by Brent Towns
Kane winced and waited for the expected explosion. Instead, Thurston rolled her eyes and said, “Men and their fucking testosterone.”
Kane took Baburin and Grekov aside and showed them a map. Hunt and Cara came to join them. “This is the target building, Grigory.”
The Russian made a grim face. “Hmm, this is not good. This whole area has plenty of bad men.”
“Have you ever been in there before?”
Grekov grunted. “Once. We lost four men in there. It was a mistake we said we would never make again.”
“What is so important in there, anyway?” Baburin asked.
“Two things. We have a man in there and the HVT who is holding him.”
“Who is HVT?”
“The Ghost.”
The big Russian smiled. “Fuck me, you have found the grail of the terrorist world right under our noses.”
“You in?”
“Hell, yes. What do you want us to do?”
“There is a roadblock here,” Kane said, pointing at the map. “I’ll take my team in the vehicles with some of your shooters. You take the rest of your team on the helicopter. Cara will go with you. I want her in this building here. Can you give her support?”
“Yes. I will have one of my men stay there with her.”
“Thanks, Grigory.”
“I will go and organize things for tonight. It promises to be good, yes?”
“It promises to be something.”
Best sat opposite Knocker, with Khazbika standing behind him. For the past couple of days, she had left him to recover his strength before another round of torture began. The former SAS man was tired; the combination of pain and lack of sleep saw to that. However, he was still determined to outlast whatever they threw at him—except death, of course. If they chose to kill him, there wasn’t much he could do about it. So far, most of it had been superficial, designed to inflict maximum pain without killing him.
“I have word that your friends are looking for you,” Best said. “They must like you a lot. More than my friends did.”
“People looked for you.”
“One of them found me and couldn’t even follow a simple instruction. You weak cock.”
“I tried to get people to come back for you, but the bitch wouldn’t do it. The funny part is, she was the one who delivered me to you.”
“What?” Best looked confused.
“Grayson. The woman you paid for me. She was the one in charge of the operation. She was the one who wouldn’t help me get you out.”
“You’re a liar.”
“Really? She was the head of MI6 special operations. She’s had more people killed and run more ops than you’ve had hot dinners, chum. Fucked up there, didn’t you?”
Knocker could see the tremble in Best’s lip as anger surged through him. “You paid ten million to the woman who could have fucking saved you. Hahaha.”
“Khazbika!” Best roared. “I want to leave.”
He sounded like a spoiled child.
Khazbika helped him to his feet and said to the guards, “Lock him back up. I will play with him later.”
Knocker was untied and dragged back to the small room where they kept him. In the corner was a stinking bucket he used for defecation. Flies buzzed around it, and with the heat now radiating inside the room, the stench would become unbearable.
He laid down on the hard floor and stared at the stained ceiling. From what he’d picked up from the guards talking, he was in Juba, South Sudan. If he could escape before becoming too weak, he knew where the SIS had a safe house. It wasn’t his first time in-country.
Knocker ran different things through his mind to try to keep it sharp. His body hurt from the various wounds, and his right eye was partially closed from a blow he’d received from one of the guards.
The door opened, and Khazbika filled the doorway. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of the enclosed space. “Get up and come with me.”
Knocker dragged his tired frame erect and stood in the center of the room. He lurched across toward the door with the sudden realization that he might never be able to escape from this place. His strength was mostly gone.
He followed her down a hall and into a room that resembled a kitchen. Their route had taken them past a staircase that led upward. Khazbika pulled out a chair and said, “Sit.”
The former SAS man sat down. She tossed a stale loaf of bread on the dirty table. “Eat.”
Knocker’s hands reached across the space, and he grabbed it in his claw-like fingers. He put it to his open mouth and his teeth ripped into it, tearing a large piece free. His jaw ached as he chewed the tough morsel before swallowing.
“It tastes like shit,” he growled, taking another bite.
“I am happy you are enjoying it.”
There was movement at the doorway, and a man appeared. He spoke with an English accent. “It is ready.”
“What?” Knocker asked suspiciously.
“A bath.”
The former SAS man cocked an eyebrow. “What?”
“Come,” Khazbika said.
Getting up from the chair, wincing with pain, Knocker lurched after her. She took him to a room with a long tin bath in it. “There.”
Knocker walked over to it and leaned down. He tested the water with a grimy finger, and it was hot. Khazbika turned to the armed escort. “Leave us.”
“But—”
“Go.”
She turned back to Knocker and walked over to him. He tensed involuntarily, half-expecting the knife to plunge into his body. Instead, Khazbika said, “Let me help you.”
She started to undress him, starting with his filthy shirt. Instead of resisting, Knocker let her do it. Soon he was naked, his squalid clothes thrown into a corner. His body was covered with bruises and dark patches of dried blood where his wounds had crusted over.
“Get in the bath.”
Knocker climbed in, the hot water prickling his skin and feeling good. After sitting down, he leaned against the hard rim and closed his eyes. He felt Khazbika washing him with a rag she’d picked up from beside the tub. She started to hum softly, and the former SAS man found it disconcertingly soothing. “Why are you doing this?” he asked.
