Kill Hole

There wasn't a shred of fear in me. This was what I did best, and the battlefield was the most familiar place I knew. As the sun went down, a warlike tension began to settle over the farm.

We all gathered in the living room of Cyrus's farmhouse. Maps, weapons, and the tightness written across every face mixed together under the dim glow of an old lightbulb.

I looked at the farm owner and spoke.

"You have radios?"

"I've got four household walkie-talkies we use for hunting."

Cyrus pulled the dust-covered radios down from a shelf. That was a relief.

"Good. Set every radio we have — including ours — to channel seven."

While everyone tuned their channels, I went on.

"Once the fighting starts, we keep verbal comms to a minimum. Talking can give away our positions and our plan. We use this signal instead."

I pressed the radio's PTT button once, short and sharp. A hard chik— cut through the silence of the living room.

"We use Tap Code."

I looked each of them in the eye as I laid it out.

"One click means affirmative — roger, all clear. Two clicks means negative, say again, or hold. And three clicks—"

I paused, letting it land.

"Three clicks means contact. Situation developing. Engage at your own discretion from your position, no further orders required."

Chik-chik-chik-chik—

"And a rapid burst like that overrides every other code. Enemy in sight. Situation unfolding. Understood?"

Everyone nodded, faces set.

"Good. Next — overwatch. The attic at the top of the farmhouse is our watchtower. Mike, Merle, Luke, Wyatt, Cyrus — you rotate sentry, one hour each."

Cyrus looked uncomfortable.

"Why's it only the five of us on watch?"

"To keep the movement time short if we make contact. If I'm running from that attic down to the outpost when they hit us, the whole plan comes apart."

"Ah. Understood."

We finished the last of our checks and called it a night.

The next day.

After the morning routine, I headed with Wolf toward the massive haystack piled beside the guard post at the farm entrance. With help from Cyrus's sons, we hollowed out the center of the stack and built a one-man hide from plywood and boards — a kind of spider hole. I pre-staged spare magazines and shotgun shells inside, then went into the entrance outpost and set the TAC-14 on a shelf I could reach with an outstretched hand.

While combat preparations were in full swing, a corner of my mind kept worrying about Wolf. In the roar of the firefight to come, he might panic and bolt, or do something I couldn't predict.

I decided to bring him along to the weapons test. Mike, Gunner, and I headed out to the wide clearing behind the farmhouse, Wolf at my heels.

"We'll start the weapons test. Zero the sights — and I want to see how Wolf handles gunfire."

Steel targets and old drums stood at various distances between fifty and two hundred meters.

Mike went first. He settled into a prone firing position behind the M700. He'd put on weight over the years, but even decades later the body still remembered — the posture of a Marine designated marksman, medium-range sniper work, muscle memory that time hadn't touched.

He steadied his breath and squeezed the trigger.

Crack—!

A sharp, piercing report split the quiet prairie. The steel target rang out with a bright ping!, confirming the hit.

But my eyes were on Wolf. He merely tilted his head once, then sat quietly beside me without so much as a twitch. As if the sound were an old familiar thing.

His previous owner must have enjoyed shooting quite a bit.

Relieved, I ran a hand down his back.

Next was Gunner's turn. He stood with the M4, now a fully automatic rifle.

"Ready?"

He asked it short, then opened up on an oil drum — a brief burst first, then full auto.

Tadatang—, tadadang, tadadadadadatang.

A ripping staccato, nothing like the M700, tore through the air in rapid succession. Dirt exploded around the drum like shrapnel.

Even through that racket, Wolf stayed calm. He just laid his ears back slightly, a hint of wariness and nothing more. I scratched the nape of his neck and praised him.

"Good boy, Wolf."

Last was my turn. I shouldered the Saiga semi-automatic shotgun I'd taken in that first fight in Montana. The weight was solid, honest. I aimed at an oil drum and pulled the trigger.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.

An overwhelming roar, like a giant hammer pounding the world. Twelve-gauge buckshot belched fire in rapid succession, and the drum was shredded into scrap in seconds, tumbling away like torn paper.

Mike, watching, let out a whistle of appreciation.

"Whoa—! ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Now that's a piece of hardware."

I looked at the faint smoke curling from the muzzle. Every preparation was complete.

By the time we finished the weapons test and returned to the farmhouse, dusk had already settled in thick. After dinner I told everyone to stay sharp at their positions, then went back to my trailer.

Three days.

That was what Cyrus had said. But I knew better. On a battlefield, a scheduled time is a number that means nothing. The enemy could hit at dawn tomorrow. The peculiar tension of the night before a fight wrapped around me — a feeling I hadn't had in a long time.

It wasn't unpleasant. If anything, it was a strange excitement, every sense honed sharp, a reminder that I was alive.

I was sitting on the sofa, lost in tangled thoughts, when Wolf — having finished his snacks — came over. As if he'd read my mind, he quietly rested his chin on my leg and blinked up at me with those deep, clear eyes.

