by Jordan Cole
“You gonna be all right?” Riley asked, in a whisper. “Don’t need you dropping dead out here.”
“I’m fine,” he replied. propping his rifle against the wall next to him. “Haven’t run like that in a while.”
“Can you get to a window and set up a sniper’s perch?”
Hennessey nodded.
“Your rear will be unguarded.”
He shrugged. “I’ll figure something out.”
“And we’ll have no way to contact you. No way to let you know if something goes wrong. You’ll be on your own.”
“I spent five years in the National Guard. I can handle myself.”
“Wait fifteen minutes, or until you hear shooting. After that, you see a target, you take aim. And don’t miss.”
“I won’t. Not this time.”
Hennessey tugged up on the door handle. Riley handed him the bolt cutter.
“Take this, also. Could be more locks.”
Hennessey nodded again. Juggled the bolt cutter in his hands with the rifle as Riley held the door up for him. He disappeared inside, and Riley let it drop again, softly. Throop checked the slide on her Beretta.
“What about us?” she asked.
“We keep going. Deeper into the compound. Look for the interrogation hut Metzer mentioned. Play it by ear from there.”
“Stay close,” Throop said. “You’ve got a submachine gun. All I’ve got is this pea shooter.”
“What’s your favorite band?” Riley asked.
“Why?”
“We’re about to do this. I’d like to know at least one thing about you.”
She shrugged.
“Probably the Bay City Rollers.”
He shook his head. “Jesus Christ.”
“You asked, asshole.”
They moved out, swinging around the long side of the armory, into an exposed view of the rest of the camp. Riley’s eyes had adjusted enough to give him a general layout of the terrain. The compound was shaped like a crescent--fat in the middle and tapered on the ends, to which they were at the far-right side. Ahead, he could make out the small structures Hennessey had thought were latrines. From here, they looked more like sheds. Or storage rooms. Nearby was a long rectangular cabin that could have served as a mess hall or a meeting space. Closed and dark. No vehicles parked anywhere he could see. Throop waved Riley off the rocky track, onto a quieter strip of landscaped grass that trailed ahead of them to the mess hall. He followed, gun outstretched, the two of them in a quick, low trot. Riley turned and looked up. Too dark to see anything in the window of the armory, but he could feel Hennessey’s presence there, getting settled. The building gray and breathless and sinister. Like the Texas Book Depository. But it was a good spot, after all. Hennessey would have an unobstructed view of most of the compound.
“Get down,” Throop said. She tugged his shirt sleeve and pulled him low, behind a thin, foot-high deck that covered the length of the mess hall. They went prone, with just enough space to see over the top of the platform. A piece of cover that didn’t exactly render them invisible, but was as good as they were going to get, under the circumstances.
A Jeep pulled into view about a quarter mile away. Throop had good eyes. She had spotted it first. Its headlights were off, and it was crawling slowly down the dirt track, sometimes stopping completely between buildings. The vehicle was open-topped, but it was impossible to see how many people were inside, at this distance.
“They’re sweeping,” Riley said. “Not high alert. Not yet. But cautious. Maybe waiting for Metzer and the other one to get back.”
“Night vision?”
“I would assume so. Unless they’ve got the eyesight of hawks. Should be able to see the glow when they get closer. Can you get a headcount?”
“Not yet. Can’t tell.”
“Probably two men. That’s how they’ve been doing it so far. A driver and a spotter.”
Throop adjusted, shifting her legs on the rocky track. Riley did the same. Not the most comfortable place to be lying down. The Jeep rumbled closer, barely visible, but loud as a tank as it crunched over the gravel.
“You’re right,” Throop whispered. “There’s a glow.”
“Those goggles would help us.”
“What’s the plan?”
