by Brad Taylor
Nick then heard his own callsign. “Veep, Veep, you still good?”
He mustered his “radio voice,” the one he used when talking to aircraft. The one that always sounded calm and collected, no matter the bullets flying around or the begging of teammates for steel on target. “This is Veep. Roger.”
“I got Koko in sight. Your targets are going to get visual in about ten seconds. You have control.”
Nick took a deep breath and said a final “Roger.”
The pressure was incredible. It was unlike anything he’d experienced in the past. Nick was a Combat Controller and he was damn good at his job. He’d been on the tip of the spear for close to ten years, and had seen combat in both Iraq and Afghanistan—where he’d had the misfortune of being blown up by an IED.
He’d fought to stay in Special Operations after that, but his national pedigree of being the vice president’s son had intervened. Everyone was too worried about what the headlines would be if he was killed. Too worried about the press. He’d been forced to reclass into another, safer military occupational specialty. He’d hated it. Then, out of the blue, he had met Pike Logan and had back-ended an invitation to the Taskforce. A unit that didn’t even exist. And he’d been allowed to train. Now he was wondering what he had been thinking.
One minute they were seriously discussing killing an American Taskforce member, the next he was in a park preparing to take down a man he wasn’t even sure was bad. And the speed of operations was something else again. He’d started the morning doing nothing but countersurveillance but now was going to end it as either a hero or a goat. It was a different world, and it brought fear, but not about the fact that he was preparing to go hand-to-hand with two armed men. No, it wasn’t the danger. It was a massive fear of screwing up. Of letting down Pike and the rest of the team. Of proving once and for all that he wasn’t worthy of membership in the most exclusive club on Earth.
Jennifer came on, saying, “Veep, I’ve got your marker. We’re one minute out. We’re dragging the two anchors behind us. You take Tracksuit. I’ll get the other one.”
Controlling his breathing, clenching and unclenching his fist, Nick said, “Roger. I got Tracksuit.”
He decided he’d attack with a come-along joint lock to bring the man to his knees, then subdue him with a rear naked choke. Simple, basic moves that he knew well. His adrenaline was so great he was afraid of losing the fine motor skills required for anything more complex. Those two moves were muscle memory. Easy to execute.
He mentally went through the motions in his head, visualizing exactly how it would go down. He wondered if Jennifer was doing the same thing. Then the fact that there were two men coalesced.
She’s got the second guy. What if she can’t take him down?
For the first time, he had doubts about something besides himself.
Can she do it? He remembered her words about the House of Pain, something he’d barely managed to survive. It was a culmination event at Taskforce Assessment and Selection, whereby the candidate had to initially fight one, then two, finishing with taking on three Taskforce Operators, all acting as role players in a hand-to-hand slugfest, fighting through each level until he either succeeded or was knocked out.
How did she know about that? Surely she hasn’t done the House of Pain.
Has she?
60
Nick’s earpiece came alive. “Pike, Pike, this is Knuckles. My target set is moving south. Deeper into the park. They aren’t following behind Carly.”
“What’s your read?”
“I think they’re going to try to cut her off. Get a team in front and a team behind.”
“Inside the thick area?”
“Yep.”
“Perfect. I’m moving your way.”
Nick heard the calls and was amazed at the smoothness. Almost as if they were deciding on a movie to see instead of conducting three separate hostile takedowns in a foreign country. It was a skill he yearned for. A unit he desperately wanted to prove capable of joining. And he’d know in the next few minutes.
Jennifer came on. “Thirty seconds. Get ready. Anchor is about twenty feet behind me. I’ll pass you, then pause to look at something. They should stop right in front of you, waiting on me to move.”
“Roger all. I’m set.”
“Tracksuit is on your side. Take him down quickly. Once I commit, I’ll be occupied. I can’t deal with both.”
You’ll be occupied? It dawned on him that she was worried about his capabilities.
“Got it.”
