One was looking forward, the other covering the flanks. They’d clearly picked up a heat signature or heard a noise. Mike realized running was pointless.
They were younger, faster, and better equipped. He’d have to take the fight here. He checked his pistol mag.
Three rounds. Not much. Two in the shotgun.
Even less. No more grenades. Just his knife.
His old, faithful combat knife he’d carried since the Gulf. A blade that could cut through anything. The mercs moved closer.
They were fifteen yards away. Mike pressed into the roots, trying to become invisible. He heard them whispering.
“Got a heat signature by the deadfall, fresh.” “Copy, flanking left, cover me.” They knew where he was.
The element of surprise was gone. Mike knew if he popped up, he’d be cut down by a burst. He needed something unconventional.
Something crazy. He felt around under the snow for a heavy rock and gathered his last bit of strength. He threw the rock to the side, about ten yards to the right, into some bushes.
The sound of it hitting a tree trunk was loud in the night silence. The shooter on the left reflexively jerked toward the sound, swinging his barrel. “Contact right!” he yelled and fired a short burst into the brush.
At that moment, Mike lunged from his cover. Not like an old man, but like a coiled spring. He didn’t shoot.
He threw himself at the closest merc—the one covering. He covered the fifteen feet in two bounds.
The merc saw the movement. He started to turn, but it was too late. Mike slammed into him with his full weight, knocking him down.
They tumbled into the deep snow. The merc’s rifle fired into the sky, lighting up the treetops. It was a hand-to-hand struggle.
Brutal, dirty, no rules. The merc was strong, young. He had body armor and a helmet.
Mike only had the advantage of position—he was on top—and experience. He headbutted the man in the face, right against the helmet visor. The pain blinded Mike for a second, but the merc was disoriented too.
Mike tried to reach for his knife, but the merc’s hand caught his wrist. The grip was iron. “Die, old man!” the shooter hissed, trying to roll Mike over.
Mike felt his strength failing. His muscles were cramping; he couldn’t overpower the young thug. So he did what his hand-to-hand instructor had taught him back in the seventies.
If you can’t win with strength, use the enemy’s weakness. He suddenly went limp, letting the merc roll on top of him. The man, feeling victory, reached for Mike’s throat.
At that moment, Mike, using the momentum, pulled his knees to his chest and kicked out with everything he had, slamming his heavy boots into the man’s unprotected midsection. The merc gasped. His grip loosened.
Mike didn’t waste a second. He twisted out from under him. His knife flashed in the moonlight. One precise strike where the armor met the neck.
The enemy went limp. Mike breathed heavily, gasping for the freezing air. His heart was beating so hard it felt like his ribs would crack.
“One more down,” he whispered. But there was the second one. The one who had shot at the bushes.
He’d realized his mistake and was running back. Mike grabbed the dead man’s rifle. A short-barreled carbine with a red dot and a suppressor.
The weapon felt familiar, right. He rolled behind a tree trunk, using the dead man’s body as a barricade. The second merc burst into the clearing, swinging his rifle.
He saw his partner’s body and the snow, but he didn’t see Mike. “Where are you, you coward?” he screamed, losing his cool. Mike aimed.
The red dot settled on the merc’s chest. But he didn’t fire. Something about the way this guy was acting was off.
He was too nervous for a pro, and he was too exposed. “Drop the gun!” Mike yelled from behind the tree. “You’re surrounded! Your partner is dead, you have no chance!”
The merc froze. He peered into the dark, trying to find the source of the voice. “Go to hell!” he yelled and opened fire blindly toward the tree.
Bullets chipped the bark, showering Mike in splinters. Mike sighed. “Fool.”
He fired a short burst at the man’s legs. The merc fell, dropping his rifle. He screamed, clutching his shattered thighs.
Mike stepped out from cover, rifle ready. He walked up to the wounded man, kicked his weapon away, and ripped off his balaclava. It was a young guy with hard, mean eyes.
On his neck was a “Black Scorpion” tattoo. Mike froze. Scorpion.
A special forces insignia. But this kid was too young to have served back when that symbol meant something to Mike. This was a new generation.
Mercenaries using symbols of honor for dirty work. “Who’s the CO?” Mike asked, stepping on the wound. The kid hissed in pain…
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