Chapter Five

Echoes of the Past

Tucker

The shadowy heat of sleep overtook him, pushing Tucker down until his face was pressed into the cold grime of somewhere that had once been familiar.

Peering up from the mud, Tucker blinked into the darkness. He'd known the dark before, but not like this. The blackness of his misspent youth had been warmer and infinitely more tempting. The current expanse of shadow was something else. Something more sinister, as though evil itself lurked just beyond his grasp.

It wasn't far from the truth. Somewhere, not far from where he was sprawled, was his target—the man he was there to kill. Although whether he or the ill-fated destination for his bullet was the true malignant energy of that night remained to be seen.

The target had a name—an identity Tucker had been ordered to scrub out—but slithering forward, he chose not to recall it. It didn't matter who the guy was or why the assassination order had been given. Tucker's only focus was carrying out the instruction.

‘Getting the job done.' The words of his commanding officer rang in his head as the sludge shifted beneath him. ‘That's what we do, Bowman. The public and its elected officials don't care how or why we execute the plan. We're the instruments of policy. That's all.'

Inhaling the smell of wet earth, Tucker was only inclined to correct him on one point. It was never ‘we.' As far as he could remember, the C.O. had never joined on a single mission.

"Bowman!"

The hissed whisper came from the reeds to his left, and freezing in the cold mud, Tucker turned toward the sound.

What?

He shot the query back with his eyes, imagining how he must have looked to the man flanking him. His blue gaze was stark against the backdrop of filth and gloom.

What are you doing? No communication this close to the target!

Collins was only there as a back-up. The last resort option sent in to confirm the kill should Tucker fail. But that wasn't going to happen. Tucker didn't fail.

Long seconds intervened with thankfully no reply from Collins. Only the sound of Tucker's racing heart filled that period, his senses heightened, as his attention shifted from the man camouflaging behind the tree and back in the direction of his target.

Hopefully, Collins had got the message.

No more mistakes.

Frankly, the man wasn't a rookie, and he should have known better than to call out this close to the mission objective.

But then Collins' wasn't the first error.

The operation had been littered with silly blunders. The target had been mysteriously absent on the original day the mission had been planned, then he and Collins had been dropped in the wrong position, causing the imminent action to be delayed several hours.

It was little wonder Tucker had made it at all.

Focus.His jaw tightened at the thought. I can do this.

I am going to do this.

Content to continue his trudge through the mire, Tucker eased forward on his elbows. He'd studied the satellite imagery of the location long enough to know how many meters there were until he reached the bunker his target called home. Reconnaissance had revealed the shelter to be known to be well-guarded, but the decoy shots fired by his allies would have drawn the men on patrol. The coast should be clear for Tucker to go to work.

Adrenaline flooded his system as he edged closer, and risking a glance from the mud, he eyed the brick perimeter of the dugout. If his information was correct, the target would be inside that perimeter, enjoying the fruits of his ill-gotten labor.

Tucker's lips curled at the idea of illicit earnings and pleasure. God knew he'd had more than his fair share over the years. His disillusionment with that life had led him to his current scrapes with mortality.

Out of the frying pan into the fire.

The idea carried him as he inched toward the low wall, his nose grazing the brickwork as he reached into his pocket for a grenade. There shouldn't be anyone at home beyond the boundary, but after everything that had happened that day, Tucker wasn't taking any chances.

Pulling out the pin, he rose briefly to all fours and hurled the grenade in the direction of the entrance. He grabbed his gasmask as he fell flat to the ground, forcing the visor over his nose and eyes just as the gas released by the grenade permeated the air around him. Fleetingly, he thought of Collins and wondered if his colleague had also donned his gasmask, but he instantly dismissed the distraction. Collins was old enough to know how to proceed. He didn't need Tucker to hold his hand.

Pressed against the side of the brick, he strained his senses to listen. No strangled cries filled the air, suggesting his path into the bunker had indeed been cleared by the decoy fire.

Good.

His confidence swelled. Despite setbacks, the plan was back on track. A moment later, he was up and had leapt over the wall to the concrete below, keeping his back to the bunker as he reached for his weapon.

A calm certainty he recognized from previous missions settled over him. Tucker was going to work, and whatever came next, he'd handle it. That's what he did; that's why they employed him. Bowman was a handler. He faced his adversary with a grin and a kick to the happy sacks.

