No Way In Hell: A Steel Corps/Trident Security Crossover Novel

by Samantha A. Cole

  I stood close to Azizi, making sure he got a good view of me in the low-light. I pulled down my hood, not concerned he would get a description of me. I don’t think the people in Hell he’d be joining in a few moments were much of a threat to me.

  “You’re going to answer my questions, or I’ll inflict pain on you, the likes of which you’ve never imagined. Then, if you still don’t talk . . .” I jerked his wife close to me by the arm. Reaching up, I ripped her shroud-like niqab off. He was screaming at me in anger, and she was crying, twisting in my grip, trying to get her headdress back. Looking at her, what I saw had me clenching my jaw in rage. She was young, very young. If she was sixteen I would have been shocked—her husband was at least three times her age, and her children were around three and five years old. Finger-shaped bruises covered her neck like a horrifying necklace, her jaw was black and purple, her lip, swollen heavily and split.

  Sawyer got a look at her, and foul curses flew from his mouth. McCoy was silent beside me, but his face was nearly purple with rage.

  “Take her out. She’s had enough pain already.” I handed back her covering and pushed her toward Sawyer. She was shaking and crying, but I didn’t miss the look of hate, rage, and, not surprisingly, relief she shot over her shoulder at her worthless husband. Sawyer gently passed her off to someone outside the hut.

  My hands still shook, but not with fear or anxiety. Now, it was anger. I fought to control it and not just put a bullet in this piece of shit. Selecting a heavy hammer from my bag, I had a better idea.

  “McCoy, Lieutenant, hold his hand flat against the wall, stretch his arm out straight.” My voice was guttural and sounded strange even to my ears. I’d thought the first time I tortured someone would be hard, but this was easy. Maybe too easy. I’d worry about my sanity later.

  I kicked through the debris on the floor and found what I was looking for. Sturdy pieces of metal, a little twisted from the blast but they would work just fine. They’d been part of the hinges or handles.

  Azizi was pale and quivering. I showed him what was in my hands and let him figure out what I was going to do.

  Speaking in Farsi, I clarified my intent. “I’m going to nail your hands to the wall and your feet to the floor. That way, you can’t thrash around and kill yourself. There will be no escaping this.”

  I moved between McCoy and Sawyer, my gloved hands gripping the sharp metal firmly. The bastard tried to struggle, but they held him tightly, not letting him kill himself before we had our chance to force him to spill his guts. Careful not to jar the wooden shard in his chest, I placed the end of the makeshift spike on this palm and brought the hammer down with all the force I could muster.

  A meaty thunk, which I felt more than heard, rang up my arm. Azizi’s screams drowned out any noise. The metal wasn’t through his hand yet, so I hit it again as blood ran down his wrist and arm, onto the wall and floor, flowing over Sawyer and McCoy’s protected hands along the way. Another strike and the metal began to pierce the old and crumbling plaster wall. He was howling in pain, long and loud. Snot and tears were running down his face, mingling with his beard. One last solid hit drove the metal through the side of the shack.

  “I know you’re a Muslim and all, but does this seem familiar to you?” Bending down, I picked up another chunk of metal. This one was bigger than the other, wider. It would take more force to drive it through his palm.

  He’d stopped screaming—now he was just moaning in pain. Sweat poured from him as shock began to set in. McCoy reached forward and took his pulse, nodding at me to proceed. If Sawyer was surprised with my actions, it didn’t show.

  “Hold his other hand.” I’d slipped into command easily, it felt oddly natural. I counted each beat of his heart in his wrist, his skin was slimy, and he stank of piss and the musty reek of goat. Looking down, I saw the front of his robe was sopping wet. He’d pissed himself in terror. My mouth stretched into a wicked smile, and I brought the hammer down. Metal ringing out loudly, the vibrations of the strike flowed through the hammer like a tuning fork. He didn’t scream this time, just groaned and gasped. Blood poured from the wound as I drove the spike through his hand and into the wall behind him.

  Stepping back, I dropped the hammer at my feet with a hollow thud and crossed my arms over my chest. “Now that I have your attention. Are you ready to answer my questions?”

