One Hit

by Jack Coughlin

  Lucky had seen the chop come down. Somali children had learned to fight for their lives, even when a loved one lay dying. Doing nothing would be fatal, for the big man would show no mercy. The ninety-pound boy launched himself at the attacker, his arms stretched out as if making an American-style football tackle. He collided hard with the Cobra’s left shin and scrabbled for a hold around the ankle. The giant wobbled with the sudden weight that clamped his foot, and then Lucky sank his teeth into the man’s meaty calf, trying to bite all the way through, gnawing like a mad dog.

  The Cobra snapped the thick wooden handle of the machete down on the boy’s head, and clubbed him a second time before the teeth released. Lucky fell off and rolled away from a kick aimed at his ribs. The diversion had cost the Cobra only a few seconds, but he knew those were vital. His forward momentum had been stopped, and he was forced to skip backward to regain his balance.

  The Somali woman was still clutching her dying husband. She was not in the fight, and Omar Jama would deal with her, the other woman, and the troublesome little boy later. Swanson was the target, and the American was reaching beneath his shirt, obviously going for a pistol. The Cobra’s veins pulsed with blind lust, and he brought the machete back under control, and lunged.

  • • •

  THE FIRST INDICATION THAT Kyle Swanson had that something was terribly wrong was through the reactions of those around him who actually saw Omar Jama burst in. He was still grabbing for the Colt in the holster at the base of his spine when he reached the angle in his turn to see what was happening behind him. He shoved down on his right foot to lever himself into a standing position.

  Molly Egan jumped straight through him and knocked him down. She exploded into the danger zone with a terrible primal scream that reached back over the ages to her Gaelic warrior ancestors. She attacked the Cobra with everything she had, her fingers curled like claws and slashing for his eyes.

  For the second time, Omar Jama was caught by surprise. The chance to hit the marine was gone, because the berserk Irishwoman had inserted herself between them. The long knife was by his right side, but she had closed too fast for him to bring it up in a full swing. Instead, he thrust the blade straight out and drove the point solidly into Molly Egan’s chest, spearing her as she ran into it. Her bright eyes opened wide with pain and shock, but she still pummeled at his nose and scratched at his eyes even as he tried to pull the machete free. The long, wide blade had penetrated vertically into her horizontal rib cage, and its sharpness cut into the bones, which trapped it.

  Unable to jerk the blade free, he dropped the girl with the machete still protruding from the chest, and she fell atop the table, mortally wounded. He frantically dug for his pistol to shift back to Swanson.

  Kyle came up on all fours, but had lost the grip on the Colt, which skittered away as if trying to hide. For the briefest moment, he wanted to grab the blade and pull it out and make Molly still be alive, but his mind had automatically jerked him into the unseen planes where the pure warrior existed. All he could do right now was to stay alive himself. His emotions froze, the storm went away, and the world slowed down as instinct and training took over.

  Once on his feet, he recognized the attacker who was trying to get a pistol up. That gun would make all the difference since Kyle held no weapon of his own, so Swanson smiled and spat at his foe and took a defensive step closer, motioning Omar Jama to come to him. The guy had muscles, but Kyle’s body was honed like a precision machine.

  “You’re the Cobra, right? So come on, you fucking snake. You killed an old man and a helpless girl. Big deal. Time to deal with me now. I’m going to rip your head off.” Could he taunt this guy into forgetting about the gun and going hand to hand? Swanson gave a little head feint, and the Cobra twitched, following it.

  Despite the setbacks, every advantage was in Omar Jama’s favor. Swanson’s pistol had disappeared, but why shoot him? He would enjoy beating the marine to a bloody pulp, and it shouldn’t take too long. That moment of contemplation slowed his gun hand, and in that instant the little boy was on him again, windmilling with scrawny arms, kicking feet. The teeth now clamped painfully onto an ear.

  Swanson kicked the Cobra beneath the exposed right knee on which the big man was resting all of his weight, and the bone broke with a satisfying snap. The Somali fighter tottered and threw a wild punch, which Kyle ducked and countered with a hard pop in the mouth. Teeth splintered, but the pistol was suddenly in the attacker’s hand.

