Fog (5 page)

Rain pelts my face; my feet slam through muck. I love this. I’m alive. My confusion waits for me back at the comm tent. It makes no sense to worry about the BSA now, or about what might happen once we reach Taiwan. What matters now, is to win the race, to hunt Runner and not be the hunted.

I left my ghillie on my bunk and he must have noticed it, probably frowned at it in disapproval. How can a sniper ever leave her camouflage behind? Surely, Micka is not made for this job, being so frazzle-brained from recent developments.

I grin, my nerves are taut with exhilaration.
 

The dimly lit woods slip past me. Scents of blossoms fill the air, of wet earth, and fruits at full ripeness and the rain washing them and making their aroma lighter. I love the hardness of my rifle against my side. Today, my marker will hit its target.

Although my sandals slow me down and create a
slop-slop
noise, I keep them on my feet. They are part of my plan to get a clean shot at Runner. The swamp is near and the trees begin to change from gnarled to slender and smooth. One of the thickest of them is standing close to the swamp’s edge and I slow my run, slither, zigzag across the mud and fall close to the large tree’s trunk. I rip out a few strands of my hair, stick them to the cracks in the bark, and make sure the new membrane is tightly sealing my rifle’s muzzle — making my weapon water-proof.

I lie down and run my hands over the mud, then stand, just to fall over again. I leave one sandal at the edge of the swamp, take one large step forward and begin to sink. Before the muck can suck in my leg, I bend my upper body flat against the surface and push into the swamp. The heavy mud is brushing my arm while I propel myself forward. My other arm presses the rifle against my side. After a few strokes, I shake off my other sandal, then swim a semi-circle to reach the edge far from where I entered the water. I pull myself up a fallen tree, grab a handful of muck and rub it into my face, my hands, wrists, and feet. Then I scale the nearest upright tree, arranging twigs and leaves so that the foliage provides a thick cover.

I can barely keep my heartbeat calm. The view is wonderfully dramatic. Sliding tracks of poor Micka falling, bonking her head on a tree, and oh, look at this! — the impact was so hard, it ripped a few strands of her orange hair out. Oh no, she must have been knocked half-unconscious what with that sliding and slipping dangerously close to the swamp’s edge. Her sandal — why did she lose her sandal in the muck? Is that a footprint leading into the swamp? Did she…is that her sandal floating in the water?
 

I have to keep myself from grinning. White teeth flashing in muck-covered face wouldn’t do now. It might be cruel, but there’s no other way to trick Runner into carelessness.
 

I can’t hear him, but I know he must be very close. The few minutes head start weren’t all that much. When the tiny hairs on the back of my neck begin to raise, he steps into view like a large cat stepping out of the shadows. He, too, doesn’t wear his ghillie.
 

Are you feeling superior today, my friend?

I take aim and watch. Unmoving, he takes in the scene for a moment, then creeps toward the tree, centimetre by centimetre, and brushes the bark with my hair stuck to it. He stands, his rifle sagging a fraction and that is when I know I got him. I see his gaze sweeping to my sandal stuck in the mud, then the one floating like a dead leaf on the murky surface.

When he cocks his head, I know he finds the scene suspicious. I put the crosshairs right over his heart and squeeze the trigger.
 

Click
.
Plop
.

He freezes, doubles over, and falls face down into the mud. He doesn’t move. Shit! Shitshitshit! I scramble down the tree, drop my rifle, and run up to him. I grab his shoulder and yank hard in an attempt to turn him around so he doesn’t suffocate. I barely register the flash of metal.

His knife is at my throat.

I snort. ‘Sorry to break the news, but you are dead.’

‘I’ve sucked up bullets before,’ he hisses. ‘As long as there’s life in me, I use it to kill my enemy.’

I point at the green paint blurred with mud. ‘Here. Shot through the heart.’

‘What if my heart is on the other side? There are people who have their heart on the right side.’

