He lowered the pistol. “I’m not like you.”
“Do it, you coward,” Alisio spat. “The idea of dying alongside a chickenshit like you sickens me.” The murderer’s thrashing reached a peak. Perhaps the toxin affected him more quickly. “You’re going to be my slave in hell. You’ll be licking my boots through all eternity.”
Nathan looked at the man and felt pity. So much fear. He couldn’t imagine living with constant fear. Of all the human emotions, fear brought out the worst in people.
Alisio started another vile tirade. The language coming from the man’s mouth needed to end. Nathan might die, but he didn’t have to do it listening to a lunatic’s twisted ranting.
He stepped up to Alisio and said, “I forgive you,” then swung his pistol. The Sig’s suppressor caught Alisio on the jaw. Like a KO from a heavyweight, the effect was instantaneous. Alisio’s head snapped back, then lolled forward.
Ironically, he’d just spared the man from the horrid and violent death he’d been wishing upon him. El Lobo came next. He pistol-whipped the coyote’s jaw, rendering him unconscious. He didn’t like the idea of El Lobo seeing him lose control.
He didn’t know how much time he had before the toxin ripped his mind to shreds, but he’d die without compromising who he was—while he still had the choice.
The truth hit him hard.
In a few more seconds, he’d begin to feel the poison coursing through his nervous system, and the choice of killing or not killing would be stripped away. Did the people who jumped to their deaths rather than burn to death on September eleventh truly commit suicide? No, they hadn’t. Facing that scenario, they’d shown themselves mercy. Simple as that. And God didn’t condemn them for it.
He’d faced death before but never like this. Being turned into a stark raving nutjob without reason or control? The savage violence he might wreak on his friend made him physically ill. No, that wasn’t going to happen. He’d turn his Sig on himself before hurting Harv. He’d lived a good life. Yes, he’d lashed out at everyone close to him at one time or another, even Harv, but he’d made amends for it.
“Nathan.”
Holly. Would she understand or feel betrayed? No. She’d be okay with this. Some things were worth dying for, like saving the lives of several thousand innocent people. The brave souls on board Flight 93 did it. They died trying to regain control of the aircraft. This was no different. He and Harv would die so that others would live.
He moved the pistol toward his head.
It’s better this way.
The alternative was too horrible to imagine. He’d never allow himself to hurt Harv.
God will understand.
“Nathan!”
He felt his body flush with sudden heat. It had begun. If he didn’t shoot himself right now, he’d lose the free will to make the choice. The ultimate sacrifice. The Marine who dives onto a grenade to save his fellow Marines. A mother who runs from a bear to draw its attention away from her child. Was this any different?
As the pistol neared his temple, he felt controlled by someone else. Something else.
The Other.
He sensed its presence emerge from his soul with a sly smile of satisfaction.
It was only a matter of time, Nate old boy. I was going to win in the end. You’ve always known that, haven’t you? It’s nice to see you’re finally admitting it. Denial is so self-serving . . . Go ahead and kill those lousy vermin. They have it coming.
No! It’s my decision, not yours.
If you keep telling yourself that, you might actually believe it someday.
Go away!
Or what? You’ll kill me? A little late for that, isn’t it? Kill them. Kill them while you still can.
No! I won’t give in to this!
He forced the Other back into its cage and took command.
The pistol reached his head.
Its warm steel found his temple.
This is it, then.
No regrets.
“Nathan, STOP!”
A blur caught his eye.
Before he could react, two hundred pounds slammed into his rib cage.
At the same instant, an ironlike hand seized his wrist and twisted the Sig away from his head.
He resigned himself to a different kind of death.
Not from himself, but from Harv.
Maybe it was better this way.
Yes, better.
Fully aware.
Facing death.
Like a Marine.
CHAPTER 32
Nathan landed hard and felt the back of his head smack the hardwood floor.
Fighting off the dizzying effect of the impact as he lay half-conscious, he wondered, Why isn’t Harv tearing my throat open? He fully expected to be fighting for his life. They’d been poisoned for sure.
“Harv.”
“Nathan, you okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were unresponsive, so I kinda . . . took you down before you . . . you know . . .”
“Blew my brains out?”
“Well, yeah. That.”
“May I ask a question?”
“Sure, Nate, anything.”
“Why are you still on top of me?”
“Well, I’m not enjoying myself, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“Then get off, ya lug.”
“I just wanted to be sure you were you.”
“Yeah, I’m me.”
Harv rolled off and lay next to him. They stayed that way for several seconds.
Nathan tilted his head toward Harv. “May I ask another question?”
“Fire away.”
“Why aren’t we dying?”
“Because I switched the grenades two minutes ago.”
They both sat up and pointed their weapons at the voice that had spoken perfect English, albeit with an accent Nathan thought he recognized.
“The real ones are in the pack I’m wearing.” A man in a black butler’s uniform stood in the hallway with his hands held chest-high. His right pant leg was wet with blood, dripping onto the floor. A small patch of ruined fabric gaped above the knee.
“Who are you?” Nathan asked as he slowly reached down to his radio.
