Free Necessary Evil by David Dun Page A

gave him away. Only a few feet of heavy brush lay between him and the man who now, in panicked tones, reiterated Kier's position. Kier had no illusions. He was in a deadly spot.
    Panic in the man's voice meant he was rattled and might do anything, even something that could kill them both, like tossing a grenade in tight.
    Lying flat, Kier squirmed forward a foot, sticking his head in the brush, peering through the crystalline corridors formed by snow on branches. Nothing. He couldn't see more than three feet. Again he elbowed forward. An almost imperceptible rabbit trail appeared in front of him. Without thinking, he had been crawling down it. Off to his right the shooter lay waiting. If Kier continued on his current path, he would crawl into the enemy's sights.
    He pushed slowly to the right and detected nothing. It was not until the second move that he spied a small patch of white fabric, distinct from the snow because of its flat texture. Squinting, he turned his head right and left, trying to see more, to at least identify the torso.
    The man a few feet away would be wearing Kevlar body armor that could easily be pierced by the combat rounds in the M-16. But the silenced pistol he had shagged from Jones would be much quieter. If he could bring himself to shoot this man, he would take a chance on the pistol to gain a soundless assault. Aiming the long, lanky handgun, he rose even higher, carefully discerning the white fabric from fallen snow.
    Slowly he moved off his elbows to a crouch. Now he could feel his own fear like a hand on his throat. At any moment he could be seen. His eyes roved. Nothing. With his head buried in the brush, he rose still higher. Oh yes! There was his shooter, just six feet away, his legs under a massive Douglas fir log, his body flat to the ground. Incredibly, the man had removed his helmet, probably to listen. Kier aimed at the man's hooded head.
    It was a useless gesture. He would not kill a man who lay unaware and frightened in the bushes. Without another second's hesitation, Kier uncoiled his body from its crouch and dived at the man, aiming the butt of the pistol at the man's temple. If it hadn't been for the tough fibrous vines, the strike might have landed before the man could roll.
    As it was, he struck the man's shoulder. Recovering, Kier drove the palm of his left hand into the man's chin, then swung the butt of the pistol into the man's temple with such force he hoped he hadn't killed him. Kier watched the body quiver, waiting for more fight. Then there was no movement. Flopping him onto his back, Kier felt for a pulse and found it. The man was young, maybe early thirties, handsome, with a moon-shaped baby face.
    Bullets raked the brush in time with the staccato chug of an M-16. Kier flattened himself.
    "Cease fire, goddammit. Crawford, you in there?"
    It was quiet. Kier felt blood under his fingers. His eye followed it to the man's chest and a lethal wound. They had hit their own man through an arm hole. At least he had the body he needed, albeit a dead one.
    Crawford's radio crackled again. "Crawford, say your status."
    He knew what he would do. If it worked, he might live.
    He had minutes if he was lucky, but perhaps he had only seconds. They would be coordinating by radio, getting in position for a massive assault. Each one of them knew where he was. Their satellite navigators would lead them straight to his coordinates. There was only one thing they didn't know. They didn't know who he was.
    Kier worked quickly, aware that any slip would cost him his life and probably Jessie's. Another Douglas fir log some distance away had the makings of what he would need. It had not been long since the tree had fallen.
    Kier put Miller's radio card, stiletto, and money clip in the dead man's coat. Jones's knife and a couple of clips of his ammunition he put in Crawford's pack, along with Jenkins's compass, more ammunition, and money from both Jones and Jenkins. Last he took the index page from