“Si, compadre,” Lonjic replied in fluent Spanish. He grinned and moved off sideways, his M70 in his hands. Now he was on his own, the hunter in him came to the fore. He angled away to the left, away from the three men of his unit, and Mendez who was sliding through a patch of long grass.

  The other two moved off towards the village. He trusted in them not to be seen by the villagers, mostly because of the kind of reception they’d likely get there. Lonjic reckoned they would cope if any shit went down – and once Mendez brought the other three to join them, there’d be enough to form a decent enough group to see off any trouble.

  The line of militiamen were advancing slowly, a ragged line, dark figures with their features as yet indistinct, but each one armed and dangerous. A small lane appeared before him and he crossed it and pushed through the thickly growing undergrowth on the far side. A drainage ditch almost tripped him and he was doubly careful after that in case of more being around. Just through a row of trees stood a collection of houses.

  Voices were coming from one of the dwellings and he skirted a low stone wall, making sure he was below the height of the top. Once past he once more made for the end of the Serbian line. There were woods dotted about and he made for the nearest group of trees and knelt in the shadow of the biggest one.

  He had a decent view of the last four men on the line, moving across him from left center to right shoulder. The four were furthest from their commander so were the slackest. The one on the end was clearly some kind of disciplinarian for he kept on waving to the other three who were unenthusiastic, judging by their attitude.

  Lonjic looked to the right. The place where his three men were wasn’t too far from the advancing militia and it wouldn’t be long before they were stumbled upon. It’d be a mess. He looked to the left. The land was a series of fields, full of corn and wheat, so lots of cover. Beyond them were clumps of woodland. Good. More cover.

  His mind made up he levelled his M70 and selected single shot. The decent thing with assault rifles was that they combined the best of a rifle, and a sub-machine gun. He was confident in hitting the man on the end. He paused, then lowered his aim. He didn’t want to kill a man who wasn’t in the army proper, and was merely on call thinking he was protecting his homeland and family.

  Also, wounding someone took out two men; the wounded man and one to help him. And another thing, he thought further, the noise a wounded man made could possibly serve to deter some of the others from pressing him. These wouldn’t be well-trained men.

  The distance was a hundred meters. He took in a deep breath. He squeezed the trigger. The shot shattered the day, sending birds protesting into the air. The man on the end span and fell screaming, clutching his upper leg.

  Even as the other Serbs turned in shock, Lonjic had picked out the next man and loosed off a shot at him. The man staggered in surprise, then fell backwards, his shoulder afire with pain. The rest threw themselves flat.

  Lonjic waited no longer. He turned and sped through the wood and went down on all fours. Just in time. A chorus of fire smashed into the growth of trees, splintering trunks, ripping leaves and shattering the branches. As it slackened, Lonjic took off, running hard for the field. A shout went up and he grinned, he’d been seen as he’d hoped.

  Now it was a matter of getting across the field as fast as he could. He turned, squeezed off another shot just to make sure they knew where he was, and then pounded into the cornfield and made along it like he was in the Olympics.

  More shouts and people shooting at imagined enemies. He’d hit two men, so they’d be out of the reckoning. Now to lead the rest away from the others. He got to the far side and threw himself behind the nearest tree, chest heaving, sweat filming his forehead. He looked back, and saw men grouped at the far end, pointing. Some were already wading into the field, so he aimed along the barrel and fired twice.

  He didn’t expect to hit anything but it made the Serbs dive for cover. Those in the field stopped and hit dirt. Chuckling, Lonjic peeled away and made his way deeper into the woods. Here the land was uneven and rose and fell sharply, and outcrops of rocks stuck out, white growths sprouting from the dull brown surroundings.

  Years of leaves had fallen here and had made the land rich and fertile, yet their canopies had blocked out the sun and so low lying plants couldn’t grow. The ground was free of bushes, ferns, bracken, weeds or grass. It made things interesting. He got to a large tree and took cover behind it.

