Hired to Kill

by Andrew Peterson

  Should he feel badly about killing? Maybe, but he didn’t. The world was better off without these people. Did they believe in their cause? Yes. Did they think their murderous actions were justified? Yes. Did they think the entire world would someday be governed by Sharia law? Again, yes.

  None of that mattered.

  What mattered was taking out the trash, and the sanitation engineers had arrived.

  Nathan didn’t hate Muslims. Not at all. He judged people by their actions, not the color of their skin or who they worshipped.

  So no, he didn’t feel badly about killing these men. In his opinion, they’d died too easily.

  The man stopped squirming and lay still. His final breath sounded like a sigh of relief—and maybe it was.

  Vince said, “We’re at the north ridge. Thanks to Hotel one, we’ve got three less hostiles to deal with.”

  Nathan looked at the barracks, specifically the glowing windows facing this direction. Some of the windows had drawn curtains. Others didn’t. If anyone had witnessed the action over here, they should’ve engaged him by now.

  He looked south, to the top of the ridge, and saw the barely perceptible snakelike movement of six team members—three from sierra, three from hotel—hustling down the steep part of the slope.

  Vince said, “Hotel one, we’re double-timing the rest of the way. ETA two minutes to level ground.”

  “I’ve got eyes on you. I’m between the parked trucks at your two o’clock. No movement from the barracks. All quiet.”

  He heard a click in response.

  Nathan wanted to conceal the body, but he needed to watch the barracks during his teammates’ advance down the steep portion of the ridge.

  Reconsidering, it wouldn’t take him more than five seconds to scoop the dead man up from the ground and deposit him in the bed of the smaller truck.

  The decision made, he picked the dead guy up, hauled him to the tailgate, and gently placed the body into the smaller truck’s bed.

  What happened next startled him so fiercely, he nearly dived to the ground for cover.

  CHAPTER 29

  The damned truck lit up like a Christmas tree, and an obnoxious car alarm began blaring. The deafening howl sounded like a nuclear-missile launch warning.

  Shit! SHIT!

  This shouldn’t be happening! The truck was unlocked. He’d seen its door locks in their upper positions.

  Nathan wanted to empty his magazine into its dashboard. “So much for the element of surprise,” he said under his breath.

  The door to the barracks opened, and a man wearing loose, dark clothes stepped out. Holding a compact AK, he asked, “Muhammed, what’s going on out here? Turn that damned thing off.”

  Nathan stayed low and reached for the passenger door handle. He yanked it open and saw the keys and a remote dangling from the ignition. Light flooded the interior, but Nathan stayed below the dashboard. Guessing which button to press, he picked the largest one and pressed it once. The vehicle chirped, flashed, and went silent. He slid back out but left the passenger door open.

  “Sorry,” he said in Arabic, half under his breath, hoping it would disguise his voice.

  The glow from the truck’s interior didn’t offer that much light, and the approaching man was still a good forty yards distant. Hopefully, his opponent would see only a dark form.

  Nathan unslung his carbine and thumbed its safety 180 degrees to auto.

  “Muhammed? Where’s Sahib?”

  He stayed in the shadows.

  A second man emerged from the barracks, also holding an AK. “What’s going on?”

  “Muhammed, what are you doing? Where’s Sahib?”

  Nathan figured it would be worse to say nothing, so again, he said, “Sorry.”

  The man slowed and leveled his AK. He obviously didn’t like the unfamiliar voice he’d heard.

  That was enough for Nathan.

  He brought the M4 up, triggered its laser, and painted the man’s chest.

  With a quick pull, Nathan sent four or five rounds.

  The staccato roar hammered his ears, but it was much worse on the other end.

  His heart and lungs perforated, the man dropped the AK and collapsed.

  Vince’s voice boomed through his ear speaker, “Tango one, blow the power and phone lines!”

  “I’m still three hundred yards from the transmission line.” Her voice sounded amazingly calm.

  “All-out sprint, Tango one. Attempt a hit with your launcher when you reach fifty yards. Do whatever it takes. I want those lines cut!”

