Skills to Kill

by Brian Drake

  The trunk held the cylindrical container that could pass as a SADM, complete with an accurate backpack. The trunk contained Stone’s personal weapons, Heckler & Koch submachine guns and ammunition for Dane and Nina, grenades, other explosive goodies and a Geiger counter.

  Reconnaissance of Milani’s farm was first on the list, and the trio drove out to the location provided by their informant. Nina, afraid the former prisoner had lied, doubted the farm would be there, but it was there, the one-story house surrounded by empty pens and open ground. The four SUVs sitting out front indicated signs of life. A road wound past the house, and Dane, Nina and Stone watched from a rise overlooking the road and house. Every now and then a man would exit the house, wander around a bit and re-enter. He was not a ranch hand. His big coat could easily hide artillery. It looked like the right place.

  To make sure, they went back to the Testaccio Club that night to observe Milani again. There was no need to follow Milani’s vehicle back to the farm, because at the end of the night he climbed into one of the SUVs they had seen in front of the house.

  Dane said, “We have enough open area for a nice gun battle should the need arise. Our major obstacle is the CIA team.”

  “Where do you think they’re hiding?” Nina said. “And did they see us stomping through the bush today?”

  “We’d know if they did,” Dane said.

  Stone said, “I spotted a shack on one side of the house that I think leads to a basement. The SADM is probably hidden down there. If we can get around the guards and not cause too much of a fuss—”

  “Big if,” Dane said, “but I don’t know of any other way.”

  “Helicopter,” Nina said. “Do you think Russo has one?”

  “I know he does,” Dane said. “That will be our extraction. We’ll go in by car first. The Agency people won’t notice another car on the highway. Once the action starts, driving away will be out of the question, but we can fly.”

  “I guess you were right about having friends in low places,” Nina said.

  “I’m always right, baby, but you won’t admit it.”

  Stone said, “Let’s get this phony bomb assembled. I’m not carrying it.”

  “Nor am I,” Nina said.

  “I’ll carry the bomb,” Dane said. “Good grief, do I have to do all the work around here?”

  Stone displayed the HK submachine guns he had brought with flourish. The Heckler & Koch UMP, the variant chambered for the .45 ACP, had earned the same reputation for reliability and ease of operation as the legendary HK MP5.

  “I installed a forward handgrip,” Stone explained, “because it will help you control full-auto fire.” Stone added that the HK was easy to carry because the shoulder stock folded closed.

  But Dane decided he couldn’t carry the HK and the SADMs, so he had to pass on the weapon; Nina didn’t mind. “I get your ammo,” she said.

  A short chat with Dominico Russo secured the “retired” capo’s helicopter. Pops and Junior would fly the chopper. Dane didn’t like that idea but there was no other choice. As long as the pair showed up on time, he wouldn’t complain.

  The hardest part of the plan was getting into the house. Dane hoped that the shack Stone had seen indeed led to the basement; if it didn’t and he needed to search a little, Stone and Nina planned to keep the troops engaged long enough to give Dane the time he needed to find the real SADM and replace it with the fake, thereby setting up Milani to be murdered by his al-Qaeda contacts once they realized he had cheated them. Russo’s vendetta would be over, and Lukavina could follow the terrorists back to home base.

  Thinking about it as evening neared, Dane decided that it wasn’t the best operation he had ever planned; hopefully it wouldn’t also be the worst.

  7

  Nice Try with the Nuke

  Dane waited in front of the fence closest to the side of the farmhouse; his unobstructed view included the door of the side shack. The night was cold and quiet so far. He didn’t want to move until Nina and Stone started shooting. Any second now…

  He jumped at the first chatter of gunfire. In the house, lights went off. A pair of troopers launched from the back door and worked their way around. Dane wanted to take a pot shot with his .45 but the distance didn’t favor the effort. He let them go by. More automatic weapons fire. The flash and flame of a grenade. Screams. Dane waited while the pair cleared the front. With the phony SADM secured over his shoulders and the Detonics Scoremaster in his right fist, Dane vaulted over the fence and landed hard on the ground opposite. The 50 pounds’ worth of phony SADM made his sprint feel like a long plod, but the hard dirt beneath his boots at least provided necessary traction. The standard weight of the rucksack he’d used in the Marines had been 30 to 120 pounds, which made the faux SADM light by comparison, but it still required effort. The gunfire and explosions continued, though at a sporadic rate now; he had no way of knowing which side was winning. Everyone on his side had a wireless radio, but they were maintaining total silence until Dane had achieved his objective.