  Peering back he saw vague shapes moving swiftly from tree to tree. Clearly someone had given them orders. Someone was obviously a professional, but that was only to be expected. He looked to the sides – if danger was to come it would be from those directions. He didn’t want to be flanked. So far nothing. It seemed these guys were the vanguard. Maybe the brave ones, going where the others were a little more reluctant.

  He had no idea what lay beyond the woodland, but it was certain that a radio call would have gone out now, and the Serbs would be sending reinforcements. Vardaric too would be informed no doubt. At least it looked like he’d pulled the Serbs away from the others. He needed to go further south. He glanced up. No telling where the sun was in here.

  A snapping piece of tree alerted him. Someone was not too far away so he crouched and looked round the edge of the trunk. Two men, one covering the other, were scuttling from one tree to the next, about sixty meters away. Lonjic decided enough was enough. His breath was back under control. He quickly brought the M70 up and shot just as the leading man came out from behind the tree he’d taken cover behind. He was pitched back, arms out-flung. He fell heavily down a steep slope and passed out of sight.

  His comrade threw himself flat and emptied an entire magazine at the tree Lonjic was behind. The eternal mercenary winced and waited, then when the shooting stopped, broke cover and ran full pelt along to where the next ditch began and charged down it. More shouts, some distant, echoed through the woods, muffled by the trees, and suddenly there were shrubs and bushes as the woodland thinned.

  More cover – good. He jumped over a fallen log and skidded down a slope to the bottom of a fern-covered gully. Overhead the late summer sun filtered down in beams, lighting up patches of the ground. He reached the edge of the woods and looked across the flat countryside to the next cover. It must be a quarter of a mile at least. Taking a deep breath he set off, knowing to pause and wait was fatal.

  He got a third of the way before someone shouted. A truck came into view off to the right, a couple of men leaning out of the cab, guns raised. There was some kind of country track the truck was using, and it wasn’t happy. It bounced and shuddered as it raced to cut him off, and Lonjic guessed the road ran to the edge of the flat terrain he was running across.

  Behind him men were reaching the edge of the woods and loosing off ambitious shots. A couple cracked past him but it would take a skilled marksman to drop him with those weapons at that distance. Besides, he was weaving slightly to put them off their aim. The truck was his main concern now. It was parallel with him about a hundred feet off to his right and the men were pointing at him and arguing – probably about whether to drop him or take him captive.

  Screw that. Lonjic knelt suddenly, switched to automatic and blasted at the vehicle. Most of the bullets missed but one took the driver through the temple, his brain case exploding all over the man next to him. The engine revved and suddenly it swerved and crashed into the verge, smashing into a stone wall.

  Lonjic replaced his clip and ran on, having taken a quick glance behind him. Five men were pursuing him hard and they would soon be in range. Time he got to cover. The survivor from the crash came through the bushes to his right and blasted off at him, bullets spitting up fountains of dirt and stones around him. Lonjic threw himself over and rolled.

  The Serb grabbed a replacement clip. Lonjic flicked to single shot and aimed carefully. His shot took the man in the guts. The Serb folded over and fell to the ground, clutching his stomach. Lonjic swung. The five Serb militiamen were running hard, closing the distance. Lonjic cracked one shot off at them and they all dived for cover.

  The eternal mercenary shot to his feet and ran hard for the bushes at the far end, skipping over a rabbit hole. Don’t want a turned ankle now. Beyond he could see the rising land that marked safer territory, almost mocking him. He got to the undergrowth and burst through, lungs afire. The ground climbed and he angled off to the right, now wanting to make south-west rather than south.

  The sun was sinking down towards the hilltops, bathing the white knolls in a soft yellow glow, and Lonjic went on and on. His body was able to keep him going thanks to the Curse. A body demanding energy would take it from whatever source was available and he was able to draw on reserves that mere mortals could not. He would sleep later, he knew, but for now he was able to outrun his pursuers.

