by Cindy Gerard
But there she was—bruised, bleeding, her wrists tied together, held up on her feet by two armed guards.
“She never should have come here!” he yelled and rounded on Nate. “This never should have happened! If she fucking dies it’s on your head!”
He was barely aware that Gabe and Reed had moved in and were restraining him with a solid grip on each arm.
Only then did he realize how close he’d come to striking the man he had alwys looked up to—not just as his leader but as his friend.
“This isn’t doing her any good,” Nate said sharply. “Get it together, Colter. You can’t help her if you can’t push past your emotions.”
He settled himself down.
The guys let go of his arms, and Luke listened with dread as Nate spelled it out. Augustine Sesay had Val and Chamberlin. There had been no mention of Santos, Carlyle, or Waldrop. The assumption was that they were killed in a failed attempt to save their principals.
And the BOIs were no longer in charge of the negotiations.
Sesay had laid a new deal on the table. An exchange. One million American dollars and the delivery of his arms shipments for the Americans. A bargain, to his way of thinking, since the American mercenaries could parlay the hostages into ten times that amount.
Only for the sake of expediency, Sesay had taunted, was he willing to let them go for such a paltry sum of money.
“I don’t have that kind of cash on me,” Nate had said slowly, with just enough interest to suggest he thought he might be getting the better end of the bargain, but with enough hesitation that he didn’t sound too eager.
“I don’t know, though,” he’d waffled, as if having second thoughts. “That’s a lot of money for damaged goods.”
“I can assure you, but for a few bumps and bruises, both are in excellent condition.”
“If we do this,” Nate had said thoughtfully. “I’ll have to contact my bank.”
“Then contact your bank.”
“Let me think about it and get back to you,” Nate had said and disconnected.
And Luke died a little inside, even though now that he was thinking clearly, he knew that Nate had made all the right moves. If he’d acted too eager, Sesay would suspect a trap. And the only card they had to play to get Val and Chamberlin out alive was to stall until they came up with a plan.
“I want to talk to her. When you call him back, tell him to put her on the phone,” Luke demanded.
“And let him know that we have a personal relationship with her? No.” Nate shook his head. “They’re both commodities and we’re businessmen. You know that’s what he has to think.”
Yeah. He knew.
Over ten minutes passed before Nate lifted the phone and dialed. “I can’t access my accounts until morning when the banks open in Zurich,” he said when Sesay answered. “Switzerland is two hours ahead of Freetown. Give or take an hour to make the connection and complete the transaction, we can get this done over breakfast.”
Sesay was silent for so long, Luke had to turn away to keep from grabbing the phone and threatening the psychotic bastard.
“Agreed,” Sesay finally said, and the entire team breathed a sigh of relief. “Notify me when you have the cash in hand. We will then arrange for the exchange.”
The phone went dead.
Luke felt helpless and useless and used up.
He saw Val’s face in his mind, bruised, bloody, and valiant. He’d seen a cave or a mine shaft behind her, and his gut clenched with rage. The bastard was keeping her in a fucking cave.
Her worst nightmare.
He had to get her out of there.
But Nate was right—he had to get his emotions out of this or he wouldn’t be any good to her.
A Zen-like calm came over him and clicked his mind into combat mode.
He looked to the man he respected, trusted, and admired, and would never make the mistake of turning on again.
“What’s the plan?” he asked, and got back to the business of saving Val’s life.
Two hours after Sesay ended the call, the sun had been long set. Their plan of attack had been set as well. Two trucks were loaded and ready to roll. The team was geared up in tactical-level body armor beneath their black shirts and pants. Face black covered their hands and faces. Black ball caps sat on their heads. It was hotter than hell beneath the armor, but they didn’t bother with CamelBaks for hydration. They needed to travel fast and they’d already be weighed down with explosives and ordnance. And if all went as planned, they’d be in and out like fast-drying paint.
