CHAPTER 21
Sirens wailed nearby. Tires screeched. People were shouting unintelligible commands that echoed beyond the warehouse walls.
Harwood held Monisha’s body close to him with his left arm as he kept his pistol in his right hand, ready to defend himself in case Ramsey Xanadu returned.
Monisha’s body was lying across his lap. Her breathing was labored. At least she was still alive, for the moment. The warehouse was a large space, seemingly vacant, and fifty yards wide in each direction. Old, rusty forklifts and motorized dollies for moving large amounts of supplies known as bulk or break bulk hibernated in the corner, dormant. This warehouse had at one time housed an operation that serviced a portion of the Port of Savannah.
In addition to the forklifts, there were dozens of new four-foot concrete culvert pipes, perhaps part of a stalled water or sewer project. He carefully laid Monisha’s body in one ten-foot-long section. Its thick concrete would provide ample protection for Monisha in the event of a firefight. He positioned the third IV on the top lip of the pipe, allowing gravity to feed the essential fluids into her body. He zipped his ruck tight and had started to move to another four-foot-high pipe when Monisha spoke.
“Wha’ we gonna do, Reaper?” Monisha whispered. He looked down. Her eyes had opened, briefly, and then shut again.
“We’re going to be okay, Monisha. Just hang in there. Be strong for me, okay? I made a promise to you and I’m keeping it.”
“Okay,” she muttered.
He checked her wound again. The bleeding had slowed. His tourniquet and bandages were working. The key was finding her a hospital, soon. He loosened the tourniquet to allow for circulation. The femoral artery had not been severed as best he could tell.
Against the backdrop of the approaching sirens, there was a sudden whistling sound that Harwood—still on one knee tending to Monisha—identified a second too late. It was the sound of nylon rope moving past a metal snap link at a high rate of speed. Someone had been in the rafters stalking him. Harwood pulled his knife from his pocket and flipped open the blade as the man landed on the concrete floor five feet from him, nylon rope smoking in the carabiner. The man was wearing a ski mask with holes for the eyes and mouth. The attacker immediately landed a roundhouse kick to Harwood’s head. It was a square impact from a solid wooden heel, the kind they made in Eastern European and former Soviet-bloc countries.
Like Chechnya.
He raised his arms in self-defense, as he saw the man spin again, this time wheeling a left hook into his rib cage, which Harwood partially blocked. He sliced with the knife, narrowly missing the man’s neck. The right-handed cross exposed his right side, which the attacker exploited with a steel-toed-boot kick, which sent his knife skidding. He powered through the pain and got inside his attacker, landed four solid punches to the man’s face before another boot landed in his chest. He didn’t fall, just backed up a few steps, preparing for the next flurry. His assailant stepped back, flashed white teeth through the ski-mask mouth hole, and said, “Good to see you, Reaper.”
A weapon fired. A slug impacted his head.
Harwood’s body slid down Monisha’s concrete pipe before the world went black.
* * *
“Reaper,” a voice called out. Harwood instinctively tugged at his hands, going for his knife, but someone had bound his wrists with the same rope used to rappel from the rafters.
“Reaper, wake up,” the voice called out again. He recognized the inflection and the cadence of the words. They were the same as those of the man from the elevator. You do the same, Reaper.
His attacker was Basayev!
All this time he imagined a long-distance duel with state-of-the-art weaponry between himself and his archrival, the Chechen. Instead, he had been tag-teamed. Close fight, deep fight. Hand-to-hand combat with a shooter looking over his shoulder. It violated Harwood’s sense of propriety. A duel had certain rules and expectations, and while Harwood was a good insurgent himself, he had come to expect a showdown with the Chechen in a more … formal manner, he guessed.
This was a different warehouse. The smells of fried meat and overheated motors permeated the air. The dimensions of the building were more confined. Someone had strapped him to a conveyor of some type, bound his hands and legs. He could marginally turn his head. Monisha was lying on the dusty concrete floor about ten meters away. She was covered in a painter’s tarp, her head tilted away.
“Monisha. Is she okay?”
Basayev removed the ski mask. “I changed her bandages. Your medical field craft is decent, Reaper, but you need some retraining. I’m professionally embarrassed,” Basayev said.
