Rox lowered herself to the ground, trying to see past the men’s legs to get an accurate count of people in the room. She saw a blonde man slumped over in a chair and caught brief glimpses of a guy in dress slacks moving light on his feet, in and out of her range of sight as he bobbed and weaved, feinted and kicked. She’d seen Jack’s boxing match with Vic Vidal on YouTube. People in the neighborhood she’d grown up in couldn’t believe an up-and-coming Chicano amateur had been KO’d by an Italian nearly a decade his senior. Old rivalries resurfaced along with the shit-talking. But Rox could see it—could identify Jack’s style from thirty yards away even though she couldn’t see him clearly behind the guards. His movements were fluid and balanced as he danced back and around a man in cargo pants who had legs like tree trunks. The guy was heavier, slower in his movements but powerful nonetheless.
Rox took advantage of the distraction to move quickly and quietly along the back wall, trying to get a better angle on her targets. She crouched down behind a bare cement column, assessing the situation as soon as she got a better view.
Two guards, heavily armed.
A hostage in not-good condition.
Jack on his feet, bloody, but fighting.
His opponent, a thick-necked man who looked like he was ready to dismantle Jack with his bare hands.
Lightner, watching from the side.
Rox ducked back, thinking. She preferred calculated risks, the time to plan and act only after she had all her escape routes laid out, but she’d be damned if she would leave this opportunity on the ground. Besides, if something happened to Jack on her watch, Rox knew Sam would never get over it; would hold her responsible, even if only subconsciously. But Rox only had a single semiautomatic and ten rounds to get the job done against four trained killers. She didn’t like those odds. Not at all.
Rox leaned forward again. Jack’s leg came up as he blocked a kick; he dropped his foot back down rapidly as he came back with a swift side kick to the guard’s knee. As the guy crumpled forward, grunting in pain, and Jack took advantage of the moment to nail another hard kick into the man’s ribs, making him cry out. Rox realized then that Jack’s hands were tied behind his back.
Watching him now, she realized something about him. For all his wealth and cushy upbringing, he was a fighter. He had the kind of skills that couldn’t be taught—they had to be acquired. The dirty street fighter in her saw that clearly now. Jack’s a tough cabrón, she thought, hearing Lightner’s delighted laughter as he watched his own man struggle on the ground. But Jack didn’t let up, crouching a little as he moved in again. Jack faked a left kick, making the guy dodge a little, right into Jack’s powerhouse kick to the head. The guard slumped, falling forward. Jack stood over his prone form, breathing hard, still in a fighting stance as everyone waited for the man to get up.
It was now or never.
Rox made it forward more than twenty-five feet in two seconds, leveling her gun at the two guards who were shaking their heads in consternation at their fallen comrade. She fired one shot, then a second, straight at their heads, not taking any chances, not even stopping to watch the bodies crumple, blood and gray matter oozing from the wounds. Rox’s third shot hit Lightner in the shoulder as he dodged away, the cracks of the shots unnaturally loud against the bare concrete floors and walls. Rox took three quick steps toward a surprised Jack, a burst of energy spiking her veins as she gestured for him to get down before she pirouetted against the next available column, just missing Lightner’s returning fire, the concrete shards hitting her fireman’s hat and mask.
If she let this go on too long, Lightner would likely try to use Jack or his companion as human shields, limiting her chances at a clean shot. But she’d hit him, slowed him down enough to get an advantage, as long as the big guard didn’t come to in the next sixty seconds—
Rox raised her weapon, launching her body in the opposite direction from where she thought Lightner might be expecting her, sliding across the floor as she sighted down the gun. She saw Lightner crouching under the table and managed to squeeze off two more rounds, one hitting him in the leg, the other lodging into the concrete behind him.
Lightner howled, falling forward to the ground.
Rox rolled up, just in time to catch Jack stepping forward. He delivered a gridiron football punt to Lightner’s head. Blood and spit flew from the man’s mouth as his face landed on the floor.
KO.
