Oath of Honor

by Matthew Betley

  “Come closer, but no sudden moves. Understand?” the man said as the second commando landed on the ground behind him and released the rope.

  The man’s steady eyes studied Logan’s face. “You must be Logan West.” He nodded at Cole and said, “Mr. Matthews.”

  “What gave it away?” Logan asked.

  “Your scar. We were briefed on your physical appearance before we took off. I’m Chief Sorenson, SEAL Team Six.” Sounds of more suppressed automatic weapons fire carried across the battleground. “And we need to get you two out of here as soon as possible. We’ve got rotary support on standby, but I don’t think we want to bring it in here. God knows how many guards are scrambling toward us now, and we don’t need to lose a bird. We need to get through this building and get some distance between us and this place.”

  “Chief, I know how we can get out of here, and we won’t have to walk anywhere,” Cole said. “When they dragged us in here, we came through a tunnel behind that corrugated metal door,” he said, pointing to the tunnel. “It leads to the front of the prison, but more importantly, there’s a jeep and a cargo truck inside.”

  “Exactly. Why walk when you can drive?” Logan added.

  Logan watched Chief Sorenson quickly calculate his options. He spoke into a throat microphone, “Serpent Actual, this is Serpent Bravo. We have both packages alive and well. There’s a tunnel behind the metal door in the center of the south wall. They say there are vehicles there. Recommend we rendezvous at the door, breech, and get the hell out of here. Recommend overwatch teams go down the outside and meet us at the entrance. How copy?”

  There was a pause as the chief waited for a response. The second SEAL in Chief Sorenson’s team suddenly opened fire and dropped a guard with a machete who must have thought he was invisible. Two bullets from the SEAL’s submachine gun ended his not-so-stealthy approach.

  “Roger, Actual. See you there,” Chief Sorenson said, and nodded. He looked at Logan, unexpectedly grinned, and said, “How does it feel for a Marine to be rescued by the Navy?”

  “Hey, I thought you just came to give me a ride,” Logan quipped back. “Isn’t that what you guys do anyway? Take Marines to the fight?”

  “And use them as sex slaves on ship. Don’t forget about that,” the SEAL said. “But we can discuss male bondage later. Let’s just get you the hell out of here.”

  “You guys are all fucking crazy. You know that, right?” Cole asked Logan.

  “Hey! Don’t look at me. He started it,” Logan said.

  “Guns up, gentlemen. Let’s go,” Chief Sorenson said, serious once more as he took point. He and the second SEAL led the way out of the corner, moving directly toward the garage door across the open courtyard.

  Gunfire erupted from the shattered windows of the control tower, and bullets struck the dirt to their right. Logan heard a scream as either a guard or a prisoner was hit, and he looked over to see a form writhing on the ground in pain. Indiscriminate fire. Nice, assholes.

  Several suppressed weapons returned fire, and the guard’s weapon ceased chattering. These guys do know how to shoot, he thought, knowing in truth that SEAL Team Six—now renamed the United States Naval Special Warfare Development Group, DEVGRU for short, although it was still referred to by the outdated moniker—had some of the best shooters in the world.

  An eerie silence had fallen over the entire scene. The guards had either fled or were in hiding in the shadows of the courtyard from the assault force. The prisoners who’d assembled as fight fans had scattered throughout the confined space, and Logan heard rapid conversations in Arabic and other languages. The initial panic was over, and now everyone inside—including Logan—waited to see how the incursion would end.

  They passed the Everlast ring to their left, weapons up and searching for threats.

  “Yeeeaaaagghhhh!!!”

  Logan sensed movement to his left, and his lightning-quick reflexes reacted. He dove to his right as his peripheral vision detected an enormous shape. Logan aimed the AK-47 in the general direction of his attacker and fired.

  Crack!

  As the single shot rang out, Logan realized who it was—the giant.

  The killer’s spiked bat smashed into the barrel of Logan’s AK-47, knocking it out of his hands and rendering the weapon useless.

