Saber Down

by Harrison Kone

  The four remaining men nodded. Two prompted Farrah to follow them while the other two carried the weapons crate from the room. Silva patted the knife against his palm and watched them leave before turning back to his bound captives.

  “I know you are both Marines, and I’ll ask again, how did you know where to find me?” Silva asked. Both Shaw and Wyatt remained silent. Silva smirked. “I won’t ask again.” Shaw locked eyes with his captor. “Ah, there it is!” Silva exclaimed. He pulled a chair up and sat in front of Shaw. “I do not even know who you are, and yet you hate me so deeply. What is it that I did to you and your friend to make that the case?”

  Shaw’s mind raced. What answer could he give to gain the advantage? He began to doubt he even could.

  “I’m going to count to three, and then I am going to cut open your chest,” Silva threatened. “One.” Shaw inhaled sharply and prepared himself for the pain. “Two.”

  “Wait!” Wyatt shouted.

  “Three,” Silva finished. He applied steady pressure against Shaw’s chest, and blood welled up beneath his shirt as Silva drove the knife deeper into the Marine’s flesh. All of Shaw’s muscles tightened and shook as the searing pain crashed over him. His face contorted in a mix of agony and hatred, and his breath escaped in short, forceful bursts.

  “Stop!” Wyatt hissed, but Silva didn’t listen. He dragged the knife in an arc overtop Shaw’s left pectoral and flicked his wrist downward, cutting cleanly through the muscle. Shaw screamed, and the metal chair rattled with his physical exertion.

  “I’ll kill you!” Wyatt snarled.

  “Oh really?” Silva replied, taking far too much pleasure in the man’s response. He patted Shaw on the cheek a couple times in a display of authority. He grinned at Wyatt, his tongue polishing a canine.

  His countenance suddenly shifted, and confusion overtook his confident expression. His eyes cut toward Affré.

  “What is that sound?” he asked. Shaw despite his pain had heard it too. A faint thundering slowly filled the room. “Check it out,” he commanded. Affré nodded his head and quickly exited the room, but not before he offered Mather-Pike an assuring nod.

  Silva turned his attention back to Shaw who offered him a tired smile.

  “End of the line,” he muttered. Furious, Silva shot out of his chair, seized a handful of Shaw’s dark hair, and ratcheted his head backward. He pressed the knife against his throat, and Shaw closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and relaxed his body. He thought of little David Kyle Reyes and of Natalie before finding the peace he sought in the face of his death.

  “David!” Wyatt screamed. He lurched his body toward Silva, but his chair toppled over, and he slammed against the floor. Tears rimmed his eyes and bestial howls broke forth from his lips as he tried to break free from his bonds. “I’ll kill you!” he shrieked, spittle soaring wildly from his lips.

  Two quick gunshots deafened everyone in the room. Silva, eyes wide in shock, stumbled sideways into a nearby table. He touched his chest and looked at his hand, wet with his own blood, before shifting his gaze toward his assailant. Mather-Pike stood with his pistol drawn. Silva laughed in surprise, but it gave way to gurgled coughing before darkness engulfed him.

  Wyatt, stunned by their stroke of good fortune, gawked at the blonde man as he lowered his pistol.

  “There isn’t much time,” he stated as he produced a pocketknife to cut their bonds.

  “You alright, David?” Wyatt asked once he was free. Shaw, his chest throbbing, stared at Silva who now lay sprawled on the floor with blood soaking his clothes.

  “Yeah,” he managed. He glanced down at his wound but only saw the blood that saturated his shirt down to his waist. “Let’s get out to our boys,” he added. Mather-Pike showcased his confusion.

  “We’ve got Marines inbound,” Wyatt explained.

  “I afraid you don’t,” Mather-Pike countered.

  “What do you mean?” Shaw asked.

  “There is too much to explain. Just follow me. I’m confident I have earned your trust. This ship is set to blow once my colleague and myself are safely away. I’ve made arrangements for you as well,” Mather-Pike said. Both Marines recognized they had little time to decipher the depths of the man’s plans, and machinegun fire drew all three’s attention. The two Raiders scooped up their weapons and turned toward Mather-Pike.

  “Lead on,” Shaw urged as he slung his MK18 carbine around his shoulders.

