Kyle sought another target, saw only a shadow against the wall thrown by stray illumination. There was no time for a good shot—the man was moving fast—but he put a bullet into the wall hopefully only a few inches away. If he could get someone to flinch, that gained seconds. Wade fired again. Kyle sprinted past and came right up to the tree line.
No one else had rushed the hostages as he lost sight of them. Wiesinger should have tried to throw himself on the civilians to give them cover with his ample bulk. He hadn’t, that Kyle had seen. Kyle would give him the benefit of the doubt that he was either surprised or holding still to avoid spoiling a shot, rather than being paralyzed with fear. He was blindfolded, too. And holding still did make targeting easier. Wade should be in a much better position now.
In front and to the sides, he’d seen a huge mob forming. Everyone was bent on killing those hostages. Brave men. Big, strong, powerful men. There were three Aussies and a dozen Indonesians out front for them to fight, and instead they’d show the world their manhood by killing a little girl, a woman, and a man tied to a chair.
Kyle wanted to puke.
Still, a mob of cowards might be easier to handle when he went charging in among them. He’d drop the SR25 and unsling the M4 banging against his ass. That would give him thirty rounds and a 40mm canister, which in his line of work they jokingly called a nice helping of Have a Shitty Day. He was two buildings away and on flat ground. One hundred meters and a bit. Easy range for him.
*****
Faisal slipped back into camp. He’d been gone eight hours, which wasn’t too suspicious, unless someone had gone looking for him. In that case, he was about to die. Allah be praised. He’d trust Allah to show him where he must go.
“Faisal! There you are!” Wismo called. “Where have you been? You’re a mess!”
“Sleeping. And toilet. Then I took a walk and I fell.” He showed a muddy streak on his trousers. “I had to wash and, and then it was time to pray. Breakfast. It’s been a really busy night. Are we ready?”
“Ready, yes. You’re late! Ayi is looking for I you. They’re going to start the killing soon, and film before dawn.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll hurry right over. They didn’t agree to our terms, then.”
“No,” Wismo sounded disappointed. “But you wait! The Chinese are sending warships, and the Americans, and the bloody Hindu Indians. It’s a sea full of impotent infidels, trembling at our word!”
“Very nice.” He didn’t think so anymore. Would the Chinese use nuclear weapons? American cruise missiles? The Army send a million troops to burn the jungle clean? Would the entire Asian sphere invade? This wasn’t a game to be played at this level. “Have you a few moments? We can talk.”
“I suppose. You didn’t get the news when you woke up?”
“No, I was praying on what I am to do. Allah is favoring us. That many nations and ships brings hope for a war of scriptural size. Isn’t it grand?”
“Indeed.”
It was reasonable that he head toward the hostages. He just couldn’t appear too eager or too reluctant. That, of course, put him closer to the fight. He realized now he wasn’t in a hurry to die. If need be, yes, but not as an assumed course.
It was troubling, all the changes he was feeling. He’d been secure in his place. Now he wasn’t.
The trick now was to get close to the building, but not yet inside. He was needed out here, to distract people. To kill them. He’d killed before, or helped, and it had been heady and exciting. This was harder.
Harder . . . because they’d fight back. But he couldn’t admit that. That was a sign of cowardice. Allah had given him this test. Could he kill when there was threat to his own life? That is what he had to face. He was loitering in front, speaking softly so Ayi didn’t look for him at once. There was a rack right outside with rifles. He couldn’t pick one up yet, because there was no reason to.
“Hey, Faisal, where’s your golok?” Wismo asked. He’d noticed at last. The knife had been taken when he surrendered.
“Oh, I’ll have to get it. Thanks for reminding me.” Where were those shots? It had to be time.
He was saved from further stalling by the bullets he was hoping for and dreading. As the shooting commenced, with two simultaneous bangs, Faisal said, “It’s an attack! Give me a weapon!” Wismo had been frozen. He nodded stupidly and grabbed an AK from the rack.
