Assassin's Revenge

by Ward Larsen

  * * *

  The general’s open palm pounded down on the table three times in succession. The JCS chairman was livid. “He put one of our jets in harm’s way! And now he’s assaulting an armed compound single-handedly! This guy is nuts, I tell you—he’s trying to take on North Korea single-handed!”

  The president looked around the table. Only one other voice ventured to rise.

  “No,” CIA Director Coltrane said. “What he’s doing makes perfect sense. Slaton is forcing our hand.”

  EIGHTY-THREE

  When the compound came into view, Slaton froze in his tracks. He drifted behind a tree, and bent one knee to the knuckled, snow-encrusted trunk. He found himself staring at the main house. After so many days of searching, traveling halfway around the world, his wife and son were no more than two hundred yards away.

  But a difficult two hundred yards it was.

  As Slaton stood breathing in frigid night air, his eyes stepped between a half-dozen windows glowing with warm amber light. Which one? he wondered. Where are you? Any hope for a response to his sixth-sense inquiry was shattered in the next moments.

  He heard the engines first, followed by a sweeping glare of headlights. Two large SUVs hurtled up the drive. They skidded to a stop in front of the main portico. Men began piling out and dispersing—so fast that Slaton lost count. Thirteen, fourteen. All had either machine pistols or handguns at the ready. The only positive was that he saw no bulkiness to imply body armor.

  His first thought: he was looking at Kwon’s response to the failed coup. Yet according to the CIA, Dear Leader had dispatched a battalion-sized army unit, hundreds of regulars. This was far too small a unit, and they wore tactical clothing, not uniforms. Slaton finally understood when he saw one of the new men coordinating with the guards at the main entrance.

  His very bad day had just gotten worse.

  These men weren’t here to arrest Park—they were his reinforcements, here to protect the head of SSD. Perhaps he kept a unit of loyalists nearby, or maybe this detachment hadn’t gotten word of the attempted coup. Kwon might control the army, the rest of North Korea, but this remained Park’s territory. His refuge—for at least another fifteen minutes.

  Slaton remained motionless behind the tree. It seemed yet another insurmountable obstacle. He watched the new men string out a perimeter defense. He’d been expecting to encounter a force of between ten and fifteen men—terrible odds, but with surprise and some luck, he might at least have gotten inside. Might have been able to spirit Christine and Davy into the woods where they stood a chance. Now he was facing a force twice that size, all of whom were well armed. Presumably, the sharpest troops in Park’s personal army. On top of that, in roughly fifteen minutes, Chairman Kwon’s force would arrive … and the bloodbath would commence.

  His family squarely in the crossfire.

  Slaton’s tactical lobe went into overdrive.

  He looked hopefully at his silenced radio. But what good was it? He knew the situation here better than anyone in Washington. Knew it was nothing short of dismal. Any conceivable plan would be rushed and incomplete. And with no plan at all, he was facing impossible numbers. Slaton wondered if his emotions were getting the better of him. Pushing him into mistakes he wouldn’t otherwise make.

  Of course they are, he thought.

  But there was never any choice. If he didn’t go in now, in the next sixty seconds, he never would. And that was something he couldn’t live with.

  In the end, he decided his greatest assets remained speed and surprise. Catch them before they organized.

  He began moving to his right.

  * * *

  “There he is,” said the technician in the White House Situation Room.

  On a large central screen they all saw the real-time image—Slaton was circling the main house where, by their best estimate, thirty-one guards were taking up defensive positions.

  “He can’t be thinking of going in alone,” said the director of national intelligence.

  “Can we reach him?” the president asked.

  “No, sir. His radio is powered down.”

  “Where are Kwon’s troops?” asked Coltrane.

  A map appeared on a secondary monitor, and everyone saw an “ETA” clock counting down in one corner. 00:18:45.

  “Is that enough time?” the president asked, looking pointedly at the JCS chairman.

  “Maybe,” the general responded.

