And then there was light. Lots of light. Blinding light.
Even Daniels, who would often describe himself as a Tennessee Turkey—because turkeys were so dumb—knew what that was all about. If those sick girls had the black blood fever, they were about to blow up real good. And it was blindingly clear that’s what whoever turned on the lights wanted.
The next thing that popped into his head was the suggestion Key gave him after one particularly tough Marine Corps Martial Arts Program training session. “If a gun barrel is there”—Key had pointed between Daniels’s eyes—“don’t be there.” He had just kept pointing between Daniels’s eyes. In other words, don’t stay a target if you know you’re being targeted.
First, Daniels had no intention of being anywhere near exploding bones, blood, and guts. Second, anyone who wanted exploding bones, blood, and guts was likely to continue the favor with anyone else around.
Daniels was already moving while he was thinking all this—back to where he had come from. Since the front wall had caved, and was caving, in, the sergeant double-timed it toward the back wall and the entrance, now exit, door—peering as hard as he could for any sign of his allies.
As soon as he ducked out the door, two things happened. One, he saw the rapidly retreating figure of Gonzales booking it toward the side stairs, all but carrying Chona with him.
Man, Daniels thought, we don’t call him “Speedy” for nothing.
And two, as he was about to call out to Gonzales, somebody leaped on his back.
Critically, Daniels knew it was somebody, and not something, from experience. He also knew it was a woman for the same reason. He felt at least two more reasons poking into his back. Despite his clinging passenger, Daniels followed Gonzales at essentially full speed. With just a glance, his guess was confirmed. Lailani was all over him.
Daniels didn’t feel like talking. Especially when he heard the cracking, tearing, splattering sounds coming from the invaded room, followed by guttural shouts, and the short sizzling spits of automatic weapon fire.
Fuckaduck.
He wished he had his SIG somewhere inside the dishdasha, but it was back on the plane since nobody could figure out a way to keep it from being obvious. That was all right, he rationalized. The motto of the MCMAP course was “One mind, any weapon.”
Now that the shooting had started, he wasn’t about to call out to Gonzales, either. No sense drawing the attackers’ attention. He started taking the stairs two and three at a time as if Lailani were a backpack, and a nearly empty one at that. He was practically on top of Gonzales and Chona when they all piled out into the first-floor lobby.
There was a split second when the men stopped, and the woman jerked forward, since the battering ram-equipped Cadillac Gage Commando was wedged into the doorway like King Kong’s leering face. The men made an instant call, but weren’t about to confer and argue about it. For some reason, Gonzales raced left.
If Daniels had thought about it, he might have followed, since Gonzales, and especially Chona, knew the area much better than he did, but he didn’t think about it. Instead, he decided not to give whoever was attacking one target, and called upon his vast knowledge of escaping bar room brawls.
In other words, he charged toward the kitchen. There was always a back door in the kitchen. As he was coming in, he tried to use Key’s lesson in observation. There was a long silver construction directly in front of him, where waiters picked up meals the cooks made and placed from the other side. Refrigeration bunkers lined the left wall, and stoves lined the right.
At the end of the shoebox-shaped room was the expected, and hoped-for, back door. At the moment he stepped toward it, a cowled, AK-47-carrying a-hole stepped through it.
Lailani made a little sound of fear and panic in his ear. He’d almost forgotten she was there, and continued as if she wasn’t.
Lesson two, as MCMAP and Key had taught him. If you want the fight over, don’t put distance on it. Get in close and get in close fast.
Daniels charged the man, making no sound. He wasn’t out to spook or get the guy’s attention, not when he had an AK-47 and Daniels had nothing but the girl on his back.
One mind, any weapon. Daniels grabbed Lailani with both fists, one in her hair and one around her left arm, and hurled her at the cowled a-hole.
To Daniels, it looked, felt, and sounded as if he had thrown a screeching, wet, terrified cat at the guy. Lailani, to her credit, lived up to the role. She landed on the a-hole’s head and shoulders—howling, scratching, kicking, and clawing. As she fell, whether she meant to or not, she took his AK-47 with her.
