by Dalton Fury
Both of the Libyans now lying in the stone alley with him screamed in pain and writhed in agony.
Kolt recovered from the punch to the face and went to the guard, lying on his back, up on his palms, with his feet facing the only assassin still on his feet.
The last man standing slashed wildly at Kolt’s feet with his long knife, striking the sole of his tennis shoes twice, but not breaking through to his skin. The man tried to circle around, but Kolt countered this maneuver by rotating his body, keeping one leg up at all times as a deterrent.
As the attacker lunged forward to plunge the knife into the back of Raynor’s calf, Kolt kicked the thug’s left knee with all his strength, locking it straight and throwing the man off balance. Kolt hooked his left instep around the attacker’s right knee and pulled as he maintained pressure on the attacker’s left knee.
Kolt instinctively spread his legs, taking the full brunt of the attacker’s 220-pound body against his chest and stomach, allowing the thug to take the mount. Kolt also heard another radio call from Slapshot in his earpiece, but he was too focused on his own problems to copy the message.
The attacker was now on top and he immediately went for Kolt’s throat with both hands. Kolt thought to go for an arm bar. As a longtime student of Gracie jujitsu, Raynor was comfortable on his back with the man above him, but he knew he needed to sink a submission hold fast.
More bad guys could be just around the corner, and an arm bar, even executed properly, wouldn’t do the job fast enough.
So Kolt reached up with his right hand and trapped his attacker’s left in place on his chest as the man tightened his right hand’s grip on Kolt’s neck. Kolt reached up with his left hand and found his attacker’s right elbow. He applied pressure to the elbow to draw his attacker’s attention, and then quickly jammed the man’s left forearm against the man’s own chest. This was exactly what Kolt wanted, an opening to apply a triangle choke.
Kolt brought his right foot high over his attacker’s left shoulder and slammed it down on the side of the big Libyan’s neck. The attacker panicked, reacting exactly as Kolt had expected, and yanked his right arm away from Kolt’s neck. Raynor immediately shifted his weight again, this time to bring his left leg up over his attacker’s right shoulder and lock the instep of his right foot behind the knee joint of his left leg. Kolt was in total control and he could feel his attacker’s flight impulses kick in.
The triangle choke was too loose, and the attacker continued to struggle, his bald head turning wildly from side to side. This told Kolt that he hadn’t executed the choke correctly, so he sank the triangle leg lock deeper and lifted the attacker’s right arm into the air, essentially cutting off the man’s airway.
Kolt held the man’s elbow with his left hand and kept the attacker’s arm locked straight by controlling the wrist area of the man’s suit sleeve with his right hand. Kolt squeezed harder. When sparring with his mates, if the choke was fully seated, Raynor could expect his opponent to tap out within a half second or risk losing consciousness. Tap or nap, they called it. But this time, Raynor would not be letting go. Kolt arched his back, raised his hips slightly, while driving his legs downward through the goon’s shoulders. After seven seconds, the man momentarily froze as his oxygen flow was cut off.
Then he went limp. No more resistance, no more threat.
The fight was over, and Kolt let the dead weight of the man fall to his side. He was probably dead, Raynor knew, but there was no sense in taking time to check.
“Racer, did you read my last? Acknowledge.” It was Slapshot again. Kolt knew he must have missed something during the fight for his life. He hoped it wasn’t too important.
He looked up to find himself staring at the business end of an AK-47. Behind it was a bearded man in a suit much like those of the three men who lay on the ground around him.
Kolt knew he was a dead man — there was no way the man could miss from that short distance.
The bearded man pulled the trigger, and Kolt watched the muzzle of the AK tilt abruptly downward. Raynor flinched on the cool alley stones, but immediately he knew he had not been shot.
The weapon had not fired. The shooter experienced a failure to fire and had jerked the trigger.
Lucky fucking day.
