Renegade: Special Tactical Units Devision (STUD) Book 3

by Sandra Marton

  They also had detailed information about the planned event that would link the interests of Amjad and Cyrus. Most of the data came from the Qarami Freedom Fighters. Their leaders had been advisors to Annie’s father; their rank and file had been loyal to him. They were eager to see their false king stand trial on a public stage so they could then implement the democracy Annie’s father had intended.

  From them, they learned that Annie’s suite was on the second floor. So was her uncle’s. A long corridor and a couple of turns separated one set of rooms from the other.

  Both suites were protected by members of Cyrus’s private guard. STUD One would deal with them. The Freedom Fighters would take care of the guards not on duty.

  Amjad would have the so-called Imperial Suite on the same floor, guarded by his own men. STUD One would take them out too. The Freedom Fighters would deal with the others.

  The best news was a drawing that showed an underground tunnel leading from an ancient fort to a door in what looked like an unused part of the basement. The service stairs were maybe fifty feet away.

  “Not gonna be too many people going up and down to the basement that hour of the night,” Alex said.

  “The tunnel’s probably an old escape route,” Dec said. He stabbed his finger at the sketch. “That’s how we’ll get in and out.”

  “Assuming the entrance is still there and accessible,” Aidan said.

  Dec picked up the phone and called Black. Black listened, then picked up his own phone. Two hours later they had an eyes-on confirmation that the entrance, though all but buried behind overgrowth, was there. Could it be accessed?

  They’d just have to wait and find out.

  Other data came from social media.

  “Amazing,” Romano said, “the stuff people put online.”

  For instance, Amjad had posted a snapshot of himself grinning and cradling an automatic rifle under the caption Happy Surprises Coming.

  “What an asshole,” Maguire said.

  “He’s right, though,” Dec said with grim certainty. “He sure as hell has surprises coming.”

  Not all of what they needed was out there, but there was enough so that you could play connect-the-dots and come up with valid information.

  The plan was to get in fast, neutralize Cyrus and hand him over to the Freedom Fighters, grab Amjad, truss him up like a chicken ready for the barbecue, then get Annie. They’d go out the way they came in—through the tunnel—and once they were back on the Black Hawk, the Freedom Fighters would get the signal that they could move ahead with their own plans for Cyrus, for his thugs, and for Amjad’s crew of killers.

  STUD One worked around the clock, taking breaks only to work out in the training room or run on the beach. That kept them in shape, mentally as well as physically. They grabbed sleep in short doses and ate seated around a conference table in a room that adjoined Black’s office, surrounded by computers, printers, piles of paper, and empty fast food containers.

  Finally, they sat back, yawned, stretched, and agreed they had everything they could get.

  Sullivan nodded. “We’ve gone in with less.”

  Yes. They sure as hell had.

  The last thing to nail down was how to make sure Cyrus was still in his rooms when STUD One came through the tunnel.

  After some back and forth, it was agreed that Cyrus—Uncle Shit, as STUD One had dubbed him—would discover a button missing from his tuxedo jacket right before it was time to leave his suite and meet with Amjad.

  It turned out that Uncle Shit wasn’t only a villainous bastard; he was a stickler for sartorial perfection.

  His valet would have to make a repair.

  The valet, of course, was a member of the opposition and the guy who would rip off the button in the first place.

  “Nice,” Romano said.

  The embassy was alerted that something was going down, but they weren’t given details. It was the old Navy adage in play: Loose lips sink ships. Security had been beefed up, and the ambassador and his wife were back home in Indiana, still recovering from their ordeal.

  So there was agreement all around.

  Operation Renegade was a go.

  * * *

  The night of the mission was cool and clear. The quarter moon shone bright against a field of fiery stars.

  The Stealth-equipped Black Hawk crossed the Qarami border unobserved. When it reached the agreed-upon landing zone, the men of STUD One, dressed in black and with black balaclavas over their heads and faces, made a quick exit to the desert floor.

  They set out at a jog meant to get them where they were going without any effort. The only sound that stirred the silence was the soft crunch of booted feet on sand.

