by Brian Drake
She didn’t say okay or good-bye, ending the call before Graypoole said anything more.
She ran across Pike. She’d seen Jose running this way when she stole one last look over her shoulder when they split.
Activity ahead. People loitering and talking about what happened, what some who ventured to the scene saw. Kassandra slowed and wandered past them in a daze. Her head spun a little. She hurt in several places. Whoever that woman had been, some of her punches and kicks had landed solidly.
She kept walking, almost stumbling at a pot hole. She stopped in the street. Somebody came over; she brushed him off. As she turned, she saw an alley, and the floor of the alley didn’t look right.
She let out a wail halfway there, falling beside her husband’s body and sobbing onto his chest, her body convulsing. At least his eyes were closed, she saw, when she finally looked at his face.
And then the sobbing suddenly stopped.
A foot shuffled behind her.
She turned. A man stood at the mouth of the alley holding a gun. Another footstep behind her. Two more men. And then a woman, stepping out of an alcove. The same woman she’d fought near Nordstrom. Kassandra pressed her lips together. The woman held her pistol casually but steady.
“Don’t try it, honey,” Nina said. “You’ll end up like your old man.”
40
Kassandra let out a wail and lunged for Nina, who stepped aside and fired twice. Kassandra felt the bullets tear through her. Two more shots—from behind. She fell face first. Pressing her hands into the concrete, she started to push herself up, wedged a knee under her. Her eyes never left those of the woman, who leveled her pistol and fired again.
She dropped again and this time didn’t move.
“Game girl,” Nina said.
The cell phone in Kassandra’s pocket chimed.
Nina reached into Kassandra’s jeans to take out the phone, using her fingertips to avoid getting blood on her hands.
“Move out,” Dane said, grabbing Nina’s arm as she worked the phone.
“This is juicy, Steve,” she said, trying to keep up as the men moved ahead of her. She slipped her hand around Dane’s left elbow.
“Wow, a private island,” she said, reading. “Looks like Graypoole sent the location. I bet we can have a good party there. Should we bring chips and dip?”
“We’ll bring something,” Dane said as they exited the other side of the alley.
What Dane didn’t voice was his concern for people at the bomb site. How many dead? How many injured? A cacophony of emergency sirens drifted through the air. People better equipped than he to help were on the way. It was one of those moments where he felt powerless to contribute anything of value, as powerless as he’d been to keep Lilly Klove safe from a hail of bullets.
He’d sworn at the girl’s grave there would be no more victims, but he should have known better than to make a promise he couldn’t keep when dealing with madmen bent on destruction.
But he would settle accounts with those responsible.
The street was clear of traffic and the smoke hung heavy in the air.
Dane moved to the corner and looked down the street at the carnage. He couldn’t see much with all the smoke and dust, but he could hear people yelling and calling for help.
“We need to go, Steve,” Nina said.
McConn said, “If we go west that’s probably our best bet for avoiding police.”
“We need to go back and help,” Dane said.
“Dammit, Steve—”
He turned to Nina. “Go if you want to. But this is what I do.”
Dane started running toward the building and didn’t look back. He knew the others would be right behind him.
Dane didn’t bother to call Lukavina, or return the CIA man’s calls, as Stone’s jet soared at 20,000 feet. He sat in a chair by a window, his face washed of most of the accumulated grit from the explosion, his clothes still dirty. The others were just as dirty. The jet’s small bathroom sink couldn’t repair all the damage.
Dane stared at the carpet not feeling much good to anybody. There had been plenty of injured to stabilize, albeit crudely, while they waited for paramedics; there were plenty of dead and dying as well. He wasn’t sure about the others, but every last breath of the victims fueled his quest to stop such things from happening again. The problem was, no matter how many of the enemy he killed, they were always quickly replaced. How long could he keep going? How long till the opposition caught him when he wasn’t looking and ended his life?
Sometimes it all seemed like a waste of time.
And that’s when he vowed never to quit, as he often did. Because if he stopped, the madmen would run free.
Stone made a flurry of calls. They needed a plane they could jump out of, SCUBA gear, and assorted small arms. The best he could arrange was a C-130 at an airstrip in Florida but everything they needed would be there when they arrived.
While Stone made his calls, Dane, Nina and McConn looked at Graypoole’s island on a computer map. The coordinates provided by Graypoole on Kassandra’s phone gave the exact location.
It was an old photograph, McConn surmised, since it didn’t show any signs of life, but it at least gave them an idea of what they were looking at, and it wasn’t hard to guess where any structures would sit. It was close enough to Spain to qualify as part of their territory, but the Spaniards had apparently found nothing worthwhile to do with the land.
Everybody tried to sleep on the remainder of the journey but Dane couldn’t keep his eyes closed for the longest time. That was one thing they didn’t have. Once Graypoole realized Kassandra Ramos was DOA and his transmission of his location was now in the hands of the authorities, he’d vanish. Dane didn’t want to tell Lukavina until they were well ahead of any response official powers could muster.
The six-hour flight finally ended at the Florida airstrip where they saw the C-130 Hercules waiting for them. The surrounding forest told Dane they were in the middle of nowhere and the less he asked about the airstrip the better off he’d be.
