Undeclared War

by Dennis Chalker

  Hassan stared blankly, uncomprehending. The shorter ninja went past with an even bigger gun and did something behind Hassan. The terrified young cook did not even think to turn and see what the other was doing, but remained hypnotized by the black spot in the center of the weapon he was staring at.

  “Don’t you understand English?” the tall ninja snarled in a low voice. “Where are they!”

  Being poked at with the big gun finally broke Hassan’s concentration on the hole in the muzzle.

  “Who they?” he said, totally confused. “They what?”

  “Where are the hostages?” Tall ninja said.

  “Hostages? What hostages?” Hassan asked in a quavering voice. “All of the others left in the boats this morning. Only the boss and four of the guys are around. There are no hostages.”

  Once Hassan’s vocal logjam had been broken, the SEALs found it hard to shut him up.

  “Enough,” the tall ninja said. “Six tangos on site,” he said, apparently to no one. “Six tangos. No hotels as yet.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Hassan asked.

  Now that his initial shock seemed to have fled, the cook became positively talkative. Maybe he could tell Reaper something useful besides who else was on the island.

  “Where’s the boss you mentioned?” Reaper said.

  “Upstairs in his office waiting for breakfast,” Hassan said lightheadedly, the shock beginning to make him sway. “At the head of the stairs, to the left, last door on the right…” He was anxious to please the deadly strangers. Then Bear tapped the panicking man in the back of his head and the world went black. The cook had just enough time to hope this wasn’t a permanent change.

  Reaper barely managed to catch the young man as he wilted and sank to the floor. Grabbing the trays, Reaper noticed that there was a hell of a lot of food for one person. This boss would be the next person he would talk to.

  “Bear, take him,” Reaper said as he placed the trays on the floor. They hadn’t made any real noise yet and it would be worthwhile to keep it that way.

  “Secure him,” Reaper ordered seconds later as he looked up the huge stairway.

  Bear pulled the unconscious cook to the side and stuffed him into a small cloak room under the stairs. Before leaving his unconscious acquaintance, Bear secured his hands and feet with nylon tie-ties brought for the purpose. The very strong nylon ties were intended to hold bundles of heavy cables and wires together. They would have to be cut to get them off the cook’s arms and legs. The white apron the cook had been wearing was made into a quick gag and the door to the big closet shut tight.

  Reaper already had a foot on the first step, set to head up the stairs. Bear hustled over to catch up with him and they both went up to the landing in three short flights. The upstairs of the lodge was huge—and there were still at least four people around based on what the cook had said. But the boss was supposed to be down the hall on the left. So they would clear that room first.

  Stacking up outside the last door on the right, Reaper gave Bear the squeeze signal since this time he would go first through the door. Reaper reached over and checked the knob, and saw that the door was unlocked. Instead of barging in, he decided to try another tack to see if they couldn’t maintain the advantage of surprise. He squeezed Bear’s shoulder again and raised one finger. Bear looked up and nodded—then Reaper knocked on the door.

  “It’s about goddamned time,” a strangely familiar voice said inside. “Get in here with my breakfast.”

  Now the two SEALs flashed into the room, Reaper breaking high and right, Bear low and left. It was hard to say who had the greater surprise; the man standing inside the room, or the two SEALs as they recognized Cary Paxtun.

  In spite of his astonishment, Paxtun was quick as he jerked back and slammed the door to his private office. Bear covered the rest of the room and the door they had come in through while Reaper darted to the door Paxtun had slammed and forced it open.

  Paxtun was behind a big desk, scrabbling through a drawer. He froze with his hand in the drawer as Reaper pointed the suppressed submachine gun at him.

  “Both hands on the desk, now,” Reaper said.

  Paxtun wasn’t about to argue with those eyes peering at him through the sights of a weapon. He slowly sat down with both of his hands on the desk in plain sight. He sweated heavily and could feel his heart beating its way out of his chest. It was the look in those eyes. All he wanted to do right then was to just keep his heart beating.

  “Where are they, you son of a bitch?” Reaper asked slowly and distinctly.

  “Who?” Paxtun tried to bluff as a cold chill came over him. “Where are who? Who are you, anyway?”

