Hired to Kill (The Nathan McBride Series Book 7)

  “You got it.”

  Greg stepped away from the group and made the call. Harv then watched him pull out a large tablet and tap open an app.

  “Well, there’s one saving grace to this development,” Harv said.

  “I’m hard-pressed to think of one.”

  “They don’t know we’re coming. There’s no way they’d be out there firing away like this if they were expecting anyone. They’d be lying low, waiting to bushwhack us.”

  “True enough, Harv. For now, we keep going. The compound’s on the far side of that next ridge. We’re still twenty minutes from getting eyes on it.”

  Automatic gunfire continued, and from the sound of it, those guys were blowing through some ammo. Thousands of rounds. Every so often, a break in the clatter lasted for several seconds, then began anew.

  Harv said, “Let’s turn Nathan loose.”

  “Right.” Vince pressed the transmit button. “Hotel one.”

  “Copy,” Nate answered.

  “Proceed as planned, best possible speed. We’re launching the drone a little early.”

  “On my way.”

  “Sierra two, double-time over to Hotel one’s position; then circle the vertical wall to the east. See if you can get eyes on the compound before our drone arrives. Avoid visual contact with the shooter at all costs. Do not proceed if you have any chance of being spotted. Hotel one, check in when you’ve scaled the vertical wall.”

  Both Nate and Nick acknowledged.

  They all heard their radioman say, “Say again, say again . . . Copy . . . Stand by . . .” Greg walked back to the group. “We lost our drone. It crashed on launch. Some kind of steering malfunction. HQ asked if we want to scrub.”

  Vince didn’t say anything right away, but Harv felt his anger radiating like an oven. A good leader wouldn’t swear or kick the ground, Harv knew. A good leader would say something like, All right, listen—

  “All right, listen up,” Vince said. “We’re not scrubbing. If the B-2s have to level that compound, we’ve failed, and we aren’t going to fail. This complicates things, but we can handle it. We’re doing this the old-fashioned way. Sierra one, if you can avoid being seen from the sniper’s bluff, scout ahead to the ridgeline and get eyes on the camp. Give me your best speed. Let me know when you see Hotel one’s and Sierra two’s footprints where they turned to the west. Our route into the compound isn’t scouted beyond that point, so slow down from there on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sierra one began a cautious jog through the mesquite, creosote, and other bushes, then disappeared.

  “Maybe we can turn this into an advantage,” Harv said. “If we can hit them while they’re practicing, we might be able to take five or six of them down simultaneously.”

  “That’s a possibility,” Vince said. “Once Sierra one gets eyes on the compound, we’ll know what we’re dealing with. Everyone take a few seconds and pound some water. We’re moving out. Ten-yard separation.”

  They moved at a quick pace. At the point where Nate and Nick had turned to the west, they kept going straight, following Sierra one’s solo footprints.

  After crossing another sandy wash strewn with river rock, they began their final ascent up a gradual slope to a ridgeline that overlooked the compound.

  Gunfire continued, but they didn’t hear any additional detonations.

  The hike they needed to make wasn’t steep, but it was long. They had to go over half a mile at around a fifteen-degree slope. Vince slowed their pace a little. There was no sense in being gassed when they reached the summit, some four hundred feet above.

  Harv felt a strong desire to race forward but kept pace with the rest of the squad.

  Nathan took a few seconds to check the area in front of him, mainly the steep slope leading up to the base of the vertical wall. He didn’t expect to see anyone, and didn’t. The closer he got to the rock face, the more ominous it looked. At this point, he had his NV on a high gain setting in order to find the best place to make the climb. He saw something promising, but he wouldn’t know until he got closer.

  “Hotel one, copy?” It was Vince.

  “Copy,” he said.

  “We lost our drone on launch—some sort of steering-control malfunction. You’re going up there for sure. I’ve sent a scout ahead of our column to the compound’s northern ridge, but you’ll be our best eyes from up there. What’s your ETA?”

