Well, what the fuck?
At the time, Vic had been royally pissed and wanted to give Mr. Taylor an ass-whooping for forcing a babysitter on him when he normally worked alone, but with this layout, Monk’s presence would be a benefit.
Besides, the guy was a world-class operator. Maybe the old adage about safety in numbers had something to it.
“You think that’s the right cabin?” Monk asked, dragging Vic from his thoughts.
“It fits the description.”
They had been schlepping around this lawless, remote mountain area of Pakistan for three days and, with the help of some friends in the region, Vic was certain they’d found Sirhan’s hideout. After a quick search of the area, they’d parked their asses behind these large boulders and waited.
Movement. To the right. Across the valley. A car barreled down a narrow road, throwing dust, and Vic pulled Monk into a squat. Vic zeroed in on the older-model pale green Volvo.
The car halted in front of the two armed guards. The driver’s door opened and out stepped Sirhan dressed in green camouflage. As if that made him tough? Green camouflage. Please.
“It’s him,” Monk muttered.
A ripple of excitement shot up Vic’s arms. “Yep.”
A woman exited the car wearing a burka. She had to be roasting.
“Probably the mistress,” Vic said.
He lowered his binoculars and, using his arm, wiped sweat from his forehead. Must have been a hundred degrees. Pakistan in July was a fucking furnace. A headache nagged at him, but at three thousand feet, he couldn’t attribute it to an acclimatizing problem. He checked his watch while Monk kept his sight trained on their prey and the cabin.
Nineteen hundred hours. Damn. They still had two hours before nightfall.
“Another guard just came from the back,” Monk said.
Vic lifted his binoculars. Three guards assisted Sirhan and his mistress onto the cabin’s porch. The guards scanned the area while Sirhan and his guest entered the cabin and shut the door behind them. The single guard went back toward the rear, while his buddies took up their original positions on the porch.
“Three guards,” Monk said. “Two in front and one in back.”
“That we know of.”
Vic lowered his binoculars and stared down into the valley. Long shadows dragged over the craggy boulders, and the descending sun hung just above the razor-edged mountaintops. It glimmered as if shining a warning light.
The odds weren’t good.
The cabin’s position made it almost unapproachable. The small brick structure was pressed deep into a recess of the mountain, the rear protected by a sheer wall of rock that shot hundreds of feet straight up.
Three guards. Maybe more. Automatic weapons. Fuck. The last meal Vic ate tumbled in his belly. Screw the odds. They sucked. Really sucked.
Monk lowered his binoculars and his eyes glowed with an inner fire that came from years on the battlefield.
“This isn’t going to be easy,” Vic said, taking a deep breath.
“Then let it be hard. You suddenly afraid of hard?”
That earned Monk a flip of the bird, and he smiled. “What’s the plan?”
Vic raised his binoculars and focused on the cabin. The slab roof, probably eight or nine feet high, tilted to the right as a result of the structure being built on uneven ground. It hadn’t taken an engineering expert to slap that sucker up.
“What’s that?” Vic adjusted the focus knob again.
“What?”
“That beam sticking out of the mountainside. Maybe ten or fifteen feet above the roof. It might be part of an old lookout platform.”
Monk raised his binoculars. “Got it.”
“And that dark line running along the side of the mountain about five feet below the level of the beam. See that?”
“Yep.”
“I think there’s a ridgeline running along the mountain. It leads right up to the beam. I can’t tell if the ridge is wide enough to walk on.”
Using his index finger, Vic tried adjusting the lenses again, but he’d already adjusted the hell out of them. Dammit. He needed a better view of that ridgeline, but he wouldn’t get it.
He lowered the binoculars, turned to Monk. “If the ridge is wide enough, it might be our way in. Looks like the wall of the mountain curves just enough to hide someone moving along that line.”
“If it is a ridgeline.”
Vic brought his gaze back to the valley where, off to the right, an avalanche of boulders had fallen and formed a wall.