Though they were loaded with enough guns and ammo to take out a full company of combatants, phase one of their action plan was not about firepower. It was about silence and stealth. About close-quarters combat. About garrotes and blades.
“What about them?” Crystal hitched her chin toward the prisoners. They were bound together in the back of one of the transport trucks in a corner of the warehouse.
No one said a word but all eyes turned to Joe. Everyone knew his feelings about the RUF soldiers. His eyes were hard as he glared at the truck and absently fixed a sound suppressor on the barrel of his Glock.
This was Nate’s call, no question, but their CO purposefully deferred to Joe to give him the chance to step up and do the right thing.
“Leave ’em,” Joe said, after a tense moment. “We can send someone after them when this is over.”
“Then let’s roll,” Nate said with an approving nod, and climbed behind the wheel of the lead truck.
Luke became one with the night. He felt the dark, throbbing beat of it thrumming through his blood. Tasted the rich, loamy essence of it on his tongue as he lay on his belly, hugging the dirt, keeping his profile low.
Beside him, the rest of the team had found their own zones. As a unit, they scanned Sesay’s encampment through their night-vision goggles.
They’d established a position on a slight rise that overlooked the camp less than twenty yards away.
The trucks were parked within a quarter mile of the coordinates Sesay’s baby recruits had provided. They couldn’t risk the diesel motors announcing their arrival, so they’d loaded their packs with ordnance and humped the rest of the way in on foot.
It was now two a.m. When they’d arrived an hour ago, the night had been eerily quiet. But for the distant rush of a small stream by the camp, it was alarmingly calm. Too calm to move in without being heard.
So they’d waited. Their patience finally paid off.
The weather finally changed. It was with them now—the wind and the rustling chatter it created in the cottonwoods added another layer of cover to the darkness. Fat gray clouds blew in from the west and rolled across the black sky. The air grew heavy and thick, teasing at the possibility of a storm to assuage this sun-parched corner of God’s earth where godless men committed godless acts.
Crystal had spotted Carlyle and the other two, strung up by their wrists on ropes looped over the bough of a spreading cottonwood. Their heads hung heavily on their chests. Their feet barely skimmed the ground.
“Are they alive?” Nate’s hushed tone was thick with the anger all of them felt but kept under control.
Crystal shouldered her sniper rifle, then adjusted the sights on the night-vision scope with a magnification factor so tight, she could see the lettering on Santos’s tattoo. “Carlyle, maybe. Santos and Waldrop . . . I’m not sure.”
They were all sure that if those men were dead, they had not died easily. Just as they were certain that when this night was over, they would not be left hanging from that fucking tree.
Leave no man behind wasn’t just an edict. It was a promise.
Feeling his heartbeat slow as he mentally prepared himself for the battle to come, Luke systematically scanned the encampment again. It was spread out over approximately two and a half acres. This small of an area was going to make it tough getting past the patrols without one of them sounding an alarm. The guards didn’t even need radios; they could yell
a warning.
Yeah, it would be tough. But not impossible.
Six Jeeps, three troop transport trucks, and an older-model Suburban were parked at the west end of a flat, open field. A crude latrine had been set up downwind at the opposite end of the camp. An open canvas mess tent, its roof flapping in the rising wind, was set up close to the stream, dead center in the middle of the camp beneath a copse of trees that encompassed an area of approximately four hundred square feet.
The smaller enclosed tent erected close by could only belong to Sesay. Surrounding him, fifteen men slept on pallets in the open, their rifles beside them.
According to the baby soldiers, thirty men were now bivouacked at the campsite along the river. The general liked to travel fast and light. He’d prepared for the possibility of a preemptive strike by posting several armed guards around the camp’s perimeter—more in fixed positions at ten, two, four, and eight o’clock. One of them was asleep; another was fighting to keep his eyes open.
Four more guards patrolled in a random pattern. All were armed with AKs with iron sights. Another four were dug into shallow foxholes laid out in a semicircle facing the rise. Their sniper rifles were equipped with night-vision scopes; Ryang had supplied them well.
