Direct Fire Read online

  His goal was to reach the town of Badin by sunrise, which would be around six-thirty. His walk was surprisingly uneventful other than knowing he was going to have to check himself for ticks when he reached a hospitable location. He spent the balance of his time wondering about Alex Russell and why she had flipped on him so awkwardly. She’d acted like a different person when he returned from dropping the bodies of the men she had shot. He remembered her affect when he was attempting to inspect the two men in Savage’s backyard. She was worried about potential backlash on her, but then why had she taken the shot? Mahegan had observed that the military policeman’s pistol was in his hand. It was conceivable, however, that while Mahegan was confronting the man who had fallen inside the COOP, Alex was up top placing the man’s pistol back in his hand. Perhaps she had drawn down on him because she had recognized him, or he had recognized her.

  A few twigs snapped him in the face as he felt the ground begin to slope downward. Thus far, he had been on a fairly steady climb with some level spots in the middle. His pace count put him about four and a half miles from where he had started. The river, by his estimation, would be another quarter to half mile down the slope. He navigated the terrain, still wondering about Alex. She was an enigma. Initially, she was all about saving him, protecting him so that they could find Savage, O’Malley, and Owens. Then, suddenly, she had a pistol in his face, asking about Operation Groomsman, a cluster if he had ever seen one.

  Baghdadi had most likely placed his phone and a voice recording inside the back of one of the SUVs, deceiving American technology into believing he was in the convoy. Mahegan had found the splintered remnants of Baghdadi’s phone and a chip that indicated it was his. The document exploitation team had found a single picture of Baghdadi on the cut-out cell phone. It was a photo of him smiling and flipping the bird to the camera, and of course to anyone looking at the image. That pretty much confirmed the idea that Baghdadi had duped the American intelligence system.

  Perhaps Alex felt remorse for giving Savage the “valid target” confirmation. But then again, she was simply basing her professional judgment on the intelligence and information provided at the time. But guilt weighed on people differently, particularly if there was a personal connection.

  As Mahegan navigated the slope and approached the expanse of the river, he was certain that he had not seen the last of Alex Russell.

  Wading thigh deep in the river, he made sure his Sig Sauer Tribal was secure and began a simple Australian crawl directly toward the far bank.

  The water was cool but consistent with the air temperature, some fog lifting off the surface in cloudy puffs of mist. Ghosts of Mahegan’s past escaping, perhaps. As he pulled through the water he felt the scar on his left deltoid bite back at him. The scar was left by a chunk of metal blown from his best friend’s vehicle during a roadside bomb attack. Mahegan figured that if his wound never healed, then he would never forget Sergeant Wesley Colgate. Even if it did heal, Colgate remained a fixture in his life, a pivot point for so many things. That day, Mahegan had killed an enemy prisoner of war still handcuffed, albeit attempting to escape by charging Mahegan. Nonetheless, the Army Inspector General was bent on dishing out a dishonorable discharge to Mahegan. And while his present life path rotated around that one night, there were many other nights when anything similar might have happened.

  Such as Operation Groomsman, Mahegan figured. He remembered pawing through the remnants of the attack. With each charred body, each female passenger, each child, Mahegan’s worst fears were confirmed. Savage had ordered the strike on the wrong target. Al-Baghdadi had tricked them. It was a twofer for the terrorist leader. Not only did he dodge a missile, he also set a trap for the Americans to kill innocent bystanders. It was great theater. In all societies there was nothing more joyous or sacred than a wedding. The beginning of joined lives and potentially new lives to be created. And here the Americans had squelched it all with a few precision guided bombs to his cell phone. Like candles snuffed, the lives were no more. Al-Baghdadi couldn’t care less other than the theatrical effect his misdirection had created.

  The Americans issued a statement saying that it was a “valid target.” Then they retracted the statement. Then the Army Inspector General conducted an investigation. Given the wide latitude of the IG, he went after midlevel officers who had the responsibility of vetting the intelligence. Mahegan remembered that two majors and a colonel had been demoted. Perhaps it was warranted, who knew? But a female military intelligence captain had been spared, he remembered. Something caught in the back of his mind.

