by Marc Cameron
The tiny device in Hamzah’s fist was called a cat’s whisker. Roughly two inches long, it was nothing more than a hollow cellulose needle, sealed at both ends and housed inside a slightly larger cardboard tube with a plunger at the base. Once inserted into the body via the plunger, the inner needle would dissolve rapidly, releasing its contents into the bloodstream. It held little more liquid than a single drop of dew.
In this case, a drop was more than enough.
Ian’s iced coffee spewed like a geyser as the massive Algerian ploughed into him from out of nowhere. Both men went down hard, the Algerian on top, driving the air from Ian’s lungs.
The giant regained his feet in an instant, running again. Ian watched the soles of two black boots as a uniformed policeman leaped over him, only to slip in a puddle of spilled coffee. Another officer yanked his partner to his feet and the two tore down the hall cursing in French.
Ian shook his head as the trio disappeared around a corner beyond ticketing. He felt as if he’d been run over by a train. When he lifted the front of his coffee-soaked T-shirt he found the beginnings of an ugly bruise on his right side. He touched the spot with the tip of his finger. It was raw, like a bad carpet burn. The big guy must have led with his fist.
Ian grabbed a fistful of paper napkins from a nearby café stand and dabbed his shirt while he ordered another iced coffee. A veteran of West Africa, he’d endured far worse than a little bruise.
CHAPTER 3
0126 hours
Iraq
The sounds of an American M4 assault rifle were distinctive—a friendly series of flat, supersonic whacks splitting the air—and hopefully the hearts and minds of more than a few Iraqi insurgents.
Sizzling arcs from falling Star Cluster flares illuminated the night sky to Jericho’s left, past the motorcycle he’d stashed under a scraggly tamarisk tree. Male voices barked commands in English and guttural Iraqi Arabic. Moments before, a U.S. Army Cavalry “Peacekeeping Unit” had blazed through the streets in hot pursuit of two rusty Toyota Land Cruisers and an Opal sedan that supposedly carried several high-ranking insurgent leaders. The sounds of shouts and shooting moved four blocks away, then five, then six as American soldiers, many no older than twenty-one, ducked and dodged through dark, narrow streets and bombed-out buildings in this the City of Mosques.
So far, their quarry had eluded them.
Thirty feet above Quinn’s head, a brisk desert wind caused the fronds of a lone date palm to hiss and rattle in the darkness as if shaken by an angry dog. There was no moon and as the Star Clusters burned away, the night closed back around him.
Dressed in the ankle-length dishdasha and a checked Arab head scarf known as a shemagh, Quinn lay prone. The rubble and broken pavement of the street gave up the heat gained from a long day, warming his belly. Though he wore his own M4 carbine and assorted other weapons, Quinn’s robe made him look too much like an insurgent to take part in the present action without getting shot to pieces.
As a fluent Arabic speaker, Quinn was a rarity in the Air Force. With the copper skin of his Apache grandmother, he’d been able to blend in with the local populace, living “outside the wire” or beyond the protection of the base, for the past six days. A rash of kidnappings over recent weeks saw seven contractors, an Air Force TACP, and three soldiers from the U.S. Army Task Force out of Camp Fallujah go missing. Four of the civilian contractors and one soldier had shown up in various butchered body parts around the city. As other areas in Iraq appeared to be becoming more peaceful with the steady withdrawal of U.S. troops, minority Sunni insurgents in Fallujah had become even more violent. With the Colorado bombings, some now believed the Americans might just decide to stay for a while and were pulling all stops to make sure that didn’t happen.
Though he ate everything he could get his hands on when he was able to eat in the chow hall, Quinn had the gaunt look of a half-starved jackal that helped him fit in with the war-torn Iraqis. His Apache skin coloring, perpetual five o’clock shadow from his Irish father, and uncanny ability with the Arabic language allowed him to blend with the population outside the wire. His aggressive brand of fighting skill and elite fitness made him an obvious choice to spearhead the joint-service investigation tasked with finding the kidnapped personnel.
Since the Army had the most missing men, a lieutenant colonel named Fargo from Task Force 605 was put in charge of the operation. He was a blustering man with a red face and enough frustrated energy to start a grass fire if he stood in one spot too long. A logistics and supply officer by training, Fargo was rumored to have a relative in Congress who had helped move him into a more active role in the fighting before he rotated back to the States.
Quinn had been in Iraq for almost a year—double the term of deployment for an OSI agent. In that time, he’d developed a trusted stable of informants who had led him to Ghazan al Ghazi, an insurgent thug who was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of Iraqi civilians. Now, he’d finally developed a solid lead and the boneheaded Lt. Colonel Fargo had just blown right past with his men.
A nineteen-year-old Marine had been kidnapped the previous night during a protracted firefight in the far north end of the city. Since they had no personnel missing prior to that point, the Marine Corps had seen to its other duties and chosen not to take part in the task force.
For reasons known only to himself, Lt. Colonel Fargo had taken Quinn’s intel and launched this rescue attempt without notifying the Marine Corps brass in Fallujah. Fargo was known as a “seagull colonel”—an officer who flew in, raised a riot with his infernal squawking, and then shit all over everything before he flapped off to annoy someone else.
