Donovan's War: A Military Thriller (A Tommy Donovan Novel Book 1)

by W. J. Lundy

  Rage flooded his system, pushing away the despair. He clenched his fist and rolled to his back, raising his carbine. He screamed into the smoke-filled hallway, firing blind into the space to his front. He turned around and leaned back against the wall. Smoke was filling the building; the gallery was on fire. He watched a man move in a crouch around the corner, blood covering the fighter’s arm and shoulder. The man was coughing as he tried to escape the flames.

  Tommy fired until the carbine was empty. He dropped the weapon and went back to the MK23. He charged forward into the smoke and put several rounds into the man’s chest. More fighters rounded the corner and, fueled by anger, Tommy lashed out with his fists, connecting with the first and engaging the others at point-blank range. When his pistol was empty, he let it fall to the ground and exchanged it for an AK47 from a dead man. A grenade bounced off a wall and rolled into the hallway. It exploded in a flash as Tommy leapt back into the room where the women were being held. He felt the heat now and, looking up, he could see the building’s roof was on fire.

  The screams of the imprisoned women filled the room as they struggled to free themselves of the chains that kept them from escaping the burning building. He turned, looking back into the hallway. He wanted to recover Sarah’s body but there was no time; he couldn’t leave these women behind to burn. He turned and grabbed at the long chain, finding where it met the wall. He fired his weapon and destroyed the shackle then pulled on the end. It came free, releasing the women from the bond. Once they were loose, the prisoners ran out of the room and into the darkness outside.

  He felt a buzzing in his ear. Having forgotten about the radio, he cupped a hand over it as he walked from the burning building, following the path of the freed women. He stopped at a dead man and recovered magazines from his chest rig, stuffing them into his own. Shouts filled the radio channel; the code word to extract was being given, orders to retreat from the outpost.

  Tommy was losing blood from the knife wound in his shoulder and there was a burning in his side where his sutures had ripped open. He didn’t want to continue, with Sarah gone his will to fight died with her. His arm holding the AK47 hung slack. He turned and walked casually back across the rear yard of the building, the way lit by the flames of the building. The women were all gone now, the only sign of them being bits of their torn clothing and abandoned veils on the ground.

  He stumbled across the back courtyard and looked out over the canal—nothing but water to his front, left and right, and the burning building behind him. Gunfire ravaged from the front drive and, for a moment, he considered just sitting in the high grass and waiting for them to find him. Bright lights lit the front of the outpost. Tommy turned his head; the Russians had arrived and Elias’s men were all but gone. He cupped his hand over the speaker again and heard Elias calling his name over the radio.

  When he went to speak back, he realized he’d dropped the throat mic somewhere in the house. He could hear them but he couldn’t transmit. All he had left was the dead man’s AK47. As he listened to the shouts of the fighting to his front, he decided to make his last stand there. He would kill as many as he could for Sarah and the others.

  The sounds of a boat’s engine turned him around. He watched a column of men running from the far side of the house, slightly obscured in smoke. Tommy strained to see where they were headed and spotted the outline of the boat in the water. He slowly moved back toward the canal and crouched into the tall grass. He watched as the men stopped and waited for the boat in the canal to approach the shore. One of the men turned, and Tommy quickly identified the man he’d seen hundreds of times in his nightmares. The thick mustache and the glistening scar across the top of the man’s head confirmed it.

  The Hyena was directly in front of him, alive and in the flesh.

  The boat’s engine roared as the throttle increased, and the group scrambled into the canal waters to board. Tommy rose with the AK47 at his shoulder. Even though firing through iron sights in the dark, he aimed at the front of the fleeing column where he thought the Hyena would be and fired. The lead runner dropped. After the first muzzle flash, he lost his night vision and was blind, but he continued to fire until the magazine was empty. He swapped magazines and he ran at the fleeing men, firing from the hip, his rounds peppering the water as the boat faded into the distance. Tommy checked the dead men on the ground and cursed when none of them were the Hyena. Rounds impacted the ground at his feet; the security forces were closing in behind him and he had nowhere left to go. He dropped the AK47 in the tall grass and disappeared into the canal. His fight wasn’t over, not if the Hyena still lived.

