Rules of War

by Matthew Betley

  “What the hell, man?” Logan heard an angry American male shout ahead of him—can always pick out the sound of American outrage overseas—and he watched as the fleeing man barreled into a young couple out on an evening stroll. Must be nice, he thought, reminded briefly of his beautiful pregnant wife, Sarah, back in Virginia.

  The young woman, a short brunette, was knocked to the planks, and her husband fell against the side of the cargo net. But it was Logan’s quarry, reckless in his haste to escape, who took the brunt of it, bounced off the Americans, spun, and fell to the boards face-first.

  Oh no, Logan thought as he realized what was about to occur and covered the remaining fifteen feet as quickly as possible.

  The blond American regained his footing and moved aggressively, oblivious to the real threat that lay before him.

  You fool, Logan thought, and prepared to act as events escalated.

  His target suddenly spun on his back, the black pistol he’d fired into Santiago’s hotel room aimed upward at the American, a look of savage hatred on his face. The American faltered, the realization of the imminent danger stopping him in his tracks like an invisible wall. The Venezuelan, a man in his midthirties with a spiderweb scar on his right cheek and jet-black hair, smiled at the man’s fear and moved his finger from the trigger guard to the trigger. But then he saw the moving shape of fury that was Logan West, and he hesitated—just long enough—before deciding to shift the weapon to his pursuer.

  Logan launched himself at the man’s arm, dove on top of him, and pushed the pistol with both hands up and away from the young couple. He braced himself for the shot, a loud crack that temporarily stunned both men by the proximity of the gun to their heads.

  The report echoed off the rocks, a warning to all who heard it that something out of the norm was unfolding on the island resort.

  His ears ringing and muffled from the noise, Logan pressed his weight on top of the Venezuelan and struck him in the jaw with his right elbow, both hands securely holding the pistol. He spun left so that his back was on top of the man’s chest, and pulled upward with both hands. The gun broke free of its owner’s grasp, and Logan rolled to his right, intent on subduing the suspect at gunpoint.

  The Venezuelan had his own plan, and he lashed out with a roundhouse kick that struck Logan’s wrists perfectly, and the gun clattered to the wooden walkway. It slid through a gap in the cargo net and fell into the lagoon below with a barely audible splash. Great. Now I have to do this the hard way, Logan thought, and stepped toward the man, who rolled backward and on to his feet before Logan could grab him.

  “Okay, asshole. You asked for it,” Logan said, and attacked, not caring if the man understood English or not.

  * * *

  Cole found himself under a lamppost on a small, circular island near several cabanas that sat along the southwest side of the large, irregular-shaped pool on the west side of the Beach Towers, an affordable alternative to the high-end Royal Towers. The pool had a sandy beach on its north end that merged with the actual beach that descended into the clear blue waters of the Caribbean.

  Dozens of vacationers lounged around in recliners, drinks on tables next to them. The party never stops here. Where the hell did you go?

  He turned his head slowly, eyes absorbing every feature of the nighttime scene, trying to detect anything that seemed out of place. He has to be hiding here. There’s no way he got away that fast.

  From a few hundred yards away on the other side of the new additional tower adjacent to the beach, he heard the shot that Logan had just experienced at close range. He felt the pool admirers turn their heads as one, dismissing it. A gunshot at a resort like Atlantis was so out of place that even those who knew what one sounded like might mentally deny the reality. But Cole knew better. Plus, I just killed a man.

  He decided to move closer to the Beach Towers, but he only made it two steps before he heard the rustle of movement from his right. He spun instinctively and brought his forearms up to protect himself, which was the only thing that saved his life.

  He felt the blade slice past his right forearm, a faint pressure from the contact, and he thought he’d dodged the blade in time, even as he wrapped his left arm up and around the attacker’s arm, securing it.

  Thus, he was surprised when he heard the blood dripping to the stone patio below, and then the pain—and accompanying anger—hit him in the arm.

