by David Wood
“Count me out,” Bones said. His irreverent tone punctuated Müller’s oration like a brick through a plate glass window. “Or was this offer only for the white people in the room?”
For just a second, Müller’s expression twisted in distaste, but then he smiled. “Since you’ve already made up your mind, what difference does it make?”
Bones looked to Willis. “Totally knew it.”
Müller regarded him for a moment, then returned his attention to Maddock. “Do not misunderstand. I am not asking you to swear allegiance to the swastika, or to become a Nazi. You’ve already sworn an oath to defend your country against all enemies. I ask nothing more of you than to swear that oath anew.”
“And if we don’t?” Maddock asked.
He already knew the answer. Or thought he did.
He was wrong.
Müller gave a disappointed shrug. “Mr. Huntley. Maybe you can convince them.”
Cold dread shot down Maddock’s spine, numbing his extremities. Huntley hustled Lia forward, interposing himself between the four prisoners and the dais.
Bones barked, “Leave her out of this, you son of a bitch.”
Huntley bared his teeth like a snarling junkyard dog. “You want to test me, Red Man? You want to see what I am capable of?”
Maddock raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Huntley... Bruce. Don’t do this. We’re the good guys, remember? We’re supposed to protect the innocents. She’s innocent.”
Huntley affected a distressed look. “Oh, Maddock. Did you think I was going to hurt her?” He removed the SIG from her neck, gesturing with that hand as if he’d forgotten all about the weapon. “Is that what you thought? No, man. I’m not gonna hurt her.”
Then, with an air of casual indifference, he extended his gun arm out, swung the pistol toward Zara Leopov, and pulled the trigger.
TWENTY-THREE
The report rang through Maddock like a bell, vibrating, pulsating... deafening... The world, or his perception of it, slowed to a crawl. Huntley stood before him, arm outstretched, gun in hand, statue still, or so it seemed. A bright brass shell casing tumbled through the air like a flipped coin. And beside him, Leopov—
Zara! No!
—tipped backward, falling, ever so slowly, like something in a dream.
Something clicked inside him. The rational part of his brain—the thinking, feeling, human part—shifted into neutral, and something else—a machine, assembled in SEAL school, tested in combat too many times to count—took over. Without conscious intent, Maddock moved.
He lashed out at Huntley, seizing the man’s wrist, twisting it as he thrust the arm up, away from the remaining prisoners. In the same, smooth motion, he pivoted into Huntley, ramming an elbow into the spook’s face, and in the process knocking Lia out of his grasp.
The pistol dropped from Huntley’s nerveless fingers, falling in slow motion... Falling just like Zara was still falling.
Through the emptiness where she had been, he could see the four paramilitaries. They had lowered their weapons, and only now did it occur to Maddock that Müller, in ascending the dais and putting his prisoner between them and himself, had placed himself in their line of fire. Professionals that they were, they had lowered their weapons. Now, they were starting to raise them.
Maddock plucked the falling pistol out of the air, reflex-aimed, fired. Shifted aim. Fired. Shifted. Fired.
Two paramilitaries went down like ducks in a shooting gallery. A third managed to twist out of the way, bringing his own weapon to bear. The remaining shooter stood his ground, weapon up, the barrel shifting to track Maddock’s movements.
But neither man fired. Müller was still right behind Maddock, and a stray shot might kill the man they had literally sworn a blood oath to protect. Instead, as if by mutual accord, both men began sidestepping away from each other, moving toward the perimeter of the hall.
Maddock moved too, following the man he had missed with his third shot, ignoring the other. He fired again, and this time the shot struck center mass. The gunman winced and staggered back a step, but did not go down.
Body armor, Maddock thought and elevated his aim point, trying for another headshot. In the back of his mind, he was aware of the remaining shooter, now standing almost directly behind him with a clear field of fire. He let the worry slip away. He’d already taken two of the bastards out, and if he could take a third, the others—
Just Bones and Willis, now.
—might have a chance.