Between the vehicles and the mess tent, the terrain bumped up by a good six feet. Three men stood watch around a yawning opening; this was obviously where they were holding Val and Chamberlin.
Luke trained his field glasses on the mine shaft.
The three guards standing watch were already dead men.
“Commo check.” Nate shimmied down the rise, a signal for all of them to follow suit.
They checked their earpieces and throat mics down the line. Everyone was “go.”
“We clear on assignments?”
All heads nodded and they lowered their NV goggles into place.
Crystal had drawn sniper duty and would man a fixed position on the ridge. She’d cover B.J., who would go wide of the camp, disable the vehicles, then join Crystal with a second rifle. Both of them would cover the ground team, then wait for their Go to light things up when the field was set.
The rest of the team had predator patrol. They’d take out the guards, recover the hostages, and get the hell out.
Then they would deliver the surprise they had in store for the RUF leader. He wanted his weapons? He was going to get ’em, along with something that was guaranteed to blow the top of his head off.
“Let’s do this.” Nate gave B.J. a nod. “You’ve got five minutes, then we’re heading down.”
• • •
Every molecule in Luke’s body wanted to head straight for that mine shaft and liberate Val. Every beat of his heart pulled him in her direction.
But that would jeopardize not only her life but the lives of the entire team. It was mission essential to stick with the plan: Take out the guards.
Extract Santos, Carlyle, and Waldrop, dead or alive.
Liberate Val and Chamberlin.
Blow this place sky-high.
The plan only worked if it was followed, and Luke would follow it to the letter.
He belly crawled down the rise, tactically but not visually aware of the rest of the BOIs spread out at thirty-yard intervals on parallel trajectories.
The ground was flat, the cover sparse. When he reached a clump of dry, brittle grass, he waited and listened. The first foxhole was no more than ten yards ahead now.
He reached into the drag bag attached to his belt, pulled out a pre-rigged Claymore, and set it behind the grass clump. When the time was right, B.J. and Crystal would set them off with remote detonators.
Then he moved on. Slow and steady, he altered course slightly to use a deadfall log for concealment. Once there, he set another block of explosives. Two yards away, the sniper in the foxhole hummed softly to keep himself awake.
Luke breathed quiet and deep, visualized the distance, envisioned the kill, slipped into his zone. Then he shot to his feet and launched himself on top of the guard.
Before the man could sound an alarm, Luke clamped a hand over his mouth, snapped his head back, and sliced his KA-BaR across the carotid artery. The guard convulsed twice, twitched jerkily, and went still. Luke waited thirty seconds, then removed his hand from the dying man’s mouth.
Adrenaline mainlined into his system like rocket fuel, but his hand was rock-solid steady as he wiped the blood from his blade and peeked out of the hole.
Nothing moved but the flutter of the tent flaps. The sound of snoring, the rustle of leaves in the rising wind, and the absence of an alarm told him that the team had taken out their primary targets.
He crawled out and went back on the hunt, setting his final two Claymores on the way. Gabe, Rafe, Reed, Joe, and Nate had been setting similar charges in their wake.
Luke was standing behind a thick tree trunk when a perimeter guard strolled slowly by. He ducked out from behind the tree, looped his garrote around the guard’s throat from behind, and jerked hard on both ends of the wire, simultaneously jamming his knee in the middle of the man’s back. The guard was dead before he hit the ground.
Less than eight minutes had passed.
He reported into his mic, and heard exactly what he needed to hear.
Phase one accomplished. On to phase two.
He took off across the clearing at a crouching run.
He was a machine now. He had no feelings, no remorse.
Only purpose.
He was eliminating enemy combatants; it was kill or be killed.
If he died, then Val died.
And Val was not going to die this night.
“Easy,” Luke whispered as he sliced the thick rope cutting into Carlyle’s wrists, then helped Joe steady him as he collapsed.