Jack looked up at her, breathing hard. “Who the hell are you?”
*
Dec 22nd—11:03pm
Shindand Air Base, Afghanistan
W E S L E Y
Wes shifted groggily. He could hear shooting, rounds of ammo pounding into what felt like the side of his head. He was under fire.
Shit.
He rolled, opening his eyes, wondering what godforsaken part of the world he’d woken up in this time.
Reza, the young kid he’d met up with earlier sat in front of a large flat screen, happily playing some insanely-loud battlefield game, drinking a Dr. Pepper, a piece of half-eaten pizza in his mouth.
So Sammy’d been true to her word, he thought dazedly, pushing to sit up on the sofa he’d been laid out on.
He tried to recall what happened; then he felt the dull throb in his jaw.
Sonofabitch.
The last thing he remembered was getting back into the van, pulling out his earpiece and handing it to Sam. Then he’d heard the scuffle, seen Reza being held down by Rush and Talon in the back, a gag tied around his mouth before they tossed a bag over his head.
“What the fuck, Sam?” Wes began.
“Sorry, Wes. I can’t trust this kid enough to turn him loose yet.”
And that was the last thing he heard before she knocked him out.
Wes stood, moving toward the door of the room he and Reza were in.
“It’s locked,” Reza said around the pizza. “Man said he would come back later.”
“What?” Wes swung around. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Reza shrugged, turning back to his game, looking not at all concerned with the fact that he was being held hostage by Americans. “There’s a phone,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the desk. “If we need something, but it only calls same man.”
Wes glanced around the wood-paneled room, the small bathroom to the side, the ugly plaid sofa. It was like being trapped in someone’s seventies basement.
He strode to the desk, picked up the phone.
“Yeah?” a bored voice answered.
“This is Wes Elliott. Where the fuck is Samantha Wyatt?” he asked, trying to remain calm.
“Lieutenant Commander Wyatt is unavailable,” the voice replied, heavy on the title correction, like Wes gave a shit. “She told me to tell you to sit tight and take care of the kid. Said she’ll be back when she’s done running errands.”
Running errands? Is that what they called assassinating drug kingpins these days?
“Jesus,” Wes muttered, hanging up. “What the hell, Sammy?”
He rubbed his jaw, wondering why he was so surprised she’d laid him out. Sammy was the only woman he knew who would make love to him passionately and then sock him in the face within the space of a few hours. Wes realized she was just trying to protect him, but being sidelined like this pissed him off to no end. He made his way back to the couch, picking up a slice of pizza from the box next to Reza.
“So, do you always take food out to your dad?” Wes asked, biting into the pizza. It was cold, but it was good. Hell, pizza was almost always good.
“No,” Reza shook his head, not looking away from the game as he shot at a cluster of faceless soldiers. “Just when he calls to me.”
Wes tilted his head. Ajmal has his phone number; had given it to Reza as proof. So why hadn’t he just called or texted Wes himself?
“Does he usually tell you anything about Nazar?” Wes asked. “When he has shipments going out?” he probed casually, sitting back as he continued chewing.
&nbs
p; “No,” Reza answered succinctly, eyes on the screen. “This was first time he told me these things.” The kid sucked in a breath as he narrowly avoided a hidden enemy behind a fake cinder block wall on the screen. “Father doesn’t like to talk about his work.”
“But today he did,” Wes pointed out.
Reza shrugged, totally into the game. “He told me what to tell you. Told me what to say.”
The hairs on the back of Wes’s neck rose.
“Word for word?” he asked slowly.
“Yes,” Reza nodded, taking a sip of his Dr. Pepper, distracted. “He said what I should tell to you.”
Wes grabbed Reza by his neck, yanking him backward as he locked the kid into a chokehold.
“Did your father ask you to set me up?” Wes asked as Reza gasped and struggled, trying to gain purchase against Wes’s hold. Wes squeezed his forearm into his windpipe harder, to show the kid he wasn’t messing around. “Tell me, Reza.”