  Then Swanson moved in close to negate the height and reach disadvantage. He got a hand on the gun and twisted the barrel backward over the trigger finger, as if opening a jar. The pistol slipped free and bounced on the floor.

  An ordinary man would have been curled up helpless, but the Cobra’s enormous strength kept him going, and he came erect, even on the bad leg. A fist connected on Swanson’s forehead and made Kyle see stars. Then the Cobra picked the marine up beneath the arms and flung him against a wall cabinet, which splintered, and the marine fell to the floor amid the debris.

  All the Cobra needed to do was keep pushing forward and get the marine’s throat in his big hands. Omar Jama knew he was going to win this fight, as surely as the tides rose and fell and night followed day, and he reached out again. First he yanked the boy off his back and threw him cruelly across the room.

  Swanson grasped a fallen picture frame and sailed it flat at Omar’s face. When the Cobra dodged, Kyle slammed him in the stomach and crunched a knee to the groin, but only managed to hit the inner thigh. It was like fighting a concrete slab. Swanson could not let that monster get on top, so he rolled out of reach and got to his feet. Don’t let him remember the gun.

  Swanson laughed at him, taunted him again. “Are you crying, you tall tub of fat? Get over here and fight me. I am going to kick your ass into next week and nail your balls to General Aidid’s door.”

  Omar Jama scowled and shook his head, trying to clear it. He was having an unusual feeling that he had not experienced since he was a child. Swanson should be dead by now, but was instead dancing just out of reach, crowing and demeaning and dishonoring him once again, still grinning.

  “I will kill you!” Omar shouted. One final rush would pin the marine, and Omar would then choke him and break his neck.

  Deqo had watched it all unfold like a dreadful stage show. Lon was dead. Molly was badly wounded, and Lucky was sprawled senseless in a corner. Kyle was fighting the madman that was trying to kill them all. Without another thought, she jumped up, grabbed the heavy pot with both hands, and smashed it into the back of the Cobra’s skull. The giant wobbled, and Deqo drew back and delivered another strike on the base of the neck, aiming for the spine.

  The Cobra was stunned by the first blow and went down with the second. Her third thundered down on the crown of his head and knocked him unconscious. Omar Jama slumped to the floor, redolent with the liquid leftovers of the African crabmeat stew.

  Swanson retrieved both pistols, and had one in each hand when he rolled the Cobra onto his back. The man was starting to awaken, despite his beating. Kyle would not let that happen. He began to hit him in the face with the guns—right, left, right, left—and each blow ripped a bloody gout in the man’s skin. He beat him until he was certain there was nothing left within the Cobra but maybe a tiny spark of life in the back of his bug brain.

  • • •

  KYLE ROLLED AWAY AND crawled over to Molly Egan and brought her up to a sitting position, leaning against him. She was dead, and the machete stuck out like an obscene memorial. Blood had congealed around the blade and soaked her shirt, and more blood smeared her mouth and her nose. He burrowed his face into her hair. He knew that he could never turn this clock back, and tenderly slid his hand down her slender face and closed her eyes. The emotions that he had suppressed before the fight were returning, but he refused to cry and would not pray. If any god allowed a place like Somalia to exist and let Molly be murdered so coldly by a fiend, then what good was he? Swanson soft
ly hummed as he ate his pain. The ring was still on her finger.

  Deqo was in the corner, awakening Lucky and checking him for any serious damage. Kyle and Deqo exchanged looks but did not speak. Nothing they could say would change anything.

  Other people, drawn by the noise, were rushing in—clinic workers who had been around misery every day—and they immediately set to work, and one covered Lon’s body with a sheet. Another ran to get marines from the stadium, and still another bound the hands and feet of the Cobra with lengths of rope. Two women gently peeled Swanson’s arms from the body of Molly Egan and removed her to a bed in the surgery, where they would withdraw the machete in private.

  Two marines in full battle gear thundered into the room, and others came running to search the area.

  “Goddam, Sar’nt Swanson. You okay?” A rough hand shook his shoulder. It was a guy from Suicide Charlie.

  Kyle pointed to the Cobra. “Yuh. Call this in, would you? It’s going to a political problem. That’s the Cobra, General Aidid’s personal attack dog.”

  The marine examined the Somali. “He don’t look too good. Did you kill him?”