  * * *

  The weapons at Slaton’s disposal were hardly ideal. One Sig P228, twelve rounds remaining, not suppressed for sound. Even in Slaton’s expert hand, the gun had a realistic range of no more than a hundred yards. Far less when things went to hell and he had to start moving. The knife in his pocket would have been more useful had it been a combat blade. Unfortunately, it was little more than a survival tool—more suited to shucking oysters than cutting carotids.

  Slaton did, however, have one other weapon—which wasn’t really a weapon at all. He pulled out the two cylindrical survival flares. They were identical dual-use items. One side was pyrotechnic, filled with red phosphorous for getting the attention of rescuers at night. The other side was for daytime use and would generate a dense cloud of orange smoke.

  He maneuvered as far west as his cover allowed, until he had a view of the side of the residence where it joined the hill. There, on the back corner, two guards stood between the main residence and an attached garage. The garage was big enough to hold four or five vehicles. Directly behind the guards, on a slab abutting the house, was a fuel tank the size of a car. Slaton could only guess what it held. Fuel for vehicles? Low-grade oil for the furnace? Or perhaps nothing at all, he thought dismally.

  He counted four men on the roof, double the number in the surveillance photo in his pocket. They looked ridiculous standing between pleasant gingerbread peaks, but would be no less lethal for it. At least five men had moved to the front side of the house. Slaton noticed a door on the corner of the residence, with a path leading to the garage. A service entrance to the house. It seemed the softest point of entry. Slaton readied the Sig. The nearest two men on the roof, roughly sixty yards distant, had a commanding view of the driveway. They had to be first in line. Slaton settled into a good stance and took careful aim. No more than one round per target was mandatory.

  He fired, the report of the shot violating the cool night air. Even before the man dropped, Slaton was settling his sight on the second target. The first man went down, disappearing behind the roofline. The second spun from the impact, clutching his throat, and fell from the roof. Slaton popped one of the flares, the daytime side, and threw it toward the top of the driveway—the area of highest threat. The flare skittered across the gravel and came to rest spewing thick smoke that went ochre in the half light.

  He sprinted into the open, making for the garage. He heard shouting all around him. Everything to his left was obscured by smoke. At the corner of the garage was a chest-high woodpile that continued twenty feet in a line with the building’s front edge. Slaton vaulted the woodpile to reach the garage, then threw his back against the side wall. He waited one beat, then led with the Sig around the corner. The two guards near the side entrance hadn’t moved—their guns were drawn, but they were looking at the smoke. Slaton splurged for two rounds. Both went right past them and hit the tank. He backed away around the corner, but he knew he’d been spotted when the two responded with heavy fire. The weatherboard at the corner of the garage shredded like it was going through a wood chipper.

  Slaton forced himself to wait—ten seconds, twenty. The return fire paused—time for new magazines. He popped the pyro flare, glanced around the corner for one good look, then threw it skidding beneath the ruptured fuel tank. He spun back into cover, waiting for an explosion. Hoping for an explosion. Nothing happened. He feared the tank might be empty after all. Or that his rounds might have struck too high on a half-full tank.

  He needn’t have worried.

  Had Slaton ventured a
look, he would have seen a puddle of fuel on the ground light off under the 1,600-degree-Fahrenheit torrent of phosphorus. At first the rising conflagration only surrounded the tank, enveloping it like a giant log thrown on a fire. Then, finally, the tank blew.

  The explosion rocked the hillside. If anybody didn’t yet know the compound was under attack … they knew now.

  * * *

  “Mommy!” Davy yelled, running into her arms.

  “It’s only thunder,” Christine said, holding him tight.

  “I don’t like thunder.”

  “I know baby … I know.”

  “I hear fireworks too,” he said. “Is it Fourth of July?”

  “No, it’s just—” She didn’t know what to say, so she just held him. She had done her best to insulate her son. Done her best to not relay the fear she herself felt. It was no longer possible. His tiny hands clung to her sweatpants.