  As a world-class expert in Krav Maga and someone who’d fought two evil, ruthless, armed attackers in a boxing ring in Sudan, killing both with a machete, Cole Matthews was outraged that he’d been cut by a blade. Thanks, Logan. I’m blaming you, he thought, even though he knew it wasn’t his friend’s fault.

  Instead, he focused his anger on his attacker, intent on disarming him as quickly as possible. He raised his flat left hand up and placed it at the base of the attacker’s wrist, and he slammed his right hand against the back of the man’s fist. The sudden force bent the man’s wrist, braced against Cole’s left hand. The attacker’s fingers uncurled, and the knife flew from his grasp, tumbling end-over-end until it skittered across the stone and over the edge, disappearing into the clear water of the pool.

  Now, it’s my turn, Cole thought, and smashed his left elbow up into the attacker’s face, which he still hadn’t seen. He was rewarded with a crunch as his elbow connected squarely with the man’s nose. As he turned into the unarmed man, he felt himself smile briefly, satisfied at the initial damage he’d done as blood flowed down the man’s face.

  Cole faced the Venezuelan and was greeted by the image of an angry, experienced fighter who ignored the blood pouring out of his nose and mouth. Rather than put his hands to his face—the typical reaction when struck in the nose—the pale-skinned Venezuelan with thick brown hair cut to less than half an inch over his whole head counterattacked.

  He swung his leg up in a short roundhouse kick that surprised Cole and struck him in the upper thigh. Cole ignored the pain and delivered a powerful front kick that landed right below the man’s sternum, pushing through his target several inches. The man bent slightly at the waist, and Cole planted his front foot on the ground and transitioned into a spinning side-kick. The blow landed on the Venezuelan’s sternum, and he was driven backward against a lounge chair. He flailed like a high-wire artist on the verge of plummeting to his death and fell backward over the chair.

  Cole pressed the attack as the pain in his right forearm fueled him forward. He kicked the lounge chair backward, and the edge struck the Venezuelan in his left side. He staggered to his feet, and Cole Matthews, usually a pragmatic and deadly fighter, could not resist the sudden opportunity to act with a flair for the dramatic.

  He leapt onto the lounge chair, careful to keep his left foot turned sideways to avoid sliding between the rubber slats, and jumped into the air, hurtling at his enemy. He cocked his right fist back halfway, and as he reached the dazed man, he struck him on the left side of his face.

  The man fell backward and tumbled into the water over the large misshapen coral rocks that served as the edge of the pool.

  The water was shallow, and the wounded combatant tried to raise himself laboriously to his hands and knees.

  Cole jumped into the water, aware they were in a small section of the pool that wrapped around the island of cabanas and lounge chairs. Without hesitation, he dropped a knee on to the man’s back and submerged him completely. Rather than give him a moment to come up for air, Cole slithered on top of him, put him in a chokehold, and kept him just under the surface.

  Cole felt the panic rise up in his captive, but he felt no sympathy. Shouldn’t have tried to come at us. This is all on you.

  He pushed the man’s arm, which was trying to reach in desperation for Cole’s face, away, and moments later, the man stopped fighting, fading into unconsciousness. Cole pulled the man up, at which point the Venezuelan gagged a mouthful of pool water and coughed uncontrollably.

  Cole stood and dragged him through the water to the ent
rance that sloped into the pool from the island. “You speak English?” Cole asked.

  The man nodded, too exhausted to answer.

  “Good,” Cole replied, stopped dragging him by the collar, and leaned down into his face. “Here’s the deal, if you make any kind of sudden move, I’m going to break your neck, and there won’t be a goddamned thing you can do to stop me. Do you understand?”

  “Understand,” was all the Venezuelan had the energy to mutter.

  “Good,” Cole said, when his foot brushed up against something in the pool. My lucky day, he thought, and reached down into the water. His arm emerged holding the dark blade with which he’d been cut.

