Jack Scarlet

Bullets for Breakfast

A Jack Scarlet Adventure

by

Dan McGirt

Smashwords Edition

Published by Trove Books LLC

© Copyright Dan McGirt 2009

Other Jack Scarlet Adventures at Smashwords.com:

A Cold, Cold Place to Die http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/4423

Also by Dan McGirt atSmashwords.com:

Jason Cosmo Adventures:

Hero Wanted http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/2922

***

Beginner’s Luck http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/3894

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be

re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with

another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it

with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased

for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your

own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

*****

No one told me it was sniper season. Six of them, one of me, and I was already injured from my headlong slide down the rocky slope. A crazy move, sure, but with two rifles chewing up the turf around me topside, it was my only out.

The guidebooks will tell you hiking in the highlands of Borunda is at the safe end of the adventure tourism scale. Normally that’s true. Borunda is a prosperous country on the west coast of Africa with a stable democratic government, good relations with its neighbors, no serious ethnic conflicts, and a reputation for hospitality. Bandits were uncommon, even in the interior. You might stumble across a gang of poachers, but President Ogambo’s government had pretty well suppressed the illegal ivory trade. For unwary trekkers, the wildlife was the biggest danger—leopard, elephant, poisonous snakes.

That and sunburn.

So I was more than a little startled when my morning coffee flew out of my hand, followed half a second later by the loud report of a high-powered rifle. By then I was already in motion, ducking and rolling for cover. The second shooter disabused me of that notion, whistling a round past my ear into the outcropping behind which I crouched. Sharp splinters of stone grazed my cheek, drawing blood. They had me covered from two sides—nowhere to hide. That’s when I dove off the cliff.

It was about eighty feet to the base. Not a straight drop—that would have been suicide—but too steep for a controlled descent. I rolled, slid and tumbled toward the bottom, rapidly gaining momentum. Rocks and thorns tore at my bare flesh, as I wore only the loose cotton trousers I had slept in. Not a good way to start the day.

At the base was a small pool fed by the convergence of two streams. I had bathed there yesterday afternoon before making camp, so I knew the water was deep enough to break my semi-controlled fall. It helped that this was the rainy season. I hit with a splash, propelled myself underwater, and swam to shore.

Clambering onto the muddy ground, I assessed the damage. Split lip, numerous abrasions, a gash on my right thigh that might need a stitch or two, and a grab bag of bruises I would be feeling for days. Left ankle a little wobbly, possibly sprained. But nothing broken. Lucky me.

My first question was why the two sharpshooters hadn’t simply put their rounds through my center of mass, as gunners liked to call the upper body. Or even popped my skull, which was a harder shot, but one these guys obviously could have made. Conclusion: the snipers weren’t aiming to kill. They were herding me.

Confirmation: the six tough customers who emerged from the forest to form a loose semicircle around me. They were all European—a German, a Belgian, a Brit, two French, and a Portuguese. A good continental colonial power cross section. They were decked out in jungle cammies with all the trimmings and had the hard eyed, sun-baked looks of men who had spent their lives in the bush, moving from one dirty war to the next. Africa always had a war on somewhere. But there wasn’t one brewing in Borunda that I knew of, so my next question was whether I had inadvertently stumbled onto a rogue op spilling over from nearby Congo.

“Bonjour,” I said, addressing them in French, the official language of Borunda. “Are you gentlemen lost?”

“On your knees with hands on your head, you little puke,” said the one I took to be Belgian, which his accent confirmed. “Give us no trouble and we won’t hurt you too much.” He pointed a SIG 9mm at me—aimed at my very tender center of mass, I noted. I guessed he was in charge of this ugly little foreign legion.

The two mercs at the ends of the arc, both Frenchmen, had submachine guns trained on me. The big blond German had a machete in hand and looked eager to use it. The dark-eyed Portuguese took a half-step forward, holding out a set of handcuffs. The Brit was empty handed. The latter two would take me down and bind me, with the German for backup. The Francophones wouldn’t be getting their hands dirty, but they figured their gun barrels would intimidate me into submission and make it easy for their buddies. This was looking more and more like a hunting party, with me as the target.

