Operations Compromised

by Warren Conrad

  Stryker crawled to the edge of the roof, where he had a clear view of the main square. There, another four buildings away, was parked a black SUV identical to those the Russians had used to pick up Akbari and Ali’s double. Next to this SUV was an all-wheel-drive truck. Small groups of Taliban were spreading out through the village, rifles at the ready. The other locals knew enough to find shelter and were nowhere to be seen.

  Stryker watched, waiting until no one was looking his direction, and then he sprinted to the side of the roof and jumped. He landed on the next building, crouched low, and watched again for an opening. He ran and leaped three more times and then made his way to the back of the roof. Peering down, he moved along the roof until he found what he was looking for—an open window with a wide enough ledge to catch the toes of his boots on when he dropped. He lowered himself down by his hands and dropped, the ledge almost instantly stopping his fall. He heard movement inside the room, though, so he stepped back and dropped again and caught himself on the window ledge with his hands.

  Inside the room, someone approached the window. A Russian man dressed in black combat gear leaned out, cradling a machine pistol. Stryker lunged up, grabbed him by a strap on his vest, and hauled him out through the window. The man plummeted to the ground below, and Stryker twisted around, dangling by one hand now, prepared to fire. The Russian had landed on his neck on the edge of the riverbank, half in and half out of the water. He did not move. Stryker pulled himself up and dropped lightly into the room.

  It was a bedroom, with an unmade cot and a small bathroom. He moved up to the door to the hallway and flattened against the wall. Footsteps were audible from this floor and below—at least four sets. One of them was approaching the room. Stryker unsheathed his knife and wished he had a silencer for the Makarov.

  “Piotr?” the man called.

  The Russian peeked into the room before he walked inside. Stryker stepped out of the shadows, kicked the back of the man’s knee and brought an elbow down into the top of his spine as he stumbled. As he started to fall, Stryker swept the Russian’s feet from under him and in almost the same motion pinned him to the floor. He planted a hand over the man’s mouth and slid the knife down into his heart and back out. The Russian shuddered and was still. The entire process had taken less than three seconds.

  Stryker moved to the door again and listened. The other three sets of footsteps were downstairs. He could hear muffled voices, though, seemingly on this level. He retreated from the door and went to the bathroom, pausing to grab up a blanket from the cot on the way. In the bathroom hung a cracked, oval mirror. Holding the blanket against one corner of the mirror to muffle the sound, he used the butt of the Makarov to break off a piece about the size of his palm. He took it back to the door to the hallway, and lying prone he inched out the piece of mirror.

  In the reflection, he saw the hallway floor, other doorways, and the stairs. At the far end, three doors away, a man stood with his back to a closed door. The guard held a shotgun. Stryker pulled back the mirror, thought for a moment, and pulled out the clip from his Makarov. He withdrew four rounds and replaced it. He stood, gripped his knife by the blade, and held the bullets in the other hand. Stryker tossed the bullets down the hallway, letting them roll along the floor toward the guard. He waited two seconds and lunged out into the hall.

  The guard, bent over to inspect the shiny objects rolling toward him, straightened up and raised his gun as Stryker came into view. A knife flew end over end down the hallway and impaled itself in the guard’s chest. He crumpled over, and Stryker crossed to the closed door and retrieved his knife.

  Stryker pressed his ear to the door and heard two voices—one with an Iranian accent, the other Russian.

  “I have no idea this happen,” the Russian voice said. Fedorov. “All big misunderstanding. Guards for protection only.”

  “Of course,” Ali answered. “It’s simply fortunate that I managed to escape from that ambush on the road.”

  “Yes. Fortunate.”

  Stryker cracked open the door. Through the slit, he could see rows of tables covered in ordnance—AK-47s, RPGs, Makarov pistols, grenades. He wondered how directly the Russians were involved with the Taliban. At the end of the room, he could just make out two figures seated in chairs. Ali’s back was to him, while Fedorov faced the door. Behind them, a window looked out on the valley and would have the river running by just below. With no other options, Stryker chanced it; he widened the door just enough and slipped through. He nudged the door closed and crouched behind the nearest table, but Fedorov had already seen him.

