Headshot! (They Call Me the Mercenary Book 12) by Jerry Ahern

Author:Jerry Ahern [Ahern, Jerry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Speaking Volumes
Published: 2013-05-14T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

Frost sat in the icy-cold stream water, the water splashing over him, the old Colt revolver on a rock beside him, covered with spray and droplets of water visible to him in the moonlight.

He had taken soap from his pack and bathed, several times, in the mountain stream, because he had been unable to live with himself the way he had been. And the old revolver was beside him because he had not wanted to expose his own gun or ammunition to the water, despite the Metalife finished pistol’s rust resistance.

He was naked again, except for his Rolex, and he had washed that as well. His hands still trembled, but the fingers worked and he had decided there would be no permanent damage.

After cold-cocking Miranda, he had taken his gear and left the camp, slowly, making his way into the trees and then up along the sides of the encampment. It was like an Apache stronghold from the American southwest of the last century, he thought, thinking back to it. Rocks on each side, rising high into the mountains. Only one way in, but likely a secret way out. Guards everywhere. Frost had knifed three men in leaving.

He had rationalized knocking out Miranda. If she were a liar, as he thought, she would scream the moment he left, or shoot at him herself. If she were sincere, then the knock on her head would make it appear she had discovered him escaping and he had tried to kill her but not succeeded. He would meet her at the mountain pool, that he had already determined. If it were a set-up, he would stay far enough away. If it weren’t she would be there regardless.

Frost looked at the luminous black face of the Rolex. It had survived unscathed. And it was midnight. He would have to awaken with the dawn, or otherwise miss Miranda, if indeed she came.

Frost stepped up out of the water, looking down at his body in the moonlight. The scars would heal—again, he told himself. They always did.

He dried off, still feeling cold from the water, and began to dress—his last change of fresh clothes.

Finally, he slipped the Cobra Comvest over his cammie shirt—he had no intention of removing it until he was out of Colombia, it and the High Power he carried there.

He started looking among the rocks as he sat tying his combat boots. He needed a place to stay until morning.

And he found himself smiling—he’d been right so far in what he’d told Lew—just never give up.

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