Last Son of the War God by Clay Martin

Author:Clay Martin [Martin, Clay]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781948239820
Publisher: WildBlue Press
Published: 2019-08-20T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Mike awoke at the first rays of dawn, fully rested for the first time since his ordeal began. He munched a granola bar, folded the wrapper neatly into his pocket, and headed out to see what his quarry would do today. Finding a vantage point on a rock outcropping well above the camp, he lay down to watch. Automatic rifles changed the dynamic, and it made a random hit a lot more likely. Out of caution, he positioned himself much further away today than in the recent past. No point in letting some dickhead get lucky by accident.

He was enthused to see the tribesmen all awake and facing out in a makeshift perimeter. It looked like they got the message after all. There was a charred body in the remains of a burned out sleeping bag, so he could chalk that up to a success. Wounded would have been better in many ways, it would have tied up more resources. But he would settle for dead. Dead was good too.

Watching, he wondered what would happen next. Maybe they would come after him again, and maybe they were broken. If they made a move to walk out of here, he would have to go cut them off. No one gets to leave the party until it’s over. If they stayed in their little perimeter, they would eventually run out of water, which offered its own opportunities. Where the fuck was the Sheriff? His minions couldn’t keep absorbing losses with him not present, it would look bad on his leadership. And Mike really wanted to kill him out here in the wilderness. Preferably with one of his own men’s guns. Let the FBI run forensics on that, see how the story shakes out.

“Ah, here he comes” Mike mused, watching a dirt cloud form up the road. As long as he wasn’t in a van, everything was fine. It wouldn’t do to have the capability to take everyone out at once. A brown sedan congealed into view, which was curious to say the least. Personal car perhaps? Didn’t want to risk a 300 Norma taking out the Crown Vic? That would make things easier, thank you.

As Mike was formulating a new strategy, a second vehicle appeared on the horizon. Mike focused his binoculars, and his happiness evaporated. A truck, but more importantly a truck with kennels on the back. The Sheriff had brought in the dogs. Fuck!

Mike hated dogs. At least he did if they were on his trail. Once a year or so, a training event would be against dogs. It did double duty, teaching the dog guys how to pursue, and the Team guys how to evade. From day one at SERE school though, one lesson remained. You cannot beat a dog. No one can. No neat running water trick, no doubling back, and on a long enough timeline, not enough speed or head start. You can’t hide your trail, and you can’t outrun them forever. The only thing you can do with any hope of success, is beat the handler.

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