Clear by Fire: A Search and Destroy Thriller

by Joshua Hood

  Her eyes fluttered open. She was lying on the floorboards between the front and rear seats. Something hard dug into her back, and being jammed down in the floor made it almost impossible to shift away from the pressure.

  Turning on her side, she felt the friction from the rough carpet burn her exposed skin. The movement sent a shard of pain through the back of her skull. Ignoring the screaming protest of her shoulder, she dug behind her until her hand closed around the butt of her SIG P226. A few tugs and it was free.

  A tiny voice was yelling frantically from the mangled front seat. Renee collapsed onto her back, pistol in hand, and looking up into the front seat, she saw Joseph lying still against the steering wheel.

  He was bleeding heavily.

  A shadow appeared at his window. Renee struggled to focus and then the window exploded as the muzzle of an M4 punched through the glass. Her pistol came up, guided by the primitive part of her brain, and she fired two shots from her place on the floor.

  She heard the man grunt as blood misted onto the spiderwebbed windshield. Reaching above her head and grabbing the latch, Renee pushed the door open with her head. The fresh air felt good as she twisted herself onto her stomach and clawed her way out of the Jeep.

  A burst of rifle fire hit the Jeep like a handful of gravel being thrown against an aluminum building. She struggled to her feet as what was left of the windshield exploded into the air.

  Renee wavered on her feet like a reed caught in a strong wind. Time was slowing down and the events unfolding around her were surreally disconnected. The gossamer fragments of glass danced in the streetlight as the steam from the Jeep’s disabled radiator coiled skyward.

  The Malibu screeched to a halt fifteen feet from her position, and the doors were flung open before the car was even in park. Renee brought her pistol up. The sight picture danced in front of her eyes, but she fired five quick shots into the car before retreating behind the SUV.

  Stumbling over her feet, she fell to her knees. She turned awkwardly and fired again before the slide locked back on the empty magazine.

  Dropping the magazine, she got to her feet and conducted a mag change without thinking.

  Renee’s training had taken over the moment she fired the first bullet. She was reacting without actively thinking, and it saved her life. Her head throbbed and her vision spun with each movement, but she wasn’t going to die here. Taking a knee, she called to Joseph one more time. If the amount of fire pouring into the truck hadn’t pulled him back to consciousness, then she assumed he was dead.

  Looking back down the road, she saw the edge of a building that would give her cover. Renee knew she could make it, but she refused to leave Joseph behind.

  Coming up to a crouch, she held the pistol at the ready as she cut the angle between her position and the van, which sat disabled on her left side. She stepped out and immediately saw a man crawling away from Joseph’s door. His right arm hung awkwardly across his chest, while the muzzle of his M4 dragged on the ground.

  She fired a single shot to the head and he went limp. Once her target was out of the fight, she was looking for the next one. Scanning over the sights, she moved forward at a crouch. A head appeared in the space between the two vehicles and she fired twice. The first round went wide, but the second hit her target in the shoulder and he spun out of her line of sight.

  Knowing the .40-caliber rounds could punch through the van’s thin exterior, she fired four more shots. Each round hit at chest level, with a three-inch space between them. She transitioned back to the Malibu, got an acceptable sight picture, and fired at one of Decklin’s men before scooping up the rifle in her left hand.

  Renee brought the M4 up and laid the rails across her right arm. Still holding the pistol in her right hand, she fired to see if the weapon was working. Before the round was ejected, she holstered up and grabbed the door handle.

  It was hard work juggling the rifle and trying to wrench open the twisted door, but she managed to get it open and quickly yanked Joseph out of the driver’s seat.

  Something hard hit her in the chest and she stumbled back, leaving Joseph on the ground, as she lost her grip on the rifle. She was off balance and tumbled to the ground with a sharp jolt. Struggling for breath from the impact of the round, Renee scrambled for the rifle and hoped the trauma plate she’d added to her soft vest had been worth the extra bulk.

  She heard screeching tires off to her left and a few quick gunshots filled the air as her fingers closed around the rifle’s pistol grip. Renee grabbed Joseph by the collar and dug her feet into the ground as she pulled him toward the rear of the Jeep.

  The volume of fire picked up to her front and she could hear the staccato bursts echoing around her as the shooters blasted away on full auto. Looking over her shoulder, she estimated there were two feet until she was in the relative safety of the back of the Jeep. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she dragged her partner’s dead weight along the asphalt.

  Ignoring the slamming doors, rifle fire, and screeching tires, she got him around the corner and collapsed in exhaustion. Renee heard sirens in the distance as she let go of the rifle and sat up to check for a pulse.

  The side of Joseph’s head was bleeding badly and there was a long jagged cut on his forehead. Two small holes in his chest had stained his shirt a deep crimson and despite the fact that she couldn’t find a pulse, Renee began CPR.

  “Friendlies,” a voice yelled as she began rescue breathing.

  A man appeared around the corner with a rifle at the ready. As soon as he saw Renee, he lowered his weapon and yelled, “I found them, get an ambulance.”

  She ignored him and the men who followed as she tried to save her partner. It wasn’t until an EMT arrived on scene and they forcibly pulled her away from Joseph that she stopped trying to save his life.