  Christine saw only two guards at the door now. The others had run off moments ago, and the two still in place had their weapons drawn. She looked around the room. The most heavy-duty piece of furniture was the large hardwood desk. She carried Davy behind it, kneeled down. Christine pulled back a roller chair and together they crawled into the well.

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  The woodpile was getting obliterated. Amid the cacophony, Slaton discerned voices behind him. He spun and saw two men rounding the back corner of the garage, one with a machine pistol, the other with a handgun. Slaton sent a round toward the more heavily armed man. He jerked once, but remained standing and sprayed a wild stream of fire. Completely exposed, Slaton threw himself to the right as bullets laced the frozen ground. He felt a stab of pain in his right foot. From a prone position it took four more rounds to put both men down.

  He crawled closer to the wood stack, bullets still raining in—now coming from both the roof and the front driveway. The smoke flare was dying out, only a few orange wisps fluttering in the breeze. The fuel tank was a smoldering mass of twisted steel, but little fire remained. He was certain the two men who’d been standing near it were dead. The door of the house was thirty feet away, but he could never get that far over open ground.

  With the heaviest fire coming from the roof, he shifted right behind the log stack, then rose. He saw two men, sent one round toward each. He didn’t wait to see the results. The instant his head came back down a grenade exploded beside the woodpile. Most of the blast was absorbed, but this time he felt pain in his left leg. He looked down, saw blood and torn fabric. Still, everything seemed to be working. But for how long?

  If he didn’t move he was doomed.

  And if he did move?

  Same result, only quicker.

  He needed ammo. Needed a better weapon.

  Slaton looked toward the rear of the garage, saw a machine pistol next to one of the bodies. It seemed his best chance. He was quite sure he had one round left, but didn’t want to bet his life on it—not given the chaos of the last minute. He did a quick press check, saw glistening brass.

  One round.

  He felt like he was facing an army. Bullets were pinging in. He suddenly realized rounds were now chipping at the stone garage wall. Someone was trying to flank the woodpile. Slaton rose to one knee, preparing to dash for the distant machine pistol. Then a flash of motion caught his eye.

  Twenty feet away on the driveway.

  He whipped the Sig toward two shadowed shapes and fired his last round. The man on the left fell. The Sig’s slide locked back—as Slaton knew it would.

  Empty.

  The other man had him cold, his short-barreled weapon directed low toward Slaton’s feet. At that range, with a clear view of his target, all he had to do was raise the gun slightly to seal the deal. In that moment Slaton should never have hesitated. He should have rushed the man, hoping to absorb the first rounds in some none-vital organ. For reasons he couldn’t quantify, he didn’t.

  The man remained motionless. No, he thought, he looks like he’s made of stone. Slaton wondered if he was suffering a manifestation of “time standing still.” The last moment of his life being prolonged through some primal mental process.

  Then the man shuddered ever so slightly. He fell in two distinct phases—first onto his knees, and then a face-plant into the gravel. He lay perfectly still.

  Slaton’s first thought: he was a victim of friendly fire. But then he realized the logs around him were no longer being ground to pulp. He still heard shots, but a second type of weapon had entered the fray. A sharp, muted clatter. Audible mechanical action. This sound he knew very well—someone employing high-end, sound-suppressed weapons.

  Then he saw four heavy shapes emerge from the treeline, crouched and firing on the move. Tightly spaced, disciplined fire. Perfect spacing between elements. The barrage that had begun five minutes ago was dying fast. Slaton watched two bodies crumple near the house. Another seemed to take flight off the roof. Park’s men, falling like rain.

  Slaton’s next thought was more logical—Chairman Kwon’s battalion had arrived. Yet these were not North Korean conscripts.

  Four more shapes emerged from the darkness, playing Reaper to Park’s fast-fading defenses. The gunfire died down abruptly. Only an occasional burst now, and exclusively from the new arrivals. Slaton had no doubt he was watching professionals—a point finalized when a black man built like a mountain jogged toward him. He stopped three steps away, his breath going to vapor like a train at the top of a hill.