  “Five minutes or a little more, depending on the climb.”

  “Check in from the top.”

  “Copy.”

  The machine-gun fire continued but seemed to be decreasing a little. If he could get up there before the shooting stopped, he wouldn’t have to worry about every little sound and could make a much quicker approach.

  Off to his right, he saw what he needed: a dark vertical line that extended most of the way to the top. He diverted around a large rockfall and nearly lost his footing as a large rock gave way and tumbled down the slope, making a boatload of noise. He cringed when the shooting paused just as the rock came to rest. Sloppy. He should’ve tested its purchase first.

  The fissure looked pretty good. About thirty inches wide, it would allow him to make a chimney climb straight up. The problem occurred at the halfway point, where the chimney appeared to be blocked. He’d have to leave the chimney and climb the vertical face, using much smaller foot- and handholds to get above the blockage before he could return to the chimney. There’d be zero margin for error on the limestone wall. Had time not been a huge factor, he would’ve looked for a better spot.

  He removed his kneepads and elbowpads in order to get a better feel for climbing, then turned his pack around so his back would lie flat in the chimney. He put the pads into his pack and began using leverage to hoist himself up the shaft. Anyone with claustrophobia wouldn’t be able to do this. Fortunately, it wasn’t one of his phobias. He wondered what the fear of one’s self was called.

  Now there’s a nice cheerful thought, Nate. Anything else? How about ending up as a crumpled mass of broken bones and dislocated joints at the bottom of this shaft? He nearly laughed when an old adage popped into his mind: I don’t get paid enough for this.

  Time to concentrate. He’d reached the spot where he needed to leave the fissure and move vertically up the cliff’s face to continue the climb. As he’d seen from below, there weren’t any handholds or footholds that he’d trust his life to without a belaying partner. Then he noticed something. Rather than leave the fissure and risk a fall from the cliff’s face, he could go deeper into the chimney and maneuver himself around the backside of the blockage.

  But, damn, it looked tight.

  Up above, he could clearly see stars in the void created by the fallen hunk of limestone. If he got himself stuck, the mission would suffer a serious time setback rescuing his ass. It might even ruin the op. What if his radio didn’t even work in here? He reached down and pressed the transmit button.

  “Hotel three, radio check. How do you read?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “I’m in a chimney climb and wanted to make sure my radio worked.”

  “You’re good to go.”

  “If all goes well, I’ll be on the top in three or four minutes.”

  “Copy.”

  His NV monocular made coping with the stress a whole lot easier. This would be unnerving enough in daylight. Going deeper into the limestone fissure presented a new problem—his backpack. He couldn’t wear it, even with it turned around on his chest. This vertical crawl space was way too tight.

  Using just his knees, he wedged himself in place, slid the backpack off, tied its carry handle to his bootlace, and let it dangle. Satisfied it wouldn’t come loose, he moved deeper into the narrowing crevice to a point where his knees could barely bend. So here he was, thirty feet inside the fissure, surrounded by cold limestone that seemed to be getting tighter with each breath he took. No problem—he owned this.

  On second thought, maybe this hadn’t been suc
h a good idea after all. He still had to go four or five feet deeper into the fissure before clearing the backside of the fallen mass.

  Shit! What was that?

  The walls just shook.

  He froze, waiting.

  A crippling sensation of being trapped inside a giant trash compactor slammed home, and he hoped his death would be quick. Partially crushed and slowly suffocating to death wasn’t on his bucket list.

  The sound of his breathing made things worse. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the rock.

  Whatever he’d felt didn’t return. Come on, Nate. The walls didn’t move. You’re imagining things. The crack wasn’t collapsing. His brain had played a trick on him. There was nothing but stable limestone all around him.

  He kept inching deeper until his chest began making intermittent contact with the limestone, creating the illusion of not being able to breathe. You can still breathe. Relax. He inhaled deeply and felt even more pressure. Well, duh. A glance above his head confirmed he could now start ascending past the blockage. The narrow belt of stars lightened his mood. All he had to do was go ten feet higher, and he’d be able to rest his weight on top of the fallen mass.