  CHAPTER 4

  * * *

  Washington, DC

  Cage strode purposefully to his office, trying to keep a calm exterior as Simmons spoke quickly from his right side.

  “I don’t have all the particulars right now, I just know he isn’t dead,” he said, reaching for the door to their office and pulling it open for his boss.

  Cage smiled at his secretary, noticing the boxes still on her desk, and said, “Bess, I thought I told you to make sure you got out of here for lunch.”

  “Yes, sir, but there’s so much to do. Secretary Collins has already called twice.”

  “We can worry about him later; go get yourself something to eat. I don’t want to be blamed for not giving you enough time to plan your wedding.”

  Bess blushed, but Cage raised his hand disarmingly.

  “I’m serious. Why don’t you see if that fiancé of yours has time to buy you something to eat? The office will be here when you get back.”

  His secretary’s eyes lit up as she snatched her purse out of the drawer and stood. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll see you around one, and don’t worry, I’ll call the secretary before you get back,” he lied.

  The two men walked into his office, and by the time he got to his desk, Cage was already loosening the tie around his neck.

  “Close the door,” he said, switching his cell phone off and tossing it on the desk.

  Simmons ensured that Bess was heading out of the office before closing the door behind him, and when he turned to face his boss, it was as if a different man had appeared in the room.

  Cage had his jacket off, and the starched white shirt strained against the muscles of his chest and arms. He might have been fifty, but the man was still just as built as the day he left the army.

  “What the fuck is the problem?” he demanded as Simmons took a seat on one of the chairs.

  “Sir, I have—”

  “Jacob, don’t start. If you can’t handle those dumbasses in Bagram, then I will.”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “Don’t talk, listen,” Cage said, getting to his feet.

  Simmons had been wi
th Cage long enough to realize that his boss was back in military mode, and it was more than obvious that he was pissed.

  “How hard is it to kill one fucking man? We have the most advanced military in the world, with every intelligence asset at our fingertips, and those dumbasses can’t put one man in the dirt. Tell me how the fuck this is happening.”

  “Sir, reports on the ground are saying that he slipped the ambush and then went to Morocco.”

  “He doesn’t leave Morocco alive, do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir, I will let them know.”

  “Jesus, no wonder we are losing the fucking war,” he said, moving to the window.

  “Duke, what are we going to do about Collins?”

  “Don’t worry about him—that’s my job. I need you to do what you do best: collect intelligence and prosecute targets. If we can’t get those inept motherfuckers to execute the plan that I put together, then taking care of Collins is going to be the least of our problems. What does the timetable look like?”

  “There was a slight hiccup at the handoff; apparently someone at the DoD is having problems following orders.”

  “What happened?”

  “They tried to grab the package and got their asses shot off.”

  “Is it going to come back on us?”

  “No, sir, I know a guy with the local news. He wrote the story up as a narcotics operation gone wrong. Local PD is going to play ball, so there is no blowback on us.”

  “Who’s taking point on the cleanup operation?”

  “A guy named Green; he’s the assistant agent in charge or some shit like that. He’s clueless; the man couldn’t find his asshole with two hands and a map. Duke, it’s covered. Trust me.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “Decklin gets the case out of the country, and the DoD will get the FBI to hit the doctor’s. It will be a routine warrant, but the doctor will be taken out during the operation. It’s too easy.”

  “Is that everything?”

  Simmons hesitated before getting up, and Duke caught it.

  “What else?”

  “Sir, it’s just a hunch, but—”

  “Jesus, Jacob, I’ve got work to do, just spit it out.”

  “It’s General Swift. I don’t think he’s going to play ball.”

  “Are you worried about him, or are you worried about yourself?” Duke asked honestly.

  “Duke, you know I’m good to go, but I don’t think the old man has it in him.”

  “Let me handle that. Swift will get in line, or he will be put in line. Trust me, it’s going to work out.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jacob smiled and headed for the door as Duke picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory.

  “Nantz, it’s Duke. The package is on the way to Barnes.” He paused, listening to the man on the other end of the line. “Yes, I understand, but I need you to do something. Have the team test the gas. I want to see what Swift does.”

  CHAPTER 5

  * * *

  California

  The EMT had told Renee that she might have a concussion, but she had declined a ride to the local emergency room. She finally got back to her hotel room at three o’clock in the morning. Tossing the room key on the table, she set her camera and blood-spattered computer on the bed before heading over to the minibar.

  The blood under her nails appeared dark brown in the light cast by the small refrigerator as she bent down to grab an airplane-sized bottle of vodka. Sparks of pain radiated out from the back of her skull as she stood upright. It hurt like hell, but the dizziness wasn’t that bad.

  She downed the bottle in one long gulp, hoping it would dull the pain. She was tired and looked longingly at the king-sized bed and inviting pillows but remembered an instructor in North Carolina telling her that she could sleep when she was dead.

  She knew she still had more in the tank, so she tore her gaze from the bed.

  Sliding the holster and pistol off her belt, she placed them next to the camera and laptop already resting on the bed. She pulled the bloodstained blouse over her head, tossed it in the trash, and headed to the bathroom.