I was not impressed by the size of their barrels, but I decided to give them the benefit of the doubt.

“Excusez-moi?” I said, with my best Gallic shrug. “There must be some mistake here. I am a tourist.”

“We know who you are.”

Yep, a hunting party. This could be anything. Revenge by one of my all too numerous enemies. A gambit by one of my father’s rivals. Kidnapping for ransom. Some kind of political thing. Whoever sent these guys, whatever their game was, I didn’t want to play. Borunda featured some of the most pristine wilderness still to be found on the African continent and I was here to enjoy it. I didn’t appreciate this intrusion. Yet despite being shot at, tumbled down a cliff and threatened with further bodily harm first thing in the morning, and despite not having my coffee yet, I offered them one more chance to walk away.

“If you know who I am, you know I can make it worth your while to leave me alone and go away,” I said. I had no problem with buying my way out of trouble.

“On your knees now!” barked the Belgian. The German advanced, fingering his machete. He was hungry for a slice of me.

“I’m trying to be reasonable,” I said. “Don’t make me go ape man on you.”

“Go ape man?” That didn’t translate too well in French. “Je ne comprends pas.”

“Like Tarzan,” I said.

“Tarzan?” He laughed. “You are not Tarzan.”

“We’ll see.”

“Take him down,” said the Belgian.

Hans, as I named the German for convenience, came at me first, lunging past his comrades, raising the machete to take a whack at me. I dropped into a crouch and waited for his swing, catching his wrist between my crossed forearms. With a flicker of my hands, the machete was mine. Pivot and lunge. The blade entered Hans just below the sternum and emerged from his back. I pulled it out with an ugly wet down stroke and let the disemboweled German fall facedown in the muck. Pivot, cock, release. The machete flew straight and true to the left, impaling Frenchie number one right through the old center of mass.

Britain and Portugal lunged at me from left and right, but I slipped the gap between them and went straight for Belgium. To his credit, the head merc squeezed off a round. Unfortunately for him, it went high and I went low, with a midsection tackle that would do my hometown Metro Bombers proud. By the time we hit the ground, I had the gun. Three quick one-handed shots took out the rest of the Belgian’s squad before they could come to his aid. I pressed the hot barrel under his chin and smelled the flesh cooking.

Told you I’d go ape man,” I said. “Now tell me who sent you.”

“What are you?” he asked, clearly surprised to find himself in this position when he had held the upper hand less than ten seconds ago.

“Very fast. Now who sent you?” I demanded. “What is this about?”

“Shoot me,” said the Belgian.

“I’d rather not. Let’s work this out like reasonable men.”

“The devil take you!”

Before I could respond, a high-powered rifle round zinged into the ground about ten feet to my left.

Oh, right. The snipers. That was a warning shot, just to let me know they had me in their sights. The next one would be for real. I coldcocked the Belgian with the butt of his pistol and made a long sliding dive for the pool. No way I could make it into the trees. The second sniper took his shot, but the angle was all wrong and I meant to keep it that way. If I hugged the cliff wall they’d have to come down to get me. I could be patient.

The cold water stung my many cuts. On the other hand, it would help keep down the swelling. Then again, who knew what kind of infections I might be getting. My whole day was ruined. I had killed five men before breakfast and might have to add to that total. It was self defense, but I hated to take a life. I really did. I wished there had been another way. If I knew where these guys wanted to take me and who they were working for, I might have gone along with them and tried to escape later, depending what the story was. But I couldn’t take that chance going in blind. The mercenaries had evidently been sent to bring me back alive, but that was small comfort. Their employer might want the pleasure of killing me himself.

Or herself.

Sadly, there were plenty of people in the world who had reason to want me dead, some of them quite powerful. That I had accumulated so many ill-wishers in my short twenty-four years—almost twenty-five now—was part of the reason I was trekking through the wilds of Borunda in the first place. Not that I was in hiding or anything like that. I had simply taken a year to travel around the world and figure out what to do with my life. Kind of a spiritual journey. Typical twentysomething angst, even if the scale and context of my choices were unusual.