Two crates sat aboard the cargo area of the C-130, the long and wide steel tube stripped of even the bare essentials Dane had spent so much time in. Small port windows looked fogged over and the canvas benches along either side of the fuselage always left one with a sore bum. Relief finally came when one got to jump out of the goddamn thing.
The crew master, a short kid with a crew cut, his military cap on backwards, helped get the crates open. Among the weapons inside were the SCUBA suits and parachutes Dane requested. Each of them took a suit, SCUBA gear, parachute, fighting knife, and an M-4 automatic rifle with a collapsible stock. Separate boxes within one of the crates held ammunition, magazines and assorted timed explosives.
Once the flight crew finished their inspection, the engines fired and the C-130 began to taxi.
“Where are you?” Lukavina said.
Dane had the phone volume up all the way and still had a hard time hearing.
“Somewhere over the Atlantic, about four hours from the target.”
“What target?”
“The one I’m sending you now. Graypoole’s headquarters.” He explained how they had acquired the location.
“And when were you planning to tell me about this?”
“When we were close enough to get there before you,” Dane said.
“One of these days you’re going to be too smart for your own good, Steve.”
“But not today,” Dane said.
Dane ended the call before Lukavina said more, but he sent the coordinates with a smile. He didn’t blame his friend for being miffed, but he would calm down once he pondered the bigger picture.
The crew chief shouted for them to get ready. Dane, Nina, McConn and Stone gathered near the ramp, each pulling waterproof night-vision goggles over their eyes.
As the rear of the C-130 opened into the pitch black of the night sky, the only sign they weren’t jumping into a black abyss were wisps of clouds here
and there. A chill crept up Dane’s back that had nothing to do with the cold wind filling the cabin. They were jumping into the dark. The same dark he’d seen in Belgium.
But when the crew master said go, Dane didn’t hesitate. He leapt from the plane with the others trailing behind him and the four figures slashed through the air, wind thrashing at their bodies. Dane’s night vision gear helped him see where they were going, but that didn’t help the flash of disorientation he sensed every few seconds. The wind wanted to turn him upside down and around; he used his arms and legs to stay level, and the battle never ceased. Dane didn’t have to like sky diving. He only had to do it when the job required.
They remained in free-fall for an agonizing three minutes. Dane checked the luminous dial of his watch and stole a glance over his shoulder. Stone’s parachute billowed open. A few seconds later, McConn pulled his rip cord and air filled his canopy. Nina next. When gravity had provided the required space between Dane and his lady, he pulled his own rip cord and waited for the violent tug on his upper body that meant the parachute was fully open. The tug happened as expected, pulling on his torso and shoulders like a semi at full throttle and a grunt of pain escaped his lips. Still gasping a little, Dane grabbed the risers dangling beside his head and began stabilizing his descent to the ocean below.
At least he told himself it was the ocean. To his eyes, it was nothing but a wave of darkness that soon swallowed him and his team.
41
The moment they hit the water, the team shed their parachute gear and began swimming. Each had a compass and the coordinates in case they became separated, but, staying on Dane, they swam toward their objective and reached the beach twenty minutes later.
The team remained flat on the sand, icy water washing over them, wave after wave. It provided cover while they looked around. Typical beach. Lots of sand. About twenty yards from the water, the rocky face of raised ground. Nothing visible beyond that. Dane looked up and down the beach. No sign of a patrol. A small cave lay ahead in the rock face; he pointed it out and moved forward, water dripping from his wet suit as he padded across the sand, the swim fins kicking up bursts of sand in his wake. The others followed. They ducked into the cave as far back as they could and began shedding SCBUA gear, lacing boots and preparing weapons after removing their protective covering. The ground wasn’t level and Dane leaned against the rough wall for support as he locked a magazine into his M-4.
“Everybody splits like we planned,” he said softly. “Five minute intervals.”
Stone took off first, then McConn. Nina gave Dane a salty wet peck on the cheek and departed. Dane let out a breath and followed six minutes later. He didn’t want to leave the cave. It felt like the last safe place. He couldn’t shake the vision of the dark. But as Dane crawled up the rock face and ran along the raised ground, boots thumping on the hard earth, the ghosts of battles past reminded him that there was no room for fear with so much at stake and so many lives lost. The battle had to end here. Tonight.
Dane ran on.
The first patrol crossed his path about 150 yards from the beach.
The heavy woods provided excellent cover as Dane allowed nature to absorb him. He lay flat, surrounded by thick leaves and poking branches. The three-man patrol moved along a well-trodden path, appropriately separated, communicating via radio. He hadn’t expected that. The natural cover would make it hard to see the gunmen during a fight, which gave them plenty of time to radio headquarters for back-up. Such a request would alert Graypoole to their presence on the island. No more surprise. He had no plans to engage for that reason but remained ready to fight in case they saw him. Dane waited long after the trio had passed before he started moving again.