I stroked his head and spoke as much to myself as to him.

"It's okay, Wolf. Everything's going to be fine."

He answered in a low, gentle voice — a soft whine, then a warm woof!

A perfect signal of affirmation, and an expression of unshakable trust. Feeling the warmth of his body, I finally found my peace of mind again.

The next morning, before dawn.

I woke without an alarm. Outside the window the world was still locked in pitch darkness, but my body already knew ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a fight was coming. As I started the morning routine, I felt adrenaline surge through every vein. The pre-battle air of a tense dawn — an instinct I knew by heart.

Today, for Wolf's sake — he'd have to wait inside the trailer all day — I ran the farm perimeter with him a little longer than usual. I needed to burn off that surplus energy.

After the workout I gave Dave and Frank firm instructions.

"Stay near the trucks and the caravan. The moment you hear radio traffic calling contact, get to my trailer and take cover. And… take good care of Wolf."

I went into the farmhouse for breakfast. Cyrus had laid out a rough but generous spread — bacon, eggs, and freshly baked biscuits. During the meal he asked, almost casually,

"Watching you all get ready, you don't look like amateurs. Military background?"

Mike took a sip of coffee and answered.

"Our boss here did time in the Korean Army and the Foreign Legion. Gunner and I knocked around in the Marines."

"I knew it!"

Cyrus and his sons responded with open admiration.

After breakfast, Mike went up to the third floor of the farmhouse. The rest of us drank the coffee Cyrus had poured and killed time with small talk, throwing exaggerated jokes around as if we could keep the tautness at bay by laughing loud enough.

That was when it happened.

Chijijik—!

The radio crackled hard through my earpiece. Mike's voice.

Fifteen hundred yards. The maximum identification range of the scope on the M700.

That was the signal. Every laugh in the dining room died. We looked each other in the eye once, wordlessly, then scattered to our positions with practiced precision.

I slipped into the spider hole we'd built in the haystack and quietly closed the camouflaged plywood hatch, hay still stuck to it. Through a narrow gap I could see the road leading to the farm entrance.

Chijik—.

Mike's follow-up ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠came over the net.

I keyed the earpiece mic and pressed PTT once, short. Chik—. Acknowledged.

Gunner's low voice followed.

Now all that remained was to wait for the curtain to rise.

Six vehicles… fifteen men at minimum. Maybe more than twenty.

I checked the VP9 was loaded by feel at my fingertips and clicked the safety off the Saiga-12. Holding my breath, I scanned the farmyard through the small kill hole we'd cut between the hay bales.

In the gray dawn light, the stage Cyrus had set was visible. Empty crates and old farm tools lay scattered around as if dropped in a panicked flight. Every door of the farmhouse and barn stood wide open — a perfect lure. Come on in. Help yourselves.

Chijik—.

After Mike's last transmission, the net fell silent. Then the rumble of engines shook the ground as they came on.

Kicking up clouds of dust, four pickup trucks and two minivans poured into the farmyard. They parked haphazardly and piled out all at once, brakes squealing. Snickering laughter. Rough curses. There were easily more than twenty of them.

The moment they started milling around, letting their guard down—

Crack—!

Mike's M700 shattered the silence. The man at the rear, holding an automatic rifle, dropped with a hole through his head. That was the signal.

Crossfire erupted from the barn and the warehouse on either side of the farm — a rolling thunder of shotgun blasts and automatic fire. Gunner's M4 ripped the air, putting rounds on target with precision, while Cyrus and his sons' shotguns sprayed fragments across a wide swath of the yard.

In the first volley, three or four of them who hadn't made cover went down screaming.

As expected, they instinctively piled behind the vehicles they'd arrived in. Then the return fire started. Their rounds turned the wooden walls of the barn and warehouse into Swiss cheese.

The farm people were yanking triggers in a panic, spraying wild — but Gunner alone stayed calm, putting effective hits downrange with short, controlled bursts.

Crack—!

Mike's second shot dropped another one who'd poked his head out from cover.

"Fucking camper! Sniper on the second floor!"

With the gangs' curses, fire concentrated on the second floor of the farmhouse. Now both sides were locked in a stalemate, neither willing to move first.

This was the moment.

I kicked open the camouflaged hatch of the spider hole and burst out. The instant Gunner caught my movement, he poured covering fire toward the vehicles.

Tatatatang—!

In that split second as the enemy's eyes snapped toward him, fire resumed from the barn and warehouse as well. While all their firepower was concentrated in one direction, I drove into their blind spot.

I pulled the trigger of the Saiga on the clusters of men bunched behind the vehicles.

BOOM— BOOM BOOM BOOM.

Twelve-gauge buckshot poured out like an explosion. The thin sheet metal of the vehicles tore like paper, and the screams of the men hiding behind them were swallowed by the roar.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM… BOOM.

And so I walked, unhurried and indifferent, blowing their heads apart one by one.