Exfiltration

by Jillian Anselmi

  Drawing my weapon, I tug open the door with Noah on my heels. We enter the house in stealth mode, night vision goggles on. I brush along the right wall and he stays a step behind me to the left. So far, no insurgents.

  We manage to make it across the one-hundred-foot room without incident and start up the stairs. Staying against the wall, we take one step at a time. I stop a few steps short of the top and stretch my neck, peering up at the second floor. There’s a glow of light coming from down the hall, but that’s it. You would expect to hear talking, movement—something.

  There’s nothing.

  Complete silence.

  That chill I felt on the plane is back, but this time, it doesn’t go away. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention as if hit by lightning. Flipping up my night vision goggles, I look back at Noah. His are already off. He’s come to the same conclusion I have.

  This is bad.

  I enter the hallway with Noah half a step behind me. Looking back, I motion with my fingers straight and palm flat to check the left side bedroom while I sweep the right.

  With my back against the door and my hand on the knob, I flash back to all my tactical raid training at the Farm:

  Keep in mind a threat may come from any angle.

  Each member must be prepared to meet and defeat it.

  A simple thing such as foot position or muzzle may give away your location to the threat.

  The body must be positioned correctly to avoid compromise and facilitate surprise, speed, and aggressive action.

  Maintain coverage of all tactical angles toward unclear areas.

  With my weapon drawn and muzzle level with an offender’s chest, I breech the bedroom. Once I check all the corners, my eyes are drawn to the floor.

  Fuck.

  It’s a bloodbath.

  Three bodies lay in pools of their own blood on the floor, one draped over a bed.

  None of them are Kimberly.

  I can’t focus on them right now. I need to check the other rooms. Turning, I slowly walk back out of the room. Noah’s in the hall, ready to breech the next bedroom. We’re trained not to talk until it’s all over, so I don’t know what he saw, but he shakes his head, letting me know Kimberly wasn’t in the room he checked.

  This has become a dangerous situation. I take his six, allowing him to breech the next bedroom. He goes left; I go right. It’s almost the same scenario as the room I checked, but this room has two bodies huddled in a corner.

  Both dead.

  Neither are Kimberly.

  What the fuck happened here?

  We repeat our actions, clearing all the rooms on the second floor, even though we know the doctors were only in the back three. Clearing the floor is our main objective. We won’t be able to find Kimberly if we’re dead.

  Room by room, we check the floor, finding nothing. The process took less than a minute. Once we’re sure there’s no one else here, we go back to the massacre.

  Total count: twelve.

  “Shit,” I breathe.

  “She’s not here,” Noah utters.

  “She’s been compromised,” I blurt. That’s the only thing that makes any sense. Someone found out who she was, and they took her.

  “We should have grabbed her yesterday,” Noah growls.

  “Who’s to say she wasn’t being watched?” I snap. “Then she’d still be missing, and we’d be dead.” Trying to think, I pace. They could have taken her anywhere by now.

  “We can discuss this later. We need to get the hell out of here,” he says as his eyes dart around the room.

  “We need to call this in. This op just went south,” I admit, staring at a doctor who couldn’t have been older than thirty.

  Who had her whole life ahead of her.

  Who’s lying here dead.

  “Later. I’m not sticking around to be used for target practice.” We exit just as carefully as we entered and go back down the stairs through the large, open room. Noah peers out the window he looked in earlier, and mutters under his breath.

  “What?”

  “Prayer’s over, and there are four guys with AK-47’s parked out front.” Moving to stand beside him, I peek over his shoulder. Four armed men in Afghani garb stand across the street, the guns slung over their shoulders. They’re not in a defensive stance, but they’re a threat, nonetheless.

  “We could try to wait them out,” I suggest. “Maybe they’re waiting for someone.”

  “Yeah. Us,” he half jokes.

  “What about the window near the stairs? We could climb out and circle back.”

  Noah mulls it over for a minute, then nods. “I don’t see any other option. We need to get out of here and contact our mission coordinator.” We cross the wide room in seconds and reach the window, staying to either side of it. Noah glimpses out, and nods. “It’s clear,” he whispers.

