by David Wood
For more than a decade, he had consoled himself with the belief that he was doing a greater good. He had killed—that was his job, after all, his duty—and taken comfort in the fact that every single target deserved that fate. But because nature abhorred a vacuum, the war against evildoers could never be won.
One of his civilian combatives instructors—a crusty former SEAL who had lost an eye in the line of duty and seemed always to be weeping from around his ocular prosthetic implant—had given the class a pep talk one day, praising them all for their dedication and sacrifice, and then, oblivious to the storm gathering in the sky above their outdoor fighting pit, had launched into a soliloquy about how defending the free world was like playing Whack-a-Mole at the arcade. You couldn’t ever really win, but when the mole popped his head up, someone had to be ready to whack him.
His own words to Müller haunted him. When you’re a hammer, every problem looks like a nail. Müller had turned those words against him. We are hammers. And you belong with us.
What had he done? Whack, whack, whack. What difference had it made? None at all. Another mole had popped up right away, and here he was, hammer at the ready.
After his parents’ funeral, he had told Maxie that he wanted out, but he had let himself get sucked back in. One last mission.
Would Zara still be alive if I had said no?
He’d been cruising on autopilot since her death, since Telesh had taken the Blood Flag. He had effortlessly slipped back into the comfortable groove of death-dealing.
Here was a nail to pound... A mole to whack. And really, what other solution was there? Telesh had to be stopped. The Blutfahne had to be destroyed.
And after that?
No, he told himself. No more Whack-a-mole. No more hammer time. I’m done.
After this.
One more last mission.
Once the triggers were pulled, there was no turning back. The assault had begun.
Half the platoon, divided into two elements led by Bones and Willis respectively, moved up to secure the bodies while the rest provided overwatch. Maddock watched the front door through the scope of his rifle, ready to pull the trigger if someone stepped out to investigate the disturbances, but no one did.
When the forward elements were in place, Maddock gave the signal for half of the remaining force to move up to the house, and advanced with them. Willis stationed his element on the front porch. At the ‘go’ signal, they would breach and enter the house. Bones’ group meanwhile had climbed up onto the roof over the porch—they would go in through one of the upstairs windows. A third element would go in through the kitchen window, while the remaining SEALs covered the rear door from the woods.
Maddock joined the four-man stack at the front door and waited for Bones to get in position. He didn’t have to wait long.
Bones voice sounded in his earpiece. “Bravo is set.”
Maddock keyed his mic. “Roger. We go in five... Four... Three....”
He tensed, a coiled snake ready to strike.
“One... Go! Go! Go!”
There was a loud crack as the platoon’s breacher kicked in the front door, and in the same instant, the almost musical sound of glass shattering. Maddock felt the man ahead of him shift forward, and followed close behind.
They did not charge so much as flow into the house. They had rehearsed this assault countless times in live fire training exercises. Each man knew exactly what to do, and when. As Maddock was about to go through the door, he heard two dulled reports in quick succession. One of the men had identified and neutralized a target with a controlled pair of shots from his rifle. Several more silenced shots followed, and then came the almost deafening roar of an unsuppressed rifle letting off a fully automatic burst. Another burst followed a moment later.
Maddock swung left and right, searching for any targets, but saw only his own men. The first floor had already been cleared. The shooting was coming from the second floor.
“Alpha!” he shouted. “With me. Upstairs.”
He wheeled in the direction of the two-level U-shaped staircase, located at the rear of the spacious front room and approached it with his rifle at the high-ready. Willis caught up to him, and as they began ascending, turned so they were almost back to back. Backing up the steps carefully, he kept his weapon aimed high to cover the open landing above.
Maddock keyed his mic. “Bones, we’re coming to you. What’s the situation?”
He heard someone break squelch to initiate transmission, but before a single word could be spoken, another strident burst of automatic rifle fire intruded. When it fell silent a moment later, the radio squawked again and Bones spoke.
“We cleared three rooms on the west side, but then some asshat with an AK showed up.” He was practically shouting into the mic, and because he was only about twenty feet away, Maddock heard his actual voice a millisecond before it came over the radio net, which created a weird doubling effect. “He’s behind the door on the—”
The transmission was cut off by another short burst.
“Damn it,” Bones continued. “He’s not coming out. Just sprayin’ and prayin’.”
“Roger,” Maddock sent back. “We’re coming up. Lift fire and fall back. We’ll try to draw him out.”
“Got it,” Bones replied. “Falling back.”
When they reached the middle landing and made the turn, Willis swung around to face forward, aiming high while Maddock continued to cover low. Someone had turned on the lights on the second floor, which rendered their night-vision goggles useless, so they paused just long enough to swivel them up out of the way before ascending the last few steps. Maddock paused just below the landing to get oriented. Bones and his assault element were on the west side of the second story, down a hallway to the left, which meant the bad guys were somewhere down the shorter hall to the right. Maddock pied the corner, edging around it gradually to avoid revealing himself, until he saw the edge of an open doorway at the end of the hall. He paused there, watching, and a moment later saw the barrel of an AK47 thrust out into the open. The gunman was mostly eclipsed from view by the doorjamb, but Maddock was able to estimate his position, and as fire and lead began to spew from the muzzle of the Kalashnikov, Maddock triggered a burst into the door jamb.