“Let go!” Reza coughed out. “Let go, kesafat!”47
Wes jerked him back so hard, the kid’s back bowed.
“Tell me right now,” Wes insisted. “Did your father ask you to set me up?”
“Zahre mar!”48 the kid choked, eyes full of vitriol.
“That’s not very nice,” Wes murmured, squeezing his forearm fractionally tighter, enough to make the kid see stars. “Answer me and I’ll let you go, kid.”
“Father had to!” Reza coughed out, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he started to lose consciousness in the sleeper hold. “He must do as Nazar says…” he trailed off, passing out.
Wes stood quickly, crossing to the phone.
“Look, man—” the guy at the other end began.
“No, you look—” Wes interrupted. “Get ahold of Sam Wyatt now! And I mean right fucking now! She’s walking into a trap!”
*
Dec 21st—11:24pm
Shindand Air Base, Afghanistan
W E S L E Y
“Kid! Wake up!”
Wes slapped Reza hard enough to elicit a groggy groan from the teenager. He came to, blinking blearily at Wes before he was startled by a second face looming over Wes’s shoulder.
“Who are you?” Reza made a move to sit up.
“I’m about to be your worst nightmare,” Anthony Winchell answered. Wes imagined briefly what this guy must look like to Reza. Winch had a precision crew cut and the build of a linebacker. From the ground where he laid, Winch must have seemed massive to a kid who couldn’t be a buck ten soaking wet.
Winch unceremoniously pushed Wes aside and picked the kid up by the neck, his broad hand choking Reza as he struggled against the big man’s grip.
“You better start talking, kid,” Winch muttered, shaking him a little for effect. Reza’s head tossed about like a chicken getting its neck wrung. He looked up at Wes for help, his toffee eyes wide with fear. This was the second time he was being choked out in a handful of minutes. The way Wes figured, this punk should be afraid.
“Tell us everything you know,” Wes reiterated.
Reza gave an approximation of a nod, gasping for breath as Winch eased up a little.
“There are local tribesmen,” Reza said, his voice scratchy and shrill with fear, face flushed with exertion.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Wes replied, nodding to Winch. The officer made the move to take Reza’s neck in hand again but the boy dodged back, his hands up.
“They grow the poppy,” Reza hastily explained. “Nazar promised more money if they help to protect the mountains where my father works.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this?” Wes asked, anger making his face flush.
Reza’s eyes darted from Wes to Winch, then back again. “My father said not to say. He said they are for protection. They are our friends—”
“Are they Taliban?” Winch asked gruffly, squeezing the kid’s neck again.
Reza turned bright red as he shook his head as vehemently as he could manage in Winchell’s grip. “Mujahedeen.”
“Jesus H. Christ, this just keeps getting better and better,” Wes exclaimed, tossing his hands up.
“How many men?” Winch asked, not letting up.
“I—I don’t—”
“Try harder,” Winch gritted out.
“I’m not sure—”
“Then guess, you little shit,” he said, shaking Reza again.
Reza looked to Wes for help.
“I’d tell him if I were you,” Wes said dryly.
“Maybe twenty men,” Reza responded, his fear palpable as he pushed at Winchell’s hand ineffectually with his own. “They will be in the hills, watching. They protect the building.”
Wes wrapped a hand around Winch’s shoulder. “Tell Sam. Someone needs to tell Sam.”
Winch nodded gruffly, letting go of Reza before striding over to the phone on the desk.
Reza released a relieved breath as he held his throat and backed up away from Wes.
“Yeah, this is Winchell. I need to get on the sat phone to Chief Warrant Officer Davis Wright right now. And we need drones with thermal imaging over Bunyad Khan airspace. Get Wright a read on how many heat signatures you can see and where. I’ll also need two dust-off helicopters inbound for extraction.”
“We need to get there—”
“No,” Winch shook his head, cutting Wes off. “It’s too late to change the play. The best we can do is get them all the intel we can find. They’re the best of the best, Wes. If anyone’s going to sort this out, it’ll be these guys.”