  Fifteen minutes later, Sawyer had every ounce of intel his little heart could ever hope for. Azizi had sung like a canary, spilling his guts, both figuratively and literally onto the dirt floor. I stayed in the shack with Sawyer, filling in as an interpreter. McCoy had gathered our things and gone outside to radio the convoy that they’d have two extra passengers. The SEALs would be taking the helo to go get Khatib before he had a chance to change locations again. Several Humvees full of soldiers were on their way to clear out the cache of weapons and other items found in the bunker.

  “Got everything you need?” I asked the stoic SEAL. He hadn’t said much of anything during the torture. I wasn’t sure if he was sickened or surprised—if I had to guess though, I’d go with the latter. I knew I had shocked myself with the ease with which I had tortured this man. If it didn’t bother me—well, good. I’d see how I felt about this later. Adrenaline was still pumping through my veins, making me hyperaware of my surroundings. Even my breathing was loud to my ears right now.

  “Yeah. Let’s put this fucker out of his misery.” Sawyer reached for the wooden shard in Azizi’s chest.

  “Wait.” I stopped him with a hand on his bicep. He looked down at me, arching one eyebrow in question. “I’ll finish what I started.”

  “Be my guest.” With a flash of respect in his eyes, the lieutenant stepped back out of the way, giving me space to work in.

  Grasping the wood with both hands, I fought to find the leverage I needed to pull it out. It was slick with blood, wedged tightly in his chest and the wall behind him. Lacking the correct position to pull it out, I picked up my hammer, instead.

  I briefly met Azizi’s eyes—they were wide with fear, rolling in their sockets with shock and terror. “See you in Hell.” I swung the hammer two-handed, smacking solidly on the side of the shard, driving it toward the center of his chest, puncturing his heart and killing him instantly.

  “Remind me never to piss you off, Michaels.” Sawyer extended his hand for me to shake.

  “Likewise, sir.”

  We left his body hanging on the wall, already drawing flies. A fitting end to the husband of a child bride, wife-beating bastard, and terrorist that he had been.

  5

  Heading back to the base, I gripped the seat in front of me in the M114 Humvee the best I could. We were bouncing over ruts big enough to swallow a small car. The mountain pass was narrow and dangerous. Staff Sergeant Montez was in the front, with Private Ruez driving. The radio crackled, static breaking up the transmission.

  “Sergeant, what the fuck was that?” I leaned forward and shouted to be heard over the engine noise, my M16 wedged tightly between my legs. I fucking hated Humvees—their sub-par suspensions were blown out almost immediately upon arrival to Iraq.

  “No idea, but it didn’t fucking sound good.” Twisting a knob, he tried to clean up the reception. “Ironman Two Six, this is Punisher One Nine. Over.”

  He was attempting to check in with the other company that was just over a mile in front of us. The narrow twisting road made it impossible to keep them in sight. Besides my Staff Sergeant and Private Ruez, I was in the back with Private Anderson, Specialist McCoy, and our gunner, Corporal DeSalvo.

  The Humvee in front of us held the rest of Staff Sergeant Montez’s squad. It had taken them very little time to load the weapons and electronics into the Humvees, and we were on our way back to base.

  A squawk on the radio grabbed our attention again. “Punisher One Nine, Ironman Two Six. Over.” Heavy gunfire came across the radio loud and clear. Without being told, we double checked our weapons, preparing for a battle.
/>   “Go ahead, Ironman Two Six, over.”

  “Punisher One Nine, Proceed north with caution, taking heavy fire.” The radio crackled again, interference breaking up his words. “Do . . . ambush . . . turn . . . base. Over.”

  “Say again, Ironman Two Six?”

  The radio fell silent.

  “Ironman Two Six, say again. Over.”

  “If your fucking foot isn’t on the floor, make it happen right fucking now, Ruez!” Staff Sergeant Montez yelled the order, and the Humvee shot forward. They weren’t fast, but Ruez was going to get every single bit of horsepower up and running. “Lock and load, ladies. We’ve got a rescue to do. Corporal Michaels?”

  “Yes, Sergeant?”

  “I know you’re one of those smart fuckers over there in intelligence, but I expect you to pull your fucking weight. Got me?

  “Got it, Sergeant!” My already sweating palms dampened further. I gripped my weapon and patted my MOLLE vest, double and triple checking my extra magazines were in place. I’d been in the Army for six years, stationed in some of the nastiest hellholes on the planet, but I’d yet to see much combat. A few skirmishes here and there, but no casualties on my side—thank God.

