by Mason Cross
When he had settled into his new position, I waited another minute and then started to circle around him, closing the radius until I was within twenty feet of him. As I watched his back, his head turned. I ducked down, but he was looking in the direction of the house. I guessed from his body language he was listening to a communication through a headset, like the ones the team on the train had been wearing. That was confirmed a moment later when he spoke out loud. Just one or two words, and one of them sounded like “negative.” He was confirming it was all quiet at this post, which meant they wouldn’t expect to hear from him for at least a few minutes, which in turn meant I wouldn’t get a better chance to strike.
I moved a little closer, to the edge of open ground, and then quickly stepped out into the clearing and behind the nearest vehicle. The guy was just ten feet away now, his back to me. I knew what to do. Quick and quiet. The hunting knife was clipped to my belt. I put my hand on the hilt and thought the action out, breaking it into neat steps. Four paces. Wrap my left arm around his arms to stop him swinging the gun around. Cut the throat in one quick movement. No hesitation.
Except I was hesitating.
Now that I was contemplating killing a man in cold blood for the first time in years, hesitate was all I could do. The knowledge that he would do the same to me in a heartbeat didn’t make any difference. He started to turn, and I ducked behind the SUV, keeping an eye on him through gaps in snow on the windows. He turned three hundred and sixty degrees again, before facing back to the access road. Sloppy. Not varying his position or line of sight often enough. Clearly, standards had slipped a little. I gripped the hilt of the knife, braced myself … and then released it.
I took my gun from inside my coat instead. I waited for the next turn in his predictable routine, and knew I had all the time in the world to get behind him. I stood up, walked the four paces, and put the barrel of the Glock firmly at the base of his skull.
“One chance. Move and you’re a dead man.”
A sharp intake of breath, and then he froze. Slowly, he released his grip on the AR-15. It hung around his shoulder on the strap as he raised his hands.
“Blake?”
“Good guess,” I said. “Who are you?”
“Abrams. You don’t have a chance. You know that, don’t you?”
“If they told you anything about me, you know I like a challenge. How many?”
He shook his head, his voice calm. “I’m not telling you anything.”
I hadn’t expected him to, and I wouldn’t have believed anything he told me, anyway. I kept the pressure on the back of his head while I started to lift the AR-15 off his shoulders with my left hand.
And then I heard the others. My eyes flicked to the source of the noise, and I saw two more men in white emerging from the forest, carrying transparent plastic sacks full of equipment. Abrams heard them at the same time and started to yell.
“He’s here!”
70
“Blake is out here, at the cars. I need backup.”
At the end of Markham’s sentence, Stark heard a rapid clicking sound, which he knew was the communicator dampening the sound of a close-up burst of automatic fire. He heard the delayed echo of the burst out of his other ear from the north. They had heard another burst moments earlier, and he was already in the process of trying to work out from which direction it had come. Now he knew. The son of a bitch had gotten past Walker somehow.
He wondered what Blake’s strategy was. Perhaps Blake had deliberately engaged the three men at the cars, trying to draw more of them away from the house. Somehow he had second-guessed them, or there was some extra warning system they’d missed. Either way, he was still one man against nine. Now was not the time to panic and start playing into his hands.
“Dixon, Kowalski.” Murphy’s voice cut in. “Go help them out. Stark and Usher, hold your positions.”
Kowalski’s face appeared at the edge of the hayloft. They exchanged a glance and Kowalski smiled, clearly relishing the chance to even the score with Blake. He swung his legs over the edge and slid down the edges of the ladder, the old wood creaking in protest under the big man’s weight. A couple of seconds later, he had opened the doors and was gone into the night.
Stark tried to remember how long it had taken them to cover the ground between the cars and the house. Five minutes, perhaps? Moving relatively quickly but not hurrying. The ground was treacherous in the snow, so chances were they wouldn’t make much better time on the way back.
More bursts of fire sounded, from at least two different weapons. Stark had an urge to forget the order and follow Kowalski, but he knew Murphy was right to hold them back here. It would play into Blake’s hands if they all charged off into the woods. And so he kept his powder dry, gazing out through the hole in the wall, listening to the voices relaying the situation out at the car.
Murphy spoke again, his voice calm despite it all. “Abrams, come in. Jennings, come in.”
Another distant burst of gunfire and Markham’s voice came in again. “Abrams is down. Jennings, too, I think. I’ve got him pinned down in …” The rest was drowned in another burst of fire, and then Markham repeated the last few words. “One of the cars.”
“Help is on the way,” Murphy responded. “Keep him pinned.”
Stark got to his feet and moved across the floor of the barn to the north side, looking for another gap in the wall so he could at least look out in the right direction. Nothing on this side. He moved back to the doors, one side still open from Kowalski’s departure, and cautiously peered out. If he stood on the right-hand side, he could see in the direction of the cars. He listened to the sporadic gunfire and the occasional yells. He looked for muzzle flashes, or anything in the darkness. He could barely make out the line of trees through the snow: It registered as a solid black wall that kept all of its secrets.
