by Rick Jones
From the pocket of his Dragon Skin armor Dante removed a small cylinder--a flash bang--and showed it to Liam, who offered a thumbs up.
Dante brought the grenade to his mouth, bit down on the pin, and pulled it free from the explosive. With a quick toss he sent the flash bang in the attackers’ direction, then--along with Liam--turned his head away as the grenade ignited into a white-hot starburst of light. The resulting explosion shook the area like a sonic boom, radiating a concussive wave strong enough to dull the wits of anyone within its path.
When Liam and Dante converged on their enemies’ position, they were surprised to see that they had moved away from their points before the blast, having the presence of mind to know what a flash bang was and what it could do the moment it hit the ground.
From the shadows, Shazad’s team members attacked. The foe targeting Liam moved his weapon from left to right, spraying the vicinity with a horizontal bullet-hose. The rounds stitched across Liam’s armor, pounding him off his feet to the floor. One bullet, however, caught him in the unprotected region between the chest plate and the shoulder--right at the joint--rendering his left arm completely useless.
Liam was thinking how his attacker was older and perhaps seasoned, when the man edged away from the shadows and centered his assault weapon to a target atop Liam’s forehead. But the ex-SEAL was speedy. He immediately determined that the man was wearing Kevlar, so he raised his weapon and aimed for his legs, the bullets cutting across flesh as bursts of red mist erupted from the combatant's thighs.
The attacker went down screaming with a hand to his wounded quadriceps, his teeth gritting in pain. In an action that appeared more involuntary than practiced, he simply raised his weapon in response and fired off a barely-controlled volley towards Liam, the shots hitting Liam’s weapon and forcing it free from his hands.
Liam momentarily panicked, his head turning madly from side to side, scanning for his firearm. Then he realized that no more shots came. His opponent's magazine had gone dry. But now he was attempting to reseat another one from his prone position. Liam kicked the weapon away from the man’s grasp, leaving his attacker lying belly down with a full magazine in his hand and nowhere to put it.
The insurgent rolled and tossed the magazine at Liam, who deflected it with a padded forearm. But the action bought the attacker time to reach for his knife and thrust it. Liam launched himself and grabbed the attacker by the wrist, the knife now held steady by both of them.
But the attacker had two good arms whereas Liam only had one. With a quick, hard double-jab to Liam’s injured shoulder, the assailant propagated electric pain throughout the Outcast operator's body.
Liam went to the floor shrieking and clutching his ravaged shoulder.
The jihadist followed, mounting him like an obscene lover with his knife held ready to slash across Liam’s throat. But Liam gripped the man’s wrist, yanking the blade away when the attacker tried to push it forward. The tug-of-war was one of vacillation as the knife neared the flesh of Liam’s throat, then was forced away by Liam’s strength, only to work its way back to its intended mark once more.
The knife finally grazed the skin of Liam’s throat and drew a line of blood. He could feel the strength draining from his injured arm, which felt rubbery and ineffective. As his attacker geared himself for a finishing stroke with the combat knife, a bullet-hole appeared in the center of his forehead, a ribbon of smoke curling ceilingward from the wound.
The religious fundamentalist stared at Liam for a long moment as his lungs expelled the last of their air supply with a long sigh, and then wilted to the side, dead.
Liam got onto his one good elbow and fought for breath.
Dante Alvarez stood over the body, examined it for signs of life, and then looked at Liam with a neutral expression.
“You all right?”
Liam looked beyond his partner in war and saw that he had taken out his opponent, who now lay in the shadows in an odd and twisted position. Not only had he neutralized his own man, but also Liam’s.
Liam nodded, then winced. “Get me up."
Dante grabbed Liam by his good hand and hoisted him to his feet.
“My weapon...” Liam looked around the vicinity.
“You need to fall back,” Dante told him. “You’re wounded.”
Liam found his weapon and held it up in a display of vigor. “I still have one good arm and two good legs. No way am I leaving you alone.”
Dante seemed to mull this over, eyes flicking from Liam's legs to his bad arm, to their immediate surroundings.
Liam lowered his weapon and took a few steps toward Dante. “Look, man, I'd be dead if it wasn’t for you. I know that. So please accept my thanks. And my apologies for what I said. Okay?”
Dante's face seemed to soften at Liam’s words. “Like I said,” he replied, not above a little I-told-you-so ribbing, “when everyone's claiming to give 110 percent to everyone else's 100, I always give 125.”
Liam cracked a smile. Even the movement of his lips was not without marginal pain. “I'll say it again, Dante- thank you for saving my life. There’s no way I could truly express my gratitude.”
Now it was Alvarez's turn to grin. “I believe you just did.”
Liam checked his wound and noted the blood flow, which was hemorrhaging at what he thought to be a very slow rate.
“Are you sure you want to go on?” asked Dante.
Liam raised his weapon once again. “I’m not leaving your side,” he told him robustly. “We’re OUTCAST. And you and me . . ." He extended a hand, which Dante shook.
“. . . We’re a team,” he finished.
Dante nodded. We’re a team.
