The Outside Man

by Don Bentley

  “Mustang Six, Shock Zero-Nine, have you the same. Shock Zero-Nine is a flight of two Apaches approximately thirty seconds out. Can you give me your grid coordinates and a quick SITREP?”

  “Roger that, Zero-Nine. Stand by,” I said, and placed the phone on the ground.

  Controlling the Apaches would require my total and complete concentration. While I was directing the gunships’ fire, my ability to check on Laila would be minimal. With this in mind, I verified that her tourniquet was still holding and that she wasn’t hemorrhaging anywhere else. The bleeding was under control, but her skin felt clammy to the touch, and her respiration was increasing. She was going into shock, but there was nothing I could do.

  Nothing but annihilate the men shooting at us as quickly as possible.

  Scooting past Laila, I put my body between her and the volleys of small-arms fire raining down from the hillside. Then I laid the MP5 out in front of me. The little submachine had nowhere near the range required to hit back at our attackers, but judging by the changes in the position of their muzzle flashes, that might not be true for much longer.

  The fighters on the top of the hill were still pouring suppressive fire across our position, keeping Laila and me pinned to the earth. But now I could see another series of flashes on the left side of the hill as a maneuvering group of riflemen bounded closer. The sprinkling of rounds kicking up dirt and debris to either side of me turned into a full-blown hailstorm as the overwatch team concentrated their fire and the maneuvering team found better angles for their own shots. Zain’s chest rig jumped as a round tore through the shoulder strap.

  We couldn’t hold out for much longer.

  “Zero-Nine, this is Six,” I said. “Mustang Six is a two-man element taking fire from approximately fifteen to twenty dismounted fighters dug in on the hills two hundred meters to our twelve o’clock. I have one casualty, category urgent. A team of dismounts is bounding closer, and we are in danger of being overrun. Also, be advised that the fighters have MANPADS. I say again, the fighters have surface-to-air missiles. Stand by for grid, over.”

  I switched to the phone’s GPS function and read off the string of alphanumeric characters that marked our position.

  “Roger that, Mustang Six. Zero-Nine copies all. Hold on, son. The cavalry is coming. Shock Zero-Nine is thirty seconds out. I say again, we are thirty seconds out. Can you mark your position, over?”

  “Zero-Nine, stand by,” I said, kicking myself for not thinking of this contingency sooner.

  As per any close-combat attack scenario, the gunship crews wanted to begin the engagement by verifying the position of friendly forces—in this case, Laila and me. To do this, the aviators needed a way to distinguish us from the bad guys. Usually this was done via an infrared strobe or a chem light, a glint tape, or a laser. Even a can of colored smoke or a brightly dyed VS-17 panel could get the job done.

  But this wasn’t my tactical vest; it was Zain’s. And while the smuggler had saved Laila’s life by outfitting his rig with a med kit, I had no reason to believe he carried anything I could use to mark my position. I knew that Zain had been in gunfights a time or two, but I doubted his experience extended to marking his position for a pair of Apache gunships.

  I patted down his vest, searching for something. Anything. As I suspected, my Syrian friend didn’t carry an IR strobe, a can of smoke, or even a chem light. But what he did have was his ever-present collection of cigars stuffed in a ziplock bag, and a lighter. Not exactly what I was hoping to find, but if Jesus managed to feed the five thousand with five loaves of bread and two fish, maybe a former Ranger could talk in a pair of Apaches using three Cohibas and a silver-plated Zippo.

  “Shock, this is Mustang,” I said, ripping open the ziplock bag. “I might have something that will work. You have thermals, correct?”

  “That’s affirm. Our targeting sight uses the infrared spectrum.”

  “Good. I’m marking my position with a cigar.”

  “Mustang, Shock. Did you say cigar, over?”

  “Roger. I’ve got three of them.”

  “Okay, Mustang. We’ll give it a try. Say when ready.”