“Where are we?” Harwood asked.
“Good question. You are on a conveyor belt in an old hog-processing plant. Old but still functional. You know what happens when your agriculture bureaucrats determine a hog or its pork to be diseased?”
Basayev paused as if he expected Harwood to answer and then continued when Harwood stared daggers at him.
“They put the pigs on this conveyor belt, which feeds into that incinerator.”
Harwood hunched up as if he was doing a crunch. About twenty meters away was a spinning spiral blade inside a giant cylindrical tube that looked like a giant jet engine. Harwood was strapped to a metal grate that sat atop a black, rubberized conveyor belt that, when powered, would propel him into the cylinder.
“The hog or pork is fed into the tube, which slowly turns and burns the flesh and bones until only ash is deposited out of the other side. Apparently, your port at Savannah processes some pigs. Are you a pig, Reaper? Or will you tell me what you know?”
Basayev was a master torture artist. The absence of sirens meant that the police were at the site where Xanadu had used miniguns to destroy Lanny’s Mustang and wound Monisha. The windowless slaughterhouse was dimly lit by the sun seeping through the seams of the corrugated metal walls.
“So, my questions,” Basayev started. He flipped the switch on the incinerator and walked toward Harwood, kneeling. Heat washed over his body. “The girl. A bit young for you, don’t you think, Reaper?”
“I was protecting her. Nothing else. Sort of like you tried to do with Nina, but failed.”
Basayev ran a rough-hewn hand over his brown/blond locks, smoothing them back into place. He wore a tight-fitting black athletic shirt with black jeans and tan leather chukkas that had landed the concussive blow to Harwood’s head. Basayev spun and landed a roundhouse kick into Harwood’s ribs. Harwood grimaced at the sharp pain. Basayev twisted his own neck, cracking it several times.
“Don’t mention Nina’s name unless you’re telling me where she is, Reaper. Understand?”
Spitting up blood, Harwood said, “I had nothing to do with any of that, but I know who does. I’ve figured it out.”
“You really think you’re in a position to discuss this with me, Harwood?” Basayev said. “You know very little.” He held up a small silicon square in front of Harwood’s face. “This is a nonlethal beanbag projectile. Let me introduce you to the person who fired it at you.”
Basayev stepped back and waved his hand forward, saying, “Abrek. He’s all yours. The man who left you for dead on the battlefield.”
Harwood was unprepared to hear Samuelson’s voice, which assaulted him harder than the beanbag his former spotter must have fired.
“Reaper, it’s me. Abrek.”
He tried to turn his head and catch a glimpse, but he felt a hand ratchet his head downward onto the metal grate that ferried pig flesh into the cooker. Pain ricocheted through his scalp. The serrated steel edges bit into his scalp.
“Samuelson?” He coughed. “Sammie, where did you go when you dropped me off the other day?” The other day? Harwood couldn’t remember what day it was.
Samuelson leaned down in front of him, eye-to-eye, hands on the metal grate that could convey him to his death. He was wearing the same stained trucker hat, flannel shirt, jeans, and boots. His hair was wavy and long, almost down to his sho
ulders and longer on one side than the other. Scars pocked his face beneath the scraggly beard, probably cuts from the mortar shrapnel and rocks that had impacted so closely. His face was pinched in a hateful sneer.
“It’s Abrek, to you, Reaper. I left you for maybe a day. Even grabbed your shit from your room, buddy. You? You left me for dead on the battlefield. But guess what? Khasan saved me after the search-and-rescue guys plucked your precious ass out of the rock pile. They never bothered looking fifty meters away for me. Whatever happened to the Ranger creed ‘Never leave a fallen comrade’?” Samuelson’s voice was a knife opening old wounds that had been healing, like slicing fresh stitches with a razor.
Harwood leaned his head against the grate and stared at the ceiling, a mixture of crisscrossing metal rafters and dilapidated catwalks. He turned his head and looked at Monisha. Coiled on the floor next to her was some leftover rope. Looking back at Samuelson, Harwood saw hesitation in the eyes, as if he was remembering something. How badly had the Chechen brainwashed Samuelson? he wondered. He visualized them back in Afghanistan taking aim at the Chechen, noticing the snatch operation, then seeing the sign—Bring her back! Trade?—and then hearing the mortars. After that the next thing he recalled was Command Sergeant Major Murdoch looking at him as he woke up in the Kandahar operating base intensive-care unit.
