Chapter 8 - The Ghost in the Timber
I reached the rusted iron drainage grate at the end of the culvert, pressing my ear against the cold metal bars. Above us, the muffled crunch of heavy combat boots on pine needles confirmed our position: we were directly beneath the tree line, less than thirty feet from where the black surveillance van was idling.
“Vance,” I whispered back into the dark tunnel, signaling for the agents to halt. “Hold here. On my mark, I’m kicking the grate outward. You take the driver’s side; I’ll clear the rear.”
Vance nodded grimly, his face illuminated only by the faint green glow of his weapon’s tactical display.
I braced my boots against the damp brick frame beneath the grate, positioned my shoulders, and drove both heels upward with an explosive shove of compressed leg power.
Clang!
The rusted iron grate snapped its remaining anchors and rocketed outward into the brush with a sharp metallic clatter. Before the echoes could die away, I hauled myself out of the opening, rolling low through the ferns and briars with my weapon raised.
To our left, the matte-black van sat half-screened by pine boughs. Its side doors were wide open, revealing racks of high-end satellite communication gear, cryptographic decoders, and a tactical monitor displaying live feeds of the farmhouse we had just evacuated.
A startled guard standing by the open side door spun around, his assault rifle swinging toward my position.
“Federal agents! Drop your weapon!” Vance bellowed, bursting out of the culvert behind me.
The guard didn't drop his weapon; he raised it to fire.
I didn't hesitate. I sighted center-mass and fired twice. The kinetic impact spun the operative off balance, sending him crashing hard into the side panel of the van before he collapsed into the ferns.
At the same moment, the driver’s side door slammed open. The second operative—the man operating the fifty-caliber rifle on the roof—dove out of the vehicle, rolling into the underbrush with a submachine gun already barking a deadly stutter of high-speed rounds.
Sparks chewed through the bark of the pine tree inches above my head.
“Suppressing fire!” Vance yelled, returning a rapid volley that forced the second operative to scramble behind the heavy engine block of the van for cover.
May you like
I sprinted low through the brush, using the natural dip of the terrain to flank the passenger side of the vehicle while the gunman was pinned down by the Marshals.
---