  Fucker almost got me.

  The giant stood in front of him momentarily, illuminated by the faint, increasing glow from inside the building as more lights were turned on in response to the ongoing battle. He scowled with obvious contempt and stepped toward Logan—and faltered. He looked down at his stomach and then back up.

  Something’s wrong, Logan realized, squinting through the darkness. Light flashed off a slick surface on the giant’s torso. Blood.

  Logan’s shot had hit the mark, even as he had evaded the giant’s attack. Tough luck, motherfucker. It’s time to end your reign of terror.

  “Knife now!” Logan shouted instinctively.

  “Catch!” came a voice from his left. Logan redirected his eyes, keeping the giant in his line of sight, as an elongated object sailed toward him. The giant stared at the object as it flew through the air past him.

  A look of fury appeared on his face as he recognized what it was, and he stepped forward to attack—only to collapse to his knees in the dark dirt. He grunted as the black patch of blood spread across his entire torso.

  Logan snatched the object out of the air and looked down to see the black handle of a combat knife with a four-inch tanto blade, now held in his right hand with the angled tip pointed forward.

  “Not the people’s champion after all, are you?” Logan spat out.

  The giant knelt in front of him, motionless, still holding the spiked bat in his right hand. His breathing was labored, and he hung his head, the beard touching his chest.

  The bullet must’ve punctured a lung, Logan thought.

  A loud cheer roared through the assembled spectators at the sacrifice about to be made at their twisted altar of violence.

  Logan stepped around the fallen giant and pressed his legs into the giant’s back, placing his hand on top of the killer’s head. He leaned over and said, “This is for that poor SOB you killed earlier today, as well as for all the others you’ve butchered.” The giant moaned, which was acknowledgment enough for Logan.

  Logan plunged the blade into the right side of the giant’s neck and twisted his wrist, opening the deep gash for maximum effect. Warm blood sprayed across his hand and shot several feet into the air in a dark, spectral mist. Logan withdrew the blade, and the blood pumped out of the man’s neck onto the dirt.

  There was a hushed silence as the giant who’d tormented and killed the inmates of the Black Hole bled out in spectacular, horrific fashion. After a few moments of suspended gore, he fell facedown, his hands still at his sides, dead.

  The first two prisoners who’d approached the two combatants stared at Logan in dumbstruck amazement. Logan even spotted a guard looking at him in disbelief. The guard felt the rage in Logan’s gaze and averted his eyes, hands raised in front of him as if pleading for mercy.

  Before anyone could react, Logan raised his voice and declared, “I don’t know if you understand me, but this monster can’t torment you anymore. We’re getting out of this place, and I suggest you do the same.”

  Logan wiped the blade on his pants, removing most of the blood, and turned to Chief Sorenson, offering the blade back to its owner.

  Chief Sorenson stared at him with respect and admiration.

  “No. You keep it,” he said. “You earned it.”

  “Thanks. Now let’s get the hell out of here. I don’t think we’ll have any more resistance.”

  “You think?” Cole said. “After that display, I’m pretty sure no one’s going to try and stop us.”

  “I agree,” Chief Sorenson said. “Now let’s go find those vehicles and get the hell out of here, once and for all.”

  They set off again for the tunnel, this time without gunfi
re or random, potshot attacks. As they crossed the remaining distance, the prisoners cheered them on, shouting praises and clapping. Logan had won freedom, not only for himself, but also for all of them. He was their champion now, even if only for a short time, and they intended to shower him with the respect he’d earned through blood and glory.

  CHAPTER 39

  Tuti Island

  John heard the cargo truck slam into the embassy’s Range Rover, but his view of the crash was obstructed by the truck itself, as it plowed forward, gaining momentum and disappearing into the island’s underbrush.

  Tim had already recovered after dodging out of the way and was jogging toward John. Amira was motionless on the ground to the left of the entrance.

  Please, no, John thought, and breathed in a gasp of relief when she jumped up and brushed herself off, looking at the ruined SUV. “We need to go after him.”