  I stuck the three cigars between my lips and bit down. The bitter taste of tobacco flooded my mouth. I lit the ends with Zain’s blowtorch of a lighter and sucked in a huge breath. The torrent of nicotine sent my head spinning, but instead of giving in to the urge to vomit, I lay back and began to puff. The night stars twinkled overhead as if laughing.

  “Mustang Six, this is Shock. That’s a negative on the cigars. Is there anything else you can use? Anything at all.”

  I tossed the cigars to the side as I gave in to a coughing fit. The helicopters were now close enough that I could hear the bass whump of their rotors, but without a way to let them know where I was, they might as well have been on the other side of the world. Next to me, the cigars hissed in the dirt.

  I needed something easier for the Apache’s thermal to see. Something hotter.

  I needed a fire.

  As I looked at the debris scattered in front of me, my eyes settled on the remnants of the medical kit. Sifting through the components, I saw a box of alcohol wipes. Ripping apart the cardboard, I found packets inside. Those would burn, but probably not any brighter than the cigars. I needed something with a bit more oomph.

  Like a torch.

  Tearing off my chest rig, I slipped out of my T-shirt and crumpled it into a ball. Then I broke open the alcohol wipes and wrapped them in the fabric. Finally, I lit the Zippo and touched the blue flame to an exposed corner of an alcohol wipe. The thin material ignited with a whoosh, burning my fingers in the process.

  “Shock, this is Mustang. I just lit my fucking shirt on fire. Tell me you can see that, over.”

  The longest pause of my life and then: “Mustang, Shock. We’ve got it. I say again, we’ve got your position. Confirm bearing to targets.”

  Fucking pilots. I was lying in a shallow grave, bullets whizzing by my head, with my shirt on fire. And now he wanted an azimuth to target?

  “Shock, negative on the bearing. I’ll make this simple—orient your attack run along the length of my body. Kill anything past my head, over.”

  “Mustang, Shock, roger all. Be advised—targets are danger close to your position. I say again, danger close. I’ll need your initials to shoot.”

  “My initials?” I said.

  “Roger, Mustang. This close, there’s a good chance you’re going to get hit by our volley. To make sure you understand the risk, we need the initials of your first and last name. We can’t shoot danger close without them.”

  Fucking pilots.

  “My initials are F.U. Now kill those fuckers!”

  “Roger that. Standby, Mustang. Gun one is coming in hot.”

  At the words coming in hot, I contorted my body around Laila’s, trying to shelter her from what was coming next, even though my efforts were probably futile. The Apache’s 30mm chain gun fired bullets five inches in length equipped with shaped charges designed to penetrate two inches of rolled homogenous armor. If the pilot missed, the razor-edged shards would scythe through our bodies like they were butter.

  But I held Laila tight all the same.

  Light split the night sky in two as a jackhammer-like sound filled the air. And then the earth heaved upward, knocking the phone from my hand as the cannon rounds found their mark. A series of thunderclaps rolled across the ground as the shaped charges detonated, filling the air with whining bits of steel.

  Laila moaned, and I held her tighter.

  Then silence returned.

  My body ached, my ears were ringing, and my knee throbbed from where I’d bounced off the ground. In other words, I was somehow still alive.

  Peeking above the depression, I surveyed the carnage. Broken bodies and scattered limbs were everywhere. Absolute devastation. Some of the human debri
s was less than twenty meters from our little defilade. A moment more and the fighters would have overrun us, rendering the Apaches useless.

  “Gun One, good hits,” I said, picking up the phone from where it had fallen. “Gun Two, on Gun One.”

  “Gun Two, roger all. Inbound.”

  “What—,” Laila began, but I didn’t give her time to finish.

  “Keep down,” I said, pressing my body on top of hers again.

  A split second later, the jackhammer raged overhead, and once again the earth vomited me skyward. This time, the incoming gunner must have been more certain about our position. He fired four or five bursts, giving new meaning to bringing the thunder. The cannon rounds detonated in a seemingly never-ending chain of explosions in front of me as expended brass from the hardworking cannon fell to either side of us like rain.

  Then the gunship rocketed overhead.

  Popping my head up, I was greeted with a scene from the apocalypse. Smoke, sulfur, human detritus, and the coppery stench of blood.

