by Sean Parnell
Steele sucked in a short breath, the CS scalding his lungs. The man got to his knees and he threw himself at him. The fight was close and dirty, all knees and elbows. Neither man could throw a full punch or see the other through tear-soaked eyes. It was like fighting underwater, dark and claustrophobic.
Steele slammed his forearm into the bridge of the man’s nose and took a loping right hand for his trouble. There wasn’t any time for pain, just the primal urge to live and to kill. Steele fought like a feral animal, using every part of his body as a weapon. He managed to land a solid blow to the jaw and rose to his feet. The man sprawled for his legs and grabbed him near the knees. Steele hammered at the back of his neck, stretching against the stitches like he was about to split a piece of wood with an axe.
The blow crumpled the man, folding him in half the same way you’d close a lawn chair. Coughing and sucking air, Steele retrieved the SCAR and put a bullet in him.
Chapter 64
The jeep sped away from the burning van a moment before Steele appeared out of the shadows, the gas still burning in his lungs. Winded from the run, he raised the rifle, desperately wanting to take the shot, but the flames flared out his NODs.
His thoughts immediately turned to Meg. He ran toward the van on rubbery legs, his muscles burning like battery acid. The vehicle burned hot, the blaze stoked by the rubber tires and flammable upholstery.
“Shit.”
He fumbled the Nalgene bottle from the pouch and poured it over his face, hoping the water would let him get closer. Tugging his battle shirt over his mouth, he approached again. The air shimmered from the heat and silver tendrils of liquefied aluminum rolled off the rims and down the slope. The water evaporated immediately and Steele paced around the pyre like a wolf on the edge of a campfire, but he could get no closer.
“Meg!”
Unable to take the heat anymore, he backed off, still screaming her name, and it was only when he stopped to take a breath that he heard her moan.
“Uhhhh, Eric . . .”
“Meg?”
He turned his back to the van, making ever-widening circles, scanning the ground through the night vision. And then he saw her, lying in a crumpled heap next to a rock. Steele stumbled to her side, falling to his knees.
“Meg, hey, talk to me.”
“It hurts,” she moaned.
The blood on Meg’s plate carrier reflected in the firelight and the placement of the wound sent a chill up his spine. It was close to her heart and Steele jammed his hands beneath the armor, probing for the entry wound.
“I’ve got you,” he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else. He stripped his knife from its sheath and sliced the retaining straps, pulling the vest free before ripping her shirt to get a better look at the wound.
“Oh, thank God.”
The bullet had hit her shoulder.
“Did I get him?”
“Don’t worry about that now,” Steele answered, unbuckling his trauma kit. The first things he took out were a fentanyl lollipop and a roll of tape. The fast-acting painkiller was used widely in the war on terror for gunshot wounds, and he taped the stick to her right hand and brought it up to her mouth.
“It’s fentanyl, just suck on it.”
“That’s what she said,” Meg joked. The smile turned to a frown when Steele began probing the wound.
“You scared the hell out of me, do you know that?”
“I think I hit him.”
“Good girl, I should have been there.”
“No, it’s fine.”
Steele unwrapped the XSTAT hemostatic injector from his packaging. It looked like a giant syringe filled with tiny white pills. The pills were actually sponges, and when injected in the wound they would expand, forming a clot.
“This is going to hurt,” he said, jamming the tip into the wound and pressing the plunger.
“Son of a bitch,” Meg cried, attacking the fentanyl pop with a vengeance.
Steele pulled the injector out and watched the wound bulge from the inside as the sponges expanded. In seconds the bleeding stopped, but just to make sure, Steele pressed a gauze pad over the wound, securing it with a square of tape.
“Is . . . is that guy moving?”
“Where?”
He turned to see a man struggling to get to his feet. “Hold tight for me.” Steele drew his Glock and walked toward the wounded fighter.
“Let me see your hands,” he commanded.
The man looked up. His face was a mess and blood poured from his ears and nose. Most of his hair had been burned away and his scalp was pink with patches of charred skin. The man reached for his pistol but Steele held his fire. He knew by the crooked angles of his fingers that the man’s hand was broken.
Steele swept his legs, slamming him to the ground. The man cursed in Afrikaans, and Steele jammed the pistol into the center of his forehead.
“Give me a reason.”
The man tried to fight, but was in no condition, and after a halfhearted effort he gave up and lay on his back.
“Kill me,” he whispered.
“What’s your name?”
“Just kill me.”
Steele knew this was one of West’s men and he seriously thought about putting a bullet in his head.
“He might know something,” Meg said, her voice strained from standing.
“I ought to . . .”
Meg placed her hand gently on his shoulder.
She was right and he knew it. Steele slipped the pistol into its holster and got to his feet. He looked around. The field was on fire just like the house, and there were no vehicles for him to use. In the distance he thought he heard sirens.
How the hell are we going to get out of here?
“What are we going to do?” Meg asked, swaying where she stood.
