three occupants bouncing all over the road inside the ancient truck.
“Coming in now,” said Hodges, a little more excitement in his voice this time. A second later, the truck came over the small rise and hit the dragon’s teeth that lay across the road. The front and rear tires exploded and shredded into a million pieces, and Jones whipped the teeth off of the road to conceal them. The truck squealed and swerved as the driver fought to keep control of his truck. It was old and handled poorly enough with all four tires. Now it was on two, and the brakes were screaming as it fishtailed and slid up the road sideways not more than fifty yards from Cascaes and Perez, who knelt by a spare tire pretending to use a jack on their own vehicle.
The target truck finally came to rest in a cloud of dust, and at first no one moved. Hodges could look down at the dirty windshield, but he could hardly see through it.
“Skipper, looks like movement inside—one of them has a weapon,” said Hodges calmly, his southern drawl always more hidden when he was totally focused.
Cascaes stood with his hands on his hips, staring at his truck and then theirs, putting on an Academy Award performance as “the man with the busted truck.” He spoke into his concealed throat mic to his team.
“Just cover me. Don’t shoot unless you have to.”
Cascaes walked towards the vehicle. And the driver opened his door and began shouting in Arabic. Cascaes continued walking towards him, speaking back in English about the lousy road and his flat tire. The man was growing more agitated and reached back into the truck, where one of his passengers handed him an AK47.
“ Weapon !” said Hodges. “I’m taking the shot!”
The rest happened in an instant. A single round traveled from Hodges’ sniper rifle exploding through the windshield, which spider-webbed, blocking Hodges’ view of the inside of the truck, and then through the man’s skull, which exploded. Cascaes hit the deck and yelled, “Cover fire!”
Perez fired a few bursts at the cab with his MP5 as Hodges fired a second .338 Lapua round through the dusty glass. A cloud of blood splattered against the inside of the glass. Jones opened up with the SAW over Chris’ head, putting hundreds of rounds through the cabin of the truck as Chris rolled over and over to the side of the road to find cover.
Hodges called down to cease fire, and everything stopped. It was silent again in the desert, except for the sound of the hissing, dying engine that had a few hundred rounds lodged in it from the SAW. Glass fell with a plink against the hard road. A second later, a body fell out of the cabin. It was the driver, or what was left of him. Perez ran up the road calling Chris on his mic.
“Skipper, you in one piece?”
Chris sat up and looked at the smoking truck. “Yeah, I’m good. Jones? Hodges?”
They both called back that they were fine. Perez and Cascaes ran to the truck and looked inside. They both were shocked to see two young boys lying awkwardly on the bench seat, their heads and bodies blown open. The driver did have an AK47, but that was the only weapon in the truck.
“Fuck!” said Cascaes out loud. He and Perez stood, stunned at the sight of the two kids.
“What is it Skipper?” asked Hodges from overhead.
“They’re fucking kids !” said Cascaes loudly. There was no reason to check for pulses, they each had been hit a few dozen times, including headshots that had torn them up pretty badly.
“Oh Jesus,” said Perez, crossing himself. “Is this even the right fuckin’ truck?”
Jones ran to them from his position, carrying the smoking SAW. When he saw the grisly mess inside the cabin, he abruptly turned and vomited. He started crying and knelt down in the middle of the road.
“Oh, God! Oh, my God ! I just murdered two little kids !” He was on all fours, wailing.
Hodges checked in every direction, and when he saw it was clear, he started to scramble down from the
“Coming in now,” said Hodges, a little more excitement in his voice this time. A second later, the truck came over the small rise and hit the dragon’s teeth that lay across the road. The front and rear tires exploded and shredded into a million pieces, and Jones whipped the teeth off of the road to conceal them. The truck squealed and swerved as the driver fought to keep control of his truck. It was old and handled poorly enough with all four tires. Now it was on two, and the brakes were screaming as it fishtailed and slid up the road sideways not more than fifty yards from Cascaes and Perez, who knelt by a spare tire pretending to use a jack on their own vehicle.
The target truck finally came to rest in a cloud of dust, and at first no one moved. Hodges could look down at the dirty windshield, but he could hardly see through it.
“Skipper, looks like movement inside—one of them has a weapon,” said Hodges calmly, his southern drawl always more hidden when he was totally focused.
Cascaes stood with his hands on his hips, staring at his truck and then theirs, putting on an Academy Award performance as “the man with the busted truck.” He spoke into his concealed throat mic to his team.
“Just cover me. Don’t shoot unless you have to.”
Cascaes walked towards the vehicle. And the driver opened his door and began shouting in Arabic. Cascaes continued walking towards him, speaking back in English about the lousy road and his flat tire. The man was growing more agitated and reached back into the truck, where one of his passengers handed him an AK47.
“ Weapon !” said Hodges. “I’m taking the shot!”
The rest happened in an instant. A single round traveled from Hodges’ sniper rifle exploding through the windshield, which spider-webbed, blocking Hodges’ view of the inside of the truck, and then through the man’s skull, which exploded. Cascaes hit the deck and yelled, “Cover fire!”
Perez fired a few bursts at the cab with his MP5 as Hodges fired a second .338 Lapua round through the dusty glass. A cloud of blood splattered against the inside of the glass. Jones opened up with the SAW over Chris’ head, putting hundreds of rounds through the cabin of the truck as Chris rolled over and over to the side of the road to find cover.
Hodges called down to cease fire, and everything stopped. It was silent again in the desert, except for the sound of the hissing, dying engine that had a few hundred rounds lodged in it from the SAW. Glass fell with a plink against the hard road. A second later, a body fell out of the cabin. It was the driver, or what was left of him. Perez ran up the road calling Chris on his mic.
“Skipper, you in one piece?”
Chris sat up and looked at the smoking truck. “Yeah, I’m good. Jones? Hodges?”
They both called back that they were fine. Perez and Cascaes ran to the truck and looked inside. They both were shocked to see two young boys lying awkwardly on the bench seat, their heads and bodies blown open. The driver did have an AK47, but that was the only weapon in the truck.
“Fuck!” said Cascaes out loud. He and Perez stood, stunned at the sight of the two kids.
“What is it Skipper?” asked Hodges from overhead.
“They’re fucking kids !” said Cascaes loudly. There was no reason to check for pulses, they each had been hit a few dozen times, including headshots that had torn them up pretty badly.
“Oh Jesus,” said Perez, crossing himself. “Is this even the right fuckin’ truck?”
Jones ran to them from his position, carrying the smoking SAW. When he saw the grisly mess inside the cabin, he abruptly turned and vomited. He started crying and knelt down in the middle of the road.
“Oh, God! Oh, my God ! I just murdered two little kids !” He was on all fours, wailing.
Hodges checked in every direction, and when he saw it was clear, he started to scramble down from the
Similar Books
Two Are Better Than One
Suzanne Rock
Political Suicide
Michael Palmer
Point of Crisis
Steven Konkoly
Elemental Enchantment
Bronwyn Green
Little Lion
Ann Hood
The Outcast Ones
Maya Shepherd
Moonless
Crystal Collier
Dimwater's Demons
Sam Ferguson
Clive Cussler
The Adventures of Vin Fiz
Hypnotized by the Billionaire
Winter Gemissant