Yeager's Getaway by Scott Bell

Author:Scott Bell [Bell, Scott]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Red Adept Publishing, LLC
Published: 2018-11-06T05:00:00+00:00

MOLOKAI FOREST RESERVE

Sunday, 9 May

1548 Local

Yeager braced for impact when an AK opened up from the bottom of the hill. His first thought was that the third man had made an appearance. He had to reconsider when no rounds impacted his position. Instead, greenery erupted near the place where he suspected the left flanker was hiding.

The man leaped from cover, popping out of the low grass like a jack-in-the-box, twisting with a hand held against his back. He ripped off a burst downhill, firing one-handed and spraying lead into the trees—wild, un-aimed fire. Dust flew from the man’s flak jacket, and red sprayed from his throat as more rounds from the shooter down below impacted him.

Pettigrew. Who else could it be?

Yeager put the top of the front sight at knee level and added his own counterpoint to the deadly barrage hammering the enemy soldier. Pummeled from above and below, the soldier pirouetted in an almost delicate fashion, blood spraying in an arc from a huge hole in his neck.

The right-hand flanker jumped up as well. He stitched a burst into the tree near Yeager’s cheek, turned, and ran at an oblique across the face of the hill—away from both Yeager and Pettigrew. Yeager chased him with a pair of snap shots, but the distance, angle, and speed of the running man worked against him. Pettigrew—assuming that was who it was—sent a few rounds in that direction. Holding hard against the tree, Yeager braced his rifle, led the target, and... crack!

The soldier dropped like a bag of rocks.

Winston Pettigrew stepped out into the open and waved his weapon overhead in an exaggerated all-clear signal. Yeager stalked, stiff legged, down the hill. He paused by the left flanker, who was clearly dead, and stripped the man’s body of extra ammo. He helped himself to the backpack as well. A quick examination revealed it contained some water and energy bars. Yeager’s stomach grumbled at the sight.

Pettigrew had hiked toward the right side. He stood near the spot where the second man had gone down and scratched his head, wearing a puzzled expression, as if he’d misplaced his reading glasses. When Yeager trekked across the hill, Pettigrew looked up. “It was here, right?”

“Near enough.”

Hunters often misjudged the spot where game had dropped. Birds fell into brush when shot and sometimes disappeared as if they’d fallen into the earth. Deer would go down from the first strike, then recover and run away before the hunter reached them, leaving a blood trail and nothing else. Wounded men were the same, though when one was well armed, trailing him into the brush was a stupid as poking along after a wounded tiger.

“Watch your ass,” Yeager growled. “He could be sighting in on you right now.”

Pettigrew grunted and dropped to one knee. Yeager joined him. The brush came to chest level, offering concealment if not cover. Nothing moved across the open hills except from the sway of a light breeze.

Sweat dripped off Yeager’s nose. “Glad you came along when you did.

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