Andrew Peterson: Forced to Kill

“I will return in a few minutes. Prepare yourself.”

Ramsland pulled the right toggle to collapse the canopy and knelt on the grass. He adjusted the NV brightness to maximum before conducting a 360-degree scan for any sign he’d been seen. All quiet. No late-night lovers. Or loose dogs. He gathered the black nylon into a ball and hustled over to a massive tree between fairways. Holding perfectly still, he surveyed his surroundings again. Nothing moved.

He shucked off his backpack, removed the ghillie suit, and put it on. Keeping his head up, he stuffed the nylon into the backpack and zipped it closed. The waxed zipper made zero noise. With adrenaline still coursing through his system, he took a moment to settle his thoughts. That high altitude tumble had rattled him more than he cared to admit. He hated being helpless. Now, back on the ground, it was the thought of being captured and tortured that concerned him. He’d long ago decided to take his own life if ever facing that nightmare-assuming he could.

He pivoted his NV goggles up, removed the thermal imager from his waist pack, and swept his position. No warm bodies registered within its range. So far, so good. The sultry ambient temperature didn’t offer the best conditions for a thermal sweep, but it was better than nothing. He switched back to NV and tracked south across the next fairway. He didn’t like being out in the open, but felt confident his insertion hadn’t been detected. He adjusted his heading to take advantage of some smaller trees between fairways. Every fifty feet or so he stopped and swept his six o’clock. Several hundred yards distant a dog barked, followed by its owner yelling something. The dog went silent. Ramsland smelled the air and detected nothing but freshly cut grass and something else, maybe a nitrogen-based fertilizer.

He looked at his watch: 0134. Less than three hours until extraction. If he failed to make the rendezvous down at Grange Bay at the precise time allocated, the SEAL special boat team would leave without him, no questions asked. He’d have to secure his target and wait twenty-four hours for a second attempt. If he missed the second attempt, his orders were to stay put until contacted. He wasn’t worried. Being African-American, he’d have no trouble blending in with the locals and English was the official language here. His backpack also contained a change of clothes, a fake ID and passport, and 2,000 dollars in cash.

He pulled his suppressed Beretta M9A1 from the waist pack, worked his way into the tree line south of the golf course, and began a slight uphill trek toward his destination. His NV goggles allowed him to avoid obstacles and objects that would make noise. Concealed in a ghillie suit at night, he was all but invisible. He advanced in slow, deliberate steps, looking left, right, and behind. He consulted his GPS and made a slight course correction to the southeast.

He should be able to see the residence. There… the perimeter wall. White stucco. Ten feet high. If his intel remained accurate, cameras would be mounted on opposite corners of its fifty-yard length. He slowed his pace to one step every five seconds. A cleared area followed the contour of the wall, similar to a castle’s moat, but without water. He saw what he needed to the east-a tree with several thick branches overhanging the wall. He worked his way over, focused his NV tight on the trunk, and circled it. Good, no ant columns. The smooth trunk didn’t offer an easy climb and the two Dobermans on the other side of the wall remained a concern. His movements weren’t detectable by humans, but they were to dogs.

He used the hollow knob of a broken branch as a foothold and boosted himself up. Hugging the trunk, he held perfectly still. Nothing stirred. The next hold was just out of reach. He needed to jump to his left and grab a branch forking out from the trunk with both hands. If he missed and fell to the ground.… Again, he wasn’t worried about the bodyguards hearing him, only the dogs. He’d climbed dozens of trees, many of them tougher than this. He trusted his training and decided it was an acceptable risk.

Ramsland made the leap and grabbed the branch, but it shuddered more than he anticipated.

He hung for several seconds, listening for any indication the dogs had heard him. Nothing. He swung his leg over the branch and hauled himself up. The waist pack dug into his stomach, so he slid it to his right hip. Lying perfectly still, he scanned the rear yard and pool area. A lavish place, big money for sure. The house beyond was partially obscured behind a stand of mature trees. Several windows on the west wing glowed brightly, but he detected no movement inside. The rear yard looked deserted. Where were the bodyguards and dogs? No intel was ever perfect, but this development didn’t track. Ramsland used the lack of activity to inch his way forward along the branch until he was directly above the wall. The cameras at the corners of the wall were pointed outward and didn’t appear to have pivoting capability.

The dogs’ absence concerned him. He conducted a thermal scan in case they were obscured by the landscaping. Nothing. Where were they?

His answer arrived with the sound of laughter. He watched two men in shorts, T-shirts, and running shoes appear at the far end of the yard with the dogs on leashes. Both men carried handguns in waist holsters. He sized up their movements as they strolled over to the pool, sat down, and freed their companions. One of them lit a cigarette and waved a hand. He couldn’t make out what was said, but they laughed again. These two were sloppy, rank amateurs.

He looked around and formulated a plan. The interior base of the wall offered an opportunity. A box-trimmed hedge followed its entire length with a concrete sidewalk between the hedge and the wall. The hedge shielded the lower third of the wall from view. Gaps in the hedge allowed access up to the pool via fern-lined, flagstone steps.

Using his Predator knife, he cut a chunk from the branch and watched the Dobermans as he dropped it. It landed with a barely audible sound. Two sets of ears perked up simultaneously, but the dogs didn’t approach. The bodyguards seemed clueless to the alerted status of the animals and Ramsland saw why. They were both drinking, exchanging a small liquor flask. He carved bigger piece and let it drop.

That did the trick.

The dogs padded down the steps toward the wall.

He heard bodyguard one call after the dogs. “Hey, where you guys going?”

The other waved a hand. “Probably to take a dump.”

Watching the dogs approach, Ramsland anchored his knife into the branch and leaned left so he could grab the laser-sighted dart pistol from his waist pack. The ticking of the dogs’ nails on the concrete grew louder. The first dog sniffed the big sliver of wood and issued a low growl. He toggled the laser, lined up on its back, and fired. The second dog jumped as its companion whined. He opened the breech and loaded another dart. The second dog yelped as the projectile delivered its payload. He exchanged the dart gun for his Beretta.

Bodyguard one looked his direction. “What was that? Did you hear something?”

His partner took another swig from the flask and wiped his mouth. “No, and you didn’t either.”

“Sancha. Teva.”

“Leave ’em be, will ya?”

“Sancha. Teva. Come!”

Bodyguard one cursed and got up. “Come on, we’d better see what they’re up to down there.”

“You’re being paranoid.”

“Get off your ass and come with me.”

“Okay, okay. You don’t have to get nasty.”

He watched the guards tread down the steps and turn left at the wall.

The lazy one said, “I can’t see anything. We should’ve brought flashlights.”

“Sancha! Teva!”