Brothers In Arms

by Marcus Wynne

  Harrison stretched both hands over his head as he walked and shook them down to keep the blood flowing. Earlier in the evening he’d gone through his own workout between patrolling the perimeter: working with a rubber resistance unit, countless push-ups and chair dips and sit-ups and crunches to keep himself toned and tuned up, ready for what might come their way. It also fought the boredom of the protection lifestyle. He smiled wearily as he thought of all the starry-eyed rookies who came in on the VIP protection circuit, expecting to be taking on terrorists in between fine dinners at the best hotels. It didn’t take long for reality to sink in, and many, in fact most, grew disenchanted with standing outside hotel rooms and pissing in potted plants because the principal was too cheap to hire enough protection. But for those who had the right stuff, and stuck it out and worked their way up the ladder, there were the gigs the rookies dreamed about, and a man could make a decent living with his earnings and still have a good time on the boss’s dime.

  This was a pretty good gig. A real world threat, which helped to keep everything in focus and get a bit of the old adrenaline flowing. The pay was very good. Harrison and Ford were pulling down one thousand dollars a day each plus their minimal expenses, and Miller was a good team leader. Harrison and Ford, in their private conversations, had given him a thumbs-up and another for the second in command, Charley Payne. They thought that there should be more BGs on the detail, but agreed that whoever was footing the bill had hired the very best, and having four of the best beat having eight of the second team.

  He paused to look up at the little hill. All in all, it was a good gig.

  Marie Garvais studied the man walking the perimeter. She wore night-vision goggles that dropped down over her eyes and rendered everything she saw in shades of green. The ambient light from the stars and the nearby streetlights was sufficient to illuminate her target brightly. The MP-5 submachine gun she carried had three illumination sources mounted beneath the barrel: a high-powered flashlight, a laser designator, and an infrared light. She could choose which one she wanted by sliding the fingers of her support hand along the forearm stock of the MP-5 and pushing one of three pressure switches.

  Marie noted that the man wasn’t wearing night vision or carrying a long gun. She’d have been surprised if he had, as he was a civilian providing protection, or so her intelligence briefing had told her. She looked over at the rest of her team. Isabelle lay flat on the grass with her partner, a Frenchman named Andre, and Marie’s partner, a Belgian named Dougard, lay beside her within arm’s reach. Marie was the planner, and she figured four operators with submachine guns, striking at night, were sufficient. So far they had only seen two bodyguards working, and the surveillance team had confirmed that they had only seen two bodyguards as well. A ratio of two-to-one was close; she would have preferred three-to-one, but chose to rely on speed and violence of action, like any good special operator.

  And of course, surprise.

  Marie watched the man stroll along the grounds and go around the back of the Victorian house. She waited till she saw the flare of light as he opened the back door to go back in, then signaled silently to her team. The assassins drew up on line, shoulder to shoulder with five meters between them, and began their stealthy approach to the house. They approached from the side of the house, skirting the little hill that provided them some cover from observation, and moved carefully from shadow to shadow, submachine guns at the ready, fingers hovering over their infrared illumination switches. They moved like deadly shadows, figures of the night stalking carefully forward, the muzzles of their weapons tracking each possible location for an opponent.

  The team came on line at the side of the house, where the shadows came together from the lights on the front and rear of the house.

  They were ready.

  Harrison took a bottle of water out of the kitchen refrigerator and walked down the hallway to where Ford sat outside Uday’s room.

  “Here you go, bro,” he said, handing his partner the bottle of water. “You got to take a leak?”

  “Yeah,” Ford said. “Thanks.”

  Ford took the bottle of water and set it down beside the chair, stood and stretched the kinks out, then walked down the hallway to the handicap-accessible bathroom. He went in and turned on the light.

  The light from the bathroom window washed over Isabelle and Andre; the sudden brightness caused a flare in their night-vision optics, causing Andre to stumble for a moment and catch himself with one hand against the wall of the house.

  Ford felt rather than heard the contact outside the bathroom. He zipped up his fly and turned off the light, then slipped back into the hallway.

  “There’s someone outside,” he hissed to Harrison. “Right outside the bathroom window.”

  Harrison drew his pistol, then opened the door and looked in at Uday—who slept soundly—then stood outside the door, his pistol held in a low ready. Ford drew his own pistol and went swiftly down the hallway and opened the door into the converted bedroom. He shook Dale’s foot and said, “Dale? We’ve got company.”

  Dale sat bolt upright, blinking off his sleep. His transition from sleep to alertness was instantaneous. He slid his feet into his semilaced boots and stood up. Charley was right with him, opening his eyes first and taking it all in, then sliding his own shoes on. The two of them were already dressed in loose-fitting street clothes under their light blankets.

  Dale opened the closet and took out two civilian AR-15s with short barrels and a flashlight mounted beneath each barrel. He handed one to Ford and one to Charley. The two operators took the carbines and charged the weapons, pulling the handles back and letting them go forward with sharp clacks.

