Astonishingly, the rear of the vehicle was nearly untouched except for the windows, which were all networked with the millions of breaks characteristic of overstressed safety glass. I figured the heat had probably done that, since I spotted no apparent points of impact.
The idea of impact brought another thought to mind, and I quickly reexamined the wagon. I sighed in relief at the lack of bullet holes, at least not on the side I could see. Checking the other side would mean leaving the cover of the trees, and I wasn’t willing to risk that yet, not until I was reasonably sure there wasn’t a sentry, or ax murderer, or whatever hiding somewhere in the trees on my side of the road.
I glanced at my watch. Only five minutes had passed since I’d come over the hill.
Yeah, I thought, time sure flies when you’re having fun.
It took another ten minutes of sneaking around to convince myself that no one lurked in the trees on my side of the road. Unfortunately, I also confirmed that there had been an ambush. Both vans and all of the bodies were riddled with holes, and I saw enough broken glass to tell me how the attack had probably gone.
An initial barrage of Molotov cocktails inundated the convoy, panicking the drivers and their passengers. They abandoned their vehicles, only to be cut down by snipers in the trees. The end result lay before me. Six bodies and four gutted vehicles.
I checked my watch. Nearly half of my time had passed, and I still had to search the other side. If it proved safe, I needed to drag the bodies out of sight. I hesitated for a moment more.
I finally prodded myself into action. I sprinted from the trees to the side of the overturned pickup. Then I waited, listening for a response.
Nothing. So far, so good. I ran for the trees on the far side of the road and crouched next to a large pine. The trees were quiet, and the only sound I heard was the pounding of my heart. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
I began the search, picking my way as quietly as possible through the trees, uphill to the motorcycle. I had nearly finished my inspection, keeping close track of the time, when I heard a faint buzzing coming from the thick underbrush about twenty yards ahead. Not quite a buzz, though, different somehow, but familiar.
I listened intently, willing my heart and breath to silence so that I might identify the tantalizing sound. I finally realized that, while I sat there frozen in place by a noise in the brush, my time was steadily ticking away. I couldn’t afford to wait around for the source of the disturbance ahead to jump up and identify itself. So I stepped out from behind the tree to investigate. As I did so, two things happened simultaneously.
The first thing was relatively insignificant. Something in my head clicked, and I finally recognized the buzzing as the faint sound of a carrier wave over an open radio channel. As soon as I realized that, I froze. That sound indicated that someone was watching the road, which in turn indicated that the road was unsafe for travel.
Even as this ran through my head, and I prepared to carefully work my way around and up to the motorcycle, something much more critical occurred. I heard the sharp “snick-chak” of a semi-automatic handgun being cocked behind me.
“All right, buddy, you’ve got two choices here,” the voice behind me gloated. “You can either raise your hands and come with me real quiet-like, or you can make a run for it. Who knows? You might even make it.” He paused. “Well, what’s it gonna be?”
I could tell he was too far away for me to try for his gun and, even if he were closer, I didn’t know whether it was at the level of my head or back. Since I wasn’t feeling particularly suicidal, I surrendered. I raised my hands, glancing at my watch as I did so. Six twenty-nine, just over ten minutes left.
“Smart move,” the voice said. “Now, why don’t you do us both a favor and unsling that machete.”
Chancing a glance behind me to see where he was exactly, I did as he told me.
“Face front!” he yelled. “Did I tell you to turn around? Huh? You do what I tell you, only what I tell you, and only when I tell you to do it. Got it?”
When I failed to reply, he practically screamed, “Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“You can call me ’sir,’ asshole.”
I toyed with the idea of doing just that, but restrained myself. He might overreact if I called him “Sir Asshole,” and I really didn’t need a hole in my back. “Yes, sir.”
“Good boy!” he sneered. “Now, why don’t you pull that pig sticker out of your belt and drop it, too. And move real slow… I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
I slowly removed the Bowie and tossed it on the ground next to the machete.
“Okay, now stay real still.” I heard him shuffling toward me. He picked up my knife and machete then edged around, keeping about ten feet between us until he reached the bushes in front of me. The first thing I noticed was his clothing: hunter’s camouflage coveralls. He was about thirty-five, hard years, from the look of the lines on his face. Most importantly, he pointed a large-caliber handgun at my chest.
I had a sudden, intense desire to urinate, but managed to suppress it.
He reached into the bushes and pulled out a walkie-talkie. “Larry? It’s Frank.”
I heard a slight British accent in the reply, “Yes Frank, what is it?”
“Larry, I found someone sneaking around in the woods down here.”
“So what’s the problem?” The voice sounded bored. “Kill him and get it over with.”
The need to urinate returned instantly, more powerful than before. It took a conscious effort to hold back.
“Naw, listen, Larry. He was snoopin’ around. Kept looking at his watch. I think he’s working with someone else.”
Wonderful. How long had Frank been watching me?
Pause. Then, “All right, bring him in.”
“On my way.” Frank sneered. “Okay, prick, hands on your head.”
When I had done so, he continued, “Now, we’re going on up the hill a little ways,” he pointed east, “and if I see your hands leave your head just once, I’m gonna put a hole in ya. Got it?”
“Yes… sir.”
“Good, you remembered! I’m impressed. Now move.”
We moved out onto the road and about two-thirds of the way up the hill. There, we turned onto a small dirt road hidden from the highway by some recently planted saplings. It wound through the woods for about half a mile, ending in a small clearing dominated by a little country cabin. In front, a group of four men stood waiting, all but the largest armed with both rifles and sidearms. The exception was a huge Asian-Bruce Lee on steroids.
Frank stopped me about ten yards away. “Wait here. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay real still.”
He walked over to one of the armed men and held a whispered conference for a few minutes. Then the one Frank had been speaking to stepped forward. Incredibly, he actually stuck out his hand. “Good evening. My name is Larry Troutman.”
Real smooth customer. “I’d be happy to shake hands, Larry, but your man Frank has informed me that lowering my hands could be detrimental to my health.”
He clucked his tongue in apparent dismay. “Frank, don’t be so antisocial. Of course you can lower your hands, Mr.…?”
“Dawcett.”
“Mr. Dawcett. Fine. I can see that you’re going to be most cooperative, aren’t you?”
I guessed his smile was supposed to be reassuring. Unfortunately, it only brought to mind the “Inverse Law of Enemies,” the one that said the more civilly an enemy treated you initially, the nastier his ultimate plans.
I could already tell I was in for an extremely rough time. Nevertheless, I shook his hand. “I’ll cooperate as much as I can, of course.” I could play games, too.