, and Khalil Haqqani were all on the list of possible attendees of this meeting, but Ducky thought that the CIA was indulging in wishful thinking. All they might see were some low level military commanders, but even bagging one of them would be a good score.
This was a blast and flee mission since once Michael fired all hell would break loose. Ducky was on the communications loop with the Black Hawk helicopter squad that would swoop in and pick them up. At least they would have some heavy fire support on their retreat. And then they heard the dog bark.
A boy wandered out from behind the houses with a small herd of goats, and a dog. They seemed to be headed towards the low hills west of the village but the dog began sampling the air, his nose held high to receive the scents. The animal looked skeletal, an underfed creature that ate table scraps and got little in the way of solid protein. It was probably hungry enough to eat them, ghillie suits and all.
Ducky gave Michael a nudge with his elbow. "Target two o'clock…that Mullah guy."
Michael swung the rifle in that direction and spotted the man with one hand in his robe trying to fish out his penis and take a leak. Suddenly there was a blur in the scope and Michael looked up to see the goats and the dog had come between him and the target. Shit, get the hell out of there.
The boy paused in his walk so as not to disturb the Mullah and the goats milled around, but the dog advanced in Michael's direction and stopped to stare out at the brush. The Mullah finished his pee and turned to talk to the boy. The dog kept up his approach and Michael realized that the breeze was at their backs and carried their scent right to the animal's nose…and that gave him an idea.
He took his finger off the trigger and slid his hand down to the pouch on his thigh. His fingers sorted through the items in the pocket and came out with a small canister of pepper spray. If the dog took another step he would get a nose full. Suddenly there was a whistle and the dog turned back to his master.
The boy and the goats moved on up the track and the Mullah watched them go.
"Green light," Ducky said into his radio and Michael pulled the trigger. Scratch one Taliban.
The boy looked back and screamed as Michael and Ducky got up and ran towards the dry riverbed two hundred yards behind them. They were halfway there when the village started shooting at them. Michael got one look over his shoulder and saw the boy running for the hills surrounded with goats, a very smart move.
Bullets zinged through the air until the helos popped over the rise and opened fire on the village. The mere presence of the Mullah had made them all a target and the M134 mini guns tore apart the village. Michael and Ducky ran towards the one helo that dropped in to pick them up and dove through the door. Mission accomplished.
Michael returned to the ATV and moved it into the denser woods away from the creek. He found two boulders and moved everything in between them before digging a fire pit. Then he set about camouflaging his presence with the parachute and some brush. He probably wouldn't be here long but he was still careful.
He opened the pack of an MRE and used the heat tab to boil water for coffee. He ate a handful of peanut butter crackers before tackling the entrée. Chicken with noodles, a bland but edible meal since he was hungry.
Time to lie down and rest, but the thoughts about where he should go once he flew out of here kept him awake. There would be a pilot in the plane but they could not land at any major airport since Michael had no identification. Maybe there would be a parachute and he could jump somewhere on the outskirts of Boise. But he didn't think Terrance would be there.
When darkness fell the daytime warmth subsided and cold seeped back into the trees, it would be another freezing night. Michael dressed warm and headed for the river. Once he reached the landing strip he could get an accurate GPS fix on the site and transmit that to Ducky. He reached the bank of the river and paused to sweep the trees on the far side with his eyes.
According to the map he'd obtained at the campsite the cabins across the way and downstream of his crossing point were scattered along the river, those would be the seasonal rentals. The larger grouping with the landing strip was to his right and only a short hike through the woods.
The snow on the ground had turned slushy during the day but now it would be refreezing and with a top crust that would crunch at every step. Taking no chances Michael faded a few steps back into the trees and cleared a place to sit and watch. He saw no lights but the sky was clear and there would be a moon later on to cast shadows.
Shadows were a sniper's best friend. Michael looked at his watch and saw it was only eight o'clock. He would sit until midnight and observe before crossing…it just seemed like the right thing to do. Perhaps he was paranoid, but that feeling had saved his life several times.