  The ground became more rugged and interspersed with rocky outcrops, stunted bushes and steeper slopes. Cover was not as good here but there were gullies and valleys that could conceal him from the land. But what of the air? He kept on glancing up from time to time but there was nothing. The JNA clearly was sending all available resources north to fight the war. Better that than sending them after a small group of saboteurs that the ground forces ought to deal with.

  Ahead was the top of the small hill he was on. The sun lit his sweating face as he reached it and he slid over and then turned, his field glasses in his hand. He looked back the way he had come. A group of men were down at the bottom, making their way towards the slope. He scanned further left and right and spotted a second group to the right. He focused on them. Vardaric. No mistaking that ugly bastard.

  In one way Lonjic was relieved; he had successfully diverted the Serbs from his men, which would allow them to make their way to the Bosnian village that Zagreb had said was friendly. Now he had to lose these people.

  Time for the night to come.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Darkness had fallen. The light died away quickly but there was enough starlight to see by. There were varying shades of grey but Lonjic could see most of what he wanted. There was a line of trees at the bottom of this particular gully and it marked a freshwater stream. He refilled his bottle, drank a little, then orientated himself once more.

  Having lived so long he knew most of the stars and where they were at most times of the year. Ursa Major always gave him a northerly fix. The distinctive shape of The Plough with its panhandle and box-like body was there.

  He moved north-east, in the opposite direction to that in which he wished to go. Time to draw these militiamen in the wrong direction. The ground was uneven, with rocks and stones at irregular intervals to trip him, and the going was soft and boggy with tumps of long-bladed grass protruding up to knee height. He avoided these – there were pools of water there, where the stream meandered along the valley floor.

  He didn’t want to get his feet wet if he could help it, and the light of the stars guided him away from the worst of the hazards. He came to a fork in the gully and looked left and right. The land flattened out to the right and so he went in that direction. The stream flowed that way on its way to the Sava.

  A small village stood at the mouth of the valley, and he could see two trucks parked at the edge with a fire blazing away merrily, and seated round this were four men. As Lonjic neared them, using the shoulder of a hill then fencing as cover, he could see that they were militiamen. There was a shed close by so Lonjic made his way along one side of this, almost bent double, his M70 at the ready, selected to single shot.

  Kneeling close to the end he was in earshot of the men.

  “I hope they find these bastards,” one said after a few minutes of desultory conversation. “I’m tired of running all over this country. I want to return to my family.”

  “You know the procedure, Zlatko,” a second man said with a sigh. “Orders from Karadzic; find these infiltrators and kill them. They have murdered their way through Serbian villages. Want our families to join those poor victims?”

  “So if they’ve done this, why haven’t Milosovic’s forces dealt with them?” Zlatko argued. “Your trouble Marko, is that you’re too ready to believe the shit our leaders speak.”

  “Hey, Zlatko, how can you say such things?” a third voice protested. “Karadzic fights for us, he is our protector. You know Croatia and the west wants to destroy us. You’d be best throwing in your lot with Radovan Karadzic, as nobody else will fight for us as well as he!”

  “All I’m saying, Petar, is that Marko here is too inclined to blindly believe the stuff our leaders spout. Who is to believe these people we’re chasing have done all the awful things they supposedly have?”

  “Well what about shooting Stefanovic’s squad up? They killed three!” Marko stated.

  “Yes, yes,” Zlatko said testily, “that was against soldiers like us – but where are these villagers they have supposedly slaughtered? How many are we chasing? How many have you seen? Fifty, a hundred?”

  “Well, no, but they are out there somewhere,” Petar said. “Else why keep us in the field?”

  “Yes they are,” Zlatko said with emphasis, and Lonjic could see him pointing to the ground repeatedly in emphasis, “but not fifty! I reckon there’s no more than ten. Maybe less. Such a huge force sweeping a swathe of destruction through Serbia! Pah! Shit, all of it.”

