Open Season by Cameron Curtis (early reader books TXT) 📗

Twice, I transmit my intentions. Sign off, get to my feet.

“Let’s roll.”

I change our order of march. Lopez, armed with his HK416, takes point. I follow in the slack position with my M110. Unarmed, Robyn follows me, while Ballard acts as rear guard.

We set off down the trail. Except for Robyn, who stays close to me, we space ourselves ten yards apart. We wear our NODs, and there’s still enough moon in the sky to help light the way. We move at a fast pace. I want to reach the village before first light.

I force myself to relax, settle into an economical gait. Shahzad came after us with his main body. That means he left a token force at the village. With luck, crossing further north, we’ll bypass them completely.

Lopez stops and raises his right fist. Beckons me to join him.

“Check me,” Lopez says. “Is this the right waypoint?”

I double-check his coordinates. Compass and GPS. “Yes, we need to divert here.”

Lopez departs the trail. Slows as he picks his way across the slope. I follow him by three or four yards. To steady herself, Robyn occasionally grabs my shoulder. Each of us tries to follow in the other’s steps.

We reach the riverbank. Our land nav was not shabby. We stand fifteen feet from the bridge.

It’s smaller than the one at the village. Sturdy, built from thick wooden planks.

I wait for Lopez to cross before I follow him. We make our way over the bridge one at a time and gather at the tree line.

The moon is bright enough to illuminate the riverbank. I cringe at the thought of standing there, like a duck in a shooting gallery.

Lopez moves out, heading for the trail we used the previous night. He moves slower than before. A British slow march, weapon at high port. All his senses are primed. This is the kind of pace one uses on a jungle trail, alert for ambush and booby traps.

The village rises from the opposite bank on our left. It’s dark, not a flicker of light. The riverbanks are moonlit, but we are walking close to the tree line. We should be invisible from the village.

Lopez throws himself to the ground. I hear a snap and see a muzzle flash from the direction of the trail. Throw myself down. More muzzle flashes, the drumbeat of AK47 fire. We’re thirty yards from the trail. There must be two dozen Talis ranged between us and the mountainside.

We’re on the X.

Lopez returns fire, single shots. I hear the sharp crack of an HK416 behind me. Ballard has joined the fight.

We have to get off the X. Two choices. Either assault the ambush and throw the enemy on his back foot, or seek a strong point and call for help.

The enemy outnumbers us eight to one, and we are on open ground.

“Ballard,” I yell. “Make for the village. Strong point. Trainor next. Lopez, cover our withdrawal.”

Ballard sprints for the bridge. His form is silhouetted against the glittering water. In the light of the setting moon, he casts a long shadow on the riverbank. His boots clatter on the bridge—he’s across. Robyn runs after him. Stumbles, falls, struggles to her feet, and keeps running.

My stomach hollows. Was she hit?

Robyn’s across. I race after her. Bullets snap around me, ricochet from rocks on the bank. Behind me, Lopez switches his rifle to full auto and hurls a blistering volley of automatic fire at the ambush.

On the other side of the bridge, Ballard drops to a kneeling position and starts shipping rounds. I sprint across. Lopez displaces, the last to withdraw.

Weapon raised, I race over the escarpment toward the village. Half expect to be shot from one of the houses.

Nothing.

The Talis arranged the ambush on the west bank. They didn’t leave any of their men in the village. Too much risk they might be hit by the shooters across the river. A conscious decision was made to guard the trail and let the village go.

I reach the house where Robyn and Grissom had been held captive. Short-stock my M110 and push the door open. Enter, covering the left cut. Clear. Blood-soaked mats. A wide, amoebic stain on the floor—from the man I shot yesterday. I pivot, covering the right cut. Clear.

There is no time to properly clear the house. Kagur is an enemy-controlled village, and the villagers are armed. I toss a grenade into the side room. Another into the basement.

Explosions from the side room and cellar. The curtain billows into the living room.

I turn, raise my rifle, and fire at the muzzle flashes across the river.

Breathless, Robyn hurtles through the door.

Lopez dashes across the escarpment. Enters the room, smashes one of the windows with the butt of his rifle. He switches back to semi-auto. Together, we cover Ballard’s withdrawal from the bridge.

Ballard tumbles into the house.

“Get comms,” I tell him. “Right fucking now.”

Robyn takes Ballard’s M416, goes to a window, breaks the glass.

I grab her by the back of her collar, drag her down. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing.”

“I can fight.”

“Like hell. You are the mission. Get on the floor and stay there.”

“Two-One Alpha,” Ballard calls into his handset. “This is Five-Five Kilo.”

“Go ahead, Five-Five Kilo.”

“Troops in contact, Kagur village. Grid reference, Yankee Romeo 803 675. We have two-five hostiles. Require immediate air support and evac.”

“Copy, Five-Five Kilo. TIC, two-five hostiles. QRF good to go. Be advised—final approval my actual.”

I grab the handset. “Two-One Alpha, tell your actual, if we don’t get support A-S-A-fucking-P, there is no mission. Out.”

Ballard and Lopez fire from the windows. I fire from the door.

We have one thing going for us. Two dozen Talis are going to have a hard time charging across that bridge. They maintain a sustained volume of fire from the opposite bank. Like rain, bullets spatter the stone walls of the house.

“We need a way out.” Ballard drops a mag, reloads, thumbs his bolt release.

“That house on the left,” I say.

“What about it?”

“Right next to the steps. From that house,