Choke Point

THREE

Pepper had a feeling the two rebels who’d broken off from their buddies on the east side of the outpost were aware of Kozak’s position. He also noted that the drone was now on autopilot, conducting a series of slow passes along the perimeter out to the river, wheeling around like a lost buzzard without a meal, which all meant that Kozak’s attention had been diverted.

Pepper’s teammates didn’t call him ‘Old Reliable’ because he was a self-indulgent slacker; no, when he had a hunch, he paid attention to it because years of combat experience had taught him to ‘read the signs’ and ‘watch the skies’ in order to better sense danger. These were a hunter’s instincts, forged over decades in the field.

His Remington M24A2 sniper rifle was now trained on the mountain behind him, and his Cross-Com’s HUD picked out the two men, with Kozak huddled across the clearing, presumably under his camouflage.

Pepper adjusted his aim, the reticule now floating over one rebel’s head.

The moment was before him, the moment he liked most about the job. 30K had once asked him to explain it:

‘You know, that moment just before you take the shot. When it’s all lined up and perfect. When you know everybody did their part just right, and you own that battlefield. Then you pull the trigger, and it all goes to hell anyway.’

They’d never laughed so hard because they’d both been there, done that, understood the blood, sweat and tears the way only other brothers in arms could. And 30K appreciated Pepper’s fatalistic sense of humor the way others did not.

And here it was, once again, that perfect moment.

He took in a deep breath.

Yep, it looked like the skinny Russian kid from Brooklyn was a goner if old Pepper didn’t loan him some lead.

Why Kozak was crouching there and letting them get so close in the first place was beyond Pepper. Was he just taunting them or hoping not to give up his location? Damned brave or damned stupid. Hard to tell which. Maybe some new-school tactic that the kid had invented, a tactic that Pepper’s old-school head just couldn’t wrap around.

For just a second, the enormity of the task struck Pepper. Maybe he was just getting old (thirty-nine was certainly north of spring chicken territory), or maybe he was just appreciating his life a whole lot more …

As a kid, he’d never been sure what he wanted to do. He did know he did not want to own a gas station like his pop had, and he certainly did not want to be a construction foreman like his stepfather, Connor. By the time he was eighteen, Pepper figured he’d do a stint in the Army, since no one at home was volunteering to help pay for college and an education was the only way to escape.

The rest was history, his life in perfect order now: the feel of the trigger beneath his gloved hand, the bullet drop calculated, the body as silent and still as any predator.

Thor’s hammer struck the mountainside as the rifle went off and a .300 Winchester Magnum belted bottlenecked rifle cartridge removed the boonie hat from the FARC rebel, along with most of his head. At the same time, Kozak was up, cutting loose a salvo into the chest of the second rebel, who staggered drunkenly back until he crumpled in the underbrush.

‘Dang, Pepper, nice shot,’ said Kozak.

Pepper was about to open his mouth, when a barrage of small arms fire ripped into the trees around him, sending him to the deck hollering, ‘Little help!’