  The Russian reached for the gun at his hip. Ali, as if he had only been waiting for the right moment, produced his pistol faster and shot Fedorov four times in the face. His gun was suppressed, only a faint puff of air accompanying the shots as Fedorov slumped in the chair.

  Ali turned then, realizing what had made Fedorov reach for his gun, and their eyes met across the room.

  “Stryker,” Ali breathed. He raised his gun and fired.

  Stryker crouched low as the bullets tore into the table around him and knocked guns to the floor. None of these weapons were suppressed, and he knew that at the first gunshot the guards downstairs would rush to investigate. Worse, those outside would hear shots fired, and every Taliban in the village would surround the house. Escape would be impossible. At the first non-suppressed gunshot, it was all over.

  This is great, Stryker thought. I’m a sniper who can’t use a gun.

  Ali continued to fire, emptying his clip and then calmly sliding in another. “I’m almost impressed,” he said as he walked closer. “You have kept me—what do you say in America? On my toes?”

  “I take it my little trick didn’t fool you.” Ali started around one side of the table and then darted to fire the other way, almost sending a bullet through Stryker’s back.

  A little trick. Ducked down, moving left and right, he had only seconds before Ali cornered him. If he rose up to throw his knife, Ali would gun him down. For once, he had to outsmart him, had to come up with a plan that Ali had not thought through first. He reached up and snagged two grenades off a table as he passed. He tugged a length of lace from his boot and sliced it free.

  “You’re going to die here today,” Ali said, “and I’m going to continue doing what I do best. All that blood is on your hands because you could not do your job. Like you failed to do here in Afghanistan. Like you failed in Sofia. Like you failed in Colorado. Let’s see if you even know how to die well.”

  Stryker pulled a pin from one of the grenades and tossed the pin over a table toward Ali. Still hidden from view, he counted to three, as if cooking the grenade. As he did, he tied the bootlace around it tightly, keeping the lever depressed, and set it on the floor.

  “You wouldn’t—”

  Stryker lobbed the second grenade, pin intact, over the table. Ali cried out and threw himself to the side. Stryker vaulted over the table and hurled his knife. Ali twisted away, realizing the ploy too late, and the knife buried itself in his shoulder. Stryker charged at him, and Ali snatched up the gun he had dropped and fired. The shot missed as Stryker slammed into him.

  They crashed through a chair and table and tumbled onto the floor. Ali had kept a grip on his gun and fired three more times, one of the rounds grazing Stryker’s arm, another clipping his side just below the ribs. Stryker pulled the knife free and stabbed it down through Ali’s hand, and with a quick, sawing slash he ripped Ali’s palm open. The gun dropped at Stryker’s feet as blood poured out, but Ali kicked it away even as he howled in pain.

  Ali pulled out his own knife, long and serrated, and stabbed at Stryker’s throat. Stryker dodged and then blocked another slash across his chest. Ali was bleeding profusely from the hand and shoulder, but his movements with a knife were as fast as anything Stryker had seen, on a par with Rachel and Sara. Only their training allowed him to defend against Ali’s attacks.

  Ali lunged again, feinted with the knife, and kicked Str
yker in the side where he had just been shot. Pain lit up Stryker’s side, slowing his reflexes, and Ali sliced across his bicep when he moved to block. Ali stabbed and slashed, brutal and lightning-quick, slicing open shallow wounds on Stryker’s arms, chest, sides. Ali kept trying to carve open his throat, but he dodged each time. Ali seemed to anticipate each knife attack of his own. If Stryker did not do something fast, he would be cut apart, piece by piece.

  Stryker sliced at Ali’s knife arm, and when Ali blocked with his own blade, Stryker brought his other fist plowing into the man’s face with a swift left cross. He put as much force behind the punch as any he had ever thrown, and he heard the crack as Ali’s jaw dislocated.