  And there was Alex Russell. Why would she instantly flip on Mahegan? The man needed medical attention, and as soon as he was able he would make an anonymous call to the closest police department, tipping them as to the location of the two men.

  Mahegan waded in the water, assessing the best place to step onto the steep bank. He spotted an area about thirty yards upstream and swam to that. He was able to stand in knee-deep water and pull himself out of the river using tree roots and vines. The undergrowth was thick, but he powered through the renowned thorny vines that infantrymen had dubiously labled, “wait a minute vines.” They ripped through his skin and clothing. Soon he was clear of the bank and walking through knee-high grass. A dull oval of light bounced against the early morning clouds. It had to be Badin’s small downtown reflecting its wakening moments upward.

  As he walked the town glow diminished and the edge of morning began creeping toward him, erasing the darkness and shedding dim light on what had been a treacherous path. He could feel the ticks crawling on his skin and wanting to burrow. Figuring it would be a waste of time until he got completely out of the field, he chose not to slow down and remove the bloodsuckers just yet.

  As he approached the road, two vehicles sped past him without slowing. One was a Ford pickup truck and the other was a sheriff’s white and tan cruiser with a rack on the top. They turned to the left, so Mahegan angled to the right. He figured that, like any small town, there were probably two decent restaurants people frequented. The sheriff was heading to breakfast, he was certain, and Mahegan didn’t need to be seen by the sheriff looking like he did. If there truly was an all-points bulletin out, Mahegan probably should just forage and not risk being seen in public. But he needed to eat. It had been a long night, and he liked his chances at the north end of town, the opposite direction of the sheriff.

  He walked through a field and saw a family restaurant at the end of the block. Its light was on and a red OPEN sign flickered twice and then held steady. Mahegan figured it was six a.m., and the town of Badin was waking up. He walked to the restaurant door, nodded at the man taking chairs off the tables, and opened the door. The white-haired man took a second to assess Mahegan and then nodded, most likely figuring he was a hunter. It was deer season and Mahegan could very well have been hunting. The man was dressed in cook whites and carrying a dingy dish rag he was using to wipe down the tables.

  “Been spotlighting?” the man asked him. “Because if you have, I won’t serve ya.”

  Mahegan shook his head. “Truck issues. Had to walk here.”

  “Looks like you swam,” the man said. He turned his head when the lights in the kitchen came on. There were two women tying aprons and preparing to cook.

  “Did a little of that, too,” Mahegan said.

  “All right. Have a seat. Sheriff usually flips a coin. He either comes here or goes to Sammy’s at the end of the street. If he ain’t here by now, he’s probably at Sammy’s. Just letting you know I know where the sheriff is.”

  “Saw him go there. I just want to order some food and make a phone call.”

  “Assuming you’ve got a cell phone. No freebies here. What can I get you?”

  Mahegan ordered a full breakfast of pancakes, two eggs over easy, bacon, hash browns, and orange juice. He was never much of a coffee person, but he’d just swum through the cool waters of the Yadkin River and so he ordered a cup of coffee, also. The food arrived
quickly as did the coffee. Mahegan ate in less than ten minutes, pulled some wet ten-dollar bills from his pocket, and laid two on the table. He figured his tab was less than fifteen dollars and he would overtip in hopes that the proprietor would keep quiet. Doubtful, but even if it bought him a few minutes, that might be all he needed.

  He stepped outside and turned to the north, away from Sammy’s and the sheriff, and walked diagonally across the street to what he could now see was a park that overlooked the river. Ensuring he was out of view of the diner in which he just ate, Mahegan removed from his cargo pocket his government-issued cell phone, which he kept in a protective pouch along with his pistol. He continued walking north, following the river, thinking that worst case he could seek refuge in the dense brush and perhaps even the river if the police came after him now. He knew that he could make himself invisible in the Uwharrie National Forest, where he had trained so many times before.