As a team they moved forward.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Nay and Shah pressed on until they entered a room whose walls were marred by graffiti, with a floor that was littered with broken glass from beer bottles that were pitched against those walls.
Nay looked for anything resembling a sending station that was capable of containing the unit that could transmit the kill pulse to the explosive devices. They now had just under nine minutes, the time seeming to wind down more rapidly than before.
Something from the shadows closed in on them, hard and fast.
Shazad’s men rushed them with their weapons discharging in rapid succession.
Nay immediately dropped and rolled, the bullets missing her as they pocked and pitted the cement wall behind her.
Stephen Shah came across with a volley of shots, catching one of their three attackers in the throat, the man gurgling to the floor in a boneless heap. The two remaining insurgents drifted off to the sides, their weapons spitting lead until their clips went dry.
Seizing the moment of downtime, Shah rushed his opponent on the left. With a horizontal sweep of his weapon, he struck his assailant with the stock of his firearm, a firm blow that knocked the man’s jaw askew, detaching the mandible. After rolling his eyes upward until they showed nothing but whites, he then fell back, hard.
When the last man standing reseated his magazine, he directed the weapon upon Shah.
A burst of gunfire came from the insurgent’s left. Rounds fired off by Nay’s weapon patterned across the man’s chest, striking his armor and knocking him to the floor. Shah was soon on top of him. When the Arab tried to come around with his weapon, Shah kicked the barrel aside just as the MP5 discharged, the bullets strafing the ceiling, causing fine dust to rain down on them.
Within the space of a single heartbeat, Shah raised his weapon and brought it down on the young Arab’s face, the concussive blow knocking the man unconscious.
Nay got to her feet and attempted to brush away the dust from her uniform with a few sweeps of her hand before realizing that it was futile. The dust was there to stay. She looked at the bodies on the floor: one dead and two injured, one severely. She turned to Alvarez.
“Steve, we need to find that panel,” she told him, glancing at her watch. “Quickly.”
> . . . 08:28 . . .
. . . 08:27 . . .
. . . 08:26 . . .
The confrontation had cost them valuable time.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Chance had worked his way through the brush until his opponent was less than fifteen feet away. Being a former Delta, Chance knew how to be silent.
. . . 08:23 . . .
. . . 08:22 . . .
. . . 08:21 . . .
He approached the enemy with his assault weapon slung across his back and his fixed blade fighting knife held tight within his grip.
As soon as he came within striking distance, his opponent turned to see Chance standing over him, his eyes suddenly flaring to the size of communion wafers as he tried to swing his gun around. But Chance grabbed the barrel, shoved it downward, and brought the blade straight down through the top of the man’s skull.
Dragging the body aside, Chance got on the lip mike and whispered. “Tanner.”
“Go.”
“One tango down. I’m not too far from the castle gates.” He looked at his watch.
. . . 08:09 . . .
. . . 08:08 . . .
. . . 08:07 . . .
“I need some fireworks,” Chance whispered to Tanner. “Time’s getting skinny on our end.”
“Copy that. I’m about to light’em up.”
“Out.” Chance lifted the arm of his mike over his head, and waited.
. . . 08:04 . . .
. . . 08:03 . . .
. . . 08:02 . . .
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
There were three enemies remaining outside the bunker. One stood guard at the runway’s perimeter while the other two were managing the drone itself.
Tanner had made his way close to the tarmac’s edge but remained behind a wild-growing hedge, scoping out the area. It was obvious to him that the hostiles were hastening their actions, now that they were aware of a counter-team working their way onto the premises.
Tanner switched his arms to single-shot mode, raised the weapon so that his target was caught within the crosshairs, and pulled the trigger.
The head of the man keeping guard erupted like a melon, with pulpy wet matter flying to all points of the compass. Then Tanner switched back to multi-shot as he closed in on the remaining two.
#
From the corner of his eye, Lut had seen the man by the runway fall. A halo of blood and spongy mass was spread around his body, a telltale sign that the bullet used was one of sizeable caliber. Lut quickly turned to the opposite side of the field, only to see the legs and feet of the second guard extending from the bushes, that soldier unmoving. Giving quick commands to Mufad, the large man scooped up his weapon. But before he could raise it into position, bullet holes appeared across Mufad’s back, the wounds opening like the petals of a rose.
Lut cried out to him. “Mufad!”
The young Arab didn’t seem to hear him as he went to his knees, dropping his tablet. For a long moment he stayed that way, as if entreating his God one last moment before keeling forward.
In an uncontrollable rage, Lut let loose a warrior’s cry as he barreled toward the source of the shots that took down Mufad. He peppered the brush with fire as he ran, swinging the point of his firearm from one side to the other, the bullets cutting and slicing their way through the foliage, limbs and leaves flying everywhere as if pruned by an unseen madman.
Tanner ducked beneath the botanical shrapnel. As he lay on his side, leaves, dust and even feathers raining down, he lowered his lip mike and hissed, “Chance!”
“Yeah.”
“Gate’s clear! Get moving!”
“I can get to him, Tanner. I can take out the big guy.”
“No time. Get inside and get to that console! Don’t worry about me. Out!” Tanner rolled to his left, away from the steady stream of gunfire. But the big man was almost on top of him.