  “Copy.”

  Before the other guy on the porch could react, Nathan painted him and let loose with an extended burst, then walked the bullets along the wall and inside the door. If any of the chemical grenades were in there, he wondered if he’d be exposed at this distance. Probably not, he hoped. A little late to worry about it.

  To his left, he saw flashes coming from the slope where the hotel and sierra teams descended, then heard the corresponding thumps of their grenade launchers about a second later.

  “Incoming on the barracks,” Vince announced.

  Multiple explosions rocked the area surrounding the barracks building. Two of the M406 high-explosive grenades landed just shy of its north-facing porch, and the others fell short by ten yards or so.

  “Impacts are short by ten yards!” Nathan yelled over the explosions. Like ants emerging out of a disturbed hole, running men poured out of the barracks in single file, each carrying an AK assault rifle. “Aim for the area between my position and barracks!”

  “Copy. Hotel four, contact the CP and report we’ve engaged.”

  Nathan emptied the rest of the magazine at the men pouring out of the door, pressed the ejection button, and rolled the M4 slightly away from his shoulder. Keeping the weapon level and pointed in the right direction, he slammed a full magazine home, used his palm to work the action, and rolled the carbine back into his shoulder. The entire process took about three seconds to complete.

  Before he could shoot again, he heard one of the terrorists yell, “The trucks! He’s by the trucks!”

  Multiple AKs began hammering his position. The truck vibrated as rounds penetrated its sheet metal.

  He hugged the front left fender, keeping the engine block and the oversized tires between himself and the shooters. His NV offered much more information than he wanted. The stroboscopic flashes merged into a continuous blinding light as hundreds of 7.62-millimeter bullets whizzed and zinged past. His ballistic vest didn’t feel like a whole lot of protection right now.

  He thought he heard Vince say incoming but wasn’t sure.

  He became sure when a second volley of grenades peppered the enemy’s line. The sound of fully automatic AKs was replaced by half a dozen concussive blasts and something biotic—men screaming.

  A glance over the lifted truck’s hood revealed more casualties squirming on the ground. Other fighters took knees, reaching for magazines secured in ammo vests not unlike his. He had to give these guys credit: they were fearless and tough. Not many men would hold position in the middle of a maelstrom of detonating grenades and machine-gun fire.

  Taking advantage of the shock and carnage created by the grenade rounds, he pivoted away from the fender, shouldered his M4, and let loose with an entire thirty-round magazine, walking it back and forth across the group of men.

  It took less than two and a half seconds.

  The result was devastating.

  Anyone who’d been out in the open got torn to shreds by copper-jacketed bullets traveling at three times the speed of sound. Flesh was no match for physics. The slugs cleaved through organic material and slammed into the wall of the barracks. Some of his rounds broke windows that the salvo of grenades hadn’t shattered.

  He reloaded his carbine and fired controlled bursts at chest level through the open door and broken windows until his weapon stopped shooting. He then moved his finger down to the grenade launcher, flipped its safety forwa
rd, and lined up on the door. At this distance, aiming at the top of the opening ought to do the trick.

  Only one way to find out.

  The weapon popped loudly. A split second later, the door’s opening and all the broken windows flashed from the interior detonation. Nathan worked the action of the M203 much as he would an oversized pump shotgun, loaded another round, and closed it. He sent the next grenade through the window on the left side of the door. Again, the interior flashed, but this time, a string of foul language followed. He repeated the process a third time through a different window.

  Nathan reloaded the launcher, then his M4, and sprayed the ground in front of the downed men with half the magazine. The bullets skipped off the dirt surface, raising a huge cloud of dust and providing him visual cover while also demoralizing the enemy.

  He saw a satellite dish mounted on the south-facing eave, painted it with his laser, and destroyed it with a burst of fire. Even though tango fire team was about to kill the power, it was better to be safe and take the dish out.

  Time to relocate.

