Man of War

by Sean Parnell

  The impact shook the walls, kicking even more grit into the air. He still couldn’t see the gunmen, but heard the rounds snapping past him. He rolled. “Son of a bitch,” he swore at the searing pain that lanced his side.

  Steele kicked his feet behind him, trying to crab into a shooting position. He got the rifle up just as the exhaust fan kicked on, cutting a path through the smoke and revealing the man searching for him with the rifle. Steele fired twice and the man fell. He got to his feet, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side, and then the second mortar round hit the roof and exploded.

  The red strobe and the exhaust fan quit at the same time, and in the darkness Steele heard a hissing sound. He tried to place it over the woman screaming at him to “cut me loose!”

  Steele moved cautiously, scanning the heaps of trash and broken sections of roof lining the floor. He picked his way toward the sound of the woman’s voice, and then got his first unmistakable whiff of natural gas.

  Explosion ruptured the gas line.

  He knew that if the fan didn’t come back on it wouldn’t take long for the Gatehouse to fill up with natural gas and turn the room into a bomb.

  “Hurry.”

  “I’m coming!” he yelled as the backup generator kicked on and the strobes and fan came back online.

  But it was the flashlight that blazed out of nowhere that froze Steele like a deer in headlights. Whoever was on the other end centered the powerful beam on his face. He was blinded and was about to shoot when a voice he hadn’t heard in four years froze him in place.

  “Easy, kid, bullets and gas are a bad mix.”

  “Nate?” Steele held up his hand, trying to shield his eyes. The light dropped to his chest, and then he could see.

  “In the flesh.”

  The light was attached to a shotgun, and with the backlight there was no mistaking his mentor.

  “Shoot him!” the woman yelled.

  The third mortar sparked the gas, sending orange fingers licking through the air. The heat was incredible and quickly sucked the air out of the room. Steele’s chest tightened, each breath harder to draw, and what air he got burned his throat and lungs. He stared at Nate, who just stood there, scars highlighted by the flame—eyes silent and glaring like those of a wraith from the grave.

  “You going to let her die too?” Nate said finally.

  And then the ceiling fell in with a torrent of embers and jagged bits of metal and brick. Steele covered his head, and when he looked up, Nate was gone.

  Chapter 29

  I saw him die.

  Steele stood fast, bolted to the floor by doubt and memory. The flames still flicking around the floor where he’d last seen Nate.

  Go.

  He leapt through the fire, raising his arm against the heat that cooked the sweat off his face. On the other side he found a doorway, and he was about to charge after West when he heard the woman screaming.

  “Please! Don’t leave me!”

  Steele stopped; he was so close he could see the sliver of light outlining a door at the end of the hall. He’s right there—just on the other side. I can still catch him.

  It was a defining moment, an answer to the pain and misery that had plagued every day of the past four years.

  “Please!” the woman screamed.

  “Shit!” Steele yelled.

  He ripped himself angrily from the pursuit and turned his attention to the woman zip-tied to the pipe. Her face was covered in soot and dried blood and her hair was matted against her scalp. She was helpless, but just for an instant, Steele considered leaving her.

  “Dammit.”

  It took everything he had to step back into the flame, and as he did, he stripped the knife from the sheath on his chest carrier.

  The flames had begun to burn out and were licking at the edges of the ceiling in search of oxygen. Steele ignored the heat, and was so angry he never heard the high-pressure hiss right above him.

  “Hey, look . . .” the woman said.

  “I’m coming,” Steele grumbled.

  “No, look out!”

  He stopped and glanced toward the ceiling where she was pointing. The last thing he saw was the tail end of a flame get sucked through the crack next to the central gas line that bulged like a python after swallowing a pig.

  Steele tried to jump out of the way, but his rifle got hung up. He cut the sling free, barely dodging the falling ceiling. When the dust cleared, he made his way over to the woman.

  “Hey, how’s it going?”

  “Fine. Now cut me loose.”

  He hesitated a second when he brought the knife up.

  “Both of you need to stand still.”

  “What?”

  “Just kidding,” he said, before turning the blade and cutting the cuff without breaking her skin.

  “We need to go,” she said, coughing.

  The woman pushed past him without a word of thanks, but instead of heading to the doorway, she jogged over to the computer.

  “What in the hell are you doing?”

  “My job.”

  I’ve had about enough of this.

  He gingerly hobbled after her and grabbed the back of her shirt. “Unless you are a fireman, we have to go right now.”

  She typed furiously and shrugged him off when he placed his hand on her shoulder. “Just a second.”

  “We don’t have a second,” Steele replied, snatching her off her feet and carrying her to the door. A beam fell from the ceiling, crushing the computer and sending a cloud of burning embers chasing them out the door.

  He put her down once they were outside, and together they greedily gulped at the fresh air. It only took a second for Steele to realize that they weren’t out of trouble yet. The alley echoed with gunfire, and when he tried to use his radio nothing happened. He looked down, trying to find the problem, and saw a scorched circle through the fabric of the pouch. He pulled the radio halfway out of it; a bullet was flattened against the metal.

  “Best day ever.”

  “Can you be serious for a second?”