Riley considered. There were a lot of ways to disable a vehicle. But not very many that were feasible in near pitch blackness. None he could think of that didn’t involve running around and getting made almost immediately by the spotter in the Jeep. The spotter had enhanced eyesight, and they didn’t. Riley supposed he could try some crazy maneuver, sneak onto the slow-moving vehicle from behind and trying to take out the two men stealthily. Not the greatest plan in the world. Riley and Throop had one thing going for them. Night vision couldn’t see through wood. And right now they were still hidden, by an inch or so of thin cedar that barely covered their heads. But if the men in the Jeep looked in their direction with any sort of effort, they’d be spotted. So their best bet was the usual one. Aggression, hard and fast and without hesitation. It would mean giving up the element of surprise, but maybe that was a good thing. It would get Frazier’s attention focused away from Agatha and onto them.
“Not until they’re right up on us,” Riley said. “Then we pop out. We hit them with everything we’ve got. Don’t stop until you see them drop to the ground.”
The Jeep continued its steady crawl. Maybe fifty yards away now. Traversing past the long bulk of the mess hall. Riley could see the twin points of light where the spotter had the night vision binoculars pressed to his face. A demonic green gaze, searching them out. The vehicle inched closer. Riley heard the engine humming and snippets of conversation and gravel displaced beneath the wheels. The air smelled of diesel fumes and exhaust. Both Riley and Throop pressed their bodies down as far as they could. Feeling exposed and vulnerable against the thin strip of wood, which would stop bullets about as well as nothing at all.
“Wait,” Riley breathed. The Jeep had stopped completely. Just idling in the middle of the road. Nothing happened for a long moment. Then it moved forward. Riley pressed the selector switch of the submachine gun. Changed it to full automatic.
“Now.”
He sprang up. Aimed the H&K at the driver’s seat of the Jeep and held down the trigger. Blinding light flashing from the muzzle of his gun. A staccato burst of automatic fire. Throop beside him, just as quick, emptying her Beretta into the Jeep’s passenger seat. Riley swept his gun in an arc along the front of the Jeep, bullets flying from the barrel at an incredible velocity. It felt like a long time. But in reality, it was only a few seconds until the magazine emptied and the H&K clicked uselessly. He ejected the spent magazine and pulled one of the extras from his pocket and slapped it home.
With the illumination from the muzzle flash, Riley could see things clearly. The driver was slumped against the wheel, his black sweater full of bloody holes. His foot on the brake, because the Jeep didn’t roll forward. The spotter in the passenger’s side had tried to flee. Got the door open halfway before the bullets ripped through him. He had tumbled out onto the gravel, motionless, with blood pooling around him.
But Riley had been wrong.
There was an extra man in the Jeep. Riding in the back, facing the rear. He had ducked flat during the initial fusillade, the bullets tearing through his partners, leaving him unharmed. He popped up from the backseat, a dark submachine gun in his hands, like one of the cutouts from the shooting gallery. Riley was surprised. Throop’s gun was empty. He could see her finger pulling the trigger fruitlessly.
Then the guy’s chest burst open. Cotton fibers and blood and gore all spraying from this new hole in his torso. He dropped straight down like a diving bell. After an infinitesimal delay the crack of the rifle sounded. Hennessey, watching their back.
You can shoot after all, Riley thought. A direct hit, center mass, no headshots or fancy stuff. What he liked to see. He flashed a thumbs-up in Hennessey’s direction.
&n
bsp; “Problem,” Throop said. She was bent down, rooting around the body of the guy who had fallen from the passenger’s seat. She held up the night vision binoculars, which had taken a bullet. The right lens was cracked and useless, the carapace torn through with either a direct shot or a ricochet. Riley did a quick search, patting down the limp corpses, but found no other binoculars.
“It’s all right,” Riley said. “We’ll make do without it. That’s five down.”
“Who’s left?”
“Frazier and Whitehall for sure. Maybe another two or three-man crew, maybe not. Can’t be any more than that.”
“Now they definitely know we’re here.”
“Doesn’t matter. We’ve got to get to Agatha. The huts must be at the other end of the compound. Grab one of the submachine guns and let’s go.”