  He carefully nudges the window open. Swinging his left foot through, he’s on the other side in no time. I copy his movements, and soon, we’re standing in the shadows at the front corner of the building.

  The same four men are still standing in the position we last saw them about a hundred feet from our current position. “We need a distraction—something to take their attention off the direction we need to go,” I mutter. I move back a few steps, so I can see them, but they can’t see me.

  “I could just shoot them,” he answers, racking the slide of his Glock 19 to load the first round in the chamber.

  “That won’t draw attention,” I quip, covering the gun with my hand and pushing down. “No. Something more subtle.” Shrugging, he places the gun back in the holster underneath his vest.

  I walk a few steps back, trying to clear my head. Civilians aren’t stupid enough to be out at night, especially during prayer, so we can’t just walk down the street like normal Afghanis. There’s also nowhere to hide.

  Then, it hits me.

  Taking out my secured phone, I dial the number I memorized yesterday. I was given this number for a reason. Let’s see if it really comes in handy. After two rings, a gruff voice answers. “This is Dalton.”

  “This is CIA agent Deloris Witt.” Noah’s expression hardens and his mouth twitches, so I hold up a finger to silence him.

  “Agent Witt, I was told I might receive a call from you,” he confesses, and I can hear him smiling through the phone.

  “Yes, well, things have taken a turn for the worse, and I was told you could help,” I murmur, scratching the back of my neck. Noah watches me, but doesn’t say a word.

  “What’s the problem?” he asks.

  “Problems, and I don’t have enough time to explain them all. Just know we’ve got company we can’t shake.”

  “What is your exact location?” I pull out the GPS from my pocket and give him the coordinates. “Give me a couple minutes. Sit tight.” The phone goes dead.

  “Who was that, and what did he say?” Noah whispers, moving closer.

  “A friend,” I divulge with a smile. “He said give him a few minutes and we should be good.”

  The next fifteen minutes pass like a slow, not-so-pleasant daydream. Noah keeps a watchful eye on the insurgents while I keep my eyes peeled for any more surprises. “Holy shit,” Noah mumbles, and it’s enough to catch my attention. I spin my head and follow his gaze, watching the four insurgents hit the ground almost simultaneously without a sound.

  Out the corner of my eye, two desert-camouflaged men approach. Drawing my weapon, I whirl toward the shadowed figures and take aim. The only reason I don’t shoot them dead is the American Flag patch in the center of their tactical vests.

  Lowering my weapon, I allow them to approach. “Dalton?” I ask.

  “At your service,” he answers with a mock bow. Noah’s lips twist to the side. He’s not impressed. “Is your problem solved?”

  Before Noah says something ridiculous, I answer, “Not exactly,” as I place my weapon back under my tunic.

  “We have much bigger problems,” Noah adds
. Dalton and his friend move out of the shadows. With all the equipment they’re wearing, all I can see are their faces. Dalton has a scruffy five o’clock shadow.

  “Can we discuss this somewhere else,” Dalton’s colleague says. “I’m sure those guys have friends.”

  “Good idea,” I agree.

  “The safe house is most likely compromised,” Noah advises.

  “No problem,” Dalton says with a wave. “We’ve got this. Let’s go.”

  Noah and I follow the two men to a Humvee parked a couple blocks away. Dalton gets in the driver’s side, his accomplice in the passenger side, and Noah and I climb into the back seat. Once we’re settled in and on the move, Dalton makes introductions. “Agent Deloris Witt, and Agent . . .” he pauses, looking back at Noah.

  “Noah McGuire,” Noah murmurs, narrowing his eyes and shooting me a what-the-fuck look. I shrug my shoulders.

  “This is Senior Chief Special Warfare Officer, Max Spencer. I am Master Chief Special Warfare Officer Cody Dalton.”

  “How did you get here so quickly?” I blurt, not sure I want the answer.

  Dalton’s head tilts back just enough for me to hear him. “I know you have clearance. Think about that question.”

