Tom Clancy’s Ghost Recon Wildlands: Dark Waters by Richard Dansky

Author:Richard Dansky
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Titan Books

* * *

Weaver was already running before Nomad said a word. The blast from the rocket launcher staggered him; the one from the fuel tank going up flung him ten feet along the jungle floor. He skidded to a stop. “Nomad? Do you copy?”

There was no answer.

“Shit.” He pulled himself up off the ground, keeping low, and ducked behind a fallen log half-absorbed by an ornate collection of shelf fungi. Through the trees, he could see enemy soldiers moving purposefully off the road. They were in no hurry; they had numbers on their side, and they had a good read on what they were up against.

As Weaver watched, a soldier stooped, disarmed one of Nomad’s remaining booby traps and kept moving with his sweep. If they kept moving, sooner or later they’d flush him out from under cover or out of the jungle into the village, at which point he’d get lit up. So the only option was go wide.

Staying low, he sidestepped left, following the log as long as he could. From its jagged base he crawled over behind another tree, then another. A quick look up told him that the searchers were advancing. There was a rustle in the leaves back toward the road, and three of the soldiers opened fire. Something shrieked, and then the soldier who’d disarmed the trap stepped forward to poke at the target. He came away a minute later with a mass of bloody fur in his hand, some sort of rodent caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, but evidence that the soldiers had hair triggers and very good aim.

The soldiers kept walking, and Weaver kept sidling left. They were close now, moving almost parallel to him. He edged farther back, pressing himself into the dirt. Something crawled onto his face and up his cheek. He held still, praying it wasn’t poisonous, that it wouldn’t bite, that it didn’t have friends.

It paused, just below his left eye, and then started moving again.

Weaver held still. He’d been trained for moments like this. No movement, no reaction, no giving in to the urge to just quickly reach up and swipe the damn thing off his face. Nothing that could spoil the shot.

Except this time, he’d be on the receiving end.

Weaver could hear the soldiers’ voices now, chattering back and forth. He’d picked up enough Spanish to know what they were talking about, chatter about finding and killing whoever had hit the camp, and then taking any remaining frustration out on the village. They weren’t in a hurry, either. They had enough time to do the job right.

The insect moved again. Weaver thought about all the crap he’d been giving Holt about the local wildlife and silently told himself that this was karma, and the best way to pay it off was to just sit there and take it as the soldiers walked past.

They walked past, and they kept walking.

Weaver let out a tiny sigh of relief. He let them get ten yards past him, then began sliding parallel to the road, away from the village.

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