“Ready positions. Ghost, Marcus, and Carlos take the right flank. Oli, JD, and I will take the left. Keep low. Hopefully they’ll walk right past us.”
Wordlessly, Team Specter split into two factions. He heard the gentle rustling of Oliver wading through the waist high foliage a few feet away as he focused on moving quietly himself.
There was a camp not too far from their position. It had nothing to do with the one they’d just raided. A drop camp for a drug operation, or so their commanding officer had claimed. Still, the occupants would be heavily armed and have no qualms about gunning down Abe’s men at the first opportunity.
“Stop,” Marcus warned again, his breathing hard.
All of them instantly obeyed, dropping to the ground, hoping to fade completely in the lush foliage.
“I hear footsteps,” JD said. He was a few feet ahead of Aberlour. Crouched low behind an alcove of trees.
“How many?” Abe asked in a hushed whisper.
“Four.”
There was nothing to do but wait, an inherent part of all Recon operations. They were dropped behind enemy lines and expected to get past them like tiny flecks of sands traveling through a sieve. They were ghosts, all of them. Invisible and deadly. They couldn’t open fire on these men. If they did, they’d be noticed, and then the entire camp would be after them. Thiswas known territory for the enemy, so it was easy for them to track down Team Specter. Aberlour figured their odds of survival were pretty low in that scenario.
Aberlour heard a man walk past them. The man moved cautiously, only a slight rustle of vegetation revealing his presence.
Then someone shouted something, there was a scream, and a single shot rang out. There was a spate of rapid-fire Spanish, which escalated into an argument.
“Carlos can you make out what they’re saying?” Aberlour whispered, counting on the loud argument to provide cover for them to converse.
“Negative,” he replied, his voice sounding strained and strange, like it did when he’d taken a hard hit during the sparring match.
“Carlos?” Aberlour asked, nervously, a suspicious shiver running up and down his spine.
“He’s saying he thought he saw an Apu. A spirit of some kind, I think,” Marcus whispered.
Aberlour ignored him.
“Carlos,” he repeated. “Were you shot?”
There was no reply, just sounds of rustling vegetation and shallow breathing. A few moments later, Carlos finally spoke.
“It’s just a graze.”
Nobody believed him.
The next minute or two, all Aberlour could hear were muffled curses and complaints as Marcus gave Carlos a thorough examination. Waiting anxiously for a report on Carlos’ condition, Aberlour remained still and hidden.
“He’s losing blood. It won’t kill him, but it’s not pretty,” Marcus finally reported, voice strained.
“Ghost, is the coast clear?” Aberlour asked. They needed to get moving. Fast. Getting pinned down in the jungle with an injured man was never good.
“Yes,” Ghost answered.
Aberlour took a deep breath and listened for any sounds that would indicate the enemy was still out there.
“Keep to the left, we’ll keep right. We cover as much ground as we can as quickly as possible,” Aberlour ordered.
“Copy,” Ghost replied.
The two groups waded through the jungle quietly and cautiously, listening intently for signs they’d been spotted by the enemy, and—though it went unsaid—for the continuous sound of Carlos’ harsh breathing over the comms. His curses were oddly reassuring.
It took them nearly two hours to reach their rendezvous point. Aberlour’s team made it there first, but Marcus’ team was only a few minutes behind. When they reached the safe zone, Carlos dropped to the ground in exhaustion, weak from blood loss.
Aberlour and Marcus immediately went to him to check his condition. Aberlour was worried about how badly Carlos’ shoulder was bleeding. He glanced nervously at Marcus, searching for a hint of reassurance from his usually stoic teammate.