  We smelled the smoke first, then we saw the black pillars of smoke and flames reaching for the sky. Not a soul was in sight from this distance.

  “This doesn’t look good, Sarge.” Ruez’s voice cracked with fear. He was nineteen if he was a day. Poor kid had only been here for two weeks.

  “No, Private, it does not. Roll up as close as you can.” Twisting in the seat slightly, Montez shouted to DeSalvo, “Keep your fucking eyes peeled! Be ready to light up some rag-head fuck-wads on my command!”

  “Roger, Sergeant!”

  I could barely hear him over the wind that was picking up. We pulled up to the wreckage behind our lead Humvee and the sight greeting us was burned into my brain—I knew I would never forget that day.

  Bodies were strewn all over, legs and arms spread several feet away from the torsos they’d once been attached to. Blood soaked the sand, black and thick. It was a massacre, unlike anything I had ever imagined.

  “You know the fucking drill people. I want five meters, then twenty-five,” Montez ordered. Speaking into his radio, he ordered the lead Humvee to set up a security position.

  I scanned the area, the ground, ditches—everywhere my eyes could see five meters out, around the vehicle before getting out. “Clear, Sarge!” The others all responded the same. Which didn’t mean there was nothing there, only that we couldn’t see it.

  As one, we opened our doors and stepped out onto the loose soil and hot wind. The unmistakable stench of death hit us in the face like a hammer blow. Private Anderson was bent at the waist, puking his guts out into the dirt.

  “Knock it the fuck off, you pussy. Check twenty-five before you get us all killed,” McCoy shouted from the cover of his door.

  Anderson wiped his mouth and stood, rifle to his shoulder as he scanned the surrounding hills. Seeing nothing, we stepped away from the M114.

  “Stay the fuck together, I don’t like this,” Staff Sergeant Montez commanded. “Watch your fucking six. I want eyes everywhere.”

  “Copy that, Sergeant.” I turned to the left, towards the half dead excuses for plants this fucking sandbox had. None of the little bushes were big enough to hide anything, which meant my section was clear of tangos. All I saw were the dead, blood, and sand.

  A pop to my right had me pivoting on my heel, weapon up, searching for a target. Private Ruez was on the ground, his gloved hand clutching his throat, which was pouring a river of blood.

  “Man down! Ruez is hit!” I barked, grabbing their attention. Men from our lead Humvee set up defensive positions around us. They were firing up into the hills, the cracks of rifle shots and explosions from grenades shook the ground at our feet. The enemy was using the hills and rocks for cover, popping up to fire and toss grenades, before ducking back down out of sight.

  I fell to my knees beside the injured man, jerking his hands off his throat. Arterial spray slapped me hotly in the face, the metallic flavor of pennies hitting my tongue. Spitting his blood from my mouth, I pressed my hands tightly to his neck. My actions were in vain, Ruez was pale and limp. He’d bled out in seconds. With a swipe of my hand, I closed his now vacant eyes. He was old enough to die for his country and brothers, but he’d never be old enough to buy a drink.

  Pop-pop! Another two men from the first Humvee fell.

  “Sniper above us! Get your fucking asses to cover!” Montez was screaming and waving his arms, getting us to move backward, behind the cover of the Humvees. We returned fire, the cracks of our rifles adding to the chaos. DeSalvo had climbed back into the Humvee and was manning the fifty-cal. Hot brass fell down like rain as speeding lead flew up the hillside.

  The firing of the fifty-cal ceased and I looked back to see DeSalvo gone. I jerked the rear door open to find his dead body laying awkwardly over the seats, most of his face rendered to red meat.

  “We need to move! Do you want to die today, soldiers? Get your asses into the Humvees, bug the fuck out!” Montez pointed wildly, spurring us into action.

  The unmistakable whistle of an RPG had us all diving for cover. The lead Humvee was engulfed in fire and was slowly turning into a pile of molten metal and burning rubber.

  “Incoming!” I screamed, seeing the trail of a second round headed our way from a nearby ridge. I grabbed Anderson by his flak vest and hauled him after me. We dove into a ditch as our Humvee was hit, the explosion throwing sand and fire into the air. The shock-wave hit us, knocking us down further into the ground.

  “We have to fucking move!” I hauled the stunned Anderson up, jerking him after me as I ran down the road, trying to find cover. “Keep fucking going!”