I spent time with the Inca in Peru, sailed the South Pacific, lived with a Stone Age tribe in New Guinea, traversed the winding rivers of Vietnam, went on walkabout in Australia, rode across the steppe with Mongol horsemen. I worked a clinic for lepers in India, meditated with Buddhist monks in Nepal, wandered the Arabian desert with the Bedouin. Finally I trekked across the heart of Africa, from Kenya through the Congo basin, and now to Borunda. I didn’t have all the answers yet, but I was making progress. The last thing I needed was some gun for hire splattering my newly enlightened brain all over the jungle. Talk about going back to square one.

The snipers had no shot so long as I stayed put. I didn’t think they’d come bounding down the cliff the way I had, which meant they’d take the trail. Or rather, one of them would, while the other maintained the high ground to keep me pinned. So long as one of them was up there, I couldn’t run. I ticked off my other options. Wait and try to overpower the guy who came down for me. Risky. Climb up and take the fight to them. Unlikely. Swim out of here. That sounded good, but the stream emptying from the pool wasn’t deep enough for an underwater egress. I would be exposed for a critical few seconds if I tried to go that way. That would be fatal.

Which brought me back to the first option. Wait. It might take the guy ten minutes or more to pick his way down the winding highland trail. That ten minutes could well be my remaining life expectancy. Just great. I finally get some direction in my life and God calls time.

I waited. I listened. The sniper was moving quietly. Snipers are good that way. But I could tell he was coming. I could sense his approach with the hyperawareness of a hunted animal. Even the forest seemed to be waiting, listening, frogs and birds and monkeys holding their breath to see what would happen. Closer. Closer. Closer he came.

I figured I’d slip under the water when he got to the bottom and swim over to the edge of the pool. If he came close enough before my breath gave out, I might take him by surprise, pull him in, get the gun away from him. It would never work, but it was the best plan I could devise on short notice.

Before I could execute my desperation play a new factor entered the equation. A helicopter skimmed in across the tree tops to hover over the clearing. Not moving from my place of concealment I watched it with a mixture of hope and dread. I was either about to be saved or about to be really, really dead.

A commanding voice from the chopper’s PA system sounded over the rotor noise. “This is the Borunda National Police! You on the cliffs—put down your weapons and surrender immediately!”

The helo turned to line up its 7.62mm gun pod. I saw the BNP markings on its tail. Thank God.

Topside, the snipers did the math and threw down their guns.

The chopper, a Eurocopter AS 532 Cougar, touched down in the clearing as I swam back across the pool to meet it. A squad of black riflemen in crisp khakis sprang from the cabin and spread out to secure the scene. Their officer emerged last. Demonstrating absolute confidence that his men had the situation in hand, he kept his sidearm holstered as he strode to the water’s edge. He evidently applied extra starch to his uniform because, despite the heat, he had not the slightest wrinkle. His trousers sported a knife edge crease.

“I am Captain Henri Doussard of the Borunda National Police,” he said. “Please identify yourself.”

I took a deep breath. I loved moments like this.

“Scarlet. Jack Scarlet.”

Captain Doussard saluted me. “My orders, Dr. Scarlet, are to take you at once to the capital. President Ogambo insists that you accept his hospitality while you are in Borunda.”

“I understand,” I said. That was the reason I had entered Borunda on foot at a quiet checkpoint along the Congo border, rather than flying into the airport. President Ogambo was a good friend of my father. I knew he would press me to stay at the presidential palace and subject me to banquets, parties, armed escorts, and the like. I just wanted to go hiking. But I had used my regular passport, so I knew it was only a matter of time before my name was flagged and the president sent out a search party to bring me in. Normally I would be annoyed that they had found me so soon. Given the circumstances, I had no complaints. I looked forward to telling Ogambo the whole story. “I’m actually quite glad to see you, captain.”

Doussard’s eyes slid past me and took in the dead mercenaries scattered around the clearing. He could not restrain his policeman’s curiosity.

“What happened here?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Hunting accident.”

Doussard shook his head. “Most unfortunate,” he said. “Most unfortunate.”

Table of Contents

Bullets for Breakfast