The AK abruptly tilted up, stitching a line of holes in the ceiling, and then fell silent as the weapon disappeared once more.
Maddock counted to ten, expecting the shooter to make a repeat performance, but the hallway remained quiet. He edged out into the hall, weapon trained on the open doorway. The Kalashnikov did not reappear, but on the floor, extending just a few inches past the doorframe, was a foot, shod in a well-worn loafer, toes pointing up.
Gotcha! Maddock thought. Yet, as quickly as he felt the satisfaction of this minor victory, he also felt the futility of it. Another mole whacked. What difference does it make?
He shook off the sentiment, brought his focus back to the immediate goal. Find Telesh.
Maybe that was Telesh lying there
Find the Blutfahne and destroy it. Then it will be over.
For good. No more Whack-a-Mole.
Keeping his finger on the trigger, the butt of the rifle snugged against his shoulder, he keyed his mic with his left hand. “Target down. Moving up to check it out.”
He returned his hand to the forward grip and continued slowly down the short hall to the doorway. As he neared, he lowered his aimpoint down to the spot where he imagined the fallen gunman’s chest would be, just in case the man was still alive, still a threat. He knew, without looking, that Willis was right behind him, providing a second set of eyes as well as additional firepower.
He pied the doorjamb, spotted the gunman’s other foot, followed the legs attached to both up until he saw the torso and the discarded AK47 lying alongside the bulky form. Judging from the massive size of the unmoving figure, he realized it had to be one of the Tweedles. As that thought went through Maddock’s head, another followed, screaming at him like
a police siren, but in the split-second it took him to process it, he realized it was already too late.
The man on the floor was Tweedledee, and he was most certainly dead. The burst from Maddock’s weapon had torn through the wall plaster and continued through his chest, almost certainly killing him instantly. The big Russian’s eyes were fixed, staring sightlessly back in Maddock’s direction. The reason for this orientation was the second thing Maddock noticed as he moved through the doorway.
Tweedledee’s head was tilted up a little because it was cradled in the massive hands of his brother. Tweedledum’s eyes—red with grief and rage—swung up to meet Maddock’s gaze. Maddock reacted fast, changing his aimpoint, squeezing the trigger as soon as the muzzle was aligned with this new threat, but Tweedledum reacted as well. The big man erupted off the floor, flinging himself at Maddock even as rounds spat from Maddock’s weapon. The sudden movement turned what ought to have been an instantly lethal discharge into a mere wounding. Maddock didn’t see where the shots went, because in that instant, Tweedledum was on him.
The Russian behemoth swept the gun aside as if swatting a fly, and crashed into Maddock, driving him backward, into Willis. The collision knocked Willis askew, and sent Maddock flailing, out into the short hall. He staggered back two steps, three, trying to recover his balance. Tweedledum burst out into the hallway and charged like a bull. One of Maddock’s outflung arms caught the balustrade on the landing, but before he could plant his feet, the Russian plowed into him, driving him back against the rail like a horseshoe caught between hammer and anvil. Then the upright wooden spindles supporting the rail snapped like toothpicks, and Maddock fell backward into empty air.
TWENTY-SIX
Bones stepped out into the hall just as Maddock and Tweedledum smashed through the railing and disappeared from his view. Throwing caution to the wind, he hastened to the ugly rent in the balustrade and looked down.
The air was thick with dust and smoke from all the shooting, but through the haze, he could see the descending steps where the two men had crashed down. To his astonishment, both men had recovered from the impact—maybe the big Russian had recovered a little bit more than Maddock—and were now grappling furiously. Bones aimed his weapon down at them, but the frenetic movement and Maddock’s close proximity to the hostile denied him a clean shot.
Maddock’s a big boy, he thought. He can handle this. Finish the mission.
He brought his attention back to the hallway and to the door from which the unseen shooter had turned back his element’s earlier advance. The SEALs had cleared most of the house and found no sign of Telesh, but the mobster’s jumbo-sized bodyguards had been defending that room with their life. Not proof positive that Telesh and his recently acquired piece of Nazi memorabilia awaited inside, but reason enough for optimism.
Nobody was defending it now, but Willis was there, struggling to get back on his feet.
Bones glanced over his shoulder to the rest of his fire team, gestured to the stairs. “Get down there and give Maddock a hand. I’ve got this.”
He didn’t wait for an acknowledgment, but instead hurried down the hall, passing Willis, and passed through the doorway.
There was a small sitting room with a pair of overstuffed chairs positioned to either side of an opening that led into another room. Bones stepped carefully over the motionless body of the man Maddock had designated Tweedledee, and moved through into an enormous bedroom, his weapon ready to engage at the first hint of movement.
He spotted someone and shifted his aim, but as his brain processed what his eyes beheld, he froze.
It wasn’t Telesh or one of his men. It wasn’t a man at all.