  26

  Abdul stepped off the boat and moved quickly to the waiting vehicles. His jacket was ripped and his face black from smoke. Armed men surrounded him as he stopped to look back at the burning outpost in the distance. The gunfire had waned off, he could see silhouettes of soldiers walking the grounds of the distant outpost, the structures wrapped in an inferno of flame. He felt a burning fury in his chest, he wasn’t used to losing and in just a few days he had lost nearly everything. “Why the hell do they continue to attack us?” He screamed pointing across the canal.

  “They are dead now, all of them those women are dead—their death is on you,” he cursed toward the distance. “You saved no one, they are all dead.”

  He took heavy steps and looked toward his Chechen bodyguards. The men stood nervously around him, their weapons up, eyes focused in the distance. He clenched his teeth and moved with them before stopping, “Contact that worthless skunk Fayed and demand that he makes this stop,” he shouted to no one directly. “It stops tonight, tell everyone that the hostages are dead. Let them know there is nothing left to fight for.”

  The Chechens ushered him forward in the direction of the waiting Range Rovers. The villa, like a fortress on a hilltop, was a refuge for him. Ten kilometers outside the city, the only nearby village had been emptied of residents over a year ago after a desperate battle between the Syrian Army and rebel forces. The bodyguards swiftly moved him to the waiting vehicles. They needed to get him inside the walls of the villa; they were still close to the burning compound, and more fighters could be on the loose. Abdul flung the man’s guiding arms aside, knocking away his guards. He moved away and stood under an olive tree, turning to watch the lights of armored vehicles responding to the outpost.

  “Idiots! You fight for the dead. Join them, you fools,” he shouted again at the far bank of the canal.

  Covka, an older Chechen, and one of one of Abdul’s chiefs of security, ushered Abdul toward the open door of the Range Rover then walked to the other side of the waiting vehicle. He looked back at the burning compound himself and shook his head before entering. Abdul turned to face him as he positioned himself in the backseat. “Get all of our people here before dawn then lock down the villa. Nobody leaves until this is confirmed over,” Abdul shouted.

  The elder Chechen nodded to the brothers sitting in the front, who were already dialing a mobile phone to relay the instructions. The vehicles pulled away from the bank of the canal and found the road leading them past palm groves and olive trees toward the hilltop villa.

  Covka, not one to hold his tongue when it came to security, leaned in to his employer. “We should leave Syria, Nassir. Return to Europe until this ends. It would be safer there. I cannot guarantee your safety here; too many know you are in the city now.”

  Abdul dipped his head slightly then drew a pistol. He placed it above Covka’s surprised eyes and fired, splattering his brains against the armored window.

  “No. This is my city.” He snarled tossing the pistol in the dead man’s lap. He looked to the front, “Does anyone else, feel we should leave?”

  He looked to the brothers in the front, and in a calm voice, said, “Good– Contact the man at the Vatican. Tell them that the women are dead. It is done. And demand that this is stopped or we will take and kill ten more. Demand it!”

  Knowing that the issue with the wome
n was over and that Abdul was losing control. Aslan—the eldest brother—grimaced before speaking. “I will make the contacts and see that it is done. In the meantime, we will enhance our security. I will bring in more technicals. Possibly more professionals. If you choose to stay here, it will be expensive.”

  “Just do it,” Abdul barked as the vehicle came to a stop in front of the villa’s tall gates. More men outside swung the doors open, and Abdul stepped onto the paved walkway, leaving his dead bodyguard behind. He turned one more time to watch his once proud outpost burn in the distance, before storming off toward the security of the building.

  27

  Fayed feigned speaking hushed tones into his smart phone then disconnected it and slid the device into his shirt pocket. He wasn’t sure what the men knew, and how they reacted now would determine if he put bullets into the backs of their heads. He looked up to the men in the front of the Range Rover. “You are all about to be very rich men,” Fayed said in Arabic to Samir and Omar. Omar turned his head to look at Fayed as the driver locked eyes with him in the rearview mirror.