‘In that case, I would tell you I don’t give a shit just before I chop off your balls.’ I nod down to where my knife rests against his crotch. ‘You are a crappy loser.’ I let go of him and stomp away.

‘Micka, I’m being serious. A single bullet doesn’t necessarily kill. What happens when you are shot? Will you fall and give up? Or will you try to take down as many as you can?’

‘How would I know? I’ve never been shot.’ Fuck. I don’t even want to think about it.

‘Will you pull the trigger when I tell you to?’ he asks.

That stops me in my tracks. He wants to know if I can kill a man. ‘I don’t know,’ I say.

‘Hmm.’ He nods and lets it go. ‘I underestimated you today. When we return, you have to show me how you crossed that swamp without drowning. But the sandals were a tad over-dramatic.’

‘Shut up, you are dead.’ I’m walking faster. He has a point there, but that just makes me angrier. ‘You believed I couldn’t think, because I’m nervous because of what happened back at the comm tent and us going to Taiwan and possibly running into the BSA. You underestimate me because I’m a girl.’

The
slop-slop
of his boots in the muck are approaching. ‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Yes, you fucking did!’ I turn around and point my finger at his nose. ‘You think women are soft and need protection. That’s why you told me to get the toxic implant. That’s why you don’t tell Yi-Ting you’re in love with her. You protect her from yourself, the professional killer. And now it’s too late.’

Wow. That came out bluntly. Sometimes I speak like an axe in the woods.

‘Why would it be too late? This mission is low-risk. Besides, I can see how
you
are looking at her. Like a very lonely puppy. But you’ve never said anything either. Why?’

My chest contracts. ‘Because she likes you.’

‘She likes you, too.’

‘Bullshit!’ I stop and point my rifle at him. ‘If you keep annoying me, I’ll plop my second marker in your crotch.’

He lifts an eyebrow. ‘You turn into some kind of very prickly thistle every time someone offers you a friendly gesture. That might be a good method if you want people to treat you like shit. On the other hand, some people refuse to turn into assholes no matter what.’

My mouth wants to drop open, but I don’t let it. I set my jaw. ‘You’ve been a cold bastard ever since we arrived here.’

Runner just grins and walks past me. ‘Briefing in one hour. Well done, by the way.’

I can’t believe my ears. Since our training began, he’s never complimented me for anything.

The small aircraft sets down smoothly and slows to a stop. I hold on to Ben’s seat as inertia pulls me forward. During the short flight, I couldn’t bring myself to speak to Ben. All I did was gaze at his back — the small cockpit lights pinpricking the darkness — and wonder if we’ll ever meet again.

Ben takes off his night vision goggles and turns to us. ‘Elevation, five hundred metres. Can’t get you farther up; no landing strip anywhere near the observatory.’

And we’ll not get any lower than this. Runner and Kat consider all surface and groundwater from below five hundred metres elevation, as not safe to drink.

‘Thanks, Ben,’ Runner says, grabs his ruck and rifle, snaps his night vision goggles on, and jumps out without a goodbye.

I’m not as tough. I punch Ben’s shoulder and give him a peck on his cheek.
 

He grins. ‘Don’t you worry, honey. You’ll be back in no time and then I’ll let you ravage my hard body.’

The tension falls off. I bark a laugh and punch his shoulder once more. As I turn away from him, a memory of Yi-Ting hits me square in the chest. How she stood at the mouth of the comm tent when we were leaving, her outline cut sharply against the moonlight. She placed her hand over her heart, then to her lips before she waved her kiss to Runner. His expression was severe and he hid it quickly, lowering his head and bending down to tie his boot laces that were perfectly tied already.

‘I’ll bring him back for you,’ I’d told her and regretted this silly promise at once. For many years, Runner worked alone. He doesn’t need anyone to watch out for him.

I shoulder my pack, snap the night vision goggles in place, and grab my rifle. My boots hit the dry hard clay; the bulk on my back bending my knees upon impact. I straighten up and we walk a few metres, giving Ben’s machine space to take off.

