Target America

72

Oso kept his nose to the ground as he led Gil quickly away from the burning house to the northwest, and Gil soon realized that Marie had gone up the rocky slope west of the ridgeline overlooking the ranch. There were more than four hundred yards of open terrain between the house and the base of the foothills, and he couldn’t see anyone in his infrared NVGs. He didn’t entertain any fantasies that she had let out on her own; she never would have abandoned her mother by choice, not even to save her own skin. This meant she’d been taken as a hostage, or worse, and he didn’t kid himself about his chances of getting her back alive. The men who had taken her would be more than willing to give their own lives in exchange for hers, and quick, painless death wasn’t exactly part of their creed. They specialized in revenge, and quality vengeance called for the infliction of as much human suffering as possible.

Gil felt like a man riding out to meet the end of the world, and the Remington gave him little comfort. He’d have sooner faced down an atomic explosion with a squirt gun than what he was expecting to face up in the foothills, and for the first time in his life, he understood what true fear really was: true fear was not being able to protect those you loved. He didn’t dare pray or to even hope for the best. He’d dealt out enough death and misery in his time to know better. Eventually the bell tolled for everyone, and to ask for an exception in your own case was cowardly and pointless.

He did chance to make himself one promise: no matter what else happened up there in the dark, he was going to kill every last son of a bitch on the mountain who had so much as looked cross-eyed at his wife, and if that meant God got his ass whipped in the process, so be it. He wasn’t asking any quarter, and he sure as hell wasn’t giving any.

He followed Oso up the slope with the Remington resting butt down on his thigh, finger on the trigger, and the reins in his left hand. He was putting a lot of faith in his body armor giving him an edge, but what the hell, he was up on a horse, practically daring the enemy to pick him off. What else was he going to put faith in?

About halfway up, Oso began to whine, smelling the excess adrenaline in the microdroplets of Marie’s perspiration and knowing that she was in danger. Gil knew by the dog’s rising anxiety that the scent was getting stronger and decided to dismount, knowing it would be safer to continue the pursuit on foot.

The Remington exploded in his hand, shot completely in half. A piece of the synthetic stock embedded itself deep in the side of his neck. The stallion started and reared up. Gil fought to stay in the saddle, knowing that a second shot would be on the way any second. Then the stallion dropped like a dead buffalo, its heart blown apart by a .50 caliber round. The shot echoed through the valley as Gil rolled clear of the dead horse. A third shot penetrated his Kevlar IBH helmet at an oblique angle on the left side of his head, tearing a half-inch furrow along his scalp front to back an inch above his ear. It grazed his skull, scorching the bone and knocking him cold.

He came to a minute later, with Oso licking and pawing at his bloody face. Gil stood up and tore the fractured helmet from his head. The NVGs were totaled, and one look at the Remington told him that the nightscope was equally fucked. He took a step, and the world began to spin. He lost his balance and toppled over. Clawing back to his feet, he forced himself to take another couple of steps, but he toppled over once more.

He groped to his knees. Fighting to stay conscious, Gil grabbed Oso and unbuckled his collar, tossing it aside so the enemy above would have nothing to grab onto.

“Go get your mama!” he said, knowing he was sending the dog to his death. “Get your mama, Cazador! Kill the motherfuckers!”

He smacked the big Chesapeake Bay retriever on the rump, and Oso took off up the slope. “I’m right behind you!”

The world began to spin again, and he fell over.

A short time later, a man screamed somewhere up over the rise. A few seconds after that, Oso let out a horrible cry of pain, and Gil experienced an adrenaline surge strong enough to bypass the scrambled circuitry in his brain. He shoved himself to his feet and drew his .45, scrambling clumsily up the trail.