The next step was to check his own ride. He’d already heard the engine rumbling, sounding steady. It had been a lucky break, the opposition gunners trying to kill Bolan, rather than disabling his transport. A walk around showed him five out of six tires still intact, the sixth apparently deflated by a ricochet.
Five tires should be enough, he calculated—if they still had time to make the pickup from Iraq.
His watch said yes, and Bolan trusted it as he climbed back into the driver’s seat.
* * *
“WE’RE GETTING TIGHT on time,” Ward Simmons said over the Puma’s rotor noise.
“I know,” Jeff Baxter answered. “One more pass, and this’ll go down as a no-show.”
“Shame,” Craig Rowe chimed in, behind them. “I was lookin’ forward to some action.”
“That’s the last damn thing we need,” Baxter reminded him. I’m never working with this flake again, he thought, as if it was his decision.
He started the last pass over the LZ they’d been quoted, eyes sweeping the desert, hoping that he wouldn’t see a line of tracers rising up to greet them from the darkness. He had searchlights on the Puma, but he couldn’t use them, didn’t dare put on a light show for whoever might be prowling over hostile ground nearby.
One final pass, and they could—
“Headlights!” Simmons said, pointing. “One vehicle approaching from the west.”
And Baxter saw them now, making a beeline for the pickup site’s coordinates. He hovered, making sure he had his radio set for the proper frequency before he spoke into the night.
“To vehicle approaching, this is Backfire Two,” he said, feeling a trifle foolish. “Please, identify. Repeating—”
“This is Striker, Backfire Two,” a deep voice answered. “Five to exit.”
Only five? “Understood,” he told whoever was approaching. “Setting down to meet you now.”
And when the link was cut, he turned to Rowe. “Be ready, just in case.”
“I’m always ready, man.”
They touched down and watched a Russian-manufactured APC roll up, stopping outside the radius of their rotor blades. Five men got out, a soldier leading them in battle dress, the others clad in suits—or parts of suits that had seen better days. Rowe started helping them aboard while Baxter eyed the guy in charge.
“We were expecting eight,” he said.
“Two didn’t make it out,” the soldier said, setting his rifle down. “Wait one for number six.”
The big guy ran back to his APC and ducked inside, emerging seconds later with a limp and blood-drenched form over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Jogging back, he passed his lifeless burden off to Rowe, then dropped into a seat and said, “Okay, we’re good to go.”
Rowe took him at his word. They lifted off and headed east, toward the sunrise, though it wouldn’t lighten the horizon for a few more hours yet. Baxter considered saying something—maybe just to welcome them aboard or put a little levity into the situation—“Hey, rough night?”—but then he caught the solemn soldier watching him and figured he was better off keeping his mouth shut.
Baxter didn’t know these people, and he didn’t want to know them.
First rule of the game: attend to business and go home alive when you were done.
Tonight, eight of them had achieved that goal. As for the rest, he wished them peace.
Epilogue
Baghdad International Airport
“We’re on the same flight,” someone said beside Segrest. He’d been halfheartedly browsing the magazines at the newsstand, and now he turned to see his tall, tanned savior in civilian clothes, a carry-on in his hand.
He felt embarrassed, suddenly. “Listen, I know I didn’t get around to thanking you.”
“Forget it,” said the man whose name he didn’t know. “All in a day’s work.”
“Right, for you. It’s still my life, though.”
“And you’re welcome to it.”
What did that mean? Was he getting a “you’re welcome” before saying thanks, or was it some kind of a put-down?
“Anyway, I owe you,” Segrest said, forging ahead. “So if there’s ever anything you need, something that I can do for you…”
He trailed off. That’s if I’m still employed, he thought.
“Just work the cover story,” Cooper answered. “You can thank me by forgetting I was ever here.”
“Sure thing. About your partner—”
But he was talking to himself. The soldier turned and left, crossing the concourse to an isolated seat behind a pillar, next to a falafel booth.
Some people, Segrest thought, shaking his head. Who knows what makes them tick?
* * * * *
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ISBN-13: 9781460385371
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike Newton for his contribution to this work.
Syrian Rescue
Copyright © 2015 by Worldwide Library
First edition September 2015
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, there production or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereinafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Worldwide Library, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.
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