  Dane reached the doorway. A tug on the handle—locked. Dane shot off the lock. He descended concrete steps into the darkened basement, lighting the way with a pen flash. The needle on the Geiger counter, strapped to his left wrist, jittered. Stone’s guess had been right on the mark. The real SADM was indeed somewhere in the basement.

  Gunfire and explosions continued above. Nina and Stone were giving the troops a real run for the money. Dane reached the concrete bottom and shined his flash around. The basement contained the usual accumulation of junk, some of it with such a layer of dust that it must have been abandoned by the home’s previous occupant. Dane wandered over to a long chest, and the Geiger’s needle jumped. Bingo.

  Two blows with the butt of the Scoremaster broke the lock, and Dane lifted the lid. In the case, nestled on its back, lay the real SADM, the olive-drab backpack about as bland and unassuming as anything.

  Dane lowered his own pack and holstered the .45.

  Light appeared at the top of the opposite stairway as the inside door opened. Dane ducked behind a stack of boxes. Two men stood in the doorway a moment, then began their descent, pulling the door shut. One used a flashlight to navigate downward. Neither spoke but Dane heard their heavy breathing. Milani wanted the SADM checked on; no surprise there. With their sweaty faces and labored breathing, they must have come from defending the front. Did their removal from that part of the action mean Nina and Stone had been killed or captured? Dane took out the Detonics .45 and quietly clicked off the safety. The first man reached the ground and shined the light at the open SADM. He swung the light to his partner and started to say something. The second man, now spotlighted, made for the perfect target. Dane fired twice. The man fell back without a cry, but his head cracked loud on the concrete. As the first man turned, Dane fired again and again. The flashlight clattered on the ground before its owner landed. Dane went to the body and pulled it away from the SADM. He put the pistol away and started to grab the real nuclear device. The upper door opened again. A man called down to his compatriots. Dane grabbed the flashlight carrier’s submachine gun and hosed the doorway. The man in the doorway jerked with random hits and fell back. Dane plucked a grenade from his combat vest and tossed the orb upward; the explosion kicked the door off the frame and set the hallway wall on fire. As the flames spread to the doorway, Dane slung the real SADM over his left shoulder and the phony over his right. There was no more time for games. He had to try to make it out with both and maybe lose the “real” one along the way. Keying his radio as he ascended to the top, he said, “Got it, let’s go.”

  Silence in his ear.

  Dane kept climbing. He keyed the radio again. “Dev? Nina?”

  “Here,” came Nina’s reply. “A little occupied.”

  “Break contact,” he said. Dane reached the ground level and started running for the fence. The heavy weight of each pack really slowed him this time. His lungs burned and his legs flared with strain as he tried
to keep up at least a jogging speed. Bright lights hit him. An engine grumbled. Dane stopped as one of the SUVs plowed through the dirt in front of him, stopped, and the doors swung open. Gunmen piled out. Dane let the SADMs fall from his back and snapped out both Detonics pistols. He squeezed each trigger repeatedly. The two who climbed out the driver’s side went down; the other two, hunkered at either end of the vehicle, had some semblance of cover. Dane used the left-hand Combat Master to shoot the gunman at the front of the SUV in the head; the last, who had only enough time to dig out his machine pistol, fell to a blast from the right-hand Scoremaster.

  No time to reload. Dane put the guns away, grabbed the packs by their straps and dragged them along the dirt as he continued his trot for the fence.

  Stone’s voice in his ear. “Coming up at seven o’clock.”