The gunman bared his teeth in a grimace of pain and fury, and triggered his MP5. Puffs of smoke erupted from the end of the suppressor and brass began spewing from the ejection port. Maddock felt the heat of the rounds creasing the air all around him... Felt something pluck at his right biceps, and a hard kick to the ribs.
He pulled the trigger... No, tried to, but the strength had gone out of his right arm. The SIG, suddenly too heavy to hold, slipped from his grasp... Thumped on the floor at his feet.
A look of triumph flashed in the paramilitary’s eyes. He steadied himself, straightened, and took aim.
Maddock fell to his knees. The jolt sent a wave of heat radiating out from the wound in his side. The smoking muzzle of the machine pistol followed him down until it was once again staring into his eyes.
He wondered who would be waiting to greet him when that empty black eye finally blinked. His parents? Zara?
Sorry, Bones. I did my best. It’s up to you now.
As Maddock pivoted away from Huntley, firing the SIG again and again and again, Bones leapt forward and tackled Lia to the floor. His first thought was to get her down, out of the line of fire, but as he covered her with his body, he knew that wouldn’t be enough.
Huntley was stumbling backward, dazed from Maddock’s elbow strike, but as Bones met his gaze, the spook regained his balance, planted his feet and dropped into a karate cat stance. His lips curled back in a predatory grin, and then moved as he spoke. Bones’ ears were still ringing from the report of the shot that had killed Leopov, but he could read lips well enough to know that Captain Midnight was calling him out.
Happy to oblige, assclown, Bones thought. But before he rose, he gave Lia’s shoulder a squeeze. “If you get a chance, run for it!”
He didn’t know if she heard him, and didn’t dare wait to find out. Instead, he bounded up and charged Huntley.
The CIA officer was nowhere near as physically imposing as Bones, and his martial arts pose was almost sneer-worthy. The fact that he had dared to make the challenge should have set Bones’ alarm bells ringing. His rage at Huntley for the brutal execution of Zara Leopov, and his general contempt for the man, blinded him to the possibility that Huntley might be his equal in unarmed combat.
It was a mistake he almost didn’t live to regret.
As he closed with Huntley, he lowered his torso until it was almost parallel with the ground and brought his right arm up in a scooping motion which ought to have allowed him to pluck the smaller man off his feet for an epic takedown. He visualized folding the spook in half, upending him and then driving him into the floor with enough force to snap his spine. But as he moved in, Huntley did something completely unexpected—he turned on his back foot and leaped high in the air, whipping his front leg around in a spinning back kick aimed straight at Bones’ face. He struck so fast that Bones didn’t have time to block or even dodge. All he could do was duck his head. A fraction of a second later, the impact drove him to his knees.
Huntley’s heel had scored only a glancing blow to the crown of Bones’ head, but the momentum of the spin gave it sledge-hammer force. If Bones had not lowered his head at the last instant, the kick would have all but taken his head off. As it was, he found himself face down on the carpet, and all too aware of the fact that Huntley was still on his feet, somewhere behind him, and probably closing in for a killing blow. With no way of knowing from where the next attack would come, he threw himself to the left in a flat roll, turning through two and a half ro
tations before sitting up in the classic defensive position.
Huntley had returned to his original stance, and remained statue still, seemingly content to wait for Bones to make another move. Bones was only peripherally aware of what was happening around him. From the ongoing tumult behind him, he surmised that Maddock and Willis were still alive—one of them at least—but what about Lia? Had she managed to slip away?
He needed to end this stupid dance with Huntley while there was still time to make a difference.
“Okay,” Bones growled, pushing up on hands and knees. “Let’s see you try that fancy Van Damme crap again.”
He was pretty sure Huntley had just gotten lucky with his high, spinning kick. It was a show-off move, the kind of thing usually reserved for Hong Kong action flicks, and dangerous to attempt in a real fight—a life-or-death fight—because it left the kicker vulnerable to counter-attack. It was the last thing Bones would have expected from a trained CIA officer, and that was what had made the attack so effective.