  Reaper reached up with his left hand and pulled back the black balaclava he had over his head. As his features came into view, Paxtun blanched as recognition flooded his face. Then he started to panic.

  “Where are who? There’s no one here. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Paxtun’s tongue started to trip up as the words poured from him. Then Reaper glanced over to his right.

  A wooden box lay open on a set of drawers, a box that looked very familiar. And what looked even more familiar was the shining bright broadsword that lay inside of it. Reaper walked over to the case, never taking his eyes off Paxtun. Reaper switched hands on his weapon and reached down to grasp the hilt of the big sword.

  “My family, now,” the Grim Reaper said to Paxtun. “Give them to me and I’ll let you live.”

  Paxtun collapsed. To the SEAL it seemed like watching a wax dummy melt in the sun.

  “They’re in the basement,” Paxtun said in a cold whisper. “A storeroom under the south wing. They’re fine, nothing has happened to them. No one has harmed them at all.”

  For a moment, rage swept through Reaper like a white-hot flame. He looked at Paxtun and his hand clenched on the grip of the sword.

  “Why?” Reaper said through gritted teeth. “Why me? Why the fuck did you screw with me and my family?”

  Paxtun looked up with a blank, hopeless look on his face. He was lost and knew it.

  “You were just available,” Paxtun said in a neutral voice. “It wasn’t anything special. We needed something you could supply. Besides, you had fucked me over once. It was a chance for payback. That’s all, just payback.”

  Paxtun dropped his face into his hands. His shoulders shook and his knees bent slightly. From the sound of it the former spook was having trouble breathing.

  “So, it was all just something personal,” Reaper said. “Well, payback’s a bitch, or didn’t you know that?”

  Reaper looked at the suddenly broken man who had caused him so much grief. He didn’t even seem worth wasting a bullet on. Reaper looked down at the sword in his hand and sighed. Then he turned his back and looked at the glass-fronted case on the wall over the chest of drawers.

  Paxtun wasn’t completely done yet. Seeing Reaper’s back turned, he slipped his hand back into the drawer. His fingers finally closed over the cool plastic grips of the SIG 228 pistol he kept there. There would be more men between him and safety, but he could kill Reaper and still get away.

  “Now that I know where my family is, I’ll let the cops deal with you,” Reaper said. “Now it’s your turn to face a court.”

  “I don’t think so,” Paxtun said as he started to lift the pistol.

  From his position in the other room, Bear glanced in to where Reaper was standing. He could see Paxtun slip his hand into the drawer. Before Bear shouted a warning or aimed his weapon, he saw Reaper’s hand lift the sword. Then he saw his Teammate’s eyes looking intently at the wall in front of him. The whole of Paxtun’s movements had been clear to Reaper in the reflection in the glass of the case. As Paxtun stood, Reaper spoke.

  “I thought you might see it that way,” he said as he spun around with the sword extended out from his right hand. The reverse grip swung the razor-sharp blade out, and it barely slowed as it sliced through Paxtun’s neck. The head fell from the
shoulders of the body as blood fountained out and sprayed the wall nearby. Like a child’s abandoned ball, Paxtun’s head rolled across the floor and bumped up against the wall, his unseeing eyes staring in shock.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “Downstairs now,” Reaper said as he left the room where Paxtun’s body lay cooling. Reaper had stopped and picked up the leather scabbard that had been in the top of the case.

  Nodding at the bloody sword in Reaper’s hand, Bear said, “Better wipe that off or it’ll rust.”

  Reaper stood and looked at his friend for a moment, then bent down and wiped the blade off on what looked to be a priceless Persian rug. Then he slipped it into its scabbard and stuck it diagonally down across his back, underneath his Chalker sling. It had been made for his son and he would give it to the boy personally.

  “Better?” Reaper said.

  “Oh, much,” Bear agreed almost smiling, and led the way out the door.

  As the two SEALs reached the head of the stairs, below them Paxtun’s remaining two men, Kerah and Pali finally came in for some breakfast. The two men had been on guard at the front of the lodge, covered from Ben or Max’s view from the hillside.

