by Chris Lowry
There were an unknown number of enemy, as few as four, or as high as a platoon surrounding that man.
Brill had a job to do. Kill them all and save the man.
He checked the load in his clip, slipped the final full magazine from his pouch to have it close at hand in the pocket and unstrapped his pistol.
FOURTEEN
There was a saying he had been taught by Simon during his short time with Executive Options in South Africa. The mercenary mentor drilled into his young protégé the words that repeated through his mind like a mantra.
“Move fast. Strike first. Strike hard.”
He knew it worked because he had used the philosophy so effectively in the past. Maybe it was a maxim from the past. A gunfighter who keeps his head in a gunfight when the world around him is going to hell, is the one who walks away.
He moved toward the door.
It made sense. Most people aren't exposed to bullets and loud explosions. That's why Recce training and other SOG's around the globe used it so extensively. Fire at people repeatedly until it becomes second nature, and they learned to control the response mechanism that dumped adrenaline in the system. Breathing helped.
It's always good to breath.
He twisted the doorknob slowly. It was unlocked. Brill lifted the rifle to his shoulder, raised a boot and eased the door open with his toe.
“Hey!” someone screamed in Arabic.
Brill marched in and began shooting. He dropped two of the men before the other two recovered and began returning fire.
Their first shots went wild, stitching a pattern on the wall behind him.
Brill shot the one on the far left and swung right to hit the second. Too late. The man smiled as he pulled the trigger and Brill saw the flash of muzzle fire arc out and a bullet slammed into his shoulder.
He fell back against the wall as the terrorist zeroed in on his head.
The LT kicked Aish in the knee and bent it backwards with a loud snap. Aish screamed in pain and struggled to turn his rifle on the SEAL.
Brill yanked out his pistol and shot him.
“We were supposed to take him alive,” the LT gasped as he crawled across the floor on his hands and knees.
“You're welcome,” said Brill.
The LT cradled his right hand against his waist, but worked with his left. He dug a Quikclot package out of a leg pouch and sprinkled the powder on Brill's leaking shoulder.
“Through and through,” Brill grimaced.
Lt nodded and slapped a bandage on the front and back. He'd still need a medic, but at least he wouldn't bleed out.
Brill examined the LT. His hand was mangled, his face a mishmash of bruises and open cuts, but he was breathing.
“Did they shoot you? Any wounds?” he grunted.
“Beat the shit out of me,” LT grunted back. “Looks like we'll both live. How are my men?”
“Alive when I left. They pulled back to the airstrip to hold our LZ.”
“Then let's get moving,” the LT tried to get up.
It didn't work as well as he hoped. Blood loss and being beat left him dizzy. Brill helped him up, but mostly because he needed the assistance too.
The two grabbed weapons off the fallen terrorists.
“Search his pockets,” LT ordered. “Take what we can.”
Brill frisked the dead bodies and recovered a few scraps of paper. They didn't look like much, but there were two cell phones in his pockets that he grabbed as well. Maybe they could pull intel from them.
“Ready?” Brill glanced at the LT.
“What's the plan?”
“Running out of the question?”
“I can shuffle,” LT offered.
“Then we grab a car.”
“I don't see a rental company out here,” the SEAL smirked.
“Find a way or make one Hannibal,” Brill shot back.
He checked the exit, searching the perimeter and the two wounded men shuffled down the street shoulder to shoulder.
FIFTEEN
There wasn't a stolen pickup truck resting in the shade next to this building, but there was a rusty Peugeot that looked like it was held together with baling wire and prayers.
Brill set the LT against the hood and growled as he leaned under the dash to hotwire it. Hot white pain lanced through his shoulder.
He used the lock blade on his knife to pop open the steering column and strip the wires, then crossed the starter with the ignition and yelped.
Sparks arced out on his fingertips and the engine rumbled to life with the muffler popping.
He pulled himself into the driver's seat while LT hobbled over to the passenger door and fell in beside him.
“Buckle up,” said Brill and slipped it into gear.
The ancient crate took a moment to decide if it was going to roll, but eventually it did. Brill jammed the accelerator to the floor to get it up to twenty miles per hour.
“I don't know what we'll find at the airport,” Brill yelled over the wind coming through the windows.
“If they ambushed you, then they may know that's the only way in and out.”
“We weren't ambushed,” shouted the LT. “Stupid Murphy and his damn law.”
Brill nodded. He had some experience with that particular rule.
“We tripped over a pair of lovers in the garden and they gave us away.”
Brill stiffened in his seat.
“Weapons hot,” he called out.
The LT glanced ahead.
Someone, terrorists they assumed, had parked two trucks across the road to form a roadblock.
Brill was very familiar with this tactic. It was a common enough strategy down in the jungle. Rebels put up impromptu tollbooths to rob and steal from anyone using the road. They could move with impunity and operated pretty much everywhere.
