Target America: A Sniper Elite Novel

by Scott McEwen

  Groping about, he found the rifle and used it to steady himself as he got back to his feet, the lingering ache in his testicles a grim reminder that he had been dealt more than a glancing blow. He slipped the infrared monocular back on over his head and hobbled off down the trail in search of the woman. He found her about fifty yards down the slope, sprawled pathetically among the brambles with her hair a tangled mess of twigs and leaves, the side of her face split and bleeding.

  He smacked her awake, and then grabbed yet another handful of her hair and pulled her to her feet, shoving her forward down the trail and giving her a kick in the rump to get her going. She had made her obligatory play at freedom, and he could respect that. But she had failed—and failure was stupid.

  72

  MONTANA

  Oso kept his nose to the ground as he led Gil quickly away from the burning house to the northwest, and Gil soon realized that Marie had gone up the rocky slope west of the ridgeline overlooking the ranch. There were more than four hundred yards of open terrain between the house and the base of the foothills, and he couldn’t see anyone in his infrared NVGs. He didn’t entertain any fantasies that she had let out on her own; she never would have abandoned her mother by choice, not even to save her own skin. This meant she’d been taken as a hostage, or worse, and he didn’t kid himself about his chances of getting her back alive. The men who had taken her would be more than willing to give their own lives in exchange for hers, and quick, painless death wasn’t exactly part of their creed. They specialized in revenge, and quality vengeance called for the infliction of as much human suffering as possible.

  Gil felt like a man riding out to meet the end of the world, and the Remington gave him little comfort. He’d have sooner faced down an atomic explosion with a squirt gun than what he was expecting to face up in the foothills, and for the first time in his life, he understood what true fear really was: true fear was not being able to protect those you loved. He didn’t dare pray or to even hope for the best. He’d dealt out enough death and misery in his time to know better. Eventually the bell tolled for everyone, and to ask for an exception in your own case was cowardly and pointless.

  He did chance to make himself one promise: no matter what else happened up there in the dark, he was going to kill every last son of a bitch on the mountain who had so much as looked cross-eyed at his wife, and if that meant God got his ass whipped in the process, so be it. He wasn’t asking any quarter, and he sure as hell wasn’t giving any.

  He followed Oso up the slope with the Remington resting butt down on his thigh, finger on the trigger, and the reins in his left hand. He was putting a lot of faith in his body armor giving him an edge, but what the hell, he was up on a horse, practically daring the enemy to pick him off. What else was he going to put faith in?

  About halfway up, Oso began to whine, smelling the excess adrenaline in the microdroplets of Marie’s perspiration and knowing that she was in danger. Gil knew by the dog’s rising anxiety that the scent was getting stronger and decided to dismount, knowing it would be safer to continue the pursuit on foot.

  The Remington exploded in his hand, shot completely in half. A piece of the synthetic stock embedded itself deep in the side of his neck. The stallion started and reared up. Gil fought to stay in the saddle, knowing that a second shot would be on the way any second. Then the stallion dropped like a dead buffalo, its heart blown apart by a .50 caliber round. The shot echoed through the valley as Gil rolled clear of the dead horse. A third shot penetrated his Kevlar IBH helmet at an oblique angle on the left side of his head, tearing a half-inch furrow along his scalp front to back an inch above his ear. It grazed his skull, scorching the bone and knocking him cold.

  He came to a minute later, with Oso licking and pawing at his bloody face. Gil stood up and tore the fractured helmet from his head. The NVGs were totaled, and one look at the Remington told him that the nightscope was equally fucked. He took a step, and the world began to spin. He lost his balance and toppled over. Clawing back to his feet, he forced himself to take another couple of steps, but he toppled over once more.

  He groped to his knees. Fighting to stay conscious, Gil grabbed Oso and unbuckled his collar, tossing it aside so the enemy above would have nothing to grab onto.

  “Go get your mama!” he said, knowing he was sending the dog to his death. “Get your mama, Cazador! Kill the motherfuckers!”

