Deadly Balance (eBook)

Chapter One

Colombia, near the Venezuelan border

The US Army camouflaged MH-6 Little Bird helicopter swooped low over a dense rain forest and descended into a clearing between tall trees. Its occupants, Sergeant First Class Garrett Drake and Sergeant Mitch Burner, dropped several feet onto flattened grass. The Little Bird rose and continued a tree-top course back to the operations base in Malambo, Columbia. The helicopter inaudible to the guerrilla commander Martìn del Fuego, six miles away at a clandestine base.

Del Fuego stepped into a power vacuum when the group’s top military leader, Jorge Briceno was killed in a raid two years earlier. His unit gained traction in eastern Colombia, financing their operations through extortion, cocaine, and kidnapping. Their latest captive was a US embassy official, the sixth American taken hostage over the past year.

With this, del Fuego made a tactical blunder.

Normally, the guerilla went after soft targets, people from wealthy families who’d cough up a ransom or international employees who worked for companies with insurance. They wanted cash, not blowback. Del Fuego’s increasing arrogance affected his judgment. His men abducted Lawrence Peterson, nephew of U.S. Senator James Peterson, Chairman of the Armed Services Committee. Less than a day after the ransom demand, Garrett and Mitch received their orders.

Del Fuego’s approaching destiny with the sniper team only began the first phase in the operation. Once del Fuego joined Briceno in the hereafter, Colombian troops with US ‘consultants’ would raid the guerilla camps and rescue Peterson and the other hostages in a heroic display that’d grace Latin American news. Full credit given to the Columbians.

The energy grew palpable during the briefing at 7th Group headquarters back in Florida. The guys in Garrett’s Operational Detachments Alpha; ODA, were excited to be on a mission. Things had been quiet for most ODA teams since they pulled out of Afghanistan.

The family men enjoyed kicking around Eglin Air Force Base, training Ranger students, getting marriage counseling, and going on fishing trips. Garrett forced himself to relax and was failing.

Garrett often sat on Mitch’s deck, watching lawn sprinklers and being polite to single females wheeled out to tempt him away from barrack life. Most thought he had communication issues; Mitch’s wife, Shanora, heard the gossip and passed it on to him. He got along with Mitch and his wife; his closest friends. He felt certain his spotter’s well-meaning wife was responsible for the women on parade. However, nothing clicked beyond the second or the rare third date. He once intimated to Shanora that after being burned a couple times, romance wasn’t in the cards. She retorted that the right girl was out there, he just hadn’t met her.

Garrett enjoyed a sense of relief as his boots pounded through the tropical grasses. Here was his element. The aroma of fertile earth and wild vegetation pleased his senses. The thwop thwop thwop of helicopter blades got lost in a cacophony of rain forest noise as their ride passed out of sight. Mitch paused to take a compass reading and compared it with their GPS unit. Without a word, they set off on an eastward trek along a narrow streambed. By late afternoon, they reached the outer perimeter of del Fuego’s camp.

Garrett and Mitch reconnoitered and took a position on a densely vegetated rise south of the camp, using a downed tree for cover. Like most snipers, they’d enhanced their standard issue ghillie suits by hand, customizing the jute netting with twigs and leaves to blend in. Even Garrett’s M2010 rifle had camo webbing wrapped around it.

The guerrilla command tent was situated on the camp’s highest point, with del Fuego’s personal tent next door. Mitch whispered specifics, one eye pressed to his spotting scope.

“Two hundred seventy yards to the target’s tent. Wind is two miles an hour from the northwest. Angle is six degrees down.”

Garrett raised the covers on the Leupold scope mounted on his weapon. The M2010 rifle was chambered for .300 Win Mag cartridge. He set the scope’s reticle illumination and adjusted for wind and elevation. From here, he could choose which button on the man’s uniform to hit. They waited silently. Two hours passed before del Fuego opened the tent flap and stepped out.

“That’s him,” Mitch whispered.

