"Doghound? Rattlesnake calling Doghound… Big Bird… Big Bird? Coppersmith? Coppersmith? Coppersmith, do you copy…?"
Edward went down the list on his radio, calling his subordinates one by one, but no one answered. He turned to stare into the rain- and fog-shrouded jungle. His men—all wiped out? Impossible. But if not, why was no one responding?
Edward still couldn't believe it. His men weren't pushovers.
"Falcon to Rattlesnake, Falcon to Rattlesnake…"
Base comms crackled in. Edward replied, "Rattlesnake here. What's the situation?"
"Rattlesnake, we're pulling out. The live stream is ending early…"
At base comms, the soldier codenamed Falcon relayed the employer's latest decision. Everything happening in the jungle had thoroughly spooked Nick. He hadn't expected two accidental intruders—prey, no less—not only to counterkill a bunch of hunters, but to take out a good number of his security too.
Nick was scared. He decided to end the broadcast early—there weren't many hunters left anyway.
"Rattlesnake copies. Send birds to extract me. Coordinates are \*\*\*\*\*\*."
Edward cut the transmission in irritation, then started calling his men one by one.
Some answered. Others were silent as the grave. Edward suspected those ones might have stayed here forever.
Men trickled back. In the distance, rotors thumped.
…
In the cave, Steve Owen's group reached their final decision. He and Monica were going after the Doghead Society. If they hadn't known, that would be one thing. But now that they did, there was no way Steve Owen would let that scum live. If he had the strength, he'd hunt down everyone with that doghead tattoo worldwide and take them out one by one.
"I'll take you to the nearest village," John Rambo said to Ina. He wasn't easy to get along with, and though he didn't say much, the deep, bone-deep indifference to life in his eyes was unmistakable.
Even so, he chose to secure Ina's safety first. Ina needed him. He wanted revenge too, but he chose between vengeance and protecting Ina.
Timid little Ina was just ten. She couldn't make decisions. She said her goodbyes quietly, following Rambo away with many a backward glance. Steve Owen and Monica said farewell to Ina and to Carol in turn. The two of them would seek revenge; Rambo would get Ina and Carol safely to a village.
Steve Owen tossed Monica the kit he'd prepared for her. She checked it with practiced ease, and they topped off their magazines.
"Ready?"
"Of course. Let's send those bastards straight to hell."
They shared a sharp smile. With weapons in hand, a different aura rose off Monica. She wasn't a pregnant woman now, not someone's wife, but a killer—a revenant bent on vengeance.
The rain still fell. Edward looked over the men beside him. Those who had responded earlier had returned; with him there were only six. So where were the other nine? All of them dead in this damned jungle?
Edward was furious. So many dead. He didn't want to leave. His squad wasn't like other merc outfits. In those, mercs were cannon fodder—die and replace. In his squad, the men were comrades from the same unit.
But he had to go. The employer is god—that's the mercenary rule. He remembered that guy's face. He wouldn't let Steve Owen go. He'd repay this blood debt.
Steve Owen didn't know he'd landed on someone's kill list. Even if he did, he wouldn't care. Who killed whom was far from decided.
…
In a clearing, two helicopters thumped into view, rotor wash bending the grass and brush. Edward had an AK-74U slung across his chest. The others formed a defensive ring on one knee at the perimeter, covering the landing.
Edward's hawk-like eyes swept the jungle. He didn't think that guy had the guts to try stopping their exfil, but he hoped he'd show. They could settle this.
The grass rippled like waves under the downdraft. The man didn't appear. Disappointed, Edward gestured. The perimeter rose to board. Someone couldn't help cursing—two birds in, and now they couldn't even fill one going out.
Pop pop—
Pop pop pop—
Gunfire cracked out of nowhere. The two men closest to the helicopters dropped where they stood.
"Contact, five o'clock!"
Edward shouted for everyone to get down and fired back toward the muzzle flashes. The rest didn't need orders—they returned fire at once.
Steve Owen and Monica poured rounds in as they advanced, leapfrogging to cover each other. Bullets snapped past Monica, but she wasn't afraid—she felt a little thrill. She'd only been out of this bullet-swept life for a few months, but it felt like ages. As that old sense of rhythm returned between them, light flared in her eyes.
Pop pop—pop pop pop—
Another man fell. He tried to get back up—only to take a finisher to the head. Steve Owen whistled at the teamwork; Monica tossed back a sultry glance.
They closed fast. Their ammo wouldn't allow a long firefight.
Edward flattened himself and signed with the two men left. He was sure there were only two enemies—but their shooting was vicious.
After a flurry of hand signals, he told his men what he was about to do and counted them in. He yanked a grenade's pin and lobbed it toward the source of fire.
Something arced through the air. Steve Owen didn't need to guess. Others might stop firing to dive for cover, breaking their rhythm. He didn't.
He specialized in hitting moving targets. Bullet time on—the grenade's path was crystal clear. He led the shot and squeezed. The grenade shattered midair.
The next second, the three who'd been about to pop up under cover of the blast raised their heads and met a merciless crossfire from Steve Owen and Monica.
Edward took a round in the shoulder. There was no point trying to engage multiple targets simultaneously; bullet time gave Steve Owen enough space to bag the grenade, then clean up.
Edward took one in the shoulder; the next man went down; Monica neatly dropped the other.
All six targets hit the deck. Steve Owen and Monica closed in with short, quick steps. Monica habitually moved to kick weapons away. Steve Owen had no intention of leaving survivors—he finished them from a distance.
The fight had erupted suddenly and ended in under a minute. Edward, shot in the shoulder, rolled over in time to see a gut-shot subordinate wrench a grenade pin free through the pain. The man hid it behind his back, clearly intending to take the attackers with him.
Seeing Edward, the man gave a twisted smile. Edward felt his heart clench—only for his subordinate to be denied even that. From a distance, Steve Owen put a bullet through the man's head. The body slumped back; a moment later, a bang jolted it up again.
"No—"
Edward's teeth ground in rage—only to meet Steve Owen's cold, implacable gaze.
______
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