The man reeled in surprise, and was about to wrench the gun back, when Daniels reached him. He wanted to tear the a-hole’s head off with his bare hands so badly, but he also wanted to win completely.
“If you do it right,” Key had told him, “it’s over like that.” He had snapped his fingers. “Don’t show them how tough you are. Show them how smart you are. It’s not how badass you are, it’s how effective you are.”
Daniels arrived at the a-hole with an iron frying pan in one hand and a butcher’s knife in the other. If the sergeant had to make a bet later which he used first, it would be a toss-up. All he was sure of was the pan went as far into the man’s skull as he could put it, and the knife was all the way in the a-hole’s ear, up to its hilt. Omanis were proud of their knife heritage. Daniels decided they had good reason to be.
Effective enough for you, Joe? He considered thinking about where Key actually was or what he was doing, but he didn’t have time for that yet. As Dirty Harry always said, “A man’s got to know his limitations.”
Even before the a-hole was completely on the floor, Daniels was wrenching the AK-47 up from the twisting bodies. Then, without a word, he sidled out the back door, scanning the area for any more a-holes.
None were obviously apparent. He noted shadows at the edges of the spotlights’ bleed-off, but most of his vision was filled with a copse of Ghaf and Mangrove trees, with one big Palm shooting straight up from the middle like a hairy man’s erection. The decision what to do next was easy. He sure as hell wasn’t going back.
Once in the dense little grove he started toying with regret. And when the shadows he had seen out the corner of his eyes started moving closer to his corneas, he realized the problem. Shooting in here was at least a fifty percent waste of time. Probably more than half his bullets would be sunk in bark, not flesh. And he didn’t have that many bullets to waste.
Okay, he thought. Let’s see if these new a-holes know that.
They didn’t. And he really knew they were a-holes because they came at him in a pair, rather than from two sides. That allowed him to use the trees as cover. They didn’t even shift to try getting a clear shot. They just sprayed. Daniels let them, getting closer one sharp, careful, step at a time.
Oh, they were so sure their automatic weapons made them all powerful that their expressions didn’t even change until he was almost one tree trunk away. They may have been cowled, but their eyes went from sadistic and amused shapes to round and wide open as he sidled to the right, grabbed the nearest man’s hot gun barrel with his right hand and put one AK-47 round directly between the furthest one’s round and wide-open orbs.
Daniels grinned like a wolf at the pain of his burned palm and fingers as he moved the living a-hole’s smoking hot gun barrel far away from his body. “Thanks.” He growled as he put a second bullet through the man’s chin, his brain, and out the top of this skull. “That’s better than coffee.”
He found the small, narrow, run-down, concrete boat basin on the other side of the trees. He saw dark figures running toward the small, two-person, boats—untying them, pulling up oars, or trying to start low-power outboard engines. He didn’t open fire on them because, even in the moonlight, he could see they weren’t armed. Besides, they weren’t even looking at him.
B
ut as he watched, one of the fishermen did a herky-jerky dance and slammed across his boat—his head making a hollow thumping sound on the wood. It was quickly followed by the echo of a shot.
Every soldier knew you never heard the sound of the gun killing you, so Daniels took solace in that as he looked in the direction of the weapon’s report. Three more cowled, AK-47-toting figures were coming from the trees, and they were mercilessly exterminating the unarmed fishermen who were just trying to get away.
That pissed Daniels off. He turned toward them like a spun top, brought up his purloined AK-47 and quick-marched toward them, carefully targeting and firing as he went.
The first went down, dancing like his victim had. The second altered his aim to try killing someone who had the audacity of being armed and fighting back, but then Daniels’s second shot made his dead eyes look to the starry sky before his corpse landed. But then the sergeant’s AK was empty.
That really pissed Daniels off, because it meant that the a-hole had already used the rest of the bullets to execute innocent bystanders.