  He felt the onset of fatigue take hold in his forearms, quads, and calves. Because it was so tight in here, he couldn’t get the right kind of leverage to make the climb less strenuous. He wedged his palms and elbows and took the weight off his legs for a few seconds.

  Almost there. Just a little farther.

  All I have to do is keep going.

  CHAPTER 28

  Like a spider crawling out of a hole, Nathan emerged from the crack, grateful he didn’t have to battle any clumps of cactus or agave. He took a few deep breaths to calm his nerves. As tempting as it was to take a breather, he didn’t have time. Harv and his fellow team members were counting on him to clear the top of this bluff. Lives could be lost if he failed—not only lives, but the entire mission. Unacceptable. There might not be a sniper or sentry up here, but he needed to find out. He’d rest his legs and arms while he advanced toward the opposite rim.

  He looked at the fissure he’d ascended and felt good about making it up here. The sense of accomplishment made up for the suffocating feeling of being entombed inside countless tons of limestone.

  After turning the radio back to auto mode, he untied the backpack from his boot; put on his elbowpads, kneepads, and gloves; then checked the wiring of his radio to make sure nothing had pulled loose during the climb. Next, he donned his ammo vest, followed by the backpack. This wasn’t his preferred setup for carrying spare ammo, but he now had eight additional thirty-round M4 magazines and five pistol magazines within easy reach. He also carried twelve high-explosive grenades—six on his pistol belt and six more in the waist pack. Every team member also had four tear-gas grenades, two white-star parachute flare rounds, and four gray smoke rounds. His pants pockets held all kinds of other tactical tools and items. Harv had the identical setup. Not exactly the look of FORECON Marines, but they had everything they needed.

  Satisfied he was ready to continue, he made radio contact. “Hotel three, I’m on top of the bluff, proceeding to the south end.”

  “Copy.”

  From the satellite photos, he knew the sniper’s nest lay at least a hundred yards distant. He focused his night-vision scope to infinity and held perfectly still, listening for sound.

  The plant life surprised him. He’d expected to find barren rock with a cactus here and there. The vegetation wasn’t as abundant as in the desert below, but everything still grew up here—mesquite, creosote, ocotillo, grasses, agave, and of course, all other kinds of cactus. It seemed like every plant in the Chihuahuan Desert poked, pricked, punctured, or scraped.

  The terrain sloped gradually downward in the direction he needed to go. Once again, he had to focus his NV on the ground to advance. He stopped when a sudden glow came to life. Directly ahead. Some sort of light source illuminated an area of bushes and medium-size rocks. The glow varied in intensity, almost as if . . . Oh, no way . . . Could the fool really be using his cell phone while on sentry duty? If so, he had to be playing a game or using an app that didn’t require a cell signal. He could be reading a book or scrolling through photos. Anything really.

  “Hotel three,” he whispered, “I’ve got something at my one o’clock. Stand by.”

  “Copy, Hotel one. Sierra one, status?”

  “I can’t go any farther without being seen from the bluff. It’s at my three o’clock right now. If the sniper has a thermal imager, he’ll see me.”

  Vince said, “Sierra one, hold position. We’re closing in on you.”

  “Copy.”

  “Hotel one, we can’t proceed until that sniper’s eliminated. Best possible speed.”

  Nathan clicked his radio and kept weaving his way forward through the shrubs and cactus.

  He got his first direct look at the sniper after moving past a small group of mesquite trees.

  Wearing a dark coat with an AK slung over his shoulder, the man sat in a low-profile folding chair, like sunbathers used at the beach. Incredibly, he held his phone up without any concern for the light it emitted in every direction. Nathan shook his head, planning to take full advantage of the situation.

  He pressed his transmit button and whispered, “I’ve got eyes on the target. He appears to be a sentry, not a sniper. He’s got an AK without a scope.”

