Drone Strike: A Joe Matthews Thriller

by David Austin

  The sound of the flashbang was unmistakable in the confines of the small building and drew the Russian soldiers to the front of the house like moths to a porch light. One man came out of a bathroom with his pistol drawn, but Joe put him down with two shots to the chest. A third press of the trigger sent a round through his forehead, its energy carrying him back into the bathroom. He collapsed on the floor with his upper body draped over the side of the tub.

  Joe gave the command to advance, and the team had just begun to move forward when gunfire erupted from the kitchen, sending the operators scrambling for cover. The open floor plan offered a direct line of sight into the living room, and a Russian soldier taking cover behind the kitchen’s island was using the design to his advantage. Rounds from his AK-74 tore through furniture and gouged divots in the plaster-covered walls, filling the air with dust and bits of drywall.

  They had lost the momentum and were pinned down. Movement from the left caught Joe’s eye, and he saw a second Russian emerge from a hallway and join his teammate in the kitchen. Great! Now we’ve got two AKs behind the island throwing lead our way. The area would be crawling with reinforcements any minute, and Joe knew they needed to get to Tariq then un-ass the area in a hurry.

  He peeked around the corner of a sofa, trying to figure out a way to put the two Alpha men out of commission. Joe kept a sliver of his head exposed as long as he dared, taking in as much information as possible before sliding back out of sight. He took a moment to process what he had seen as the gunfight raged around him. Picturing the image of the kitchen, he saw the island, the pantry, shelves along the walls, counters, a sink…and a back door. That’s it!

  Keying his radio, Joe shared his plan with the team. The guys didn’t seem to think it was a particularly good one and weren’t shy about letting him know it. While he appreciated their feedback, the decision was not up for debate.

  Joe got to his knees, took a couple of deep breaths to steel himself for what was about to happen, then said, “Moving!”

  Chris replied, “Move!” and threw a flashbang into the kitchen while the rest of the team laid down covering fire.

  Joe sprinted for the door and had just crossed the threshold when something hit him between the shoulder blades with the force of a sledgehammer. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and he pitched forward, sliding on his chest like a ballplayer stealing second base. He lay there in the dark for a second trying to catch his breath before realizing he was still in the fatal funnel. The pain in his back was excruciating and his lungs burned for oxygen, but he willed his body to roll to the left, out of the line of fire.

  Joe managed to get on his hands and knees, then raised his body upright into a kneeling position. He sucked in two deep breaths and winced as the expansion of his rib cage aggravated the pain in his back. Fuck! he grimaced, hoping nothing was broken. Once his breathing was back to a semblance of normal, he got to his feet and began making his way around the perimeter of the house in search of the back door.

  He had just turned the corner, thinking about how he was going to make entry, when he crashed headlong into something solid. He fell back on his ass and looked up, finding himself staring at a Russian soldier with a badly broken nose. The guy looked somehow familiar, and he seemed to recognize Joe as well. Then he grinned, showing off a mouthful of broken teeth.

  “You ever been to Brussels?” Joe asked.

  CHAPTER 38

  After the initial flashbang went off and the shooting started, Kalugin sprinted back down the hallway. He grabbed the soldier guarding the door by the arm and shoved him into the room. Pointing to Tariq, he said, “Watch him.”

  He then turned to Anton and directed him to circle around the house, come up behind the attackers, and ambush them through the front door. Having grown bored with torturing the Syrian, Anton was more than eager to get in on the action. He shrugged on his body armor and grabbed his rifle. Ready for battle, he climbed out a window and began his one-man assault. Throwing caution to the wind and not wanting the firefight to end before he had an opportunity to join the fray, Anton sprinted around the back of the house as fast as his thick legs could carry him.

  He turned the corner and smashed into someone. The collision knocked the man onto his backside and sent Anton’s rifle clattering across the packed dirt surface. He looked down at the individual sitting before him, and even in the darkness recognized him immediately.

  In broken English Anton said, “You should have killed me when you had the chance.”