The gas was starting to clear as he found the entrance, the door slightly ajar, no doubt from when all the target's men had fled to defend their criminal sanctuary.

Check the corners, just in case.

His training echoed in his head as he pushed the door open with his foot. Heart hammering, he ensured he wasn't being followed before he slipped inside the concrete corridor. Yanking down his mask, he eyed the interior warily. Bunkers like this one were essentially underground rabbit warrens. An enemy could technically lurk behind any of the corners, waiting to pounce.

Gripping his gun tighter, he raised the weapon in anticipation as he made his way slowly down the hall. The exact location of his target was imprinted on his memory, his steps following the map in his mind. Minutes of hot silence ticked past where Tucker acted on autopilot, allowing his hours of preparation to take control.

Only when he'd identified the room his target was believed to be hiding did his feet pause, his gaze traveling up and down the corridor as though he expected a foe to leap from the walls.

This is it.

Steeling himself, he pressed himself against the door and listened.

No obvious noise. His pulse quelled at the reassurance. He doesn't know I'm here.

An emotion he could best describe as somewhere between glee and conceit overtook him. Handling the gun, he nudged open the door separating him from his target with his back.

Everything's under control.The thought buoyed him as he pressed into the room. Everything's under control.

But as he turned into the space, Tucker was struck by the unanticipated gloom. He'd expected the target to be in there alone, perhaps drinking or enjoying the company of an unfortunate woman. But he hadn't expected this…

Something's wrong!

The thought burst into his head as his gaze searched the darkness for any evidence of his target. If his enemy wasn't in there, then where the hell was he?

As if it sought to reply, a gunshot exploded from the shadows, the spark from the shot illuminating the scene for only a fraction of a second. Tucker registered the noise at first, the deafening sound of the shot at such close range drowning out all of his senses. Next came the pain as the bullet caught him in the shoulder. The pinpoint impact was agony, his mouth opening to acknowledge the strike even as his finger pulled the trigger.

Falling back to his knees, he opened fire into the dark room, miraculously missing most of the bullets spraying in his direction. A couple of stray shots caught him on the right arm, forcing him to drop his gun. Biting back on the pain, he was aware of the blood gushing from his wounds, his body pressing back against the cold concrete in a pathetic attempt to save himself.

Shit!

Grappling with pain, he struggled to remember what his training had taught him to do in a moment like this. Bullets continued to come from the room he'd entered, but he forced himself to ignore the imminent danger and focus on something—anything—other than his hurt. It was then that the loud thud of footsteps running toward him captured his attention.

That's it.

Dull, inevitable panic filled his senses as he accepted his fate. The target's men had returned to protect their illustrious leader. It was over.

Dead man walking.

The sardonic term echoed in his head, although crouched against the wall, Tucker wasn't even managing to do that much.

Pulling in air, he lifted his chin, determined to look into the eyes of the man about to exterminate him in the shitty concrete bunker, but as the assailant neared, his dark clothes were eerily familiar.

"Get down, Bowman!"

Time moved in slow motion as Collins emerged from the gloom, his weapon returning fire as, waiting for a break in shots, he burst into the room.

Clutching his shoulder, Tucker braced, somehow unable to grasp how Collins had known to come to his rescue. He'd been outside of the bunker, only there to cover Tucker in the eventuality of his failure.

Brows knitting, he tried to recall how long he had to have been gone before Collins was instructed to act.

"Come on!" Collins barked the order as he exited the room. "I got him. He's dead."

"What?"

Maybe it was the blood loss, but nothing seemed to add up as Collins yanked him to his feet and dragged him back along the godforsaken hallway.

He pushed the nagging queries to the back of his mind as he stumbled behind Collins, grateful to be alive, yet still all too aware that they weren't safe until they were clear of the entire enemy complex.

Tucker didn't know how he and Collins made it out. Even years later, he couldn't conclude anything except confusion and possible treachery.

At the moment, it had hardly mattered. As his lungs tasted the fresh air of freedom, all he could focus on was his hopes for a life still to come and the wooden cabin he was going to build in the forest.

His last conscious thought before his knees gave way, and he landed face-first back into the mud was of those woods. Of the trees reaching down to shield him, their roots lifting him to an untold sanctuary.

The woodland was home.

It was the future.