by Tom Clancy
Mohammed asked, “How many attackers?”
“I don’t know!” shouted Leo, but he led the way with his weapon out in front of him.
The procession moved down the rear stairwell, and then out into a long gallery that ran the length of the back of the house. Leo turned to the left and the others began following, but as they passed an archway that led to the large main room of the home, automatic gunfire erupted from the dark. One of the Venezuelan guards spun dead to the wooden gallery floor, and Leo and the other three fired back into the room as they ran past the archway and out of the line of fire.
Mohammed and Gianna were ahead of Ethan, so they made it across the kill zone, but Ethan had hesitated, and now he found himself alone between the stairs and the archway, afraid to move forward and join the others. As Mohammed shouted at him, urging him to catch up, Ethan instead turned away and began running in the opposite direction down the gallery, past the stairs and toward the kitchen.
Behind him at the archway the gunfire increased.
He rounded the corner into the kitchen now. A row of dim lights ran under the shelves over the counter, giving the room a dim glow, and with this light Ethan could see a figure standing in the middle of the room, not twenty feet in front of him. He was a white man in wet brown clothing and a scruffy beard. His sleeves were rolled up and his forearms were covered in mud. He held a black pistol in his hand, and he pointed it straight at Ethan.
Ethan stopped. Raised his hands quickly.
“You got it with you?” The man spoke English.
Ethan was too terrified to answer. Behind him, on the far side of the gallery, multiple automatic weapons barked back and forth at one another.
“You got the scrape?”
“I . . . I . . .”
The man pulled the hammer back on his pistol. “I’m not asking again!”
“I’ve got it!”
“You’re coming with me.”
“Who . . . who are . . . no!”
The man with the gun raised the weapon suddenly and fired. Ethan screamed, dropped to the ground, his hands still above his head. Behind him, a GIO officer had run into the room with a G3 rifle shouldered, but the American in the brown shirt shot him dead as he entered.
A second Venezuelan entered the kitchen, his rifle firing as he came through the door. Ethan rolled onto his side in the fetal position, screaming at the top of his lungs, but he kept his eyes open and he saw the American in the brown shirt run to his left, chased across the kitchen by flashing sparks and bullet holes that tore into the stove and refrigerator and tiled backsplash over the oven. The American dove through the air, his pistol still in his hand, and he executed a complete forward roll on the floor to get through the doorway to the dining room.
“Ethan!” The scream came from behind, and Ross looked back to see Mohammed crouched low in the doorway next to the Venezuelan with the rifle. Mohammed’s hand was out, beckoning Ethan to crawl out of the kitchen. “Come on!”
The American in the brown shirt ducked his head back around from the dining room. The Venezuelan shot at him, but the American returned fire with the pistol, firing several rounds, then he retreated again around the corner.
Ethan looked at the Venezuelan. He’d been shot in the left shin, just below the knee, and now he lay on the ground, grabbing at his leg, with the rifle on the floor next to him.
Mohammed dove on the rifle, lifted it up toward the dining room entrance, and fired several rounds. Even with all the chaos, Ethan was surprised the small Lebanese computer geek knew how to shoot a gun.
Mohammed shouted, “Ethan! Come!”
Ethan climbed to his hands and knees and crawled out of the dim kitchen. He found his feet and started running through the main room of the house, but Mohammed caught up with him from behind. “No! Not that way. You are going toward the other Americans.”
On cue, more gunfire snapped at the front of the house. Glass shattered, and men shouted.
“Run!” Mohammed commanded, and Ethan found himself following the Lebanese man’s instructions. Together they ran through the main room of the house, which had been the center of the battle just a minute earlier. Now, however, much of gunfire seemed to be upstairs. As Ethan ran he tripped over the body of a dead man, fell to the floor, and lay there exhausted and terrorized.
“Get up!” Mohammed shouted, and he pulled Ethan to his feet, then pushed him forward.
