“Whoa,” blurted Monkhouse. “What are you doing?”
Tate found his radio earpiece and snugged it back into his ear. He turned the volume until it stopped and gave Monkhouse a wink.
“Relax,” he grinned, feeling a sudden wave of relief. “You’re not my type.”
“I heard that,” said Monkhouse.
“That was the point,” smiled Tate.
Kaiden entered the room, shaking her head. “There’s two back rooms,” she said. “All the windows are blocked from the outside. This is where they wanted us.”
“Everyone find something solid to get behind,” said Tate. “Sooner or later they’re going to be shooting through the front of this place.”
Fulton started for one position, then turned for another, then turned again. “I don’t know,” he said, as his voice pitched higher and higher. “I don’t know where to go. I didn’t sign up to get shot at. Do they know we’re, you know, Americans? They’re trying to kill us. Holy shit.”
Tate crossed the room and gently put his hand on Fulton’s shoulder. “Look at me,” he said. “Right here.” He pointed to his eyes.
Fulton’s nervous glance settled on Tate’s gaze and stayed there.
“Take a deep breath. You have a million voices screaming in your head and nothing they’re saying is going to help you right now. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” said Fulton, slowly nodding his head. “I think I do.”
“Good,” said Tate. “The only two things that matter is that you’re here, right now, and we’re going to get out of this.”
“We are?” asked Fulton, astonished.
“Do you want to give up?” asked Tate. “Do you want to give up on your team?”
The question hung in the air as Fulton tried to process his rattled thoughts. He looked around at the faces of his squad then back at Tate.
“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“That’s right,” smiled Tate, punching Fulton in the shoulder. “And none of them will give up on you. Go get behind that table and stay close to the floor.”
Fulton still stood looking at Tate. “Am I the only one scared?”
Before Tate could say anything, Rosse burst out laughing. “Are you kidding?” he said. “When them cars blew up I nearly crapped out a midget.”
Fulton sputtered, trying to hold in a laugh, then let it out. He walked over to his position and hunkered down, still chuckling.
“You’re the best, Rosse,” he said.
They began to smell smoke as the surrounding fires began burning themselves out. It had been quiet for several minutes when they heard a distant rumbling.
As it neared, they could make out the growl of a big diesel engine. There was the squeak of brakes outside, and the engine died. They could hear the sound of several feet crunching on the dirt street come to a stop.
“Americans,” called an accented voice from outside. “You will come out with your hands on your heads.”
Tate looked across the room at Kaiden and shrugged his shoulders.
She silently mouthed back a profanity-laden opinion.
“We are American soldiers,” shouted Tate. “We are not…”
“If you don’t come out,” said the voice, “you’ll be slaughtered where you stand.”
There was short mechanical clack of steel hitting steel that Tate instantly recognized.
“On the ground,” he yelled.
Before he’d finished, fist-sized holes were being punched through the sheet metal wall as a .50 caliber machine gun boomed with each round.
The booby trap coffee can broke free of the tape as the wall shook violently from the impacts. Glass, wood, everything was shattering and exploding around the room, as seven hundred and nine grams of full metal-jacketed bullet ripped through the building at three thousand feet per second.
Beams of light poured though the holes, lighting up the chaos inside. As suddenly as it started, the shooting stopped.
“Anyone hurt?” asked Tate, coughing on the dust. Everyone responded they were okay.
Monkhouse saw something incredibly white sticking out of a can, and he reached out to touch it. It was firm, yet doughy and very familiar.
“Hey Top,” he said, unable to keep from grinning. “You are gonna love this.”
“I will not give you another warning,” said the voice outside.
Tate quickly crawled over to Monkhouse and instantly put together what he’d found. “Get that prepped,” he said. “These pricks ambushed us right out of our playbook.” Crouching low, Tate quickly moved to the front wall and peeked outside through a bullet hole. “Let’s see if they read this chapter.”
A slim, fit soldier in creased Columbian fatigues stood next to a large troop truck with his hands on his hips. He didn’t wear any rank, but there was no mistaking his bearing of authority. He was their leader. Another solder knelt beside him with his assault rifle aimed at the front door of the house. Above them, Tate saw a third soldier standing up through a hole in the roof of the truck’s cab manning a mounted .50 caliber machine gun.
“You Americans should have stayed in your own country,” shouted the leader. “You don’t belong here.” He signaled to the machine gunner, “Dispara.”
Tate keyed his mike, “Okay, zen master. It’s your show.”
The soldier behind the .50 machine gun chambered a fat bullet with a clack of steel. He swiveled the barrel and lined the sights up with the house. An instant later the gunner’s head disappeared with a wet smack. Red mist and goo splattered over the roof of the truck and the gunner’s body collapsed inside the cab of the truck.
Several confused soldiers ran into Tate’s view to see what had happened as the crack of a distant gunshot echoed around them. The soldiers swung their guns in every direction looking for the source of the bullet.
With a grunt and a spray of red, one of them slammed against the side of the truck as if kicked by a mule. Before he fell, blood plumed from another soldier who rag dolled into one of his comrades. The air filled with shouts of panic and the echo of deadly sniper fire.