“The wall,” he began, “doesn’t span the entire valley and won’t hide us completely from the guard’s view, but if we wait until dark, just a couple more hours, we’ll be damned hard to see crossing in the lowland. And once we make it to the boulders, we’ll be invisible.”
“Hello, boys!” Monk replied.
Two hours later, under a clear night sky sparkling with glowing stars and the wan light of a quarter moon, the temperature still hovering above ninety, they inched their way down into the valley toward the wall of boulders.
Vic gave his shirt a good tug to free it from his perspiring body.
The sound of their boots crunched on loose gravel as they inched their way into the valley, but unless they caused a rockslide, the noise wouldn’t be detectable from this distance.
Minutes later, they reached the boulders that would provide cover as they crossed the valley. They headed toward the sharp curve of mountain road hidden from the cabin—and the guard’s view.
“Let’s go over it again,” Vic said.
Monk nodded. “You’re going to climb up the ridgeline, drop to the roof of the cabin and take out the guards in front.”
“Right. And you’ll be where?”
Monk jerked a thumb in the direction they just came. “Across the road, behind a boulder, so I can see the cabin.”
“After I take out the two in front, you’re going to have to haul ass to get to the guy in back.”
“Got it.”
“And who knows if there are any others inside? We’ll have to wing that one.”
Monk grinned. “I love a challenge.”
Yeah, but Vic was about done with freaking challenges for a while. He stared at the gravel under his battered boots, took a breath and counted ten to clear his mind and get focused. He jerked his head at Monk. “See you on the flip side.”
“Yep.” He worked his way back to his cover.
Vic, hands on hips, stared up at the ridgeline wondering just how wide it was and if his size thirteen hoof would fit on it.
Only one way to find out.
Under darkening skies, his heart beat a loud, pounding rhythm as he surveyed the ridgeline fifteen feet above his head. The ridge appeared about six inches wide—too narrow to walk on—but who the hell knew if it would retain that six-inch width all the way to the cabin? And in the darkness he couldn’t see that far to know the answer. He’d have to figure it out when he got there.
And hopefully not fall off.
Sweat slipped down his cheek and he swiped at it. Freakin’ heat.
Okay. Settle down. What was up with all the drama? He’d done missions like this how many times?
Maybe too many. Thus, his problem. He couldn’t just back away like Gina wanted him to. He’d spent years doing this work. Important work for a country he loved, and abandoning his commitment to freedom seemed flat-out wrong.
But he had to choose. Gina or the job? It should have been a no-brainer. Should have been.
Screw this. Enough with the emotional clutter.
With a solid shake of his head, he unbuttoned his military-grade long-sleeved shirt and stripped it off, leaving only his T-shirt. He flung the shirt over his shoulder. The belt came next and he tied it to the sleeve of his shirt. His eyes settled on the ridgeline one last time while he got his thoughts straight on what he had to do.
Do it and get home.
Vic stood on the edge of the ridgeline, one foot in front
of the other and one hand clinging to the mountain for balance. Yep. The ridge definitely would not be wide enough to walk on. He glanced down at the cabin roughly sixty yards away. He’d have to inch his way that far.
Son of a bitch.
With his free hand, he grabbed a protruding rock and swung so his belly faced the mountain and his heels hung off the ridge. He’d just work his way down the line. No problem.
Slow and steady. Watch the rocks under foot. Don’t kick any.
Step.
Step.
Step.
The lone guard stood just below him under the ridge. He needed to get by without a sound.
Step.
No movement from below. Nice.
Five more steps and he’d be there. Slow and steady.
Yes.
Sweat poured down his neck from the effort, his muscles straining as he hung on, but each tiny step brought him closer. Now, directly over the cabin’s roof, he reached the iron beam he’d spied earlier and stopped to catch his breath. Quiet the hammering in his head.
His eyes swept the distance to the roof. This could work. The beam sat just at his waist. If he tied his shirt and belt together, they would measure roughly five feet and, with his six-foot-five frame, he could make it to just above the roof and lightly drop down.
