Discoveries (Mercenaries Book 5)

by Tony Lavely

  The kameez over her camos prevented any scrapes, but the bruises would be colorful… if she lived long enough. After the fifth blow on her head, a concussion seemed to be in the cards. She hadn’t lost consciousness, though, so maybe only a hell of a headache.

  The terrain seemed to be more level after several minutes of downhill sliding, until they stopped and dropped her feet. When she tried to stand, another blow to her chest brought tears to her eyes and curses to her lips. A laugh outside the bag indicated she hadn’t been abandoned.

  Hands grabbed at her sides and arms but when they started to lift her, she fought them off. After a second attempt left her gasping but unhanded, someone looped a rope around the tie between her ankles. That made unfortunate sense when a truck’s engine started. Doors slammed and gears clashed. She didn’t believe it though it was no surprise when the rope jerked her feet around and she was being dragged once more, this time by the truck. The hope that the blanket would wear through and free her was short-lived; the truck stopped short and this time, her arms aching from protecting her head, she didn’t resist when they picked her up and heaved her into the truck’s bed.

  Boots… Have to be boots, the way they feel… Boots landed on her arms and torso as gears again clashed and the truck lumbered away. Wouldn’t want to think they left me alone to fall out. She tasted blood, but had no recollection of how she might have cut her mouth or lip. She sighed and then began breathing exercises to calm herself, to prepare for any opportunity.

  The road had begun rutted and rocky, but became paved. The trip lasted long enough that she began planning for a possible offense, until a jounce bounced her head off the metal floor. Better keep my head safe; worry about what to do when the chance comes. Several more minutes passed before the truck lurched to a stop. Again, doors opened and slammed; the boots she felt didn’t move when hands grabbed her feet and pulled them until she felt the edge of the bed against her calves.

  The tie at her ankles was removed; now the feet holding her down lifted away. Someone grabbed her feet⁠—she considered kicking at him again, but decided to wait⁠—and as he dragged her toward the end of the truck, the ones in the bed with her yanked the blanket away.

  The man on the ground pulled with all his might: Beckie’s feet hit the pavement and her knees buckled. Before she could do anything, the fourth man strolled into her field of vision holding an assault rifle. He waggled the barrel in an up and down motion that Beckie was sure meant “Stand up!”

  She tried. On the third attempt, success rewarded her efforts. Thank God I had the truck to grab.

  Now the waggling became horizontal; she was being chivvied toward a typical one-story building standing beside the street. As she staggered in the indicated direction, the truck struggled away. She glanced around to see the man with the rifle pressing her on, and two of the other men at his back.

  The area looked like the town of Surab, but the drive had seemed too long for that to be the destination. There was no apparent refuge if she ran… even if that guy didn’t have a weapon! She hobbled toward the door. Can’t hurt to look worse than I am. She spat blood from the cut inside her mouth, then staggered again.

  The door opened a second before she reached it; she tripped herself on the sill and landed on a rug covered floor. “Ooof! Ow.” A boot caught her hip; when she twisted to see, the rifle was close to her head, waggling again. She forced herself to her hands and knees, then hand walked up the wall to stand unsteadily. The rifle muzzle now pointed to a threadbare sofa against the back wall of the room. Beckie made her way to it, falling into a seated position.

  The clouds had lightened since she’d left the site; she felt sweat on her skin now that the temperature had achieved the low thirty’s. Slowly, to avoid startling the rifle-man, she raised her hand to wipe first, her forehead and then her lip where she felt the cut.

  This is stupid! “What are you doing? Why am I here?” She hated that her voice sounded weak and thready, but maybe it’ll help set the scene: weak woman, useless. She cringed as the rifle swung toward her, but the man carried the motion though and set the weapon against the wall, butt down. He said something. Beckie replied in her best Fedor trained Urdu, “Mayen urdū naheen boultī.” He shook his head and sent one of the men out with instructions. He retrieved the rifle and sat on the floor with it across his knees.