  He laughed, a short abrupt sound. “Finders, keepers,” he said, holding the knife in his left hand. “Change in plans. You make a move, and I’ll stab you in the throat with your own knife. Now get up and move, slowly. I’m tired of this pool. I didn’t wear my bathing suit.”

  * * *

  Logan struck the spiderweb-scarred man with a short jab, which glanced off his jaw as the Venezuelan turned his head left to diminish the impact. But rather than let his opponent counter, Logan instantly followed up the jab with a short right hook that landed on the left side of his face. His head was whipped around to the right, the blow dazing him momentarily.

  Logan felt the steady thump-thump-thump as the couple he had saved fled back up the bridge, eager to escape the two men locked in combat.

  Not much longer before security shows up. Logan was certain the confrontation had been captured on the camera system that constantly monitored the resort. He’d seen unarmed guards patrol at seemingly random locations and times, and he figured that they were ordered to maintain a low profile so as not to upset the guests. But he also knew that there had to be security protocols for an active shooter or terrorist attack, given the increased frequency with which the global jihad had conducted attacks in the past few years. Logan just hoped that he had enough time to end the confrontation before security arrived: he had one call to make, or else we’re all screwed.

  Logan assaulted the man with a body blow to his left side that dropped him to one knee, within perfect striking distance. He stepped in to deliver a knee to the scarred man but struck thin air. Motherfucker duped me.

  The fighter had somehow adjusted his position, elongating his body to the right and kicking his left leg forward in a sweeping motion. He caught Logan off-guard, and his shin struck Logan’s left ankle, which sent him crashing into the cargo net.

  The Venezuelan realized he was outmatched in hand-to-hand combat, seized the moment, regained his footing, and dashed up the rope bridge in the opposite direction the couple had used.

  Oh no you don’t, Logan thought, and pushed forward on the cargo net, propelling himself backward and spinning at the same time. A moment later, he chased after the Venezuelan.

  While the Venezuelan had a head start, Logan West was fast, world-class runner fast, and he’d proven it in combat time and time again. The fleeing man never had a chance.

  As his combatant reached the edge of the rope bridge, momentarily convinced he was safe, Logan slammed into the running figure and shoved him violently in the upper back. The man lost his footing and tumbled out of control to the ground, rolling end-over-end off the wooden bridge and onto the cement walkway.

  But rather than stay down, the black-haired man tried to stand back up, refusing to succumb to the damage he’d sustained during his fall. He managed to push himself onto his knees, wobbling in the darkening night, staring at Logan with resistance in his eyes.

  No way. This ends now. “I’ll give you an A for effort, but this is over,” Logan snarled, frustrated at the man’s determination and refusal to surrender. He’s a fighter. I’ll give him that.

  Logan stepped in and launched a roundhouse kick that struck the man on the left side of his head. The kick temporarily dazed the Venezuelan, which was unfortunate for him, as he toppled sideways off the walkway.

  Oh no, Logan thought, realizing his tactical mistake a moment too late.

  As the man fell off the side of the walkway, Logan shot out his hand, trying to prevent the inevitable. His fingers extended, but he snatched nothing out of the air but the breeze of the Bahamas.

  The spiderweb-scarred man tumbled down a short embankment of coral rocks and splashed into the dark water of the lagoon below.

  Logan deftly climbed down the rocks to the water’s edge, eager to help the man he’d unintentionally placed in grave danger, recognizing the irony even as he did so.

  Now fully awake and alert from the impact with the water, rather than take the assistance of the man who had bested him in hand-to-hand combat moments ago, the Venezuelan made the worst possible choice he could have: he started swimming away from the rope bridge and across the middle of the lagoon.

  “Stop right now or you’re going to die!” Logan shouted as loudly as he could in an attempt to be heard over the waterfall behind him and the ambient outdoor noise of the resort.

  The man ignored him, pressed on, and increased his pace, as if encouraged by Logan’s words.