“Come! Let’s get them!” Faisal shouted, waving his arm and running for the door and the rack. He paused and turned, making sure Wismo followed him. “God is great! We fight!”
With that he jogged a few yards back from the door.
*****
“Kyle, Faisal has an AK. I’m still worried about trusting him.”
“Kill him if you have to. I hate to say it, but we can’t risk it.”
“Yeah. He’s not an immediate threat yet.”
“Roger,” Kyle said. The man could be trying to play the act, or provide cover, or just defend himself. He could also be a threat. It was hard to know where his loyalty lay at this juncture. Dammit, he’d been an enemy, a turncoat, an ally and now was a threat again.
Kyle sprinted up the side of the adjoining building in a sideways crab that kept his back to the wall. A few more seconds...
*****
All Faisal could do now was what he felt to be right. Allah would guide his hand. If he was to live or die, he would know soon enough. He’d been prepared to give his life to kill others. He felt a sudden thrill that his life might save others. He didn’t know the American soldier's musings on the subject, but at that moment he understood the principle exactly. This was what a man died for.
No. This was what a man lived for.
Yet the irony was that he would have to kill so others might live. There was so much in this world to consider, so many things he’d never had time for. His emotions were cascading through him, thoughts flashing. He realized his devotion had been to blindness. The leaders didn’t want him to see the world outside of a narrow scope. There were so many ways to look at events, depending on viewpoint, so many things that one could never hope to learn them all. That was the greatness of Allah—that he could create a universe so grand it was beyond comprehension.
That, too, was worth living for.
In a euphoric haze of revelation, adrenaline, and fear, he spun. Bambang was out the door, the others bunched up just inside. He waited as they staggered and shoved, firing one shot high into the jungle to make it look as if he was doing something. A deceit, yet for right. He’d decided that wasn’t possible. Now he was doing it again. So gray, this world. How to decide right and wrong?
The AK kicked into his shoulder as he fired. Half the magazine, about a second and a half burst, went into the group coming out of the doorway. He was amazed at his own accuracy. He’d started low on purpose, knowing it would kick high and right. But it was the best burst he’d ever fired.
A crowd was gathering, some coming out, some in, some rushing in to see what the problem was. Releasing the trigger, he swung toward Wismo. Wismo had already deduced what was happening and had his own weapon raised, a murderous, hateful glare on his face. He fired first.
Faisal felt the freezing burn of bullets entering his body and tried to gasp. Then he felt a horrific pain in his face.
CHAPTER 17
“He’s Dead,” Wade said.
“Damn,” Kyle muttered. He tried not to let it affect him, to take it in stride. Hell, the man had sawed Keller’s head off! But he’d figured out it was wrong, come around at considerable risk to himself, and died. Kyle felt more anguish over losing him than he would have over Wiesinger, who had theoretically always been an ally.
But Wiesinger was still alive, along with two civilians, and it was his duty to see them free. He put the matter behind him and resumed shooting.
“Ready,” Wade said, and Kyle slapped his left hand down to help push off the ground. He drew the SR25 closer to his side, like a football, and came up at forty-five degrees,
like a sprinter off the blocks. He heard Wade fire at some threat or other as he crabbed sideways, ran two long steps, shifted past the corner of the building, and could see the building front at last. He’d have to shoot off hand now, standing. But the range was eighty meters and that was very easy shooting for him. He could see a side window that had dim backlight from the moon and operations up front. So he could provide more cover. They might pull this off yet.
He brought the rifle up to his shoulder, snugged into the sling with his left elbow on his harness, tight behind the pocket on his vest, and took one deep, measured breath to slow his pulse.
“Ready,” he announced.
Movement! It was inside, but just under the window where he couldn’t see or shoot. All he saw was the top of someone in a crouch.
The problem with suicidal nuts, he reflected, was that they didn’t care if you killed them. When their purpose was to kill hostages, there was nothing you could offer or threaten them with. Only now one was about to kill Wiesinger or a little girl. He hoped it was Wiesinger, and it really wasn't personal.