They found a broken window in a library on the ground floor near the front of the house, and Mohammed used the barrel of the rifle to push out enough glass to climb through. Ethan followed, both men found themselves outside in a hedge near the pool that rimmed the building, and Mohammed scanned all around for any movement.
Just then Leo and Gianna rushed out the French doors that lead out into the pool area. Leo had been shot, blood ran from his shoulder down the length of his body, and even in the dim decorative lighting around the pool deck Ethan could see the man’s face had gone white.
He staggered past his guests, holding a walkie-talkie in his hands and calling out to members of his guard force.
No one was replying, but there was definitely still a firefight raging on the second floor.
Leo made it to the two Expeditions in the drive, then he spun around and lifted his small machine pistol high. He began scanning the second-floor veranda for threats while still calling on his walkie-talkie.
Gianna, Mohammed, and Ethan ran to him.
Ethan said, “The Expeditions! Do you have keys?”
“Get in the black one!”
In the dark they both looked back, but once Ethan got closer he realized one was dark green. He climbed into the backseat of the black Expedition, and Gianna moved in next to him. Mohammed took the front passenger seat, and Leo got behind the wheel and started the truck.
They lurched off down the muddy driveway, heading away from the inlet and into the trees.
“Where are we going?” Ethan asked, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was following.
Leo’s voice was weak. “We can go to the docks on the east side, where we have boats. The Panamanian police boats will support us once on the water.” He coughed. “Please sit quietly.”
This sounded like as good a plan as any to Ethan, and he found himself astonished to have made it away from the Americans. His hands shook violently.
Gianna noticed this, she must have been going through her own panic at present, but she hugged him to comfort him nonetheless.
FOUR NAVAL SPETSNAZ COMMANDOS burst out the French doors to the pool area and ran to toward the remaining Ford Expedition in the driveway. They had been fighting the last of the resistance upstairs when one of their number saw the taillights of an SUV at the far edge of the lawn, racing into the jungle, and the lieutenant ordered the members of his team still in the fight to take off in pursuit.
Two Russians lay dead. One man had been killed on the back patio as he tried to pick a window lock for a stealthy entrance. A passing guard saw the movement and opened fire, and this caught the rest of the team still outside the house in the open. They’d fought their way inside, killed several Venezuelans in the process, but their attempts to take the American had been delayed and, at least temporarily, thwarted.
A second Russian commando was felled in the archway to the gallery. The Venezuelans had put up a surprising defense, and now, as the four men raced to the remaining vehicle parked in the driveway, the lieutenant feared this operation was falling apart around him.
He’d wanted helicopters for this job, he’d pressed for them right up until the minute he and his team climbed aboard the Cessna Caravan with their parachutes, but the FSB was running the op, and they demand Ross be taken to a yacht moored on the eastern edge of the island. Russian helos would be too overt, they had said, any pictures or sightings of the birds would prove they weren’t American, and the entire mission was to be constructed as a deniable operation. The lieutenant suggested using Nicaraguan helicopters, but the FSB ha
d patiently explained this would do nothing to convince the world America had invaded Panama, again, this time to recover a loose-lipped employee. Then the FSB impatiently told the commando leader to stop worrying about their end of the mission and to start worrying about his own end of the mission.
The lieutenant dove into the front passenger seat of the Expedition, and one of his men opened the driver’s-side door and leapt behind the wheel. They had already hotwired the vehicle to use in their getaway, it was the lieutenant’s one piece of good fortune that Ross and his entourage had run off in the other Ford, leaving the one prepped by Spetsnaz behind. The Expedition kicked mud and rock and water into the air and shot down the drive in pursuit of the American and his confederates.
DOMINIC CARUSO RACED around the front of the house onto the driveway, his pistol arcing left and right and up and down as he ran.
In the distance he saw a Ford Expedition moving into the trees, and he raised his weapon to fire at it, but from behind he heard a shout: “Alto!” Stop!