  They reached the ruins of the ancient fort. It took a minute to locate the mouth of the old tunnel. Once they’d cleared away some debris, the entry was accessible.

  The narrow tunnel, carved out of the earth and lined with stone centuries before, was wet and clammy with age. The men crawled through. Arms and legs got scraped. Clothing got snagged. But breathing was the real problem. There was air, but it stank of dead creatures, of damp, of men whose purpose in being there was lost in the fog of time.

  Still, nobody bitched. Bitching wasn’t in the STUD code. Besides, the tunnel led straight to the basement, exactly as the old sketch had shown. As for entry into the basement… That was anybody’s guess. Was it through a door? A door with a lock? Worst case scenario: Had the opening been bricked over? They had explosives with them, but the last thing they wanted was even a muffled bang.

  Romano switched on a small LED flashlight.

  Yes. There was a door. It opened inward. He pushed against it. He could feel the wood start to give. Time and moisture had done the job. Two more hard shoves and it gave way.

  They were in.

  There wasn’t much light, but there was enough. Slimy water on the stone floor indicated that the area hadn’t been used in a long time. The stink was almost as bad as in the tunnel.

  And things scuttled away from their feet.

  “Rats,” Spanos whispered.

  Romano, who had a thing about rodents, whispered back that they weren’t rats, they were beetles.

  “Beetles wearing size thirteen shoes,” Sullivan whispered.

  Soft chuckles. Hey, laughter was good, especially in tough situations.

  For the next few minutes, it was textbook simple. Locate the service stairs. Done. Move quietly up those stairs to the first floor, hold for a three-count, then climb to the second floor. Done. Go down the corridor soundlessly. Done. Move slowly down the hall, weapons at the ready. Stop at the end where the corridor did a right turn that would lead to Uncle Shit’s private chambers.

  Dec held up his hand.

  Everybody flattened themselves back against the wall.

  He stepped out. Took a fast look.

  As expected, there was an armed guard at the door.

  Dec moved.

  The guard saw him, but only at the last second. His hand went to his holster…

  Too late.

  Dec’s knife was an efficient, silent dispenser of death.

  He caught the guard as he fell, eased him to the floor. Waved his guys forward. A quick nod at Olivieri, who reached for the doorknob. Dec and the others trained their HK MP7s on the door itself.

  The knob turned. The door opened.

  They were in an elaborate sitting room. Nobody there. Just silence. Wait. What was that? The sound of an impatient voice.

  Quick hand signals. Romano dragged the guard’s body inside and soundlessly shut the door. Dec pointed at him. Romano nodded. He would stay by the door. The others moved through the sitting room. Into a short hallway. Saw a half-open door ahead.

  The bedroom.

  Gilded walls. Canopied bed. And a tall man pacing restlessly across a silk carpet.

  A smaller man sat on a low stool, needle and thread in his hand, a tuxedo jacket draped over his lap.

  Uncle Shit. And the Freedo
m Fighter valet.

  Uncle Shit snapped out what sounded like an insult. Dec looked at Alex, who’d studied languages and was fluent in several. Alex rolled his eyes, mimicked a needle going through cloth, and pointed to his watch.

  Dec understood.

  Uncle Shit was pissed off at how long the valet was taking to sew on a button.

  The smaller man looked up and spoke. No translation needed. He was offering an apology—at least he was pretending to offer one.

  Uncle Shit scowled. He swung towards the smaller man and said something, his tone imperious and insulting.

  Dec used the opportunity to make his move.

  The dictator heard him, spun around, opened his mouth—

  Dec jammed the butt of his rifle into the man’s belly.

  The guy grunted and doubled over. Dec caught him, jerked him upright, balled up his fist and punched him in the face. Once. Twice. And again…

  “Dude,” Chay said quietly, “you have good reason to kill him—except I don’t think the idea was to give the people of Qaram damaged goods. But, hey, you want this to go down a different way? No sweat. We’ll all be cool with it. Your call.”