  Dane didn’t turn. He knew Stone and Nina would be behind him. He stopped at the fence, dropped to one knee and reloaded the larger Detonics. The two figures running his way, each cradling a submachine gun, did not match the other gunmen; Dane scanned the battleground. Smoke poured from the basement; something burned at the front of the house as well. The smoke from each fire curled into the night sky. Stone and Nina reached him. He told Stone to grab one of the packs. Stone slung his HK and then the SADM pack and climbed over the fence. Dane did likewise. Nina hopped over last. The trio started running again.

  Shortly the ground sloped uphill, and Dane strained to keep going. Another engine whined. Dane turned at the sound of a crash. An SUV had plowed through the fence and was heading their way, bouncing up the incline. The vehicle stopped. The doors swung open.

  “Keep going!” Nina shouted as she filled the vehicle with HK automatic fire. One gunman fell but the other scrambled back into the SUV. Nina reloaded on the run as the troopers emerged from the other side, their own automatic fire strafing the dirt. Nina triggered another long blast. Dane shouted to Stone, “Run!” and stopped, dropping his pack. He took out the Detonics, shouted for Nina to get clear and fired single shots at their pursuers. Nina raced past him. She called out to him, and he grabbed the pack and ran by her as she emptied another magazine. Once again she reloaded as she ran, and Dane opened fire to cover her, but his single shots weren’t connecting with the trio of troopers still running their way.

  Dane fired again and again and grabbed the pack. He took two steps and fell headlong into the dirt; the large rock he’d tripped over lay beside his left ankle. He heard Nina shouting at him. More automatic fire from her weapon. Dane rolled onto his back with a Detonics in each hand. The three figures charging at him were mere shadows against the black of the night. Dane fired once, twice, a third time. One man fell. Dane fired again. The slide locked back over the now empty magazine, and as Dane pawed for another, the last two were on him, pounding at his body with the butts of their rifles.

  Presently the beating stopped. Dane’s body relaxed into submission.

  He heard a chopper whipping overhead.

  Dane woke up tied to a chair. The ponytailed blonde man from the earlier meeting at the park sat before him, smoking a cigarette. A bowl of spent butts lay at his feet. He’d been there some time, waiting. Dane’s fuzzy vision focused. He spoke, but his dry throat deadened his usual tone.

  “You again.”

  The ponytailed man smiled. He wasn’t wearing black this time, but faded jeans and a blue button-down shirt. Black socks, no shoes. “Yup,” he said. “Call me Eric. You’ve caused a lot of trouble.”

  “Not nearly enough.”

  “Nice try with the nuke. It’s back where it belongs. We’re going to have to block off the section of the house you almost burned to a crisp, but we’ll make out.”

  “Your friends are coming soon, aren’t they?”

  “Tomorrow. Well, a little over ten hours from now, anyway.”

  Dane breathed deeply, but his middle flared. Had the beating broken anything? Pain spots covered his entire body. He couldn’t isolate any particular location.

  So he’d given Stone back the phony SADM. Terrific.

  A door opened behind Dane and another man, breathing heavily, entered. The man joined ponytailed Eric and regarded Dane with disinterest. He sported a rumpled look. The pinky of his left hand was missing.

  “Mr. Milani, I presume,” Dane said. “I’d offer to shake hands but I’m a little tied up.”

  The man cracked a smile and bowed a little. “The notorious Steve Dane. I could have used a man like you. Too bad you wasted your time with Russo. His days ended along ago.”

  “Spare me,” Dane said. “A smart man would have waited until after his deal before settling old scores.”

  “Time was of the essence,” Milani said. “I am not one to waste an opportunity.”

  Eric blew out a stream of smoke. “Is killing him really a good idea?”

  “What do you mean?” Milani said.

  “Al-Qaeda might like a trophy. Dane’s been around the block a few times. He wasn’t always a second-story man. I know for a fact—”

  “You know spit,” Dane said.

  “Dane’s cancelled some tango tickets in his time,” the blonde man finished. “Al-Qaeda might like to have a little fun with him.”