  He smacked the big Chesapeake Bay retriever on the rump, and Oso took off up the slope. “I’m right behind you!”

  The world began to spin again, and he fell over.

  A short time later, a man screamed somewhere up over the rise. A few seconds after that, Oso let out a horrible cry of pain, and Gil experienced an adrenaline surge strong enough to bypass the scrambled circuitry in his brain. He shoved himself to his feet and drew his .45, scrambling clumsily up the trail.

  73

  MONTANA

  Marie knew that Akram would eventually rape and kill her, so if she was going to survive, her only hope was to stall for time and pray that someone caught up to them.

  She pretended to pass out and fell to the ground.

  Akram didn’t waste any time playing her game. He delivered her another swift kick in the butt. “Get up!”

  The blow hurt like hell, but she continued to feign unconsciousness.

  “If you don’t get up,” he said calmly, “I’ll piss on your face.”

  Marie certainly didn’t want that, but it was better than getting killed, so she continued to play opossum.

  “Stupid bitch,” he muttered, reaching down to unzip his fly.

  A dog snarled in the fog, and he turned just in time for Oso to slam into him full tilt, sinking his teeth into Akram’s groin and taking him to the ground, thrashing his head from side to side like a frenzied mako shark.

  Akram screamed and stabbed at the furious animal’s head. The blade glanced off the dog’s skull, partially severing the ear, but Oso continued to thrash. Akram felt something pull free inside his scrotum, and he panicked, stabbing the dog again. This time the blade sank deep into the dog’s shoulder. Oso howled in pain and reeled away with the blade embedded to the hilt.

  Akram rolled to his knees and reached to grab the TAC-50.

  Too late, he saw Marie’s foot coming at his face. The toe of her boot caught him under the chin, and his head snapped back. He rolled over and caught her leg as she tried to kick him again, twisting her knee to bring her down and jumping up. He drew a Beretta from the holster at his side.

  “Now I’m going to kill your fucking dog!”

  “Machine gun—left flank!” a voice boomed through the fog at the top of the rise. “Kill anything that fuckin’ moves!”

  Akram wheeled around, unable to see where the infrared binocular had fallen during his fight with the dog. Believing he might already be surrounded, he aimed the Berretta at Marie, but in the split second before pulling the trigger, he realized the report of the pistol would bring the enemy right down on his head, and he suddenly realized that he wasn’t yet ready to die for Allah. He holstered the weapon and grabbed up the TAC-50, taking off down the hill with one thought in mind: saving his hide. He gripped his groin as he ran to keep his injured testicles from jouncing around inside his trousers.

  With the first signs of twilight now visible in the east, Gil appeared out of the fog gripping his 1911 pistol. He saw Marie sitting against a rock bound, gagged, and bleeding. He rushed to her side, pulling down the strip of cloth that held the gag in place and tossing her panties into the brush.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Thank God, you’re alive!” she sobbed, seeing the horrific wound to his head.

  “Where are they, baby?”

  “It’s just one. He took off down the trail. Cut me loose!”

  Holding a small penlight in his teeth, he took a folding knife from his harness and carefully cut the
bootlace from around her wrists. Her hands were purple and swollen.

  “I can’t feel a thing,” she said, flexing her fingers. “I can barely move them.”

  “They’re gonna hurt bad once the blood gets flowing.” He smoothed her hair back from her bloody, grime-covered face and kissed her.

  “I’ll be back.”

  “Forget him,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Help Oso. He’s over there in the scrub.”

  Gil found Oso in the brush, lying on his side with the knife protruding from his shoulder. The dog was panting heavily, his heart was racing. Gil pulled the knife out slowly, and the dog whimpered, but once the blade was free, he rolled to his belly and got to his feet, holding the injured foreleg off the ground, licking Gil’s face, with his left ear hanging crookedly from the side of his head.

  The sight of his battered wife and carved-up dog was enough to mitigate completely any and all ill effects the bullet had caused. Angrier than he’d been in his life, Gil stood and took an emergency flare from his harness, firing it into the air back toward the ranch. Then he pulled a strobe light from the same pouch and switched it on, setting it down on a rock.

