The Forgotten Soldier

by Brad Taylor

  He crouched down and duckwalked beneath the sill, putting an eye to the nearest crack in the paint. He saw a rack of costumes and the edge of a mirror over a desk, then a woman, completely nude, her hair in curlers. She plucked two tissues from a box and wiped her mouth. Guy heard the man in the room laugh, then watched the woman pull something off the rack.

  Guy hugged the wall, letting her move back deeper into the dressing room. Clearly, they were focused on each other, but ignoring them left his escape route compromised.

  He decided to leave them alone, even with the man in the room. If he moved swiftly enough, he could kill everyone in Nikos’s office, then exit down the fire escape.

  If it was there.

  He moved in a crouch below the window, then stood, his weapon raised. He shuffled forward, sliding his feet to maintain a solid firing stance, his eyes on the final door. He reached the middle of the hallway, directly underneath the anemic incandescent bulb, and heard the door behind him open, the girl chatting with the man inside.

  He whirled around, the sights of the 6P9 settling instinctively on the woman’s nose. She was wearing nothing but a teddy, one curler hanging low, out of place with the rest. He saw her mouth drop into a perfect little O, and time stood still.

  His brain screamed at him to pull the trigger. To silence her before she could compromise the mission.

  He could not.

  She shrieked louder than an actress in a horror movie, then stumbled backward, finding the stairs and racing down them.

  The man burst out at the noise, a pistol in his hands, sliding right into Guy’s sight picture. Guy squeezed twice, the suppressor making a muted spit. The man’s head snapped back, and he fell without uttering a sound.

  Behind him, a door burst open, and the light from Nikos’s office invaded the hallway. Guy heard a man shout. He whirled around, dropping to a knee and firing at the silhouette framed by the illumination. The man did the same, firing where Guy had just been. He felt the crack of rounds splitting the air above him, then saw the man topple over, wounded. The man began crawling backward, pulling himself into the office.

  Guy fired into the body, stilling the movement.

  Guy had a choice to make in the span of a millisecond: Use the escape route behind him, or press the fight.

  Suicide run.

  He stood, raced toward the open door, and the black window shattered, an object coming through. Something bounced against the wall and hit the floor. Guy recognized the object instantly, and slid to a stop, incredulous. Grenade. He turned and kicked the nearest door beneath its knob, the jamb splintering open.

  He dove inside just as the grenade went off, feeling shrapnel slam into his legs, the explosion whipping him sideways into the doorjamb. He rolled over, the ringing in his ears blocking out everything else. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog. He checked his legs, relieved to see each still attached. His right calf was peppered in blood, looking like someone had repeatedly stabbed a fork into it. He tested it and found it would support his weight.

  He pulled up to the corner of the door and peeked out, wondering how many grenades Nikos might have, feeling the press of time. He knew speed was of the essence, as the concussion most assuredly would attract the attention of others, either police or more foot soldiers.

  He saw movement, a man ducking below the shattered window, and slithered out of the room on his belly, high-crawling down the hallway, using his elbows and knees. He reached the office doorway and backed into the wall, glancing inside.

  He saw a massive desk, two chairs to the front, but no men.

  Underneath the window.

  He coiled his legs, then leapt through the door sideways. He landed on his left side, his barrel aimed at a man stunned by his appearance. He pulled the trigger twice, watching the bullets slam into the man’s head and explode out the back.

  It wasn’t Nikos.

  Guy rolled over, swinging the weapon in an arc. He found no other threats, but saw the ladder outside the window. Escape. He pulled into a crouch, then leapt on top of the desk, aiming the gun on the other side. Nikos was cowering behind an ostentatious leather chair, his hands out front, trying to ward off the death.

  He said, “Don’t, don’t, don’t . . .”

  Guy said, “Where can I find the Arabs?”

  “I don’t know . . . I just call them and we meet up.”

  Guy crouched down, picking up the remaining grenade. He tested the rubber band, then put it into his jacket pocket. He said, “Give me your phone.”

