Read Online Target Response by William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone
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“What news from the front?” Thurlow asked.
“All quiet,” Krentz said. He spoke English with an accent. “Nothing to report since that outbreak of shooting an hour ago.”
“Any details?”
“One of the riverboat patrols reported hearing some shots coming from somewhere at the western edge of the swamp.”
“That’s it? No follow-up?” Thurlow pressed.
“Nothing else to report. Some shots were heard, that’s all we know. It could have been Kilroy or it could have been some of the boys shooting at a croc.”
Ordinarily Krentz would have referred to the troops as “kaffirs,” a highly uncomplimentary term. But he was wary of using the word around Sergeant Ajani, who might or might not have been sleeping and certainly would have taken offense at the term. It was a mark of the respect bordering on intimidation that the hulking noncom generated in those around him that even his nominal superior Colonel Krentz was wary of incurring Ajani’s dislike.
“None of the dinghies in the swamp have radios; there’re only so many to go around. Most of them went to the riverboats. One of them heard some shots and called it in. That’s all for now,” Krentz said.
He shrugged, waving a hand in dismissal. “It means nothing. After three days and nights in the swamp the boys are ready to shoot at their shadows—or each other, for that matter.”
“For once I don’t blame them. This hellhole would get on anybody’s nerves.”
“Including yours, Ward?” Krentz snickered. “You’ve got it easy. The Kondo is a paradise compared to the swamp. As you’d know if you set foot there.”
“I don’t see you going in there either, Krentz.”
Krentz smiled bleakly, without warmth, white teeth shining palely in the dirty yellow glow of a kerosene lamp.
“That would be improper distribution of labor. There’s nothing I could do there that the boys can’t do better,” he said. “Besides, somebody’s got to stay here with you and coordinate the hunt.”
Krentz took a cigar from his breast pocket. It looked like a brown twig, long, skinny, and crooked. “Smoke?” he offered.
“Christ no! Those ropes you smoke taste like shit,” Thurlow said.
“The very best dried dung. They use it here to stretch out the tobacco,” Krentz said, chuckling. He bit off the end of the cigar, spat it overboard. He used a lighter to set fire to the end of it, puffed away.
Smoke clouds blanketed him, undisturbed by the still, heavy air. Even out here on the water there was barely the breath of a breeze.
“If you ask me, we’re wasting our time here. The swamp’s probably gotten your man,” Krentz opined.
“Our man,” Thurlow corrected. “Your bosses at MYRMEX want him just as badly as I do.”
Krentz nodded. “Point taken.”
“He was still alive today. Alive enough to slaughter another squad or two of the troops. He’s terrorizing them. Picking them off one at a time, cutting their throats. Strangling them and leaving their bodies hanging from vines on the trail,” Thurlow said, his voice taking a petulant, whining tone.
“He’s lasted longer than I thought he would,” Krentz said. “Who is this Kilroy anyway? I never heard of him—and I should have, the way he handles himself. I know all the big players in the killer elite on this continent.”
“He’s not from this continent. He was U.S. Special Forces or something, I don’t know.”
“If you don’t, who does? Didn’t your spook friends back at Langley give you any background information on him?”
Thurlow shook his head, his expression peevish. “Just the routine handout. Kilroy’s an action man, a shooter. Tours of duty in Iraq, Afghanistan, the usual itinerary.”
“Whoever he is, he’s a jungle fighter. The boys should have done him. If they didn’t, the swamp should have,” Krentz said.
“There was nothing in the record to indicate that he was worth more than a passing notice. I didn’t think he was worth further
“What news from the front?” Thurlow asked.
“All quiet,” Krentz said. He spoke English with an accent. “Nothing to report since that outbreak of shooting an hour ago.”
“Any details?”
“One of the riverboat patrols reported hearing some shots coming from somewhere at the western edge of the swamp.”
“That’s it? No follow-up?” Thurlow pressed.
“Nothing else to report. Some shots were heard, that’s all we know. It could have been Kilroy or it could have been some of the boys shooting at a croc.”
Ordinarily Krentz would have referred to the troops as “kaffirs,” a highly uncomplimentary term. But he was wary of using the word around Sergeant Ajani, who might or might not have been sleeping and certainly would have taken offense at the term. It was a mark of the respect bordering on intimidation that the hulking noncom generated in those around him that even his nominal superior Colonel Krentz was wary of incurring Ajani’s dislike.
“None of the dinghies in the swamp have radios; there’re only so many to go around. Most of them went to the riverboats. One of them heard some shots and called it in. That’s all for now,” Krentz said.
He shrugged, waving a hand in dismissal. “It means nothing. After three days and nights in the swamp the boys are ready to shoot at their shadows—or each other, for that matter.”
“For once I don’t blame them. This hellhole would get on anybody’s nerves.”
“Including yours, Ward?” Krentz snickered. “You’ve got it easy. The Kondo is a paradise compared to the swamp. As you’d know if you set foot there.”
“I don’t see you going in there either, Krentz.”
Krentz smiled bleakly, without warmth, white teeth shining palely in the dirty yellow glow of a kerosene lamp.
“That would be improper distribution of labor. There’s nothing I could do there that the boys can’t do better,” he said. “Besides, somebody’s got to stay here with you and coordinate the hunt.”
Krentz took a cigar from his breast pocket. It looked like a brown twig, long, skinny, and crooked. “Smoke?” he offered.
“Christ no! Those ropes you smoke taste like shit,” Thurlow said.
“The very best dried dung. They use it here to stretch out the tobacco,” Krentz said, chuckling. He bit off the end of the cigar, spat it overboard. He used a lighter to set fire to the end of it, puffed away.
Smoke clouds blanketed him, undisturbed by the still, heavy air. Even out here on the water there was barely the breath of a breeze.
“If you ask me, we’re wasting our time here. The swamp’s probably gotten your man,” Krentz opined.
“Our man,” Thurlow corrected. “Your bosses at MYRMEX want him just as badly as I do.”
Krentz nodded. “Point taken.”
“He was still alive today. Alive enough to slaughter another squad or two of the troops. He’s terrorizing them. Picking them off one at a time, cutting their throats. Strangling them and leaving their bodies hanging from vines on the trail,” Thurlow said, his voice taking a petulant, whining tone.
“He’s lasted longer than I thought he would,” Krentz said. “Who is this Kilroy anyway? I never heard of him—and I should have, the way he handles himself. I know all the big players in the killer elite on this continent.”
“He’s not from this continent. He was U.S. Special Forces or something, I don’t know.”
“If you don’t, who does? Didn’t your spook friends back at Langley give you any background information on him?”
Thurlow shook his head, his expression peevish. “Just the routine handout. Kilroy’s an action man, a shooter. Tours of duty in Iraq, Afghanistan, the usual itinerary.”
“Whoever he is, he’s a jungle fighter. The boys should have done him. If they didn’t, the swamp should have,” Krentz said.
“There was nothing in the record to indicate that he was worth more than a passing notice. I didn’t think he was worth further
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