  36

  Shaw, Wyatt, and Mather-Pike raced toward the aft of the ship. Shaw’s chest throbbed sharply in pain, but he pressed on. He had endured worse. Two of Silva’s armed protection detail raced the opposite direction down the corridor.

  “Get outside!” Mather-Pike shouted, “we’ve got to protect the merchandise!” The two men didn’t even look at Wyatt and Shaw and continued right past them. “This way,” Mather-Pike instructed as he took a left turn down another corridor. They neared an external door, and Mather-Pike produced a green flare from his inside jacket pocket.

  “What are we waiting for?” Wyatt asked, but Mather-Pike held up a hand to silence him. Footsteps echoed behind them, and both Shaw and Wyatt turned to face the newcomer. The second bodyguard raced toward them.

  “Hey, bud,” Shaw alerted as he raised his weapon toward the approaching man.

  “It’s fine. He’s with me,” the South African replied. Shaw and Wyatt visibly relaxed as Affré slowed. He acknowledged them both with a nod before moving past them to join Mather-Pike at the door.

  “Let’s go,” he urged. Mather-Pike nodded, and the four men proceeded outside. Mather-Pike continued to lead them rearward and up a ladder to the top of the stacked shipping containers. Gunfire continued behind them as the Little Birds buzzed overhead raining fire down on the security detail.

  Once on top of the shipping containers, Mather-Pike lit the flare and tossed it a few yards away. The green light burned brightly and cut away the darkness. Shaw turned his attention upward as one of the Little Birds rounded the stern and approached for landing. As soon as it touched down, Mather-Pike turned toward the two Raiders.

  “You first!” he shouted over the roar of the turbines. Shaw and Wyatt didn’t argue and, keeping their head’s low, sprinted toward the aircraft. The two gunners on either side quickly helped them strap into the platforms above the skids. Once settled, both Marines readied their weapons as the craft lifted upward. Their helicopter returned to the fray, keeping any attention off the second Little Bird as it descended to pick up Mather-Pike and Affré.

  Anger coursing through them both, Shaw and Wyatt fired upon Silva’s security detail. They appeared as frantic ants as they raced back and forth attempting to return fire. However, the gunners, seemingly experts in their craft, cut them down, and Shaw and Wyatt picked their shots with deadly accuracy. It was certainly more difficult to land shots from a moving helicopter, but Shaw and Wyatt had done so many times in the past.

  “There’s Farrah!’ Shaw shouted through the fuselage toward Wyatt and pointing at the lone man running down the gangplank. Wyatt looked backwards and saw the man. “Bring us around!” Shaw shouted to the gunner. Upon relaying the request, the pilot banked and lined up Wyatt with the fleeing man.

  The former Marine Corps Scout Sniper lined up his shot and trained the reticle just ahead of the fleeing Farrah, anticipating his quarry’s speed and direction.

  He fired.

  Farrah’s foot hit the pier before he jolted sideways. He felt as if a sledgehammer, swinging at full force, had hit him in the ribs. He crumpled to the ground still not fully sure of what had happened. He tried to inhale but couldn’t and terror seized him. His bulging eyes realized the blood pooling around him was his own, and his hands searched his side for the wound. He was operating on primordial instinct. His rational mind had already shut down. His hands slowed and his eyesight darkened. There was no saving him. Wyatt’s slug had ripped through both lungs and his heart, and Farrah died as a wild animal taken as fresh game.

 
; “Nice shot!” the gunner next to him congratulated, but he had no idea who the target was. The scene settled as no one returned fire from the vessel or the pier. Dead bodies littered both, and Shaw felt the Little Bird bank right and change direction out to sea.

  Relief swept over him as did the satisfaction of knowing Silva was dead. Although he hadn’t pulled the trigger, he couldn’t deny the peace he felt for his fallen brothers. However, a truth still nagged deeply at his spirit. Silva had known about the operation in Yemen and the operation to capture him. How? Troubled, Shaw fixed his eyes on the dark horizon.

  • • •

  Onboard Vittoria Fortuna

  The man groaned as he pulled himself forward. Pain seared through his chest, and his breath came in labored gasps. The Spaniard rolled over and cracked a bloody grin.

