Deadly Harvest (Mitch Kearns Combat Tracker Series Book 5) by Sawyer JT

Author:Sawyer, JT [Sawyer, JT]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2017-03-05T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

Marco had just arrived at the final waypoint where he was supposed to link up with his teammate. He’d only had three miles to hike from yesterday’s camp and he left at first light. The last two nights had seen him sleeping restlessly despite his fatigue and the sooner he saw another friendly face the better. His attempts to pass the time around the evening campfire ranged from half-hearted attempts at carving traps to humming old songs to reminiscing about nights of debauchery in far-flung locales.

Having grown up on the streets of Riverside, California, he knew how to survive in the urban jungle but the monotonous silence of the indifferent forest coupled with his isolation grated upon his soul. He couldn’t wait for the course to be over, so he could get a shower then hit a bar.

The only environment Marco enjoyed frequenting in their training operations around the globe was the tropics. With the abundance of wildlife, endless water, fishing, and indigenous cultures, he had grown at ease in that setting. Particularly in Thailand, where his jungle stints often ended with a weeklong furlough amongst the many brothels dotting the white beaches around Pattaya. The thought of going to a steakhouse in the largely conservative Mormon city of Boise just didn’t have the same appeal and was one more thing that detracted from his enjoyment of this course.

He had already radioed in to Waline and gotten his instructions for the day. Feeling the need to keep busy, he went about preparing a new lean-to shelter not far from a boulder-strewn ridge. There was no indication of who amongst his twelve teammates he’d be meeting up with and he hoped it was someone with more experience afield than him since the constant rumblings of his stomach were almost as great as his disdain for his surroundings.

As he went about gathering a stout ridgepole for his shelter, he scanned the low ground below him. He had selected this location out of habit as it provided him with the tactical advantage of seeing anyone coming from at least three directions. The area behind him to the north was choked in a doghair thicket of young spruce trees and he knew anyone traveling through that torturous terrain was sure to make noise.

Hoisting up a ten-foot-long branch from the ground, he thought he saw movement fifty yards to his right. The early morning light was still filtering through the canopy of conifers and he squinted at a cluster of low shrubs overlooking the ridge. Suspecting it was just a flock of birds that must have hastily departed, he held the stout branch in both hands, the pungent odor of moss and moldy wood on the underside filling his nostrils. Dragging the end of the log free from its earthy grip, he noticed movement from the same area again. It was subtle but his well-trained eye, honed from years of combat, drew his attention to the shrubs. He lowered the log and turned to scan the ridgeline where his senses told him something was off.

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