Hope returned when Anderson's feet hit the cold water of the river. When he hid his head behind the Toyota Hilux, he was completely hopeless. He was desperate because of the heavy gunfire surrounding him, his somewhat subjective thinking, and the reasoning that had almost cost him his own life. The return of hope awakened the instincts of an Inupiat Eskimo in him. Those instincts made him act. If someone had just looked at his instinctive actions, they would have thought he was a brave young man.
Anderson immediately took a deep breath before his whole body completely sank into the cold river. When he felt his foot touch the bottom of the river, his legs kicked hard against the bedrock to push his body to the surface quickly. As soon as he emerged, he exhaled the CO2 that had built up in his lungs. At the same time, his legs kicked to both sides, his hands retracted close to his hips, and his whole body stretched forward in the position of a frog.
When Anderson reached the surface again, he lifted his head, opened his mouth, and took a deep breath of O2—life-giving air. He followed the river's current, kicking his feet and stirring his hands repeatedly to dive deeper and continue swimming downstream. He had to dive very deep, very long, and very far. He knew that in less than a minute, the assassin would reach the cliff where he and T.B. had jumped. The assassin would fire 7.62x39mm NATO bullets from the Garand M1 at them. Those bullets would rush through the air, cutting the wind, bringing with them the cold sound of death approaching.
A rumbling sound traveled through the water to his ears from behind. Without turning his head, Anderson knew that the noise was caused by T.B. hitting the water. Then, another series of lower, more muffled rumbling sounds reached his ears from above. Without raising his head to look, he knew those were gunshots. In the clear water, he saw the warheads of the .30-06 Springfield bullets spinning as they plunged into the river, carving curved paths in front of him. The bullets lost power upon hitting the water, merely rotating and sinking to the riverbed, their kinetic energy spent.
Anderson held his breath as long as possible, swinging his arms and legs vigorously, diving as far as he could. When his lungs burned for air, he surfaced again, taking a deep breath before plunging back down to continue his escape. He had to swim far away—away from this deadly place. Out of habit, he began counting how many times he had surfaced to breathe.
Anderson kept diving until his legs hit the riverbed. He stood up. He was on a mudflat in the middle of the river. The water was no longer deep here, the current no longer rapid. The river widened and split into smaller branches. Some areas had alluvial ground full of soil and sand, while others were scattered with rocks. The river had spread out into a vast wetland.
Anderson turned his head to look upstream. He had just escaped the hands of death. The rocky cliff above him was unfamiliar. He was no longer at the perilous cliffside where the short but terrifying gun battle had taken place. He saw T.B. swimming toward him. Staggering forward into the shallows, he reached out to pull T.B. ashore.
Both young men clung to each other, stepped onto the mudflat, and then collapsed onto the rocks. Neither could speak. They lay there, panting heavily from exhaustion.
T.B. reached into his pants pocket, his fingers brushing against the butt of his Glock 17 when someone touched his shoulder. He instinctively withdrew his hand but relaxed when he saw it was Anderson.
"T.B., are you hurt?"
"Not a single scratch. And you?"
"Good. Just a slight tear in my knee from when I jumped onto the gravel road from the trunk of the Toyota Hilux. T.B., I'm sorry for leading you straight into the assassin's trap. I was too confident in my theories, too caught up in my reasoning."
"Anderson, you don't have to apologize. If I were in your shoes, I would have thought the same way."
"T.B., we need to get back to the Toyota Hilux as soon as possible," Anderson said.
T.B. was taken aback. This crazy guy had just pissed his pants a few minutes ago.
"Anderson… you're not scared anymore?"
"T.B., I'm sorry. I don't even understand why I reacted that way. But we still have a job to do. Ms. Layla Smith is still in danger."
T.B. sighed. The assassin was too powerful. Too skilled. Too precise. Every ounce of confidence he had was washing away like the river they had just escaped into.
"Anderson, the assassin has superior combat skills and tactical training. If I were you, I'd be just as scared—maybe even more. I'm afraid we're no match for him."
"T.B., let me correct you. It wasn't the assassin himself that was too powerful. It was his Garand M1 rifle loaded with .30-06 Springfield rounds."
"That's true… but my Glock 17 is out of bullets. I can't fight back anymore."
"T.B., your spare magazine and extra ammo boxes are still under the driver's seat, inside your plastic pistol case. You never had a chance to grab them when we were ambushed."
"How do you know that?"
"I saw them inside your case when you first took out your Glock 17 at the camp. That's why we have to go back—to reload your pistol. And more importantly, we still have an obligation to save Miss Layla Smith."
T.B. exhaled deeply. "Anderson, I just want to find a place with cell service and call Sir William Smith. He'll send armed men by helicopter to rescue her. They'll do the job better than I can. I'm sorry, Anderson. I'm just not strong enough… not against someone like him."