If luck was with him.
Which hadn’t been happening much lately.
He gave an inaudible grunt.
More fucking emotional clutter. Get it together. Focus.
He grasped the beam with his left hand. Using the other hand, he draped one end of his shirt around it and, holding the shirt in place with his thumb, tied it around the beam. Gave it a tug. Good and tight.
He knelt, grabbed the edge of the ridgeline and eased off the side. His fingers bit into the rocky terrain, and the searing pressure of hanging there sliced through his fingertips. Gravel slipped under his grip, tearing into his skin, and he squeezed harder. Momentary panic fired through his bloodstream. Hang on. Just fucking hang on.
Crashing to the roof would not give him the approach he needed, but hell, two hundred and ten pounds felt a lot heavier when dangling by fingertips.
Concentrate. Grab the belt. No problem. He’d just let go with his right hand and hang by his left.
One, two, three. He let go. His left shoulder exploded with pain and he tightened his grasp. Let his fingers dig further into the biting ground.
Don’t fall.
He reached to his right, grasped the belt swaying in the warm night wind and gave it another yank to ensure it would hold his weight. Nothing moved. He grabbed it with both hands and the throbbing in his shoulder eased.
Good God. He let out a breath and the heavy material of his shirt made a slight tearing sound.
He closed his eyes.
Watch the fucker rip. He’d go hurtling down screaming “Honey, I’m home!”
The shirt held.
Hoo-ah.
Hand over hand, his muscles aching, he lowered himself until his hands came to the bottom of the belt and his feet hung barely six inches from the roof. He’d just release the shirt and drop. Landing on his feet was imperative to keep his approach quiet.
Now or never.
He let go.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Man Law: Never walk away from a fight.
Vic’s body fell free for a second until he landed square on his feet. Yes. Surrounded by darkness, he waited for any movement from the guards. Could they have heard him? Unlikely.
Before padding across the roof, he double-checked the toys he’d brought with him. Gun, holstered. Check. Piano wire, front pants pocket. Check. Good to go.
From the roof, he spotted a sliver of light through the crack at the bottom of the front door. The two guards stood three feet apart speaking Arabic. Someone had food poisoning. You boys are gonna have a lot worse than that.
If they’d just step a foot closer, he’d be all set. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take too long. He didn’t want to be sitting on this fucking roof, in this fucking heat, sweating his ass off. With any luck, in a few minutes the whole nightmare would end and he could go home.
Concentrate. Jeez. Dying tonight was not in the plan.
He surveyed the area where Monk would be hiding, but saw nothing. No surprise there. Monk would be ready though. No doubt about it.
Vic pulled the length of piano wire from his pocket and pulled it taut.
Guard number two stepped closer to his buddy.
Now.
He launched himself off the roof, his right boot landing square on number two’s head. Crack. Snapped neck. Nasty shit.
He wrapped the wire around number one’s neck and pulled with all his strength. His muscles quivered with exhaustion, but all he needed was six seconds for the blood supply to the brain to stop and this fucker would be dead.
Four, five, six. The guard’s hands fell limp and Vic dropped him.
A movement in the distance drew his eyes to the right. He sensed Monk fly past him on his way to the back door.
Get inside.
Now.
He grabbed the doorknob, turned it, winced when it clicked, and pushed the door open. A slight creak, but a radio playing inside the house masked the sound. He slipped into an empty brick hallway. The heat closed in and suffocated him.
The hallway and a warped wood floor stretched the length of the house and he could see the back door from where he stood.
With his back pressed against the wall, Vic pulled his trusty Sig from its holster and shuffled toward a doorway a few feet down the hall to the left. He spun into the darkened room, weapon ready. Nothing. Nobody home.
Clear.
Deep breath. Move on. He stepped into the hall and followed the sound of the radio. Just ahead, a second doorway sat on the right. The music must be coming from inside that room. Blood pumped into his brain and his temples throbbed with anticipation.
