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“Shit is more like it.”
Snorting, she spotted some smaller branches off the trail and went over and started collecting them into the curve of her arm. “Really,” she said, agreeing with him.
Kilmer moved ahead and picked up more of the branches that had come down during a recent thunderstorm. “Part of our mission is just mapping all the primary and feeder trails in the area,” he told her. “The feeder trails are small tributary paths off the main ones. Sometimes, it’s smarter to take a feeder than the primary. The pigs are always creating new trails as they push through, rooting out grubs, worms, and other stuff from beneath the soil.”
In no time, Sierra had an armful of smaller twigs and larger branches in her arms. Kilmer had gotten an armload, too. “But those feeder trails could be a dead end. That wouldn’t be good if we’re trying to exfil.” She saw him give her a pleased look.
“Bingo,” he said, heading out onto the trail and gesturing for her to walk with him back toward the meadow. “That’s why mapping the feeder trails is so damned important.”
“So, you’re doing all that, plus trying to pick off the leaders of each of the Russian mafia teams in your territory?” Sierra guessed. The wood was damp and heavy, having absorbed the constant rain in the area.
“Correct. It’s whac-a-mole, all over, again. You kill one of those bastards and the New York City mafia sends in a new leader to take over. And then it’s the same game, just with fresh players, all over again.”
“How much time do you parcel out for trail mapping?” she wondered. Sierra found herself not wanting to go back to the meadow just yet. She saw that Kilmer was being less abrasive with her the more he realized she was a damned good strategist and tactician. She had a good mind for the geography and topography of an area. As a sniper, that was of key importance to her being able to complete her mission.
“Fifty percent.”
“Do you set up traps for Belov?”
“Yeah,” Killmer grumped, unhappy. “But it’s always a guess. Without satellite imaging or being able to use a Raven to spot him and his team, it’s always second guessing. What we’ve tried to do is establish his route. Every Russian team in this area has to go to ten different locations that have an Indian village each. They run a circuit. With Alexandrov, he was predictable. Petrov, who took over for him, was less so. And Belov is completely unpredictable. So, trying to establish a hide for you to sit in and wait him out is going to be near impossible unless he stops being erratic in his routes.”
“I was briefed by the big guy at Shield Security, Jack Driscoll, that there’s a mole in Belov’s team. Sasha Pavlov? He’s a combat medic and ex-Spetsnaz operator.” She twisted a look up at Mace. “Do you know about him?”
“Yes. He has certain Indians in each village that he trusts, that will give us any messages from him when we arrive in their particular village. He’s a good man,” Kilmer said. “And if we didn’t have Pavlov feeding us intelligence, we’d be totally screwed. We’d never be able to meet Belov on a trail. There’re over twenty-five trails, and three times that of feeder trails in our area of operation.”
Sierra took in a deep breath, beginning to grasp how tough an assignment this was going to be. “What does Pavlov pass on to you?”
“Usually, the lowdown on when the Indians of the village have to hump out the cocaine in sacks to carry it into the Highlands area.” Mace breasted the small hill, the meadow not far ahead. “He’ll let us know the time when it’s to be picked up, or the trail they’re taking. We try not to make Belov suspect someone on his teams knows the schedule. So, we hit them at different points and areas, but not consistently. We let some of the coke get through in order to keep Pavlov protected.”
“Both the CIA,” she told him, “and Jack are worried about Sasha. Jack said he’s a good man, with good moral fiber. That he hates being with the mafia, but he doesn’t have a choice.”
Mace shrugged. “Then he can leave. I don’t see the issue here. It’s good pay to be a drug soldier.”
Sierra shook her head as they walked down the incline. “It’s not so black-and-white, Sergeant.”
“Call me Kilmer, or Mace,” he grunted, giving her a dark look.
That was a nice surprise. “Okay,” she said. Sierra knew, in the military, everyone went by their last names or by their nicknames. She had no idea if this team did as well but would find out sooner or later. “Jack told us that Pavlov’s family had been massacred by Russian separatists. He comes from dairy farm people. He has a younger brother who survived the raid, the only one left alive. Pavlov used to have four sisters and two brothers.” Her voice dropped into a sad tone. “It’s hell having a sibling who’s too injured to live on his own…”
Mace looked down at her. But he didn’t say anything. They carried the branches and twigs over to the hut that served as the camp’s makeshift woodhouse, stowing them one by one inside, where they could slowly start drying out.
Sierra enjoyed this time working with Mace. She would hand him the branches, and, with his long arms, he’d take them and reach inside the hut to stack them neatly. Every once in a while, their fingers would briefly touch. And every time, Sierra felt a spark of warmth on her skin wherever they made accidental contact. She looked at the way his collar pulled away from his thick, muscular neck, and appreciated the muscles and masculine power of him. And both sweating profusely as they were in the high humidity, she unconsciously inhaled his male scent. It made her want to unbutton his shirt and run her hands in exploration over that massive chest of his. She knew he would look incredible naked. Why, oh why, was her mind going THERE? Flustered, Sierra forced herself to finish off the task and then get up, rubbing her dirty palms down her cammie trousers.
She saw that Cale was busy cutting up a chicken he’d just plucked the feathers from. Going over, she asked him, “Can you use some help? I’m a great sous-chef.”
Cale grinned, quickly butchering the chicken. “Sure. I’ve got some lard in that tin by the log. Drop a couple of tablespoons into the skillet there and get it melted over the fire?”
Sierra was happy to help. Nate came by with a gallon-sized Ziploc bag of what looked like yellow cornmeal in it. He washed the chicken parts off in a bowl of clean rainwater and crouched next to Cale, handing them to him. In no time, the chicken was coated in cornmeal, and Nate gently put each piece into the skillet, being careful not to splash up the melted lard in the bottom of it. Sierra placed the huge skillet over the grate across the fire.
“Fried chicken tonight!” Cale called, washing his hands off in the water, and then throwing it out on the grass.
“You guys live high on the hog out here,” Sierra teased, moving the skillet a bit. Cale handed her a fork so she could turn the meat when needed.
Nate put water and then coffee grounds into the percolator, setting it on one edge of the grate. “The Q’ero people of the villages are always happy to have US dollars instead of Peruvian soles. There’s about a three-to-one ratio, with Uncle Sam returning three times the price for the food they purchase down in Cusco. They’re happy to share fresh eggs, chickens, fruit and vegetables, when they’re in season, with us.”
“Yeah,” Cale said. “Sometimes we meet a big boar on one of the trails. We shoot it, field dress it, and then put it on a long pole and carry it into the nearest village.”
Nate grinned and sat down on one of the logs. “Yeah, Sierra, you oughta see the villagers celebrate. They dig a huge hole, start a big fire, and make a lot of coals. Then they wrap the pig in some kind of large jungle leaves and bury it all. The next day, that pig is done, and it can feed everyone in some of the smaller villages. And us, too.”