Daniels didn’t throw the weapon away. That would have been supremely stupid. Just because it was empty of bullets didn’t mean it had ceased being a weapon. In fact, what this last a-hole didn’t know could hurt him.
Daniels wouldn’t have reached him in time without the AK. Because as the a-hole shifted his aim to target Daniels, Daniels shifted his aim to target the a-hole. And, because the a-hole didn’t know Daniels’s gun was empty, he flinched, ducked, and dodged. By the time he realized Daniels hadn’t fired yet, the sergeant was on him.
MCMAP had five belts a marine could earn. The tan belt was awarded for learning basic punches, kicks, chokes, locks, holds, throws, and stabs. The gray belt was awarded for intermediate level and basic ground fighting. The green belt came with arm bars, blocking techniques, and enhanced pain compliance. Key and Daniels had stalled at brown belt level because the sergeant was too arrogant, and the corporal was too busy trying to find alternatives to fists and feet of fury. He felt that applying thought rather than muscle would be more effective.
Daniels didn’t care about any of that. He just wanted to use the advanced chokes, throws, blades, and firearms to hurt somebody. But now he promised himself that if he survived this, he’d get to black belt level, since that was where he’d be taught rifle versus rifle, short weapon versus rifle, and unarmed versus rifle fighting.
The last a-hole brought his AK-47 around. Daniels blocked its barrel with his, kicking the man in the balls at the same time. The man had expected it, and shifted just enough to take the brunt of the kick on his inner thigh. He used the momentum of Daniels’s block and kick to spin around, trying to bring the gun back into play, but all Daniels focused on was the back of the man’s head as he spun.
He didn’t have time to bring the butt of the rifle up, so he just stabbed the barrel into the man’s exposed neck. If he had gotten the man’s Adam’s apple, that would have ended it. Instead, the man jerked forward, throwing off his own swing. Daniels ducked under the swinging barrel and surveyed his opponent as he stumbled away. He remembered the voice of his instructor when he had a student in a similar position.
“So many ways to kill you, so little time.”
As if examining a particularly venomous insect, Daniels punched the a-hole in the kidney, which made the man hiss and bend backwards. Then Daniels kicked the a-hole in the nearest knee, which made the man unwillingly kneel.
“Tee time.” Daniels swung the AK-47 like Barry Bond’s best home run shot, steroids or not.
The last a-hole’s head erupted like a cantaloupe dropped from a kitchen counter.
Daniels nearly did the same thing to Lailani when she touched his arm a second later. But then he saw it was her. What’s more, several of the fishermen were behind her, looking at him with gratitude, relief, and respect. They were also motioning for him to follow them, while Lailani gently tugged his arm in the same direction. He couldn’t be sure, but her thankful face gave him the impression she may have forgiven him for all that drugging-her-stuff.
He let them lead him toward the water as he looked back toward the hotel. He heard some gunfire, then the strangled wet scream of someone he didn’t recognize.
Sounds like he got it right through the throat. Daniels got a sudden urge to see if it had been Key on the giving end, but quickly decided against it. Key always had better places to put a knife than the throat.
Daniels let Lailani and the fishermen bring him to a small boat. The girl and one man got in with him, then they set off into the wide, blue, calm Gulf of Oman, where, hopefully, there weren’t any more a-holes.
Chapter 14
To Key’s relief, CJ wasn’t in the Bayt al Falaj airport camouflaged hanger Gonzales had left her in. That meant Gonzales had survived the attack on Club Blue as well, and had been here. Key watched the jeep driver talking intensely with Eshe Rahal, and waited patiently. For him to get pushy or panicky at this point would help no one.
