Rogue Threat by AJ Tata Page B

They were in a remote area at a prominent intersection with one of the roads that led to the airfield. Honestly, they would not be hard to track. At that moment, he derided himself for following a road and not pushing past the gravel and into the rising terrain further east.
    “This way!” he said, grabbing Peyton by the arm and yanking her into the long arms of fir trees. The branches slapped them as they bolted.
    He heard the first tell-tale sound of a silenced weapon firing in their direction, the bullet missing its mark but snapping a branch above his head.
    “What the hell?” Peyton said in a hushed tone.
    Two more shots zipped past their heads like angry hornets as they tumbled into the soft undergrowth beneath the fir trees.
    “Hurry, they’re coming!” Matt spoke through clenched teeth as he pulled Peyton to her feet. They darted deeper into the forest, running with such ferocity that it reminded Matt of the Philippines, where he was chased by a hundred Abu Sayef rebels. His lungs burned as they processed oxygen exponentially faster than normal. His mouth was dry, and he swallowed hard against a tight lump in his throat.
    He started angling their route toward the east, which led them to higher, more protected ground. Without breaking stride, they darted across the road and continued another hundred meters into the forest. Then he stopped, and they hid behind two large chunks of granite that formed a V , with the crevice giving them a view of the gravel road.
    “Quiet,” he whispered.
    Peyton looked at him and nodded her head. The thought that she was beautiful suddenly popped into his head. He quickly pushed the irrelevant notion into the dark recesses of his mind, where it would die a quick death.
    Peyton pointed to his left at the same time he was hearing a slight rustling near the road, then voices. Two men were moving fast but had slowed considerably from their initial pace. The voices were heavily accented.
    “Here,” one said, pointing at the gravel in the road. “Footprints.”
    There had been no time to do the old Indian trick of covering their tracks with a tree branch, but Matt’s makeshift plan might work anyway.
    The pursuers looked up and began moving into the woods. Matt cringed when he noticed one man slip something onto his head.
    Night-vision goggles.
    He pulled Peyton slowly below the sightline of the granite and pointed at his eyes. Peyton understood.
    Matt slipped the pistol from his belt and slowly moved the safety switch to disengage the trigger of the weapon. He could hear the men moving quickly now, almost adjacent to their position.
    “Mustaf, wait,” one man whispered.
    Matt could see that they were no more than ten feet from his position, and now they had noticed the granite formation.
    Before they could advance upon his position, Matt lifted his pistol as he ran directly toward them, firing once at the man with the night-vision goggles and then expending his last bullet on him when the first bullet did not find a vital organ.
    The second one did.
    Matt altered his course toward the remaining pursuer. The dark figure was faintly silhouetted against the black forest and was bringing his weapon into firing position. Matt, out of ammunition, barreled into him, tackling him to the ground. They fell atop a large chunk of granite and rolled together against a tree trunk. They stopped with Matt on top, punching the man in the face, until he caught the motion of the assailant’s pistol moving toward him from the ground. Too late. It was up and firing, the loud report ringing in his ears, his shoulder on fire.
    He released the man’s neck and grabbed at the pistol hand before he could fire another shot, but again he was too late.
    The man’s pistol hand reeled backward, responding to a sharp kick from Peyton, who spun and swung her leg down like a guillotine, with her heel crushing the man’s windpipe. Matt heard an audible pop, which he initially thought was his attacker’s