  He hustled to the tailgate of the smaller truck and took off toward the off-white sedan about twenty feet distant. It wouldn’t offer nearly as much cover as the trucks, but it would have to do. His other alternative was to retreat all the way back to the dry wash and lie prone. Not in this Marine’s world.

  Good thing he moved.

  Several windows of the barracks ignited with star-shaped blossoms of light. The remaining terrorists were firing on the trucks. He heard a pop; then half a second later, the front end of the truck he’d used for cover ignited in a concussive blast. Its hood blew skyward, flipping through the air like a tossed playing card.

  If he’d still been there . . .

  Coming from his four o’clock position, a single thump reverberated across the basin.

  “Hotel three, the power and phones are severed.”

  “Good work, Tango one. Rendezvous with the rest of your fire team and get eyes on the ranch house. We need to know if anyone’s coming over here in a big hurry.”

  “Copy.”

  Vince continued. “Sierras two and three, we’ve got three rabbits leaving the east side of the barracks armed with AKs. Get after ’em!”

  Crap, Nathan thought. There’s a door on the other side of the barracks. Of course there’s a rear door; there’s always a rear door.

  “Hotel three, they’re heading for an outbuilding on the south side of the compound. They might have motorcycles or ATVs stashed in there. We’re on ’em.”

  Nathan assumed that was Sierra two’s or Sierra three’s voice.

  “Hotel one, what’s your position?” Vince asked.

  “Off-white sedan just north of the pickup trucks.”

  “Stand by, Hotel one. We’re going to flush everyone out of that building with CS rounds. I seriously doubt they have masks.”

  Sierra two said, “Our rabbits just opened a garage door on building oscar three.”

  Nathan pictured the cardboard mock-up in his head. Oscar three was the designation for the largest of the five outbuildings surrounding the barracks. It had to be about three hundred yards from the base of the slope where Vince and Harv would be arriving.

  “Sierra two, light ’em up with your M4,” Vince ordered. “Sierra three, launch on oscar three.”

  He watched individual white tracers tear across the desert as Sierra two opened fire in semiauto mode. Nathan didn’t hear the launcher’s discharge, but he saw and heard the projectile explode. It overflew the garage building and lit up the far side. Because he had a lateral view of the trajectory, he could gauge the distance.

  “Sierra three, you’re long by twenty yards.”

  “Copy that.”

  Nathan watched more of Sierra two’s M4 tracer fire zip across the desert like luminous ribbons. He’d always liked the look of it.

  Nathan heard Sierra three’s launch this time, a barely audible pop. After a three-second delay, the interior of the garage flashed. “Good hit! Fire for effect.”

  A second grenade flashed in the garage.

  The third high-explosive round must’ve found stored gasoline because the garage went up in a roiling mushroom cloud. Even from here, Nathan heard men screaming. Once again, his NV delivered more information than he wanted. All three of the men who’d fled into the garage were now burning. They dropped to the ground and rolled.

  More tracer ribbons connected to the smoldering forms. At three hundred yards, the M4 was an accurate carbine, and Sierra two looked to be a skilled marksman. Tracer after tracer disappeared into the downed men.

  He’d never been on fire or sustained a serious burn, but it didn’t take a lot of imagination to guess what it felt like. Mercifully, Sierra two put them out of their misery.

  The remaining terrorists inside the barracks fired from the windows again. They didn’t seem to be focused on any one spot. They were simply firing blindly, fighting back as best they could.

  Rather than give his new position away by firing on the barracks, he waited through several more enemy salvos, all aimed at the truck with the missing hood.

  Someone inside the building was yelling in Arabic, and he heard only part of what was said because of the gunfire.

  “Sahib! Tariq! Tariq! Where are . . . under attack! . . . phone’s dead . . . under attack! . . . Muhammed!”

  Harv felt so helpless up here while Nathan engaged in a full-blown firefight below. Seeing the action at the barracks reminded him of just how deadly his friend could be with an M4 carbine. In the right hands, an M4 equipped with an M203 grenade launcher could dispatch a lot of bad guys. And dispatch Nathan had. From the look of things, he’d killed a minimum of six jihadists in addition to the three he’d taken down silently.