“It was ordered.”
She washed his chest, her hand moving in lazy circles.
“Is this, like, a last rites kind of thing?” Knocker asked. “Clean me up before you kill me?”
Khazbika said nothing. She just kept washing him, slowly working lower until she reached his groin. Knocker tensed as the rag ran across it, then moaned as he felt himself respond. The former SAS man cursed himself under his breath.
The motion of the rag stopped. Khazbika let it go, and it sank deep into the water. She ran her fingers lightly across Knocker’s abdomen until she reached his hard member. Slender fingers wrapped around it and she fondled it, making him even harder.
“Shit,” Knocker groaned.
“Would you like me to stop?” Khazbika asked.
“No point in stopping something you’ve already started,” Knocker replied. “It might be the last time old Knocker gets the pleasure of female company.”
She leaned forward and kissed him.
Khazbika had joined Knocker in the bath. She faced away from him as their gyrations slopped water from the bath onto the floor. Her head was thrown back, her face tilted toward the stained ceiling. Cries of passion escaped her lips and joined the former SAS man’s animalistic grunts.
Knocker reached out and grasped her hips, feeling his end quickly approaching. They peaked together, their cries echoing around the room.
They collapsed together, Khazbika slumping onto Knocker’s chest, her right arm hanging over the side of the bath. Their breathing sounded loud in the enclosed room.
“Do you kill me now like a praying mantis?” Knocker asked.
It was the second time he’d asked her, and once again, she failed to answer him. Knocker reached over her shoulder with his left hand, running it do
wn her chest so it cupped her breast. His thumb flicked her hardened rose-colored nipple and it stiffened. Then, like a coiled rattler, she moved to strike.
Khazbika’s right hand came up with her knife. It was stopped by Knocker’s right hand, which he locked onto her wrist, stopping it from moving any farther.
The former SAS man’s left arm wrapped around the lethal woman’s slender neck and started to squeeze. Khazbika realized she’d made a deadly mistake by assuming her prisoner was unprepared for her strike. His arm tightened, and panic surged through her body as she felt the unbelievable pressure constricting the life from her.
Khazbika started to thrash, her legs kicking violently, water splashing on the floor. She clawed at his arm with her left hand, nails raking grooves in Knocker’s skin.
He whispered in her ear, “Don’t fight it. Your time is now.”
With one forceful movement, Knocker broke her neck. She slumped against him, and the knife fell from her grasp.
He had to struggle out from beneath her and was almost out of the tub when a sound came to him—the low whop-whop-whop of an approaching helicopter. “Man, I hope that’s what I think it is. If it isn’t, Knocker, we’re fucked.”
Chapter 18
Juba, South Sudan
“Red Bear One is on target,” Baburin’s voice came through loud and clear.
“This is Reaper One. We’re thirty seconds out.”
Cara heard both calls as she worked her way toward her target building. In front of her was Grekov, armed with the new model AK-12, while behind them, the helicopter lifted off.
Grekov crashed through the front door and was met by an armed Sudanese man. The Russian fired twice, and the man fell to the floor.
Moving through the building with a smooth efficiency until he found the stairs, he indicated for Cara to go up while he watched her back. Farther down the hallway, another shooter appeared. Grekov switched the fire selector and squeezed the trigger. A three-round burst erupted from the weapon’s muzzle and stitched the shooter’s chest.
Shouts erupted from the room the man had emerged from. Grekov retrieved one of his RGN fragmentation grenades and pulled the pin, tossed it into the room, and took cover.
The explosion was deafening.
He moved back along the hallway and went up the stairs to the room where Cara had set up. She looked at him and said, “You made enough noise.”
The Russian shrugged with a smile. “It was necessary.”
“Just watch our backs.”
Grekov grunted.
Cara said, “Reaper Two in position.”
“Copy, Reaper Two. Reaper One arriving on target now.”
After taking care of the roadblock at the entry to the neighborhood, Kane’s team had split up upon reaching the target building. He and Troy, along with two of the Russian operators, took the front of the building, while the other vehicle that held Axe, Brick, Traynor, and Arenas went to the rear. The Russian mercenaries under the command of Baburin took up security positions at each of the four intersections.
As soon as Kane and the others exited their vehicles, a handful of men appeared from the building, firing at the intruders. Bullets hammered the side of the vehicle like hail peppering a corrugated iron roof. The noise was terrible, and the number of incoming rounds forced the four men to take cover. Troy popped up from behind the engine block and fired a burst from his 416.
Two of the shooters jerked and spilled to the ground, their weapons silent. Troy dropped back down and said, “We need to get in there now.”
Kane took a fragmentation grenade from his webbing, pulled the pin, and threw it toward the doorway. “Frag out!”
Knocker had started to put his foul clothes back on when the first rattle of gunfire reached out. He spun to face the door as it was flung open by an armed guard, his face a mask of panic. Knocker’s arm rose and fell, his right hand releasing the knife. The weapon tumbled over and over before burying itself in the chest of the guard.
Knocker hurried forward and scooped up the man’s AK-47, then relieved him of his spare magazines. He straightened and moved to the doorway, shirtless and shoeless, only his pants covering him.
