the mountainside, doing all the things that goats did, with not a care in the world. Bwana backed up slowly, alert for an ambush, scanned for a goatherd, and found none. He could hear the engine’s revs dropping as they slowed for his return, and he waited, his M-4 coming to his hand as naturally as he drew breath.
He risked a quick glance around him as he heard a shout from the MRAP, calling out for him; he was alone, just him and the goats, the vehicle and its occupants a few yards around the corner, a galaxy away.
He opened his mouth to respond, and the first shot rang out from ahead on the slope of the mountain, missing him by several feet, the sniper not taking his time. Seven, no, eight men rose from amidst the goats and trained their guns on him and opened fire.
Bwana had already dropped to the ground, roaring, ‘Ambush,’ the stock coming smoothly to his cheek, his first shot taking the man on the left.
He started crawling back urgently, seeking shelter behind the turn, firing in short bursts, making them duck behind the animals, and then one of them raised his upper body, clutching something in his hand. Grenade. Goodbye, Bwana. It was a good ride while it lasted.
The man’s head exploded in a red mist, the flat bark from behind coming to him simultaneously, and then a louder, larger noise, the I-6 diesel of the MRAP drowning them all out and rifles opening up at once, taking out all the ambushers now exposed by the scattering goats.
The cluster of rocks ahead – the sniper’s hide – exploded, clouds of mud, blood, and stone rising in the air, shimmering in the thin sunlight before dissipating slowly as the echoes of the guns died.
Silence crept up on them, broken by the bleating of the wounded animals, their cries cut short by single shots as Roger moved grimly among them, ending the misery of those wounded beyond help. He was flanked by two others, checking and confirming that the ambushers were all dead.
Bwana still lay prone, his M-4 trained on the sniper hide till he felt a hand clasping his shoulder.
Roger smiled down at him. ‘Don’t go to sleep down there, partner. The day’s still ahead of us.’ He rose, offering a hand to Bwana, helping him rise to his feet, that clasp of hands unbroken to this day .
Bwana looked at the dark shadow that was Roger on the other side of the coals. Roger never spoke about himself. Bwana knew he was an orphan and had grown up with a foster family who couldn’t wait to see the back of him, and had no one else to call family.
That was enough backstory for Bwana. The past didn’t matter, the now and the future did. Family? He was Roger’s family.
Roger didn’t know what woke him, but one moment he was in a deep, dreamless sleep and the next he was awake. He lay still, allowing the night and forest to envelop him. He turned his head towards Bwana and saw the dark shapeless shadow of his bag. He glanced at the dull green numerals on his watch. Two a.m. He lay still, listening, trying to sense what had woken him.
It wasn’t any sound, he decided, nor was it any presence.
‘Yeah, I can feel it too,’ murmured Bwana from the other side of the banked coals.
Roger grinned soundlessly and got up from his bag, Bwana doing the same; two wraiths rising, the still air bending itself around them – habits nurtured in the Special Forces, practiced in far-off dusty lands and now like breathing to them.
The woods had gone silent; the customary sounds of the nightlife deadened – that had woken Roger and Bwana.
Their camp was north of Pena Blanca Lake, in Peck Canyon, and was located in a thicket, caution and the habit of blending in guiding their choice of camp. They were right in the middle of Peck Canyon Corridor, a route for herding illegal immigrants from Mexico to the United States; the Corridor stretched from border crossing points, across the Pajarito Mountains, Atascosa Mountains, and the Tumacacori Mountains… Peck Canyon divided the Atascosas
He risked a quick glance around him as he heard a shout from the MRAP, calling out for him; he was alone, just him and the goats, the vehicle and its occupants a few yards around the corner, a galaxy away.
He opened his mouth to respond, and the first shot rang out from ahead on the slope of the mountain, missing him by several feet, the sniper not taking his time. Seven, no, eight men rose from amidst the goats and trained their guns on him and opened fire.
Bwana had already dropped to the ground, roaring, ‘Ambush,’ the stock coming smoothly to his cheek, his first shot taking the man on the left.
He started crawling back urgently, seeking shelter behind the turn, firing in short bursts, making them duck behind the animals, and then one of them raised his upper body, clutching something in his hand. Grenade. Goodbye, Bwana. It was a good ride while it lasted.
The man’s head exploded in a red mist, the flat bark from behind coming to him simultaneously, and then a louder, larger noise, the I-6 diesel of the MRAP drowning them all out and rifles opening up at once, taking out all the ambushers now exposed by the scattering goats.
The cluster of rocks ahead – the sniper’s hide – exploded, clouds of mud, blood, and stone rising in the air, shimmering in the thin sunlight before dissipating slowly as the echoes of the guns died.
Silence crept up on them, broken by the bleating of the wounded animals, their cries cut short by single shots as Roger moved grimly among them, ending the misery of those wounded beyond help. He was flanked by two others, checking and confirming that the ambushers were all dead.
Bwana still lay prone, his M-4 trained on the sniper hide till he felt a hand clasping his shoulder.
Roger smiled down at him. ‘Don’t go to sleep down there, partner. The day’s still ahead of us.’ He rose, offering a hand to Bwana, helping him rise to his feet, that clasp of hands unbroken to this day .
Bwana looked at the dark shadow that was Roger on the other side of the coals. Roger never spoke about himself. Bwana knew he was an orphan and had grown up with a foster family who couldn’t wait to see the back of him, and had no one else to call family.
That was enough backstory for Bwana. The past didn’t matter, the now and the future did. Family? He was Roger’s family.
Roger didn’t know what woke him, but one moment he was in a deep, dreamless sleep and the next he was awake. He lay still, allowing the night and forest to envelop him. He turned his head towards Bwana and saw the dark shapeless shadow of his bag. He glanced at the dull green numerals on his watch. Two a.m. He lay still, listening, trying to sense what had woken him.
It wasn’t any sound, he decided, nor was it any presence.
‘Yeah, I can feel it too,’ murmured Bwana from the other side of the banked coals.
Roger grinned soundlessly and got up from his bag, Bwana doing the same; two wraiths rising, the still air bending itself around them – habits nurtured in the Special Forces, practiced in far-off dusty lands and now like breathing to them.
The woods had gone silent; the customary sounds of the nightlife deadened – that had woken Roger and Bwana.
Their camp was north of Pena Blanca Lake, in Peck Canyon, and was located in a thicket, caution and the habit of blending in guiding their choice of camp. They were right in the middle of Peck Canyon Corridor, a route for herding illegal immigrants from Mexico to the United States; the Corridor stretched from border crossing points, across the Pajarito Mountains, Atascosa Mountains, and the Tumacacori Mountains… Peck Canyon divided the Atascosas
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