  I checked back over my shoulder to see some of the men from the lead Humvee were following us, chasing us down. Montez was in the rear, the last man, making sure no one was left behind. My ears were ringing sharply, I couldn’t hear fuck-all, but my eyes worked fine. I was firing, trying to cover us, my weapon heavy and hot in my hands.

  Taking another glance back, I saw Montez’s body freeze . . . and then dance. Bullets ripped through his body, shredding him. Blood flew out of his chest in a red mist. His mouth opened in a silent scream as he began to fall. Time slowed and then stopped altogether. He hit his knees, clutching his chest and stomach with shaking hands.

  His lips opened and closed as blood poured from his mouth. “Go,” he said. I couldn’t hear him, but I knew what he meant as sure as if he were standing next to me. He was giving me his men to command—to save. They were my men now. Somehow in the last few minutes, I’d become the ranking NCO on scene.

  I nodded to him and turned away as time sped back up to normal. The screams of the dying, and the crackling and sparking of fires filled my ears.

  A whistle and a whoosh flew past our heads. “RPG!” I screamed, diving into the dirt. A split-second later I heard a second round fly by, the smoke trail headed right for us. The heat and percussion from the blast slammed into my body. I looked back, the men from the lead Humvee were in pieces, ripped apart by shrapnel.

  Scrambling to my feet, I hauled Anderson up and pushed him forward. We ran. When McCoy fell in beside me, I pushed even harder. Grit flew into our faces and still we ran—heading for a second ridge where we could hopefully find cover. We gasped for air, and our legs were weak, but still I pressed them. I wasn’t going to die today, and neither were my men.

  Minutes and hours blurred together. For two days, we ran and fought, being forced deeper into the countryside with every mile. The only radio we still had between us had taken a hit—we had no comms, no food, and very little water. Exhaustion pulled at us—we were all wounded at least once. I’d been grazed on the upper arm, the searing pain ripping through my flesh. I didn’t bother with a bandage, our med kits were nearly empty. The little we had left I wanted to save only for the most serious wounds among my m
en.

  I consulted my map again. We were deep behind the wire, in enemy territory, with no way to call for rescue. We were dangerously low on ammunition, each of us only had one full magazine left. Thirty rounds apiece, we couldn’t afford to stop and fight; we’d be slaughtered.

  “Mic, where are we?” Anderson was panting beside me, his face red with sunburn.

  “We’re about a fifteen klicks from the ambush site. They’re gaining on us again, too. I’m trying to circle us around and back. We’ve only got one more day of food and less than that in water. The best I can hope for is that HQ hasn’t given up on us and will keep sending out search and rescue until we’re found. We have to keep moving, get as close to the ambush site as possible if we have a chance in hell of surviving this.” Thirty miles on foot, most of it in the dark while being pursued by the enemy . . . fuck, fuckity, fuck.

  “Copy that.” McCoy stood next to Anderson, their eyes searching for tangos, as they waited for my command. I wished I’d had enough time to collect Montez’s dog tags, along with those from the others who’d died. His family back home would never know he’d died saving us—our mission in that fucking goat village had been deemed classified. I knew, later, I would grieve. Right then, I had to focus on getting us out of there alive.

  Sitting behind his machine gun door gunner Marco DeAngelis kept his eyes peeled from the open door of the Blackhawk helicopter they were flying around in. After a shootout with Ramzi Khatib and his men, which had made the OK Corral sound like a BB gun fight, it had been dark when they’d returned to base to find out the convoy was missing. It had never reached the base, and there had been no communication or mayday from them. It wasn’t the first time the desert conditions had fucked with allied radios, and he doubted it would be the last.

  The burnt out vehicles and dead soldiers had been found at an ambush site about halfway from the village to the base. The deceased had been retrieved by the Army and loaded up into choppers to be sent home by plane to their loved ones. Because many of them had been unidentifiable, at first, due to facial wounds, and others had been blown apart, it had taken a few more hours to realize that three people were still unaccounted for—Corporal Michaels, Specialist McCoy, and Private Anderson. It was unknown if they had been captured, killed in another location, or were still out there somewhere, so there were four helos out searching the area surrounding the ambush site. The search had been hampered by a sand storm and the fact they weren’t getting any signals from their personal locator beacons.