Austin Camacho - The Payback Assignment

At that moment the team broke the jungle line and stood within sight of the coastline. Morgan’s aching eyes welcomed the sight of the cool blue expanse of ocean and the large yacht that had delivered them to these strange shores. She stood at anchor, no more than a quarter of a mile out. Lee fired the three-shot signal that signified the mission’s success. The blast echoed through the jungle, but at that point, seconds away from leaving, Morgan figured a little noise could not make any difference. Besides, once a job was done he figured it was time to relax. His arms were feeling leaden and his steps shortened.

“You look kind of washed out, Morgan,” Mike said. “I don’t know what happened in that house, but you look like it wore you out.”

“Well, it wasn’t the combat I was expecting,” Morgan said. “Not that it matters. All that’s left is for us to paddle our inflatables out to our patiently waiting transportation.” What he really needed, he thought was a cup of hot, fresh brewed coffee. He was dirty and exhausted. A real bed, a hot meal and that coffee would square him away.

But, as he approached the landing boats, his head suddenly snapped up. He was getting that old familiar feeling. That funny tingle at the nape of his neck. That jangling of nerves that told him something was wrong, that he was in deadly danger. But, where was the danger? Neither the local army nor the police could have found them so quickly. Was some jungle beast stalking them? Could a survivor from Abrigo’s compound have followed them? He was staring around for some clue when Smitty shouted.

“For Christ’s sake, Morgan, look.” All eyes turned seaward. The boat they had returned to looked smaller than it had before. A barely visible wake showed behind her, and she was turned at a slightly different angle to the shore.

“Son of a bitch,” Morgan snarled. “She’s heading out to sea without us.”

“Well, what now?” Josh asked. Seven pairs of eyes turned to rest on Morgan Stark.

“Sorry guys. I guess I screwed us all.”

“Hey, not your fault,” Crazy Mike said with a grin. “Stone’s been around this business a long time. We’ve all worked for him before. You can’t figure a guy with his experience and reputation to pull something like this.”

“Well, it’s done,” Morgan sighed. “I give the federales about twenty minutes to get here. Like amateurs we left a trail behind us a blind man could follow, and those signal shots will pinpoint us for sure. I think maybe we better split up.”

“Mexico’s only about a hundred fifty miles away, but they’re on pretty good terms with Belize, so they’ll be bottling up the border pretty fast,” Lee said.

“Panama’s good,” Fallon said. “We can get lost there easy and get in and out easy. Of course, it’s a bit of a hike from here.”

“Okay,” Morgan said. “Here’s the best way to play it. We’ll make two teams. Four go south, four go north. Anybody who makes it out can find me in the usual way. I’ll make your money good. Okay?”

“In that case, I’m going with you,” Mike said. “If you get caught, nobody gets paid.”

Everybody chuckled, and they began choosing teams. Despite the tension inherent in a mission gone wrong, Morgan knew that their professionalism would keep them in a positive frame of mine. As long as leadership is confident, the men are confident, he thought.

Then Morgan’s head whipped around, his eyes riveted on the jungle they had just left. His men’s laughter and light hearted banter trailed off, replaced by the grinding screech of an ill-tuned transmission.

“Scatter!” It was all Morgan had time to say before the fireworks started. Four of his men fell in as many seconds. Dirt and foliage was scattered through the air.

Five jeeps stood at the tree line, and Morgan figured more must be hidden beyond it. His jaw dropped open when he saw Crazy Mike standing straight up at the edge of the shore, returning fire with his M249. The lead vehicle crumpled as 7.62 mm NATO rounds chewed it up at the rate of six hundred rounds per minute. Knowing that some of those rounds would find the gas can in the back, Morgan clenched his eyes shut just before the jeep exploded into shrapnel. The piercing blast tortured Morgan’s ears, and a thick black cloud burst skyward.

Mike’s courageous cover fire, and the explosion it caused, gave the remaining men a chance. Morgan saw at least two of his teammates make it back into the forest, unseen by their attackers. Over his shoulder he saw Mike grinning like a child on a roller coaster, before a hail of bullets knocked him back onto the shore.

Morgan circled wide, creeping through the woods like one of its native animals. Tall grasses and ferns slapped at his face as he crawled through the underbrush. He continued to move in a shallow arc until he got behind the convoy. Crouching in the undergrowth, he saw there were seven jeeps, each with a four-man crew. All of the soldiers were armed with automatic weapons, a random mix of M-16s, AK-47s and older rifles. Old Abrigo must have been far more important to someone than Morgan had guessed.

He imagined his men, those who survived, were long gone, faded into the bush, on their way to another country. These under-trained Belizean soldiers were probably just taking sound shots at shadows, or, with any luck, each other. This was the time to make his move, during the confusion. He had made one decision. He did not intend to walk out.

After scanning the options he selected an isolated jeep. Half of its crew was out chasing “terrorists” in the woods. The driver sat in the jeep, smoking a cigarette. His partner leaned against a tree some ten feet away, cradling an old M14 rifle in his arms. He stared dreamily in the direction of the last few shots.

Morgan’s chances would not get any better. He crept toward the standing soldier. He traveled with the stealth and patience the United States Army taught him years ago when he was an underage tunnel rat for MACVSOG, the so called Studies and Observations Group of the Military Assistance Command in Vietnam. They trained him well, but he perfected his skills after the war, during years of experience in every kind of dangerous environment on earth.

He stopped barely seven feet from his intended victim. His hand slowly slid down his right leg. From his boot he drew a blackened double-edged throwing knife. With his other hand, he smoothly slid his machete out of its belt sheath.

The young soldier with the rifle was apparently day dreaming, probably about some young lady back in town. Morgan imagined him inventing his story of this day’s adventure. How many terrorists could he say he killed? Twelve? Fifteen maybe?

Of course, Morgan could only guess at the soldier’s thoughts as he stared off into the woods. Whatever occupied his mind, he did not notice the tall, grim black man rising to his full height behind him. Morgan’s left arm drew back and arced down sharply, burying the twenty-four inch tempered steel machete blade between the man’s neck and left shoulder, not quite deep enough to touch his heart, but certainly deep enough to do the job. Almost in the same motion, Morgan’s right arm blurred. The driver was still fumbling with his rifle’s safety switch when the blackened throwing blade buried itself hilt-deep in his throat. His eyes were wide with shock, blood still spurting from the wound when Morgan kicked him out of the seat and fired up the jeep’s engine.

He managed to get the clumsy vehicle turned around on the narrow trail and headed out in a burst of loose dirt and dead leaves. Five or six soldiers waited up ahead, startled by his sudden appearance. Morgan hardly considered them an obstacle. Driving with his left hand, he unlimbered his Jeti and cleared the road with one quick burst.