Field of Blackbirds - Clayton Jeppsen & Lindsey Jeppsen (me reader txt) 📗

happen again. Nobody knows we’re here. You’ve got my word. But if you’re going to stop me from protecting my men, then do it now.” Reed kept moving toward the box of weapons.
“Lazar?” Radenko began propping wood up against the window. “Nikola knows we’re here, right?”
“Listen Radenko, you can still hear the mortars. Our guys are still in Zvornik.”
“Then it’s a local,” concluded Radenko. “He shouldn’t be hard to wash out.”
Just as Radenko finished his sentence, the hiss returned and a burnt two by four exploded over him. It just missed his head, dropping dust and debris down on him. The same bark as before echoed in the distance. It was the closest Radenko had come to death since Tuzla.
Reed dragged the weapons over to Otto, Angelo and Marcielli. Once they were freed, none took time to stretch. Angelo and Marcielli surrounded Florentine.
“Flo!” Marcielli lightly smacked Florentine’s face. “Flo, look at me!” He yelled. Marcielli began stuffing a torn piece of cloth into the soft flesh under Florentine’s collarbone.
Otto wasted no time. The combination of polymer and cold metal melted into his grip like manna in an empty stomach. He loaded five rounds into the 50 caliber sniper and took cover under the window frame with Radenko.
“Could you tell what direction it came from?”
Radenko awkwardly nodded his head in the direction.
“He’s directly north of us. Eight hundred to a thousand meters judging by the sound delay.”
Otto began adjusting his scope. “Right now he’s closing the distance, trying to get a better shot. His aim was a little high on Flo and he missed you entirely.”
Otto slowly raised his rifle to the level of the window seal and bowed his head behind the scope. Then he slammed his fist into the wall followed by a bilingual outpouring of distasteful vocabulary.
“The glass is broken.” Otto pointed to the scope. “The gun is useless.”
“From the blast.” guessed Radenko. “The night vision was also broken.”
“Thanks a lot.” Otto mentioned in the middle of a heavy breath. “You’ve destroyed perfectly good weaponry.”
“Get him down to the cellar.” Lazar pointed to Florentine. “It’s colder down there. It will slow the bleeding and you might even find some vodka to pour on the wound.”
“There is no cellar. We would have found it already.” said Marcielli.
“Every home in Yugoslavia has a cellar.” Lazar cleared some debris from the hallway near the bathroom. Then removed a dirt filled piece of carpet from the floor, revealing a latch. Lazar stomped the ground, checking for hollowness, then motioned Angelo and Marcielli to bring Florentine over.
“Stay down here with him.” ordered Lazar.
Marcielli glanced at Reed for some sign of approval.
“Take care of Flo, Marcielli. Stay next to him.”
Reed was pleased to find a pair of binoculars with one side still functioning. He racked the slide of his AR-15 and walked out the back door.

Marcielli did notice the drop in temperature. He hoped Lazar was right about the cold air slowing the blood flow. Florentine had already lost too much.
It appeared the residents of the home were using the cellar as a bomb shelter. There was a single mattress on the floor, but the blankets were gone. There were empty cans of food everywhere, which made for an unpleasant smell when mixed with musty, underground secretions. The lack of light made it difficult for Marcielli to make out all the writing on the walls. But one thing that was easily identified was a newspaper article pasted to the wall above the mattress. It read, “VUKOVAR TRAMPLED, SERB STAMPEDE BEGINS!” The two photos on the page had been decorated. One large facial of Milosevic had holes poked in the eyes and horns over his head. The second, a large photo of Serb soldiers in the streets of Vukovar waving the Serbia-Montenegro flag. Each soldier had an ‘X’ drawn on his head.
Angelo stayed at the top of the stairs, obstructing what little light was available. Marcielli didn’t even bother speaking with him. He was moments away from a loose cannon tirade.
Marcielli sat over his friend, glared down at him. The wheezing drag in Flo’s breath worried him. He adjusted his hold over Florentine’s wound, found the last dry spot on the cloth and reapplied pressure. Marcielli noticed that the blood was getting sticky and seemed to be slowing.
Florentine’s eye lids flickered, but remained closed.
“Marcielli,” he gasped.
“Shhhh! don’t speak, Flo. You’re going to be fine.”
Florentine turned his head at the sound of Marcielli’s voice and opened his eyes slightly.
Marcielli nodded. “Well, the bullet missed everything important, but it took out your funny bone. You haven’t said anything funny since you got shot.”