  It was horrible.

  It was wonderful.

  “Good hits, Gun Two,” I said, surveying the massacre. “Gun One—work over that ridgeline. The surface-to-air missiles came from that direction.”

  “Gun One, roger. Inbound.”

  Pairs of rockets streaked overhead, trailing tails of flame as they thundered through the sound barrier. Night became day on top of the ridgeline as the rockets’ ten-pound high-explosive warheads detonated one after another. Gun 1 then added its cannon to the mix as the helicopter broke left, raking the hillside with flashbulblike explosions.

  No sooner had Gun 1 turned off target than Gun 2 took up the dance, bracketing the ridgeline in rocket and cannon fire. For a time, the Apaches worked without my help in a dance as beautiful as it was deadly. Then, after the sixth pass, the Angels of Death rested.

  The world was quiet.

  “Mustang, this is Shock. Targets have been neutralized, and the Ospreys are inbound, over.”

  “Roger that, Shock Zero-Nine. Thank you for the help. What’s your name, over?”

  “Darrin. Darrin Swan.”

  “You just saved my life, Darrin Swan,” I said. “First round’s on me.”

  “Roger all, Mustang Six. Happy to help.”

  Tossing down the phone, I reached for Laila and felt her pulse. It was fluttering much too rapidly, but she was hanging in there. At my touch, she slowly opened her eyes.

  “Hi, baby,” I said, stroking her ashen cheek. “Can you hear me?”

  Her green eyes traveled across my filthy face and down my blood-streaked chest. Then she licked her lips and cleared her throat. “Baby, you look like shit.”

  Scooping her into my arms, I cradled my wife against my bare chest, rocking her back and forth as the first CV-22 touched down. A moment later, half a dozen figures materialized out of the gloom, one carrying an assault bag.

  “Is this the patient?” the medic said, dropping to the ground beside his already-unzipped med bag.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “How is she?”

  “She’s going to be fine,” Laila said, squeezing my hand. “She has her husband back.”

  EPILOGUE

  WASHINGTON, DC

  SEVENTY-TWO HOURS LATER

  I’d killed my share of men, but always on the field of battle, never in cold blood. I wasn’t an assassin.

  At least not until today.

  Today, I’d traded my usual Glock 23 in for a 26. The “baby” Glock carried the same number of rounds, but was built for concealment rather than for accuracy. A pistol that fit perfectly in a woman’s purse.

  Or a killer’s coat pocket.

  For once, the DC winter weather was something worth enjoying. Though temperatures hovered in the high thirties, the cloudless blue sky and brilliant sunshine tricked you into feeling warmer. A promise made from this, the most self-important of cities, to its residents: that if they just suffered through a few more miserable weeks, spring would once again make the cherry trees flower.

  Even here, on an isolated jogging path nestled deep in the woods, signs of spring were everywhere. The brook that paralleled the cracked asphalt jogging path bubbled and laughed as if grateful to finally be free from winter’s icy grip. Squirrels chattered to one another from the treetops, and patches of black soil peeked through the melting snow.

  All in all, it really was a beautiful day. One to be spent wandering the National Mall in hopes of seeing someone important or perhaps watching the majestic changing-of-the-guard ceremony at Arlington National Cemetery.

  Or even running along a cracked asphalt jogging path deep in the woods.

  To my right, I could hear the sound of footfalls just beyond where the path took a ninety-degree turn away from the creek and disappeared up a small hill into the woods. The foot strikes were not the haphazard slaps of a casual runner stretching his legs for a little late-afternoon exercise. No, the dull thuds of rubber against asphalt came with a metronome’s precision. This was a runner with a capital R. A former collegiate athlete.

  As the footfalls grew closer, I squatted at the edge of the path, fiddling with a shoelace that was already tied.

  My windbreaker was two sizes too big, and a dark knit cap was pulled down low over my forehead and ears. I was wearing clothing that would conceal my recognizable build for the same reason that I’d chosen this particular section of path. Because I didn’t want the person who was fast approaching to realize who was waiting for him.