  “Alright Zlatko,” the fourth man said softly, “not so loudly. There are those amongst us who will not hear one word of criticism against our leaders. Best you keep such opinions to yourself or someone might take exception to your words. I don’t want to tell your family you died heroically in the struggle for our survival with a Serbian bullet in your back.”

  Zlatko grumbled. “Very well – so who is this man we’re to alert once we make contact with these terrible people? You heard of him?”

  “I’ve told you, Zlatko, be silent,” the fourth man advised. “You are merely to obey orders and do as directed. Things go on at higher level than we are entitled to know about. We shall do our job and leave it at that.”

  “Alright, Sergeant, but I’m not convinced.”

  Lonjic slid across to the nearest truck. Time to go into the pyrotechnic class. He unscrewed the gas tank, hanging down by the side of the vehicle, tore off a strip of his shirt and dunked it into the tank. The smell of gasoline came to him strongly. He left the un-soaked end dangling and brought out his cigarette lighter. He gauged the distance to safety, lit the end of the cloth and scuttled away.

  He almost got to the shed when the tank went up. The sky all round lit up like a bonfire and the truck burst into flames, the force of the ignition sending it over onto its side with a crash. Lonjic skidded to the side of the shed, looking over at the place where the four men had been. They were now flat on their backs or faces, shocked or stunned, while shouts went up all round from startled men and soldiers.

  Then the ammunition in the truck started exploding. Lonjic turned and slunk off, keeping to the side of the shed, moving away from the inferno as smoothly as he could. Once beyond the shed and over the fence, he made for the gully side and stopped, looking back. Explosions and flames leaped up into the night sky, turning it into day, while men could be seen ineffectually trying to beat it into extinction.

  The second truck was ablaze. Idiots had parked it too close. Laughing silently, he turned and vanished into the darkness. With any luck now all units would be diverted to that spot while he was beyond and making his way deeper into Bosnia. By day he would be miles away, exhausted, but beyond their range, and could sneak through the hills alone and with any luck unseen, and get to the Bosnian village in two days’ time.

  ___

  He rested at dawn, stretched out in the shade of a stand of trees on a hillside. Carrion birds circled lazily above, catching the early morning thermals, looking down for food. Lonjic slept, tired, but satisfied. The Serbs would not have any idea about what had happened for a little while, and they could theorize as to what, who and why until the cows came home. He was beyond their search lines, and maybe three or four miles from the village. The terrain was hilly and much harder for any search to locate him. His only concern would be a wandering militia patrol or a villager sympathetic to the Serb cause. Should that happen he would have to deal with it in whatever way was best.

  In the early afternoon he woke, refreshed. A quick drink, a rushed meal, and he was once more loping south-westwards. The border between Serb dominated and non-Serb dominated land was vague to him, but it was somewhere up ahead. No village here could be trusted so he kept clear of any habitation.

  All through the rest of the day he kept on going, spotting a couple of people walking up ahead he went into cover behind a pile of large rocks and watched through a convenient gap as the men went left and vanished out of sight over a ridge. He carried on, his eyes always alert, keeping to the fastest available terrain. He didn’t want to be late for his appointment, and the rendezvous point was getting closer and closer.

  Another night out in the open. It was getting chilly and summer was almost at an end. Autumn would soon be here and it always hit the mountains first. The rains would come and the hilltops and peaks would be shrouded in mist. The new day was in fact dull and cloudy, and he made his way through a long valley, wide and fertile, with watercourses tumbling off the hills and mountains in small waterfalls. They all fed a large stream in the center of the valley floor. A couple of villages stood there but he kept to the far side and reached the mountain with the triangular apex at around midday.

  Here would be the Bosnian village as given him by the Croats in his pre-mission briefing, and therefore they could be trusted to not turn him in to the militia. He approached the village warily after studying it for about thirty minutes. It all seemed peaceful enough and not one sight of a gun anywhere. A cow was being milked by a boy off to one side, and a gnarled elderly man watched him impassively from his rickety chair, smoking a pipe.

 

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