  “Aye, how so?” Omar asked.

  “A last-minute deal has been reached for the safe return of this one. We will all get a share of it,” Fayed exclaimed. “I hope you have papers because plans have changed. We are not returning to the city; take us north toward the sea.”

  The driver smiled back at him, and Fayed caught the exchange of glances between the guards to his front. He knew they would follow his instructions. It was an easy sell; money was always easy with people like this. He looked up at the men again. “I’ll need your phones. We cannot risk being tracked as we cross the border.”

  Samir shook his head. “We are not allowed mobile devices. For the reason you just stated.”

  Fayed nodded and smiled knowingly. Now to deal with the prisoner, he said to himself.

  The woman flinched and yelped as Fayed’s hand brushed the fabric still covering her face. He used a knife to slice the tight knot around her neck and removed the hood. “Ahh, the American,” he whispered to himself, almost disappointed that it wasn’t the French woman. The American’s face was bruised. Her hair, greasy and clumped, clung to the sides of her face. She looked away from him, pulling toward the closed door. Fayed held up his empty palms, showing his hands to her. Speaking in English, he said, “Miss Donovan? You have nothing to fear from me.”

  She slowly turned her head back toward him. Her eyes narrowing in the light. Her bottom lip quivered.

  “My name is Inspector Ziya Fayed. I am a police officer with the International Police Organization.” She looked at him absently as he fumbled with his jacket. She again flinched back as he pulled away the lapel. Showing her there was nothing to fear, he slowly removed his identification and placed it into the palms of her hands to examine.

  Sarah took the plastic case and held it like a foreign object.

  “Please, it’s okay,” he whispered, indicating for her to look at the identification.

  Sarah took the card and slowly raised it to her eyes. She looked away then scanned the cabin of the vehicle, looking at the two men in the front and then back at Fayed. “What do you want?” she mumbled. “What do you want with me?”

  “Miss Donovan, you’re safe.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve been able to secure your release from the people holding you. We have some traveling to do, but you are safe with me and these men. I assure you that we will get you home.”

  Her expression changed as she pressed back into the seat. She looked out of the side window and into the dark desert, then back at him, tiny bits of recognition showing in her eyes. “What about the others? The girl in the cell with me, is she dead?”

  “No of course not, she is perfectly safe, she will be release later?” Fayed said looking to the front and seeing the grin on Omar’s face from the rearview mirror.

  “But–,” she shook her head looking down at her scraped and bruised hands. “Where are we?”

  “We are moving north toward the border then through Lebanon to the sea.”

  “Lebanon? I don’t understand what is happening.”

  Fayed smiled and reached for a basket on the floor filled with supplies. He opened a bottle of water and handed it to her. She took the water and drank thirstily as he said, “Miss Donovan, I know you are confused, and it is understandable after what you have been through.”

  She coughed and looked up at him. “Do you have a phone?”

  Fayed shook his head. “I’m sorry, but until we are safe, I cannot risk any phone calls.”

  She nodded and looked down at her filthy clothing. Tears ran down her cheeks. Fayed handed her a handkerchief that she pressed against her face. He then placed a folded clean blanket on her lap. “I’m sorry I cannot offer you more, but it’s not safe to stop. Once we cross the border it will be easier.”

  She nodded again and choked out, “I understand.” The tension slowly leaving her body, she slumped back into the seat and pulled the blanket over her chest, letting her head rest with her eyes closed.

  28

  Tommy swam toward the opposite shore of the canal, trying to keep the fleeing boat in sight. The water shallowed near the opposing bank, the bottom becoming mucky and filled with tall grasses. He lost sight of the boat and came ashore near an abandoned neighborhood. The boat was already gone, but he watched lights move on the shore, hundreds of meters to his west. It was the only light, making them an easy target to track as the vehicles dispersed up into the hills. With the hunt over, his adrenaline rush faded, and he began to feel fatigue and pain taking hold of his body.