  “It’s on the desk.” Guy picked it up, and Nikos gained courage from the fact that he was still alive, mistaking the delay as fear on Guy’s part. “You harm me and you’ll be hunted until the day you die. There is no place you can hide. When my father finds you, he will kill you very, very slowly.”

  Guy said, “I guess you’re a bad man, huh?”

  Nikos sat up, straightening his shirt and running his hand through his hair. “That’s right. I’m not someone to trifle with. Let’s talk business. I owe no allegiance to the Arabs.”

  Guy heard noises down the hall, then footsteps on the stairs. He said, “Are the Arabs still at the Athenaeum Hotel?”

  Nikos heard the men coming and stalled, saying, “I’ll take you to them. I’ll help you kill them.”

  Guy raised the barrel and Nikos said, “All right, all right. Yes. They’re at the Athenaeum InterContinental just up the street, okay? Now what?”

  Guy cocked his head toward the man on the floor, the blood and brain matter congealing on the wall, reminding him of Nassir in the shower. Reminding him of Nassir calling to him in the night. The deaths he’d caused flashed through his mind, the tendrils of the abyss wrapping him tighter.

  He said, “I guess I’m a bad man too.”

  Puzzled, Nikos said nothing.

  Guy raised the barrel and said, “It’s not a good day to be a bad man.”

  58

  I called all elements, telling them to maintain eyes on their respective targets, wondering if we weren’t missing other hunters searching elsewhere in the park, something that could prove catastrophic. In military operations, one of the worst things you could do was to plan solely against the enemy you’d confirmed, only to see your carefully detailed operation eviscerated by some element you didn’t know existed, and so hadn’t anticipated.

  I needed to get Carly out clean, without bumping into either the ones we knew or the ones we didn’t. Thread the needle, as it were, escaping and letting them search an empty park. I could handle the problem right now, but if there were more stalkers than the ones we saw, all of them would race to the first sign of trouble, swarming on us like flies to roadkill.

  Thank God for Veep. If he hadn’t been new, I would have winged this meeting. And missed the trap.

  Carly was the linchpin. The key. They knew her, but they didn’t know my team, and it made me sick that I’d put her in danger. She’d come because she was trying to help Guy, and now she was being hunted because of it. There was no way I’d let any harm come to her.

  The thought broke open a nascent truth, like the final letters in a crossword puzzle spilling out a hidden connection. The Arab was here. And he was hunting Carly in order to find Guy. But the only way the Arab would know Carly existed was because of her connection to Nikos. Which meant he would have to know that she’d set up a meeting between Guy and Nikos.

  Guy was right. There was a conspiracy threaded through all of this, and it wasn’t just because of some Mafioso-done-wrong scenario. The Arabs were doing something. Something bad enough to hunt a CIA agent to prevent Guy from interfering.

  Jennifer and Carly were almost out of sight, winding through the paths at a rapid clip. Carly glanced at me once, questioning what she’d become involved in, but Jennifer never looked back. Scanning every bush, she walked with her hand on her purse as if to keep
it protected from pickpockets, but I knew what she was “protecting.” Her ability to withdraw her suppressed Glock 27 and blast the shit out of anyone in her way.

  I remained on my bench, waiting on the hunters to cross my path in their search for Carly. Waiting on whatever endgame they had planned. Then I realized I was playing their game. Why did I give a crap what they had planned? The damn Arab from Guy’s target package was in the park, and he should be worried about what I had planned.

  The Oversight Council hadn’t given us Alpha authority yet, but this situation wasn’t of my creation. One of the men Guy was stalking was in the park, had coordinated with a known organized crime figure, and was targeting a CIA agent. And it isn’t my fault. I couldn’t be blamed for capturing a guy out to kill Carly.

  I clicked on the radio, saying, “Koko, Koko, hold up.”

  She came back, saying, “What? Threat to my front?”

  “No. Just stand by. All elements, all elements, give me a status.”