  Logan took a step backward up the rocky slope, watched, and waited for the inevitable. I just hope Cole didn’t kill his guy. Otherwise, we’ve hit a literal dead end.

  The swimming man made it halfway across the lagoon when Logan spotted the first fin from one of the great hammerhead sharks that roamed the fenced-off Predator Lagoon. Normally not aggressive to human beings, the great hammerhead preferred to feed on smaller prey, although they were especially fond of stingrays. The problem for the Venezuelan was that it was dusk—the prime hunting time for the great hammerhead. Add to the saltwater mix the blood in the lagoon from his various wounds and the fact that there were three sharks, and the Venezuelan had unwittingly hit the Great Hammerhead Main Course Lottery.

  Two more fins emerged from two other locations in the dark pool, forming the tips of a shrinking invisible pyramid as they closed in on their splashing and kicking prey.

  At the sight of the fin of the first twelve-foot shark less than ten feet away, the man realized too late why Logan had shouted at him to stop. He screamed involuntarily, changed course . . . and swam directly into the path of one of the other sharks.

  Logan imagined the fear the man was experiencing moments before his death, and a shudder ran through him as he recalled a similar swim he’d successfully executed last year in Sudan in the Nile River. The other man in the water hadn’t been so fortunate.

  The Venezuelan, fully panicked, turned one last time, which proved to be the fatal move. The second great hammerhead surged forward, its jaws opening and expanding. The shark bit the man fully on the side of the neck and shoulder, its several rows of teeth sinking into the man’s soft flesh as its broad head covered him like a slippery shroud.

  There it is, Logan thought, hearing the shriek he knew would come. He understood that some men deserved this kind of death, but he wasn’t sure about the man he’d fought. Still, it was a brutal and fatal business in which he and his friends were engaged, and his opponent had just learned that in the most Darwinian of ways. Only the strong survive.

  Blood surged across the top of the water and formed a black slick that glistened sinisterly in the dusk. The other two sharks attacked and seized the struggling man’s upper right leg and lower forearm.

  Logan watched as the great hammerhead with the man’s neck in his mouth adjusted his bite, creating a new set of punctures that hurried the man’s death, sending him mercifully into unconsciousness as the other two sharks joined the feeding frenzy.

  Logan heard two horrified tourists begin to scream from the side of the lagoon along one of the stone pathways. That’s my cue, he thought, and started walking west toward the central part of the resort. He pulled out his iPhone, hit the contact list, found the one he needed, and pressed it. Come on. Come on. Come on.

  “Was that you with the shot?” Cole answered on the other end. “I’ve got my guy. Where do you want me to tak
e him? We might not make it to the room, depending on how quickly security reacts.”

  “My guy is gone,” Logan said. “He resisted, tried to kill me, and ended up in the lagoon. Needless to say, he couldn’t outswim the sharks.”

  “Christ,” Cole replied. “But you’re okay? No one else is hurt?”

  “I’m good. Tell your new friend that if he resists, what happened to his partner will seem like a life coaching lesson compared to what I’m willing to do to him. Try for the room. I’m calling the embassy to get us out of this mess. We should have some private time with our friend before the cavalry arrives.”

  “Got it. See you up there. I’ll call you if we get stopped,” Cole said, and hung up.

  Logan ended the call on his end, found the second number he needed, and pressed it. The iPhone automatically connected. Seconds later, a man answered in a crisp voice. “Peter Cornell speaking.”

  “It’s Logan West,” Logan said. “I need help.”

  The chief of station for the US Embassy in Nassau had privately hoped he wouldn’t receive this phone call, as he enjoyed the quiet life of a Caribbean station chief. But CIA Director Toomey, his ultimate boss, had provided him with a short list of names and one clear order on behalf of the president, no less: If he calls, do whatever he says and give him whatever he wants. Do you understand?

  As a career covert case officer—although who really is, these days—he understood perfectly. “Tell me where you are and what you need.”

  CHAPTER 6

  East Royal Tower, Room 527