Steele grabbed her and helped her to the ground. Once she was set he took the remaining fentanyl pop from his kit and shoved it in the wounded man’s mouth. He didn’t answer right away because he didn’t know yet. The only thing that was for certain was that there was no way they were going to get away with Meg and the wounded man.
“I don’t know.”
He didn’t realize he was bandaging the man’s wounds until the patient started struggling. “Just kill me, for fuck’s sake,” he groaned.
“Shut up and suck on your lollipop, asshole.”
“Eric, do you hear that?”
Steele’s ears were still ringing and he could barely hear Meg’s voice, let alone anything else. He strained his ears, looking up from the man he was working on.
Rotors—shit.
He grabbed the SCAR, switching out the magazine, while searching for a place to hide. “We need to go, can you move?” he asked, gently helping Meg to her feet. The rocks, we can hold out there for a little bit. He was almost out of ammo and had one frag left. The fight would be short, but Steele had no other options.
“C’mon.”
The sound of the rotors got louder—they had been masked by the hillside—and before they were halfway to the rocks the bird was overhead. “Get down,” Steele said. He pushed Meg as gently as he could into a hollow, planning to draw the helo’s fire away from her.
The helo came in fast and settled in a tight orbit overhead. A spotlight clicked on, illuminating everything, and Steele broke into a run, hoping to draw them away.
“Where ya goin’, mano?” a voice boomed from the bird.
Chapter 65
In the wings of the House of Representatives chamber, Rockford stood in front of President Cole while the sergeants at arms of the Senate and the House cracked jokes. It was 8:28 p.m. and in two minutes they would move to their seats. He could hear Cole’s strong voice as he joked in the hallway, seemingly at ease and giving no outward sign that he was sick.
I have no idea how he does it. Yesterday he was up all night puking from the chemo, but you sure as hell couldn’t tell.
“One minute, gentlemen.”
Rockford turne
d and locked eyes with his boss. Cole gave him a wink.
At exactly 8:30, the deputy sergeant at arms announced the arrival of the Vice President and Rockford walked through the hall and into the Senate, taking his seat. Lisa beamed at him from her box, where she sat with Emma.
Rockford scanned the faces of the men and women who ran the United States. The general attitude toward Cole was one of respect. Even though the President’s approval ratings were strong, there was a feeling that America was ready for a change. They had been at war since 2001, almost sixteen years, and Cole showed no signs of letting up. He viewed the world as a realist and saw an enemy that refused to admit defeat.
Rockford noted that Styles was conspicuously absent.
At 9:00, President Cole entered the chamber and the assembly got to their feet as “Hail to the Chief” boomed from loudspeakers. Rockford found himself nodding as Cole pressed the flesh, all smiles and the picture of health. The President shook hands with friend and foe alike. Tonight wasn’t about the partisan politics that dominated the capital, it was about America. Cole was gracious, humble, and well liked. The left could say what they wanted on TV, but it was generally accepted by both sides that Cole was a good man.
The President was slowed by endless handshaking and pausing for pictures with members of Congress. It was a lesson Rockford took to heart every time he saw his boss in action. Cole was a fair man, and that went a long way in this day and age. His ability to remember everyone’s name and something about them was both astounding and endearing. Rockford still had no idea how he did it.
It took ten minutes for him to get to his chair, and when Rockford took his hand, with a “Good evening, Mr. President,” he felt a tremor in the usually iron grip. Cole was sweating around his hairline and Rockford could see that they had caked the makeup on, but there was still strength in his eyes, and that was enough for Rockford.
“Members of Congress,” the Speaker began after taking the podium, “I have the high privilege and distinct honor to present to you the President of the United States.”
Finally Cole took the podium, the flashes from the press pool erupted, and he nodded as his party showered him with adoration. Eventually the applause died down enough for him to speak.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I stand here both humbled and in awe by your gracious show of support and the weight of the occasion. Being the President of this great nation is the highest honor of my life and a sacred duty that I hold most dearly.
“As we close in on the end of my first term I am happy to say that our great nation is stronger now than it was when I took office. It is more profitable, secure, and respected than it was four years ago, and while we still . . .”
Rockford knew his knees would be hurting when the address ended in an hour. It was like church—sit, stand, sit, stand—but it was worth it. He hadn’t seen Cole this happy since before he was diagnosed with cancer.
“I want the American people to know . . .”
The first time Cole faltered, Rockford thought that the emotion of the moment had gotten to him. Cole was an excellent orator and memorized his speeches, which meant he didn’t need the teleprompters.
He saw the tremor start in Cole’s leg.
“I want the American people to know that I will always put the needs of . . .”
Rockford moved to the edge of his seat. There was something very wrong. Cole raised his hand to his ashen face. It was shaking, and he was sweating profusely now. Rockford’s eyes shot up to the monitor hanging from the ceiling, and his mentor suddenly looked tiny and frail. The First Lady saw it too and they locked eyes.
“Help him,” she mouthed, but there was nothing Rockford could do.
What the hell is going on?
“Nancy . . .” Cole said suddenly. It wasn’t a whisper, more of a gasp.
And then President Cole collapsed onto the podium.