  Steele ignored the question and yanked his 1911 from its holster. He was trying to keep the mood light so she wouldn’t realize that they were in a bad spot. He had no idea how she had gotten into the Gatehouse, or who she belonged to. None of that mattered. The only thing he knew for sure was that she was his responsibility now.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Meg,” she answered tersely.

  “Well, Meg, if you want to stay alive I am going to need you to listen. My arm’s kinda messed up,” he said, turning around. “But if you can grab that pistol strapped to my back and pull some security that would be great.”

  Meg took the Glock 26 from the holster at the small of his back and Steele continued without missing a beat. “You’re with the Agency, right?” It wasn’t much of a guess, seeing how she obviously wasn’t with West. “So I assume you know how to use—”

  Meg cut him off by press-checking the Glock, dropping the mag to make sure it was topped off before slamming it home with a smirk.

  “Yeah, I got it. Got any more bullshit questions, or is macho twenty questions over? No, then how ’bout you follow me?”

  Steele’s mouth fell open and he shook his head as she walked off. “Oh, Eric, thanks for saving my life, how can I ever repay you?” he mocked while activating the CSEL’s homing beacon before falling in behind her. I hope someone has their ears on.

  “What was that you were saying back there?” she asked when he caught up with her.

  Instead of replying he put his finger up to his lips. Meg opened her mouth and then her eyes widened at the sound of the voices on the other side of the wall. Steele knew they were most likely more fighters. He needed to focus, but all he could think about was Nate.

  “We need a phone or something to get some help,” Meg hissed.

  “Man, I wish that I had thought about that. Do you think maybe one of these guys will let us borrow a cell phone?”

  “Ar
e you always such an asshole?” she said.

  Steele stepped past her without answering and took point. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off and it took everything he had not to bite her head off.

  They made it to the edge of the alley and Steele held up his hand before peering out. The street was awash with fighters and there was a flatbed truck pulled over a hundred yards away unloading more men. Half of them worked to set up a barricade while the rest turned toward the Gatehouse.

  “What’s the plan?” Meg asked.

  Steele ignored her, but was thinking the same thing. They were in a bad way: cut off in a hostile city.

  The alley blocked them from moving to the east or west, so their only options were to go back or try and get across. Steele had learned his lesson about crossing open streets, and was about turn around when he saw a man on a dirt bike puttering toward them. He had to stop and take another look.

  The rider’s jeans were tucked into a pair of black rubber boots that he must have stolen from the docks, and instead of a shirt, he had two bands of ammunition crisscrossing his torso. What got Steele was the pink boa twisted around his neck, and the Algerian army helmet bouncing loosely on top of his head.

  It was obvious that the man was high as a kite.

  “Thank you, God.”

  Steele stripped his last frag from his kit and handed it to Meg.

  “I’m going to jack Mad Max for his bike. You throw this.”

  She nodded.

  Steele waited until the man was just at the edge of the alley before stepping out. The suppressed 1911 spat once, and the rider tumbled over the back, his boa trailing behind him.

  The AK clattered to the ground and Steele snatched it up, throwing the sling over his head before grabbing the bike’s handlebars. He goosed the throttle, and the back tire got traction and spun around.

  Meg tossed the grenade with a grunt, followed by a man yelling in Arabic. Steele felt her jump on the bike, and waited to feel her arms around him.

  “Go, go!” she yelled.

  The fighters managed to get off one shot before the frag exploded. Steele didn’t bother with the effects; he twisted the throttle and the motorcycle leapt forward.

  He ducked low and cut the bike in a tight turn at the next street running north. He didn’t have a plan, but he knew he needed to head north—to the water. They flew through the next intersection past a group of fighters throwing Molotov cocktails at a car. They crested a small rise in the street and Meg squeezed his shoulders at the same time Steele saw a truck racing toward them.

  Steele downshifted, hitting the brakes and forcing Meg’s body against his. He twisted the bike through an open yard, jumping the curb before angling down the hill on the other side. He could just see the edge of the ocean, but then had to focus all of his attention on dodging the piles of trash and scraps of metal littering the hillside.

  “Hold on!” he yelled.

  He gassed the bike over the retaining wall at the bottom of the hill, hitting hard on the other side. The shocks absorbed most of the jump, but Steele almost dumped the bike. He was struggling to regain control when he heard a metallic banging behind him.

  “Holy shit, they followed us down the hill!” Meg yelled.

  Steele felt her thighs tighten around him and her right hand let go. The Glock barked twice. The road ahead was jammed with fighters and soldiers battling for control of the street. A fighter lit off an RPG and it sailed over its target and came screaming over Steele’s head. Tracers coiling from a Browning .50 cal mounted to a soft-skinned jeep punched through a knot of fighters before sparking off the ground.

  “Take the alley, it cuts through,” Meg yelled into his ear.

  Steele ducked off the road and into the alley and found a row of stairs. He had too much momentum to stop and only enough time to yell, “Stairs!”

  “No, don’t take the . . .”

  “Hold on.”

  The front tire dipped and Steele held on for dear life, trying to keep his weight centered.

  “I said don’t take the stairs,” she yelled again.