Tanner got to his feet, raised his weapon, and fired. The reports were snuffed out by the suppressor as bullets zipped past the large Arab man, all the shots missing. By the time Tanner readjusted, Lut had taken to the brush in hiding.
What followed was a terrifying silence that Tanner did not expect.
He was being stalked.
CHAPTER FORTY
Chance raced into the mouth of the bunker’s opening and ran down a tunnel that smelled of dung. After rounding a bend, he saw light that could only have been thrown by incandescent bulbs. The door to the interior space was either open or missing. Just before he reached the room, he took stock of his situation and proceeded with caution. He raised his weapon to eye level and used the magnifying lens of his scope to guide him. Chance moved forward bent at the waist while constantly looking around.
. . . 07:25 . . .
. . . 07:24 . . .
. . . 07:23 . . .
Not detecting any immediate threats, he entered the room.
#
Naji was manning the controls when he registered movement from the periphery of his sight. When he turned to look, he knew instantly that he was caught within the crosshairs--there was Chance, standing there.
“Move away from the console!” Chance demanded, sidestepping his way into the chamber. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
“You’re too late,” Naji told him calmly. “The first drone is locked in. The only way to take it out is with a fighter jet. But we both know that the Phantoms can’t reach it in time, don’t we?”
Chance was amazed at this man’s English. It was perfect—without even any hint of an accent. But then again, he was American. The enemy always hiding in plain sight.
“I said, move away from the console!”
Naji refused, his eyes shifting in their sockets from Chance to the podium, then from the podium back to Chance, his mind obviously working, which Chance could see.
“Don’t even think about it,” said Chance.
But Naji did think. And he reacted. He was swift and fluid in motion, his hand reaching for his holstered weapon, grabbing it, and then bringing it up. But Chance wasted no time in pressing the trigger, either.
Muzzle flashes exploded from the end of Chance’s weapon, the bursts of gunfire on target as the rounds ripped into Naji with punches that caused the Arab to jolt and contort with their sudden impacts.
Naji screamed as his entire body became a tabernacle of pain.
Chance lifted his finger from the trigger.
The smell of cordite permeated the air.
Naji, going to his knees, dropped his pistol and enfolded himself in a feeble embrace. Looking at Chance, he gave off a most chilling smile. His teeth were coated with blood. His eyes seemed to cast a horrific aura—something that told Chance he was too late to play the part of savior.
Naji burst out with a chortle as if he had the upper hand in playing some cruel joke. “Whereas I will go to Paradise,” he told him. “You shall suffer for all eternity."
Naji then coughed up a red glob that splashed on the floor before him. Slowly, he reached out and grazed his fingertips over the blood, using it as ink, and drew something indecipherable. When he was done he raised his head and focused his attention on Chance, who was quickly approaching with his weapon leveled.
Naji’s smile withered, his eyes taking on a look of detachment, and then he was gone, the dead man falling to the floor.
Chance took to the podium and studied its control panel. He had seen this before—the controls, the dials, the toggles and the joystick. Some of it was reminiscent of the overhead control panel of a Black Hawk. Other sections, however, were alien to him.
He checked the monitors and noted that some of the cameras were shots of the tunnels, others of the outside periphery. But on the center monitor he found what he was looking for: the aerial view of the drone already in flight, the Reaper flying just above the treetops in what was known as terrain masking, a way to further disguise itself from radar.
Chance flipped switches and played with the necessary toggles to bring up the unmanned pl
ane's designated route. A digital LED readout displayed a series of numbers at the top of the screen. Coordinates. He then attempted to usurp the console's power by tapping into the Reaper's computerized brain, but failed, the flight of the drone unwavering. Then he tried to alternate its flight plan by hacking into its programming so that he could instruct it to fly into the ground. But once again, the drone didn’t respond, having a life of its own. It was starting to look like things were as Naji said-- the drone's course was locked in and there was nothing anyone could do to alter its course.
He then scrutinized the coordinates by entering the displayed digits into the computer.
What came up—what he realized had to be the target site—actually stole his breath away.
“Oh my God,” he whispered. No.
He got on the lip mike to Tanner.
But the Outcast leader had problems of his own.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The foliage was a little too quiet for Tanner’s liking. He knew that the large man was close by, perhaps listening for the faintest of noises so that he could home onto his position and rush him like a mad bull. He was watchful, scouting for delicate twigs or branches that could be as inharmonious as alarms, before leveling his foot.
And then Tanner’s ear bud chirped. “Tanner! Tanner, come in!”
Under normal circumstances, the audio transmitted through the ear buds was inaudible to anyone but the wearer. But amidst this dead quiet...
The moment Tanner reached to shut off the bud, Lut burst out of hiding and rushed him.
#
. . . 07:07 . . .
. . . 07:06 . . .
. . . 07:05 . . .
Chance was becoming frustrated. Everything he did ended in failure.
From the mouth of the south corridor, Nay and Stephen entered the main chamber. Moments later Liam and Dante entered from the southeast side. When they saw Chance and not Tanner, it begged a question from Nay.