Florentine converted the drag in his breath into a cough. Marcielli accepted it as a laugh. It was good that Florentine had a safe place to rest. In the last five years of their life, Florentine had always been somewhere close to Marcielli. Whatever Marcielli was into, so was Florentine. He never really did his own thing. He just seemed content doing whatever everyone else was doing. Marcielli couldn’t count the times he’d relied on that. How many times Florentine had dropped everything to lend a hand, a shoulder or an opinion? Marcielli was a star on the field and Florentine was the platform on which he stood. He would have never made the National team without him. It was Florentine’s creativity that made Marcielli’s proposal to Marianna so memorable. It was Florentine who so willingly joined the army so Marcielli would have company. And now, here he was, at Marcielli’s side again. Marcielli hoped someday his loyalty would pay off. He told himself that after Florentine had rested, he would tell him what his loyalty meant to him.
When Marcielli’s eyes finally adjusted to the dark, he saw that, mixed in with the empty cans of food, were a few empty Vodka bottles and one of them was only half empty. Marcielli began unscrewing the cap.
“This is going to bite a little.” he warned and poured some over Florentine’s wound. Florentine’s body tightened and tendons flexed in his neck. This was the toughest his friend had had to be. Marcielli reached behind Florentine, lifted him slightly and brought the top of the bottle to his lips.
It surprised Marcielli to hear Florentine speak.
He whispered scantly “Reed said no alcohol on the mission.”
“I don’t think he’ll mind, Flo. It will help with the pain.” Marcielli fed his friend the rest of the bottle.
Fifteen minutes passed and Reed came back. No more shots were fired.
“How’s Flo?” he asked.
Angelo was at the entrance of the cellar with the ‘Are you happy now’ look on his face. Reed waited for an answer.
“He’s resting now. When he wakes, you can ask him how he’s doing.”
“Alright Angelo,” Reed declined Angelo’s challenge to a staring match. A more effective use of Reed’s testosterone would be against his enemies, he thought
Reed announced his findings to the others.
“About eight hundred meters out, there’s a fallen tree in the opening. He’s approximately thirty meters east of that. Most likely he took his first two shots from the tree line. He’s moving in on us now.”
“Did you see him?” asked Lazar.
“No.” answered Reed.
“Then how can you be sure where he is.”
“The buzzards gave him away.”
Reed had attended sniper school when he first got to Belgium. He’d learned that, even the most silent sniper had absolutely no control over Mother Nature’s eyes. The best sniper can fool the natural eye, only moving when tree branches flutter against each other or when the wind pushes a wave through the grass. But Mother Nature will always deliver the thorn in her side. In this case, she used her blood thirsty sky pilots, her feathered scavengers, who circled over and over the seemingly lifeless being.
“We could use your help, Otto. You have the most hand to hand experience of us all.” Reed could already see the smile developing on Otto’s face. “We will draw the sniper’s attention here. I want you to swing back and wide from the house and flank him. When you’re close enough to take the shot with your M-16, then do it.”
“Wait.” Lazar interrupted.
Otto looked like a young child being told to wait before opening Christmas presents.
Lazar slowly shook his head from side to side as he began speaking.
“Until I find out who’s out there, I want everyone to stay put. I’ll go after him.”
Lazar ducked under a window and met up with Reed. “It’s not that I don’t trust you or your men, I just need to know who’s out there.” Lazar glanced far into the distance.
Reed felt, that under the circumstances, he should respect Lazar’s wishes. The same plan would still be carried out. Reed handed Lazar the binoculars. And that’s when Radenko stepped foot in the arena of gladiators. He ducked over to Lazar and placed his hand on his shoulder.
“I’m going, Lazar. You should stay.” Radenko pulled his beanie over his head and grabbed the binoculars from Lazar.
“Radenko, I don’t” Radenko cut Lazar off mid-sentence.
“Write me up for insubordination.” he challenged and headed for the back door. “I’ll be back in one hour.” Radenko promised.
Radenko’s chances out there were better. He seemed to be the more skilled fighter of the two, although Lazar wasn’t sure where he got the practice. Lazar had been in the field longer than Radenko. Lazar wondered to himself, considering the measure of his friend, his loyalty. But as Lazar pondered, one simple thought levitated above the others; Radenko was an aristocrat, a true gentleman, redirecting adversity from his ally toward himself.
“Hey Boss, write