He caught a flash of movement on the trail, and saw Jennifer and Carly walking abreast, brushing the bushes on either side, walking as if they had more concern of the weather than what was about to occur. They passed him, and Jennifer glanced his way.
She winked.
He couldn’t believe it.
His eyes tracked behind her and saw the two men. For the first time, he sized them up for a fight. Tracksuit was a slender man of about five-six, while his friend was closer to six feet, with a large beer gut. Neither one was that imposing.
On the plus side, they were the same ones he’d spotted before, giving him some comfort. There was no way they would be following if they bore no ill will. They drew abreast of his bench and stopped suddenly. He looked down the trail and saw Carly pointing into the shrubs. He wondered what she was looking at, then realized it was the execute order.
Go time.
Tracksuit was directly in front of him, right foot back, left foot forward, half facing him. Joint lock, right wrist, right elbow.
He sprang up and leaned forward, slapping one hand on Tracksuit’s wrist and the other on the man’s elbow. He slid his thumb over the joint of the man’s middle finger, then drew out, holding the elbow. Nick quickly rotated, expecting the man to drop to his knees from the pain.
He did not. Instead, he shouted and turned with the move, spinning in the same direction as Nick and ripping his hand from Nick’s grasp, then clamping his other hand on the one Nick had at his elbow, clawing to pry it free.
Nick was stunned, his plan of attack in disarray. Like reliving a bad car wreck and trying to ascertain what had gone wrong, Nick couldn’t comprehend how the man had escaped. Then his brain exploded with the answer: You rotated the wrong way. You had no lock. You had no control. He’d screwed up in the most amateur way possible. Instead of bringing Tracksuit to his knees, all he’d done was telegraph his intentions.
Desperately trying to regain the momentum, fighting for control of the arm he still held, he threw a weak jab to Tracksuit’s face, seeing something fly through the air in his peripheral vision.
Jennifer landed on the second man’s back like a demented baboon. In the span of a millisecond, she rotated her legs over the man’s shoulders, riding his upper back like a teenager in a failed swimming pool chicken-fight. He flailed his arms ineffectually, trying to dislodge her, and she locked her legs under his chin, using her shinbones to cut into his carotid arteries. She reached over his shoulder and grabbed her foot, pulling it up and burying his neck into the blade of her shin.
Before Nick even registered that Jennifer was in the fight, Tracksuit swung a roundhouse that connected with his nose, causing an explosion of stars. He stumbled back, raising his fists to protect himself. The man came in strong, throwing jabs and kicks, most connecting in one way or another. On the defensive, Nick blocked what he could, knowing he was losing the initiative and trying to formulate a new plan of attack.
He was failing.
Behind Tracksuit, Nick saw Carly kick Jennifer’s target behind the knees, and he collapsed like a felled tree, Jennifer still locking out the blood to his brain in an iron grip. Tracksuit reached behind his back, and Nick knew the threat that was coming. He forgot all about his plan, resorting to pure size and fury. And an adrenaline borne of fear.
He charged forward
, ducking low, wrapping up Tracksuit’s arms and driving him back like a blocking dummy on a football field. The man shouted, and they hit Nick’s bench at full speed, Nick driving Tracksuit over it backward. They landed hard in the shrubs, Nick’s weight knocking the air out of the man below him. Not giving any respite, Nick slapped the weapon out of the man’s hand, then jackhammered Tracksuit’s face over and over, like an MMA fighter waiting on the referee to end the match, the other fighter clearly done.
Jennifer did so, jerking Nick’s arm before he could land another blow. He looked up, nose bloody, breathing heavily. She said, “You won. Help me with my guy.”
He looked down, and Tracksuit’s face was a gory mess. He was out cold.
Nick wiped the red snot from his own nose, and Jennifer offered her hand. He rose, a little unsteadily, then helped her drag her target into the brush.
Embarrassment seeping through, he waited on her to make the call, knowing it would be trouble for him. She keyed her radio and said, “Pike, Koko. Both targets down.” She winked at him, then said, “No issues.”