  He hasn’t lost a thing, Harv thought.

  Watching the action from above looked . . . what? Awesome? No other word seemed to fit. The rattle of small-arms fire and deep booms echoing across the desert sounded equally impressive. He needed to get down there and join the fight.

  “I’m picking up a transmission on the scanner,” said Hotel four. “It’s in Arabic.”

  “Sierras one and four, keep going.” Vince stopped running, turned to his radio operator, and motioned Harv over. “Let Har—Hotel two hear it.”

  Vince had nearly used his name—not the end of the world given their encrypted radios. He caught the frantic soldier’s metallic voice mid-sentence. “. . . Tariq! Where are you? We’re under attack! Sahib! Can you hear me? The phone’s dead. We’re under attack!” A nasty string of foul Arabic followed, then, “Muhammed!”

  Harv translated it all for them.

  “We need to get the gas grenades into the barracks ASAP,” Vince said. “Let me know if anyone answers that radio call.”

  Nathan’s voice came up on the net. “That transmission originated inside the barracks. Tariq, Sahib, and Muhammed won’t be answering.”

  “Copy that, Hotel one. Sierra two, check the downed rabbits for survivors and prosecute. Sierra three, send HE rounds into the other outbuildings. We need to make sure no one’s home. Hotels one and two, load CS rounds and prepare to fire into the barracks on my command.” Vince looked at him. “Haul ass down to the white sedan and support Hotel one. Here. Take the scanner in case there’s more radio traffic in Arabic. We’re gassing the shit out of that building in thirty seconds.”

  Harvey needed no further prompting. He took off in a full sprint along the dry creek bed toward Nate’s position at the sedan.

  “I’ve got eyes on you, Hotel two,” Nate said. “They might have NV inside the barracks. Divert upslope a little and use the thin vegetation for cover. Hotel three, I’m good to go with a CS round.”

  “Stand by. Sierra two, status?”

  “The rabbits are dead.”

  “Load CS and hustle back to Sierra three’s position. Tango fire team, ETA to the west ridge for eyes on the ranch house?”

  “Three minutes.”

  “Mak
e it ninety seconds and give me a report of what you see. Sierra and hotel fire teams, stand by to launch gas. Sierra’s covering the east and south walls of the barracks. Hotel’s got the north and west. We’re hitting them in a ninety-degree formation just like we planned. Avoid M4 crossfire. I say again, avoid M4 crossfire.”

  Harv had to hand it to Vince. The man sounded confident. There was no waver or hesitation in their commander’s voice.

  The men inside the barracks were firing less frequently, probably conserving ammo. Either that or they were bleeding to death. HE rounds send shrapnel in every direction.

  Another burst of M4 came from Sierra two’s location. A Colt M4 sounded quite different from a Kalashnikov.

  “Hotel three, several men just attempted to flee the building. They’re down. We’re relocating to the—”

  A salvo of AK clattered across the basin.

  “Sierra two’s hit! He’s down! He’s down!”

  Vince’s voice cut in. “Launch gas! All units, launch gas now!”

  Harv gritted his teeth and stopped running. He pushed the launcher’s safety forward, rotated the M203’s side-mounted laser to one hundred yards, and painted the barracks window.

  His weapon bucked with a thunk sound.

  Crap. The grenade smacked the wall under the window, bounced off, and began discharging tear gas.

  He quickly reloaded. Just before he fired, his NV registered two dim flashes inside the structure: gas detonations from his fellow team members. He aimed a little higher and pulled the trigger. Perfect. The CS round sailed into the dark interior. He sent another into a different window.

  Several more flashes lit the interior with an eerie flickering as more grenades detonated.

  Harv reloaded the launcher with a high-explosive round, ran to the edge of the dry wash, and waited for the enemy to come out.

  Nathan gritted his teeth at the radio call announcing Nick was down.

  Vince’s voice came next. “Launch gas! All units, launch gas now!”