  Joe raised his rifle, “It looks like I have another one right now.”

  Before he could fire, the big Russian stepped forward and slapped the weapon to the side. With thick, meaty hands, he reached down and grabbed Joe by the shoulder straps of his plate carrier. Anton pulled him up to his feet, then reared his head back and brought it down to deliver a crushing head butt.

  Joe saw the move coming and angled his head to the right to protect his face. The rock-hard bone of Anton’s forehead connected with Joe’s left eyebrow, splitting the recently healed wound he had sustained during their previous encounter. Blood flowed down the side of his face and into his eye.

  Knowing it would be difficult for Joe to see an attack coming from his blind side, Anton caught him on the side of the head with a quick right hook. The blow stunned Joe, causing him to lose his balance and stumble back into the wall. Relishing the thought of killing the man who had caused him so much pain and embarrassment, Anton advanced, pinning his quarry against the house. He wrapped his hands around Joe’s throat and began squeezing.

  Joe grabbed Anton’s wrists and attempted to break the hold on his neck. But he was weakened by the blow to the head, and the bastard was as strong as a bear. Joe threw a couple of ineffective punches that only seemed to amuse the Russian before tunnel vision started to set in. His right arm went limp and fell to the side.

  Seeing this as a sign of his imminent victory, Anton’s lips spread into a cruel smile, revealing the teeth Joe had shattered. But the look on his face changed the second he felt the barrel of Joe’s Glock 19 pressing against the side of his head. Now it was Joe’s turn to smile, and his smiling, bloody face was the last thing Anton saw before a pair of jacketed hollow-points passed through his brain.

  Joe performed a tactical reload, swapping the partially spent magazine for a full one before holstering his pistol. Reaching to his right, he grabbed the rifle dangling from its sling, brought it up to the ready, and stepped over Anton’s nearly headless body. He ducked under one of the kitchen windows, taking a quick peek into the house. If the angle was right, he could pop the two Russians in the back of the head and put an end to the standoff. But of course, that didn’t turn out to be the case. Figures, he thought. Between getting shot in the back, and running face-first into Alpha man, why should anything start going his way at this point?

  He continued forward and stopped at the edge of the back door. Since he was by himself, he would be the breacher and the assaulter. Joe reached up and used his sleeve to wipe the blood from his eye before keying his radio. “Cease fire. I’m coming in.” When he heard only the distinct sound of the AKs cracking throughout the front of the house, he turned his back to the door and unleashed a powerful mule-kick. The sole of his boot splintered the door frame, and he spun around in time to see the two Russian soldiers turn toward him with shocked looks on their faces. Two quick double taps from his rifle ended the gunfight.

  Blood continued to stream from the gash above Joe’s left eye, but there was nothing to be done about it now. He entered the kitchen and was joined by the rest of the team as they formed up to resume clearing the house in search of Tariq.

  Giving his dust-covered and bleeding team leader the once over, Chris said, “Told you it was a bad plan.”

  Joe used his sleeve to wipe the fresh blood from his eye. “Really? I thought it worked out rather well.”

  “You may change your mind once you see yourself in the mirror.”

  The team
moved down the hall, clearing rooms as they advanced. So far, they had all been empty. Joe ended up on point and led the way toward the last remaining room. It was at the end of the hall on the right, and he hoped to God Tariq was in there.

  The door was open, so four of the five CIA operators flowed into the bedroom turned interrogation chamber. Mike was in the trail position and stayed in the hall to pull security. Two men stood behind a table facing the business end of four suppressed rifles. The first was Tariq Kabbani. He looked like hell and appeared almost catatonic, his eyes glassy and unfocused. The second was a Russian soldier in desert pattern ACU pants and an olive-green wife-beater undershirt. He had pulled Tariq to his feet and was using the Syrian intelligence officer as a human shield while holding a Makarov pistol to his head.