  Chay’s words got through Dec’s rage. They had a deal with the Freedom Fighters and he would honor it.

  He moved back. Blanked his mind to the fury inside him.

  “Yeah. Okay. Maguire. Secure the son of a bitch.”

  Aidan slapped duct tape over Cyrus’s mouth. Danny yanked his hands behind his back and zip-tied them together.

  The smaller man stood up. He walked up to what was soon to become the former ruler of Qaram, rose on his toes and spat full in his face.

  “Your highness,” he said in perfect English. “Your jacket is ready.”

  He dropped the jacket to the floor.

  Dec grinned and patted the valet on the shoulder. “Good job,” he said. “Is anyone else here?”

  The valet shook his head. “Only me.”

  “Will you be okay?”

  The valet pulled a SIG-SAUER that seemed almost as big as he was from under his jacket and pointed it at the dictator’s head.

  “I will be fine.”

  “I can see that,” Dec said.

  “Do not concern yourself with us, Lieutenant. We have planned for our liberation since the death of our true king. News of Cyrus’s plans for war and for an alliance with the terrorist Amjad served only to make us move more quickly.”

  “The other guards?”

  The valet grinned. “They love vodka. The terrorist’s men as well. Many are already sleeping like babies.” The valet’s grin disappeared. “Before the night ends, they will all sleep forever.”

  “Okay. Good. One more question. Do you know if Amjad is in his suite?”

  The valet’s face fell. “I am afraid that he is with our princess.”

  Dec went very still. He looked at Annie’s uncle. “Anoushka had better be fine,” he said quietly, “or I’ll come back and kill you with my bare hands.”

  The uncle, his face white, his eyes bulging with fear, jerked his head up and down. He said something, but the tape over his mouth rendered the words meaningless.

  The valet, however, understood.

  “He wants you to take him with you. He does not wish to remain here with his people.”

  Dec smiled coldly. “I’ll bet. Hell, no, pal. I’m gonna let you stay right here with your friends, the citizens of Qaram.”

  The dictator made a muffled sound. The front of his pants darkened.

  “Big tough guy is pissing himself,” Nick said.

  The valet chuckled. The men of STUD One grinned.

  It was time to move on.

  They went from the bedroom to the sitting room where Romano waited by the closed door. Dec nodded, and Nick cracked it open.

  He peered up and down the corridor, then raised his hand and gave the all clear.

  They exited silently and, in single file, made their way to where the corridor made another turn.

  Annie’s suite was their next stop.

  Dec raised his hand. The STUDs flattened themselves against the wall. Dec leaned out. Took a fast look.

  One guard. Long beard, stained clothing. Obviously Amjad’s man.

  Dec took the guard out with a killing chop to the side of the throat.

  He lowered the dead man to the floor. Reached for the doorknob…

  “Wait!” Chay grabbed his shoulder. “Something,” he whispered.

  Nobody was going to argue. Olivieri’s sixth sense had been right too many times before.

  Dec nodded. He pointed at Maguire and Spanos and shook his head. They were to hold back. He pointed to himself, then to Sullivan, Romano and Olivieri. Made a fist. Showed one finger. Two fingers. Three fingers…

  He flung the door open.

  “Lieutenant Sanchez, I presume,” Altair Amjad said. “We have been waiting for you.”

  Six men stood in a semi-circle with Amjad in its center. Amjad had one arm around Annie, his hand spread over her belly. The other hand held an AK47 that was pointed at Dec’s chest.

  Annie was his shield.

  Dec pulled off his hood.

  “Let the woman go,” he said, his voice low and raw with menace.

  The terrorist laughed, his teeth a flash of white against his salt-and-pepper beard.

  “The woman? Do you mean my bride? Do not be foolish, Lieutenant. Why would I let her go after all I have gone through to claim her?”

  “She isn’t your bride, she’s your prisoner.”

  “A technicality. Once we are married, she will change her mind.” He chuckled and pulled Annie closer. She made a choking sound and grasped his arm with both hands. “Women love me, Lieutenant. And if they do not love me at first, I assure you that they learn to do so.”