Fool me once, he thought, panting to keep his rage in check. If he didn’t fight smart... If he let Huntley score another hit like that....
He closed with Huntley again, moving in quick but not rushing, keeping himself upright even though doing so made him a much bigger target... An impossible to miss target.
Huntley didn’t take the bait, but he didn’t give ground either. He just stood there, hands poised, open and flat like knife blades, a contemptuous sneer on his face, waiting... Daring Bones to commit.
Bones obliged him with a straight jab that left him wide open to a counter-attack. His intention was not so much to land a hit as to draw Huntley closer, so it came as no surprise when his punch missed completely. But before he could draw his arm back, Huntley delivered a flurry of strikes to his chest. Pain exploded through him. One of the punches had struck his solar plexus, triggering a spasm of breathlessness. Bones had anticipated getting hit, expected it even, but the sheer power behind the man’s strikes left him literally stunned.
He staggered back again, gasping, but the ringing in his ears had subsided just enough for him to hear Huntley jeering, “Come on, Red Man. Is this that wild Indian fighting spirit I’ve heard so much about? Guess now I know how your people all ended up on the Trail of Tears.”
Bones let out a howl of rage and stepped in again, arm cocked, but the attack, like the cry, was just for show. Instead of pistoning his fist at Huntley’s face, he pulled the punch, and as his opponent’s fists rocketed toward his exposed torso, he redirected his right hand and, with the speed of a striking rattler, caught Huntley’s wrist. In the same move, he wheeled, adding the momentum of Huntley’s failed attack to his spin, and yanked the spook off his feet. He held on tight, and as Huntley twisted past, he yanked back hard, as if snapping a whip. There was a loud crack and then a stuttering jerk as Huntley’s shoulder joint popped out of its socket.
The spook’s howl of agony was truncated as Bones reeled him back with another savage pull on the disjointed arm. As Huntley lurched toward him, Bones left fist came out to greet him. He had been aiming for the man’s throat, but Huntley’s stumble caused him to miss the target—he smashed Huntley’s nose instead. There was another loud crack as the cartilage broke under the impact. Huntley’s head rocked back, blood spraying from his mouth and nose, and then he collapsed into a writhing mass on the floor. Bones gave the man’s injured arm another vicious twist. Huntley went rigid, threw his head back and let loose another shriek.
“I got your Trail of Tears right here,” Bones said, and then unleashed all his suppressed fury as he drove his heel down onto Huntley’s exposed neck, silencing him for good.
But through the satisfying crunch of cracking vertebrae, he heard another cry.
“Bones!” It was Lia.
He looked up, momentarily disoriented by the carnage around him, and turned toward the sound of her voice, hoping to find her at the back of the room, poised to make her escape, lingering just long enough to urge him to follow.
His heart fell when he realized the shout was coming from the opposite direction. Lia stood on the dais, almost directly in front of the Blood Flag. She wasn’t alone.
The ancient, diminutive Müller was almost completely hidden behind her. All Bones could see was a sliver of pale skin and two bony hands—one of them gripping Lia’s arm, the other holding a Luger P08 semi-automatic pistol, pressed up under her jaw.
“Silence!” Müller hissed, and gave Lia a shake.
Bones fought the impulse to rush the dais. “Let her go, or I swear I’ll—”
“Yes!” Müller shouted back, shaking her again. “You will swear. Swear allegiance before the Blutfahne. Do it, if you care about her.”
Without waiting for an answer, he took a step back, pulling Lia with him, until the low corner of the flag was draped across his shoulder. He kept the gun where it was, but let go of Lia’s arm, and with his freed left hand, reached up to grip the red fabric.
“Swear it!”
Bones suddenly felt weak all over, as if all his blood had been sucked out of him. His lips parted and words began to tumble forth unbidden.
Willis Sanders had been just as shocked at the brutality of Zara Leopov’s death as his teammates, and like them, he also knew to compartmentalize his emotions. In order to grieve for the dead, or for that matter avenge them, it was necessary first to survive.