An explosion sounded from outside, mixed with the heavy gunfire. Knocker ignored it. He had only one thing in mind: to find Best and complete the mission.
The hall was vacant as he started down it. He went to the room where they’d tortured him and found it vacant. From there, he began a methodical check of each room. Unfortunately, Best was nowhere to be seen.
By now, firing was coming from the front and the back of the building. Shouts of alarm were followed by an explosion. A terrorist appeared on the stairs that led up to the second floor, and Knocker fired from instinct and muscle memory. Three rounds from the AK hammered into the man’s chest, and he went down hard.
Knocker hurried forward and grabbed the man by the shirt, then shook him. “Where is Best?”
The terrorist looked up at the Brit. He smiled, and blood ran from the corner of his mouth. “Fuck you.”
The accent, though made thick by the blood, was American. “Shit,” Knocker said, shoving the dying man back. “These guys are a fucking mixed bag of sweets.”
Knocker was about to start up the stairs when the door to his right moved. He swung the AK around and depressed the trigger. The weapon roared, and bullets punched through the thin wood, splintering it. A cry of pain told him all he needed to know.
The Brit moved over to the door and pulled it open. A shooter lay dead on a set of stairs that went down into a dark abyss. A muzzle flashed, and bullets flew past Knocker’s head. He threw himself back and landed on the floor, pain shooting through him. He half-sat up and flicked the fire selector of the AK to full auto, then squeezed the trigger. The Kalashnikov rattled until the magazine ran dry. Knocker then reloaded and climbed to his feet, taking cover beside the doorjamb.
Another burst of fire sounded from down the stairway, followed by frantic shouts. They didn’t want him down there for some reason, and he could guess what that was. They were covering for Best, giving him time to get away. Knocker figured there was a tunnel down there somewhere the terrorist was using to make his escape.
Knocker leaned in and fired a long burst with the AK. A cry of pain erupted from below, but so did another storm of gunfire. Bullets chewed deep into the wall opposite the doorway. A shout from behind the Brit caused him to spin around. He was a hair away from firing and killing the man he teased the most on the team—Axe.
“Don’t do that, you fucking tosser. I almost killed you,” Knocker growled.
“Knocker?” Axe said.
“Yeah, it’s me. I know I’m not a pretty picture, but—” More gunfire rang out from the building’s basement. “You got a fucking grenade?”
“You know me. I always have a grenade,” Axe told him with a grin. Looking Knocker over, he asked, “You sure you’re alright? You look like shit.”
“I’m not ready to fall down yet,” Knocker lied. “Now, put a fucking grenade down there, will you?”
Axe pressed his transmit button. “Reaper, you need to get your ass in here. I’ve got Knocker.”
“Be right there.”
“Brick, I’m in the hallway. I need you, buddy.”
“Give me a damned grenade, Axe,” Knocker growled. “The bastard is getting away.”
“Who?”
“The Ghost, who do you think? Mary-fucking-Poppins? Put it down there.”
Axe took a grenade from his webbing and pulled the pin, then tossed it down the stairs and called, “Frag out!”
The explosion rocked the inside of the building, and dust and debris belched from the doorway. Knocker looked at Axe. “Give me your NVGs.”
“What?”
“Give me your NVGs. Hurry up; we’re wasting time. I don’t have any, and it’s dark down there.”
“Shit, Knocker,” Axe growled, taking off his ballistic helmet with his NVGs attached.
Knocker put i
t on and lowered the night vision optics.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Brick shouted as he came into the hallway.
“Doing something I should have done years ago,” the Brit said and entered the stairwell.
Brick followed him down. It was hard to see through all the dust in the air. Knocker made out three bodies on the floor. One had taken the brunt of the blast from the grenade and was missing a leg.
The Brit peered around, and he made out the hole in the wall opposite. “That way.”
The two operators started into the tunnel. Brick’s comms came to life. “Reaper Five, where are you?”
“We found a tunnel below the house, Reaper. Could be our HVT is using it to escape.”
“You need to get out of there. We’ve got tangos closing on our position.”
“Knocker, we’ve got to go,” Brick said in a low voice.
“Bullshit, we do,” he cursed. “That bastard is being taken off the board.”
“Reaper, we’re Charlie Mike down here.”
Brick could imagine the look on Kane’s face at the news they were continuing their mission, and the image wasn’t pretty. He waited for a moment, then heard Kane say, “Reaper One to all call signs. Dig in. Cara, you’re in charge. Brick, Troy and I are coming to you.”
Chapter 19
Juba, South Sudan
“What the hell is going on?” Ellen Grayson asked, seeing and hearing her opportunity to snatch The Ghost disintegrate. “Talk to me.”
“Someone has beaten us to it,” Flint growled. “They’re hitting the target house.”
“Who, damn it?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s them,” she hissed. “It has to be. Close in and finish them off.”
“This isn’t the time or place,” Flint argued. “Our lookouts are reporting that the shooting is attracting unwanted attention.”
“Damn them,” Grayson hissed. “Get us out of here. Tell the team to pull back. With some luck, the locals will do what I couldn’t.”