“I’m not afraid.”
“That is because you are stupid. We have wasted too much time here.”
There were other words Amelia could not work out. She assumed the man at the driver’s side window was mumbling under his breath. She strained to hear more.
“The curtain to the sleeping area is closed. Do you want to explain why we did not search it? That would not go well either.”
“Do it quickly.”
Something hit the side window. Once. Twice.
Then came the sound of the door opening.
ALIKI WAS SUCKING FOUL air like a man surfacing from the bottom of the ocean.
“Too many cupcakes, Joker?” Nagano touched his elbow, making the big Samoan turn.
“Hey, Weps?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up.”
“Roger that, Joker. Shutting up.”
They slowed as they reached the intersection of the target area. Aliki sighted down the street. In the green haze of his NVGs he saw an old eighteen-wheeler and several men around it. One searched beneath the trailer, one stood to the side, one stood on the driver’s side running board peering into the window. He keyed his mike. “Joker, Boss. We are on site.”
“Report.” J. J. sounded nearly as winded as Aliki felt.
“I make five hostiles, all armed, all men. They’re giving the truck a good going over.”
“Any sign of our friend?”
“Negative. What’s your ETA?”
“We’re five minutes out.”
Aliki pressed the earpiece further into his ear to overcome the unending ringing in his brain. “Roger, ten minutes out.”
Weps shook his head and held up five fingers.
J. J. came back immediately. “Negative, Joker. Five, I say again, five minutes. Confirm.”
“Roger that, Boss. Five minutes. Orders?”
“Sit tight until we are in place unless the bottom drops out.”
“Understood. We’ll sit—Standby.” Aliki watched as a man raised the butt of his AK-47 and started pounding the driver’s window. “We have a situation. They’re making entrance.”
“Understood.” A second later. “Go.”
J. J. LENGTHENED HIS stride. Five minutes wasn’t much time on the clock but in a gun battle it seemed just an hour short of eternity. He pressed on, moving as fast as his boots and gear would let him. The part of his brain not involved in assessing the situation and weighing options chugged out a prayer.
Ten strides later the sound of gunfire echoed down the streets.
FIRST SHE SAW HIS hand take hold of the curtain. Then she saw his ugly face and smelled his cigarette-laced breath. His eyes widened first at seeing two women behind the curtain. His Asian face split into a yellow-toothed smile, which disappeared when he saw the barrel of the 9mm. He was close enough to see the rifling. He jumped back and fumbled with the AK, a weapon never designed to be wielded in the cramped confines of the tractor trailer.
She felt a half-second of guilt for having the advantage of surprise.
Then she pulled the trigger.
ALIKI HEARD A MUFFLED pop, a pop sharp enough to be easily recognized by a man who had fired a dozen different high-powered weapons in his decade and a half of military service. His hearing was too damaged to put a size to the caliber but good enough to know it was a handgun with a kick.
The body of the man who broke the window slipped from the cab and fell to the curb. He made no attempt to get up. If Aliki’s guess was right, the man’s days of getting up were done. “We going, Joker?”
Not Nagano’s voice. Pete’s. He turned. Pete repeated the question. “We going? They need help.” Aliki turned his gaze to Nagano and saw anger.
“Of course. Watch your cross fire.”
Nagano swore then stepped in front of Aliki, leveling his M110 Semi-Automatic Sniper rifle down the street. “Stay to the east of the truck. I’ll take this side.”
PETE WAS MOVING FROM the alley into the street and making his way forward, his M4 aimed and his finger applying one ounce less of the necessary pressure to pull the trigger. He heard Aliki move up on his right. Pete had a bus load of questions but lacked time. Everything else would need to wait. The men in front of him were all that mattered at the moment.
Two of the men on the sidewalk backpedaled and raised their weapons to fire at the truck cab, clearly intending to punch more holes in it than Bonnie and Clyde’s Ford. His peripheral vision caught a glimpse of Nagano aiming his sniper rifle down the sidewalk.
There was a pop and one of the men staggered back two steps, his hand raised to his chest. Pete had seen it before. The high velocity of the copper-jacketed round passed though the gunman as if he were made of paper. He looked at his hand, then down the street. His automatic rifle dropped barrel-first to the concrete. He followed it down.
His companion looked confused for a moment as his brain tried to make sense of what he just saw. It took only a second for him to match the effect to the cause. He spun, raising his weapon. The head shot didn’t give the man time to aim. He joined his friend on the walkway.
That made three on the ground; two on their feet. For the moment they had the advantage. Nagano had cover, Pete and Aliki didn’t.
Advance. Weapon ready. Eyes forward. Advance with caution. Advance with purpose. Forward into the teeth of the beast.
When Nagano dropped the hammer on the second man, his pals scooted to the front. Pete saw that. He also saw one had a radio. A dozen other men or more might be on their way. He knew of a mob of armed men not far away. He watched them torch their vehicles.
This had to be done and done quickly.
THE ACRID SMELL OF spent gunpowder permeated the small space. Amelia made the shot she had to make. The sight of flesh and blood splattering the windows and seats sickened her and had she the time, she would have emptied her stomach. She chose to retreat farther back into the sleeper cab, pressing against Jildiz, shielding her.