When Maddock turned the tables on Huntley, disarming the spook and pegging two of the paramilitaries with textbook perfect headshots, Willis had immediately reassessed the tactical situation. Two paramilitaries, in body armor and armed with machine pistols were still more than a match for a lone SEAL with a pistol, but because their attention would be focused on the guy with the firepower, there was just a chance for an unarmed SEAL to tip the odds in Maddock’s favor.
He turned and dropped into a combat roll that brought him up facing the nearest shooter—the one Maddock had been forced to ignore. The gunman had his weapon trained on Maddock, but was moving to get a clear field of fire. If he saw Willis, he gave no indication.
Willis knew his only chance at making it through the next few seconds lay in throwing caution to the wind and going fully on the offensive. He rose up into a four-point stance, and launched himself at the paramilitary operator.
In mid-leap, he saw the man’s gaze swing toward him, along with the extended-barrel of the suppressed MP5. Willis was already too close for the man to get off a shot, but that wasn’t what the man had in mind. Instead of pulling the trigger, he swiped the weapon at Willis’ head like a cudgel.
A flash of blue filled Willis’ vision, but the blow came too late to deflect his rush. He crashed into the gunman, bowled him over. The pain arrived an instant later, radiating across his skull like cracks in a windshield, but Willis fought through it, wrapping his arms around the man, immobilizing him until he could figure out what to do next.
The paramilitary fought back, frantic at first, but as the struggle intensified, his counter-attack became more deliberate. Unable to break Willis’ hold completely, he nonetheless managed to wriggle his right arm loose, and commenced striking at Willis’ head, targeting the raw flesh where the MP5’s upper receiver had earlier made contact. Willis endured the punishment and squeezed harder. His powerful arms compressed the man’s chest, and while this did not completely suffocate him, it prevented him from drawing deep breaths to replenish the oxygen his struggle was burning through. The ferocity and accuracy of his punches diminished, and then stopped altogether.
For a fleeting moment, Willis dared to hope that he had won, that the gunman had succumbed to asphyxia, but then he felt something brush against his arm. The man was reaching past him, reaching for something at his waist.
Willis craned his head around and glanced down the length of the other man’s arm just as the latter drew a long fixed-blade knife from a belt sheath. The dull black powder-coat finish, clip-point and long fuller groove marked it as a KA-BAR. He raised the knife, a
ngling the blade down at Willis’ back and brought it down.
“Ah, hell no,” Willis rasped as he tried to twist out of the way without completely releasing his hold on the man. He didn’t see exactly where the blade ended up, and didn’t feel any kind of pain shooting through his body. Had the man stabbed himself?
If he had, then the wound had either been too shallow to cause injury, or more likely had been stopped by the man’s Kevlar body armor. Either way, he was drawing back for another stab.
Willis was not about to let that happen, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let go of the guy. Instead, he hurled himself to the side, rolling onto his back to shield it from further assault. As he moved, he felt a faint burning sensation in his side, and knew he’d been cut.
The paramilitary was now on top of him, but Willis didn’t give him a chance to seize on this apparent advantage. He rolled again, halfway over this time, trapping the knife and the hand that held it under both of their bodies. The reversal seemed to confuse the other man, which was all the time Willis needed to adjust his hold. He moved his hands to grip the man’s shoulders and then pulled him down, simultaneously thrusting his head up, ramming it forehead first into the man’s chin.
The impact sent a fresh wave of blinding pain through him, but as he felt the other man go limp in his arms, he decided it had been worth it.
He rolled off the unconscious man, pinning the wrist of his knife hand with one knee as he plucked the weapon from the man’s limp fingers. He saw now that the front of the man’s tactical vest was smeared with blood.
My blood, Willis thought. Bastard cut me.
He thought about returning the favor, but then remembered that his small victory had not necessarily won the battle. He looked up just in time to see Maddock go down.