  Renee flipped on the light and turned the shower on full blast. The mirror fogged from the steam of the hot shower, and Renee wiped her hand across the glass to see herself.

  Gingerly she touched the bruise forming on her sternum. The dark red and blue welt was getting darker between her well-formed breasts, and it hurt to touch. The trauma plate had saved her life and she knew it.

  “You look like shit,” she said to her reflection.

  Renee had been forced to learn doggedness at an early age just to keep up with everyone else. Looking back, her struggles seemed like such a little thing compared to where she was now, but back then, having to work twice as hard as everyone else had seemed so unfair.

  Her mother had always told her she could do whatever she wanted as long as she was willing to work for it. While her father and brothers played outside, romping in the yard, she would watch them through the window as she sat at the table, drowning in schoolwork, just trying to keep up with her classes. She was a prisoner of her own weakness, and she swore that one day nothing would keep her down.

  In third grade Renee’s mom had gotten her a tutor named Maleeha. She was a middle-aged Pakistani whose husband worked at her mother’s real estate company, and Renee was fascinated with the stories of her home. This was her first exposure to a life outside of Mississippi, and it was intoxicating. She would rush through her schoolwork and spend the rest of the time trying to learn Pashto from her tutor, a skill that would bear fruit later in life.

  The day she arrived at basic training, Renee had been like an uncut jewel, waiting for the master’s hand. Her drill sergeants had chipped away at the rough edges and smoothed and refined her strengths until she was polished and tightly anchored in her new setting.

  Renee’s first duty assignment was in PsyOps, where the time she had spent with Maleeha gave her a unique insight into the mind of women in the Mideast. The army was struggling to find a niche for women in the Special Operations community by setting up the Lioness Program, which attached women to Special Forces teams in Iraq and Afghanistan. Renee had been in the army for less than nine months when she was chosen from a pool of applicants to try out.

  She breezed through the selection course and soon found herself deployed, but it wasn’t what she’d expected. The grizzled Green Berets viewed her as a burden, which she hated, and only used her when they had to. So Renee set out to make herself indispensable. Her halting grasp of Pashto allowed her to talk to the women in southern Afghanistan without a male being present, and she soon developed a rapport with the women of the region. Before long she had a network set up that fed her information from the local villages. The wives and mothers who came in contact with the Taliban would tell her anything she wanted to know, and her unit began to make real progress in the area.

  When her deployment was over, the army sent her to the language school at Monterey and immersed her in Arabic. It was hard, and she hated every moment of it, but she knew that she had a toehold in a world denied to most women and she wasn’t about to give it up.

  After graduation, they sent her team to Ramadi, where there was an offensive under way. Despite her previous deployments, she had no frame of reference for her new role at the tip of the spear. The firefights were loud, savage, and in-your-face—like a knife fight in a dark alley. In her new unit, you either carried your weight, or you went home in a bag, and it was too much for many of the women she had graduated with.

  Renee was an anomaly. She came alive in the cauldron of Ramadi. The first time she saved a teammate’s life, dragging him to safety despite his bulk, everything changed for her. No longer was she a burden; she was now an asset who had proved her worth under fire.

  Turning on the sink, she began scrubbing Joseph’s blood from her hands and forearms. The manicure she’d gotten the day prior was ruined, proving how frivolous pampering herse
lf really was.

  Rinsing her hands filled the stark white basin of the sink with a rust-colored mixture of dried blood and soap. She reflected on the dead bodies, empty hotel rooms, and sand-filled tents as she dried her hands on the plush hotel towel. Death and loneliness were all she had.

  Stepping into the shower, Renee was able to relax for the first time in hours. The cream-colored shower curtain acted as a shield from reality, and she’d happily have stayed in there for the rest of her life if she could have. She washed her hair and used the bar of soap to clean her body. Stepping back out of the water, she lifted the horseshoe pendant from between her breasts and used her fingernail to clean bits of dried blood off it.

  She’d been told in training that seeing people die would get easier, but it wasn’t true. Death left an invisible residue on the soul that no amount of water or booze could ever wipe away.

  It was still dark when she woke up at five thirty a.m. Her body was working through the aftershock of yesterday’s battle plus too many trips to the minibar to self-medicate. But Renee knew that you can’t work out if you don’t get out of bed. Dressing quickly, she got a drink of water before heading to the hotel’s gym. She hated working out, but she dutifully stepped on the treadmill.

  The news played on the flat-screen TV mounted to the wall in front of her. A perfectly groomed anchor was talking about the recent uprisings in Afghanistan. She increased the speed of the treadmill until she was at her seven-minute-mile pace and tried to read the closed captioning scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

  American soldiers had unknowingly burned a pile of Korans, and retaliatory bombings and attacks on coalition bases were now on the upswing. Renee looked away and focused on her breathing.

  It looked like it was going to be another bloody spring in Afghanistan.

  Renee finished her four miles and grabbed a towel to dry the sweat off her face. She left the gym and headed back to her room to get ready for the day. By seven she had eaten and was on her way to the DoD office to grab her stuff.