  Looking at his phone, he unlocked the screen and stared at the red and white candy-stripe image of the Zebra app that had been his lifeline to his teammates, past and present. Savage, O’Malley, and Owens had been there to support him just as he had been there to support them. Now, the app and the phone seemed to be a liability. The enemy, whoever that might be, most likely knew where he was exactly at this moment. If they were smart, and they certainly seemed to be, they would make anonymous calls to the local police departments to chase him down wherever he went.

  He called the Stanly County Police Department and reported the two military policemen as dead or wounded and gave them as precise a location as possible. It was a brief call, and the young deputy who answered the phone continued talking as Mahegan hung up. Then he did the unthinkable.

  He opened the Zebra app and hit the ZERO OUT function, which removed what little data were stored on the SIM card. He removed the SIM card, snapped it in half, slipped one half into his cargo pocket and the other half back into the slot, closed the SIM card door, and palmed the phone. He felt its weight, then placed his index finger along the side of it, his thumb on top, and he flung the phone into the Yadkin River as if he were an outfielder making a play at home plate after catching a fly ball on the warning track. He heard the phone land with an ominous plunk into the current.

  Standing there briefly, Mahegan felt the nakedness that comes with being without communications. While never reliant on communications devices, he was reliant on situational awareness. Technology aided that greatly. Real-time situational awareness, knowing exactly what was happening at the moment it was happening, was a critical necessity in combat. Devoid of technology, especially the Zebra app, he would continue to rely upon his instincts and his last known orders, which were to move to the sound of the guns, so to speak. Mahegan was a civilian and had no true orders, but his calling derived from his unit bond ordered him to find Savage, O’Malley, and Owens.

  That was his mission.

  He stood behind a large oak tree at the very north end of the town, having moved another quarter mile away from where he had tossed his phone into the river. As he predicted, the sheriff’s car came to a screeching halt in front of the Main Street diner where he had just finished breakfast.

  Knowing the owner would rather stay tight with the sheriff than protect a deranged looking drifter, Mahegan followed a trail behind a stand of pine trees and found a hollow. He took ten minutes to inspect his body for ticks, removing a total of seven. Then, emerging onto the road, he spotted a gas station a quarter mile away and walked toward the busy venue. Drivers were gassing up, customers were buying coffee and donuts, and hunters were prepping for the kill. He approached the business from the rear, using a low ditch that fed into the river. He heard sirens in the distance, most likely converging on his last known whereabouts. A helicopter chopped in from the south, its blades a reminder of the observation threat from above.

  An air pump was behind the gas station along with a nonoperational car wash. A white Subaru Crosstrek was at the pump. Subaru was a subdivision of Fuji Heavy Industries in Japan. He had flown in aircraft made by Fuji but licensed to Boeing or Lockheed Martin. Subaru had started out as a tax write-off for the company but emerged into a viable enterprise. The car was packed with camping gear, tents, sleeping bags, propane stoves, and backpacks. It was that time of year to be in the North Carolina Blue Ridge Mountains. The gold and orange hues of autumn blanketed the rolling terrain.

  He walked around the vehicle where he found a young woman squatting next to the left front tire, cursing.

  “Help you?” Mahegan said.

  “Damn flat,” the woman said. Her voice was sharp. She had short hair that naturally ranged somewhere between blond and brunette. Mahegan guessed she was in her midtwenties. She was dressed in cargo shorts, Teva hiking shoes with vents along the side, and a light green tank top with a sports bra showing over each shoulder.

  “Got the spare?” he asked. “That’s like using a coffee cup to bail water from a sinking boat.”

  She continued to hold the air pump against the valve in a vain attempt to fill the flat tire.

  “Yeah, but no jack.”

  “I think we can work around that,” Mahegan said. “Mind if I grab the tire?”

  She paused, looked up at him. Green eyes, perfectly pursed lips, clean face with a smattering of freckles.

  “Nobody does this shit for free. What do you want, sex?”

  “Just a ride,” Mahegan said. “If you’re headed my way.”

  She looked around, perhaps wishing that she had someone with her.