  Knuckles said, “Still got the Arab in sight. He seems to be controlling things. He’s not searching, and the guy with him is deferring to his commands.”

  Brett said, “I’m on my man. He’s searching the south end of the park. He’s in cell contact with someone. Most likely the Arab.”

  I said, “Roger all. Veep?”

  “I got my two. They’re closing in on the gazebo. You should have them in sight shortly.”

  I stood, seeing a bench hidden underneath some low-hanging shrubs. I moved that way, saying, “Any other indications? Any unknowns not previously tagged?”

  I heard nothing. I said, “Okay, everyone listen up. I want Koko to bring Spook back down to my location. Go past Veep’s targets. Let them see her. Then continue south where the footpaths get narrow and turn into spaghetti. The thick area of the park.”

  Nobody responded for a moment, and I could imagine what they were thinking. I waited. Knuckles came on. “Pike, what’s going through the granite in your skull?”

  I said, “Remember that op in Sri Lanka?”

  “The Rambo operation?”

  “Yeah. That’s what I’ve got in mind.”

  “I know this doesn’t need to be said, but we’ve got no sanction for that.”

  I said, “I can’t help it if these assholes chose to interdict our sanctioned mission. You think we can do it? Here?”

  Knuckles said nothing for a moment. I was about to ask again, wanting his opinion—truthfully, wanting his approval—when he came back on. “Yeah, I think so. With a little luck, we can do it. The guys I’m with are the key. They’re controlling this thing. They need to go last.”

  I said, “Understood. That’s exactly what I was thinking. The Arab is the end state. We’re taking him with us.”

  Jennifer broke her radio silence. “Pike, we don’t have even Alpha yet. You’re talking about an Omega mission on foreign soil. Using an uncleared person as bait.”

  Meaning, Carly would see what we were doing.

  I started to answer, when the two pipe-swingers from Veep came into the clearing. I said, “Break, break. Veep, your target set has one with a beard, one with glasses? Wearing a cheesy tracksuit?”

  Nick said, “That’s my target set. Uhhh . . . What are we doing?”

  “Stand by. Break, break, Koko, hold what you got. I don’t want them to see Carly too early. Brett, are you clear of the gazebo? No chance they can intervene?”

  “No. We’re way south, but I’m echoing Veep. What are we doing?”

  Shit. I realized that only two people on the net remembered Sri Lanka. Knuckles and me. It would be much easier to give orders based on a historical mission we had all participated in, but nobody else had been in the Taskforce at that time.

  I said, “Okay, everyone listen close. This is like ten little Indians. We’re going to take each team one at a time. Koko is the rabbit, and she’ll lead them one by one into a kill zone in the south of the park, where it’s overgrown. Veep, you’re up first. Pick an ambush spot and mark it on your phone, then coordinate with Koko. She’ll drag them in, and you take them out. Be sure you can stash the bodies.”

  I heard nothing. I said, “Veep, you copy?”

  He came on, a sharp tone in his transmission. “Yes. I copy. But you want me to kill someone? Here in Greece?”

  I was shocked at the comment, then realized he wasn’t yet an official team member. He’d had no probation missions. No easy tasks to get him seasoned, and no operations with a mentor to make sure he understood our ethos. He was being thrown into operations without the trust of our organization built through experience, and was now questioning what we stood for. At this point, he was probably wondering if we hadn’t killed JFK.

  I said, “No, damn it. No lethal actions. Haven’t you seen First Blood?”

  I heard nothing for a second, then, “Seriously? That old movie?”

  “Yes. Jesus. That old movie. Remember when he hunted all the guys in the forest? Taking them out one by one? That’s what we’re doing. Can you execute?”

  Brett had picked up the game plan immediately and, because he’s a smart-ass, came on in an imitation of Sly Stallone’s voice. “I could have killed them. I could have killed them all. Let it go or you’ll get a war you won’t believe.”

  I said, “Yep. That’s exactly right. Ten little Indians, taking them out one by one, but no killing. Veep, can you execute?”