*
Dec 21st—11:43pm
Nazar’s Processing Facility near Bunyad Khan, Afghanistan
S A M A N T H A
Three hours and forty-three minutes.
Sam lay still on the ridgeline, under the starlit, velvety darkness, grateful for the base layer she was wearing to ward off the desert chill. She tracked the Leviathan guards through infrared binoculars, timing their circuits as they looked out into the surrounding night, seemingly unaware of the fact that they had fourteen individual sets of eyes on them, watching their every move.
The Leviathan guards were professional and patient, varying their routes with measured paces, postures alert but relaxed, submachine guns cross-slung around their shoulders. They didn’t socialize, didn’t stand huddled together, share jokes, or take breaks in the quiet moonlight. The building behind them remained dark, the handful of narrow, barred windows blackened, the only evidence of life coming from the muted whir and hum of millions of dollars of poppy being boiled, baked, and processed before being baked again and packed for shipping.
“Sam, we have a problem,” Davis’s disembodied voice came out over her earpiece.
Her muscles tensed in anticipation. “Talk to me,” she answered in a low voice.
“Just got word from the air base. Wes says it’s a trap. There are twenty or so tribesman guarding the site.”
Sam panned the surrounding hills, looking for heat signatures. The rock would have cooled enough to make any lookouts visible by now.
“Davis, hold position,” Sam said. “Simon, anything on the road?” she asked, eyes moving quickly across the ridgeline.
“Negative. No vehicles in or out.”
“Kurt, you got anything up top?” she asked. Cameron Kurt had the highest position, embedded at the top of the hill overlooking the encampment.
“Negative.”
“Talon—Check in.”
“All quiet on the western front, boss,” Talon replied from his perch, shrouded within pines, ready to drop a dead shot on anyone within half a mile of the site.
Sam chewed her lip as she thought it through. The local tribesmen knew these hills like the back of their hands. They’d be able to maneuver in and out of the range quickly and silently. Nazar might not be as familiar with this region, but this facility was his prize calf. No way would he not know how to defend it. If it wasn’t him coming in to defend it, he’d hire it out. Buy off the locals, no matter how
hostile initially, maybe with a percentage of the cut he planned for shipping.
Fuck, Wes probably had it right.
Sam’s mind raced. Leviathan guards sitting right on top of the facility could just be a distraction. But no matter what, no one would want to attack the facility. Not that cash cow. They had to close in. Staying in the mountains wouldn’t be safe enough cover.
“Davis, keep your guys low in the water. No one besides us gets in or out of the building,” she ordered, keeping her voice calm even though a flash of fear ran down her spine. “Kurt, get to Talon. You’ll run spotter, covering us until we get in. Rush is with me. Henri, Avi?” she said to the two men closest to the building in the low-lying rock edge. “Take out the guards out on my count. We’re going in.”
*
Dec 21st—5:02pm
12th Floor of Leviathan Risk International Headquarters, London
R O X A N N E
“Who the hell are you?”
Rox ignored Jack’s question as she leaned down to check Lightner’s pulse. She almost breathed a sigh of relief when she felt it, thready but there. As much as she was ready to move past this day and put this man out of his existence, she didn’t have the go-ahead from Sammy yet.
Speaking of which…
Rox frowned as she thought about the time. They were due for a check in. She glanced at her watch. Sam was two minutes late.
She’s never late.
“I asked you a question,” Jack bit out, breathing hard as he stared down at her.
Rox looked up through the mask. “I’m a friend.”
“Of whose?” Jack volleyed, clearly still amped up and highly suspicious, despite the fact that she was clearly there to help him. His face was a bloody mess, and his hands were still tied behind his back, but he still managed exuded authority.
“I’m a friend of Sam’s,” she said, moving behind him.
“What?” Jack stared her in shock. “Wait, what?” he asked again, trying to get a good look at her through the mask, his hands still tied behind his back.
Rox used her keys to cut the ties off, sidestepping him as he rubbed his wrists out.
Complicated Creatures: Part Two Page 33