Still on his back, Kolt reached into his pants and gripped his Glock 23. He slipped it from the concealed holster, and in his frenzy he snagged it momentarily on his pants zipper, all the while watching the gunman manipulate his rifle.
Kolt brought his gun up and pointed it at the man behind the Kalashnikov. Raynor’s hand shook uncontrollably. Breathe. He reached up with his left hand to take an operator’s grip on his Glock and steady his front site. Shit. This is going to be loud.
The shooter racked a fresh round into the chamber of the AK, and he raised it frantically at the armed man on the ground in front of him.
Kolt’s fingertip broke the four-pound trigger on his pistol once, somehow hoping one round fired would be quieter than a controlled pair. The.40-caliber round tore through the formally dressed man’s rust-colored necktie, freezing him upright for a second as the rifle dropped from his hands.
The gunman fell forward and his forehead smashed into the pavement only feet from Kolt’s head.
* * *
With all four of the JSO goons down, Kolt looked into the alcove where he had left Dr. Marris. The dark alcove was empty.
Just then a call came into his earpiece. It was Slapshot. “I’ve got Tripwire. Do you want us back there?”
“Negative. I’m coming to you. Digger, are you receiving?”
“Crystal, boss. That sounded like your Glock. You good to go?”
“Need some new shoes and a little more mat time, but I’m good,” Kolt answered, breathing heavily into his covert mic and already mentally conducting his personal hot wash of his performance.
“Understood.”
Raynor left the four men behind in the dirty passage. One of the three was clearly dead. Another was probably a goner, too. And neither of the others would be leaving that passage under his own power.
Shit. So much for low-vis. Time to run like hell.
EIGHT
Kolt headed back up the passage and then into a seedy market area. He ran past two men lying facedown and unmoving on the stone ground; both had short-barreled Kalashnikovs near their bodies. These would be the crows Slapshot had dropped. He then found Slapshot and Marris just up the street, tucked into a small kiosk in a larger alleyway. Though deep in the shade of a mosque’s minaret, Dr. Marris was covered in sweat. Slapshot looked relaxed, as always.
Raynor pulled Tripwire up to his feet. “Let’s go! We’ll get you out of here.”
“You … you two just killed all those men.”
Kolt recognized, from the sound of Tripwire’s voice and the glazed look in his eyes, that he was in shock.
“They’re okay. They’re just resting.”
“Wha — who are you?”
“Right now I’m your best friend, but that could change in a snap. This way. I have a car.”
“I’m not going with you. You are American. CIA?”
“We’ll discuss it when we get you someplace safe.” The two Americans started walking, but Marris lagged back.
“I don’t want to go.”
Kolt had no plans to spend another thirty seconds in this alley. “With due respect, Doctor, I don’t give a shit. I was ordered to get you out of here. I neglected to ask my superiors if I needed your approval to save your life.”
“And if I refuse? What? Will you shoot me?”
Raynor sighed. “Yeah, but just in the leg.”
“You gonna carry him, boss?” asked Slapshot.
“Why do you think I brought you along?”
To Marris, the Americans seemed absolutely serious. He stood and walked quickly with them up the street. He was still in shock, and therefore somewhat compliant, but Kolt knew the shock would soon wear off.
As they turned int
o a larger road, a car shot out of a darkened garage, then stopped in the alleyway right alongside them.
“Get in back,” Raynor ordered Marris.
“No. I want to find a taxi.”
“This is your taxi, Doctor,” Raynor said, and he shoved the big man inside.
Slapshot had already climbed into the backseat, and Digger was behind the wheel.
Dr. Marris tried to climb back out of the open door, but Kolt shoved in next to him, effectively pinning him between the two operators.
“I want out of here!” Marris yelled.
But Kolt ignored him, and shouted to Digger behind the wheel. “We’re up! Primary War RV!”
“Roger.” The car took off on the narrow streets of the Old City.
“Did you hear me?” Marris continued. “I said I don’t want to go with you!”
