“Yeah,” he whispered back, unexpectedly standing with them. “We ready?”
“Give it a second.” Thomas eyed the camp. Only occasionally did any sign of life emerge, a shadow here and there, passing before the flames in the distance. A still silence—the moans and laughter that floated through the camp earlier in the day were gone. Everyone, either asleep or occupied with tending to their post, left the site in peace for the moment. “Alright.”
The three formed up like they had before and beelined toward the middle of the camp. It took shape as they drew near. The lines of tents. The gazebo. The trucks. Fortunately, from this distance, the camp produced no additional concerns. It was still as it appeared from a distance—a few unattended campfires.
Thomas raised his fist, halting the advance. He carefully slid the ruck from his shoulders and onto the ground. James and Riley knelt down with him as he pulled the Molotov’s from inside. A deep breath. He handed two of the bottles to James. “Those there,” Thomas whispered while he pointed to a cluster of tents just outside the treeline. “I got these here.” He swallowed. “And nothing anywhere near the women’s tents to the left of that blue one there. Riley, you’re with me. We have three minutes. This is it. James, keep your eyes on me. I’ll flick my lighter on as the signal. Respond with the same, then we light and throw.”
“On it.”
James slid off to the right, and Thomas and Riley moved straight ahead. Behind that little raised area will be perfect.
Once their position was secured, they waited for what Thomas believed to be a sufficient amount of time for James to get to his. Here we go. His thumb popped the lid to the Zippo, producing that self-gratifying clink, and he struck the wheel. His flame held reliably, but there was nothing from his counterpart. What the hell? Maybe I don’t have the angle. Thomas took measured steps toward where James should have been. Finally, another flicker in the distance. Here we go!
Like clockwork, they lit the rags, and the bottles soared end over end into the sky one after the other. The spiraling flames were hypnotic, up and then down, down against the earth. A rush of flame as the bottles burst—a blue pursuit of heat across the ground as the fluid spewed forth, saturating the tents and surrounding grass and brush with fire. Two distinct gunshots rang out south of them and several more from the west. The camp had been ripped from its slumber.
Holy Shit! Thomas held for a moment, watching the devastation of the Molotov’s engulf their intended targets. The tents deflated, melting and trapping some of the guards within them while others rose from this hell as tormented bodies wrapped in flames. “Hold this line!” Thomas shouted, his voice challenged by the panicked cries tearing through the night. Smoke lifting from the curling grass and nylon tents provided a foul-smelling screen of concealment for James and Riley as they went straight to work. Their rifles sounded, and the muzzle flashes danced through the tree line as they broke up their shot pattern. They got this. On to phase two.
Thomas took his ruck, swung it wildly onto his back, and raced to connect with Delta team as the sound of gunfire followed him deeper into the woods. Know that you’re not alone out here. Sign. Hawk. Countersign. Dove. He repeated it with every step until it became his cadence along that overgrown trail he took earlier in the day. Flashes of familiarity guided him over a few fallen trees—ducking between twigs and brush as best he could in the dark. As he neared the ridge that overlooked the western service road, he stopped and took a deep breath in an attempt to collect himself. Getting close. A few more shots ahead of him, measured in their spacing, precision shots, but not effective enough to prevent the barrage that countered. Delta team hasn’t pushed through yet.
Another volley. A bullet buzzed past, and Thomas slammed his body against the nearest tree. Two more shots toward him. He took his rifle into a crook where the branch met with the trunk to return fire, but there was nothing. Crack! The bark ripped from the tree just overhead. Thomas’s face met with the dirt. Delta’s shots are coming from downhill! He hugged his rifle and rolled headlong down the face of the ridge as more shots peppered his last position. He high crawled, taking the soggy ditch that paralleled the road over a slight hill that descended toward the rear of the guard post. Crack! Crack! The muzzle fire gave away Delta team’s position, but the Butcher’s men were overwhelmed and in no position to view it.
Thomas watched them through his scope, zeroing in on the guards as they panicked, unsettled. One of the men tilted on his knee, his other leg extended, quite possibly hit from an initial shot. Despite that, both of them managed to prop their rifles over the barricade, pulling their triggers with no eyes to observe where the bullets struck. The crude tactic seemed to be working as Delta team thus far had been unable to meet their objective.
Without regard for concealment or cover to their six, Thomas held the advantage. One simple press of the trigger, and the uninjured guard crumpled to the pavement. The shot, through and through, caused the man to writhe upon the ground holding his chest. His partner limped over to him, slid the shirt from his back, and struggled to keep the blood from spilling forth.
Thomas took aim—Too late—and ended this act of bravery, striking the man in the shoulder. With a primal urge for self-preservation, the guard hobbled away from cover, breaking toward a clearing where the hill fell toward the bourn. Another shot, coming opposite of Thomas, threw the man into a slide and tumble—his rifle spun off into the grass. Once the man’s momentum ceased, Thomas gathered his sight picture again and sent another round downrange. Goodbye!
He lifted himself from the ditch and angled toward the guard he just downed. The last thing they needed was him slipping into the night only to come back to haunt them later. He neared, and the man didn’t stir. “Hey, shit bird,” he whispered, giving him a tap with the toe of his boot. “Get up.” Thomas pressed his heel onto the guard’s hand and removed the weight from his other leg. Dead. Good. All’s quiet now.
The thought gave Thomas pause. The cracks of gunfire from the camp had thinned out. The initial burst of chaos was over, and it seemed that both sides had entrenched themselves into a stalemate. That, or something had gone horribly wrong, and they had already lost. But, how? I have to get back. He turned, taking back to the hill with haste.
A tramping sound of boots caught his attention, and he saw Delta team double timing it atop the ridge. He emerged from the brush, trying to meet with them before they trailed off without him. He cleared the street, and not wanting to remain completely exposed, he pressed forward within that shallow ditch that rested between the street and ridge—each step slogging in and out of the filth he had recently crawled through.
Delta team advanced aggressively, more so than Thomas had anticipated, there was no choice but to call out, “Hawk.” The word left his mouth, low yet forceful, but not nearly enough to reach them. He spoke louder and finally the call sign caught up to them. Two hushed “Doves” were given in response, and Delta team held for Thomas to join them.
“You guys alright?” Thomas asked, craning his neck to speak with the men above him on the ridge.
“Yeah,” one of the Soldiers spoke. “We had a good jump on them, but they got loose with their firepower. Knew you were coming, so we figured we’d keep them distracted for ya.”