  “The team will be here soon. I’m goin’ after the cocksucker.”

  “Don’t. He’s got that rifle.”

  “I’ll shove it up his ass.”

  “Where are the men you were shouting to?”

  “There aren’t any.” He shrugged and smiled. “That was just an old Davy Crockett trick.” He crouched down to touch her face. “You gotta let me go kill this guy. He’s headed for the logging road, isn’t he?”

  She nodded, touching his head wound, where she could see the white of his skull. “He said something about a truck.”

  He got to his feet. “He’s takin’ the long way. I’ll get there ahead of him.”

  She glanced down to see that a sizable chunk was missing from his boot. “What happened to your foot, baby?”

  He grinned. “That little piggy went to market.”

  74

  MONTANA

  By the time Akram stumbled from the trail and onto the logging road, he looked and felt like he’d just fought a running battle with a mountain lion. His face was torn and bleeding from crashing headlong through juniper thickets, and his injured testicles were throbbing. He ripped open the back door of a green Ford Excursion and tossed the TAC-50 onto the seat. He was reaching for the driver’s door a moment later when he realized that both tires were flat on that side of the vehicle. In disbelief, he looked over at the second truck to see that it had been disabled in the same fashion.

  “Ain’t that a bitch?” Gil said, standing at the edge of the road twenty feet in front of the truck.

  Akram looked up, shocked to see his enemy standing there in the dawning light bleeding from a head wound. He flexed the fingers of his gun hand, considering whether to go for the pistol, but he could see that Gil’s holster flap was loose, so he chose to wait, allowing the arrogant American time to make a mistake.

  “I like seeing you bleed,” he said. “Your wife, she bleeds too. So does her mother.”

  Gil stepped fully into the road. “Ever seen a Gary Cooper movie?”

  Akram smirked and stood up straight, squaring himself to face Gil directly. “Even if you kill me, there will be another and another—always another until you and your wife are both dead.”

  “Dog’s ass.”

  Akram went for his pistol.

  Gil jerked the 1911 and shot a hole through Akram’s wrist before he could even touch the Berretta.

  Akram held his arm in shock, scarcely able to believe a human being could move so fast with such accuracy. He stood gaping at his left hand now dangling uselessly at the end of the radius bone, the end of the ulna shot completely away. His knees gave out, and he slumped against the fender of the Ford.

  Gil came forward to take the Berretta from his hip, tossing it over his shoulder into the brush. He holstered the 1911 and stood looking at Akram, the heel of his hand resting on the butt. “I reckon you can guess what happens now.”

  Akram spit in his face. “The bomb goes off. That’s what happens . . . and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  Gil reached to take hold of Akram’s nearly severed hand, twisting it around.

  Akram screamed, sinking to his knees beside the wheel of the truck. “Allah will punish you! He will punish all of you!”

  Keeping a grip on the hand, Gil stood looking around. “Well, in the meantime, you can tell me where to find the bomb.”

  “Fuck you!”

  Gil nodded. “I figured you’d say that.” He gave the hand a powerful jerk, and the ligament popped as the appendage broke off the end of the bone.

  Akram screamed, clutching the bleeding stump to his chest.

  Gil crouched down, holding the hand as if it were nothing more significant than an empty glove. “Here’s the deal, partner. You’re gonna do the right thing and tell me where to find that bomb, or I’m gonna do some horrible shit to you—the kind of horrible shit you people do. Is that what you want? You want to look out there in the road and see your body parts layin’ in the dirt? Because that’s what you’re gonna see. Just as sure as God makes little green crocodiles, that’s what you’re gonna see.” He tossed the hand out into the road, where it landed palm down and flopped over. “See there? That’s the beginning.”

  Akram stared back at him, his eyes burning with defiance.

  Gil jabbed a thumb into his eye, and Akram jerked his head back, whacking it against the fender of the truck.