  “You get my good tire on here and you’ve got a deal. I carry a pistol, and if you have thoughts of anything beyond a ride, just be aware that I’m a damn good shot.”

  “No thoughts of anything but a ride. My name is Jake,” he said.

  She stood and reached out her hand, which Mahegan shook. “Cassie. Leave it at that for now. I’m headed to Sparta. Meeting some friends to hike the App Trail. Where are you going?”

  “Asheville for now.”

  “Okay, let’s see what you can do.”

  Cassie walked behind the Subaru and opened the rear hatch, then unloaded half her camping gear. She lifted the floorboard to reveal a full-size wheel in the well.

  “The actual tire,” Mahegan said. But he was looking at a muddy pair of Doc Martens, maybe his size, stacked beyond the bay for the spare tire. She had camping gear as well, but he lodged the information in his mind that there was a guy somewhere in the picture.

  “Smartest thing I’ve done is get the full tire instead of that stupid fake one.”

  Mahegan unscrewed the wing nut and lifted the tire out. “A full-size tire doesn’t do any good without a jack, you know?”

  “Long story. Bottom line is, the jack is in my garage in Fayetteville. Was taking the shortcut to I-40 and took some time in Uwharrie yesterday. Must have run over a nail or something.”

  “Fayetteville? You military?”

  “I am. On leave for a few days.” She assessed him for a few seconds. “You might have been former military, but right now you look like something out of a horror flick. Can’t believe I’m standing here talking to you.”

  “I had a rough night. Now let’s get this tire on.”

  Mahegan rolled the tire to the left front, grabbed the lug wrench, and removed the nuts from the existing wheel, placing them carefully to the side.

  “Okay, I’m going to lift your front end up, and I want you to pull that tire off. Then I’ll put the front end down while you get ready to slide the new tire on.”

  “You’re going to lift my front end?”

  “Well, you know, the car’s front end,” Mahegan said.

  She blushed. “I know what you’re talking about. That’s a heavy engine you’re going to be lifting.”

  “Engine looks fine to me,” Mahegan said. “Let’s get to work.”

  She positioned the wheel, and Mahegan pretended he was doing a dead lift with his hands under the front bumper. He pushed up from a squatting posi
tion, and his arms and shoulders strained, but he could feel the tire come off the ground.

  “Now,” he said through gritted teeth. She worked the tire back and forth across the threaded wheel bolts until it came free.

  “Got it,” she said.

  Mahegan lowered the car and took a few deep breaths.

  “Ready?”

  “Roger,” Cassie said.

  He did another squat and then lifted the car again, straining and holding it as still as possible as she fumbled with the heavy tire against the wheel bolts. A couple of “damnits” later, she said, “Okay.”

  Mahegan lowered the front end again and came around the driver’s side. He placed the lug nuts on the bolts and threaded them as far as he could. Then he used the lug wrench and tightened them as much as possible, then handed Cassie the wrench.

  “One more time. Crank down on each nut as hard as you can so the tire’s straight. Won’t do us much good if this thing is wobbling and falls off.”

  He lifted again, and she was quick this time. With each tightening, though, he could feel the downward tug of the wrench. The scar in his left deltoid was about to tell him enough was enough when she said, “Done.”

  He lowered the car. He put the old tire in the compartment and then they repacked the back, where he took further inventory of her supplies. There was a box of Meals Ready to Eat, or MREs. These were high-calorie combat rations. He also saw a shotgun stuffed in a camouflaged carrying case along with two boxes of buckshot ammunition. Buckshot was for home defense, mostly. Cassie wasn’t going bird hunting. Perhaps she’d had a bad experience when camping in the past. Conversely, there were also two tennis rackets and a can of unopened tennis balls.

  “I see you taking inventory, Jake. Mind your own business.”

  “Just making sure you’re a safe ride, is all,” he said.

  That got the first smile out of Cassie. It was a full grin showing good teeth and a perfect dimple on her right side.

  “You’re all about the ride, aren’t you? Well, let’s ride.”