“If they weren’t already, I bet those bandits are long gone by now. I know I would be if I heard that shit happening nearby,” Speer says.
Krandle shakes his head. Speer says whatever is on his mind at any given moment, not realizing how it may affect others. There’s truth in what he said, but that truth means the wives and daughters will be gone as well.
He just isn’t socialized, that’s it.
“I don’t know. They may just hunker down for dear life, not wanting to show themselves and risk an accidental meeting. We’ll see in the morning.”
The rest of the evening passes without event. Far off screams are heard periodically, but nothing draws close to the killing ground. Even the night runners have apparently had enough. Taking turns on watch, they get what rest they can.
It took Speer and Miller all of about forty minutes after sunrise to find the quad tracks leading up a logging road. A short distance up a hill, nestled within evergreens, Speer found two shipping containers resting on level ground with fourteen bandits scattered around it. The quads and vans were parked to the side. Some of the women had been tied to trees, the others not visible — probably being kept the containers. The tied women and the type of vehicles are all the verification Krandle needs. Leaving the civilians to dig shallow graves for the two who succumbed to their wounds, Krandle and the others join with Speer and Miller.
Speer points out three leaning against trunks farther into the trees, apparently the watch they set. One is positioned just off the road in front of a large fir. The other two are off to the sides, all focused — if focused is the correct word — toward the highway. They have evidently concluded that any threat will come from that direction, that nothing can come at them from within the woods. Considering the sound of gunfire and explosions, Krandle is a little confused by their nonchalance.
Perhaps that’s what comes from thinking the world is yours for the taking.
“I didn’t see any radios on the guards,” Speer says.
Krandle momentarily ponders coming at them from their unsecured side, but opts to take the guards out first. Always better to deal with the perimeter first, then move in.
Krandle directs Speer and Ortiz to take out the first guard, setting the rest of the team to cover their approach. If the camp becomes alerted, Speer and Ortiz will eliminate the other two guards while Krandle and the rest of the team engage those within the camp. That means a firefight, which is always risky.
“Don’t worry about the bullet with your name on it,” one of his instructors had said. “It’s the ones marked anonymous you have to be concerned with.”
If the team can catch them by surprise, they can take the bandits down before they have a chance to fire a shot. If it comes down to a fight, one of the marauders may just shoot the women as a final ‘Fuck You’.
Speer snakes his way under the trees, pushing small limbs and needles out of the way prior to setting his foot down. Ortiz follows silently behind. The guard sits on a fallen tree, intently studying his finger nails. Leaning against the bark to the man’s side rests an AR-15 style carbine. A short distance behind the man, Speer and Ortiz slowly lay their M-4s on the ground and Speer withdraws a six-inch blade from a sheath.
Approaching from behind, using the trees for cover while keeping the man in sight, the two SEALs inch toward the guard. One step, crouch and wait, another step, crouch and wait. The man is oblivious to the danger edging toward him, that his life is measured in seconds. So silent are the two men, they move to within a few feet directly behind the guard.
The man, apparently finished with whatever manicure he is contemplating, looks up and gazes toward the logging road. With a nod toward Ortiz, Speer rises and takes a step forward. He brings one hand around the man’s head, grabbing his face to cover his mouth and pinch his nostrils. Pulling back his head, Speer brings his knife around, plunging it under the bottom ribs and driving it up into heart. Removing the knife, he plunges it in again, this time going for one of the lungs.
Ortiz, upon seeing Speer grab the man’s head, steps over the log and takes a firm hold of the man’s legs to hold them still. The other guards are close enough that any sound of a scuffle will reach them and may cause them to investigate. Speer feels the body stiffen with his first thrust. Hot blood spurts against his hand covering the mouth and he feels it pour down his knife hand. Withdrawing his blade again, Speer drives into the side of the man’s throat.
Speer remembers one of his lessons. “Never stop until your target is down for good. Don’t stab and step back to admire your work or wait for a reaction.”
Blood gushes from the wound and pours through Speer’s fingers to run down the man’s cheek. With the head pulled back, Speer stares into his eyes and watches them dull. The body goes limp. Quietly, Ortiz lifts the man’s legs over the tree and they lay him out of sight along the fallen tree.
“That shit never gets any easier,” Speer whispers, cleaning his blade on the man’s jeans.
“No. No, it never does,” Ortiz says.
Lifting the carbine, Ortiz ejects the mag. “Kind of them to give us more ammo. Do you want me to get the next one?”
“No, I’ll do it. I just don’t have to like it.”
Retrieving their weapons, they leave the iron smell of blood behind and creep back toward the next guard with the others moving up to provide cover. Ideally, they would have taken all of the guards out at once, but nothing is ever ideal. One by one, they dispose of the remaining guards in much the same fashion.
A scream erupts from the bandit camp a short ways uphill. The team turns as one toward the sound, spreading behind cover, weapons ready. Another woman’s scream reverberates through the trees, followed by a couple of loud voices.
“Online and quietly push upward,” Krandle radios.
With eyes on the camp, Krandle watches as a woman is dragged across the ground and unceremoniously dumped in the middle of the encampment. Three men kneel beside her, one holding her legs with the other two on either side. The others, with a variety of weapons hanging from their shoulders, stand in a semi-circle, grinning.
“I count fifteen. Does that match what you have, Speer?” Krandle whispers into his throat mic.
“Yep.”
“Franklin, Miller, Ortiz, take the three near the woman first. Watch your shots. No use waiting. Let’s hit ‘em hard,” Krandle orders.
As one, the team rises from cover, carbines going to their shoulders in one fluid motion. Together, they flow into the camp like a fast-moving dark mist.
Pop pop pop. More follow like a string of firecrackers.
The two men next to the woman collapse to the side, blood misting from where rounds slammed into their skulls near their ears. The man holding the woman’s legs falls back on his rear, looking down at the red flowering on his chest. A round strikes his nose, the bullet splitting as it penetrates his nasal cavity. He crumples to the side.
Most of the men drop to the ground as if mowed over with a scythe. Some have a split second longer and attempt to use it to make it to cover. They manage one step before speeding projectiles intercept their path, sending them to fall face first onto the forest floor.
With blood spraying across her, the woman continues her screaming, trying to crawl backward away from the bodies. It’s over in seconds. Whitish smoke drifts across the camp, dissipating as it moves. The women stare at the scene in shock. Several of the injured bandits moan and attempt to crawl away. One reaches his arms out in front and pulls his body forward a few inches. Blood seeps into the dirt around him. Settling his red dot on the man’s chest, Krandle fires twice. The man’s shirt puffs up and the body jumps as each round strikes. With a forced sigh that stirs the dust around his mouth, the figure goes limp. The rest of the team begin delivering rounds into the wounded.