Rather than walking straight up to the hut, Mike kept it to his right and a distance away. He lost sight of it several times between the trees and shadows but knew roughly where it was as they moved up. Maybe the smart move would have been to get inside and out of sight. No one had ever accused him of being the sharpest knife in the drawer. Hidden among the trees on the side of the dark hill, he figured he could briefly observe the hut. Better safe than sorry.
Down on a knee, they watched and listened. It was another sense that alerted him with a shift in the breeze.
He tapped her shoulder and pointed to his nose.
She smelled it, too. The smoke smell was more pungent. Now that he was looking for it in the trees above the hut, he could make out the smoke caught up in the branches. No light from a fire, but there was only one place it could have come from.
Time to get out of here.
He inclined his head downhill, rose, and, one slow step at a time, started down with a careful watch of the shack as he moved. Unlike the climb up, he paid particular attention to where his feet landed and what might make any noise under his weight.
Ten steps in, he realized he hadn’t heard Julia. He turned and looked uphill. She hadn’t moved from next to the tree she hid behind. Only her head had moved. It was now pointed up and to the left.
He froze, letting his eyes follow the gradient up. In between two trees on a piece of level ground was an Afghani facing uphill. He was squatted down on a rock, his pants pulled down to his ankles.
Mike lifted his rifle, the sights ready to zero in on the man. In this light and at this distance, he knew he wouldn’t miss. That wasn’t the problem. The guy wouldn’t be alone. The rest of them were probably in the hut making tea and watching the trail. They were lucky they got off the path when they did.
Julia hadn’t moved since he’d turned around. That was good. No sound to detect. No movement to see. Okay, guy, just get up and return to your friends.
As if willed by his thought, the man wiped, stood up, and pulled his pants up. He continued to face uphill and take his time. Finally, his hand reached down and grabbed the barrel of his AK leaning against a tree.
Mike watched as he fiddled with the sling and slipped it over his shoulder. This guy acted like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Out of the side of his eye, Mike saw the door to the hut open and a man walk out, silhouetted by firelight from inside. The man whispered loudly to the first man who hadn’t taken a step back to the hut. The first man whispered back, a hint of anger in his voice. The Afghani at the cabin shook his head and replied. His voice rose to above a whisper. The man who’d shit in the woods spat back an answer.
What the hell? These idiots are arguing in the dark. And we’re waiting for one of them to realize they aren’t alone. The first man stood his ground. The second man spoke to someone in the hut and glared at the first man.
He could kill one or the other, but not both of them. The bad guys made his decision for him.
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Another man, wearing a turban, walked out of the hut. The man next to him, the second man, lifted his arm and pointed at the first man. Turban man raised his head, and his eyes found Mike instead. Mike saw the recognition. A fourth man stepped out of the hut. Turban man grabbed the sling of his rifle to pull it around. Mike turned, crouched, and fired four rounds. The Afghani screamed and dropped. His weapon fell to the ground.
Mike heard movement above him but didn’t have time to look—the first man out the door dove to the ground. The last man out the door didn’t move. Stunned, shocked, scared, Mike didn’t care. He shot him, too, and the stunned man hit the dirt. The first man he’d shot was whimpering on the ground.
A burst of automatic fire ripped through the branches above him, followed by a second burst. His head whipped around. Julia was on her feet, the butt of her AK on her shoulder. She got down behind a tree.
“I got him.” She looked sick.
Good, he thought, with Mr. shit in the woods gone, that only left one.
The last Afghani got the message. He fired off a long burst. Mike leaned his back to a tree, his rifle across his chest.
Bullets slammed into the tree. Others whined past him. Some cut through branches, others dug out splintered gouges in the trunks of trees.
The lone Afghani fired a second long burst. A bullet caught the wooden stock of Mike’s weapon and tore it from his hands.
That wasn’t good. It didn’t feel good, either. He yanked his hands in, and his fingers opened and closed to relieve the pain.
The bad guy’s bolt slammed open. He’d run out of rounds.
The stock on his AK was nearly torn off. Mike didn’t bother checking its functionality. Instead, he reached behind him and grabbed the handle of his tomahawk.
A magazine dropped to the ground.
Mike swung around the tree the tomahawk held up and jumped forward. He wasn’t sure where the man was, and time wasn’t on his side.
He heard the metallic clack of a magazine hit the bottom of the rifle. He turned uphill and saw the man down behind a fallen tree. Their eyes met.
The man slammed the magazine in.
He was too far away. He’d never get there in time. Mike sprinted forward.
The Afghani’s eyes never left Mike’s. The lone survivor pulled the cocking lever back and let the bolt slide home. A live round slid into the chamber.
Mike tried to will himself forward. He was too far away. Screw it, he lifted his arm. Throwing his dad’s lucky charm was the only way.
The Afghani saw his arm raise. He lifted his rifle.
The muzzle was aimed right at him a little grin formed on the man’s face.
Two cracks caused him to hesitate. Julia’s rifle. She missed, but it was enough for the man to shift his sights on her and fire a short, unaimed burst. He realized what he’d done and turned back, the smile gone.
Poor decisions are a killer. Mike hadn’t paused at Julia’s fire and sprinted as hard as he could move. The last man’s eyes widened at the business end of the tomahawk arching down.
The blade drove down through the wool roll up hat and into the Afghani’s skull. The spike was left the only exposed part of the metal head of the tomahawk.
The Afghani’s eyes rose into the back of his head his eyelids stayed open. He collapsed over the log, causing the Tomahawk to be yanked out of Mike’s hand as the man’s head hit the ground.
Instead of going for the tomahawk, Mike grabbed up his new AK.
Julia hadn’t moved.
“Come on. We got to get out of here.”
As she moved down, he pulled the tomahawk handle. The blade didn’t move, but the man’s head did. He let it fall.
She looked down and shivered. “That was close.”
“Too close.” He took a step toward the trail.
“Aren’t you going to take that?”
“We don’t have time to pry it out. Later, you can tell Tom how it earned its due. Let’s go.” Saving themselves the few seconds to a minute it would have cost to recover the tomahawk was worth the loss. But Mike regretted the lost weapon anyway. Sentiment wasn’t something he often felt, but it was his dad’s, and it had gone to war before with him. Much like an old soldier, it would be forgotten soon enough.