  “Well done, Rian,” he managed before a coughing fit overtook him. Silva mustered his strength and forced himself upright. The chest wound bubbled and hissed as it drew in air, and he immediately realized his dire need for medical attention. A man rushed into the room, and Silva gripped his pistol, drew it from its holster, and acquired his target.

  “Mr. Morgan,” Silva wheezed, lowing his pistol. “It’s good to see you.” Morgan moved to his employer’s side. Silva’s breathing grew more difficult, and Morgan helped him remove his jacket and, drawing a knife, cut open his shirt. Morgan assisted with removing the soft armor vest, and despite their care, Silva’s wound screamed in protest.

  He needed air.

  The Spaniard gulped repeatedly but couldn’t produce the volume he needed. His vision blurred as he tried to focus on Morgan’s hands. Morgan ripped into his trauma kit and tore into the chest seals. He wiped away the blood with gauze before applying the sticky seal over the sucking chest wound. Morgan patched the exit wounds in like manner, and Silva’s breathing grew easier. Morgan wasn’t done though. Silva looked at the decompression needle Morgan prepped and inhaled as deeply as he could to build his confidence. It only brought him more pain.

  Morgan removed the case and stared at the sharp needle. He found the appropriate location on Silva’s rib cage and pierced through the flesh. It burned, but the sharp pinch didn’t compare to the pain from the gunshot wounds. Morgan removed the needle, leaving behind the small white tube. Seconds passed, and Silva’s breathing grew steadily easier. He was still far from fixed, but he would survive.

  Morgan helped Silva to his feet, and, with Silva leaning on him for support, the two men exited the room.

  “Get me back to Cairo,” Silva wheezed. Morgan didn’t respond but kept his gaze up and alert. He paused at the exit and peered outside. The helicopters had peeled away, and the two men rushed outside. They descended the gangplank and stepped over Farrah’s body. Silva’s Mercedes-Benz SUV, although riddled with bullets holes waited for them.

  Morgan opened the rear door and helped Silva inside before climbing into the driver’s seat and taking the wheel. He threw the vehicle in gear and slammed on the throttle, propelling them forward, off the pier, and out of the port.

  • • •

  De Jager ginned widely as his strike force cleared the area. The operation had gone better than he had expected. Ever the pessimist, de Jager always expected the worst, but Mather-Pike had planned everything splendidly, and it didn’t hurt that de Jager was personally two million dollars richer. As commander, he took a ten percent cut of the total sum before cost, and then the rest would be divvied up after expenses to his ten-man team. Marick Haarhoff, his second in command would receive a higher cut, likely around a million dollars.

  “Good to see you again, Colonel,” came Mather-Pike’s voice through a borrowed headset.

  “Just like old times, hey?” de Jager replied, wearing a wide grin.

  “You going to blow it?” Mather-Pike asked. De Jager chucked and caressed the detonator before he pressed the switch.

  • • •

  Natalie kept her gaze fixed out the window as the aircraft soared westward. Port Tawfiq remained out there somewhere with Shaw and Wyatt captive. She closed her eyes briefly and offered them both a silent apology. She yearned to save them, to find a way, but it was too late. She knew that deep down.

  The operations officer reopened her eyes and ran her hands down the length of her braided hair. She glanced back out the window and shot upright as the orange light cut through the night. A bellow of flame roared into the air to the south. Was that the Vittoria Fortuna? What else would it be? What had happened?

  Weber had called off the operation, had the Egyptians moved in? Were Shaw and Wyatt aboard when the ship exploded? A pit formed in her stomach, and grief forced itself upward. Tears again rolled down her cheeks.

  37

  Cairo, Egypt

  Ella sighed and glanced down at her phone before tracing her gaze around her private room. It wasn’t as private as she would have liked. Silva saw to that. Despite the extravagance, adventure, and massive salary, she felt alone. Her hatred for her employer brewed, and at the same time, her hope in Rian increased. Could he really deliver on his promise? She could only hope, and the thought of being with him drew a smile across her face. No, she wasn’t alone.

  She fell back onto the bed and puffed her hair from her face. Her brow furrowed as she interpreted the noise that echoed through the cabin.

  Shouting?