Each of them had an objective. Dane wanted an observation point over the control center or main working area; the others were looking for places to plant their bombs. Radio towers. Radar stations. Anything that, once gone, left the enemy crippled. The computer map had shown them nothing of the sort, so they had to find it the hard way. Enlisting the CIA’s help might have provided better intelligence on what to expect, but Dane’s desire for operational security, or, rather, his desire for revenge, overrode that idea. The presence of the troops at least confirmed they were in the right place.
Dane stayed off the paths he found, the obvious routes of the patrols and kept to the thicket, weaving around trees and treading as quietly as possible over leaves and branches. It was slow going. Sweat tricked down his neck, his combat blouse sticking to his back. He breathed slowly and stopped and dropped every few feet to listen. No other patrols so far. Did they have a light force on purpose, or was it something to keep the men busy? How secure did Graypoole believe he was on this private island?
The ground began to slope upward and Dane took longer breaks. When he reached the top, drenched with sweat, he dropped flat again and looked over the side of the hill into the valley below.
About 200 yards down, the ground had been cleared to allow construction of a one-story building topped with aerials and a radar dish. Set perpendicular was another building, this one resembling the barracks found at every military base worldwide. Was this the nerve center? Using his night vision goggles, Dane scanned the surrounding area. The building backstopped against the face of a hill. Dane could not detect if anything strategic sat atop that hill. Near the barracks, on a pair of adjoining landing pads, were two Bell helicopters. One had a machine gun sticking out of the cabin.
Off to the left, closer at 50 yards, he spotted a primary target. A circular bungalow with a railed deck. It rested on the sloping side of the hill, supported on thick beams. Two men were on the deck, talking. Dane zoomed in. An older man he did not recognize and a younger, taller man. Mason Graypoole.
Dane examined the slope before him. If he could work his way down and find a firing position across from the bungalow, the snake might lose its head.
He started at a crawl, pushing through the undergrowth, wary of trip wires and booby traps. He found none. A fallen log provided the position he wanted. Readying the M-4, he rested against the log and sighted along the barrel. A scope would have been nice, but improvisation was a commando’s bread-and-butter.
The two men continued their conversation, the older man leaning against the rail with his arms folded. He did most of the talking. Dane wondered about Graypoole’s somber expression as he placed the sights on the man’s left eye.
Dane slipped his finger through the trigger guard and started to apply pressure.
The spotlight hit him, lighting up his hiding place like daylight, associated yells filling the night. A string of rounds crackled below, nipping at the foliage around him. Dane held Graypoole in his sights and fired but before the bullet found its mark, Graypoole and the other man had dived inside the bungalow.
Dane swung the M-4 down the hill. Troops were already converging, charging through the growth, some with dogs. The barking dogs seemed louder than the gunshots. Dane fired a burst, then pivoted and charged up the slope with his legs pumping like pistons.
Good news, he could keep the force occupied so the others could find their own targets. Bad news, who knew how long he could run?
More shots struck around him, fired blind and for effect, but Dane forged ahead, leaves and branches whipping at his face, the threat of tripping over a branch or log ever present in his mind. He leaped over a fallen tree trunk, almost slipped on leaves when he landed, but kept going. The barking dogs faded somewhat. But they were still back there.
Then he heard the helicopter.
42
The whipping rotor blades drowned out the dogs. He found cover for a moment and listened. The chopper flashed overhead, a spotlight burning from the canopy. The beam of light shined through the trees. They wouldn’t be able to see much, but maybe there was a clearing up ahead that they expected him to reach. The dogs again. Getting closer. Dane left his hiding spot and ran. The chopper buzzed over-head, the spotlight breaking through the tree canopy here and there.<
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Dane’s wrist compass showed he was heading east.
No clearings yet, but he did find a wide pathway, probably one of the paths used by the patrols. He started following it, grateful for a few moments of not having his face and body lashed, but he couldn’t stay. The chopper buzzed overhead once more.
The forest thinned out and he crossed from hard ground to sandy beach. Ahead sat a row of motor boats tied to a jetty. Each boat had a machine gun mounted in the rear. Hello, Dolly. Dane ran faster, his boots sinking into the sand, legs and lungs straining. If he could lead the pursuing force off the island entirely, that would give Nina, McConn and Stone a better chance.
He leapt aboard one of the boats and cast off the lines. The chopper roared overhead, a gunner firing from the open cabin, the hammering thunder of rounds stitching the jetty but missing the boat. Dane swiveled the mounted gun around to fire at the rear of the helicopter and triggered a burst. The Browning .50-cal rocked against the steel post holding it aloft, but the shots missed as the chopper sharply banked to the left.
Single shots nicked the boat and zipped overhead as the pursuing force and the dogs reached the beach. Dane swung the Browning that way. He triggered a long burst, moving the barrel left to right, kicking up big clouds of sand and driving most of the troops flat. He ran to the steering wheel, the key already in the ignition. He pressed the starter and the engines roared to life. Dane gave the throttle a push. The motor chugged, the rear of the boat dipped, and sent a wave out in either direction that rocked the other boats as it rocketed away from the jetty.
The night’s cold stung Dane’s face, bits of water striking his skin, but he was away, traveling deep into the dark and if he could get rid of that chopper and double back, he could leave the troops wandering aimlessly while he and his crew tore apart Graypoole’s hideout.