  As they saw the two black-clad SEALs appearing on the stairs, Pali bellowed a strangled cry and pulled up his AK-47, squeezing off a long burst. The 7.62mm steel-jacketed slugs did nothing more than tear up a lot of expensive paneling as Reaper dropped backward out of sight.

  Bear pulled up his Jackhammer and fired off a burst as Pali tried to swing his AK-47 around. The thunder of the Jackhammer roared out as Pali jerked and danced from the impact of the buckshot. It was something barely recognizable as human that dropped its AK-47 and slid down the far wall.

  Now the problem was that Kerah controlled the downstairs landing. And Reaper wanted down those steps and into the basement. Having seen what happened to Pali, Kerah had pulled back under the stairs and was firing wildy in all directions.

  With no desire to expose either himself or Bear to fire, Reaper reached into his pouch and pulled up an M26A1 fragmentation grenade. Holding the grenade up so that Bear could see it, Reaper pulled the pin. He popped off the safety spoon, and counted a long “one” before tossing the grenade over the landing they crouched upon. As the deadly green bomb bounced on the floor, Reaper and Bear scuttled back off the landing.

  Kerah had few choices of where to go and no time to decide. The concussive blast of the 156 grams of Composition B explosive inside the grenade, boosted by eight grams of tetryl pellets, shattered the sheet metal body and broke up the notched square steel-wire fragmentation coil. The tiny steel fragments flew out at thousands of feet per second, shredding anything they hit, wood, plaster, cloth, or human flesh.

  As they rolled to their feet, Bear and Reaper darted down the stairs, following the rolling thunder of the explosion. It was most definitely no longer a silent operation. Neither of the two men could hear very well right then, but that seemed of little concern.

  At the bottom of the stairs, a quick shotgun blast from Bear made certain that the horrible mess inside the front door didn’t suffer, or cause the SEALs any more trouble. The gruesome pile against the wall obviously didn’t need a finishing shot. Moving quickly down the hall, Bear led the way to the stairs he had seen while Reaper had been questioning Hassan.

  Both SEALs quickly moved down the stairs into the basement of the lodge. The basement consisted of an area as big as the rest of the building, with a lot of storage rooms.

  “Mary, Ricky,” Reaper bellowed, “Mary, Ricky!”

  “Here,” Reaper heard a muffled voice. “We’re in here.”

  “Keep talking,” Reaper shouted as he followed the sound to a padlocked door. While Bear kept cover on the stairs and passages they had just crossed through, Reaper reached behind his back and swept the padlock and hasp from the door with one stroke of the sword, then yanked the door open. Inside the bleak room he saw two mattresses, a bucket, and a blanket that had been pinned up to give anyone using the bucket a fraction of privacy.

  And standing at the far corner of the room he saw his wife Mary and their son Ricky.

  Mary ran into her husband’s arms, ignoring the blood and stink of powder smoke on him. Ricky wrapped himself around his father’s leg, hugging him as if he were a dream that had suddenly come true. If the boy let go, the dream might disappear.

  Then Ricky noticed the blood on his father’s leg.

  “Daddy, you’re hurt,” he said in sudden fear.

  “It’s all right, I’m fine,” Reaper said to his son.

  “Ted…” Mary started to say.

  “It’s not mine,” Reaper said quietly. “Come on, we have to go.”

  “But…Ted,” Mary said, suddenly afraid to leave her prison, “those men.”

  “They aren’t going to bother anyone ever again,” Reaper said.

  Mary shrank back for a moment from the man she had married years before. She knew what Ted had done while in the military. He had been a SEAL and she knew that he had been a good one. Yet the tone in his voice and the look of him remained alien to her. Swallowing her fear, she followed Reaper out the door.

  “Think you can carry this for me, Ricky?” Reaper said as he handed his son the big broadsword.

  The feel of the large weapon reassured the boy. It contained the power of his father, something he needed right then. For Reaper, he felt it gave the boy something to do that would distract him from the escape they had to make.

  With Bear leading the way, the four ran through the passages and back up the stairs. As they passed through the hallway, and headed back to the music room and the doors there, Bear suddenly stopped and dove back toward Reaper and his family.