  “I don’t know. But you need to get that piece of meat to a secure area right away, before Aidid finds out what happened. He might send more of his goons out.”

  “Got it.” The marine looked around. The room was wrecked, but something was missing. “Hey. Where’s Molly?”

  “She’s dead,” Swanson responded in an agonized monotone. He would not crack. From now on, he would be steel. “Molly’s dead.”

  BOOK

  TWO

  NEW YEAR: 2014

  DECEMBER 31, 2013

  THE CARIBBEAN

  A GLEAMING WHITE LUXURY yacht with VAGABOND painted on the stern loafed at anchor in the warm emerald waters near Jamaica. The billionaire businessman Sir Geoffrey Cornwell, who owned the vessel, would go ashore tonight with his stunning wife, Lady Patricia Cornwell, to celebrate the arrival of the new year of 2014 in grand style. Remaining aboard would be their adopted son and sole heir to the Cornwells’ holding company, Excalibur Enterprises. He was a slim and solitary man with sharp features and close-cut dishwater-brown hair who was in superb physical condition for someone pushing through his forties. His name was Kyle Swanson, and he was a gunnery sergeant in the United States Marines.

  He did not particularly enjoy parties. While others might carry the scents of soap and shampoo, Kyle Swanson preferred the smell of gun oil. This latest New Year’s Eve was just another day to him, and he was busy cleaning a new rifle in the ship’s armory. Instead of formal wear, he was in a pair of gray cargo shorts, a stained Red Sox T-shirt, and very worn maroon Nike running shoes with no laces.

  “You really should come with us tonight,” scolded Lady Pat. “The party at the Pegasus is always fun.” She was not yet ready and was lounging about in an old blue bathrobe and slippers, with cream on her face and stuff in her hair. She took a drink of single-malt whiskey.

  Swanson smiled up at her. “You kiddies go have fun. I’ll avoid the loud music and beach orgies and watch the fireworks from here. I plan to shoot this beast a couple of times at midnight to mark the occasion.”

  “And you will be all alone, as usual. Kyle. I swear you drive me mad.”

  “Hardly alone, Pat. There are fifteen crew members on this barge. We will eat burgers and drink beer and have a good ole time.” He picked at the trigger-housing mechanism with a small brush.

  Lady Pat sniffed. “Are you aware what this year is going to be? Two thousand thirteen becomes two thousand fourteen, and that makes me happy. Do you know why?”

  Swanson ignored her. He knew why. He bent closer to his work on the latest iteration of the sniper rifle Excalibur, which he and Jeff had invented many years earlier. The original had set a new standard for superior long-range precision shooting that far exceeded all military standards of that time and incorporated state-of-the-art electronics. It was constantly being modified to meet the future. Many companies made sniper rifles; only a few were awarded licenses to hand-craft the Excalibur.

  She continued. “Finally, after about twenty-five years, they are going to force you out of the Marine Corps, and don’t you pretend that I’m wrong. There will be no more Gunnery Sergeant Swanson. Long overdue.”

  “Do not count those chickens before they hatch, M’lady. I have been given special exemptions before, and I expect they will give me another one. I will stay in the marines forever.”

  “Hah! You’re going to be out on your arse. Task Force Trident is finished, and you are too old for special operations work. You’re a step too slow, and you will be getting no more fruit salad to wear alongside your pretty Congressional Medal of Honor and the two Navy Crosses. This year, you will be all ours, and be the full-time executive vice president of Excalibur Enterprises. I shall find you a nice girl, and the pair of you will produce the wonderful grandchildren that I so richly deserve.”

  Kyle put the gun down on a clean white cloth that was stretched tight over a long pad. “You sound like a broken record. You throw this at me at least twice a year. Ain’t going to happen.”

  She took another sip of the whiskey and checked the clock on the bulk-head. Plenty of time to finish getting dressed. “I know your problem, Kyle. You’re still in love with Coastie, but she went off and married somebody else, so now you just sulk around, pining oh so nobly and silently. Well, she’s not coming back.” Coastie was Beth Ledford, a Coast Guard sniper who had worked her way into Trident, where she eventually became Kyle’s partner. The petite and vivacious little blonde had a savant’s ability as a shooter and was as cute as a button and brave as a bull. Last year, she had married Miguel Castillo, a captain in the Mexican marines and an old spec-ops comrade of Kyle’s. The two of them were doing the happily-ever-after thing somewhere down in Mexico. He didn’t stay in touch.