  “Clearance for what?” Noah asks.

  They need to tell us, not the other way around.

  “Hey, Spence, how many hours are left?” Dalton asks his partner, a knowing smile crossing his lips.

  “I don’t know. I’d say around thirty-six or so? Sound about right, Agent Witt?” Spencer reveals, turning to face me.

  “Fine. But you’re supposed to be in Kabul,” I insist. Mosahi is on the outskirts of Kabul, but unless they were watching us . . .”Why aren’t you in Kabul?” I demand with a little more anger than I intend.

  “We were,” Dalton insists. “About an hour ago, we got intel that one of the doctors with the International Medical Corps found out Kimberly Ryan was worth more than just being a doctor. He leaked that information to al-Rahman. They breached the building about twenty minutes ago.”

  “Fuck. We just missed them,” Noah breathes, running his fingers through his short hair.

  “Consider yourselves lucky,” Spencer comments. “You’d be dead otherwise.”

  “What makes you say that?” I gasp, offended. “We’re well trained officers—”

  “And I’m sure you’re fantastic agents,” Dalton cuts me off, trying to backpedal, “but not against this. They sent in at least two dozen highly trained and well-equipped men. You wouldn’t have seen them coming.”

  Fuck.

  He’s right.

  “So, you know Kimberly’s not dead?” Noah asks as Dalton makes a sharp turn, sending Noah and I flying across the seat.

  “As far as we know, she’s alive,” he informs us.

  That’s not saying much.

  They could be torturing her—or worse.

  “You were on your way here before I called,” I speculate, shifting in my seat.

  “Yes,” Spencer answers with a chuckle. “We knew the CIA was here to exfil her and thought you might need some assistance.”

  “Is this an approved op?” Noah asks, leaning forward in between the front seats.

  “It is now,” Dalton answers.

  “Do we know where she was taken?” I ask as I pull Noah back.

  Please don’t let it be Kabul.

  “Kabul,” Spencer grunts. “Smack in the middle of all the action.”

  “They took her to ground zero?” I ask, horrified.

  “Bingo,” Dalton confirms.

  Fuck.

  Thirty-six hours and counting.

  The clock is ticking.

  About half an hour later, we arrive at the Kabul border. Flashes of light barrage the landscape in the distance as mortar shells explode. A rise in large-scale militant attacks in Kabul have had a destabilizing effect on the capitol where some roads are still locked down and some embassies have scaled back to skeleton staff. Dalton proceeds with extreme caution.

  “Al-Rahman’s compound is near the center of the city, one of the most dangerous places to be,” Dalton informs us.

  “This place is swarming with Taliban forces,” Spencer adds.

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

  “We have a safe house not far from here,” Dalton says as he turns down a dark, narrow road.

  “Good. I need to report in,” I acknowledge, taking off the hijab. “Has anyone made contact with the mission coordinator aboard the USS Kinkaid?”

  “Negative, but I’m sure our superiors have alerted them,” Spencer says.

  This is bad. I wonder if anyone informed the president yet, or if they’re waiting for the situation to resolve itself. I wouldn’t want to be the person to tell him his philanthropist daughter got taken by the Taliban.

  We’re silent for the remainder of the five-minute ride. Dalton pulls down what looks like an alley, but when we get to the end, the dark concrete wall rolls to the right. We drive through, and the wall rolls back. Dalton and Spencer exit, and Noah and I follow suit. We follow them through the hollow building to a door on the back wall.

  The four of us walk into an abandoned warehouse. In the far-left corner is a table and chairs surrounded by men dressed in fatigues. Along the wall is military equipment designed for communications and GPS monitors for determining location. As we get closer, all eyes land on Noah and me.

  “Agents Witt and McGuire, this is SEAL team Alpha,” Dalton announces. “The wannabe surfer here is Special Warfare Operator Micky Miller, the guy with the bad haircut is Special Warfare Operator Jason Buckley, Special Warfare Operator Neil Perry over there is about to be a daddy, and Special Warfare Operator Justin Brock is the kind and cuddly one with K-9 Storm,” he says, starting with the blonde at the far end of the table and going clockwise. I didn’t even notice a dog until he was pointed out.