  Jesus. Annie’s face was white with terror. She was trembling.

  Dec forced himself to concentrate on Amjad.

  “Are you such a coward that you would hide behind a woman?”

  “Are you such a fool that you believe such childish words would deter me?” The terrorist’s brazen smile vanished. “Do you think anything you might say will have meaning for me? I have not forgotten that you ambushed my men and slaughtered them. I owe you for that.”

  “An interesting viewpoint, Amjad. We defeated them after they attacked us.”

  Amjad narrowed his eyes. “Enough of this nonsense. Tell your men to put down their weapons. You too, Lieutenant.”

  “Do you know what a standoff is, Amjad?”

  “Do you think I will not give the order for my men to kill you all? Do you think I am fool enough to believe that you, any of you, would fire at me when this woman you want stands in front of me? Put down your weapons or this will not end well for her or for you.”

  “Don’t do it, Declan,” Annie said frantically. “He’ll kill you.”

  Dec knew she was right. If he and his men put down their guns, they’d be killed instantly. And if there were a firefight, Annie would be one of the first casualties.

  “Ohhh…”

  The cry had come from Annie.

  “Be quiet, woman,” Amjad snarled.

  But she cried out again, gasping as if she couldn’t breathe, hanging on to Amjad’s arm as she began sliding down his body.

  “Dammit, woman…”

  Annie went limp. Amjad, cursing, tried to free his arm, but he couldn’t. And Annie was falling, falling, taking him to the floor with her.

  Amjad’s men, surprised, turned towards their leader.

  Dec and his men leaped forward.

  It was over in seconds.

  Three of the terrorists were dead. Three were unconscious. Amjad was on his hands and knees, bleeding from his mouth and nose.

  “Annie,” Dec said frantically. What the fuck? Annie was on her feet, leaning against the wall and laughing. “Annie?”

  “I’m fine,” she said breathlessly. “Declan, honestly, I’m fine. Do I get an academy award for that performance or not?
”

  Dec could almost feel his jaw drop. What she’d get was either a kiss for bravery or a spanking for pulling such a dangerous stunt.

  “Dammit, Anoushka, he could have killed you!”

  “But he didn’t,” she said, and as her laughter turned to soft sobs, Dec decided that for now, a kiss—a quick one—would have to do.

  Amjad was still down. Chay had his Glock pressed to Amjad’s forehead.

  Dec motioned Chay back.

  “Get up!”

  Amjad raised his head. “You will regret this,” he snarled. “You and your men will—”

  Dec grabbed the terrorist and hauled him to his feet. He punched him in the gut. Air exploded from Amjad’s lungs. It felt so good to hit the bastard that Dec drew back his fist and did it again.

  “Declan,” Annie said, “don’t kill him. Let him live in fear of the justice he knows is coming.”

  Dec took a long, hard breath. They could debate justice some other time. Right now, she had reminded him that his mission was to bring the terrorist in alive.

  Sometimes, doing your duty was tough.

  Danny handed him the roll of duct tape.

  Dec tore off a long strip and wrapped it tightly around the terrorist’s mouth.

  Aidan tossed him a handful of zip-ties.

  Dec jerked Amjad’s hands behind his back and secured them.

  The three unconscious terrorists had already been gagged and bound and left where they had fallen.

  Dec pulled on his balaclava. Chay collected the weapons of the dead and injured terrorists.

  “Okay,” Dec said. “All dressed up and ready to go. We’re out of here.”

  “We leaving the three sleeping beauties?”

  “Yeah. A little bonus for the Freedom Fighters.”

  The reverse trip was quick and smooth.

  Danny went first, checking the corridor, then signaling it was clear. Nick and Chay went next, holding Amjad between them. Then Alex. Then Annie. Then Aidan, with Dec last.

  No problems to the service stairs. None to the basement. One last trip through the tunnel—Amjad balked and Alex had the pleasure of kicking him to get him moving.

  They emerged into the clear night air at the mouth of the tunnel.