High up on a hill, overlooking the village, Ota calmly rested the crosshairs of his scope on a frightened man in a green uniform. He observed the way the wind was blowing the smoke near the soldier and adjusted his aim.
A small smile played across Ota’s face as he thought about Tate’s new nickname for him. Zen master; a little boastful, but he liked it.
Ota squeezed the trigger and the man in his scope tumbled back as his chest exploded, spewing gore on the people behind him. One of them vomited as they collectively ran behind the troop truck for cover.
From inside the squat building, Tate glanced through the ragged bullet hole at the turmoil outside. He hadn’t known what to expect in the village, but having a sniper in his team was not to be underestimated. He’d cut Ota loose to find a vantage point and provide overwatch, but only engage on Tate’s order. It didn’t take long for Ota to find a good position and settle in.
Tate watched the Colombian leader herd several armed civilians into cover behind the troop truck. He and his team were entirely forgotten at the moment.
“Monkhouse,” said Tate into his mike, “you’re up.”
Monkhouse smiled at Tate through a face caked with dirt and sweat as he squatted by the door holding the coffee can. He had resealed with duct tape from his backpack and new, stronger wire was wrapped through the detonators retention pin.
Tate cracked open the door and Monkhouse lobbed the can far into the street, where it landed near the truck. The loops of wire at Monkhouse’s feet played out as the can bounced once and rolled under the truck. It veered to the right and bumped up against the far rear tire.
Without pausing, Monkhouse yanked the wire, pulling the retention pin free, releasing the coiled spring inside the detonator. Almost instantaneously, the spring drove the pointed striker rod into the percussion cap, igniting a small charge.
The charge exploded, transferring its heat and sh
ockwave into the C-4 with exactly the right force to set it off. The explosion shredded the thick tires and lifted the rear of the troop truck into the air.
“Go, go, go,” shouted Tate and he dashed out the door with the rest of the team close behind. They came around the back of the battered truck using the thick plume of smoke and dust to conceal their movement.
As the wind cleared the air four men in fatigues took shape spread out on the street.
“Wesson,” said Tate, “cover those windows.”
Just as she brought her weapon to her shoulder, someone tossed a rife out a window where it clattered in the dirt. A moment later, several more guns were tossed out. Doors opened and people walked out with their hands stretched above their heads.
Unlike the soldiers in the street, these people looked to be locals. One of them was an old man who kept apologizing, “Lo siento, lo siento.”
The team moved quickly, picking up weapons and binding arms behind their backs.
“Rosse, check these people out,” said Tate. “Then see what shape these soldiers are in. Monkhouse, see if that truck still runs and knock a hole in those cars.”
Monkhouse walked around the back of the troop truck. Both rear tires were shredded. The rims and axel were bent upwards and buried in the body of the truck.
“In case anyone asks,” he said, “it was like this when I found it.”
Monkhouse climbed into the cab of the truck and started it up. There was a shriek of grinding metal from the rear axle before it snapped. He shoved the truck into gear and the front tires started turning. The truck limped up to what was left of the blockade of cars. The fire had burned itself out, leaving charred husks.
Monkhouse nosed the wide, steel bumper of the truck against the cars and pushed on the gas pedal. Even badly damaged, the truck easily bullied its way through the cars, clearing the way up the street.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FALL OUT
Tate and the squad had found their objective further up the street from the ambush. They had rounded up the prisoners in the garage where they found several wooden crates containing cocaine.
“How did you find out about this place?” asked Kaiden with a crooked smile.
Tate was fuming. If San Roman were here, Tate would have snapped his arrogant neck. “It’s a long story,” he growled.
“It’s a long story, like you don’t want to tell me?” nudged Kaiden. “Or, it’s a long story and you don’t have the time?”
Tate looked at her with a dark expression, but said nothing.
“So, it’s like that,” she said lightly. “You need my help and it’s all roses and candy, but if I want something…”
“I’d forgotten what a Class-A pain in the ass you are,” said Tate. “You already figured this out, but you want me to say it anyway.”
“A girl’s got to stay sharp,” she grinned.
Tate stalked off to the side of the road, out of hearing from the rest of the team, and steamed in irritation while Kaiden calmly joined him at her own pace.
He was about to speak, but Kaiden put her hand up, stopping him. “I’ll go first,” she said. “You found someone with intel on the Suicide King, but you had to pay the piper first. Then they double-crossed you and walked you into a trap. Sound about right?”
“About. Yes,” he said. “How’d you know?”
“Because it’s what I do, Tate,” she said, as seriousness edged into her voice. “It’s why you kept me on in the Night Stalkers, and it’s why you asked for my help when you had an informer in your team. Your lone wolf style almost got someone killed. Your team didn’t sign up for combat. You told ’em they’d be killing Vix, not people. You’re a good man until you have your head up your ass. Then people get hurt.”
“I should’ve never started this,” said Tate. “I walked away from that old life because trying to do the right thing got people hurt. It was safer to stop trying. But then I learned about The Ring. I couldn’t stand by, do nothing. But damn it, I’m back where I started. I thought I could protect the team if they didn’t know the truth.” He paused as the full weight of his decisions heaped on his shoulders.