Joe clamped a hand over Carlyle’s mouth to stifle any noise and pressed his lips against his ear. “Keep it down, buddy. We’re getting you out of here.”
“Ambush,” Carlyle muttered. “Let you . . . down . . .”
“Yeah, we’ll take it out of your pay,” Joe said gently. “Can you walk?”
“Ankle’s . . . broken.”
That and a whole lot more, Luke thought grimly.
“No problem, I’ve humped heavier gear than you. Up you go.”
Carlyle grabbed Luke’s hand. “Santos? Waldrop?”
Luke looked over the kid’s shoulder. He got a bleak nod from Nate, even though neither one appeared conscious.
“They’ll be kickin’ your ass tomorrow,” Luke lied. “Get him outta here, Joe.”
Tortured eyes that struggled to focus met his in the dark. “Valentina?”
“On the next bus,” Joe assured him, hiked him onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and took off.
Silent as sleep, they eased the other men down. There was no time for triage. They’d been damn lucky—and damn good—to have made it this far without someone calling the alarm.
Fifteen minutes in. And Val was still captive in that mine.
Rafe took Waldrop’s deadweight on his shoulder and headed out.
“It’s your show now,” Nate told Luke, as Gabe helped heft Santos over Nate’s shoulder. “Meet you back on the ridge.”
Luke nodded, then covered them as they disappeared into the trees with their heavy loads.
Then, with Reed and Gabe at his back, he headed for the mine shaft.
31
The mine entrance yawned open like the mouth of an angry dog. Broken timbers lanced into the dark like jagged teeth and caught on the stained, torn canvas that acted as a door.
Three guards stood with both hands on their rifles, bodies at rigid attention. No doubt Sesay had threatened to chop their hands off if they let the prisoners escape.
Luke crouched in the shadows ten yards away, waiting for Reed and Gabe to get into position. Once they’d both checked in, he gave them their assignments.
“L to R. Reed, take one. Gabe, take two. Number three is mine. Fire on my go.”
Luke two-handed his S
IG, sighted down the barrel, and drew a bead. He counted four heavy heartbeats. Gave the command. “Go.”
Three muffled shots exploded through three sound suppressors in almost perfect unison.
Three kill shots to the head.
Luke jumped out from behind his cover and made the opening of the mine shaft before the last body hit the ground.
He shoved aside the canvas tarp and rushed inside.
Right behind him, Gabe flicked on a flashlight with an infrared cover so it didn’t blind them with their NVGs.
The eerie beam flashed around the cramped, sweltering shaft and landed on a body in the corner.
Val.
She was curled in a ball facing the wall. Her white slacks were filthy and torn. Her hair was matted with blood. She wasn’t moving.
Luke dropped to his knees beside her.
She wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be dead!
His hand was shaking as he brushed her hair away from her neck. Breath stalled, he touched his index finger to her carotid artery . . . and almost wept with relief when it pulsed beneath his fingertip.
He leaned in close to her ear. “Val, it’s Luke. I’ve come to get you out of here, Angelface.”
She turned her head slowly, squinted up into the light, and gave him a weak, wobbly, absolutely beautiful smile. “Indy . . .”
He actually laughed. She could call him Ronald McDonald, for all he cared.
“Thank God you found us,” Chamberlin said, rising painfully to his feet.
Luke spared a quick glance his way. He looked shaken up but ambulatory.
“We need to boogie,” Reed said as he sliced through the rope tying Chamberlin’s wrists. “Chop chop. Beat feet and haul ass, people. I got a woman waitin’ with an itchy trigger finger, and I don’t want to be within a football field of this camp when she starts lighting the place up.”
Reed was right. They’d pushed their luck beyond the limit. The rest of the camp could wake up any second.
Luke helped Val sit up and held her steady. “Can you walk?”
She nodded. “I think my wrist is broken.”
Luke was sure of it after a quick look at the swollen and discolored joint.