She unslung the weapon from the guy in the backseat, before kicking his body off onto the gravel. To Riley’s eyes in the dark it looked like another H&K, with a reflex sight along the barrel. A much better weapon than the Beretta, given the circumstances. He hoped she could handle it.
Riley flung the driver’s corpse onto the ground. Felt the Jeep jolt forward as his weight lifted from the brake. That was good. They’d riddled the Jeep with bullets. Looked like they’d gotten lucky, and missed all the vital components in the engine block. Throop climbed in the passenger’s seat, as Riley hit the gear shaft and swung a three-point turn.
“Keep your head down,” he said to Throop. “Once we get to the huts, we go hard and fast, same as before. Try to catch them scrambling.”
“Anything else?”
“Hang on.”
Riley hit the gas. Accelerating through the darkness, using his own natural night vision to guide the Jeep along the road. No sense in turning the headlights on and giving them a nice bright target to shoot at. He felt more than saw buildings pass by as he kept the Jeep rolling at a steady clip. Wooden structures with sloping roofs, cabins or barracks maybe. Throop beside him, leaning back in her seat, grasping the side of the vehicle with her right hand, weapon bouncing in her lap. Traversing a straight line through the center of the compound. Hennessey still had an open line of sight to give them cover, but they were a lot farther away than before. Hennessey could shoot decently at two hundred yards. But could he do it at five hundred? Seven hundred?
Ahead was a stone circle pit and a flagpole inside, which came into focus at the last possible moment. Riley swerved, narrowly avoiding ditching the Jeep, fishtailing up on the tires. Throop let out a small cry. The Jeep righted itself, tires touching back down to Earth.
“Sorry,” he said.
Wind whipping at his head. The tail end of the compound coming into view, growing larger and larger as a faint smudge in the darkness. Throop leaned up, against the windshield. Pointing at something in the distance.
“That’s it,” she said, squinting. “I can make out the shape. Sloping. It’s a Quonset hut, for sure.”
A few seconds later, and Riley saw it too. A curving structure, longer than it was tall. He could see at least two of them, side by side. A wide expanse of grass to the east, like a shooting range. Cabins on both sides of them, closed and dark.
Then a rifle fired.
Not Hennessey. The report was much too loud. A thick sonic boom crack of the bullet breaking the sound barrier. Then a smaller sound, a metallic clink. The bullet hit the Jeep’s windshield. Just above Throop’s head. It ricocheted off and away into the night. The interrogation huts maybe five hundred feet away now.
“Get down,” Riley yelled. Swerved hard to the left. Ducked down, pressing his head between his legs, as far as it could go. Another explosive report, the bullet piercing the space where his head had been, seconds earlier. He could hear it whizzing through the air, crashing through the headrest. He kept his foot against the gas, unable to see. It was Whitehall. He’d gotten his hands on a rifle and set up somewhere. They needed to get inside the huts, and out of the line of sight. But he couldn’t slow down now. He kept up the speed until he felt the terrain underneath change. The crunch of gravel replaced with the smooth tread of grass. He hit the brakes, but not before the nose of the Jeep smashed into the side of the hut. Throop was jolted forward, kept in the vehicle only by her seatbelt. Riley was flung forward, the steering wheel impacting his stomach. Same place he’d been kicked, not long before. Fresh waves of pain churning through him. He gasped.
“You all right?” Throop asked.
Truthfully, he didn’t know. The hurt in his stomach had rekindled like a smoldering bonfire. But he could still move, and they had to get inside. That was all he knew. He mumbled a weak affirmation and scrambled down off the side of the Jeep, Throop following suit on her side. Along the edge of the Quonset hut now, small raised windows every ten feet. Too small to squeeze through, and Riley wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it over in his condition. Whitehall was still out there with his rifle, and they were sitting ducks.
“Inside,” he wheezed, and they hustled to the back of the hut, where a gray door awaited them. Another rifle shot, but quieter. Had to be Hennessey, trying to suppress Whitehall’s fire. Riley silently willing him not to give away his position. Like Hennessey said, if Whitehall got a bead on him, it wasn’t going to end well.
