The Payback Assignment Read Online Free Page A

gave the remaining men a chance.   Morgan saw at least two of his teammates make it back into the forest, unseen by their attackers.   Over his shoulder he saw Mike grinning like a child on a roller coaster, before a hail of bullets knocked him back onto the shore.  
    Morgan circled wide, creeping through the woods like one of its native animals.   Tall grasses and ferns slapped at his face as he crawled through the underbrush.   He continued to move in a shallow arc until he got behind the convoy.   Crouching in the undergrowth, he saw there were seven jeeps, each with a four-man crew.   All of the soldiers were armed with automatic weapons, a random mix of M-16s, AK-47s and older rifles.   Old Abrigo must have been far more important to someone than Morgan had guessed.
                He imagined his men, those who survived, were long gone, faded into the bush, on their way to another country.   These under-trained Belizean soldiers were probably just taking sound shots at shadows, or, with any luck, each other.   This was the time to make his move, during the confusion.   He had made one decision.   He did not intend to walk out.
                After scanning the options he selected an isolated jeep.   Half of its crew was out chasing “terrorists” in the woods.   The driver sat in the jeep, smoking a cigarette.   His partner leaned against a tree some ten feet away, cradling an old M14 rifle in his arms.   He stared dreamily in the direction of the last few shots.
                Morgan’s chances would not get any better.   He crept toward the standing soldier.   He traveled with the stealth and patience the United States Army taught him years ago when he was an underage tunnel rat for MACVSOG, the so called Studies and Observations Group of the Military Assistance Command in Vietnam.   They trained him well, but he perfected his skills after the war, during years of experience in every kind of dangerous environment on earth.
                He stopped barely seven feet from his intended victim.   His hand slowly slid down his right leg.   From his boot he drew a blackened double-edged throwing knife.   With his other hand, he smoothly slid his machete out of its belt sheath.
                The young soldier with the rifle was apparently day dreaming, probably about some young lady back in town.   Morgan imagined him inventing his story of this day’s adventure.   How many terrorists could he say he killed?   Twelve?   Fifteen maybe?  
                Of course, Morgan could only guess at the soldier’s thoughts as he stared off into the woods.   Whatever occupied his mind, he did not notice the tall, grim black man rising to his full height behind him.   Morgan’s left arm drew back and arced down sharply, burying the twenty-four inch tempered steel machete blade between the man’s neck and left shoulder, not quite deep enough to touch his heart, but certainly deep enough to do the job.   Almost in the same motion, Morgan’s right arm blurred.   The driver was still fumbling with his rifle’s safety switch when the blackened throwing blade buried itself hilt-deep in his throat.   His eyes were wide with shock, blood still spurting from the wound when Morgan kicked him out of the seat and fired up the jeep’s engine.
    He managed to get the clumsy vehicle turned around on the narrow trail and headed out in a burst of loose dirt and dead leaves.   Five or six soldiers waited up ahead, startled by his sudden appearance.   Morgan hardly considered them an obstacle.   Driving with his left hand, he unlimbered his Jeti and cleared the road with one quick burst.  
                Everyone who could have seen which way Morgan had gone was dead.   Still, stopping now would mean an increased risk of detection, even pursuit and capture.   Turning around would be suicide.   Besides, the trail was too narrow to even swerve