This was all just…too easy. How did Ducky manage to get a huge military cargo plane to drop supplies on such short notice? The kid in the helo had followed him by zooming in on the transponder signal hidden in the plane. What if there was a hidden transponder in the equipment he was now carrying? Ducky didn't pack the load he just ordered it done and anyone could have tampered with the equipment.
The phone was back at his camp so the only thing new he had on him was the Glock, the watch and the kid's handheld GPS unit. Michael put all three items in his lap and looked them over. The pistol was too compact to carry any kind of signaling device, the watch seemed much the same. But the GPS unit was the size of a large cellphone. He turned it on to check the battery power and gazed at the display screen.
Tearing it apart would reveal nothing except the electronic components it needed to communicate with the satellites and provide the readout of his position. All it would take was a sideband that broadcast the readout to another party but he needed those landing strip coordinates or he would be stuck here. Michael smiled. Oh yeah, this was a major case of paranoia…but he was beginning to have an itch.
Call it a sixth sense, but Michael could almost feel the attention that was pointed in his direction…the itch. Guys in the field used to joke about how useless it would be to have eyes in the back of your head because your weapon was pointed the other way. The itch was something quite different…it made his skin crawl.
If his position was known then whatever was out there would wait until they caught him at a moment of weakness…like fording a river. Michael set the GPS unit down knowing he could come back for it later if his feelings were unfounded.
He would need to give them a target so he took off his parka and used a stick to prop it up beside a tree. The coat had human shape and the GPS would confirm the location. It was time to find out if his instincts were right. He faded back in the trees and headed further upstream knowing Salvation Island was between him and the far side.
It was really nothing more than a sandbar that flooded when the river rose and collected the debris that floated downstream. Michael moved further upstream until he spotted a collection of waterlogged trees tangled along the shore. He was working by starlight now since the moon would not rise for another hour.
Belly crawling out from the trees he reached a corner of the pile and found a broken tree trunk that was almost afloat. He gave it a shove to see where it was snagged and the damn thing came loose with his effort. He placed the rifle on top of the log and held it in place with a hand as the tree trunk slowly drifted out into the current.
Michael kept his head down and kicked with all his might against the flow of the water until he realized his feet could touch bottom. The water was frigid so this had better be a short journey before his legs went numb. As a raft the tree trunk left much to be desired and was completely uncontrollable, but he was pushing it along. The current tried to snatch it away but he held on tight.
He was just drifting past the island when the first shot rang out and passed over his head by a few feet. The bullet was not aimed at him but at the position where he had left the GPS and the coat…he had made the right call. The tree trunk carried him past the island and into deeper water where he maneuvered to the far bank and crawled ashore.
Whoever was doing the shooting must have night vision equipment that was poorly calibrated if they thought the parka was him. The sniper had shot too soon, and now he would die for the attempt. Careful now he told himself, and then the second shot rang out. The guy was still shooting at the parka but Michael had seen the muzzle flash.
If this was one of Terrance's militia boys the idiot would eventually get up and cross the river thinking he had killed the target, especially when there was no return fire. But Michael was cold and wet…too impatient to lie there for any length of time. He would keep moving and take the guy from behind.
The trees were dense on this side of the river leaving a thick bed of pine needles covered in what remained of the snow. He was perhaps fifty yards or so from the sniper which would mean a long slow crawl, unless…and sure enough, a third shot and the sniper moved forward. Curiosity got the best of him.
The man was probably a good shot but he had poor discipline. The banks of the river were bathed in starlight and the moon had risen off to the east to cast its light on this side. The parka had been in the shadows and the night vision goggles were fooled by the light in the sniper's face….what an idiot. Michael could see the man step out from the trees and stand on the river bank.
Michael raised the HK and sighted in on the guy's head…then he hesitated. No head shot, he needed intel from this guy. He lowered the scope and fired two shots at the guy's waist level, shattering the rife he was holding and probably breaking both hands. The man went down but sat back up when Michael approached.
"I'm not over there," Michael said, reaching down and removing the night vision goggles. The man was bleeding profusely and blood covered his hands.
"Just kill me and get it over with."
"I'll stop the bleeding if you tell me who sent you."
"I don't talk to faggots…" And Michael kicked the guy upside the head and knocked him unconscious.