Throop went for the door. Riley made to stop her, then reconsidered. Options and outcomes running through his head. Going through the door meant entering a strange area unprepared, with Frazier and possibly others waiting for them. They would have heard the Jeep smash into the side of the hut, and if nothing else they’d be on alert. But staying outside meant waiting for Whitehall to pick them off with a clean shot. Neither option was great. But aggression and speed had worked for them so far. And if they waited, Agatha’s chances grew smaller by the second.
“Hang on,” Riley said. “It’s not going to be open. Shoot the lock. I’ll go in first.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Throop stepped back. Aimed her gun at the door jamb and fired, two three round bursts, two pulls of the trigger. The sides of the Quonset hut might have been galvanized steel, but the door was smaller, flimsier, only as strong as the lock which held it in place. Throop’s bullets were grouped tightly, smashing the lock and the tumblers and the knob. The sound loud and piercing. Riley hit the door with his left shoulder, detracting somewhat from the pain in his stomach, and barreled inside. Came face to face with a man in a black outfit and black stocking cap, submachine gun swinging from his shoulders, stopping dead in his tracks. The area behind him relatively barren, a few chairs, a table, but mostly empty space. On a beeline to the back door. Beyond him, to the rear of the hut, Riley saw another man in all black, standing beside an older guy in an Army jacket and slacks. Frazier, and the last two of his guys. Next to them, a female figure supine on a bench. Tied down. Agatha. All this information flooding Riley’s brain in a fraction of a second, a dizzying array of angles and trajectories.
The first guy who was about to crash head-on into Riley was caught flat-footed. His gun at his hip, a half second away from being in decent firing position. But the second guy beside Frazier was the problem. He wasn’t holding another submachine gun. Instead, he had a shotgun, a military grade Benelli that was accurate to about a hundred yards and had a wide enough firing cone to tear through Riley, Throop, and the first guy like tissue paper. A good weapon for a close quarters shootout, if you didn’t mind collateral damage.
Riley wouldn’t have time to take them both out. By the time he aimed and fired at the first guy, the second would already have the shotgun swinging in their direction. He had to compromise. He was inches from the first guy. Only chance would be to knock him down, shoot the guy with the shotgun, and hope Throop was quick enough to finish off the first guy before he gathered himself and unloaded into Riley’s back.
Riley swung an elbow into the first guy’s Adam’s Apple. Felt it smash against all kinds of soft tissue, breathing tubes and esophageal pathways. The guy made a strained
noise and went to his knees. The second guy turned with the shotgun, much too slowly. Riley aimed and fired a three-round burst, with plenty of time to spare. One bullet to the head, two in the chest. The guy went down in a spray of gore, around the same time as Riley heard Throop fire three more shots into the guy he’d hit in the throat.
Frazier moved quickly. Quicker than Riley expected, for an old guy. He dropped to his knees, a silver pistol in his hand. Pressed the gun against Agatha’s side, using her body as a human shield. A black sack had been placed over her head. It was wet, and there were buckets on the floor near her. They’d been waterboarding her. Riley heard muffled cries emanating from beneath the hood. Saw her legs jerking. She was still alive.
Riley took a few steps toward Frazier. Now maybe twenty feet away. He saw several laptop computers open on a folding table near Agatha’s head, as well as a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Could see Frazier’s face, red and puffy. He was drunk. The hand holding the pistol wobbling worryingly.
“Stop,” Frazier said. “Don’t come any closer. Don’t point that thing at me.”
Riley could feel Throop, right behind him. He put a hand up and heard her pause. A moment of silence. Dizzying in its heaviness. Riley lowered his weapon.
“Agatha doesn’t need to die,” Riley said. “You can still do the right thing here.”
“It wasn’t supposed to get this far,” Frazier said. Slurring his words. “No Americans were going to get hurt. We’d ship them off to the Middle East and they were supposed to stay there. No one gives a shit about sand monkeys shooting each other.”