“Yes, Speedy came with Chona,” Rahal told him as soon as she could. “Faisal said they waited as long as they could, but were convinced to leave.” She looked back at Faisal, who owned the Jeep and did look like he was about to get pushy or panicky. “They know the club incident is likely to unleash a lockdown of the city, if not the country. The strengthening of terrorist groups in Yemen has put Oman on high alert. Saudi Arabia and Iran’s radical policies have not crossed the border so far, but they fear something like this may lead to a crackdown—”
She stopped, realizing from the subtle shifts in Key’s face that something was far more important to him.
“Sergeant Morty wasn’t with them,” she added sympathetically.
Key cursed under his breath. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” Rahal answered. “They want to know who he is.” She pointed at the driver of the van.
Key glanced at the middle-aged, mustached man in the Omani traditional dress and lab coat before returning his full attention to the young woman. “And what did you tell them?”
“The truth,” she replied. “Professor Basheer Davi.”
Key had assumed as much upon first setting eyes on the man, and watched now as he went off with Faisal to choose another car.
“Speedy left his crew here with instructions,” she continued, while also watching the process of switching out the van the attackers had seen.“Which boiled down to descriptions of you, me, and Daniels, as well as orders to do whatever we wanted or needed.”
“And what is it we want or need?” Key asked as his attention was diverted by so-far unknown members of Gonzales’s crew pushing the van to the corner of the hanger, where chop-shop equipment was strewn. By the time he looked back at Rahal, they had already begun expertly dismantling the van.
“Transportation is about all Professor Davi feels comfortable requesting,” Rahal said sadly. “As much as we’d love to have another channel of information and communication, the more people involved, the greater the chance he will be found.”
“By who?” Key asked pointedly.
Rahal looked him in the eye, her expression rippling with care and regret. “He’ll have to tell you that.”
Key breathed in deeply and watched as Faisal waved them over to a copper-colored 2015 Nissan Murano. As he and Rahal approached, he saw the narrowing, tinted, windows that were designed to obscure both driver and passenger from outside eyes. Although an adult male Omani driver would draw less attention than an American or woman, Davi motioned for Rahal to get behind the wheel and Key to join him in back. Once there, he motioned for Key to crouch or slide down, so their faces wouldn’t be on display. Once again, Key realized, he would kiss all Muscat sightseeing goodbye.
As Rahal began to drive carefully away, having profusely thanked Gonzales’s friends, Davi spoke in quiet, calm, perfect English. “I am very sorry to have gotten you, how you say, mixed up
in this.”
Key shrugged. “I am already very much in this, and mixed up.” He locked eyes with the Professor, who looked like he either hadn’t slept in quite some time, or had been crying, or both. “But you had no intention of rescuing me, did you?”
“No,” Davi somberly admitted. “But Eshe wouldn’t have that, would she?”
“Apparently not.” Key sighed.
“She has put a great deal of faith in you.”
“Repeatedly saving someone’s life’ll do that,” Key informed him. “It’s too bad that whatever you’re mixed up in required it.”
“Yes, too bad,” Davi agreed, his expression tight. “We have a saying here. It translates to ‘a known mistake is better than an unknown truth.’”
Key nodded. “And I guess that unknown truth is about something that will make people explode. Am I right?”
They heard Rahal’s voice from the front seat, saying something in Arabic. Key tensed, thinking it might be a warning about something on the road ahead, but it turned out to be another saying, which Davi translated for him.
“Lying is the disease. Truth is the cure.”
Key was already tired of proverbs. They wouldn’t help in a firefight. “What are we, and yes, I say we, up against? Do you want to tell me, or would you rather I guess so you could agree or disagree?”
Davi hazarded a glance out the bottom of the back window. Key didn’t feel the need to follow suit.
When Davi’s face returned, he seemed more confident. Something approaching either a grimace or a smile, or both, threatened Davi’s lips. “I think the authorities will strive to contain the news of the attack on Club Blue,” he said. “Although agitation afflicts all the countries around us, it doesn’t effect Oman. Yet. If we needed, I feel certain both Iran and Saudi Arabia would rally to assist us. Oman and Iran are close allies, both economically and diplomatically.”
Arachnosaur Page 10