“Perhaps the better question is, who are you? Needless to say, your appearance here is a huge surprise, but also quite fortunate.” The man took a step forward, then stopped, wincing.
“That’s close enough,” Harv said as they got up.
The newcomer took another tentative step, seemingly unafraid of the Sig pointed at his chest. “I don’t think you want to risk a bullet passing through my body. I assure you the grenades in my pack are real.”
The man looked to be in his mid-thirties with dark hair, dark eyes, and a touch of gray in his temples. Although in a household staff uniform, he possessed a commanding presence. Clearly this man was no butler.
Nathan exchanged a glance with Harv, checked his still-unconscious prisoners, then looked back to the butler. “So who goes first?”
“Since you seem to be the ones out of place, you do.”
“May we assume you aren’t who you appear to be? Part of Alisio’s household staff?”
“Yes, that’s a fair assumption.”
“Undercover.”
The man offered the thinnest smile, then shifted his weight to ease the pain of his injured leg.
Nathan lowered his Sig, but Harv kept his leveled. “For all we know,” Harv said, “you could be a last line of defense, a sleeper of sorts.”
“Yes, that’s definitely true.” He pointed at Alisio’s unconscious form. “Just not for him. If I were, we wouldn’t be talking.” He slowly turned, revealing a large revolver tucked into his belt under the heavy backpack.
“Point taken,” Harv said. “So the gunshots we heard coming from the garage . . . that was you?”
“Yes. As you can see, he got me.” He inclined his head at Quattro’s body. “I thought I’d killed him. I shot him three times with a .35
7 Magnum. Tough little man, and fast. When he collapsed, I switched the grenades and left the garage to hide the real ones. You can only imagine my surprise to find him gone when I returned.”
“The women said Alisio’s staff doesn’t live in the house,” Harv said. “How did you know where Quattro was going?”
The disguised butler reached up to his ear and removed something that looked like an earbud, then smiled. “I bugged the sofa room and kitchen, where they discuss all their business. Now, I’m pretty sure you’re Americans, but you’re a little old for SEALs, Rangers, or Recons.”
He and Harv didn’t say anything, although Nathan felt tempted to smile.
“Sorry, no offense intended.”
“None taken,” Harv said. “We old guys did pretty well tonight.”
“I can’t argue with the results. So you’re Americans and . . .”
Nathan said, “We’re not US service members. We’re private military contractors.”
“Ah, yes, I see. That makes sense.”
“Don’t move!” Vince’s voice boomed from the hallway’s opening where the butler had entered.
“It’s okay, Vince. He’s not a threat.” Shit, he’d just used Vince’s name. A stupid and inexcusable error.
His M4 leveled at the man, Vince limped forward, a blood-soaked field dressing covering his hip. “He’s got a hog leg tucked into his back.”
“We know,” Nathan said, looking at Vince’s trigger finger, which was properly lying flat on the receiver and not curled around the trigger. “He showed it to us. He’s also got the real grenades in his pack.”
Their commander lowered his weapon upon hearing that, then labored over and stood next to Harv and him while Sandra eased behind the butler.
“Who are you?” Vince asked.
The man looked at Nathan. “Perhaps you should disable the auto-transmit feature of your radio first.”
Nathan asked, “You saw me switch it . . . ?”
The man smiled again.
Amazingly calm under pressure, Nathan thought. Even with that leg wound . . .
A small pool of blood had already formed on the floor under the man’s pantleg.
“Vince . . . ,” the stranger said slowly. “Private military contractors . . .” This time a wide smile split his face. “You’re Vincent Beaumont? The president and CEO of BSI. And these men are working for you.”
Vince didn’t say anything.
“You may not remember me, but we’ve actually met before. During the Wolf armored vehicle trials at Hatzerim. I was the man who asked the question about the Ford F-550 chassis—if it was heavy enough to accommodate the MRAP variant.”
“I remember you,” Vince said. “My company ended up buying five of them. I’m sorry, but I don’t recall your name. Hang on a sec.” Vince pressed his transmit button. “All fire teams, we’re secure inside the ranch house. Maintain positions and stay alert. Hotel four, contact the CP and tell them we’re in possession of the items. Tell them to expect a personal report from me in a few minutes.”
“Aye, sir.”
The man limped forward and offered his hand to Vince. “Gavriel Masalha. I’m very sorry about your wife and the loss of your son.”
“Thank you,” Vince said, “but I’m not the only one who’s suffered a loss. This is Nathan McBride.”
“McBride . . . Senator Stone McBride’s son?”
Nathan nodded.
“I’m sorry for your loss too. Your father was a good friend to Israel over the years.”
Vince introduced Harv.
“Mossad?” Harv asked, shaking hands.
“Being who we all are, and being that my mission here is terminated, I’m comfortable answering with a yes.”
Harv offered to apply a tighter field dressing to Gavriel’s leg. The Israeli agent gratefully accepted.
“Why bother to plant the fakes?” Harv asked. “Why didn’t you just take the real grenades and leave?”