His mind, experienced in dozens of firelights, honed by years of study and practice, whipped through an intuitive calculation no computer could ever match.
Those walls won’t stop 7.62, he thought to himself.
All he had to do now was figure out where the 'Crawling body was. Or at least, where the child was not. It wasn’t efficient to simply fill the space with bullets, but it might be the only option.
Then Wiesinger appeared in his sights, apparently kicking out at something.
Kyle dropped his aim and fired three rounds, rapid.
Ba-ba-bang! It was almost fast enough for automatic fire, and his skill, the improved grip, and the weapon’s mass allowed him to put all three in a very tight group. Dust blew up inside and out from the block shattering. Yes, hard-ball 7.62 ammo would punch through block. There was a substantial fan of gray in front and a hole through. If anyone had been behind that, he wasn’t going to move soon enough to be a problem.
There was a definite gaggle of people outside the door. The rest were all tied up with the assault up front. But they’d have to sneak out or do some massive damage to disperse the enemy. This wasn’t over yet. But first, they had to get to the hostages.
“I’m down,” Wade said.
“Down how?” In the area, covered, wounded? The statement wasn’t clear.
“Ready to roll.”
“Understood. Fifty meters and closing.”
A loud explosion was a bomb landing in front of the building. Wade’s throwing arm was as good as his shooting. There were no friendlies there now, Kyle recalled. Damned shame. “Dying like a man” wasn’t a bad thing, but living was far better. He’d say a prayer for Faisal’s soul when he had time.
He was seen now, and badly aimed fire came his way. He couldn’t plan on that to last; these people had proven competent. He was at extreme range for a canister load, but he needed something fast. He slung the SR25, letting it bang against his legs, and replaced it with the M4. He reached forward, aimed coarsely and triggered the canister load in the grenade launcher, the recoil thumping his wrist. He followed it at once by raising the carbine to his shoulder and rapping off quick shots into the mass. He dropped to one knee, then the other, then to his left elbow, getting low so he could pour out more accurate fire with a lower profile. Also, Wade would be on the other side, doing likewise. They could shoot over each other.
Between grenade, canister, and bullets the locals were disrupted. They scattered for cover. Now was when it got dangerous.
In a moment, Kyle was on his feet, calling into the phone. “Running!” as he did. It wouldn’t do to have Wade shoot him.
“Likewise!” was the reply.
Weapons low, they sprinted toward the building. Kyle would twitch his arm now and then, to pan the muzzle across someone on the ground. Alive, wounded, dead, it didn’t matter. He was paying insurance with bullets. He wanted them all down before he made it in, so he wouldn’t have to face them on the way out.
He saw Wade skipping and crabbing for the door. “I’ve got the right,” he said. He was better left handed than Wade was. They’d cross over as they entered. Kyle reached into a pouch and pulled out a small bag of gelatin with a jury-rigged timed detonator built from a stopwatch. The timer was set for three seconds. The start button was protected by a thick piece of tape. He peeled that back, cautious of where his thumb went.
“Roger.”
“On three. One, two, threeee,” he grunted as he piled on the power. Two seconds later, they crashed into the thin door, Kyle having a flashback to a hut in the Carpathian mountains, where he’d done that and come face to face with a ton of explosives and a loon with a suicide switch. He lobbed the improv flashbang and stepped aside. A moment later, it exploded and shook leaves off the roof.
He spun through the doorframe and swung right, Wade swung left a half step behind him. Three bodies were on the floor, and Wade paid the insurance with three bullets, the sound echoing loudly and hollowly despite the suppressor. A rifle with 36 dB of reduction was still louder than a shouted conversation.
“Clear!” Wade announced.
“Clear!” Kyle agreed. “Glad to see you alive, sir,” he added.
Wade went back to the door, got low, and resumed shooting. That left it to Kyle to get the hostages unbound. The dimness was occasionally lit by explosions from outside. Kyle needed some light, and had his Mini Maglite ready. With an amber lens it wasn’t quite as obvious, but gave enough light to work by. There was another faint source behind him. A laptop.