  The momentary impasse gave the team a chance to assess the scene, and what they saw sickened them. Tariq’s face was badly swollen from the beating, and he cradled his right hand, or what remained of it against his chest. Inch-long sections of Tariq’s fingers were piled next to a blood-covered set of pruning shears on the table separating the CIA operators from the Russian and his hostage. The aroma of charred meat from the use of the blowtorch to cauterize the wound each time a piece of finger was snipped off filled the air.

  Time to end this, Joe thought, as his mind wandered back to a training session at the Farm. They had been working on this exact scenario in the shoot house – what to do when you encounter a bad guy with a gun to the hostage’s head. He heard the voice of one of his instructors, a former SEAL and plank owner, an original member of SEAL Team Six, who spoke from personal experience. “As long as the shithead isn’t pointing his gun at me, I take my time, get a good sight picture, and smoke the motherfucker.”

  The words had no sooner echoed through Joe’s mind when he felt the rifle buck in his shoulder and saw the Russian soldier drop to the floor like a sack of meat. Too weak to support himself, Tariq collapsed on top of the dead man.

  The sound of a vehicle’s engine refocused Tariq’s attention. In a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “It’s the Russian. He went out the window.”

  “We met behind the house,” Joe replied. “He’s dead.”

  “No, the leader. Kalugin. He climbed out just before you entered the room.”

  “John, Kevin, check it out,” Joe ordered.

  The two men pointed their barrels toward the ceiling, then spun and headed for the door. John called, “Coming out!” and waited for Mike to respond, “Come out!” before exiting the room. He and Kevin sprinted down the hall and turned right, crossing through the living room where they had been pinned down. Kevin was the first to reach the front door just as one of the BMWs was pulling away from the house. Dirt and gravel shot from under the tires, and the SUV fishtailed as the driver accelerated toward the gate.

  Kevin stepped through the door with John on his heels. In unison they shouldered their rifles and began pumping rounds into the SUV. Kalugin ducked low as the back window spiderwebbed before shattering into hundreds of tiny pieces. Paint chips flew as bullets punched holes in the tailgate and destroyed the red brake lights, but the Russian managed to maintain control of the BMW. The men lost sight of the SUV as it passed through the gate and turned right.

  John said, “Sorry, boss. He got away. We’d better get the hell outta here before he comes back with a bunch of friends.”

  Joe couldn’t agree more. They had overstayed their welcome and needed to move. He called Mike into the room and said, “Do me a favor and give Chris a hand with Tariq. It’s time to go.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Located in the southwestern region of Germany near the border with France, the U.S. Army’s Landstuhl Regional Medical Center is the first stop in the treatment process for injured military and diplomatic personnel operating in Iraq, Afghanistan, and throughout Africa. As the preeminent facility outside the U.S. for treating combat-related wounds, it was where the CIA had taken Tariq for medical care after his rescue and evacuation from Syria.

  Joe strode down the hallway toward the room where two military policemen were posted outside the door. He presented his temporary ID to the female sergeant, and after a thorough inspection of his credential, she allowed him to enter.

  Tariq looked like hell. A catheter was taped to the top of his left hand and another in the crook of his right elbow, pumped a steady stream of fluids, antibiotics, and pain meds into his system. His right hand was so heavily bandaged it resembled a club, and his face, covered in cuts and nasty multicolor bruises, was still swollen to the size of a basketball.

  The Syrian intelligence officer was awake, staring blankly at a news program on the wall-mounted TV across the room. But from the look in his eyes, Joe could tell he wasn’t paying attention to the talking heads on the screen. He was either out of it from the pain medication or his mind was a million miles away, thinking about something else. And who could blame him after what the Russians had put him through? Tariq had probably resigned himself to the fact that he was going to die a slow, excruciating death in the bleak bedroom of that dingy house south of the airport. But now, twenty-four hours after being freed, he was in a state-of-the-art medical facility, being cared for by some of the most selfless medical professionals in the business. Yeah, Joe thought. That could take some time to wrap your head around.

