A brutally, murderous drug heist on a deserted Florida beach,
the gruesome torture killings of two young men in different cities
hundreds of miles apart, a rare and highly collectable Special
Forces fighting knife, the street abduction and subsequent gang-
rape of an innocent young schoolgirl, another botched drug deal
that leaves five bodies lying on the debris-strewn ground of a
Detroit wasteland, a modern-day cowboy and a full-blooded
Jicarilla Apache Indian.
Special Agent in Charge Jim Clarkson, and his young DEA
assistant know that all of these things are somehow related. The
only problem is–they don’t know how.
What they do know, is that the clock is running, and the body
count is mounting, and that if they don’t put all the pieces
together real quick a lot more bodies are going to be added to
the final tally.
It only took a second or two to satisfy himself that the guy was not coming back up
for the count, no matter how long that count might be.
He shoved the tiny .22 back into the pocket of his cargo pants and made his way
quickly over to the rifle.
As he had already guessed from the distinctive sounds of what seemed like a
distant firework display, things had gone into cluster-fuck mode down below.
He hunkered down and got his eye to the scope. The pickup truck was on the
move and headed directly toward him. He had a fleeting glimpse of his quarry
perched on the back of the vehicle, and then rolling himself into the cargo area to
disappear behind the pickup’s cab. He panned the rifle and scope to the left,
coming to a halt when he reached the big, black SUV and the two armed figures
that had now emerged from behind it.
They were both standing in the classic, two-handed, Weaver-grip firing position,
and both aiming toward the pickup as it made its slow, lumbering way across the
No! he thought. The Indian was his. He had made a promise, and he’d be damned
if these two coke-dealing motherfuckers were going to make him break it.
He took quick aim at the big, bald guy who appeared to be firing some kind of
hand-held cannon—the report and muzzle-flash were impressive even at this
distance. He took just a moment to steady his breathing, and squeezed off the
shot. He didn’t wait to confirm the hit, but was already swinging the scope onto the
other guy before the rifle had even fully recovered from the recoil of the first round.
Again, a fraction of a second to regulate his breathing, and then that same gentle
squeeze of the trigger. This time, he held on the target, watching impassively as
the guy’s head disintegrated in a red-tinted cloud of blood, bone fragments, and
He swung back onto the approaching pickup then and did a quick calculation as to
how much nearer the truck now was to his firing position. Not having the time to
make the necessary scope adjustments, he simply aimed off, using the mil dot
above the crosshairs for his aiming point. He centered in on the middle of the
windscreen on the driver’s side and squeezed off another round. The windscreen
shattered and the vehicle began to slow. It continued to roll forward before finally
coming to a complete halt, and he settled in to await the appearance of the Indian.
Even though he was expecting it, he had to admit when the guy did reappear, he
was incredibly quick. He was up and over the tailgate in one agile bound and then
sprinting off toward the other vehicle in an unpredictable series of zigs and zags.
Jesus, the guy would have made a good pro football player.
He decided to go for the ambush technique rather than attempting to shoot him on
the run and swung the scope to focus on the area directly in front of the black
SUV, waiting for his target to run into his sights.
He lifted his eye a fraction from the rubber eyepiece to see just how far away the
Indian was, and was surprised to find he had made a detour, jinking back out away
from the SUV toward where the pickup had been parked earlier. Was the guy
seriously thinking about leaving the vehicle behind and making it away on foot?
His curiosity got the better of him and he swung the scope back onto the zig-
zagging figure. It all made sense when he saw him stoop without actually stopping
to snatch up the aluminium case that was lying on the ground. With the case in
hand, he began to jink his way back to the car.
He decided to try and get him on the run, giving him a slight lead and trying to
anticipate his next sideways twist. He called it right and the Indian veered toward
his crosshairs. He pulled the trigger, only to swear in frustration as he saw him
twist away again at the last second. The bullet missed him by inches, kicking up
shards of concrete as it slammed into the ground. He quickly adjusted his aim and
fired again, or tried to. The rifle had jammed.
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