Chapter 6 #2
The sheer force cut through some of the smaller trees, tipping them over.
Sending small avalanches of snow down the side of the hill.
Phoenix flipped his machine onto one side, then dove behind it, hoping the rounds wouldn’t penetrate the sled.
Having a shot graze his shoulder blew that theory to hell, but it wasn’t as if he had many options.
Not with the chopper just hovering at the edge of the woods, unloading endless rounds into the copse.
Hoping the magnitude of bullets would eventually kill him.
This was exactly why he should have brought his rifle.
Not that he needed the insane distance, but it was his.
Tailored to his style. His body. He’d picked the optical sight.
Had added the suppressor. The stand. Decided which type of caliber he wanted to use.
Had multiple barrels for different scenarios.
Everything about it was designed to complement his firing style. Give him the means to be the best.
Having only Bishop’s Havak meant Phoenix had to up his game. Prove that it wasn’t the gun but the skill of the man that mattered. Having more bullets punch through the chassis as he was readying the rifle only made him focus more. Had him highly motivated to make each shot count.
He waited until the steady stream of bullets eased—while the men were most likely grabbing another string of rounds—before popping up enough to lay the rifle along the side of the snowmobile. He only had a few seconds. Not much time to do the calculations, adjust the scope, and fire.
He’d have to trust the calibration was true. Try to guess the wind speed and direction by the trees off to one side. The ones not affected by the rotor’s downwash. Make that first shot count when he wasn’t sure he’d get a second.
He took a breath, held it as he put the pilot—or was it the co-pilot—in the crosshairs. No way to know when he wasn’t sure what kind of helicopter it was. If the pilot sat on the right or left side. Not that it mattered, because he planned on eliminating both of them.
Lining up his first target wasn’t easy when the helicopter was sliding back and forth in the sky, obviously affected by the wind and displacement of the air between the belly and the ground.
Olivia had called it ground effect—he thought.
How hovering was a constant adjustment—hands and feet never resting.
Add to that the men firing out one side.
Moving around to get more supplies. Shifting their weight, and it was like a damn dance.
One he was going to end because it was either them or him. And he liked breathing.
He fired. It hit a bit lower than planned. Got the guy in the stomach instead of the chest, but Phoenix considered it a win. One that had the helicopter spinning, giving him a clear view of the second pilot.
He cycled the action and fired, again, capping the other man before the guy had realized what had happened. Could either seize control or simply bank left. Fly off as they regrouped for another attack.
Catching the gunner with the third shot—sending him sprawling out of sight, nothing but his boots visible in the scope—was almost redundant.
Completely unnecessary because the chopper was already bobbing across the sky.
Twisting and turning, tipping forward and back before it was falling off to the right.
Crashing into the side of the hill in a blinding spray of snow.
No instant explosion, like in the movies.
Just the sound of metal grinding, glass breaking.
The whine of the engines still echoing through the trees. Smoke pouring out of the cowling.
Is that how his crash had been? Had there been shouting and whining? An endless hum of the engines in the background? Or had Olivia turned them off? Remained conscious long enough to shut everything down?
He didn’t know. Couldn’t remember. Only that he’d somehow gotten clear. Hadn’t been caught up in the fire unless… Shit, had the fire been set after? As a countermeasure? Had Olivia pulled him out?
He stuffed his hand in his pocket—thumbed those damn dog tags he was still carrying around, as he mulled it over.
He’d never stopped to analyze how he’d woken up on the rocks, when everyone else was still strapped inside.
He’d assumed he’d fallen out the open door just before the crash.
The one and only lucky break he’d ever caught.
But looking at it, now, through fresh eyes. ..
He’d been placed. He was sure of it. Because he hadn’t been out in the open. He’d been carefully positioned behind an outcrop a good fifty meters away from the crash site. As if someone had wanted to ensure he’d stay hidden. Not that he knew why. Surely, getting rescued meant being visible, but…
A whiff of jet fuel took him back. Had those images playing on a loop, again. The bodies. The flames. The anguish of being alone. Of her being gone. The numbing cold that had slid over him as he’d slowly bled out...
An engine baring down on him finally jerked him out of his thoughts.
Made him acutely aware that he was still poised behind his snowmobile.
Still staring at the wreckage, one hand clenching her tags, the other wrapped around the rifle, when he should have been scouting the area.
Searching for that last mercenary who’d disappeared.
No trouble finding him, now. Asshole was on Phoenix’s six, about fifty meters off. Had used the whine of the downed helicopter to muffle his approach. Was driving with one hand, the other holding an AK pointed at Phoenix’s chest. No way to miss. Not that close.
Phoenix moved, anyway. There was always a chance the gun would jam. Or the guy would hit a branch or deep pocket of snow—something that might tip the scales in Phoenix’s favor. Another lucky break.