“I was knocked out, Sammie. You know that,” Harwood said.
“I don’t know jack shit, buddy. Seems we both had some badass brain injuries. Problem is, you had first-class care. Me? I had our friend, Khasan, who did his best.”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Harwood said.
“Did you ever give a shit about me, Harwood? Or was it all about being the Reaper?” Samuelson said. “Because I’m thinking it was fame and fortune, my friend. The cover of Rolling Stone magazine? Seriously? Meanwhile, I’m left to die?”
“Xanadu from Milk ’Em fired those mortars on us,” Harwood said, pushing back. “And they’re running a drug- and sex-trafficking ring on their private flights from Afghanistan back to Hunter Army Airfield here in Savannah. Drugs are going to kids on the military bases and the women disappear.”
“Really?” Basayev interrupted. “And you’re not involved?” Basayev’s skepticism was evident in his tone.
“I’m not involved. I’ve had the cops, everyone breathing down my neck, chasing me. I had to start figuring things out on my own. Even ditched my phone,” Harwood said. Then he looked again at Monisha. “And then I got some help from a friend.”
Basayev saw the glance and something registered with the Chechen, who said, “It was close. Lucky the femoral artery wasn’t cut. She’s quite special to you, isn’t she, Reaper?”
Basayev wasn’t compassionate; rather, Monisha was a card he could play. And Samuelson? Was he corrupted beyond repair by the Chechen? Samuelson’s angst was understandable. Had the situation been reversed, Harwood would have been angry. Pissed off with his Ranger buddy, the Rangers, the search-and-rescue team, the army, the Defense Department, everyone whose responsibility it was to bring him home.
The muzzle of a weapon touched his head.
“Tell me about this girl, Reaper.” Basayev nodded at Monisha.
“Xanadu shot her like he tried to kill Sammie and me in Kandahar that day. She was just a kid who I saved from being raped and murdered.”
Basayev’s face softened fractionally. “The two rednecks being reported as killed near Macon? That was you?”
“That was me, but that’s all I’ve done,” Harwood said. “Now tell me about Sammie.”
“I’m r-right here, Reaper.” No retort that he was Abrek? Something was getting to him.
“I know. I want to hear it from Basayev.”
“I’ll play your game for a minute, Reaper. I found him after you ran like a scared goat onto the helicopter. Abrek was barely alive. Your cowardice surprised me, but we all have our priorities.”
“You son of a bitch. I didn’t jump on any helo. Sammie, he’s lying. And your name isn’t Abrek. He’s brainwashed you!”
“I hear ya b-bud. Must have been h-hell hooking up with Jackie Colt, g-getting laid every night. Fine piece of ass like that, must have been grueling j-just keeping up. Book on her is she’s a certified nympho, like card-carrying type. Have to be to hook up with a s-snake like you,” Samuelson said.
“I know what you’re doing, Sammie. Don’t let Basayev trick you,” Harwood said. “I didn’t abandon you.”
Basayev interrupted.
“Let’s discuss these excellent kills you’ve made, Reaper. First, how did you get your rifle back? Because I had secured it from the mortar attack scene where I found Samuelson and had it until about a week ago. Did you steal it? Have a replica? Or are you some kind of magician?”
“Like I said, I didn’t kill anyone except the two men who were going to rape and kill her,” Harwood said, motioning his chin toward Monisha.
“If you didn’t kill the generals and the others—and trust me, I am glad that every one of them is dead—then who did?” Basayev asked.
“I figured it was you,” Harwood said. “What would be my motive?”
“I can think of three off the top of my head, Reaper. First, Milk ’Em fired those mortars at you and you know that. Everyone who has been killed has a connection to Milk ’Em. Revenge is always the best motive. Then of course I’ve done some hacking into your bank account. Seems you’ve come into some money. After every kill, you receive a one-hundred-thousand-dollar deposit. That’s what they call circumstantial evidence, I believe. And I guess if the first two don’t work, a good prosecutor could always argue that you’ve lost your mind: the angry-veteran prosecution. Happens more than people like to think about.”
