-5-

            “Scatter!”  It was all Morgan had time to say before the fireworks started.  Four of his men fell in as many seconds.  Dirt and foliage was scattered through the air.

            Five jeeps stood at the tree line, and Morgan figured more must be hidden beyond it.  His jaw dropped open when he saw Crazy Mike standing straight up at the edge of the shore, returning fire with his M249.  The lead vehicle crumpled as 7.62 mm NATO rounds chewed it up at the rate of six hundred rounds per minute.  Knowing that some of those rounds would find the gas can in the back, Morgan clenched his eyes shut just before the jeep exploded into shrapnel.  The piercing blast tortured Morgan’s ears, and a thick black cloud burst skyward.

            Mike’s courageous cover fire, and the explosion it caused, gave the remaining men a chance.  Morgan saw at least two of his teammates make it back into the forest, unseen by their attackers.  Over his shoulder he saw Mike grinning like a child on a roller coaster, before a hail of bullets knocked him back onto the shore. 

Morgan circled wide, creeping through the woods like one of its native animals.  Tall grasses and ferns slapped at his face as he crawled through the underbrush.  He continued to move in a shallow arc until he got behind the convoy.  Crouching in the undergrowth, he saw there were seven jeeps, each with a four-man crew.  All of the soldiers were armed with automatic weapons, a random mix of M-16s, AK-47s and older rifles.  Old Abrigo must have been far more important to someone than Morgan had guessed.

            He imagined his men, those who survived, were long gone, faded into the bush, on their way to another country.  These under-trained Belizean soldiers were probably just taking sound shots at shadows, or, with any luck, each other.  This was the time to make his move, during the confusion.  He had made one decision.  He did not intend to walk out.

            After scanning the options he selected an isolated jeep.  Half of its crew was out chasing “terrorists” in the woods.  The driver sat in the jeep, smoking a cigarette.  His partner leaned against a tree some ten feet away, cradling an old M14 rifle in his arms.  He stared dreamily in the direction of the last few shots.

            Morgan’s chances would not get any better.  He crept toward the standing soldier.  He traveled with the stealth and patience the United States Army taught him years ago when he was an underage tunnel rat for MACVSOG, the so called Studies and Observations Group of the Military Assistance Command in Vietnam.  They trained him well, but he perfected his skills after the war, during years of experience in every kind of dangerous environment on earth.

            He stopped barely seven feet from his intended victim.  His hand slowly slid down his right leg.  From his boot he drew a blackened double-edged throwing knife.  With his other hand, he smoothly slid his machete out of its belt sheath.

            The young soldier with the rifle was apparently day dreaming, probably about some young lady back in town.  Morgan imagined him inventing his story of this day’s adventure.  How many terrorists could he say he killed?  Twelve?  Fifteen maybe? 

            Of course, Morgan could only guess at the soldier’s thoughts as he stared off into the woods.  Whatever occupied his mind, he did not notice the tall, grim black man rising to his full height behind him.  Morgan’s left arm drew back and arced down sharply, burying the twenty-four inch tempered steel machete blade between the man’s neck and left shoulder, not quite deep enough to touch his heart, but certainly deep enough to do the job.  Almost in the same motion, Morgan’s right arm blurred.  The driver was still fumbling with his rifle’s safety switch when the blackened throwing blade buried itself hilt-deep in his throat.  His eyes were wide with shock, blood still spurting from the wound when Morgan kicked him out of the seat and fired up the jeep’s engine.

He managed to get the clumsy vehicle turned around on the narrow trail and headed out in a burst of loose dirt and dead leaves.  Five or six soldiers waited up ahead, startled by his sudden appearance.  Morgan hardly considered them an obstacle.  Driving with his left hand, he unlimbered his Jeti and cleared the road with one quick burst. 

            Everyone who could have seen which way Morgan had gone was dead.  Still, stopping now would mean an increased risk of detection, even pursuit and capture.  Turning around would be suicide.  Besides, the trail was too narrow to even swerve without ramming his bumper into a tree.  He really had no choice.

            Gritting his teeth, he down shifted and gunned the engine.  His stomach clenched as he bumped over Smitty’s body, the sound of cracking ribs reaching his ears.  He feared he would be sick.  He squeezed his eyes tight for a moment, swallowing hard.

            When he looked up, he spotted a lone rifleman on the edge of the dirt road, maybe sixty meters ahead.  The soldier was taking slow, careful aim at the target rolling toward him.  Morgan pointed the Jeti, squeezed its trigger and heard the hollow sound of an empty magazine. 

“Damn!”  Dropping the submachine gun on the seat next to him, Morgan yanked his Browning Hi-power from its shoulder holster.  One bullet smacked the jeep’s hood, just before Morgan fired.  The rifleman’s head exploded under his helmet.  Morgan pressed the accelerator to the floor, passing the rifleman’s body before his helmet hit the ground. 

            He kept the jeep rolling unerringly north, a talent having nothing to do with his training, but rather a gift he had possessed since birth.  He had an unnatural, uncanny sense of direction and distance.  Someone had once told him he was psychic or something, but he couldn’t care less what others called it.  All he knew was, he had a grid map in his mind on which he could see himself moving.  And he never needed a compass, because he could literally feel magnetic north.  For him, getting lost was a complete impossibility. 

            So he would drive to Mexico.  From there he would go on to the United States.  He would track down Stone, and through him, his mysterious boss.  Someone was going to pay and pay big for cheating him, for stranding him, for getting his men killed.  Someone was going to pay, and soon.