  “Tim, secure the scene here,” John said, quickly gathering himself together. “Do a quick sweep for intel, laptops, cell phones, whatever. Leave the bodies. Hide them in the brush, but hurry and take the second truck and the SUV back to the embassy. The device has to be on that truck, and I plan to get it.”

  “Go,” Tim said. “I’ve got it covered here.”

  “Good,” John said, and turned to Amira. “Come on. Let’s check on Brad.”

  John ran over to Brad’s fallen form. Terry and Frank were at their friend’s side, and his black camouflage blouse was open, revealing a small Kevlar vest.

  “What the hell happened?” Brad asked, groggy from the gunshot and explosion. “I blacked out.”

  “More like you got shot and knocked out by a flashbang grenade,” Terry said. “You seriously brought your vest? You carried it on the swim in your pack? Good on you, man. It saved your life.”

  “It’s an old habit. It saved my life once before, and I always use it, no matter how much of a pain in the ass it is,” Brad said, feeling the sore spot on his chest that would soon turn greenish blue.

  “No kidding,” John said, nodding in obvious relief. “Glad to see you’re still with us. We’re going after that bastard. These guys will get you back to the embassy. See you there.”

  John ran to the driver’s side of the Mercedes SUV and yanked open the door, grateful the keys were in the ignition.

  “Why do you get to drive?” Amira asked.

  “Because I may ask you to do something borderline suicidal, and you can probably do it better than I can,” John replied.

  “I can probably do a lot of things better than you,” she said drily, as she slid into the passenger seat.

  John looked at her, tried to give her his Don’t-fuck-with-me stare as he started the engine, and laughed. “You, my dear, are probably right,” he said. He slammed the SUV’s gearshift into drive and pushed the accelerator all the way to the floor. Before he could catch himself, he added, “And when this is over, I may just ask you out to see a few of them. God knows what skills the CIA has taught you.”

  She looked at him, silent. Then her face turned deadly as she focused on the road in front of them.

  Can’t take it back now, jackass. At least she knows how you feel, especially if you get yourself killed.

  He navigated a turn at high speed, and the tires slid on the dirt as he entered the curve. He let up on the pedal, turned slightly into the slide, and allowed the tires to regain their traction. Once they did, he rocketed forward, pursuing the fleeing cargo truck.

  The command center was on the far northern tip of the island, and the only escape route was over the Tuti Island Suspension Bridge at the southern end. The driver had a minute’s head start, and John estimated they’d catch up to him halfway to the bridge, in the center of the island where most of the inhabitants lived.

  Thank God it’s nighttime, he thought—there’d be a lesser chance of civilian casualties.

  The overgrowth of the orchards suddenly vanished, revealing the congested residential center less than one hundred meters in front of them. It was densely packed with single- and two-story tan brick buildings of varying heights and sizes. The road narrowed as it entered the village, and John was forced to slow down.

  “Definitely no building codes here,” John remarked absently.

  The road veered to the right at an angle, continuing its trek to the south. John maintained his speed, and as they emerged around the bend, they spotted the cargo truck’s reckless getaway through the populated area.

  “The bastard’s going to kill someone before we can get to him,” John said.

  “Then drive faster,” Amira responded, as straightforward as ever.

  “Yes, ma’am,” John said. Regardless of his attraction to her, in her current state of focus, she reminded him of Logan. He immediately dismissed the thought of his friend, not wanting to jeopardize his current mind-set. He just prayed the SEAL team was doing its job.

  The SUV surged forward, and buildings flashed by the windows in a blur. The cargo truck grew closer.

  Forty yards . . . thirty yards . . .

  The lights of the suspension bridge loomed ahead, less than a mile away. John reached sixty miles per hour and desperately hoped that no innocent soul stepped out of one of the houses.

  Twenty yards . . . ten yards . . .