  “Those are stoked with hollow points,” Dale said. “They’ll break up in the walls, so remember that if you have to shoot through anything.”

  “Roger that,” Ford said. He ducked back out into the hallway. Harrison saw him coming and nodded.

  Charley and Dale came out into the hallway, weapons at the ready. They moved quietly and quickly to vantage points in the hallway, then crouched down with their weapons covering the back door and the front entranceway.

  They were ready.

  Outside, Marie cursed silently. Andre covered the lit bathroom window, which went out quickly. Marie took stock of the team, all in position, and weighed her options. There was no sign of an alarm or any indication that someone had heard Andre fall against the building. She briefly considered calling it off to be safe and coming back another night, but dismissed the thought. She waved the team forward and they moved in a cautious line behind her as she went around the side of the house to the rear kitchen door. She paused, then carefully, setting each foot down delicately, mounted the stairs to the back door. She tried the handle. Locked. The doorjamb was reinforced, as she had expected. She covered the door with her submachine gun and waved Dougard forward and pointed at the lock.

  Dougard came forward and let his submachine gun dangle from its straps. He reached into the canvas courier bag he wore tightly across his back and shoulders and took out a small explosive charge, a lock cutter. He set it on the door between the doorknob and the jamb, then turned a switch and stepped back. Marie raised her hand and counted with her fingers the five seconds.

  The charge detonated with a loud bang that rang through the dark and Marie threw open the door and led her assault team into the darkened house.

  Even though they were ready for an attack, the sudden explosion and flash of the detonation jarred Dale and his crew; but now they knew there was an attack and which direction it was coming from. Harrison ducked into Uday’s room, threw the big man to the floor, and covered him. Ford covered his arc, which provided security back toward the front entrance, leaving Charley and Dale to cover the assault coming from the rear of the house. Dale extended his firing hand, his Browning High Power in his fist, and reached with his other hand for the light switch that controlled the hallway lights. He hit the lights and then put both hands on his weap
on and began to acquire targets.

  The sudden flash of light drove fear like a spike into Marie’s stomach; the sudden lights flared and blurred her vision in the night optics she and her team wore. Worst of all was the realization that the element of surprise was lost and she was running into a prepared group of gunfighters.

  Through the optics she saw the dim shape of men crouched in the hallway; she brought her submachine gun up and fired a three-round burst at the first of them.

  Charley saw the submachine guns and pressed his AR-15 into his shoulder and rolled the trigger. One shot, one squeeze, but he had to attain fire superiority right away, and he pulled the trigger quickly, crack crack crack as fast as he could across the front of the approaching gunmen.

  Dale took his time and put his front sight on the chest of the lead assaulter and double-tapped the leader, then tracked his sights onto the next one even as they fired at him.

  Marie felt Dougard press up beside her and the two of them opened up full-auto down the hall despite their hampered vision. Surprise was lost and violence of action was their only hope at this stage. That meant superiority of firepower. They were the only two inside and they faced a wall of rifle fire from the AR-15s. Marie stumbled as two bullets slammed into her chest; the heavy body armor she wore absorbed and dissipated the blow, but it still felt as though someone had stabbed an iron pool cue into her chest at close range. She felt Isabelle behind her steady her with one hand even as she opened up full-auto with her MP-5.

  “Fall back!” Marie cried. “Fall back!”

  Charley saw one of the assaulters, the point man, stumble, and then shout, “Fall back!”

  It sounded like a woman.

  Marie and Dougard retreated out the door, emptying their magazines on full-auto as they went. Doors and woodwork splintered down the hallway, and one light went out. The two of them, reloading on the run, ran past Andre and Isabelle, who covered them as they came.

  “Back!” Marie shouted. She led the way, running and stumbling a bit from the pain in her chest, to the rally point she’d designated on the far side of the little hill beside the center.

  Charley and Dale stood shoulder to shoulder, covering the back door.

  “Secure the principal!” Dale shouted.

  “Roger that,” Ford shouted back. He moved till his back was directly against the door to Uday’s room.

  “I’ve got him!” shouted Harrison.

  There was shouting and screaming from the other rooms and the upstairs.

  Harrison and Ford stayed poised to defend Uday’s room, while Charley and Dale moved forward, each covering the other, till they were at the back door. A string of bullets cut through the door, forcing them back into the relative safety of the hallway.

  “Immediate evacuation!” Marie said into the handset of her portable radio. Just outside the grounds of the center, Marika Tormay and her partner started the two minivans they waited in. Moments later, scrambling through the bush, the assault team, all four members, came into the clearing where the vehicles waited. They went, two by two into each vehicle, and then drove slowly away, heading away from where the responding police units from the campus police would come.

  “Are they gone?” Charley said.

  “They’re outside and moving away,” Dale said. “Ford! Call the campus police!”

  “Roger that!” Ford called back. He took his cell phone out of his pocket, and rested the rifle against the wall while he dialed direct the dispatch center for the campus police.

  “Campus police, what is your emergency?”