Dom froze, raised his hands, and dropped the pistol into the mud. Turning around slowly, he saw a Venezuelan guard with a G3 rifle on his shoulder walking across the patio near the pool, approaching rapidly. He shouted at Dom, no doubt they were commands of some sort, but Dom couldn’t understand. The man was alone, a little more amped up than Caruso would have liked, considering he had a finger pressed against the trigger of his rifle and the muzzle pointed directly at his target’s head.
The gun flicked to the left. Dom assumed that meant he was supposed to head back through the French doors. His kept his hands high, then turned to walk back to the house, complying with the gestures of the guard, if not his exact wishes.
The guard started following him, his rifle still pointed at Dom’s back.
Dom took a couple steps toward the house and then slowed suddenly but did not stop. He hoped the man would keep walking and actually touch him in the back with the rifle. He had no such luck, but the Venezuelan did say something, and Dom used the sound of the man’s voice to picture the location of both the man and his gun.
Dom spun, his right arm coming up, and he knocked the G3 sideways as a flash and the cacophonous report of a gunshot echoed across the lawn. He launched forward at the man, struck him in the chin, and the Venezuelan tumbled onto the driveway, rolling backward three hundred sixty degrees. Dom leapt for the rifle, but as he did he realized his opponent was lying directly on top of the Beretta pistol in the mud.
Dom lifted the G3 as quickly as possible and pointed it at the Venezuelan, who had just climbed to his knees and wrapped his hands around the Beretta. Dom aimed at the kneeling man’s chest and pulled the trigger.
The G3 went “click” in Dom’s hand.
The Venezuelan’s eyes widened and he quickly lifted the pistol to aim at the American’s face. At a distance of less than fifteen feet, he couldn’t miss.
Dom shut his eyes as the boom of a gunshot echoed off the colonial mansion behind him.
38
DOM OPENED HIS EYES when he heard the thud of a man falling onto his back on the dirt gravel driveway.
The Venezuelan was dead, the Beretta dangling from the trigger finger of his slack right hand.
Dom spun around and looked out at the lawn near the water behind him. Adara Sherman stood with her M16 held high up to her sightline. Her black knit cap hid her blond hair, and she wore a black zip-up raincoat, but her Virginia sweatpants gave her away.
She lowered the gun and approached while Dom felt his knees weaken. It was just now setting in how close he’d come to having his ticket punched by some government gunman in Central America.
Dom fought the urge to fall over, then dropped the empty G3 on the ground, and turned to pick the Beretta out of the dead man’s hand. As he did so, Adara Sherman shined a flashlight on him. “You’re hit!”
Dom looked quickly down at his body, feeling over his chest and arms. “Where?”
“Your back.”
Dom reached behind and rubbed his free hand on his shirt. He breathed out a long sigh. “A bird shit on me.”
“That looks like blood.”
“I think he was eating berries or something.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Dom had the pistol now, and he shoved it into his pants.
Adara scanned her rifle around the back of the house, looking for any more targets. There was no sound, as if everyone inside was dead. She said, “The boat is only a couple hundred yards east. I tied up next to a little beach. There’s a footpath through the trees. Let’s go.”
“I’ve got to go forward, not back.”
Adara was scanning. “Really?”
“The Russians took off in pursuit of Ross. I can’t let them get the scrape and the password.”
“Okay,” she said. “This is your op. Lead the way.”
“We need a vehicle.”
“Over by the kennels there is a truck with a dead guy behind the wheel. It’s running.”
“Good. You grab that and bring it back here. I’m going in the house to get a weapon.”
Adara took off back around the front of the house.
ETHAN ROSS KEPT CHECKING out the back window of the Expedition, but even though dawn had lightened the sky a little, he could see nothing under the thick jungle canopy. The road, while muddy and narrow, was in surprisingly good repair, and as they wound up a series of hills the Expedition’s V8 engine roared with power, giving the three passengers confidence that the attack would soon be far behind them.