  “Mr. Slaton?” he asked in a deep baritone.

  A nod.

  “Commander Marcus Danford, SEAL Team Five. You look like you could use some help.”

  * * *

  When a bullet had come through the window minutes earlier, Christine was thankful she’d bundled Davy under the big desk. It protected them on three sides.

  The pair of guards at the door had disappeared when the gunfire broke out. A tremendous battle had been raging outside, but it seemed to be dying down. Not knowing the implications of it, she decided staying where they were was the safest option.

  A rush of footsteps echoed from the main room. That was followed by the only two voices Christine would have recognized here: Park and Khang. The two men’s words were in Korean, but their tones could be read. Khang was in charge, Park compliant.

  The footsteps came closer.

  “Mommy—”

  “Shh!” she responded, putting an index finger to her lips.

  Davy frowned, but seemed to sense the importance of what she was telling him.

  They came into the room, and she saw shadows beneath the desk’s front panel, moving toward the wall on the left. Then she heard an odd sound, like a heavy door creaking on old hinges.

  Park said something, the fear in his voice not needing translation. That was followed immediately by a heavy blow and a grunt.

  More squeaking, then silence.

  Christine realized her hand was over Davy’s mouth. He looked frightened. After a minute of silence, she softly removed her hand and tried to smile. He half smiled back.

  A minute later she heard a second group of footfalls from the main room—at least three or four this time, heavier and intermittent. No voices at all. Christine bent lower, trying to get a look beneath the low gap of the desk’s façade. She saw two pairs of boots pause at the study’s entrance. Davy suddenly mirrored her move, falling on his belly to peek beneath the one-foot gap.

  She reached to pull him away, but he squealed and wriggled free.

  “Davy, no! Get back—”

  He squirmed underneath and disappeared. Christine’s heart seemed to stop. The next sound she heard was her son’s voice. “Daddy!”

  She backed out and cleared the desk just in time to see Davy leaping into his father’s arms. Relief swept through her like a wave—the fear, the tension, all purged in an instant. Christine locked eyes with David, embracing him from afar as their son clung to his chest. Two men stood next to David, both soldiers. Neither looked Korean.

  She walk
ed slowly toward them.

  David looked like a battle-weary warrior. There was blood and dirt on his face. His hair was a grimy mess. He was wearing a uniform of some kind, parts of which looked like they’d gone through a shredder. None of that mattered.

  His arms remained locked around his son. His eyes never left hers.

  Only when she was closer did Christine see the rest. Something she had never before seen.

  There were tears streaming down her husband’s face.

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  As much as Slaton wanted to take a moment with his family, he knew they weren’t out of harm’s way. So he had no complaint when Danford declared, “We need to get the hell out of here! Inbound regulars are getting close!”

  “Where are your Black Hawks?” Slaton asked.

  “We put down in a clearing about a klick out. The house is secure now, so I’m bringing them in closer—the parking lot outside is a decent LZ.”

  No sooner had Danford said it than Slaton heard the low-frequency whoop whoop of rotors.

  They left the house as a group. Slaton carrying Davy, Christine right behind him. The two SEALs outriggered on either side. The chopper was waiting like a rented limo, the side door open, alert team members standing on either side.

  As Slaton was lifting Davy into the helo, a pair of SEALs rushed up to Danford. “Sir, we can’t find Park,” the lead man said.

  Danford began coordinating on his tactical mic.

  Christine pulled Slaton aside. “They’re looking for Park?” she asked.

  “Long story, but yeah. They want to bring him out as a defector.”

  “I think I know where he is…”

  * * *

  A minute later Christine was in the Black Hawk seated next to Davy. Four SEALs were inside with them.

  The second of the three Black Hawks was landing behind them, more of the team ready to board up. Danford was still coordinating on his comm unit. A man began waving Slaton into the Black Hawk with Christine and Davy.