Kolt shouted at the man who was now pressed against him. “Listen! I have to keep you alive. That is my job. But I don’t have to keep you happy. You are coming with us to the embassy.”
Marris reached over Raynor and grabbed at the door latch.
Kolt elbowed Marris hard in the face.
“Ahhh!” the Canadian screamed as he cradled his nose in his fingertips. “You broke my nose!”
“No, I didn’t.”
Marris held his nose with both hands. His lip dripped blood. “How can you be sure?”
“Because I know what it sounds like when I break someone’s nose. You’ll be fine.”
On the main road out of the Medina, the car lurched to a stop just short of the Al Kornish Road. The three men in the back rocked forward as one, with the loss of the car’s forward momentum.
The front passenger door opened and Curtis climbed in. They were moving again even before he shut the door.
Curtis turned to the backseat, saw Marris bleeding from the nose just as one of the JSOC operators placed a black hood on his head, just over his eyes so he could still breathe and talk. It was Delta SOP to protect the identity of the operators during the exfil, but Curtis clearly did not understand this treatment of his VIP.
“What the hell are you doing? That’s not necessary!”
Kolt shrugged but said nothing. The hood stayed on.
Curtis looked angrily at Racer and Slapshot for an explanation, but when none came he turned his attention to Marris and said, “Dr. Marris, I know at the moment you might be a little miffed, but — ”
“A little miffed? These two monsters just killed several men right in front of me.”
Curtis again looked to the Americans in the backseat, a flash of surprise and anger on his face now. But he recovered enough to give an explanation to Tripwire. “Your life was in danger.”
“My life! My life! I did not ask them to take so many lives on my behalf! I could have talked my way out of this. Or your men could have used pepper spray or rubber bullets or…”
While Tripwire talked, Slapshot laughed aloud on his right. “‘Pepper spray,’” he mimicked.
On Tripwire’s left, Kolt Raynor scanned out the window for threats, and he called up to the CIA man in the front seat. “We can drop him off at the next corner if you like.”
Curtis just shook his head. “Shut your mouth and do your job.”
Kolt kept looking out the window. In front of him, Digger glanced in the rearview, making eye contact with his boss. Kolt saw that the young operator was waiting to see how he handled this.
Kolt said, “Mr. Meriwether, we just took care of a major problem for you. But you are making a bigger one for yourself now. You have three seconds to apologize for that last remark or it is going to get awful crowded in that front seat.”
Meriwether stared at the tough-looking JSOC officer. He was about to respond, but Slapshot looked out the back window and immediately said, “Boss?”
Kolt followed his teammate’s eyes. In the thick traffic of the Al Kurnish Road a pair of similar-looking rust-colored vans changed lanes, one in front of the other.
“The Econolines?”
“Just a hunch,” admitted Slapshot.
Kolt instantly forgot about his pissing match with Curtis. He focused on the two big vehicles, watched them as they wove through slower-moving traffic. The rear van blew past a police crossing guard at a traffic circle who was trying to get him to stop. Kolt had been well trained in mobile countersurveillance, and he knew what that meant.
The two vans were doing whatever it took to stay close to one another, and to stay on his tail.
“Good hunch,” he said to Slapshot, before leaning over to Digger behind the wheel. “Alternate rally point, and don’t take the scenic route.”
“Got it.”
Up front, Curtis was still a little flustered by Racer’s threat. He looked slowly around at the three military men. “What’s going on? Is somebody tailing us?”
Kolt was more focused on the vans behind him, but he answered, “Yep.”
“Okay.” Curtis nodded. He was prepared for this possibility. “Let’s get him to the embassy.”
“Negative,” replied Raynor.
“What the hell do you mean, ‘negative’? This is my op and if I say we take him to the embassy, you sons of bitches will damn well comply!” He looked at Digger. “Make a left up here and then another left on — ”
Digger said nothing, he only turned right at the intersection. Nobody was taking orders from CIA anymore on this op.