We watch the small plane disappear, then trot to the very end of the runway, carving small marks into three trees while we walk back to the other end, assessing the distance as we go. We take our time, slinking from cover to cover and letting our rifles and scopes adjust to the higher humidity, temperature, and elevation. Silently, we lie down in the dirt, remove our night vision goggles, and aim our infrared lasers at the closest knife-mark. Nine hundred and eighty-seven metres distance shows in my scope in tiny red numbers. The night-eye paints the surroundings in shades of grey and green.

I aim and snap the first shot, watch where the bullet rips off the bark, adjust my scope and fire again. The night echoes the muzzle report.
Fomp. Fomp.
I know the BSA aren’t anywhere close, else Ben and Yi-Ting would have seen them on their flights. Still, I hate to produce noise. It’s as if I scream at the enemy, ‘I’m here! Come and get me!’

Two more shots for the next tree and another two fired at the farthest one. Then it’s Runner’s turn. While he zeroes-in his rifle, I try to adjust my eyes to the darkness. No stars light up the night, no moon. My pupils are cranked open to the max, but all I see are faint silhouettes in the corners of my vision. When I lower the night vision goggles, the world around me appears clear and crisp. I can breathe easier. The darkness was stupefying and Runner’s muzzle report did nothing to reassure me.

‘That’ll have to do,’ he says and stands. He brushes the dirt off his pants and we begin our march uphill. The SatPad is stuck in a side pocket of his rucksack. We’ll use it only in an emergency. We have no idea if the BSA can tap our communications. Odd, to be so cut off from the others. But I’m more creeped out by the fact that we can’t zero-in our rifles when we’re up at the observatory. The temperature and pressure up there will be lower, meddling with our finely tuned weapons. But it would be even creepier to fire shots in an area where the BSA could show up at any moment. The last thing we want is to let them know we are on the island.

There’s a one to two day hike ahead of us until we reach the border between Taitung and Pingtun at roughly one thousand seven hundred metres elevation. We’ll install an amplifier once we reach the crest. During briefing, we took a very close look at the images Ben and Yi-Ting shot of the observatory. It houses the island’s only intact satellite control centre. In the light of things, the observatory gained a whole new level of interest to us. The goal of our mission is to investigate and install a couple of mics. But getting inside the building undetected is another story.

While we quietly hike through the night, my thoughts are free to roam. And they travel unbidden to sweet Yi-Ting and the way she bid Runner goodbye. When I step on a twig and produce a
crack
, Runner stops. His pale grey-green features show surprise.
 

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Stupid boots. I shouldn’t have put them on. Give me a second.’

I pull off my footwear, tie them on top of my ruck and make sure they don’t flop around; then I shoulder my pack again and nod at him to walk on.

I know what made me slip into boots in the first place. Taiwan is home to a variety of poisonous snakes and walking around barefooted became less enticing the more I thought about it. But there are also snakes that jump off trees and into your face whether you wear boots or not. I grew up barefooted and know how to move silently through the woods.
 

Drawing the attention of a bunch of heavily armed morons in black suddenly seems much worse than stepping on a Banded Krait.

Roughly four hours later, Runner stops and choses a spot to camp for the night. We drink water and eat a thick paste made of dried fruit, honey, and nuts.

‘We’ll hunt tomorrow. I don’t want to touch our provisions unless it’s absolutely necessary,’ he says.

‘What do you want to shoot? Deer?’ I’m trying to picture a bird the size of a quail, shot with Runner’s .50 caliber rifle. I wonder if the bird would be recognisable or if it would disintegrate into a spray of blood and feathers.

‘My air rifle is in my rucksack.’

‘Oh. Okay. Can we make a fire?’

‘In the daytime, yes. I’ll spread a tarp up high over it and we’ll be fine. Uh, another thing. Hygiene is paramount here—’

‘Do I stink?’ I sniff at my hand and wrist.

‘What? No! What I mean is, as long as we are below one thousand five hundred metres elevation, the forest here is full of biting and stinging insects, as you’ve noticed.’