Stark felt a familiar and unwelcome visitor return: that feeling in the pit of his belly when things are going bad and about to go worse. All of a sudden, nine against one didn’t seem like the insurmountable odds it should have. Not when they were entirely cut off from the rest of the world, in a place where their prey had home-court advantage.
71
I gripped the AR-15 and planted my foot in the small of Abrams’s back, kicking him forward as I yanked the door of the SUV open. The two men coming out of the woods dropped the plastic sacks and raised their guns. I got behind the door as they opened fire. Abrams wasn’t so lucky. His body slumped hard against the door, his blood spattering the bulletproof glass.
I clicked the selector to disengage the safety on Abrams’s AR-15 as bullets ricocheted off the armor plating on the door. I waited my turn and strafed the trees, hearing a cry as I felled one of the two men. From a position a little away from the cry, I heard rapid talking as the other one yelled into his communicator. I fired in the direction of the voice and ducked back into cover as an answering burst returned.
Bad timing. Perhaps if I hadn’t hesitated about cutting Abrams’s throat, I wouldn’t have been pinned down. There had been no further shots from the position of the man I had hit, but the second was clearly alive, well, and summoning backup. The house was a short distance away through the forest, and I didn’t have long before reinforcements showed up. I straightened out of my crouch to bring my eyes above the level of the window. A couple of big splashes of Abrams’s blood had splattered on the glass high up and were dripping down to the edge of the door, but I could see through the bottom half of the window well enough. As I watched, I saw two muzzle flashes and flinched back as both shots impacted the glass beside my head. Bulletproof, but not invincible. I just hoped the guy out there wasn’t carrying anything more powerful. I fired another burst to keep him occupied.
More powerful … That gave me an idea. I risked a glance around the edge of the door at Abrams’s body. He had fallen back against the vehicle, his open eyes staring up at the sky. I fired another burst and grabbed him by the collar. I dragged him under the do
or, rolling him over. He had a small satchel slung around his shoulder by a strap. I unzipped it and started rummaging. Another burst of fire hit the side of the SUV. I wondered how close the others were.
72
Stark held his position and watched the line of trees to the north. He kept thinking about a town called Bartella, in Northern Iraq. A town he had seen a long time ago, years before he ever heard the name Winterlong. The insurgents had gotten hold of heavy cannon and Al-Samoud missile launchers, and light infantry was no match for the heavy artillery. Stark and three others had been holed up in an abandoned building while shells rained down not more than five hundred yards away. It had taken three days before air support was able to neutralize the guns. On the face of it, the situations then and now could not be more different, and yet he felt the same powerlessness as he listened to the sporadic updates in between bursts of gunfire.
Although he, Murphy, and Usher had remained at the house and the barn, they could follow the progress through their linked headsets. Dixon and Kowalski were two minutes from the scene, approaching on separate vectors. Markham was still responding to Murphy’s requests for updates. He had Blake pinned down in one of the cars, although the pinning down was mutual, since Blake was returning fire. Worryingly, neither Abrams nor Jennings had spoken since the shooting started, suggesting they were most likely not just down, but KIA. Grimly ironic, Stark thought, if the twins had actually been killed at the same time. The last burst of gunfire had been around a minute ago, and this had been the longest break in fire since the shooting had started. A lull. Stark could hear nothing but the soft whisper of snow falling through the trees.
A second later, Dixon called in to say he had reached Markham’s position.
“Where’s Blake?” Murphy asked.
“Still over there, I think,” Markham replied. Then he remembered the communication medium and clarified. “At the cars.”
“Quiet for a minute or so,” Dixon added.
“You think you got him?” Murphy asked.
Markham responded after a second. “I don’t know.”
Silence for thirty seconds, and then Kowalski called in to say he had sight of the cars, positioned west of Dixon and Markham.
“Can you see him?” Murphy asked.
There was a pause, and Kowalski’s voice came in. “I’m not sure. No movement.”
Stark could picture the scene without difficulty. The three of them surrounding a hostile vehicle, wondering when and whether to break cover to check it out. Blake could be dead, he could be wounded, or he could be playing possum.
“Dixon, what’s happening?” That was Murphy’s voice on the line, betraying a hint of impatience.
“Unknown. No movement.”
“Is he hit?”
“Unknown.”
Another long pause, and then Dixon spoke. “I’m going to check it out.”
“Be careful,” Murphy replied quickly. “Kowalski, get in closer and cover him.”
Stark held his breath and waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. Dixon had left his channel open as he approached the car. The sound quality of the headsets was so good, he could hear his breathing.
“Blake?” Markham called out. “You’re surrounded. Lay down the weapon and walk out here. We won’t shoot if you cooperate.”
Nothing. Another twenty seconds.
“I’m going to put a couple in the car,” Dixon said.
The cracks of three single shots echoed through the woods, paired up with the tinny sounds of the bullets smacking into the armor plating on the SUVs.
“No movement. Going in.”
It seemed to take forever for Dixon to reach the SUV, but there were no further shots, which had to be a good thing.
“Abrams is dead,” he said, which meant he was close enough to confirm. “I’m going to open the door.”
“Wait,” Murphy said. “Kowalski?”