  “Proceed, Hotel one.”

  Nathan heard that loud and clear.

  He was grateful for all the gunfire noise still grinding across the plateau up here. It wouldn’t be easy to walk silently through this dry and brittle foliage. A snagged piece of clothing would likely be heard.

  Everything changed when the automatic clatter suddenly ended, and didn’t resume.

  He waited a few seconds, but no more gunfire emanated from the compound. It seemed they’d finished practicing. Great timing. He couldn’t believe his luck. Quit lamenting and deal with it.

  Knowing the slightest sound would make the sentry turn and look, he froze in place.

  Still a good fifty yards from the sentry, Nathan evaluated the situation.

  He had two advantages. The first, and perhaps the biggest, was that the man remained engrossed with his cell phone. At this distance, Nathan didn’t even need his NV to see it. The second advantage? The terrorists of the Rio Grande cell obviously weren’t expecting trouble tonight. If they were, they’d have put a bona fide sniper up here who wouldn’t be staring at his phone, and they certainly wouldn’t be outside firing their weapons.

  The disadvantage—a big one—was that he’d have to go much more slowly to avoid being heard. Every shrub, kicked rock, or snapped twig would make noise. In the silent landscape of this bluff’s plateau, any noise might as well be a loud sneeze. How could it be so damned quiet? Looking ahead, there wasn’t a bush thick enough to hide behind, and the biggest rock looked about eighteen inches high.

  He changed the NV’s focus back to the ground, which made distant objects blurry. Conversely, focusing at distant objects made the ground blurry. He couldn’t have it both ways. If only he had dual scopes . . .

  It is what it is. Deal with it.

  He decided to split the difference and focus at about fifteen feet. It still gave him a fairly clear picture of the desert floor and made objects in the distance less blurry.

  The Sig’s laser sight combined with the night vision made an ideal point-and-shoot setup. The bullet went where the bright dot illuminated the target. In this case, it would be the back of the sentry’s head. If he could just get fifteen yards closer, he’d feel a whole lot better about making a single-shot kill. He wasn’t overly worried about the suppressed shot being heard down below. His biggest concern was dropping the sentry with a single shot, because if his target somehow managed to return fire with the AK, the element of surprise would be lost.

  Nathan looked down, memorized all the objects that could make noise if stepped on, then looked back up to w
atch the sentry. Trusting in himself, he took three steps without looking at his feet. He then stopped, looked down, found two more safe steps, and focused on the sentry again. Two steps later, he was ready to repeat the process.

  He’d need to do this five or six more times before he would reach a comfortable head-shot range.

  Nathan marveled at his good fortune when, thirteen steps closer, he detected a trip wire.

  A foot off the ground, each end of the fishing line connected to a cowbell hanging over a small branch. Beyond the cowbells, the string continued as far as Nathan’s NV could see. It looked like it extended all the way across the bluff. Had he not been using this glance-and-advance technique, he might not have seen it.

  He took a few seconds to focus his NV directly on the line to see its exact height and path before stepping over it.

  Safely on the other side, he scanned the area for a secondary line. Seeing none, he continued forward using the same method.

  He was about to take another step when the unmistakable sound of a radio transmission broke the silence, definitely in Arabic. Even though the radio was much louder than it needed to be, he caught only pieces of what was said. He shouldn’t have been able to hear anything from this distance—a sloppy mistake on the sentry’s part. The man on the other end of the transmission said relief was on the way in twenty minutes, then something about staying alert.

  The sentry cursed and stretched his arms.

  Nathan was in the process of crouching when the man stood, turned directly toward him, and—

  Froze.

  Had he been seen? He wasn’t sure. It was damned dark up here, but the human eye can detect motion against a still background.

  Motionless, the man seemed to be considering whether his eyes had played a trick on him. Nathan had definitely been moving when the guy looked his way.

  A five-second staring match stretched into ten.

  Then fifteen.

  Nathan willed the man to turn back around.