That left the other way.
Hatcher nodded, lowered his head. He had already positioned the escape key in his fingertips. He slipped it into the left cuff and gave it twist. The teeth disengaged and he felt the strand practically drop open, careful to keep his hand pressed against his back so the metal didn’t make any noise.
Knit Cap reached into a lower front pocket of his Army-surplus blouse and retrieved a key. He held it up and Hatcher worried for a moment he was going to keep his distance and toss it toward him, make Hatcher kneel down and fumble to pick it up off the ground to open the cuffs himself, which would have been the smart thing to do, but instead he took a step forward. That was all it took.
Hatcher took a step himself, a much quicker one, slamming full frontal into the man, wedging the AK between them. He threw one arm around the man’s neck, clenching him tight, hooking his chin from behind and giving it a hard yank. He swung his hand up to grab the stock of the AK between them at the same time, clamping a hold of it to keep it steady, and braced for the sting.
The rifle erupted in a rapid tattoo of shots, bap-bap-bap-bap-bap-bap-bap. The sound jackhammered his ears, more distinct and a bit louder than an AR. The barrel swept in a tight arc as Hatcher spun the man by his jaw, the burst of rounds taking out the four men in front of them before they could return fire, their boss being in the way causing all kinds of confusion. A stream of scalding brass bounced off his chest, a few singeing his neck and face.
The firing stopped. No surprise there. Full auto only lasts a few seconds
Other than the guy he had wrapped up, there were two left, the ones prepping to climb the vines. Hatcher gave another violent torque to the man’s neck. The guy was trying to resist, most of his efforts directed at regaining his balance, but the laws of kinesiology were governing him for the moment. Where the head went, the body had to follow.
A complete circle, the man stumbling around Hatcher’s radial until Hatcher stuck a leg out and threw himself backwards, dropping the man on top of him as he let go of the rifle and stabbed a hand at the man’s sidearm. He jerked it free of its holster, aimed at the one of the remaining two who had gotten his weapon the highest, and squeezed the trigger.
The hammer pulled back on the double action, then punched forward with a click. Son of a bitch. Hatcher bit his lip in disgust, but didn’t have time to curse his luck. Rather than relinquish his grip on his shield’s neck, which would have taken more time anyway, he rotated the pistol sideways and slammed it against the man’s head, digging the rear sight into his temple as hard and as deep as he could, and in one continuous motion shoved the handle forward. The man screamed as Hatcher racked a round into the chamber.
One of the gunmen let off three rounds, apparently writing his boss off for dead. Two of them hit the man, jolting his body, the other sizzling past Hatcher’s skull. Hatcher fired one shot at center of mass that knocked the shooter back just as another round, this one from Whittling Guy, took a chunk of Knit Cap’s head and splattered blood across Hatcher’s face. Hatcher fired another shot, this one missing, but far worse than that was the sight of the slide open, stuck halfway back, the end of a protruding shell visible in the ejection port. A jam. Hatcher knew before he’d even glanced at it, knew without even thinking about it. Cheap loads, limp wrist. To clear it, he’d have to slap his palm against the bottom of the magazine and rack the slide again. But that would mean tossing off his shield. And there wasn’t enough skull left on the body lying on top of him, now dead weight, for him to try another forced rack. He looked to be out of options. To make matters worse, the first gunman he’d shot wasn’t even down, he was pressing his hand against a wound in his abdomen, intent on rejoining the fray, a bit hunched over, but looking directly at Hatcher and managing to point his rifle using his other arm. The second one, Whittling Guy, seeing the malfunction, stepped forward, focused on not wasting any more rounds, the set of his jaw dead serious, moving in for the kill shot.
He’d have to risk it. The chances of him not taking hits seemed about zero, but there really wasn’t any choice.
Hatcher rocked to the side, ready to throw the body off him, hopefully have enough momentum to roll over it, pop onto a knee on the other side, tap-rack-fire. The closest rifleman snapped his AK higher, sighting it in, just as Hatcher flung the body over.
The eruption of rifle fire hammered his ears. His back seemed to be exposed for dozens of bursts. He braced himself for the burn, tensing in anticipation, figuring at least the pain would let him know he was alive.
He bounced up, one knee down, just as planned. He was already slapping his hand against the bottom of the pistol, jacking the slide back, thrusting the barrel out.
No one was there. No one standing.
Whittling Guy was on his back, body arched and slowly sagging to ground as his neck went limp. The other rifleman was facedown, several wounds in the top of skull leaking thick streams of blood.
A voice projected from the jungle a few yards away.
“Hold fire!”
Hatcher remained still for a moment, then lowered his weapon. Woodley emerged, gesturing above his head. Others appeared from different points, rifles trained on the bodies, barrels snapping from one to another to another. No one appeared to be taking any chances. Only Woodley seemed confident the threat had been neutralized.
Half of Woodley’s face tightened into a smirk. “Didn’t really think we were going to leave you in the hands of a bunch of guerrillas, did you?”
Hatcher narrowed his eyes at the man before bouncing glances at the others. They were too engrossed in the task at hand, checking the bodies, alert for undetected hostiles, to make eye contact. He let himself exhale fully for what felt like the first time in minutes. His body suddenly felt heavy, his limbs weighted down. He stared at the ground and gathered enough strength to push to his feet.
“Why?” Hatcher said, running his gaze over the bodies.
“I know you’ve got lots of questions. First, let Ivy take a look at you, make sure you’re not carrying any unwanted metal or losing any tomato juice anywhere.”
“Why,” he repeated, less a question this time than a command.
“You’re angry. I get it. I would be, too. But you know how it works. Orders.”
“Bullshit. That doesn’t answer the question, and it sure as hell doesn’t let you off the hook.”
“Whoa, now. I’m the guy who just saved your ass, remember? Yes, it was a shitty thing to do. The world’s a shitty place.”
“I’m only going to ask one more time. Why?”
“I can only tell you what I know, which is what they told me. The PMU that had her, that was their price. They asked for you — demanded you — by name. A swap.”
Hatcher straightened up. “They asked for me, by name.”
“That’s what I was told. My orders were to accomplish the exchange, clear the hostage, then track and retrieve you.” Woodley took his eyes off Hatcher, snapped his fingers. “Ivy, check him out, will you?”
Ivy slung his rifle behind his back and approached Hatcher, removing a pack from his belt.
Hatcher barely glanced at the man, keeping his eyes on Woodley. “You have no fucking idea what you’ve done.”
“Hey, it’s not like I was the one who came up with the plan, or even had a vote. And, in case you’re wondering, the others didn’t know. Ivy here didn’t know. I briefed them once we were clear.”