  Swanson blew out a tired breath. One more time. “Coastie and I were never a couple, and there was never any romance, no sex, and not even hand holding on a moonlit lonely night while out on a mission. Why do you refuse to accept that? We were partners and good friends and I trusted her with my life. Anyway, it’s none of your business. Also and by the way, the woman is a stone-cold killer.”

  “Oh, that. I’m a woman. I know all about these things,” Pat said, and a little smile tilted the corners of her mouth. “Coastie and I had some conversations. You don’t know everything.”

  “Would you please go away and party with your husband? You look weird with that goop on your face. The helicopter awaits, and the Jamaicans are slobbering with joy, awaiting the arrival of the esteemed Lord and Lady Cornwell and their money. Give me a shot of that booze before you leave.”

  “Very well. You know I’m right. About everything.” She poured the drink and left the room, glad to escape the stink of the gun oil. Still, it never hurt to remind Kyle of his responsibilities.

  When the bulkhead hatch closed, Swanson pulled the weapon closer, put on a headset that contained a ring of bright LED lights, and leaned in to touch up the scope mount. What did she know? How many times had she played these cards? True, it had been a bittersweet moment to escort Coastie down the aisle last year and give her away to Mickey; part of him did not want to let go. Ah, well. That was that.

  Molly Egan remained anchored in memory as his only true love. Even today, his pulse skipped when he saw a pretty redhead with a short haircut. Why would he ever allow another woman to get so close to him, become that special? It was easy to be an acquaintance, harder to be a friend, almost impossible to be a lover of Kyle Swanson’s. Twenty years ago in Mogadishu, his heart had turned into a big block of stone, and it never chipped.

  But he had to admit that Pat was right about that other thing—the inexorable march of time. His eyes were still rated as having twenty-twenty vision, which was excellent for a normal man of his age, but not really what he needed as an elite sniper. Other changes were also happening. The long gallops he once did for exercise had become s
lower runs, not much more than jogs, and he had put on five pounds that exercise and diet had been unable to shed. When visiting Quantico, he admired the effortless workouts of entire platoons of new marines and was glad he did not have to go through that grind anymore.

  Swanson had been molded over the past two decades into a one-man weapons system for the marines and his country to use, and in the process he helped create Task Force Trident. The small unit of black operators had carried out missions that were way off the books, some of which had never been acknowledged. Trident reported only to whoever occupied the Oval Office in the White House at the time and had worked out well until a crooked politician had exposed its secret existence and painted Swanson as being the president’s private assassin. Trident was shelved, and its members were scattered to the winds.

  Swanson landed on his feet. The Pentagon had long ago lent him to Sir Jeff Cornwell to create the futuristic sniper rifle that had spun into a financial empire under Cornwell’s hand. Kyle had remained involved because the Pentagon liked having an inside track with Sir Jeff’s operations. Now, although still a marine, Kyle also was a senior executive in the privately held corporation. He just rode with it, trained on his own, kept his skill set sharp, and remained an optimist, believing all along that Trident was only resting until the nation needed its special services again. Things would work out just fine. They always did. Trident was too important.

  It was nine o’clock. The calendar would change at midnight. Happy New Year to me.

  JANUARY 1, 2014

  MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA

  Barlow Hess, huddled on his little yellow tow tractor, asked himself, If there is such a thing as global warming, where the hell is it when I need it? The temperature was minus nine degrees and dropping like a falling anvil in the wind that swept across the Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport. He didn’t want to go back out on the frozen concrete that was iced to the point of looking like a mile of spilled milk. He wore a heavy sweater and a padded jacket over the weatherized coveralls and wool-lined boots, and big mittens protected his hands while a thick hat with flaps was crushed onto his head. Elsewhere in the Minneapolis–St. Paul area, people were going to parties. Not in the little shed at the airport. Hess waited while a private jet taxied to the parking ramp. The snot in his nose was frozen and brittle, and snow and ice had turned his facial hair into a vanilla confection.