  Four: Beckie’s Execution

  The burgeoning aches all over Beckie’s body couldn’t take her attention for long enough to forget the deadlines she faced. She prayed prayers she believed forgotten for Ralf and his entourage, then forced him to that part of her mind she could close off to do useful things. Ian. Time is fleeting and I got no fucking clue. She stared at the man with the rifle. Is it possible that he does? Nah. They wouldn’t put him all the way out here. Maybe he knows the next guy up the chain, though. It’ll be a trick finding out, since I guess he doesn’t speak English and I don’t speak Urdu.

  Beckie sweated in the heat and frustration for another half-hour. It felt like forever to her, but finally a car⁠—an old Mercedes, she thought⁠—stopped where the truck had been, and the man who had driven it came through the door.

  While she’d half-expected Rezaei to appear⁠—Amir Khan hadn’t impressed her as the drag-em-off type⁠—this man wasn’t him. He was taller, perhaps six feet, and appeared trim beneath his military style uniform. A black balaclava covered his face except for a two-inch wide opening across his hazel eyes. A web belt with a M1911 in the holster hung at his waist. He carried a thin packet. He handed his AK-47 to the man with the rifle before turning to Beckie.

  “So,” he said with a sneer, “you’re the woman interrupting my plan.” His English was Gulf Coast American. “Here’s your reward for ignoring my commands.” He threw the packet across the room to land near her feet.

  The rifle man left the room.

  This is bad news. That guy doesn’t want to be part of it. And this envelope? Can’t be anything I want to see. The man petted his pistol while watching her. If I reach to get it, does he shoot me? Or does he just shoot me no matter what? First I guess he’s got to be validated by my seeing what’s in his little package, or he’d have already finished me.

  “No, Mrs. Jamse, I won’t end your existence. Yet.” But his fondling continued.

  She slid her butt off the sofa to sit on the floor. As she reached for the envelope, she pressed her back against the sofa, shoving it hard against the wall. As if I’d be able to use it to spring-board from. Oh well.

  Before she touched the paper, she leaned forward and said, “So, are you the one who refused to send me the proofs I told you were necessary? My requirements mean nothing to you; why should yours mean anything to me?”

  “I have what you want; I need not kowtow to your needs and desires.” His speech was as effective a sneer as Beckie’d ever seen.

  “And why should I believe this? You haven’t been particularly… forthcoming with me, so far.”

  The man clenched his fist about his M1911, but slowly relaxed and removed his hand. The anger in his eyes didn’t fade as quickly.

  “Okay. Not going to go there, I guess.” She waved at the envelope. “What is this that you’re so excited about? You act like it’s your most favorite thing of the year.”

  Now his eyes gleamed, little wrinkles betraying his smile. “It is, but only for today, I fear. However, I would hate to ruin your surprise and enjoyment. Open it, please.”

  Yeah, I can see that you’re ready for me to be, well, devastated should cover it. She closed off her emotions. Several deep breaths helped the calm flow from her center. Okay, Beck. Let’s get this over with so we can move on to the next big event.

  Her steady fingers were a surprise. She slid a forefinger under the flap and lifted. No seal. The contents… two? At least two sheets of photo paper, the blank versos staring back at her. That’s a let-down. Deliberately, she took the photos and drew them clear, fingering the heavy white paper.

  She flipp
ed them over. Before she grasped the top image, she heard a sharp intake of breath; her eyes flicked to focus on the man’s face. His eyes were even wider than hers.

  Okay, leave him. She returned her gaze to the eight by ten color photo. She saw the image, but it had no meaning. She shook her head. A plane. Why do I care… She dropped it to the floor, uncovering the second. The same plane, broken just forward of the engines, trailing smoke and fire… and bodies! From the doomed fuselage. The tail number… Our G150! No! Ralf! Ralf and Amy… All her crew!

  Stricken, she dropped it to reveal the final photo. A headless body in the same kind of orange jumpsuit the Daesh terrorists dress their prisoners in. And the head, sufficient features so she could believe it was Ian. And the short blond, almost white, hair. Blood pooled around the body.