  Ali stumbled back, spitting teeth and blood. He cradled his broken jaw with his bleeding hand, staggering. Stryker pressed forward and swung his knife in for the killing strike, but Ali ducked under his arm with impossible grace and stabbed Stryker, the blade glancing off his ribs. Stryker’s own knife dropped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. He pressed a hand to the wound, nearly doubling over.

  Ali smiled at him, brokenly, blood running from his knife and dripping down. He raised it up, preparing to throw it. “Like I said,” he choked out, “I’m almost—”

  Stryker ran at him full tilt, and they collided so hard that Ali’s feet left the floor. He charged forward, carrying Ali with him as he crashed through the window, and he wrenched the knife from Ali’s grasp as the glass shattered around them, and then they were both outside and falling. As they plunged the two stories, Stryker twisted his body to the side and slung his arm around Ali. They struck earth and water.

  All the breath was knocked out of him, and for a moment, he saw only blackness. He fought it away, struggling to stay conscious, and his vision cleared. Intense pain radiated from his arm where it was trapped under Ali. It was almost surely broken. Stryker lay mostly in the water, where the river’s current tugged at him and only his pinned arm kept him from being pulled downstream. Ali had landed mostly on the shore, only his legs in the water. Stryker’s hand under Ali’s back still gripped the knife, which pointed toward the sky. Two inches of bloody blade were visible protruding from Ali’s midsection.

  Stryker leaned up over his downed enemy, pain seizing each breath. “Impressed yet?” he whispered.

  Spots swam before his vision. He grew weaker by the second as he continued to lose blood. With his free hand, he hauled himself a little farther out onto the bank, and then he fumbled in the pockets of his tactical vest until he found his field kit. He pulled out a bandage and stripped the wrapping off with his teeth before pressing it to the wound between his ribs. It was not much, but it would help staunch the flow.

  He tried to drag his arm from under Ali, but it was like pulling on dead weight. His arm was almost nonresponsive. He managed to work himself free inch by inch, but Ali scooted along as well, and by the time his arm was loose, the current had caught hold of Ali’s lower half and pulled him into its grip. Stryker watched as Ali’s body was borne away, the water darkening around him as he floated out of sight.

  Stryker held onto the bank and cradled his mangled arm to his chest. He fought to remain awake. Six miles downriver was extraction point 3, and Plan B called for pickup at 2100 hours, long after sunset and some five hours away.

  Loud, alarmed voices sounded inside the house, and echoing shouts came from the village square. Time to go. Stryker released his hold on the bank, closed his eyes, and let the river carry him away.

  Chapter 41

  Kabul, Afghanistan

  July 2011

  Stryker opened his eyes. He was surrounded by light. No, not light, he realized, but pure, bright white. White walls, white sheets, a white curtain dividing the room.

  “Hey, you’re awake. Though from the looks of it, you could use some more beauty sleep.”

  Definitely not heaven. Stryker turned his head to see Sparks sitting in a chair with one leg propped up, a magazine resting on his lap.

  “Where am I?” Stryker’s throat felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper. Everything hurt. The port where his IV connected itched something fierce, and all in all he felt like he had been shot, stabbed and fallen out of a two-story window.

  “Hospital in Kabul. I fished you out of the water half-dead two days ago. Although if I’d remembered what a sissy you are when you get hurt, I might have thrown you back.”

  Stryker groaned. “Why couldn’t Rachel have found me?”

  “Sorry, Jake,” she answered. “I was a little tied up.”

  Sparks rose and pulled back the curtain, and there in the other bed was Rachel, pale but smiling. Half her head was wrapped in bandages.

  Stryker tried to sit up, but Sparks pushed him back down. “Easy, tiger,” Sparks said. “She’s fine. Took some rock fragments in the back of the head and neck when the fifty cal opened up on that boulder. No permanent harm, although she keeps saying she hopes you wake up soon, so she might have suffered some brain damage.”

  Rachel shook her head a touch. “Don’t listen to him. How are you feeling?”

  “Been better. Been worse. How about you?”

  “Eh. Mostly I’m pissed that they had to shave a spot on my head. It’ll take months to grow that back.”