He glanced toward the rear door leading out to the porch. Where was Monk? He should have handled the guard by now.
Can’t wait. Move on.
With silent steps, he crossed to the opposite wall and moved toward the second doorway. As he slid along the wall, a male voice speaking—what, Farsi?—wafted in the air. Something about moving the next day. Not if he could help it.
Vic reached the doorway and stopped. He pressed his shoulder against the door frame and spun into the room, gun aimed.
Before he could focus, the barrel of a rifle came crashing down from inside the wall, slamming into his wrist. Pain blasted through his hand and up his arm. He dropped his gun and it skittered along the floor, several feet away, unfired.
Fuck.
He grabbed his wrist and looked up just in time to see Sirhan spring out from behind the wall, AK-47 in hand. The bastard must have known he had a visitor, used the radio as bait and then waited alongside the wall. This evil piece of shit wasn’t stupid.
Sirhan, now facing Vic, tried to swing his rifle up and get off a shot. Vic lunged, caught the end of the barrel with his right hand, grabbed the butt of the gun with his left, planted his legs and twisted the rifle hard, hoping to dislodge it from Sirhan’s grip. The wiry Arab held tight and Vic wrenched the man off his feet and whipped him in a circle. Sirhan landed on the floor flat on his back, still holding the weapon.
Vic straddled his chest and clung to the rifle, pressing it toward Sirhan’s face, but the smaller man possessed shocking strength and pushed back. Vic, grinding his teeth, pushed harder.
Crush.
His.
Skull.
For one brief instant, Sirhan let go of the rifle with his right hand and snapped off a vicious punch to Vic’s face, sending him reeling. Warm blood oozed from his lip. The little fucker packed a wicked right hook.
Sirhan scrambled backward on his elbows, grabbed the rifle and struggled to one knee.
Shit.
Vic lunged forward and kicked the rifle out of the Arab’s hands, into a far corner of the room.
<
br /> A choking fury rose inside him as he glared at Sirhan. He should go for his Sig. He was closer to it now than Sirhan. He came to kill the son of a bitch, but suddenly he didn’t want it to be so quick. Not after the terror he’d inflicted on Gina and the kids.
Not after Tiny.
No, Vic wanted to put his hands on this evil monster and feel his life depart.
He took a step back and allowed Sirhan to rise to his feet. They must be alone in the cabin. Otherwise additional guards would have already been to Sirhan’s side. “Get up, you piece of shit.”
For a second, Sirhan stared at Vic, baffled. His eyes shifted to the Sig. Not a chance, asshole. Then the psychotic prick smiled and rose to his feet, his fists clenched.
“Surprised?” Vic asked, raising his fists. “Surprised I’d give your weak ass a fighting chance?”
Vic sure was, but he needed to pound out the anger consuming him.
They squared off in a fighter’s stance, circling slowly. A smile spread across Sirhan’s lips and darkness settled into his glazed eyes. Insanity at its worst. He grinned, and harsh grunts came from deep within his throat.
They moved to the center of the room and Vic gave a sideways glance into the quiet hallway.
He shot forward, snapped a hard right to Sirhan’s head, and pain fired through his banged-up wrist. The Arab slipped the punch and darted to his left…laughing.
Laughing.
Fucker.
Vic gave a nod, surprised at the man’s quickness. He caught a glimpse of something over Sirhan’s shoulder out in the hall, a shadow maybe. Sirhan capitalized on his distraction and hammered him with a kick to the chest. Son of a bitch. Vic’s lungs strained from abuse and he staggered back, hands up, protecting his face.
Sirhan charged forward and threw a punch, but Vic ducked his head right, and the blow grazed his left cheek and ear.
Sirhan pivoted and drove a knee deep into his lower stomach.
Whoosh. The air left his body and Vic, off balance, doubled over, pain biting into his gut. He hunkered back, lowering his arms to protect his stomach. Recover. A few seconds…just a few seconds.
Man Law Page 25