Then came a different sound. A shot . . . rifle . . . big rifle. Then another. That was followed by several bursts of familiar automatic fire.
“Down.” Amelia pushed Jildiz down on the mattress and covered her body with her own. She might be hearing the weapon fire of friends. She prayed she was right.
J. J. CAME UP a block south of his other men. The original plan was for half the unit to approach from the south and the other half from the north. That would have given them advantage over the men at the truck. It was close to impossible to fight soldiers from the front and the back simultaneously. Even the best plans rarely survive the first contact with the enemy. The sound of gunfire was louder and closer.
J. J. signaled his men to slow then surveyed the street. He saw Nagano advancing toward the truck, the M110 shoulder high. In the middle of the street Pete and Aliki approached from the other side. They were exposed with no shelter between them and the gunmen. Every few steps, Pete’s weapon spit out a burst of fire, pinning the enemy at the front of the semi.
It took only a few seconds for J. J. to access the situation.
One of the gunmen popped up, his AK-47 over his head, and squeezed off a burst. It was a blind shot, the man not wanting to make his head a target. The rounds missed Pete and Aliki, but not by much.
“With me,” J. J. ordered, and began a sprint around the block. Long strides. Fast feet. The sound of bootfalls behind him. He keyed his mike. “Coming up on your left.”
There wasn’t a response. He didn’t expect one. His men had their hands full.
The trip around the block felt too long, too far, but only a few minutes passed. J. J. didn’t need to see it. He knew what the team was doing: approaching slowly, keeping the men pinned down.
They stopped at the corner. “We’re in position. Hold your fire.”
J. J., Crispin, and Jose stepped into the open, their weapons at the ready.
Another glance showed J. J. the position of two men, each with AK-47s, each hunkered in front of the truck’s radiator. It didn’t take an expert in body language to see the fear they were fighting.
“Hold your fire.” J. J. repeated the command and moved quietly into the street. He didn’t need to turn his head to know Crispin and Jose were with him, one three feet to each side. Five steps later, J. J. placed the muzzle of his M4 behind the left ear of one of the gunmen. Jose did the same. Only their eyes moved.
Crispin grabbed the man closest to him by the hair and pulled him to the ground, kicking away the automatic rifle. Jose matched the maneuver, then stepped back, his weapon trained on the man’s back.
“Clear.” J. J. whispered into the boom mike. Pete, Aliki, and Nagano arrived moments later. Pete searched the captives for weapons, removing a hunting knife from one, and a switchblade from another. J. J. motioned for Pete and Nagano to escort the men into the nearest alley. He had two motives for this: first, he wanted to limit the men’s ability to hear him speak English; second, to keep them from seeing the condition of the women when they exited. They had been traumatized more than enough.
Moving to the driver’s side of the truck, J. J. paused long enough to gaze at the dead men on the sidewalk. “Weps do this?”
Aliki nodded. “My boy can shoot.”
“Head shot and body shot. I was looking forward to giving him some pointers. Maybe I should let him school me.”
“Two rounds; two down. That’s how he likes to do it. You were a sniper, you know how conservative you guys are with the ammo.”
“Were?” J. J. knew what Aliki meant and tried not to take offense at it. His former nick was Colt—like the revolver—a name he took pride in.
“You know what I mean, Boss. You da man, now. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Again Aliki seemed extra attentive, staring at J. J.’s masked face as if reading lips. “What about the third man? You get him?”
“Nope, but he did leave the cab of the truck in a way I doubt he expected. So I’d make your next step carefully.”
“I plan to.” J. J. looked at the shattered window and the open door. He removed his balaclava, stepped over the corpse with the large hole in its head, and knocked on the side of the sleep cab. “Somebody here order a pizza?”
It took a moment, but a weary female voice came from inside. “Maybe. What’s on it?”
A moment later, a dark-haired, pretty woman with a streak of dried blood down one side of her face exited the truck. J. J. had to move to the opposite side of the truck so the women wouldn’t have to step over the body or see the carnage done by Nagano’s M110. Such sights hardened J. J. and he didn’t want them to see it.
Amelia Lennon looked tired, battered, and shaken. She also looked like she still had enough fury left to whip them all in some hand-to-hand. The president’s daughter looked five short steps from death’s door. Her breathing was labored and she had trouble standing erect.
“Master Sergeant J. J. . . .” He stopped and gazed at Amelia’s companion. “They call me Boss. The mountain standing next to me is Joker.”
Amelia introduced herself, an unnecessary act. She then introduced Jildiz.
Jildiz took two inhalations then forced out a weak sentence. “As a representative of my country . . . (breath) I must remind you that you have no right to . . . (breath) conduct a military operation on our . . . soil.” She then stepped forward and wrapped her arms around J. J.’s neck, sobbed for a moment, then pulled back far enough to kiss him on each cheek.
“That’s it, Boss, I’m telling your wife.”
“Okay, but she’s been known to kill the messenger.”
“Never mind.”
“Doc, give them a quick checkup. Joker, establish a secure perimeter.”