Nick felt the relief flow. It was over, and he hadn’t screwed up.
Jennifer said, “Let’s clear out of here.”
Face flushed with adrenaline, Carly nodded. “Good call.”
Jennifer said, “Thanks for the help on that takedown.”
Carly smiled and said, “I thought I was a badass, but, man, that was some Jason Bourne shit.”
Nick shrugged and said, “Thanks.”
Carly raised an eyebrow at his words. “Seriously? You thought I was talking about you? I’ve seen better fighting from a third-grade schoolyard.”
Nick felt the flush climb up his cheeks and Jennifer laughed. “Don’t worry, Veep. I’ve been there. You’ve got some pressure as a newbie, and you did fine.”
He smiled back, surprised at her deference. She had shown considerable skill, and could have hammered him like Carly, but she did not.
He genuinely liked her.
He grinned and said, “You didn’t do too bad yourself.”
61
I was slipping through the trees, closing in on Knuckles, when I got the call from Jennifer. Two down. One to go.
I saw Knuckles ahead and heard Jennifer say, “Targets are hidden, but they’re armed. You want us to take the weapons?”
“No. Leave them on the bodies. Give the police something to hang on them when they’re found. They’re no threat to us now.”
“Roger all. You guys need help?”
“Nope. Get Carly out of here. Blood’s bringing an exfil vehicle. All I need is Knuckles. I want you to prep for reception. We can store him in the van, but I need some life support equipment and a guard roster.”
Jennifer said, “Roger all. I can do that.”
“One other thing: Get Kurt on the line. Let him know what happened, and that we have a detainee.”
She said, “Through no fault of our own?”
“Well, of course. I can’t help it if the man Guy’s hunting is now hunting us. Works out.”
She said, “I can do that. See you at the flamefest.”
Meaning the after-action review when we were done. She was not-so-subtly telling me she was going to have an issue with this operation.
I smiled and said, “See you there.”
I caught up with Knuckles on a park bench, tossing bread to the pigeons and looking like he was just killing time. I slid in next to him, saying, “Where are they?”
“Straight through the trees to the left. By that fake pond. They’re talking on the phone.”
I laughed. “Or more likely not talking on the phone. All targets down, and they’re trying to figure out what to do. They can’t get anyone on their team.”
“As far as we know. They might have a hundred people in here.”
“No way. If they did, they’d have reacted differently. There might be one more team to the north, but they’re no threat.”
I couldn’t see who he was talking about because of the trees. I said, “I need eyes on.”
He said, “Switch with me. You can see them. They aren’t moving.”
I did and focused on the Arab. He was about five foot seven, but looked solid. Like he lifted weights. Not something I was used to seeing in a terrorist target. The other man was a nondescript pipe-swinger with the ubiquitous leather jacket and thick beard.
I watched the Arab’s actions for a minute, then said, “That guy works out.”
Knuckles knew exactly what I meant by the statement. Anyone who worked out consistently had a discipline, a control over his destiny that most did not. It may be just to pick up chicks, but an Arab doing so was an indicator. Not necessarily in a bad way, but an indicator nonetheless.
Okay, given that he was in a park, with a known Greek organized-crime man, hunting a CIA agent, it was in a bad way.
I watched a little bit longer, then said, “And he’s hyperalert. He’s looking for the bad man.” I focused on his face, but couldn’t make a connection to the pictures we had. He was simply too far away.
I said, “You sure he’s one of the guys from the target package?”
Knuckles laughed and said, “Hell, no. Those pictures weren’t the best, but there was something about his eyes. Remember the intel pictures on the armband? Three guys looking like the usual inbred terrorist fuck, and that one guy looking like a mug shot, where he wanted to kill the photographer?”
I nodded. “Yep.”
“That’s this guy. I don’t know when that picture was taken, but this guy has the same look. Same eyes. Like he’s pissed off at the world.”