  Stryker smiled but then immediately sobered. “The rest of the team? The mission?”

  “Four casualties in the Hatchet forces,” Sparks said quietly, “but that’s surprisingly few considering what happened. A lot of injuries, but everyone else will recover. Sara took a gunshot to the leg as she retreated, but she’s also recovering well.”

  “Was Akbari recovered? Did he talk?”

  “Herb has the list of names and locations of sleeper cells. He has their targets along with the dates and times for the attacks. Everything we need. Unfortunately, Akbari did not survive the interrogation.”

  Stryker nodded wearily. He was too exhausted to care much one way or another. “What are the plans to leave Afghanistan?”

  “As soon as you’re well enough, you and the Israeli team will leave in the Falcon. I’ll stay with the rest of the Hatchet forces. We’ll work as Alpha employees and slowly rotate back to the US over the next few weeks in the normal course of business. In fact, Alpha will keep flying helicopter training flights until the end of next week so nothing seems out of the ordinary.”

  “What about Herb?”

  “I suggested he continue his friendship with the senator and Steven Petloki, not letting them suspect anything about their Russian partners,” Sparks said. “Working with the CIA, I can ensure his contracts with the military stay in place. Herb said he wants to stay involved and help kill the rest of these guys.”

  Stryker smiled. “Sounds like the start of a beautiful friendship.”

  “And what about Aleksey Fedorov and Ali Shirazi?” Sparks asked. “Did you bring them around to our point of view?”

  Stryker rested his head back on his pillow. “I don’t think they’ll be bothering us again anytime soon.”

  Rachel exhaled and stretched out in the bed, and for the first time since Stryker had met her, she looked fully at peace. She didn’t smile, but the tension was gone, and a light in her eyes seemed to have turned back on. She looked at him across the room, and she didn’t have to say it, but she did anyway.

  “Thank you.”

  A week passed, and Stryker, Rachel, and Sara were cleared to travel. Sparks drove them from the hospital to the base, where everyone was gathered in the hangar for farewells. The Mossad team members would fly from London to Tel Aviv, while Stryker would be the sole passenger traveling back to Washington, DC. Stryker and the Israelis gave their gear to the ground crew for loading onto the Falcon.

  Herb embraced Stryker in his wheelchair with a hearty bear hug that made his ribs ache, while Rachel and Sara made a special effort to thank Herb, Sparks, and Stryker. “Without you three,” Rachel said, “many Israelis and Americans would have died.”

  Sara added, “The nation of Israel will be
forever in your debt. Daniel will personally reach out to you at the proper time.”

  Stryker told Herb and Sparks he would talk to them soon and also saluted the Hatchet teams for an outstanding job. He told them he mourned with them for their lost men and that these heroes would long be remembered for their sacrifice. He knew from experience that the words were hollow at best, but it was all he could do. The men saluted him in return, and he made his way slowly and painfully up the stairs and into the plane.

  In his seat, he stared through the window as the Falcon taxied out. He watched the runway roll by and drop away, watched the land stretch out below him. He was certain the war wasn’t over. It had just started. Many more names were on his list, and he was determined that he would be the hunter and not the hunted.

  After the plane landed in London, he whispered something in Rachel’s ear when she stopped at his seat. She nodded and squeezed his hand, trying to smile. He waved goodbye to the team, shook Abel’s hand, and kissed Sara on the cheek. It seemed to startle her, but then a warm color suffused her face.

  “I’ll be in touch with you all soon,” he said. These were good people. He realized it was like his family was leaving. Staying on the plane instead of departing with them was one of the hardest things he had ever done. When they left, the cabin was empty, and the emptiness seemed to settle into his bones. He was tired, very tired. He slept almost the entire trip back to DC, waking up an hour before touchdown.

  As he left the plane, he received a message from Rachel telling him to go to the Mossad safe house where he would be secure until they were able to talk. Stryker left the airport and called for a cab, which took him to the safe house. He slept for nearly eight hours more, and when he awoke the next day, his pain had lessened a bit.