“I had no way to know who or what I’d be facing outside. For all I knew, there was a small army out there. I also had no idea who’d win the fight in here. If Alisio and his men managed to ward off your attack, they’d have the fake grenades and likely bug out.”
“And that’s a good thing?” Nathan asked.
“Trackers,” Harv answered for the Mossad agent. “Right? The fake grenades are bugged.”
“Yes, that’s exactly right. We wanted to know where the ISIS insurgents planned to take them. That’s not in play anymore.”
Nathan didn’t say anything.
Gavriel continued. “The most important thing is having possession of the real WMDs. Anything more than that was merely a bonus. In any case, it made sense to track their movement.”
“Doing our job for us?” Harv asked.
Gavriel shrugged. “There was no guarantee the grenades were going to be used in America. They might’ve ended up in my country or France, Germany, Spain. Anywhere really. Based on the location of this ISIS cell, we suspected they were bound for America, but we couldn’t be one hundred percent certain. I was hoping to salvage twenty-two months of undercover work and planning. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to make the switch, but I didn’t know where the grenades were until Quattro went out and retrieved them. I can only assume it had something to do with all the gunfire and explosions that came from the compound. We’ve all heard munitions practice at night, but never with that much intensity. When El Lobo couldn’t reach the compound by phone, Alisio decided to play it safe and send Quattro out for the grenades. I took advantage of the opportunity you guys created.”
“You undercovers are a special breed. I don’t know how you do it,” Nathan said.
Gavriel gave a humble shrug. “I wish I could say one gets used to it.”
Vincent nodded. “Well, I hate to say it, but our orders are to take possession of the grenades.”
Gavriel smiled. “Now what?”
“Why don’t we use the bigger gun rule?” Vince suggested.
“The bigger gun rule?”
Vincent patted his M4. “Yeah, the man with the bigger gun rules.”
“I, ah, see your point.”
“How about a compromise?” Vince said. “In order to keep American and Israeli relations healthy, you’ll come with us, pretending to be part of Alisio’s staff.”
“I was hoping you’d offer. I seem to need some medical attention too. I’m assuming you have an exit strategy?”
“Black Hawks, two clicks north of here,” Nathan said.
Gavriel looked at Vince’s wound. “He’ll never survive the hike,” he told Nathan, “even on a stretcher. It looks like he’s got a clipped artery. He needs emergency surgery.”
“Why don’t I just stand here and bleed to death while you three discuss my medical history.”
“A bit testy, isn’t he?” Gavriel asked.
“Bullet wounds tend to do that,” Harv said. “He’ll be okay once I shoot him up with morphine. Would you like some as well?”
“Absolutely,” said Gavriel.
Nathan reached out in a hand-it-over gesture.
Somewhat reluctantly, Gavriel gave him the backpack.
“It’s unsettling,” Nathan said, “what’s in here . . .”
Gavriel winced again and nodded. “What you guys did—without knowing the WMDs were fakes . . .” He shook his head.
It was Harv’s turn to shrug. “Like you said, we wish it got easier.”
Nathan suddenly smiled.
“What?” Harv asked.
“I know how to speed up our exit. Gavriel, do you happen to know where the keys to Alisio’s Bell 427 are?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
CHAPTER 33
DNI Benson quite literally paced the halls of the West Wing. He really hated waiting like this, especially with the stakes so high.
When his phone vibrated, he yanked it from his pocket.
The display indicated Border Patrol Chief Ryan Switzer.
The moment of truth had arrived.
“Ryan, what’s our status?” He wished his voice hadn’t sounded so . . . desperate.
“I just spoke to Beaumont thirty seconds ago. His fire teams were successful. They’ve got the WMDs.”
Benson closed his eyes and nodded. “Casualties?”
“One member of sierra fire team was killed at the compound.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“Beaumont took a round to his hip, and McBride’s likely got a concussion.”
“Did we get El Lobo?”
“Yes, we have him in custody. Carlos Alisio too. Quattro was KIA.”
“The Rio Grande cell?”
“I don’t have exact numbers because the barracks building was completely destroyed by a suicide explosion. All the insurgents from the Rio Grande cell are dead, along with half a dozen more of Alisio’s bodyguards. One of Alisio’s household staff was wounded. A woman too. Harvey Fontana’s going to commandeer Alisio’s helicopter to shuttle all the wounded—from both sides—out to the Black Hawks, where a medic will get them stabilized. McBride insisted we treat the wounded from Alisio’s staff.”
“What’s Beaumont’s condition?”
“He sounded okay, but it’s hard to say. He brushed off his wound, wouldn’t talk about it.”
“Let’s get our dead PMC out of there right away.”
“I’m on it. After Fontana drops off the wounded, he and McBride are flying over to the compound to retrieve the body.”
“Is Rancho Del Seco secure at this point?”
“Yes, the remaining eight members of BSI’s fire teams are staying behind to assist Cantrell’s officers when they arrive.”
“Let me know when Beaumont arrives at the command post. McBride and Fontana too. I want to personally thank them.”
“I’m sure they’d appreciate that.”
“You too, Ryan. You and your agents did a fine job setting up the op.”
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