  The flight attendant rose and approached the door. It slid open effortlessly, and she shrieked as she gazed down the barrel of a rifle. It lowered, but she shook uncontrollably as fear assaulted her.

  “Come with me,” the hard voice ordered. Ella complied without realizing it. She no longer thought; she just did as instructed. He grabbed her by the hand and raced toward the exit. “Rian Mather-Pike sent me,” he explained, reciting the words as Colonel de Jager had instructed him. Hope immediately welled up within her. She glanced at the young man. He was likely close to her age, early to mid-twenties. He kept his face shaven and his bright blonde hair mirrored her own. “Let’s go,” he said as they approached the jet’s exit. He was the first through the opening, but several gunshots echoed from the tarmac. The young man fell backwards, and Ella shrieked at the sight of so much blood. She backed away and watched as the young mercenary coughed, spewing blood all over his face.

  A man Ella didn’t recognize boarded and stared apathetically at the young man dying on the floor. The South African’s eyes popped with fear, and he trembled before his killer. The gunman looked up at Ella, his face expressionless, before he looked back at her rescuer. He raised his carbine slightly with one hand. The barrel hovered just slightly above the young man’s face. He pulled the trigger, and Ella shrieked again.

  The gunman slung his rifle around his back and hoisted the man over his shoulder before turning around and stepping through the exit. Ella watched as he dropped the body over the side of the stairs, and she heard it smack against the tarmac. The sound sickened her, and she couldn’t fight the bile rising from her stomach. She vomited on the floor, and the gunman turned to regard her, his face wrinkled in revulsion.

  Morgan could handle blood and guts but not vomit. As soon as the smell reached his nostrils, he gagged and covered his mouth with his hand before quickly exiting the plane. He returned a moment later bearing the majority of Silva’s weight.

  “The couch,” Silva wheezed. “Get me a bottle of whiskey,” he ordered. “And get us airborne.” Silva thought of Mather-Pike as Morgan led him to the couch, his desire for revenge stronger than his own lust for life. However, his wounds needed immediate attention. Without medical intervention, he would likely die. What good was taking revenge if he wasn’t around to relish it?

  “Yes, sir,” Morgan replied. Ella, horrified, looked at Silva and then at Morgan.

  “Who is he?” she asked.

  “An associate who just received a promotion,” Silva replied with difficulty.

  “Where’s Rian?”

  “Rian?” Silva inquired. His eyes narrowed, but a coughing fit overtook h
im. Ella immediately felt uneasy; then terror spilled over her. She had used his first name. Her eyes shot toward the exit, and she bolted for the door. It was armed, so all she had to do was pull the lever and the focused explosions would launch the door outward and deploy the inflatable slide.

  She never got close.

  Morgan’s strong arms seized her and threw her to the floor. He advanced toward her, his dark eyes devoid of any emotion, like a shark’s eyes. He ripped her upward and violently dragged her back to her quarters. She screamed and kicked, but her efforts did little to break Morgan’s grip. He threw her onto the bed, and sobbing she scurried to the far corner of the room and drew her knees to her chest. However, Morgan held no other plans for her.

  “If you come out, I will strangle you to death,” he threatened before he slammed home the sliding door. She quickly located her cellphone, and within minutes, Ella heard the engines groan to life, and she bore the force of takeoff.

  • • •

  Gulf of Suez,

  Aboard Scarlett’s Bosom

  Shaw winced and downed a swig of the presented Witblits. The grape-fermented brandy was the South African counterpart to American moonshine. Shaw was glad he was seated when he took the swig because it would have knocked his feet out from under him. He coughed in response to the potent drink. Everyone around laughed, and Shaw quickly passed the bottle to Wyatt.

  “It’ll take the edge off,” de Jager stated as his team’s medic neared Shaw with a sutures kit. Shaw, shirtless, glanced down at the wound. It resembled a question mark without the dot, and the raw muscle grain was easily visible between his slashed skin. They had stemmed the majority of the blood flow, but a few streams still trickled out of the laceration, and dried blood caked down his abdomen. With the wound already cleaned, an act that had nearly sent Shaw into shock, the Raider readied himself for the stitches. Each insertion of the needle felt like a stinging pinch or the popping of a bad zit, but Colonel de Jager was right, the swig of Witblits had taken the edge off.