The Suicide King by Chris Fritschi

Author:Chris Fritschi [Fritschi, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-04-02T23:00:00+00:00

Tate watched the Colombian leader herd several armed civilians into cover behind the troop truck. He and his team were entirely forgotten at the moment.

“Monkhouse,” said Tate into his mike, “you’re up.”

Monkhouse smiled at Tate through a face caked with dirt and sweat as he squatted by the door holding the coffee can. He had resealed with duct tape from his backpack and new, stronger wire was wrapped through the detonators retention pin.

Tate cracked open the door and Monkhouse lobbed the can far into the street, where it landed near the truck. The loops of wire at Monkhouse’s feet played out as the can bounced once and rolled under the truck. It veered to the right and bumped up against the far rear tire.

Without pausing, Monkhouse yanked the wire, pulling the retention pin free, releasing the coiled spring inside the detonator. Almost instantaneously, the spring drove the pointed striker rod into the percussion cap, igniting a small charge.

The charge exploded, transferring its heat and shockwave into the C-4 with exactly the right force to set it off. The explosion shredded the thick tires and lifted the rear of the troop truck into the air.

“Go, go, go,” shouted Tate and he dashed out the door with the rest of the team close behind. They came around the back of the battered truck using the thick plume of smoke and dust to conceal their movement.

As the wind cleared the air four men in fatigues took shape spread out on the street.

“Wesson,” said Tate, “cover those windows.”

Just as she brought her weapon to her shoulder, someone tossed a rife out a window where it clattered in the dirt. A moment later, several more guns were tossed out. Doors opened and people walked out with their hands stretched above their heads.

Unlike the soldiers in the street, these people looked to be locals. One of them was an old man who kept apologizing, “Lo siento, lo siento.”

The team moved quickly, picking up weapons and binding arms behind their backs.

“Rosse, check these people out,” said Tate. “Then see what shape these soldiers are in. Monkhouse, see if that truck still runs and knock a hole in those cars.”

Monkhouse walked around the back of the troop truck. Both rear tires were shredded. The rims and axel were bent upwards and buried in the body of the truck.

“In case anyone asks,” he said, “it was like this when I found it.”

Monkhouse climbed into the cab of the truck and started it up. There was a shriek of grinding metal from the rear axle before it snapped. He shoved the truck into gear and the front tires started turning. The truck limped up to what was left of the blockade of cars. The fire had burned itself out, leaving charred husks.

Monkhouse nosed the wide, steel bumper of the truck against the cars and pushed on the gas pedal. Even badly damaged, the truck easily bullied its way through the cars, clearing the way up the street.

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