These did not look like rebels.
As they drew closer, the visual became clear. Checkerboard headscarves meant Boku Harem.
“Can we bust through?” LT asked.
“In this?” Brill chuckled.
“I'm open for a plan,” the LT watched through the windshield.
“How accurate are you lefty?”
“I can shoot,” he sulked.
“Take the wheel.”
Brill lifted up his stolen AK and set two magazines in his lap. He reached for the LT's weapon. The man slid it back and held tighter.
“I said I can shoot.”
Brill nodded. The man set the rifle in his lap and grabbed the wheel.
“Pedal to the metal,” the LT ordered.
“No other way,” Brill answered.
He settled the rifle out of the open driver's window and employed a technique he hated.
Spray and pray.
He stitched a line of bullets across the two trucks blocking the road and the men cowering behind them.
He emptied one magazine, changed it out and emptied the next.
The LT steered with his uninjured left hand and somehow managed to rest his rifle out of the passenger window to add to their firepower.
Brill marveled at the training because it must have been excruciating to slip his broken mangled fingers through the guard and pull the trigger.
The terrorists returned fire.
They could hear bullets ping off the engine block and a cloud of steam and smoke poured out of the hood.
“Go right,” Brill screamed.
The LT yanked the wheel right.
They sailed past the roadblock in a sliding screech of sand and bullets.
Brill lifted his pistol and used it's more accurate sights to winnow down the enemy by three.
Then they were through. The remaining terrorists fired into the back of the car. The LT yelped.
“This is going to come back to bite me in the ass.”
“That's a bullet,” said Brill. “They call it a million-dollar wound.”
“I know what they call the damn thing,” Lt snapped. “We're leaving a trail of dead bodies that
's going to create a stink to high heaven.”
“Would you rather they kill us?”
“We were supposed to be in and out unnoticed. How are we gonna exfil now?”
Brill watched the road ahead as they raced down the dusty desert road.
With a terrorist army on their ass, he was wondering the same thing.
SIXTEEN
The terrorists didn't catch up with them.
Murph may play fast and loose with the rules, but he had no favorites. Maybe they did some damage to the trucks at the roadblock, maybe they took out a key leader and in the absence of orders the remaining Islamists snuck away to blow themselves up another day.
Brill couldn't be sure.
All he knew was they reached the airstrip and the rest of the team was there at the stolen truck.
He puttered up next to it at a blistering five miles an hour. The engine gave a groan, a shudder and what sounded sadly like a scream of hissing steam before it finally died.
“Good boy,” Brill patted the wheel.
LT fell out of the passenger door and splashed blood across the sand covered tarmac.
Washington ran over and slapped him on the ass with a bandage, then helped him hobble toward the plane.
The Red Cross worker stood on the steps and watched the team limp closer. He smiled, his eyes hidden behind mirror aviator sunglasses.
“Looks like you got into a little fight,” he called to them in an African tinged accent.
He pulled his hands from inside the door and pointed pistols at the wounded men.
Brill drew and fired.
A bullet ripped through the pilot's smile and pitched him down the steps.
“Boku Harem,” he said to the questioning looks from the SEALs.
Washington leaned the LT against one of the other wounded men and clambered up the steps. A second later he stuck his head out of the door.
“The pilot's dead,” he said.
“Can any of you guys fly?”
“We hitch rides,” said Washington. “He was our only way out of here.”
“Not our only way,” said Brill.
“Are you a pilot?”
“Not quite,” Brill said. “Get everyone on board.”
“What the Hell are you thinking?”
Brill pointed to a dust cloud rapidly bouncing toward the airstrip from the direction of the village. The terrorists found a leader.
“I'm thinking we have company.”
The unwounded SEALs lifted their comrades and shuffled them into the waiting belly of the CJ plane.
Brill climbed the stairs and flipped the pilot over to search his pockets.
“What are you looking for?” screamed Lt.
“Key,” Brill shouted back.
“The fucking plane doesn't need keys!”
Brill shrugged and ran into the plane.
“Close the door,” he said to Washington and tripped into the cockpit.
“I thought you said you could fly.”
“I didn't say anything,” Brill studied the controls.
It was a jumble of dials, and gauges on a console in front of a yoke. He pressed the two pedals on the floor and listened to the clink of something near the back.
“Find the start button,” he said.
“We're going to die,” the Lt slid into the co-pilot's seat.
He reached forward and jammed a button. The left engine roared to life. Brill jammed another button and the right engine followed it.
“Look for brakes,” said Brill.
He thrust the throttle forward and the plane groaned. The Lt jammed a second set of buttons and the plane lurched forward.
Brill used the pedals to turn it around and the plane slowly rumbled toward the runway.
“Speed,” said the Lt.
Brill shoved the throttle forward again.
“More speed,” said the Lt. He pushed back in his seat, trying to will the plane off the ground.