“We don’t have much time, Boss. I think one of the bad guys got a call off on the radio.”
“I’m assuming he did. We need transportation.” He triggered his radio. “Junior, I need you.”
A moment later he appeared at J. J.’s side.
“Do you remember your misspent youth?” J. J. nodded in the direction of the truck.
“How did you know about that?”
“I know everything about you. Think you can crank that beast up?”
He shrugged. “Electrons are electrons; ignitions are ignitions. I’ve never hot-wired a truck but something that old can’t be too complicated.”
“Do it and do it fast.”
Pete smiled then looked at Amelia. “Nice to meet you.” He scrambled into the truck.
NASIRDIN AND SASUL WERE two blocks north.
“They found them.” Rasul’s words were venom soaked. He fidgeted with his handgun.
Nasirdin understood the emotion. The American team did what he could not. He had no idea how to explain that to the man who hired him.
“If we can’t have her, we just kill her.”
“She’s no good to our employer dead. No. We must do something else.”
“Let me kill one of them. The other woman. She is unimportant.”
“Patience. This isn’t over yet. The Americans have us outgunned. We wouldn’t last very long. Besides, we have other people to take our risk.”
He lifted the radio to his lips and gave a command.
CHAPTER 28
CHIEF OF POLICE ABIROV stared through a two-way mirror at the man handcuffed to a metal eyebolt, mounted to a metal table, bolted to the floor. The police and army explosive experts declared the cylinder he was arrested with was not filled with explosives. What they could not declare was what was in it and no one thought it wise to open it and find out.
The prisoner refused to cooperate. He hadn’t spoken since his arrest. In the interview room he refused to look at his inquisitors, refused offers of food and drink, resisted threats. He was afraid of someone more powerful than the police.
Kasimir, clean and dry from his struggles in the white goo, stood beside Abirov. “He will break. In time.”
“I don’t think we have time, Kasimir. You may have saved many lives, but saved them from what? What’s in the can? Is he working alone? Are there others in the crowd?” When no explosion occurred, the crowd returned to the entrance gate, braving the fire-retardant foam, chanting slogans and occasionally throwing fruit and rocks over the gate. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
“We should have fingerprints soon.” Kasimir’s frustration permeated his voice.
“We need answers.”
Kasimir agreed. “He isn’t offering any. Perhaps after the experts figure out how to open the canister safely, we will learn what we need to know.”
“Let him go.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Let him go.”
“I don’t understand. We need him to understand what is happening.”
Abirov looked into Kazimir’s eyes. “You are a good officer. Believe me when I say I know what I’m doing. Believe me when I say, you don’t want to understand.”
A CONFUSED AND ANGRY Kazimir walked the prisoner to the front of the police station. Abirov walked with them. At the front door, Kazimir removed the handcuffs.
The man smiled, gave a polite nod, and said, “Spokojnoj nochi.”
He bounced down the steps to the sidewalk and to an awaiting cab. The cab pulled away.
“And good night to you,” Abirov said softly.
“Now what?”
“Now we wait. It won’t be long.”
One hour later, Abirov received a phone call. The message chilled him.
Two hours later, the body of a man in a trench coat was found on the outskirts of the city. He was missing all his fingers.
; Abirov was ashamed of his family’s history with the Russian KGB in his country. It was one reason he chose police service. Now he felt more ashamed for the calls he made to old friends of his father’s.
Now he had other calls to make.
TESS RAND BARTLEY SPENT the last hours trying to get a handle on her emotions and what the days ahead held. It was the way her brain worked. Logic, detail, and action steps were more important to her than the friends she had as a child. Oh, she enjoyed playing dress up and could still remember the thrill she felt when she first tried on lipstick. Not the childish dress up experiments with Mother’s makeup, but the earnest application of color to her lips before her first real date with a real boy. She was fifteen then. By the time she was seventeen she had shed all interest in such things. She wore makeup for dates such as her junior prom, but she no longer found it exhilarating. Her thirst for knowledge replaced her thirst for acceptance.
According to her husband, her simple approach to beauty was what captured his attention. Why did that seem so long ago?
She tried sitting and staring at the walls. Her depression deepened. She gazed out the window for a full half hour but couldn’t recall a single thing she saw. Once she picked up a magazine as if she were going to read. She didn’t read. She drank another cup of coffee, now bitter from sitting so long. Mostly she answered phone calls from family and from the other wives of J. J.’s team.
Did she have a responsibility to them? What was wife-of-Boss supposed to do? Should she drive to their homes? Buy sympathy cards? “Dear Lucy, so sorry we lost our husbands. May God richly bless you in these difficult hours.”
Great sentiment; lousy way to deliver it.
Prayer was a mainstay of her life. She rose with prayer and often conversed with God while driving or in unexpected quiet moments. She tried praying now, but nothing came. She heard others say God seemed distant in times of sudden loss. Others said He was never closer at any time than during their loss. Tess couldn’t sense either condition. God seemed neither distant nor near. Had she lost her belief? She asked that question a dozen times and each time she had to admit she hadn’t. Grief simply short-circuited the lines of communication. The only thing she could be sure of was her grief.
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