  Milani watched his number two smoke, then nodded. “We’ll see.”

  Milani left the room. Eric smiled through another cloud of smoke.

  “Don’t say I’m not looking out for you, Dane.”

  “Remind me to return the favor someday.”

  “Sure. I’ve always wanted to see a ghost.”

  Dane fell asleep in the chair, his head sagging against his chest. His arms and legs had long ago gone numb. When he awoke, it was because somebody was dragging the chair backward. Out of the room, down a hallway. Into a living room. He was propped in front of a fireplace. Like a decoration. The man behind the chair, a trooper, took a seat. Milani and Eric and another trooper sat around a coffee table. Rifles rested against the chairs the troopers occupied; Milani sat unarmed; Eric wore an automatic on his belt. Empty coffee cups and the remains of munchies cluttered the table.

  “Don’t I get an espresso?” Dane said.

  “I figured you for the coffee-and-rum type,” Milani said.

  “You’ve misjudged me.”

  Sunlight blasted through the curtained windows. How much longer? He listened for the sounds of an arriving vehicle but heard nothing.

  “How much is al-Qaeda paying you? Is it worth the thousands who are going to die when they use that nuke?”

  “I’ll be nowhere near the blast,” Milani said.

  Dane stopped talking. He couldn’t feel his arms or legs or any strain because of their positions. He’d have to be carried out, one way or another. Could Nina and Stone, with Russo’s help, pull off a rescue? Or had Lukavina and his remaining agents somehow neutralized them? Dane glanced around at the living room. It looked like a home anywhere in the world—it could have been his. Before the fireplace behind him was a rack of pokers. Good weapons, those. If only his arms worked.

  The ghosts of battles past whispered in his ear. All was not lost. There was always something to cling to. Something unexpected.

  Lukavina had an inside man.

  Dane let out a laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Milani said.

  Dane turned his head. “This isn’t over yet, Animal.”

  An engine rumbled outside. Milani, Eric, and the troopers stood up. Milani issued orders, and the troopers went to get the SADM.

  Milani went out and personally escorted the two al-Qaeda agents back inside. Tea with milk all around. The terrorists, in their khakis and silk shirts and coats that obviously hid hardware, jabbered eagerly about the deal. One held a large stainless steel briefcase. Milani told them about Dane, presenting him like an inanimate object. He boasted of Dane’s terrorist kills. Friends of the agents, perhaps. The men agreed an American prisoner was always a good thing, regardless of his background, and this American looked valuable indeed. Perhaps, in his head
, there was something that would help them kill more Americans.

  Steve Dane spat blood on the carpet.

  The troopers brought back the SADM, carrying it between them. The terrorists stood up and began examining the packaging, then opened it and examined the cylinder itself. Dane caught only brief glimpses of the object as they oohed and aahed. It looked like the real thing, indeed.

  Eric stood near Dane’s chair. He wasn’t smoking this time.

  One of the terrorists took out a screwdriver and removed the SADM’s side panel—he froze. He uttered a string of words to his compatriot. He removed the top of the weapon and. . .

  Jumped back, shouting this time, glaring at Milani.

  “What’s the problem?” the Animal wanted to know.

  “It’s a fake!” said one of the terrorists. “Do you think we wouldn’t check it top to bottom? Do you think we’re fools?”

  The two terrorists hauled machine pistols from under their coats. The troopers raised their rifles. The room exploded in a fury of muzzle blasts. Eric shoved Dane, and the chair toppled to the floor. Eric’s gun cracked twice. Both terrorists dropped from the head shots. They’d already riddled the troopers, who lay dead, their rifles askew. Only Milani remained, and he’d dived between the couch and coffee table.

  “Nice shooting, Eric!” the Animal said. He stood and brushed off the front of his shirt. “My God. What a mess.”

  “Sure is,” Eric said, and shot Milani between the eyes. The old man remained upright a moment, then fell sideways against the couch. He flopped off the couch and back onto the carpet.

  Dane looked up at Eric. The ponytailed man returned the smoking automatic to its holster.