  She dropped that one, too, feeling gut-punched. It looks real! As she crushed her eyes closed to seal the tears away and fought to catch her breath, a laugh intruded faintly.

  How fucking dare he!

  When she looked up, the man’s enjoyment was abundantly clear. “I am impressed, Mrs. Jamse. Your restraint is remarkable.”

  No need to tell him I’ve already died at his hands, months ago. “Next?” she said. He slid the pistol from the holster. “My turn? I hope you don’t expect me to beg.”

  “No. There are those… But no, that is not my goal. I did wish you to see the results of your… intransigence.” He wagged the pistol in her direction, then said, “Goodbye, Mrs. Jamse. Allāhu Akbar.”

  Well, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go, boss. She laughed at herself. I’m no fucking boss. Look at me. Can’t save my son… my love… my self. A snippet of a song from Amy’s digging through her mother’s old records: Janis Joplin’s “Me and Bobby McGee,” the part where she sings about freedom and… and loss. She and Amy’d argued for some time about the lyrics. She looked up at him and allowed the anger to color her cheeks. “I’m not free!” she murmured. “I want something back for all this!” She gathered herself, ready to spring.

  He aimed and pulled the trigger. Even knowing the sound would trail the bullet, Beckie expected to hear the report. Nothing louder than the sound of her heart pounding.

  “Damn it.” He hit the pistol with his hand and tried again, with the same result. With muttered curses, he threw the two and a half pound weapon at her head.

  Events had taken Beckie by surprise over and again, from being bagged and dragged, to learning her immediate family was maybe dead, to being shot at… Now the guy was throwing his weapon… Her reaction wasn’t quick enough; all the sharp edges of the gun dug into her cheek and nose. Before the pain distracted her, she caught the gun. As her eyes began to water from the injury, she prepared to throw it back at his head, but decided to use it as a bludgeon. She felt for the safety, it was stuck partway down. She forced it off and twisted away as the man leapt at her. Aim for center of mass. Three reports.

  The third one missed; she hadn’t allowed for his trajectory following the double tap just left of his breast bone. As the body slammed into the wall and floor behind him, a voice called, “Al-Shazar, is it over?” A head, probably the voice’s owner, came around the doorway; the man tripped over Al-Shazar’s leg and as he caught his balance, Beckie ruined it with a careful shot at his knee.

  How many rounds left? One or two, anyway. How many more of these guys? Her phone rang. She gasped. That’s Amy’s ring tone! So that’s one lie. She fought the kameez and her shirt to recover the phone.

  “Hello, Mr Go! Amy Ardan. I’m⁠—” Amy’s voice was too high pitched and her words came too fast.

  “You got the wrong number, Amy, and boy am I glad!”

  “What! Beckie?”

  “Yeah. Why are you calling Shen?”

  “Patrice wanted radio silence from the plane, but still wanted to contact the Nest⁠—”

  “Everything okay?” Beckie’s heart was still beating overtime, thinking of the picture.

  “Yeah. It is now. Patrice doesn’t get paid enough. He really saved our butts this time. But I gotta call⁠—”

  “Shen. Yeah. Can’t tell you how glad I am to hear you, girl! Everyone’s safe, right?”

  “Yeah, of course. But, I’ll explain later, okay?”

  “Of course… Later,” she said to the dead phone.

  Wonder what that’s about. And how that came from the picture… Just be glad it did, Beck! Now. The gunshots have to have raised someone… She went to the first man; he was dead, the first two shots neatly placed just where Pieter or Sam would have given her top marks. The second was breathing, but passed out. She dragged him further into the room and looked around. The place seemed deserted; even the houses, if that’s what they were, around the building seemed vacant. Of course, gunshots might encourage people to keep their heads down. She found the two rifles and carried them back.

  With action at a standstill, she collapsed on the sofa. For several moments, she fought with her breathing, attempting to steady it, to calm herself. Her hand still twitched where the heavy pistol had recoiled. When she stopped shaking, she took a few more deep breaths and surveyed her new domain.