  The air was cold, and he was already shivering by the time he pulled himself out of the dry reed grasses. Low crawling away from the banks, he saw the faint outlines of structures just off the shoreline—several homes in a tight cluster; he could just make them out by moonlight. They were far off and distant, but even closer he spotted hulking shapes to his front. He lay silent, listening for sounds of life… a dog barking, a child’s cry, a slamming door, but there was nothing. The once quaint village of stone-and-clay houses was now a ghost town. Behind him he could still see the glowing of the outpost’s fire on the far side of the canal and hear the roar of vehicles as they responded.

  After watching from a distance to make sure nobody saw him cross the canal, he crawled to the nearest shape and found it to be the abandoned hulk of an armored vehicle. With no strength to continue, he approached it and entered through an open back ramp. He quickly picked up on the stench of death and decay, but for the moment, Tommy’s pain and exhaustion overrode his sense of smell.

  He crawled through the hatch and onto the cold steel floor of the armored vehicle. He’d lost his night vison goggles so he felt around the compartment by hand, finding an old cloth tool bag. He ripped it open and found a canvas tarp that he wrapped himself in. Exhausted from the escape and shivering, he curled into a ball and removed his wet clothing, kicking them out of the warmth of the tarp. Not risking building a fire, and finally succumbing to exhaustion, he drifted off and slept.

  Morning came with aches, bruises, and a head filled with cobwebs. Tommy looked through the troop compartment of the fighting vehicle. He shared it with a pair of badly decomposed Syrian soldiers. One lay across a bench seat with bloody bandages attached to its chest. The other was half exposed from the turret, slumped down into a body harness.

  Surprisingly, most of the vehicle was untouched. There were no obvious signs of fire or destruction to explain the death of the APC (Armored Personnel Carrier). Tommy stretched to move and was reminded of the pain in his body. His shoulder showed a deep, open gash where the old woman had stabbed him, and the sutures at his side were ripped open and oozing clear fluid. When he turned, he felt the pain in his back where he’d been shot. The round impacted his ballistic plate, but still bruised him through the vest.

  There were ammo cans and weapons scattered around the compartment, but he barely noticed them as he honed in on an
olive-green box that sat on the right hull of the vehicle. The first-aid box was marked with a red crescent and a star, and through the fog in his brain, Tommy strained his joints, ripped the box from its mounts, and stuffed it into his pack along with his wet clothes and the rest of his belongings.

  He crawled naked down the back hatch of the vehicle and saw there were several small box shaped homes close by; he made a direct path to the closest one. Checking a back door, he found it open and tumbled inside onto a kitchen floor. Still clutching his pack, he crawled through the kitchen and into an open living space, where he rolled himself into a thick Persian rug and once again succumbed to the pain and exhaustion.

  This time he woke to the sounds of roaring vehicles. It was still daylight and light shone through gaps in the drapes of a closed window. He let his head fall to the side as he examined the space then crawled from his cocoon of the Persian rug. Still naked, Tommy wandered from room to room, looking at the furniture and clothing left behind by the house’s former occupants. The abandoned home was well-built and had held together tightly, the doors and windows sealed shut. In the kitchen, he found scraps of food and water, in addition to a cardboard box with meager canned goods.

  He examined his burst-open stitches in a bathroom mirror; the torn flesh was red and crusted with blood and dirt. Tommy dumped the contents of the first aid kit, which included a nearly full bottle of rubbing alcohol, onto the bathroom counter. He winced as he drained the stinging liquid over his injury then slapped a bandage on the clean wound. Then he looked to the gash on his shoulder; the wound wasn’t as deep and was more recent than the one on his side. He packed it with antibiotic ointment and taped it secure before leaving the bathroom to check out the rest of the house.

  He entered a living space with dusty pillows arranged on the floor. The windows were covered with heavy drapes, sunlight and heat from the new day barely able to break in through cracks at the edges. He lifted his small combat pack and stepped across the room to stand beside the window. He pulled back the drapes, trying to survey the surroundings in the daylight, letting the sun warm his body.