I considered his information, then gave him my ultimatum. “Okay. They’re the same-looking guy. I think it’s him, but I’m not betting my career on it. What do you think? Is this good enough for Omega for you?”
Knuckles looked at me. “You want permission? From me?”
I said, “Yeah, I guess I do. Carly’s out clean. Mission accomplished. But Guy is still out there, and that Arab is involved. Do you think taking him down is worth it?”
He sat for a spell, then said, “Yeah. Guy’s worth it. And that fuck is the key.”
I heard the words and felt a swell of vindication. Knuckles deflated it fairly rapidly. He stood and said, “Besides, this won’t be the first time I’ve done something stupid. But it’s always with you, for some reason.”
I rose up and said, “Okay, okay, no reason to rub it in. I’ll take the Arab, you take beard guy. Rip his ass quickly, because I’ll be jamming a barrel into the Arab’s ribs. I need him to see he has no alternative. I don’t want him to even think about a fight.”
He said, “No issues. You want to do it here? Or let them move?’
“Hang on a sec.” I got on the radio and said, “Blood, Blood, what’s your status?”
“Got the vehicle and I’m inbound. I can circle the block a few times, but there’s no parking. President’s palace takes priority. I do a couple of loops, and I’m going to draw some stares.”
Knuckles said, “Guess that answers the question.”
“Yeah, it does. They’re parallel to the southern exit right now, and nobody’s around. I say we take them.”
“Someone shows up, and we’re done.”
I started walking to them, saying, “Yeah, yeah. Story of my life. Just take that guy down quickly. Then we’re moving straight west, both of us controlling the Arab.”
I keyed the radio and said, “Blood, we’re moving to interdict. Status?”
“One block over. Standing by on your call. Be advised, there’s an armed security guard on the building adjacent to the exit.”
“Doing what?”
“Doing nothing but standing. No idea why, but he’s got an MP5. Looks old and worn, like it’s passed from man to man, but the building is something worth the investment.”
Knuckles heard the words and glanced at me. I raised my brow, and he just shrugged. Telling me to go ahead.
I picked up the pace, closing on our targets. The Arab was standing stiffly, looking annoyed. The Greek was dialing his phone. I knew he would get nothing. They were both on the edge of a man-made turtle pond, the concrete cracked and worn. To their left was a stand of shrubs, about ten feet away. Where we’d stash the body of the guy on the phone.
We hit the apex of the lake, the path leading us right at them, and I looked at Knuckles, an unspoken command.
Showtime.
I unholstered my pistol, a compact Glock 27, chambered in .40 caliber. Knuckles quickened his pace, getting one step ahead of me.
We got within five feet of our targets before they noticed we were there. They ignored us, intent on their phone conversation. Or lack thereof. Knuckles came abreast of the Greek and whirled, roping his arm over his head and kicking his knee at the same time, the man’s neck taking his full weight in the bend of Knuckles’s arm. Knuckles tucked his shoulder into the man’s head, forcing it down, then used his other hand to lever the arm, scissoring it into the carotid arteries and cinching tight.
The Arab saw the action and gasped, starting to react. I threw my arm over his head and pulled him close to me, jamming my Glock into his kidney. I spoke into his ear, saying, “Easy, easy. Don’t move.”
He froze for an instant, then surprised the hell out of me.
In one fluid move, he stepped to the right, hooking his leg behind mine and bending down. With his right hand, he swept my weapon out, pushing the barrel away from his body, at the same time jerking upward with his leg, breaking my balance. He coiled, then threw himself backward.
He landed on top of me and swiftly rotated, attacking my weapon arm with both hands, clamping the hand and trapping my elbow. His head burrowed into my chest to protect himself, he began working the hold, now inches away from an arm bar that would shatter my shoulder.
He locked the hold together in a classic paintbrush and began to sweep the ground with my wrist, the entire action happening so fast I was stunned.