  She pushed off the sofa and found a knife in the dead man’s uniform. With it, she cut strips of cloth to bind the wound she’d made in the other man’s leg. It’s been long enough; we don’t want you to bleed to death. He began to stir; she rapped him gently with the barrel of the M1911.

  Hmm. He spoke English to what’s his name. Al-Shazar? Close enough. He won’t be upset if I get it wrong. She gave the man another minute to recover his senses while she collected the photos. The photoshopping wasn’t bad. She couldn’t tell where it’d been done, except that if Amy’d been in that picture, her voice would have been way different. That means the odds of Ian being… killed again, she decided, lean toward that photo being faked, too. A closer examination was disturbing until she noticed blood supposedly pooled on what looked to be high points.

  “Okay, time to see what you know,” she said to the injured man. “Where’s he from?” She tipped her head at the dead man.

  “I don’t know.” His English came from Great Britain. “I really don’t.”

  “Then I should just shoot you and leave? It’s a compelling idea; I’d very much like to do exactly that.” She raised the gun.

  “I might know something…”

  “If you do, I might know a medic. Speak quickly, before I lose more of my patience. And don’t fuck with me. My nose is broken and my face hurts; I have not one incentive to be nice to you. Clear?”

  “Abundantly. Will you get a doctor?”

  “As soon as you talk.”

  “Al-Shazar…” He waved at the dead man. “… came from west of here, but it could be Syria, or Iran, or Europe. Never said anything that indicated where. He’s here to find you. And deal with the weapons⁠—”

  Beckie’s heart jumped. “Wait! The weapons… the cache; it’s north of the site.” A bald-faced lie, yeah, but I’ll bet he doesn’t call me on it.

  “Yeah, and a little east.” She smiled to herself. “It’s why the… the Syrians wanted the scientists to leave. At least until he could find a different place.”

  “How did you contact him? Or those he works for?” When he closed his eyes, she said, “There’s a time limit here, I’ve been told, and I’m sure your blood supply won’t last forever, even with my bandage. How do you report? To tell them he’s dead, for example.”

  “How did you know about the cache? It’s supposed to be undetectable.”

  “Reporting. How? Tell me!”

  “I have a phone to use.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “It’s in the truck.”

  “Don’t play stupid! You wouldn’t leave it lying around. Give it to me.” I guess he could be…

  He began to move and she tapped the tip of his nose with the muzzle of the M1911. “Careful.”

  He dipped two fingers into a cargo pocket in the pants leg opposite the one Beckie’d broken.
He worked a phone out and allowed her to take it.

  “Okay. Good boy. Now, let’s see about patching you.”

  The call to Leonid went about as she’d expected. He’d discovered her disappearance and turned the site into an armed camp. Then, he wanted details, details that Beckie didn’t want to spend time on. “Never mind all that, Lyeka, I’ll debrief later, I promise. Right now, if I remember anything… Fabien’s done some medic work, right? We’re gonna need him. Gunshot wound above the knee. Broken nose and lacerations.”

  “You have been shot!” He lapsed into what Beckie guessed was Russian.

  “No! No, not me,” she said when he stopped to breathe. “Well, the nose and lacerations are for me… I’ll warn him that Millie’s tense about scars on my face, God knows why, but the leg is a hostile who’s maybe become more committed to our goals since I’ve kept some of his blood inside him. Or I gave him bad and worse as choices, and he took one of them.”

  “Very well, Mrs. Jamse. I begin to understand some comments Sam made. I am on the way. If you’ll send the location ping?”

  Oh, yeah. Good thing we’re not on video, so he can’t see me flame on. She pressed the green button on the phone.

  “Got it,” he said in a moment. “About fifteen minutes, looks like. Need anything else?”

  She glanced around the room. “Don’t think so, but we’ll go to the base, right? And Tark’s still there? I’ll need him, too.”

  While she waited, a search of Al Shazar’s pockets seemed a productive use of time until she actually finished. The one thing she wanted, his phone, had been hit by the third round she’d fired. She collected bits until she found the SIM card in two pieces. Except for a half-eaten pack of beef jerky, there was nothing else.