Both Wiesinger and Suzanne, the child, had wet themselves. It might have been fear, stress, or simply the long wait. It wasn’t something Kyle would hold against the man, except it was so representative of the mission so far.
They hadn’t blindfolded the girl, and she stared at him with huge eyes. Her head swiveled like an owl’s as he stepped deliberately behind the chair she was lashed to. She didn’t cry or utter a sound, but when he cut the bonds and the pressure slipped off her wrists, she stumbled out of the chair and ran for the corner, curling up in a ball, back to the wall and arms over her face. Then she started bawling with huge, wracking sobs.
"Good,” he said, to no one in particular. “She needs to get the stress out.”
Lei Ling, her mother, was apparently conscious of being rescued, but still stiff and frightened behind her blindfold. Her daughter’s distress didn’t help. Kyle realized he probably should have freed her first. He’d been sentimental.
He pulled the hood off her head, and she blinked, head darting around to see what was happening. She recognized them as Western and soldiers, deduced they weren’t terrorists, and that she was safe. Her eyes teared up from both the light Kyle was shining, and from relief. Kyle cut her hands free, then reached down for her feet, laying the rifle within inches of his hand as he did. He wanted it close by just in case of another altercation.
As he pulled the shredded rope away and stood, she pointed at her daughter.
“Please?” she asked.
He nodded, and she gave an almost smile as she staggered, stumbled, and finally crawled over that way. Her legs were likely numb from hours or days of inaction. But she gathered her daughter up in her arms and cuddled her, leaning back against the wall. The expression on her face might be grateful, under the sunken eyes that had seen too much fear.
Kyle wondered if he’d looked like that last time, as he’d faced down a lunatic with a backpack full of explosive and a trigger in his hand.
“Gentlemen,” Wiesinger said, panting slightly. It was hard to blame him. “That was some very, very fine shooting.” He appeared about to say something else, but just sat while Kyle cut the ropes and removed his hood.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “As long as it’s a happy ending, who cares if it’s by the book?” He shoved another grenade—canister again, into the launcher.
“There is something to that, Sergeant Monroe.
”
Wade had redialed his cell phone. “Contact made with Mel. All elements intact and movement capable. Last two referenced persons accounted for, alive and able to travel with transport. Need transport to Point X-ray . . . waiting.”
Wiesinger was rubbing his wrists to restore circulation. They were badly abraded. Presumably, he’d been fighting the rope. He twisted his ankles and stomped his feet a few times.
“I think I’m able to move. Are my boots I around?”
“Don’t think so, sir,” Kyle said, taking in the I rubble in a sweep of his eyes. And the corpses. Some rail-thin little imam in a hat and prayer shawl. That had been who Kyle had hit through the block wall. He’d been disabled but hadn’t died fast with that gutshot. Pity. Not. That was the freak who’d told Faisal it was holy to chop the heads off people. Even second hand, that information made Kyle quiver in disgust. One of the other bodies had a shattered wrist.
“You might have to barefoot it a bit,” he said to Wiesinger.
“If I have to, I have to. Is there any reason to stick around?”
“Not that I can think of,” Kyle said. “This way.” He indicated the door.
Wiesinger accepted the SR25 and checked the load, limping badly. The battle was mostly at the front still, long bursts, short ones, individual shots, occasional explosions. With both sides dug in, it could last hours. Kyle only wanted it to last a few more minutes while he got everyone into the brush. After that, they should be fine.
Kyle stopped for just a moment. The cameras, two of them, were feeding into a laptop. They had been recording. They were still recording. They looked to be modern models that might shoot infrared, or be able to be processed to show dim features.
That was not only prime intelligence either way—of who the snipers were and how they accomplished the recovery, and of who the terrorists were—it was potentially a propaganda bomb that would scare many more of these assholes into quitting the game.
Confirmed Kill Page 23