Anderson didn't say a word. Instead, he pulled his iPhone from his pocket and held it up. Water dripped from its edges, splattering onto the ground.
T.B. nodded grimly. "Mine's useless too. But I can't risk my life anymore. I'll try to find a signal and wait for my phone to dry. Maybe I'll get lucky."
Anderson's voice was cold. "That plan gives her no chance, T.B."
"Why?"
"I was wrong. I told you the assassin didn't want to kill me—but he still did." Anderson didn't let up. "What's the alternative? Keep walking until we freeze? You know this place. You know what happens when people get stranded in Alaska with nothing but wet clothes and a half-dead body." He motioned to himself. "We don't make it to the next town. We don't find help. We just get weaker, colder, slower—until we're dead. And then the ravens clean up what's left."
"He never shot at you, Anderson."
"T.B., he set a trap to lure us into an ambush. Whether he shot at me or not was just a matter of time. He fired continuously, without a second of ceasefire."
T.B. lowered his head. The image of Anderson's urine streaming down his legs onto the road surfaced in his mind. He wasn't sure if it showed on his face, but Anderson must have sensed it.
"T.B., at that moment, I couldn't do anything. I just prayed I wouldn't get shot. I couldn't stand up. I couldn't event pick up a stone and throw it at him. I had nothing in my hand to fight back the assansin. I was completely frozen."
T.B. sighed. "I get it, Anderson. You don't have to beat yourself up. I had the same experience the first time I got caught in a gunfight."
"T.B., do you remember how long the gunfire lasted?"
"About two minutes. From the moment I ran out to drag you beside the Hilux until we jumped into the river."
"At that time, I wasn't just praying. I was also counting."
T.B. raised an eyebrow. "Counting what?"
"The assassin fired 87 shots. You fired 17."
T.B. exhaled sharply. "Damn… yeah, his movements were insanely fast. He reloaded seamlessly and never lost accuracy. Meanwhile, he kept up suppressive fire, forcing me to stay pinned."
"T.B., the Garand M1 is a semi-automatic rifle. It uses an ammo clip that holds up to eight rounds. To reload quickly, a shooter needs to have preloaded clips. The assassin fired 87 rounds, which means he reloaded nine times, right?"
"Exactly. That's how he kept up continuous fire, preventing me from repositioning. Without a good angle, my Glock 17 was useless. My shots were wild, and without precision, my bullets couldn't touch him."
Anderson's expression darkened. "T.B., when we arrived at the camp, you mentioned checking the warehouse stock. Did you check the weapons and ammo inventory?"
"Yes. Kivalina Resources Limited Liabilities Company is strict about firearm management. The Garand M1 rifle was registered a long time ago to protect the camp from wild animals."
"Were there any bullets left in storage?"
"Only twelve."
"Did you bring more ammo with you?"
"Yeah. I brought an extra box—100 rounds."
"Did you bring any spare clips?"
"No. Just the ammos"
Anderson's eyes narrowed. "So where did he get his extra clips?"
T.B.'s expression shifted. "Shit… Anderson, the assassin was wearing a bulletproof vest. Our company doesn't have any bulletproof vest to the camp. That means he was armed elsewhere before coming to our place. He must hide his shooting gear somewhere."
Anderson nodded. "He didn't just escape there—he returned to his starting point. Before heading to the camp, he must've stashed his weapons and equipment nearby. Once he was exposed, he retreated to that location to rearm and fight back."
T.B. frowned. "But Anderson, why didn't he just use his own weapons? Why he used the Garand M1 from the camp?"
Anderson hesitated. "I don't know. But I think—he's someone familiar with Kivalina Resources Limited Liabilities Company. He knew what was available in the camp and planned around it."
T.B. stiffened.
Anderson pressed on. "T.B., as the head of security, can you think of anyone in the company with this level of skill? Someone who knows how to set a deadly ambush, handle explosives, and use old military weapons with tactical efficiency? There can't be many."
Silence.
T.B. was thinking.
Anderson's voice cut through his thoughts. "T.B., we have to go back and continue the hunt. If the assassin is someone from the company, then Ms. Layla Smith might recognize him. If she does, he won't keep her alive."
Anderson exhaled. "T.B., after chasing us away, he has three options. One, he keeps walking. Two, he has transportation nearby. Three, he calls for reinforcements to extract him. In all three cases, Layla Smith will stop being useful as a hostage. If we let him think he's safe, he'll kill her. We have little time left."
T.B. swallowed hard. "Anderson, if you go after him alone—"
Anderson cut him off. "If you go searching for a signal, I have to chase him. But I don't know how to use Glock 17. Only you do, T.B."
A long pause.
Then Anderson concluded, "T.B., we've had a break. By now, we're stronger than him."
T.B. stared at him in disbelief. Just minutes ago, this guy had pissed himself in fear. Now, he was talking about fighting one of the deadliest men he had ever encountered.
His ability to encourage himself was almost inhuman.