Target Viper by Ross Sidor

Author:Ross Sidor [Sidor, Ross]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2020-02-21T22:00:00+00:00

SIXTEEN

OVER COLOMBIA; BOGOTA

They were back in the air less than an hour later, flying from Medellin to Bogotá aboard a Colombian Air Force Fokker VIP transport. The sky gradually turned a dreary gray with the first traces of light breaking through the cracks.

Despite functioning on less than nine combined hours of sleep over the last two days, Avery had no difficulty staying awake. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw the masked man with the bullet strike against the boy’s head and the terror on the faces of his mother and sisters.

Avery chugged a Monster energy drink to ward off sleep for a while longer. He stared at the back of the empty seat in front of him and was careful not to turn his head to the right so he would not have to face his reflection against the surface of the window eight inches away.

Aguilar and his men were asleep in the back of the cabin. Avery supposed that Aguilar, completely unfazed, must have seen and endured far worse. After all, Aguilar had been fighting this dirty war, where every life was cheap and expendable, for the best part of the past fifteen years.

Avery had barely been here ten days, and it was already taking a heavy toll on him. That bottle of Jameson back home sounded tempting right now. That worried Avery most because he needed to keep his thoughts focused on the task of finding, fixing, and finishing the Viper before more people died. After everything, despite everything, he did not intend on leaving behind unfinished business here.

Seated across the aisle from Avery, Daniel drank Cuban rum from a lowball glass. As quickly as he downed it, he refilled the glass. Avery had declined Daniel’s offer of a drink earlier, but only after a moment’s hesitation. They had not exchanged words since.

For now, Avery wanted to confront the repercussions of his decisions sober and head on, allow it to eat away at his soul. The punishment and turmoil he would inflict on himself was the least he deserved, or so he figured.

He also knew that if he started drinking now, he stood little chance of stopping, not for a couple days, maybe longer. Best not to succumb until he was back home, alone. He had never been drunk on an op before, never let it interfere with his work, and he would be damned if he was going to start now because of some scumbags in Medellin.

At least his stomach had finally settled down. He had thrown up shortly after take-off. His body had continued to heave and go through the motions even after his stomach had purged its contents, leaving him on the floor to collect himself and ride out the painful spasms seizing his thorax. After, he wondered what the hell was wrong with him because he could not recall another time having this visceral a reaction to witnessing or taking part in an act of violence. He had long since thought himself desensitized, if not lacking in the humanity department altogether.

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