Chapter 66
Robin Styles sat on the couch watching the State of the Union, her hand cramping around the phone. President Cole had just taken the stage and she caught herself breathing in short expectant gasps, like a dog tugging on a leash.
This is it.
Cole began to speak, and Styles leaned forward, taking a sip of wine while searching the President’s face for the signs she had been told to expect.
He looks fine. Did she do it?
She set the glass back on the table. Her hands shook and it vibrated slightly, sending red wine cresting up toward the rim.
“There,” she said, pointing at the TV even though she was the only one in the room. The camera angle switched and showed Cole from the side. Behind the podium his leg was twitching. He stumbled over his lines, seemed to recover, and then all the blood rushed from his face.
You don’t have to die, just collapse right here on national TV.
“Nancy . . .” the President moaned. He reached for his face and then he was falling.
“Yes!” Styles screamed, jumping to her feet.
Triumphantly she watched Vice President Rockford hurdle the edge of the stage and scramble to his boss, the camera catching everything. Chaos exploded in the room, Secret Service coming in from all angles, flashing lights erupting like fireworks, blinding the camera.
It was better than she ever could have imagined.
Chapter 67
Henri Baudin’s Gulfstream was waiting for West at the airfield. His men had failed to grab Bassar, which meant West had lost the initiative. But there was a silver lining.
At least Steele is dead.
West carried the bag up the stairs and was just about to step into the cabin when the engines began winding down. The pilot stepped out of the cockpit, his blue bus driver’s hat cocked to the side and his hands held out in front of him like he was shooing a flock of geese.
“What the hell are you doing? Get this bird in the air.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the pilot said in accentless English, “but Mr. Baudin has informed us that you are no longer authorized to . . .” He grunted and lowered his hands. A wrinkled confusion spread from his forehead over the cocky look he’d worn when he came into the cabin.
The pilot looked down at his stomach and touched the crimson stain spreading over his white shirt like spilled wine on a tablecloth. His mouth formed a silent O and he shuddered when West yanked the knife.
West held the man upright with his left hand and wiped the blade across the pilot’s collar, leaving two bloody smears.
“I’m sorry, what were you saying?” he asked, letting go of the man’s shoulders. He turned sideways and let gravity carry the pilot out the door.
“Jonas, get this plane in the air,” he said.
The South African marched into the cockpit, pistol in hand. He jammed the barrel into the copilot’s ear. “You’ve been promoted,” he said, cocking the hammer. “Get the engines lit.”
“Of course, sir.”
West sheathed the blade and carried the device into the cabin. He took a seat on the leather sofa and groaned appreciatively.
“Boss, you’re bleeding,” Liam said.
West looked down at his arm, noticing the blood for the first time. The nerve endings in his left arm were dead and he hadn’t even realized that he had been shot.
Liam, like his brother Jonas, had served with Villars in South Africa. West called them the “platinum twins” because of their white/blond hair and love of outlandish jewelry that they referred to as “flash.” West watched Liam cut his shirt away with a precision that Nate had come to expect from the former combat medic.
Liam inspected the wound and said, “Let me give you a shot for the pain.”
“Don’t need it. Be a good lad and grab that bottle,” West said, motioning toward a bottle of Chivas Regal that sat in the cabin. “Best part about third-degree burns, they kill the nerve endings.” He took the bottle and popped the stopper with his teeth. He spit the cork on the ground and took a long pull, pausing to take a breath and check the label. “Never was a scotch fan, b
ut this stuff ain’t bad.”
He leaned back, letting Liam bandage his wound and listening to the engines powering up.
“So Steele is dead?” West asked.
“That’s what Jonas said.”
“Did he see the body?” West demanded.
Liam nodded.
Like Liam, his brother Jonas was a pro and if he said that Steele was dead then West knew he had one less thing to worry about.
“I’d pour some out for him, but why waste good booze?” He handed the bottle to Liam, who put down the shears and took a hit.
“Enjoy it, we are about to make history.”
Chapter 68
Meg came to slowly, blinking up at the white ceiling and listening to the heart monitor beep. She had no idea where she was.
“Welcome back,” Steele said.
Meg looked over at the chair, her vision blurry from the pain meds. She tried to lift her arm but it was tied tight to her body in a sling. The pain lurked beneath the surface, dulled by whatever they had given her.
“Where am I?”
“Morón Air Base.”
“Still in Spain?”
“Yep.”
“Hey, chica, looking good,” Demo said, stepping in the room.
“What took you so long? We thought you were dead.”
Meg noticed Demo had a fresh bandage on the side of his neck, but other than that he didn’t appear any worse for wear.
“Rest now, I’ll check on you later.”
“Don’t you leave me here, Eric.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I want your word. Promise you will not leave me here.”
He gave her a kiss instead.
Steele stepped out of the room and nodded to the MP who was leaning against the nurses’ station flirting with a brown-haired girl in white scrubs.
“You ready to go talk to our friend?”
Demo rubbed his hands together before picking up an attaché case from the chair. “I cannot wait.”