  “This is a private security detail at the Torture Rehabilitation Center at Sixteen-fifteen River Road,” Ford said. “There’s been an attempted home invasion by several armed attackers and shots have been fired.”

  “Do you need an ambulance?”

  “Not at this time, just police.”

  “Please stay on the line.”

  Ford relayed directions to the dispatcher, who guided the responding units in to where Dale stood, his pistol holstered, waving them in. It took less than five minutes for the police to arrive in full force. As the ranking officer came to meet him, Dale said to Charley, “This is going to take a while.”

  Several miles away, Marie Garvais listened to the responding units on a portable police scanner. Satisfied that there was no description of their vehicles, she sat back on the seat to ease the pain in her rib cage where two bullets had hit. She opened the vest and dug out the two slugs: pistol bullets, nine millimeter it looked like. The rifle bullets would have penetrated her vest, but the rifleman had been firing high down the hallway and her team had taken no direct hits. She had been struck in the chest by someone firing a pistol, Dougard had a round graze his hand, and Isabelle and Andre were untouched.

  The minivans crossed a bridge over the river into a suburb of St. Paul, and drove to a house with a two-car garage. The automatic garage doors opened as the vans pulled into the garage, and then the doors closed. The assault team dismounted. Isabelle came to Marie and said, “Are you all right? Are you injured?”

  “I’ll be bruised,” Marie said. She touched Isabelle lightly on her face. “I’ll be fine, really.”

  “Is everyone else all right?” Isabelle said.

  Dougard held up his hand and said, “Only a graze, not bad. If you would dress it . . .?”

  Marika Torkay came forward with a first-aid kit. “I’ll do it,” she said.

  Marie massaged her chest, then took off the vest and examined the widening bruise beneath her black T-shirt. Isabelle touched the bruise, lightly, with one finger.

  “Are you sure you didn’t break a rib?” she asked.

  “I’m all right. It was pistol fire. We weren’t expecting that rifle.”

  “They were professionals,” Isabelle said. “They were ready very quickly and they handled it well. They didn’t follow us outside; they stayed put and called the police.”

  “Yes,” Marie said. “We’ll have to find out more. They’ll move him now to some place harder. Marika, can you find out more about the team?”

  “I don’t know,” Marika said, finishing the dressing of Dougard’s hand. “It’s not as though we can get employment there, it’s a very small and handpicked staff. I don’t think it’s possible.”

  “Do you have someone watching now?”

  “There’s one of our people with a video camera in the woods; they’ve probably pulled out so that they won’t get caught up in the police sweep. They’ll be checking the ground for clues.”

  “Have them do what they can,” Marie said.

  “Of course,” Marika said. “But there won’t be much to do now that the police are there.”

  Marie muttered under her breath and went into the kitchen. She took an ice-cube tray out of the freezer and emptied it into a plastic garbage bag, then wadded it up and stuck it beneath her black T-shirt against her spreading bruise.

  Isabelle followed her in.

  “Mistakes happen,” Isabelle said. “Andre couldn’t help it. And the intelligence we had didn’t say there were more bodyguards with rifles. We were expecting a handful of sleeping men with pistols. This is a very professional operation.”

  “It doesn’t make me feel any better. This is a hard target that has just gotten much harder. I’m not giving up on this.”

  “We have to back off until they get better intelligence for us, Marie. We can’t just go running a gauntlet of fire each time hoping to get him.”

  “You’re right, but it doesn’t make me feel better. We’ll have to consider something beside close-quarters assault.”

  “You sound so dangerous . . . ‘close quarters assault,’ indeed.”

  Marie laughed, and reached out and draped an arm around her lover’s neck.

  “Come here,” she said. “Massage these ribs for me.”

  TORTURE REHABILITATION CENTER, UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA CAMPUS, MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA

  As soon as she was notified by a call that woke her, Dr
. Rowan Green rushed to the center. Her identification got her through the first perimeter and into the confusion of police vehicles parked outside the center. She saw Dale Miller, dressed in rumpled clothes, talking with several police officers. After she parked her car, she hurried to him.

  “Is Mr. Uday all right?” she said.

  Dale nodded. “He’s all right. No injuries.” He said to the police officers, “Anything else?”

  “No,” a sergeant said. “You can go back inside. If we have anything else, we can find you in there.”

  Dale followed Dr. Green into the center. She walked around the back and lingered for a moment, looking at the blackened back door, riddled with bullet holes and blackened from the explosive charge that had shattered the lock. Then she hurried down the hall to Uday’s room, where Rahman Uday sat in his armchair, curiously formal. Harrison stood behind him, while Ford stood guard outside the door.

  “Are you all right, Rahman?” Dr. Green said.

  Uday nodded slowly, once. “They want the One.”

  Dale eased into the room behind Dr. Green and studied the quiet psychotic. “Are you the One?”

  “I am not the One,” Uday said. “The One is the One. But I have seen the One.”

  “Who is the One?” Dale said.

  “He will bring the sad holiday,” Uday said. “Men with guns are with him. Like tonight.”