  Unzipping the windbreaker’s side pocket, I gripped the pistol with one gloved hand, keeping the other free at my side, all the while listening to the footfalls.

  The footfalls of a man who wanted me dead.

  For the first time, the man’s cadence increased as he trotted down the hill. Then he made the ninety-degree turn and was hurtling toward me. His pace slowed as he saw my crouched form, the prehistoric part of his brain stem attempting to warn him.

  But his lizard brain was much too late.

  Standing in a rush, I exploded upward, grabbing his throat with one hand and shoving the Glock into his firm abs with the other.

  “Hiya, Chuck,” I said, looking into the startled eyes of Charles Sinclair Robinson IV. “Let’s have us a little talk.”

  * * *

  —

  I hustled Charles off the path and into the woods as quickly as I could, frog-marching him with the Glock shoved into his kidney. Even so, by the time we’d walked ten meters, some of Charles’s initial terror had given way to righteous indignation. He was already certain he could talk his way free.

  But he was wrong.

  “Drake,” Charles said, turning toward me with his hands on his hips, “have you lost your mind?”

  I let the Glock do the talking. Swinging the pistol in a tight arc, I caught him in the side of the head with the barrel before reversing to bring the plastic grip down on the bridge of his nose. Hard. Not with enough force to break his nose, but plenty to get his attention.

  “Shut the fuck up,” I said, grabbing him by the hair and screwing the pistol into his eye socket. “You will not speak again unless I give you permission. Nod if you understand.”

  Charles nodded.

  “On your knees,” I said, “and put your hands behind your back. Now.”

  I kept my grip on his hair as Charles complied, sliding behind him while pressing the Glock into the base of his neck.

  “Here’s what you need to understand,” I said, yanking his head backward so that we were eye to eye. “I know everything. Every goddamn thing. I know about the money, the deal you had with Sayid, and what you did for the Devil. I know all. You are alive for one reason and one reason only. I want my cut. Do you understand? Speak.”

  “Yes,” Charles said, trying to ease the pressure on his skull. “I understand.”

&
nbsp; “Excellent,” I said. “Get on the ground. Facedown. Now.”

  “Why—,” Charles said.

  This time I hit him in the cheekbone. Maybe a little too hard. The front sight post snagged on his skin, opening a bloody furrow.

  “All right, all right,” Charles said, prostrating himself on the cold soil. “Jesus.”

  I reached into my pocket and grabbed a cell phone. I opened up the appropriate app and dropped the device in front of Charles.

  “You’re going to transfer my share of the money to the bank account on the screen,” I said. “Now. Speak.”

  “How do I know you won’t kill me?” Charles said.

  “You’re right,” I said, kicking Charles in the ribs. “You should be scared that I’ll kill you. Terrified, really. But here’s the thing, Chucky. You’re a smart guy. I’m betting that your little business venture in Syria isn’t the only one you’ve been eyeing. Shit, once you’re the CIA Director, the sky’s the limit. You’d make a better partner than a corpse. Transfer the money, Charles. Now. Seventy-five percent of your take.”

  Charles grabbed the phone, but his fingers weren’t moving. Not yet, anyway. “How do I know this isn’t a setup?”

  This time I pictured Virginia lying in a pool of her own blood when I booted him in the ribs. At least one cracked. Maybe more. But who was counting?

  “You really are a stupid motherfucker,” I said once Charles had stopped moaning. “Look at the balance on my bank account. You think you were the only one skimming funds in Syria? This isn’t a setup. I’m as dirty as you are. Just smarter. Now, transfer the fucking money.”

  Charles hesitated for another long second, and then his thumbs took on a life of their own. They stabbed the phone with reckless abandon for a minute or two. Then it was done.

  “Here,” Charles said, handing me the cell.

  I took the device and looked at the screen. People say that you can’t assign a dollar amount to someone’s life, but that just isn’t true. The innocuous string of digits staring back at me represented the monetary value of my asset, his family, and Virginia. At least to Charles, anyway.