Chapter 10
Chapter 10
T he jungle was thick and heavy, but John was determined. And such was his luck that he didn’t have to use his machete. The band of rebels had already cleared a path for him. All he had to do was follow. He wondered why that was. Did they think no one would come for the woman they stole? Did they believe they were safe from the army’s retribution? Probably. From their point of view, she was only one little woman, not much use to the United States Army. What they failed to realize was that, as a United States citizen, she had their full protection. John would have retrieved her regardless. For anyone else he would have sent a team of men, and it probably would have been enough. But this was Juniper Dunbar and nothing less than John’s special brand of soldiering would do. For Juniper he needed the best, he needed perfection. That meant he’d do it himself, the first time he’d personally been in the field in half a decade.
For any other reason, at any other time, he would have been glad to get back in the field. Excited, even. Ops were fun. Even the ones like this where he trekked through the jungle in impossible heat, drenching his clothes and pack. Physical needs didn’t seem to affect John like other men—hunger, fear, thirst, heatstroke, dehydration. He seemed impervious to them all, another thing that set him apart from the others, that had guaranteed his rise through the ranks. It was as if he’d been programmed at birth to be a soldier, if not at birth then by life events. For better or worse, his father had trained him well for the life he now led. Whatever his father left out, West Point filled in. John was a soldier, irrevocably and forever, inside and out. He ate, breathed, slept and dreamed military life. While other men couldn’t wait to get home, John dreaded leave, always feeling at loose ends and antsy. While other men counted down to retirement, it loomed on John’s horizon like a nightmare. Somehow he knew if he ever stopped working, he would drop dead immediately, his purpose complete. Because without the army, what did he have? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
The tracks were becoming fresher. John sharpened his focus, dispelling all other thoughts. The Major had become a predator now, stalking his prey before the final pounce.
When he was near enough, he climbed a tree for an aerial view of the camp. Five men, heavily armed with Soviet machine guns, proving their enemy’s influence. They were Sandinistas, and yet John was relieved. If they had been Contras, armed with American guns, the situation would have been even more complex. As it was he could categorize them as enemies, of the state, of Honduras and, as of this moment, himself personally. That was a new one on John. He was used to not having any personal involvement. The chain of command told him who to abolish; John didn’t need to know why. As his rank grew, the chain grew shorter. Currently there were few links between him and the president. Someday if he stayed on his current trajectory he would likely report to the president directly. It was his goal in life to be that man, to be in the top brass. Why? He couldn’t say for certain. It wasn’t for the glory, he wanted none of that. Not even for the power, he’d seen how easily it could corrupt. Maybe he merely wanted to stand in the gap, to be a buffer between the men who made the decisions and the men who were forced to carry them out. If there was one thing that came close to pushing John’s emotional hot button, it was politicians who disregarded the lives of the men who served in their defense.
But now, as he sat in the tree and observed the rough camp, Washington was far away. Everything was far away but Juniper Dunbar and these men.
One of them emerged from the coarse tent, scowling. He spoke to his comrade, and John strained to listen. “ Ella quiere un coco. ”
John knew better than to make a sound, but it was all he could do to subdue his laughter. She wants a coconut. If he’d had any doubts about how Juniper was holding up, they evaporated. Apparently her charm worked the same on the Sandinistas as it did his men. A coconut. Oh, Juniper. He didn’t move, barely even blinked, but inside he smiled, secretly proud of his girl. His girl? Only years of training kept him from scowling over the errant thought. Not my girl. Never had she been his girl. She had only ever been his albatross, his annoyance, his burden to bear, trudging her on his back like a pack mule through the hot Alabama woods, trying to keep her from becoming alligator food, from becoming snake bit, bee stung. If he’d been more superstitious, he might have thought she was the devil in child form, sent to plague him. As it was, he’d seen through her parents’ well-intentioned plan. Let’s pair our most exuberant child with the most recalcitrant one. Maybe she’ll work her magic on him. And if not, at least she’s out of our hair. He had to hand it to the Dunbars, they’d been smart. If he were a parent, he’d probably do the same thing they’d done. Too bad for them it hadn’t worked, at least on his end. He’d done plenty to keep Juniper alive and safe, but she’d done nothing to plumb the depths of his unfeeling, sealed off heart.