“Nadia,” he whispered.
It wasn’t the mere fact of her sex that stayed his trigger finger, though this certainly was a contributing factor. In the instant he saw her, his gut clenched at the thought of ending her life, even though he knew she would not have shown the slightest hesitation had their roles been reversed. What stopped him however was the fact that she was, very obviously, unarmed.
She stood beside a four-poster king-sized bed, her hands half raised in what seemed like a show of surrender. Clad only in a flimsy camisole that revealed more than it hid, she clearly possessed no weapons, nor any means to disarm him. Her black hair, which had been so impeccably styled on the occasion of their last encounter, was slightly flat on one side, as if she had been roused from bed. Bones flicked his gaze to the mattress and saw the sheets and comforter in disarray. She had been sleeping, and not alone.
Her eyes seemed to focus on him like laser beams. Her full, sensual lips parted in what might have been taken for a smile.
“You?” she said, managing to sound a little impressed. “You must want date with me very badly.”
Bones’ wit deserted him. He had no reply, and was painfully aware that his silence was dragging on.
She shrugged, and then coyly cocked her left hip. Her hands turned in slightly, fingers pointing meaningfully toward her bosom. “If this is what you want, just ask.”
Bones swallowed. What the hell is she doing? he thought, and then it dawned on him. She’s stalling. She’s protecting someone.
The someone who had shared her bed.
Telesh.
Bones knew what he ought to do, what the mission and their rules of engagement demanded he do. They could not leave any evidence that this clandestine action was sanctioned by the United States government or military, and that meant leaving no witnesses. And yet, faced with the reality of executing an unarmed woman—someone who had already surrendered—he could not bring himself to do it. He was not a cold-blooded killer... Not a man like Bruce Huntley.
“On your knees,” he growled, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. “Hands behind your head. Interlace your fingers.”
The smile became a pout. “Don’t you want to have fun with Nadia? Maybe you aren’t man enough for it?” Her head tilted to the side, body turning sinuously toward the bed. “Maybe you need a little help. Something to help you party all night.” She lowered one hand, reached for the nightstand. “I have little blue pills—”
The rifle jumped in Bones’ hands. Nadia collapsed back onto the nightstand, smashing the bedside lamp with her body, and then slid sideways onto the floor.
Bones just stood there for a moment, staring at the place where she had been. Now that she was no longer there, he could see the small, black pistol resting atop the bedside table.
“Bones?”
Willis’ voice broke through his reverie but it could not calm the roiling in his gut. His cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment.
“You had to do it, man,” Willis went on. “She was going for a gun.”
Bones shook himself and turned away. He felt a profound humiliation at what he had just done—a shame that could not be absolved or assuaged by bland platitudes or rationalizations. “Come on,” he said brusquely. “Let’s end this.”
His renewed sense of purpose allowed him to push the recollection of what had just transpired into the background, but he could sense it lurking there like a beast in the shadows.
Beyond the bed, on the wall opposite the sitting room, there was another short hallway. To one side, a half-open door revealed a bathroom that was almost as large as the bedroom. Bones kicked the door open and made a quick visual sweep to ensure that the room was unoccupied, then continued down the hall to a closed door.
He turned sideways, pressed himself flat against the wall to the right of the door in order to minimize his target profile, and tried the door knob. It turned without resistance, and at a push, the door swung open.
The room beyond seemed to Bones like the very definition of a man cave. There were a pair of bookshelves positioned to either side of a large curtained window in the back wall, but the modern décor made it feel more like a rec room than a library. A billiards table dominated the center of the room, and there was a bar in one corner and a big plasma screen television in another. Severa
l leather-upholstered sofas were arranged around the perimeter, except for the far wall. The only piece of furniture there was a large desk, positioned right in front of the window.
Sergei Telesh stood behind the desk, hunched over it, fists resting on the desktop. He wore a silk bathrobe that barely contained his hirsute bulk, and like Nadia, appeared to be unarmed. His head remained bowed for a moment, as if praying in anticipation of his imminent passing from the mortal world, but then he looked up, fixing his black, oily eyes on the intruders in his midst.
“Did you kill Nadia?” he rumbled. “Yes, I suppose you did. Too bad. She was amazing lover. Very hard to find woman like her, even in Russia.”
Bones tried to close his ears to the man’s voice, but the mere mention of the woman’s name summoned her ghost. He aimed his weapon, finger curling on the trigger, but her voice filled his head.
Are you going to shoot another unarmed prisoner? Murder him in cold blood?
“You would do better to join me,” Telesh went on. His shoulders seemed to tense, like a lion gathering its energy to pounce on a gazelle. “I reward those who are loyal to me.”
Bones dropped his gaze to the desktop, wondering if Telesh had a weapon there, within reach. There was no weapon but his hands were not empty. Protruding from each clenched fist was a twist of bright red fabric.
Telesh’s voice reached out to him again. “Anything you want. Just swear—”
The loud bang of a suppressed shot ended the plea. Telesh staggered backward, dragging the scarlet cloth with him, and then slumped to the floor, momentarily disappearing from view.