  Noticing the movement, Tariq turned his head to see who had entered the room. A weak smile spread across his battered face at the sight of the man who’d led the mission to rescue him. “Hello, my friend. It’s good to see you.”

  “How’s the hand?”

  Tariq’s bandaged right arm was resting on his chest. “Not too bad as long as they keep the pain meds flowing.” Changing the subject, he asked, “And what of your men? Were any of them wounded during my rescue?”

  Joe appreciated Tariq’s concern for the guys who had put it on the line for him. “Everyone’s fine. We managed to get a couple of rooms at the bachelors officers’ quarters and they’re catching up on some sleep.”

  Tariq was visibly relieved that no one had been injured on his behalf. Thankful for the good fortune, he asked, “And how about you? I heard you had a rougher time of it?”

  “I caught a round in the back, but my trauma plate did its job. My ribs are a little tender but that’s about it.”

  With his good hand Tariq pointed toward Joe’s eyebrow, “And what of that?”

  Joe winced as he reached up and touched the fresh stitches. The entire left side of his face was sore, swollen, and bruised. “Oh. That. I ran into an old acquaintance at the house. He caught me by surprise but won’t be doing that again anytime soon.”

  Tariq understood his meaning, then turned serious, “Please tell me you got Kalugin in the assault.”

  Joe’s shoulders drooped and the disappointment was evident in his voice. “I’m sorry, Tariq. He managed to get to one of the vehicles and was heading for the gate by the time the guys made it to the front door. They got some rounds into the SUV but not enough to disable it. And we couldn’t pursue him because we needed to evac before he came back with reinforcements.”

  Tariq was disappointed as well, but it was a minor price to pay for being saved from certain death. “Maybe another time, then.”

  The door opened and their conversation was interrupted as a nurse came in to check Tariq’s vitals. With the chart updated, she left the room, moving on to do the same for the next patient on her list.

  Joe had come to check on Tariq’s condition out of genuine concern for the man. But he was also there at the behest of the powers-that-be at Langley. “I’m assuming you had an exit strategy for your family in case you had to leave Syria in a hurry?”

  Tariq went on to explain the plan, describing in detail the timeline, the route to Europe, and their communication protocol. When he finished, he reached out his left hand. “May I use your phone to contact her?”

  Retrieving the device from his pocket, Joe tapped his eight-digit pin on the lock screen and
placed it in Tariq’s outstretched hand. “Would you like me to step outside?

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said, dialing the number of his wife’s burner phone from memory. She answered on the first ring, and the combination of hearing his wife’s voice and the knowledge that their plan had worked sent tears streaming down his face. Ten minutes later, he disconnected the call and handed the phone back to Joe.

  “Good news?”

  “Indeed. They were able to escape the country and are here in Europe as planned.” Tariq pushed himself up with his good hand and attempted to swing his legs out of bed.

  Joe stepped forward and grasped Tariq by the shoulders. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  He struggled against Joe’s strength for a moment before collapsing back against the pillows. “I must go to them, Joe. My wife and son need me. She thinks they got away clean, but elements of my government may have been tracking her. I don’t have to tell you what they’ll do if she’s captured.”

  Tariq made another attempt to get out of bed, but once again, Joe’s strong hands held him in place. Realizing his efforts were futile, he quit struggling. Exhausted, he reached up and used the sleeve of his hospital gown to wipe away the beads of sweat that had formed across his forehead.

  The nurse who had been in earlier to check his vitals burst into the room as Tariq’s elevated heartrate and blood pressure registered on her monitor. Joe assured her Tariq was fine, and after giving him the once-over, she left the room to resume her rounds.

  When the door closed and their privacy was restored, Joe picked up the conversation where they had left off. “Look, you’re in no condition to get up and go to the john, much less traipse around Europe in search of your family. And if they are in danger, what then? You can’t even get out of bed without help.”

  The acceptance of his reality registered in Tariq’s eyes, so Joe pushed ahead, “Let me take care of their extraction. Where are they?”