  “Down!” he bellowed as a shattering burst of AK-47 fire roared out. The bullets slammed into the house from outside, moving across the room toward Reaper. One of the steel-jacketed Russian slugs smashed into the receiver of Reaper’s MP5K, almost tearing the weapon out of his hands. Only the shackle of his Chalker sling kept the weapon from hitting the floor.

  Reaper could see his assailant. One lone figure crouched on the porch at the front of the house, trying to reload the smoking AK-47 in his hands. Without conscious thought, Reaper reached down with his right hand and pulled the Serbu Super-Shorty shotgun from the thigh holster—his thumb pushing free the safety strap.

  The SEAL grabbed the folding operating lever with his left hand, pulling the shotgun up and into line with the man on the porch. A single shot boomed from the weapon’s short barrel, tearing into the man and knocking him back. Reaper then pulled back and down on the folding handle on the operating slide, rotating it away from the gun. As it locked into place, he pumped the gun’s action, ejecting the spent case and putting a fresh round into the chamber. Another rolling boom sounded out as he made certain that the man who crawled on the porch couldn’t get to his weapon—empty or not.

  But the four escapees didn’t emerge unscathed from the attack. Bear lay on the ground, not moaning, but struggling to push himself up, his legs refusing to support him.

  “Bear, are you hit?” Reaper asked.

  “No, but I think I’m screwed,” Bear said in a weak voice.

  They were interrupted by a call coming in over their radio headsets.

  “Death, Pestilence, this is War,” Max said over the radio, “you had better get out of there fast.”

  “We have the hotels,” Reaper said, “repeat, we have the hotels, but Pestilence is down. Do you have tangos?”

  “Two boatloads of them,” Max said, abandoning procedure for expediency. “Get up here now. Do you need assistance?”

  “Negative,” Bear said as he struggled to a sitting position. “Okay, Boss,” he said through gritted teeth. “You have what you came for. Now let’s get out of here.”

  Giving an arm up to his partner, Reaper helped Bear to his feet. The man’s legs were barely able to support him, and he struggled to make a step. Finally, Reaper picked Bear up and slung him across h
is back.

  “Let’s go, Mary, Ricky,” Reaper said. Taking two rounds from the three on the outside of the holster, he reloaded the Super-Shorty with his free hand as he went along. With one hand still hanging on to his partner, the SEAL walked with the shotgun held out in front of him like a big pistol.

  Once they got outside, Reaper could see across to the east and what had been bothering Max. Two boats headed in toward the island, one long one and a short, broad one. They looked like the sports boat and fishing boat that they had found the receipts for. The sudden zip…zip…above their heads told Reaper that someone was shooting at them from the boats.

  With Reaper in the lead and Bear across his back, Mary and Ricky followed him to the cover of the trees. They ran, stumbled, and ran some more to get back to the ridge where Ben and Max lay. Reaper hit the ground next to Ben, then rolled Bear to the ground.

  “He’s hurt,” Reaper said quickly. “His legs don’t work and he can’t walk.”

  While Ben turned to his patient, Reaper moved to where Max lay with his rifle up to his shoulder.

  “Who’s out there?” Reaper asked.

  “I have no idea,” Max said as he looked through the Leupold scope on his rifle. “But there’s a bunch of them in two boats, and they’re waving weapons over their heads.”

  “Coast Guard?” Reaper said.

  “Not unless the Coasties have taken to carrying AKs,” Max said. “Those curved magazines are kind of distinctive. And they have a bunch of them.”

  “Time to go, Boss,” Bear said from where he leaned against a log.

  “Fine, get up.” Reaper turned to Ben. “What can you do for him?”

  “Nothing,” Ben said quietly.

  “Nothing he can do,” Bear said with a ghost of his old grin across his face. “The cancer’s finally winning.”

  “Cancer?” Reaper said. “What the hell are you talking about, Bear?”

  “What they call a high-grade brain stem glioma,” Bear said simply, “I don’t have time to explain it and you don’t have time to listen, but it’s inoperable. It’s why I’ve been so weak. Not that old yet, guess I never will be. Ask Ben when you get back on the boat.”