Mohammed spoke on his phone, he kept the words hushed, although Ethan doubted anyone in the truck spoke Arabic. Ethan closed his eyes for a moment, trying his best to force himself to pick out some of the words. He was by no means fluent in the language, but had spent some time in the Middle East and learned some words and phrases. He was getting nowhere with Mohammed’s quick, soft conversation.
Suddenly Mohammed began shouting. Ethan thought he was yelling into the phone, but almost immediately he saw that the young Lebanese man was screaming at Leo.
Ethan leaned forward and he understood the reason for Mohammed’s agitation.
Leo’s eyes were closed, his head hung down, and his hands had dropped from the steering wheel into his lap. He was breathing in short wheezes, and he appeared to be unconscious.
“Fuck!” Ethan shouted. “Get the wheel!”
Mohammed dropped his cell phone and grabbed the steering wheel, but he was unable get his foot on the brake across the center console of the vehicle. He looked ahead, steered with his left hand, and passed his G3 rifle to Ethan.
“Take the gun! Push on the brake! Hurry!”
Ethan did as Mohammed instructed, he pushed over half his body through the space between the front seat and jammed the barrel of the rifle between Leo’s legs, and after a few misses he found the foot pedal and pressed down.
The Expedition skidded to a lurching stop in the middle of the dirt road, just before a sharp turn to the right.
Mohammed was able to put the vehicle into park, then he leapt out, moved around to the other side, and opened the door. He yanked the Venezuelan intelligence officer out and let him fall in the mud. Leo groaned as he hit the ground but did not move.
Mohammed climbed behind the wheel. Both Gianna and Ethan knew the man was still alive, but neither said anything to Mohammed about leaving him bleeding to death on a jungle road. They were both more concerned about their own predicament.
Ethan still held the rifle in his hands, and he climbed into the front passenger seat.
Mohammed retrieved his phone and started talking. Again, softly and in Arabic.
Ethan shouted at him, “We can’t stay here! Where are we going? We don’t even know where Leo was taking us. The Americans might be just behind us!”
Mohammed looked to Ethan. “See if there is a map in the glove box.”
Ethan found a weathered map of the entire archipelago in the glove compartment, and hand drawn lines over the island of Bas
timentos indicated the road system. Mohammed took it from Ethan’s hand and began looking it over carefully, using the interior light in the cabin.
“Hurry up,” Ethan shouted, and he looked back over his shoulder, certain the Americans were closing fast.
A FAINT HINT OF SUNRISE in the east glowed as Dom climbed into the driver’s side of a large and very old flatbed farm truck. Adara moved over to the passenger side, and she rested her M16 muzzle down between her legs.
Dom grinded the old gears as he got the vehicle moving, but it became immediately obvious the truck was built to haul big items around the island, not for its ability to chase down other vehicles.
Adara registered his disapproval. “The Maserati dealership was closed. This was the best I could do.”
“The Russians are in a four-wheel-drive Ford SUV. They are going to catch up to Ross.”
Adara reached into her jacket. “I brought the EagleView printout of the island. I’ll see if we can figure out where they are going and find a shortcut.”
Dom had turned pessimistic about their prospect for stopping the Russians from capturing Ross. His plan to grab the American traitor himself was only a distant fantasy now. “A shortcut? This thing won’t float or fly, so there’s not going to be a shortcut.”
“You may be right. But the good news is this road continues on for the next five miles. Then it keeps going to the west, but there is a turnoff that leads to the south. We just have to be close enough to them to see which direction they are going. They can’t be more than a mile and a half ahead.”
“We won’t catch them before the turn. We’ll have to guess which way they went.”
Adara looked closer at the satellite picture. “Hang on a second. There is a levy up ahead. It should be dry and flat and solid enough for this truck. It connects to the road on the other side of some twists and turns. If we take it and don’t get stuck it, we’ll make up some time.”