You’re here, aren’t you? An annoying little voice whispered in his head. What was worse was that the voice sounded a lot like Juniper’s.
Shut up, he scolded the voice. He had work to do.
He narrowed his eyes on the two men speaking outside the tent.
“Why a coconut?” the second man asked.
“I split her lip when I hit her. She said it’s good for healing skin.”
John wasn’t aware he’d moved until he was moving toward them. By the time the one closest to the tent realized his friend was now gone, it was too late for him, too.
John’s hand hesitated on the tent flap. The urge to check on Juniper, to assure himself she was alive and well, was almost overpowering. But he needed to take care of the other three men before he allowed himself to be reassured. Disable the threat, then check the hostage.
With more effort than he would have thought possible, he turned away from the tent and headed toward the other men.
One man eked out a small sound as he fell. It worked as a warning to the others who caught sight of John and began to charge toward him together, machine guns fumbling in fingers that were suddenly too thick. John could practically hear what they were thinking as their fear and glee mingled together. An American soldier in their camp, and he was alone with no discernable weapon. What a prize he would be!
He stood still as they advanced, after assuring himself they were far too slow on the draw to do any damage to him or Juniper by mistake. And then it was as if they both realized at once there must be some reason he didn’t move, some reason he stood there, awaiting their advance. Or maybe it was his placid expression that warded them off. He didn’t smile. That would be psychotic. It wasn’t as if he enjoyed what was about to happen. It was merely that he’d long ago accepted killing as part of his duty. Sometimes he could protect and serve without any casualties. Other times, like now when Juniper’s health and safety hung in the balance, there would be the opposite outcome.
The two Sandinista’s stopped short, bracing their weapons across their chests as they regarded him.
“What are you doing here?” the first one asked in badly broken English. John decided to rescue them both by answering in Spanish so there’d be no mistakes.
“ Vine por la chica. ” I came for the girl.
“Alone?” the second man said, incredulous. His eyes began to skitter the edges of the camp, certain backup must be hiding in the jungle.
John said nothing because he owed them nothing, not an answer, not the truth.
“You can’t have her,” the first man said, regaining some bravado as he remembered his gun and leveled it at John’s chest.
“She’s ours now,” the second man agreed, and he also leveled his gun on John.
For his part, John felt a small measure of relief. He would have killed them regardless, but it went against the grain to take out two men without a fight, especially when his skills made the playing field so uneven.
“Russian triggers are sticky,” he warned them, and then dove between them as they began to fire—slow, too slow to hit him. One of their triggers did stick and the man cursed, the curse ending on a scream when John sliced through his Achilles tendon with his left hand, slicing the Achilles tendon of the man on his right simultaneously.
The one on his right reached wildly for his injured leg, spraying the ground inches from John with bullets in his haste to ease the pain. John dodged out of the way and disarmed the man, snapping his wrist free of its socket as he fell. He jammed the gun and used the butt of it to slam into the other man’s nose.
A few seconds later it was over, the camp was silent. John wasn’t even winded. He closed his eyes, listening, observing with his tracker instincts. For now, no other soldiers were nearby. How long that would last he couldn’t say. This camp had been a splintered portion of a much larger one. The Sandinistas were breaking apart in order to maintain cover as they slid into Honduras. There were more out there, waiting. Hoping for their chance to attack. The sooner they began to move, the better.
He faced the tent and took a breath. Now that the danger was on pause, he felt a strange sense of foreboding he couldn’t put a name to. It was time to retrieve Juniper, to get her out of here, to carry her to safety. There was no time for hesitation, and yet he dithered, he who never vacillated or dallied now stood shifting from foot to foot, as uncomfortable as any of the green pups who paused anxiously outside his tent. And that was the mysterious something he hadn’t been able to put his finger on. He was afraid. Of Juniper Dunbar. Afraid she’d still be angry at him, afraid she’d blame him for her kidnap, afraid she might be so hurt beyond repair he might lack the skills to put her back together again.
Patting the book in his pocket for reassurance, he sucked up his courage and took a step toward the tent.