  The cargo truck slammed on its brakes, its red taillights sending a moment of panic through John.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Amira said as John locked up the brakes, sending the SUV sliding across the pavement. In seconds, the rear of the cargo truck increased in size until it filled the entire windshield.

  “Hold on. This is going to be close,” John said through gritted teeth.

  The SUV ground to a halt, angling past the rear of the truck. John looked up into the driver’s side mirror of the truck and was greeted by an older Chinese man looking at him with a mixture of contempt and amusement, his arm extended out the window.

  What the hell is he up to? was all John had time to think before he heard an ominous thud.

  A round object landed on the hood of the Mercedes. As John processed what it was, Amira shouted, “Back up! Back up!”

  The cargo truck pulled away, leaving its lethal package behind.

  It suddenly occurred to John why the driver had used a flashbang grenade at the campsite—he didn’t want to damage the cargo truck or its contents. That meant only thing—the ONERING was definitely in the back.

  John reversed the SUV and floored the pedal, hoping the sudden motion would fling the grenade off the hood.

  Amira unbuckled herself from the passenger seat in one agile movement and extended herself halfway out the window, reaching for the rolling grenade in the middle of the hood. It was just out of reach, and the backward momentum pushed it farther . . . but not far enough.

  Realizing she only had another second or two at most before the grenade—not a flashbang, but the real thing—detonated, Amira flung herself out the window onto the hood, lengthening her slim body for maximum effect. She reached her arm out as she rolled to her left, her body a living corkscrew. Another few inches—got it! Amira grabbed the grenade and rolled one more time, launching herself off the hood and into the air. As she fell, she threw the grenade with all the strength she had, using her momentum to fling it into an alleyway to the right of the SUV.

  She disappeared below the hood, and John slammed on the brakes as the grenade detonated.

  BOOM!

  Shrapnel and fragments of stone and mortar harmlessly showered them as the buildings absorbed the force of the blast.

  John gaped at Amira in wonder. She stood, brushed the dust off her black, form-fitting combat fatigues, and smiled at him through the windshield as casually as if she’d been waiting for him all night. That might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

  She ran back to the SUV, hopped in, and said, “Let’s go get that motherfucker. He made me tear my pants.”

  John looked down at her muscular left thigh and saw a rip three inches long. “Are you going to l
ive?” he asked.

  “I am,” Amira said matter-of-factly, “but he’s not.”

  John nodded as the SUV shot forward. “Oh, by the way, that’s why I drove.”

  “What do you mean?” Amira said.

  “Because there’s no way in hell I could’ve done what you just did,” John said, looking at her in wonder.

  “Thanks,” she said, averting her eyes from the honesty expressed on his face. “But I’ve seen you fight. You’re not too shabby yourself.”

  “I try.”

  The SUV raced down the street. The cargo truck was now nearly a quarter mile away. It had reached the end of the island, and the bridge was directly ahead. The truck slowed and turned left, leaning precariously as it raced through the intersection.

  “Better try harder. He’s heading to the entrance ramp. There’s only one way to the bridge,” Amira said.

  John arrived at the intersection moments later and deftly controlled the SUV as it angled around the corner, reaching the entrance ramp that curved up from the island to the bridge. The cargo truck was moving through the curve as fast as its driver could control it.

  Not fast enough, John thought.

  The SUV barreled up the ramp, gaining ground with each second. The cargo truck reached the top of the ramp and accelerated on the half-mile stretch of smooth, suspended concrete. The Mercedes rocketed onto the four-lane bridge moments later and pulled alongside the truck, carefully avoiding the foot-high black and yellow divider.

  “Gotcha,” John said to himself.

  At this time of night, traffic was sparse, with only a few random vehicles traveling in either direction, oblivious to the pursuit that had just invaded their tranquil crossing.

  “It’s now or never,” John said, but Amira was already ahead of him. “Try to keep him alive,” he said, thinking of the intelligence value their quarry represented.

  She aimed the Steyr tactical machine pistol she’d been carrying and opened fire at the moving target, firing in controlled bursts at the rear left tires of the cargo truck.