“What the fuck?” shouted the CIA man.
Kolt said, “Look, ace. Not trying to tell you how to run your extraction, but don’t you think there is a chance those dudes in those two trucks eight car lengths — ” He turned and checked the positioning of the force following them. “Check that … six car lengths back, just might have a single cell phone between them? And do you think there is a chance these guys could scare up some confederates to set up an ambush at one of the bottlenecks between here and the front gate of the embassy?”
Curtis opened his mouth to reply, but Raynor continued. “We head south, keep the twists and turns unpredictable, keep our tail guessing. They won’t be able to call up a blocking force from their buddies in the police or army.”
Digger made a quick turn to the left now, and everyone in the car leaned hard to the right.
“But … where are we going?” Curtis asked.
“South. We have an alternate means of extraction that will pick us up.”
The black CIA man shook his head. “No. South is desert. We get out in the open and they will have a chopper on your little rally point inside of ten minutes. The JSO has people inside the police and the air force. You three guys and your peashooters are going to be outmatched by a Hind with rocket pods.”
Kolt shrugged. Looked at Marris and then at Curtis. “Then we’ll need to disappear in five minutes, won’t we?”
Slapshot chuckled and then said, “Before we turn into pumpkins.”
Curtis looked utterly confused.
Kolt said, “Relax. We have air assets en route. We know what we’re doing. We’re frequent flyers.”
“Why the hell do I not know about these air assets?” Curtis asked.
Kolt nodded. “Not a clue. Take that up with your office.” Then he looked around the car, began eyeing Dr. Marris. “Tripwire looks like he’s about a deuce and a half. What are you, Curtis? ’Bout one-sixty-five soaking wet?”
Curtis recognized the reason behind the question. He just said softly, “Oh, God.”
* * *
Digger’s slick driving lost the two vans before he made it out of the congestion of the city, but Kolt had no illusions that the men in the vehicles had not reported to their superiors that the fleeing UN inspector and his protection force were heading out of town to the south.
They sped southeast on Ayn Zarah Road, passing fruit orchards and undeveloped land on both sides of the blacktop. Their tires kicked up dust that seemed to increase the farther they fled from the center of Tripoli.
Soon Digger made a hard left off of Ayn Zarah and onto
a narrow paved road. As he cleared the intersection, a VW bus pulled out of a grove of fruit trees and rolled into the street behind him. The minibus stopped in the lane, effectively blocking any traffic off of Ayn Zarah. Two men climbed out of the VW and went around to the back, where they lifted the rear engine access panel of the vehicle.
“Bad guys?” Digger asked.
“Negative. They work for the airlines,” Kolt answered as he keyed his radio’s mic to make a commo check with the blocking force.
Digger floored it on the straight and empty road, raced a quarter mile up to the east, and then slowed and parked the car there so as to block both lanes of traffic.
“Hold it here!” Kolt instructed.
“What are we doing?” Curtis asked now, but Raynor held up a hand to listen to a radio transmission in his earpiece.
“Thirty seconds out,” said a small voice in his ear.
“Roger that,” Kolt said in response to the call, and then he transmitted to the men up the road pretending to work on their VW bus. “Blocker One, we secure?”
“You’re clear for now,” came the reply from one of the men up the road.
These men were from Air Cell, a unit of secret air assets operated by the United States government and available for clandestine work around the world. Air Cell had pulled Kolt and his mates out of a jam or two in his time in the Unit, and he trusted the pilots and support crew to get him out of his current predicament.
Marris started to ask again just what the hell was going on when a small blue and white high-winged single-engine aircraft appeared over the top of the VW bus up the road. It touched down on the empty road seconds later. It barely slowed after its wheels hit the pavement; instead it raced all the way up to the five men in the car blocking any traffic from the east, and then turned around, aiming its nose again to the west.