“I don’t know anything about the money,” Harwood said. If Basayev could hack into his bank account he could also put the money in there to implicate him. “And yeah I’m pissed at Milk ’Em, but I’m specifically pissed at Xanadu. He’s the one who was on the battlefield and who I suspect is leading the snatch teams of the missing women.”
“Funny. He said the same thing about you. You Americans. Who can I trust?”
“No. It wasn’t me. My mission was to kill you and prevent the harvest of poppy.”
Basayev stepped back, face blank. “Seems you failed on both counts there.”
Samuelson’s eyes darted between him and Basayev. Harwood used the indecision as leverage. “And what do you care, Basayev? You’re just a combat prostitute. A mercenary. You pimp yourself out to anyone who pays you.”
Basayev sneered. “What do you care?”
Harwood managed a chuckle. “Sammie and I have this saying. ‘Bros before hos.’ Isn’t that right, Sammie? Basayev’s nothing but a ho. Sells his services to the highest bidder. No loyalty to anyone. He’s using you, bro.”
Samuelson’s eyes locked on to Harwood’s. They flickered with recognition. Something registered. Maybe it was their last moments together in the sniper hide position.
Samuelson stepped in front of Basayev and kneeled in front of Harwood, who could smell Samuelson’s stale breath.
“Listen to me, V-Vick, Khasan is pissed because he thinks you’ve kidnapped his wife. And I’m p-pissed because he is the one who saved me on the battlefield. We need to know where Nina is.”
There was a change in the inflection of Samuelson’s voice, a softened undertone, the sharp edges of anger perhaps dulled by a memory of their code. Harwood let the moment take hold, then said, “How many ways can I say it? I’ve not killed those people. And I’ve certainly not seen Nina Moreau.”
Basayev’s head snapped toward him. “You know her last name? You’ve got a target folder on her!”
“I’ve not seen her. I swear,” Harwood said. Though, with his faltering memory, he couldn’t be sure. He recalled seeing the flash of a face that looked like the picture sent by the sergeant major. When? Running in Forsyth Park?
“What?” Basayev asked. He must have seen the look on Harwood’s face.
>
“Nothing,” Harwood said. “I mean. Maybe it’s something.”
“You’ve got her and you’ve been hunting me, Reaper. Now tell me. Where is she?”
“Khasan, I think he’s trying to say he’s seen her, but I don’t believe he’s got her. I passed him running and saw him try to remember me. I think he’s being legit.”
Maybe good cop/bad cop, or was that the second crack in the outer shell of Basayev’s indoctrination of Samuelson? Whether Samuelson truly felt allegiance to Basayev remained unclear. Regardless, the outcome was the same. Samuelson was aligned, at least in purpose, with Basayev. Still, he decided to pursue the opening.
“And what is with this ‘we’ bullshit, Sammie? Since when did you become a traitor?”
“I’m not a traitor, Vick. He saved me. I owe him for that,” Samuelson said. Vick. Good.
“That doesn’t make me your enemy,” Harwood said.
“Either tell me where Nina is or you’ll soon be ashes, Reaper,” Basayev said. The Chechen looked at the flaming cylinder as it spun. All Basayev needed to do was press the button that started the conveyor belt and he was toast.
“I can help you find Nina.”
The Chechen was silent.
Samuelson was watching Basayev. Harwood believed he had created a fissure in the Stockholm syndrome induced by Basayev’s manipulations. He couldn’t imagine what the last three months had been like for Samuelson. Primitive care and treatment in one of Afghanistan’s poorest provinces, Helmand. The options he faced were daunting. Either Samuelson could try to recover from his wounds in the care of their archrival, who had killed fellow Rangers, or he could try to escape and evade through enemy territory, while severely incapacitated. There was no choice for Samuelson then. The only path forward now was to recognize the psychological connection between Samuelson and Basayev, continue to gingerly pry at that, and then realign Samuelson with him before Basayev fed him to the incinerator.
“Here’s the deal,” Harwood said to his two captors. “Let me go. I’ll call the police and EMS about Monisha once we’re all clear from here. She deserves that. Then I’ll find Nina.”
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