Seeing the man arch back—fall off the rear of the snowmobile in a cloud of powder was unexpected. Had Phoenix turning, changing the magazine then holding the rifle to his shoulder as he searched the trees because it hadn’t been luck. Or a low-hanging branch.
More of that prickling sensation telling him he wasn’t alone.
That there was an even deadlier threat in the trees.
Stalking. Hunting. Seeing Gibson step out from behind an evergreen several meters away had Phoenix cursing.
It wasn’t that he’d forgotten about the Brit, he’d just been focused on the men. On eliminating the immediate danger.
Gibson made his way through the snow, stopping a few feet back, gaze sliding to the chopper, then over to Phoenix. Gib nodded at the crash, idly flipping a blade over in one hand. “See. Told ya you were plenty armed.”
Phoenix waved at the downed gunman. “Silencer? Or knife? And I swear, if you say knife, you’ll be the second thing I’m officially afraid of.”
“What is it with your team and an illogical fear of knives?”
“It’s not knives we’re concerned about. It’s that you throw them with pinpoint accuracy at, what? Forty or fifty meters? I don’t even know how that’s possible. Knives aren’t supposed to do that. Have that kind of range. You, my friend, aren’t natural.”
“Right. But hitting three men—with kill shots, none the less—inside a moving helicopter at the edge of a rifle’s effective range is commonplace.”
Which meant the bastard had used a knife. Talk about scary...
Gibson grinned. Smugly, the ass. “Do me a favor and go snap a few pics of those blokes from the sleds while I see if you left anything for me to photograph of the sods from the chopper.”
He didn’t wait for a reply, just headed off toward the wreckage, gun in one hand.
Knife in the other. Phoenix sighed, but followed suit, wading through the deep snow, then taking a few pictures of each of the men.
He checked for any form of ID, knowing he wouldn’t find any.
That, even with the images, the men would remain nameless.
No way Smyth would send a wet squad that could be traced back to him. The guy wasn’t stupid. Knew there was always a chance his hired thugs would fail, so, having any connection back to him would be suicide. And Smyth hadn’t struck Phoenix as the kind of man who made novice mistakes.
Gibson was shaking his head as he picked his way back through the trees, stopping beside where Phoenix was bent over his sled. Gib motioned toward the machine. “Dead?”
“Afraid so. The machine gun fire punctured the gas tank and clipped the oil pan. I won’t get more than a mile or two before the engine either seizes or I run out of fuel.” He nodded at Gibson’s leg. “You hit?”
It was clear Gibson was, the patch of red on his thigh all the evidence Phoenix needed.
Gib shrugged, finally slipping the weapons inside his jacket. “Already patched it up. And I’m better than you, mate. Looks like they got you twice.” A step closer. “You all right?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? Though, if you’re hurting, we can rest here for a while.”
“Wanker. And at least I didn’t bollocks my snowmobile.” He patted his leg side pocket, though, it looked as if there was a hole in it, too, minus any blood stains. “Got that satellite phone Bishop gave me, right here. Shall I ring Livy? See if she’ll come and rescue your sorry arse?”
Did he have to call her Livy? It was like a slap in the face to Phoenix every time the name slipped off of Gibson’s tongue. A constant reminder of the kind of relationship Phoenix had thought he’d had with Olivia but had been a lie.
He tilted his head to the side as he slung the rifle across his back. “Now, you’re just being mean.”
“Guess it’s a good thing I came along, after all. Come on, I’ll double ya. Unless you want to procure one of theirs?”
“And risk they’ve got some kind of locator beacon installed?
No thanks. I’d rather not paint a giant bullseye on my team.
” He eyed Gibson’s sled. “You sure you can handle it with both of us on there? We won’t be able to make any of those extreme maneuvers we just did with the two of us sharing the only seat. ”
“Thinking we already took care of the blokes following us. And I can handle anything, chum. Just, keep your hands to yourself.”
“In your dreams.” He motioned down his body. “You couldn’t handle all this.”
Gibson’s laugh was deep. Genuine. “Ain’t that the truth. Oh, and mate?” A smile. “Thanks. What you did just now… You’re definitely someone I want on my side during a fight.”
“I’ll make you a deal. You keep that flying thing between us, and I’ll tell everyone you took out the chopper.”
“I was already gonna claim it.”
“Bastard.”
“No dirty talk.” He shuffled through the snow to his machine, waiting until Phoenix had poured some QuickClot on the wounds and bandaged them before he climbed on the back. “Hold on. I wouldn’t want you to fall off and have to call Livy, after all.”
“You’d love that.”
“And Cannon claimed you were all business.”
Gibson started the snowmobile then took off, clearing the trees then heading for the ridge.
Phoenix glanced back, watching the patch of woods disappear as they crested the hill then continued down the other side.
While they’d dealt with the immediate threat, it did pose one disconcerting question.
Who the hell had known where to find him?