Kaiden didn’t rush to console him. She stood quietly watching him battle his demons until she sensed he was ready to listen.
“The problem isn’t that you’re trying,” she said. “The problem’s that you’re doing it the wrong way. It’s stupid to think you can single handedly protect your entire team. And they can’t protect themselves when they don’t know what they’re walking into. Maybe you don’t have to tell them everything, but they need to enough to decide for themselves if they can give what you’re asking them to do.”
Tate was aware Rosse had been looking at him from the gas station. There was still a lot to do before this mission was over and because of San Roman, things had become a lot more complicated.
“Thanks,” he said. There was so much going on in his head, the one word was all he could come up with.
He and Kaiden turned back to the gas station and the tangle of demands awaiting him.
Seeing his conversation with Kaiden was over, Rosse met Tate halfway in the street, walking with them to the gas station.
“Except for one dead,” he said, with a quick glance at Kaiden, “all the civilians are okay. They’re pretty scared about what’s gonna happen to ’em.”
“What about the soldier?” asked Tate.
“One’s in bad shape,” said Rosse. “I’m thinking he got that C-4 blast, full on, an’ he got some internal damage from it.”
The impromptu conference grew as the rest of the squad gathered around to hear what was going on.
“Will he live?” asked Tate.
“If he don’t see a hospital in 24 hours,” said Rosse, “I don’t think so.”
Tate pursed his lips in thought about their next move.
“What are we going to do with all these people?” asked Fulton. “Do we let them go?”
“Private,” said Kaiden, “do you mean the same people that nearly burned us alive, cornered and tried to slaughter us? Those people?”
“Well,” said Fulton, “yeah, I guess so. It’s not like they’re dangerous anymore.”
Kaiden pointed to the three bound solders scowling at them. “Leaving them behind would be the same as leaving an unexploded landmine for someone else to step on,” she said.
“Hang on,” protested Wesson. “Are you suggesting we execute these prisoners?”
“It’s the smart thing to do,” said Kaiden.
Fulton paled and the rest of the team traded anxious looks. “Kill them?” he said. “Top, are we going to kill these guys? I can’t do that.”
“They tried to kill us,” said Rosse. “Gun us down like dogs.”
“Maybe they didn’t have a choice,” said Monkhouse. “Maybe these soldier pricks have their families.”
“The why don’t matter,” said Rosse. “We’d still be just as dead. You cut ’em loose and they’ll kill someone else. You want that blood on your hands?”
Monkhouse pointed at the bound civilians who were looking more and more worried. “You want their blood on yours?” he asked.
“Everyone quiet down,” said Wesson. “She has no authority here.”
“You want to test that assumption, G.I. Jane?” bated Kaiden.
“This is crazy,” said Fulton. “I’m not a murderer.”
“That’s enough,” said Tate, breaking out of his own thoughts. “Everyone take a step back. Sergeant Wesson, take the squad, separate the civilians from the soldiers and put both under guard. I need a word with Kaiden.”
The squad quieted down and Wesson was relieved that some order had been restored.
Tate and Kaiden walked away from the rest of the team until they were out of earshot.
“You know I don’t operate that way,” he said. “And I didn’t form this team to kill people.”
Kaiden’s annoyed expression softened as she looked at him for a long moment before spea
king. “Maybe that’s what you told yourself,” she said, “but come on, Tate, deep down you know it’s a lie.”
“Don’t pull that psychology thing on me,” he said. “This is about working in the background. Undermining The Ring until they fall apart.”
“That sounds good on paper,” said Kaiden, “but you’ve been on enough operations. It always comes down to the same thing. If you don’t pull the trigger, the other guy will. Sorry for beating a dead horse, but you almost lost a man today. You keep believing in your fantasy world and you’re going to get your people killed.”
“And you think killing the prisoners is the right thing to do?” he seethed.
“No,” she said. “It’s not right, but it’s smart. We don’t know if we’ll cross paths with these guys again, but someone will, and these guys will have learned from the lesson. They’re next ambush will be smarter. They’ll anticipate over watch, close the loopholes. They’ll be more lethal.”
Tate had no good argument against Kaiden’s logic and walked away. “We leave them here,” he said over his shoulder.
* * *
Wesson had put the soldiers in the work shed away from the gas station. They’d been bound with duct tape and sat against one wall. While the unconscious soldier was laid on a pile of blankets, someone foraged from the neighboring buildings. Even though it was unlikely he would pose a threat, his ankles and wrists were bound in duct tape.
Tate walked into the dim light of the shed. The three soldiers sat on the packed dirt floor with their gazes fixed ahead, ignoring him..
He immediately recognized the soldier who had been giving orders and crouched in front of him. The soldier had two stars embroidered on the shoulder boards of his fatigues, making him a lieutenant, but his name tape was missing.
Tate had seen pirates, bandits, you name it, wear scavenged uniforms to intimidate the locals or try to give themselves more legitimacy. But, if these guys were part of a real army, they would’ve had enough men without conscripting the locals to fight. The other men looked a bit rough compared to the spit and polish of the lieutenant.
The Suicide King (The Grave Diggers Book 2) Page 12