  Steele white-knuckled the handlebars all the way down and miraculously kept control of the bike. Finally the front tire hit flat ground and he let off the throttle. Steele hadn’t realized he was holding his breath and started breathing again.

  He hazarded a smile, gently took the corner, and was just turning to check on Meg when a man stepped out of the shadows, pointing a rifle at his face.

  Chapter 30

  Nate West stood on the deck of the container ship watching Algiers burn. Didn’t lose as many as I thought. West had known that he was going to take casualties in the city and had been prepared to lose half of his men. It was an incredible number, one the U.S. military would balk at these days, but it was all part of the plan.

  In the end he had only lost six, and all of those were at the Gatehouse.

  Eric, you lead-shootin’ bastard.

  West had thought that sending Breul north would keep Steele off his tail long enough to hit the Gatehouse and slip away. But that was before he learned about Meg Harden. Having to track her down cost him time, and if Daniels had been able to do what West had paid him for, he had no doubt that his men would have gotten away scot-free. Not that it mattered.

  He had already lost everything that he cared about, so in a way death was a release.

  “You should have killed Steele,” Villars had chided him.

  “Leave the thinking to me,” West replied.

  He knew how the U.S. intelligence apparatus worked. The CIA and NSA were a bunch of bureaucrats who had to get permission to take a piss. The Program, while faster and more agile, had its own rules.

  “Steele is alive because I want him to be,” West said. “Right now I need you to contact Baudin. Tell him I need him to find someone for me.”

  “Then what?” Villars had asked.

  “Then we sit back and watch the fireworks.”

  Chapter 31

  Back in Washington, D.C., John Rockford was poring over the reports coming out of Algiers. Intel was sketchy, and while he had ordered UAVs and satellites to be directed over the city, it would take time for them to provide any usable intelligence.

  What was worse was that Rockford hadn’t heard anything from Stalker 7 and Styles had pulled a Houdini. Instead of coming to brief the Vice President and the chief of staff, the Director had sent one of her lackeys. Rockford knew the drill. The only reason Styles hadn’t shown up was because somehow the CIA was exposed.

  Right now the best intel the White House was getting came from the networks. The television inside Cutlass Main was tuned to CNN and the network was painting a stark picture. Algiers was in chaos. The rebels had stormed the city, destroyed the power grid, and were digging out the secure phone lines. Communications with the U.S. embassy were spotty and Rockford knew it was the same with the French and British.

  The satellite uplinks were overloaded and the rebels were besieging the airport. After their impromptu meeting in the White House Medical Unit, Rockford had followed President Cole to the Oval Office. The President went to his desk and casually began looking over some paperwork while Rockford paced.

  “John, sit down, you are making me nervous,” Cole said without looking up.

  Rockford forced himself to take a seat on the couch.

  “So, John,” the President began, “how do you feel about taking point on the Algiers situation?”

  “Sir, I do not think I am qualified for that.”

  “Why not? You were there when it kicked off, and it is in your wheelhouse,” Cole answered, coming around the desk.

  “Well, first of all there is Styles.”

  President Cole held up his hand. “John, we have been over this. I will handle Robin when the time is right.”

  “Well, sir, I guess—”

  “Great,” Cole said, slapping his hands together. “I know you will do an excellent job.”

  And just like that, the issue was settl
ed. Rockford was taking point on Algiers. The problem was, the answers he needed were supposed to come from the CIA, but Styles was stonewalling him.

  If Rockford waited on the CIA there was no doubt in his mind that Styles would make sure there was nothing linking her to what had happened before she told him anything.

  Back in his own office, Rockford picked up the phone and dialed his chief of staff, Ted Lansky.

  “Teddy, before you head home can you come down to my office for a second?”

  “On my way.”

  Rockford had worked with Lansky when he was the Director of the CIA, and they had been friends for almost twenty years. But the two men were polar opposites. Rockford was the practical one and prided himself on being able to detach from even the most passionate situation. It was the reason he had risen through the ranks of the CIA while Lansky stayed out in the cold, relegated to the clandestine services. When Rockford became the Director, one of his first moves was to fire the head of the clandestine services and appoint Lansky in his place. The job came with the unofficial title of “spymaster.”

  During his tenure, Lansky made his share of enemies, and it was said that when he was finally forced out of Langley he had more vendettas than the Sicilian Mafia. Rockford knew that it was his friend’s fierce loyalty and the tendency to say exactly what was on his mind that got him in trouble.

  In fact Lansky had so many enemies that before he cleared his personal effects from his office the powers that be had already made sure that he was blackballed inside the Beltway. If it hadn’t been for Rockford tapping him as his chief of staff, there was no doubt in the Vice President’s mind that Ted would have ended up in Boca Raton playing cribbage with a bunch of geezers.

  A knock at the door signaled Lansky’s arrival.

  “Come on in,” Rockford said, getting to his feet.

  “You needed to see me, boss?” Lansky asked.

  Rockford waved him in. “Shut the door behind you,” he said, bending down to open the shelf at the bottom of the minibar. He pulled out a bottle of Blanton’s Special Reserve and held the bottle so Lansky could read the label. “You want a drink?”