  All four men are similar in build, but very different in looks. They’re all mulling over a map of Kabul at the center of the table. “What do we know?” Dalton asks his team, standing behind Miller. Spencer sits at the other end near Perry, leaving an empty chair next to Brock.

  “The Afghan Northern Alliance has retaken about a quarter of Kabul from the Taliban over the past six weeks, but the pace has been slow, and the fighting’s been brutal,” Perry informs us.

  “That’s because the Taliban has had months to fortify their positions,” Buckley answers.

  “How many fighters?” Noah asks as he takes the empty seat.

  “The Afghan Northern Alliance allowed some four hundred to surrender three days ago, but we estimate about a thousand remain,” Dalton answers. Perry passes a folder to Spencer, who looks it over.

  “Great. That’s a thousand true believers,” Noah mumbles to himself.

  Dalton glances at Noah, giving him the side-eye. “Continue,” he orders Buckley.

  “The Afghan Northern Alliance’s final siege consists of two phases. Phase one is softening the Taliban’s defenses with a combination of artillery shelling and air strikes.”

  “We saw the glow from the explosions on the way here,” I murmur, taking a seat on the floor near the K-9. His head lifts as I reach down to scratch it.

  “Shit,” Brock chuckles, “that’s nothing. It’s been a light night here in paradise.”

  “One of the reasons we chose this location is because it’s so close to the edge of Kabul. Most of the bombing is at the center,” Dalton points out.

  “Good to know,” I quip as I continue to scratch the pup’s ears.

  “Phase one,” Dalton continues, “ends at oh-six-hundred, at which point the Pakistanis will conduct a mechanized infantry assault.”

  “Door to door, bloody and brutal,” Miller adds.

  “Not for us,” Dalton says, shaking his head. “We’ll be gone before the fighting even starts.”

  “With the artillery and air strikes, the Taliban will be driven into their rat holes and bunkers,” Spencer agrees, passing the brief to Miller.
/>   “That’ll give us cover to get in and out without being detected,” Dalton adds.

  “Great,” Noah murmurs, rolling his neck. “Maybe we won’t get shot at.”

  “We won’t get shot at,” Spencer clarifies. “This is a SEAL op. You are just here as a courtesy. You’re straps.”

  “The fuck we are.” Noah’s voice rises.

  “I have to agree with my partner. We are not risking the life of our target. One way or another, we’re going with you.”

  “Cap, they can’t be serious?” Perry says, turning to Dalton.

  “Let’s finish the brief. We’ll discuss this later.” Perry grimaces, but doesn’t say another word about it.

  “According to Lieutenant Commander Bradburn, they’ve coordinated with the Afghanis to make sure they don’t drop any artillery on our heads,” Spencer informs the group.

  “That’s comforting,” Miller mumbles.

  “It’s better than nothing,” Spencer counters. “At least they’ll be trying not to shoot at us.”

  “Where is the Lieutenant Commander?” I ask Dalton as I stand to stretch my legs.

  “The TOC.”

  “TOC?” Noah asks, his forehead creasing.

  “Tactical Operations Center. It’s a military briefing room. For us, it’s on a C-17 cargo plane in Pakistan, waiting for our exfil,” he answers.

  Great.

  We’re very far from help if things really go south.

  “Why don’t you two get some sleep. We’ll discuss more in the morning. It’s too late to do anything about it tonight,” Dalton says, moving to the other side of the table.

  “Aren’t you cutting it close?” I ask, raising a brow.

  “Nah, we’re good at what we do. We’ll get her out. Don’t worry,” he tells me, placing his hand on my shoulder. I shake it off. Last thing I need to deal with is a bunch of condescending frog men.

  Noah and I walk to the other side of the room where they have some cots set up. “I need to call in. Where’s the Sat phone?” I ask Noah. He takes his bag and tosses it on one of the cots. Unzipping it, he pulls out the huge phone. “Thanks,” I mutter before making the call.