“Covered,” Kowalski responded.
Stark heard the sound of the door handle click, and a second later he heard a cry of alarm. He would never know which of the three men it came from.
“Oh fu—”
The communication disappeared, and a second later, there was an explosion from the north. This time, the fireball was big and bright enough to be seen through the woods.
73
As soon as the grenades in the SUV went up, I broke my cover behind a thick-trunked tree twenty yards away and ran flat-out for the trail. My hesitation with Abrams had been stupid, and it had nearly gotten me killed. But it had been simple enough to rig the trap with Abrams’s grenades and exit the opposite side of the car. The challenging part had been putting enough distance between me and the vehicle without being seen before the reinforcements showed up. It looked like there had been two of them, in addition to the one I had been exchanging fire with.
It was as though the lessons of the last couple of days had passed straight over my head. I wasn’t going to get out of this alive by acting like anything other than what I’d been five years ago: a soldier.
I had Abrams’s headset now. It was top-of-the-line equipment, of course, just like Kowalski’s on the train. I had been listening to the chatter between the men for the last few minutes. So far I had identified four distinct voices, including Jack Murphy’s. I wondered if I should be honored that he had returned to field work just for me. I was pretty sure Dixon, the one who had tripped my little surprise, was the same one I had worked with. If so, I wouldn’t be shedding any tears for him.
I knew there would be more of them. It sounded like at least two of them were in the house. Better—I caught two mentions of Bryant’s name, which meant he was still alive for now and that my ruse about the bookcase in the basement had worked. Walker, who had been the man watching the road, was en route to the SUVs. No one had heard anything from out that way since the explosion, which I figured was definitely a good sign for me. I caught a break when Walker, on his way to the scene, referenced the radio silence from out at the cars.
“I thought nine against one was good odds.”
Because of Walker’s nervous chatter, I now had an answer to the question I’d asked Abrams. Nine men, maybe down to four or five now.
There was one more name I had caught that seemed somehow familiar. Usher, the one who Murphy had instructed to remain on the upper level of the house. I’d never worked with an Usher, and he hadn’t spoken yet, so I didn’t know if his voice would be familiar, but the mention of his name seemed to trigger something at the back of my mind. For the time being, though, I had more pressing concerns.
I made my way back up the ridge and across to the point where the trail led back down to the stables. I couldn’t see anybody there, but I already knew from Murphy’s instructions that there was at least one man in the barn. That might cause me a problem. I had hoped they would stick to the house for now.
From my east-facing vantage point, the three groups of buildings were laid out in front of me. The stables were closest, at nine o’ clock. The barn was diagonally to my right, about two o’clock. Farthest from me was the house at twelve o’clock.
“Murphy, this is Walker.”
The voice in my earpiece sounded rattled. Good. I tensed and listened for the update. After a pause, Murphy told him to go ahead.
“I’m at the cars. Markham is unconscious but still alive, barely. Kowalski, Dixon, Abrams, and Jennings are all dead.”
“Shit, what the hell—” another voice cut in. It sounded familiar. What was the name of the man I had spoken to from Chicago? Stark, I thought.
“Quiet,” Murphy ordered. “Head back to the house, Walker, and be careful.”
“What about Markham?”
I heard an exasperated sigh from Murphy. “Is he going to make it?”
As the two of them debated the likelihood of Markham’s survival, I took stock. Five out of action, and Walker at least seven minutes away. If that was right, it left three men out at the house. That was consistent with the communications I’d hear
d earlier: Usher and Murphy in the house, Stark in the barn. I had cut the odds against me by two-thirds, but I was still outnumbered.
Murphy, in an uncharacteristic show of compassion, had changed his mind. He told Walker to patch Markham up as best he could and leave him in the remaining car before heading back. Which was great news for Markham, but good news for me, too.
I looked ahead at the barn, judging where best to attack. Stark would have made sure he was in a position with a view of the entrance, and probably the approach to the house as well. The barn was a ramshackle structure that had seen better days, and I hadn’t done much for the upkeep since I had been the owner. All except for one thing. Something that wouldn’t stand up to a thorough search in daylight.
I approached the back of the barn quickly, moving through the blind spot where the barn itself obscured the line of sight from the house and where I could not be seen from the small window in the side.
And that was when I heard Stark’s voice in my earpiece again and knew there had to be a change of plan.
74
Stark nestled into the northeast corner of the barn, beside a wide gap in the aluminum siding that gave him a commanding view of the front of the house. If Walker was right, Blake had taken out half of their number in one stroke. There was only one place he could be headed now. Stark kept his eyes on the line of trees, watching the open ground between the house and the barn. After a few minutes of nothing much happening, he relaxed a little, shifting his weight on the dirt floor.
Something creaked.
Keeping his eyes on the gap in the siding, he shifted his position again and heard another creak. Finally, he looked down and looked at the area of ground he was crouched on. There was a slight dip. He glanced up again at the open ground, eyes darting from the house to the tree line, before satisfying himself all was clear. He examined the dip in the floor, running the tips of his fingers over the place where it started to dip. He found a straight edge, carefully concealed under an inch of dirt.