Page 138 of The Fourth Option
He pushed himself to his knees in the mud.
“Pal, here boy,” he said louder.
Still nothing.
How far had he gone downriver?
A mile?
Two miles?
It was hard to tell.
Barefoot, in wet jeans and no shirt, it would take some time to make it back upriver. Whoever had attacked him might be long gone. But maybe not.
Walker inspected his speargun, ensuring it was in working order. Then he grabbed handfuls of mud and caked it across his chest, stomach, arms, and face.
It was time to go to war.
Sergeant Dupuis leaned against the brush guard of his Ford F-350 smoking his second Hooten Young cigar of the night. He had heard that Delta Force operators smoked them. His rifle was on the hood.
Every few minutes he would hear something and shine his spotlight in that direction.
He hit the light button on his Casio G-SHOCK, the same watch he had read that spec ops guys preferred. It had been forty-five minutes. Did he really need to wait fifteen more? Who would know?
He had grown tired of practicing his quick draw with his new Staccato C4X in the TXC waistband holster on his belt. He had a Vortex red dot on it. Only old-timers still used iron sights. A buddy who had stayed in the military had told him the most elite units were using these exact pistols, as were top tactical teams of federal law enforcement agencies so, of course, he had to add one to his collection. The four-inch compactcompensated pistol even took his Glock mags. Now he was waiting and checking his watch every few minutes, thinking about the night vision and helmet he wanted to buy.
Maybe he should try out for SWAT. That had been his goal before Bates recruited him for COPE. Kicking doors, executing high-risk warrants, and rescuing hostages sounded more high-speed than rolling through the Ninth. But the extracurricular activities of COPE sure paid better. If he wanted to keep building his arsenal, he needed to stick with COPE. Besides, at this point he doubted that Bates would even let him leave.
He was dreaming about NODs and L3 Harris Next Generation Laser Aiming Devices when he heard a whimper.
He turned the spotlight downriver into the brush.
Then he heard it again.
What is that? A fucking animal?
Dupuis grabbed the rifle off the hood of his truck and made his way downriver toward the source of the noise, sweeping the path ahead with the spotlight, cigar clamped in his teeth.
The whimpers were getting weaker the closer he got.
He stepped over rotting logs and moved past cypress and oaks until he found the source of the noise.
A fucking dog?
Dupuis looked down, recognizing it as a Belgian Malinois.
The fucking thing escaped?
Bates would not be happy to hear that.
It looked dead but Dupuis could see a slight rise and fall of its ribs. He could also see where it had thrown up.
Should he just pop it in the head and toss it back in the river?
It might wash up somewhere, but who the fuck cared? Gators would probably get it anyway.
Dupuis adjusted his grip on the spotlight, sweeping the powerful beam on the river and through the trees and bushes around him.