  Brett cut me off. “Break, break, Pike, Pike, this is Blood. My target just entered a perfect kill zone. He’s stumbling around in the woods searching. I can execute without the rabbit. You want me to do so? Do I have authority?”

  Perfect.

  “Oh yeah. Get rid of him. Veep, Veep, you ready?”

  I was putting a lot of pressure on our new member, but it couldn’t be helped. I needed to remain out of contact because I was going to take down the Arab with Knuckles. Which was critical. The whole purpose of the operation. I knew if I bagged him, I could all but guarantee bringing in Guy, solving the problem. I couldn’t afford to expose myself beforehand.

  Nick came back, a little fear leaking through the radio. “Yeah. I think so. I have a site. I think I can do it, but . . . Pike, there were two of them.”

  I said, “I understand. You’ve got Koko leading them in. She’ll take one. You take the other. Can you do it?”

  “Yes. I can do it.”

  He didn’t sound that confident. “Mark your position on your phone. Koko, you copy?”

  She sounded much better than Nick. Instead of fear, I got a little aggravation. I knew she was doing it precisely to give Nick a boost of confidence, something he was sorely needing.

  “Yeah, I copy. You are definitely buying the beer tonight. Break, break, Veep, I’ve got your mark. I’m inbound. I’ll pass, you hit. I’ll key off of you. Don’t worry. This is easier than the House of Pain.”

  He took the words in, and came back a little stronger. “Roger all. I hit, you assist. Easy day.”

  I smiled, then heard Knuckles say, “Pike, the Arab gets the call of a lock-on, and they’re going to move. What do you want me to do? Follow? Or interdict? There’s no good place here. Nothing hidden like in the south.”

  The plan in motion, I stood, saying, “I’m coming to you. Just keep eyes on until I’m there. They start moving, you track.”

  “And if they break out? Start running?”

  He was asking all the right questions, covering the contingencies. Unfortunately, I didn’t have an answer for him. Well, I did, but it wasn’t something the Oversight Council would approve of.

  I said, “Take them down. For Guy. That fucking Arab is going into a bag.”

  59

  Nick Seacrest felt the sweat build on his neck, the cold weather belying why it was forming. He was scared. No two ways about it.

  He’d moved to the south of the park, and just
as Pike had said, the footpaths went from wide, twenty-feet-across affairs, to small, single tracks threading throughout the trees and shrubs. If he weren’t careful, he’d become lost in the maze.

  He’d found a park bench tucked underneath a row of bushes and flanked by two ancient trees. The foliage was spilling out more than it should, unkempt and threading through the slats of the bench, looking like a man who used to be able to afford a salon haircut but now just lived with cutting it himself. Another casualty of the Greek economy, but something that worked in his favor.

  He’d glanced behind the bench, but couldn’t penetrate more than four feet into the undergrowth. Perfect for . . . whatever he was supposed to do.

  He sat on the bench, waiting, analyzing the coming fight, trying to rehearse in his mind how he would attack. He scrambled to remember the hundreds of incapacitation moves he’d learned on the mat in the gym, all of them running through his mind in an endless loop as he considered, then discarded, then considered again.

  He’d had plenty of training in hand-to-hand combat, and could defend himself in just about any situation—in fact, had defended himself—but this was different. In the past, it had been in the heat of combat, with his life on the line and the fight forced on him, screaming and clawing while a battle raged around him. Here, he was supposed to clinically render a man unconscious without raising an alarm to anyone else wandering through the park. By himself.

  This is insane.

  His earpiece clicked, startling him. “Pike, Pike, this is Blood. My target’s down and hidden.”

  “Roger that. Good work. I need you to return to the hotel and get our car. Stage on the southernmost exit on the east side. The one away from the presidential palace and the guard force.”

  “Could take some time. Can you maintain control until I get back?”

  “Yeah, I think so. There’s another gazebo down there where we can hold up. Between Knuckles and me, we should be good. We’ll keep the Arab company. Just don’t take too long.”

  “Roger all.”