Del Fuego wore a mud-stained camouflage uniform with sleeves rolled over thick biceps and camo cowboy hat. His tanned face showed a week of stubble.

Del Fuego pointed to an area in the depression below the tent, obviously barking orders.

Garrett trained his crosshairs on del Fuego’s sternum. He could take a head shot, but if the target moved even an inch or two, he could miss. The last thing they needed was to raise an alarm without the kill.

He chased all mental chatter away and began squeezing the trigger. As if feeling the crosshairs on his chest, del Fuego darted to the right. Garrett eased his finger and tracked the target, keeping him centered between the dotted black X and Y axis. Del Fuego stopped to address a subordinate, presenting his profile.

“What’s that about?” Mitch whispered. “There’s a commotion to the left.”

A fighter entered the camp, yanking a young woman by the arm. She struggled in vain and was presented to del Fuego. Several fighters surrounded them.

“Can’t get a clear shot,” Garrett said.

The woman spat at him, del Fuego reached out and ripped the front of her blouse and shoved her into his tent. His men forced the woman to a cot, tying her hands to the wooden supports. They dropped one of the flaps, allowing Garrett to only see her right arm and leg. One of the men tore her pants off and threw them out of the tent.

“Take the shot,” Mitch hissed. “Take the shot.”

“Can’t.” Garrett trained the scope left and right, trying to get a bead around the several men outside.

“He’s going to—”

“I know,” Garrett spat.

Del Fuego stepped inside the tent. Two of his men stood outside, watching. Garrett tried aiming between them, but they kept jockeying for a better view. Del Fuego unbuckled his pants and moved out of sight. When one of the men moved, Garrett could see the woman’s arm flex as she struggled. He focused the crosshairs on the tent above her, visualizing where del Fuego would stand, and squeezed the trigger.

The silenced rifle barked, the report lost in the rain forest cacophony. The tent pulsed with the impact. After the weapon’s recoil, Garrett refocused and saw the woman jerk as del Fuego fell on top of her, then rolled off onto the dirt. The guerrilla leader lay on his back with a large bloodstain in the upper chest.

Garrett grinned at Mitch. “Took the fucker out without even seeing him. Yeah. Who’s the badass sniper?” He raised his fist and Mitch bumped it.

Mitch laughed. “Okay, badass, let’s make sure they don’t badass us.”

Both men watched from beneath the fallen tree.

Racking another round in the chamber, Garrett aimed his rifle at the doorway. Another guerrilla emerged. From the recon photographs, he recognized the man as del Fuego’s second in command. He raised an AK-47 and sprayed the forest with wild shots. Garrett positioned the crosshairs, squeezed the trigger and the man went down, dead before he hit the soil.

“We were only supposed to take the commander,” Mitch whispered in a calm tone.

“Call it insurance,” Garrett said, not taking his eye from the scope and sliding in another round. “Life insurance.”

“Always a good idea in our biz,” Mitch said, squinting through the scope.

The guerrillas took positions around the compound, firing into the jungle. One noticed where the return fire came from, took a position behind a truck and fired at them. Garrett set the crosshairs in the center of the man’s forehead.

“Hold still and you won’t feel a thing,” he whispered and gently squeezed the trigger.

Another fighter fired at fully automatic. Before Garrett could get another shot off, sections of the log above them splintered. Bark and insects rained down. A bullet ripped through the ghillie suit just above Garrett’s right shoulder, grazing the skin.

He grimaced at the slashing burn before aiming and shooting the man in the throat as he peered over the hood of a truck.

Another guerrilla fired a rocket propelled grenade.

Garrett closed his eyes and pressed his face into the dirt. The projectile screamed and impacted to their right, showering them with debris and shrapnel.

“Are you hit?” Garrett asked after hearing him grunt. “Mitch, you hit? Talk to me buddy.”

“It’s nothing. I’m good.”

“What do you mean, ‘nothing?’”

“Just a piece in my leg. Burns. It’ll wait.” Garrett rolled over and gave Mitch a visual inspection. On...