  “See how silly it gets? How fast a man loses his dignity? This is why you don’t let yourself be taken alive.” Gil shook his head. “Just tell me where to find the goddamn bomb.” He jammed a thumb deep into Akram’s other eye, and the man’s head bounced off the fender again as if they were playing out a macabre Three Stooges parody.

  Half blind, Akram swatted at Gil’s eyes, but Gil grabbed the hand, twisting it hard around until the wrist snapped. Akram screamed, and Gil adjusted his grip, getting to his feet as he continued to twist the arm, popping the elbow and jamming his bloody boot hard into Akram’s armpit to dislocate the shoulder. Akram sprawled with his face in the dirt, bawling out loud, and Gil let the ruined arm drop to the ground.

  “And these are just the prelims.” Gil crouched back down, picking up a stone and tossing it down the road. “You gotta understand me when I tell ya this ain’t Guantanamo. Hell, this ain’t even Afghanistan. This is downtown hell, and you’re on the corner of Main and Broadway with the devil’s boot on your neck.” He took hold of the now-quaking Akram to help him sit up against the tire, drawing his Ka-Bar and placing the blade alongside Akram’s nose. “Now, you tell me where to find that fuckin’ bomb—right fuckin’ now—or you’re gonna get the VIP tour! And I absolutely do not mean maybe.”

  Akram’s eyes were too badly injured to keep them open, but he could feel the cold steel against his face, and he knew what it meant. With shock setting in, he shivered uncontrollably, swallowing hard before mumbling, “San Diego.”

  Gil cut off his nose and Akram screamed.

  “Don’t lie to me!” Gil grabbed one of his ears and laid the blade alongside of his head. “We know it’s in DC! Tell me where!”

  Akram clutched his face, screaming in pain and horror. “Washington was the primary target, but the bomb never got there!”

  Gil cut off the ear and Akram went berserk with impotent rage, beating ineffectually on Gil’s leg with his one good arm as Gil grabbed a handful of his hair and began to slowly scalp him. “Where’s the fucking bomb, asshole?”

  “San Diego!” Akram shrieked. “San Diego! San Diego!”

  Gil let go of his scalp and crouched down in front of him. “Where in San Diego?”

  Akram began babbling prayers to Allah, his blood pouring down over his face. “I don’t know,
” he stammered, shivering like he was attempting to shit a peach pit. “Kashkin. Kashkin’s people have it. The Chechens. The bombs were Kashkin’s plan . . . Kashkin’s plan.”

  Gil stood up and drew the 1911. “Shovin’ my wife’s panties in her mouth was the single dumbest thing you ever fuckin’ did.” He put the muzzle to the top of Akram’s head.

  Crosswhite and a pair of SEALs burst through the brush, ready to throw down with their M4s.

  “Wait!” Crosswhite shouted.

  Gil pulled the trigger, and Akram fell forward onto his face. “Wait for what?”

  “What the fuck do you call that?” Crosswhite said, his chest heaving from the near-legendary run up one side of the mountain and down the other.

  Gil holstered the pistol. “Due process. Did you find Marie?”

  “Yeah, she’s fine. The dog too.” Crosswhite kicked the hand from the road and came forward. “Alpha and Shearer are carrying them down to the ranch.” He pointed at the body. “He have anything to say before you blew his brains out?”

  “Yeah. Gimme the sat phone. I gotta call Pope.”

  Crosswhite gave him the phone, and he got Pope on the line.

  “Bob, it’s Gil. Listen, the bomb is not in DC. It’s somewhere in San Diego. The DC bomb went off in New Mexico.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because Akram al-Rashid just told me.”

  “Gil, we have to be sure. Are you sure he’s telling the truth?”

  Gil looked down Akram’s battered body. “I’d bet my life on it, Bob.”

  75

  LANGLEY

  Pope hung up from talking to Gil and immediately called the president.

  “What do you mean it’s in San Diego?” the president asked, his aggravation clearly evident. “How the hell could Shannon possibly know that?”