“Buckle up,” Brill yelled.
Bullets pinged off the fuselage.
“Speed!” screamed the Lt.
Brill jammed the throttle all the way down and yanked back on the yoke. The asphalt raced beneath the window as the end of the runway loomed. The plane shuddered once, shuddered twice and lifted off the ground.
It soared over the barrier blocking the end of the runway and straight toward buildings.
“Speed!” the Lt shouted again.
Brill yanked up on the yoke, pulling it all the way to his stomach.
The plane nose lifted almost straight up as it fought for altitude. Brill remembered that too high too fast could cause a stall, so he pushed the yoke forward, trying to level off.
The Twin Otter bucked and rolled, but he finally got it under a semblance of control. It wasn't quite level, but it was headed in the right direction.
“See,” Brill breathed out in a huge sigh. “Flying.”
The Lt reached up and flipped on the autopilot.
“At least until we run out of gas. Flying is easy. Landing is the hard part.”
Washington slid into the Navigator's seat.
“We'll land. I trust him, LT.”
“Better you than me,” he said as he unbuckled. “I'm going to check on my men.”
He slid past them and through the narrow cockpit door. Washington leaned across the recently vacated seat.
“How's the shoulder?” the CO asked.
“Works,” Brill grimaced.
“I'm going to need a long run after this mission,” he grunted.
“You run?” Brill asked. “How far?”
“My last race was a 100 miler,” the CO grinned.
“That far?” Brill said. “I run, but haven't done a race yet.”
“You should. What's your longest distance?”
“I just run for fun.”
“Our personality types need an outlet. Some guys lift weights, which I do, but for some of us, it's not enough. We run for an hour at a six-minute pace and you're knocking out 10 miles. Try running fifty miles at a 7-minute pace. Or a hundred at nine. Then you really know what you're made of.”
“True grit.”
“Yeah, after fifty, it's all willpower. The body starts to do weird things. It's my release.”
“I'll have to try it.”
“Let me know, I'll run with you.”
“Deal,” said Brill.
“If you land,” the CO smirked.
“When we land.”
“Hey, I'm from Missouri. Show me.”
The two men stared at the horizon, the ground blending into a dark shade of verdant green as they passed beyond the reach of the desert and puttered over the treetops.
Brill relaxed a little.
The jungle below could be full of RPG toting rebels all aiming for the tail section of the Twin Otter, but he felt at home.
He couldn't go back though.
Back in the US, he had to find some answers. Someone set him up. That meant there was a leak in the organization, and he needed to find out who.
He kept a hand on the yoke and planned it out in his head while his shoulder throbbed. His mission one was a success but not without lessons.
He wondered if the next one would have as big of a bang.
FLASH BANG
Flash Bang
The cafe served strong coffee in tiny delicate cups. The caffeine content alone had his heart racing and Brill wondered why it didn’t eat through the delicate aged paper thin porcelain.
He took a small sip of his third cup and listened to the thudding beat of his heart accelerate. It made him smile.
Constant training, running eighty miles or more per week and daily meditation kept his normal heart rate in the low range, but add a jolt of java to his system and it took off like a jackrabbit jumping.
He was waiting for a man to join him.
Not at the table, but in the cafe, itself.
The man was late, which was why he was on his third cup. It pissed him off just a
little. He had learned long ago to just go with the flow, and his laid-back attitude developed in a surf van life on the coastal wilderness of South Africa was at odds with his look.
Buzz cut hair, sharp jawline, sharp cheeks and a plain face that was completely forgettable except under the most extreme circumstances.
He looked like he was former military, and carried himself with discipline. It showed in the precision with which he lifted the tiny cup from the saucer, from the eyes that never stopped roaming, taking in detail after detail of his surroundings.
“Another sir?” the waiter asked with a strong accent.
Brill waved him off. One more and his heart might explode.
After he was finished, he planned to hole up in the safe house and do a movie binge while running the treadmill just to run off some of the energy.
It was a habit he had developed in South Africa before joining the Recce, the special forces of the South African Defense Force.
He needed a special dispensation and dual citizenship, both documents made simple with a call from a cabinet member Brill was happy to call friend.
The habit probably kept him alive, he thought. He worked to keep his mind from wandering on the wonders of running, and was mostly successful.
The appearance of Avi Goldstein brought him right into focus. The Israeli ex-pat was short with curly black hair that ran from his head down to his chest and arms. Every exposed inch was curly black hair, and the arms dealer liked to wear his custom-made shirts with almost all the buttons undone.
The fabric stretched over his expansive stomach which exposed even more of the hirsute chest.
“Booby,” Avi embraced the waitress. His hand wandered down her back and across her buttocks.
Brill watched her face blanch in disgust before she hid it behind a beaming smile. Avi was a big tipper, he knew from observation and the waitress his regular. She would put up with a lot for what he would put on his American Express Black Card.
