, Stoke thought, the asshole has mined the goddamn woods!
“Stop!” he screamed at the kid up ahead. “Mines! Fucking land mines! Stop right now!”
The kid was wide-eyed, looking back over his shoulder at Stoke when he tripped the wire.
“Aw, Jesus,” Stoke said as he watched the kid go up in a fiery reddish burst of blood and bones and smoke. “Jesus, goddamn Christ!”
The kid still had his eyes open when Stokely reached him. The big man dropped to his knees on the ground beside the boy and cradled what was left of him in his arms. Blood was pouring out of his mouth, but the kid was trying to talk.
“Tell…tell me mum that…tell her that…”
“Hey. Listen up, ’cause this is important. Ain’t nobody but you gonna tell your mum anything, son. You going to be okay, you hear me? You just take it easy, now, and old Stoke, he’s going to stay right with you till the medics get here, all right? They going to fix your ass right up, understand? Good as new. You going to make it, kid, I’m going to personally see to that.”
He sat there, waiting for the boy to die, eyes scanning the treetops, using his handkerchief to catch the blood coming out of the kid’s mouth, and suddenly he was back in the Mekong, middle of a firefight, holding on tight to his troops, tears running down his face, so many of his good friends and best asshole buddies blown all to shit by Charlie’s AK-47s and land mines and RPGs, all of them talking about they mamas at the end.
He looked down at the kid and saw him die.
“You was fast, son,” Stokely said to him, still stroking his head. “You the only person on this earth ever to outrun old Stoke, and, man, that’s truly saying something. You was a brave kid, I could see it in your eyes just in the short time I met you. You going to a better place now. You be all right.”
Stoke heard noises below him and looked up to see three commandos in black coming up over a small rise, gunsights already on him.
“Stop!” he screamed. “Stop right there! Land mines all over the goddamned place!”
They did what he said and one of them called up to him. “We heard the explosion. What’s his status?”
“His status?” Stoke called back. “His status is over.”
After they’d taken the kid away, Stokely led a team of the Brits up to the place where he thought he’d seen the muzzle flash. Stoke was out in front, picking his way over the tripwires and calling out their locations when he came across the tree with the cable hanging down.
There was a loop in the bottom of the thick wire cable and, higher up on the stainless steel cable, a small electrical-type box with a black button and a red button.
Stoke, not worried about prints because he was still wearing his wedding gloves, grabbed hold of the cable, stuck one foot in the loop and pressed the button on top, the black one. It was like being in an elevator without the elevator. He was instantly flying up through the trees, at least fifty to sixty feet in less than five seconds. When he got near to the top, he saw the big electric motor mounted on the tree trunk with four heavy bolts. Electric? Up in a tree? Had to be battery powered.
But the motorized cable wasn’t the amazing thing.
The amazing thing was the shooter had left his gun in the tree.
It was right there, stuck in the crotch at the top of the tree. Stoke had removed his blood-soaked gloves and now used the wedding program to try and remove the weapon without messing up any prints. Wouldn’t budge. He hit the butt sharply with his hand and the thing didn’t move an inch. No wonder the guy had left it up here. Need a goddamn crowbar to get it out, way he’d managed to wedge it in there.
Stoke instantly recognized the kind of sniper rifle it was, even though he hadn’t seen one since the seventies. It was a Russian-made Dragunov SVD. A Snayperskaya Vintovka Dragunova to be exact. Amazing. How many times you go to a crime scene a find the perp’s left his
“Stop!” he screamed at the kid up ahead. “Mines! Fucking land mines! Stop right now!”
The kid was wide-eyed, looking back over his shoulder at Stoke when he tripped the wire.
“Aw, Jesus,” Stoke said as he watched the kid go up in a fiery reddish burst of blood and bones and smoke. “Jesus, goddamn Christ!”
The kid still had his eyes open when Stokely reached him. The big man dropped to his knees on the ground beside the boy and cradled what was left of him in his arms. Blood was pouring out of his mouth, but the kid was trying to talk.
“Tell…tell me mum that…tell her that…”
“Hey. Listen up, ’cause this is important. Ain’t nobody but you gonna tell your mum anything, son. You going to be okay, you hear me? You just take it easy, now, and old Stoke, he’s going to stay right with you till the medics get here, all right? They going to fix your ass right up, understand? Good as new. You going to make it, kid, I’m going to personally see to that.”
He sat there, waiting for the boy to die, eyes scanning the treetops, using his handkerchief to catch the blood coming out of the kid’s mouth, and suddenly he was back in the Mekong, middle of a firefight, holding on tight to his troops, tears running down his face, so many of his good friends and best asshole buddies blown all to shit by Charlie’s AK-47s and land mines and RPGs, all of them talking about they mamas at the end.
He looked down at the kid and saw him die.
“You was fast, son,” Stokely said to him, still stroking his head. “You the only person on this earth ever to outrun old Stoke, and, man, that’s truly saying something. You was a brave kid, I could see it in your eyes just in the short time I met you. You going to a better place now. You be all right.”
Stoke heard noises below him and looked up to see three commandos in black coming up over a small rise, gunsights already on him.
“Stop!” he screamed. “Stop right there! Land mines all over the goddamned place!”
They did what he said and one of them called up to him. “We heard the explosion. What’s his status?”
“His status?” Stoke called back. “His status is over.”
After they’d taken the kid away, Stokely led a team of the Brits up to the place where he thought he’d seen the muzzle flash. Stoke was out in front, picking his way over the tripwires and calling out their locations when he came across the tree with the cable hanging down.
There was a loop in the bottom of the thick wire cable and, higher up on the stainless steel cable, a small electrical-type box with a black button and a red button.
Stoke, not worried about prints because he was still wearing his wedding gloves, grabbed hold of the cable, stuck one foot in the loop and pressed the button on top, the black one. It was like being in an elevator without the elevator. He was instantly flying up through the trees, at least fifty to sixty feet in less than five seconds. When he got near to the top, he saw the big electric motor mounted on the tree trunk with four heavy bolts. Electric? Up in a tree? Had to be battery powered.
But the motorized cable wasn’t the amazing thing.
The amazing thing was the shooter had left his gun in the tree.
It was right there, stuck in the crotch at the top of the tree. Stoke had removed his blood-soaked gloves and now used the wedding program to try and remove the weapon without messing up any prints. Wouldn’t budge. He hit the butt sharply with his hand and the thing didn’t move an inch. No wonder the guy had left it up here. Need a goddamn crowbar to get it out, way he’d managed to wedge it in there.
Stoke instantly recognized the kind of sniper rifle it was, even though he hadn’t seen one since the seventies. It was a Russian-made Dragunov SVD. A Snayperskaya Vintovka Dragunova to be exact. Amazing. How many times you go to a crime scene a find the perp’s left his
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