At thirty-four, with the rank of Air Force captain, Quinn had no stomach for such leaders or the rancid politics they dragged around with them like a bad smell. If Fargo didn’t see fit to call the Marines, that was his business. But the idiot ran right past Quinn and the target building, hot on the trail of a convoy of bad guys who were surely meant to do exactly what they were doing—drawing the Americans away.
Despite his best efforts, Fargo hadn’t been able to keep the rescue a secret from the Marines for long. The radio net buzzed with activity as angry bulldog brass from Camp Baharia demanded to know what was going on. They were sending troops and advised all others on scene to “stay the hell out of their way.”
Two minutes earlier, Quinn had seen a bright flash to the north and heard the shriek of an enemy RPG—rocket-propelled grenade—followed closely by the unmistakable groan and sickening thud of a chopper going down. Helicopters—likely Marine Super Cobras, dubbed “Snakes” by their crews—that had been on their way to save a missing hostage, now roared toward the crash scene to provide close air support with their mini-guns.
Quinn activated the high-intensity, infrared LEDs he kept in the pocket of the tactical khakis he wore under his dishdasha. Invisible to the naked eye, the tiny Firefly snapped to the end of a nine-volt battery could stay nestled in his pocket and still show up as an exploding fountain of light to patrolling aircraft. Quinn had witnessed firsthand the unholy mess American pilots and their magical weapons could make of unsuspecting insurgents. He didn’t mind blending in on the ground, but he wanted the good guys in the sky to know he was a friendly.
Quinn raised his head just high enough to peer through a night vision scope at a clay building that slumped like a child’s mud creation across the deserted street. Rusted oil drums, filled with sand and stacked two high, flanked the sides and much of the front of the rough two-story structure, giving it a bunkered, junkyard appearance. A hand-painted sign in Arabic swung from one broken hook above a dark, double-garage doorway. The faintest shaft of light peeked from the edges of shuttered windows on the second floor.
Quinn touched the tiny throat-mike that lead to the portable radio clipped beneath his dishdasha. “Tiger Four, Tiger Four, this is Copper Three-Zero... .”
Fargo’s aide de camp, Major Tidwell, answered. Despite his tendency to brown nose, Tidwell w
as a decent and capable soldier. “Go for Tiger Four.”
“Tiger Four, Copper Three-Zero,” Quinn hissed. “You went past me... .” He consulted a wrist-mounted GPS and gave his coordinates. “My guy says the missing Marine and at least one other friendly are in the two-story building twenty meters west of my location. The sign out front says it’s some kind of tire store.”
Fargo came back, his voice crackling with energy. The pop of gunfire, likely his own whether he had anything to shoot at or not, caused the radio to cut in and out. “Stay put, Copper Three-Zero. Do not move. We’re meeting resistance, but will work our way back to you.” Fargo kept the button pressed on the radio while he shouted strained, nonsensical orders to his men. Quinn was forced to listen to an enormous amount of yelling and staccato gunfire before the officer finally came back to him. “I say again, do not take action! We’ll rally at your location!”
Quinn tapped the Sig Sauer nine millimeter under his robe, to make certain it was where it was supposed to be. It was a habit he’d developed over his years of carrying a gun. He wore the pistol low on his thigh, in a tactical holster, so the ballistic vest he normally wore wouldn’t interfere with his draw. The handgun was only for emergencies. The job of hunting men required something larger. Quinn’s primary weapon was a Colt M4, the pug version of the venerable M16.
Rifle in hand, he rose up to peer at the shop but froze at a sudden hiss from his right.
“Copper Three-Zero? United States Marine Corps. I got your Firefly in my sights.”
Quinn held his breath. “I’m a friendly.”
“No shit,” the voice chided. It was rock steady and rolled onto the night air on a heavy Southern drawl. “I’d have smoked your ass thirty seconds ago ’twere that not the case.”
“How many men you got?” Quinn whispered at the dark shape, his brain already hard at work on a plan. It was a relief to have someone around besides Fargo.
“Two, but we’re Marines so that’s a dozen mortal men,” the voice said. “We augered in hard on that Huey three blocks north. Damned hajji got us with an RPG. Crew chief and three of my men had to stay behind to move the pilots. Both of ’em got banged up on impact. Rat bastard Iraqis’ll be swarming the place like maggots in no time flat. Me and Diaz broke away to come see about this missin’ Marine y’all been squawkin’ about on the radio.”
Two forms scuttled up next to Quinn in the darkness under the lone palm tree.
“Gunnery Sergeant Jacques Thibodaux and Lance Corporal Diaz.” Even in the inky black, Quinn could tell the gunny was built like a professional body builder. Biceps the size of grapefruit bulged from the rolled sleeves of his uniform blouse. Massive shoulders heaved with each deliberate breath. Corporal Diaz, who lay somewhere on the far side, was eclipsed by his giant sergeant.
Thibodaux gave Quinn a once-over, raising an eye at his Iraqi clothing. “You a civilian?”
“Air Force, OSI.”
“Figured as much,” Thibodaux grunted, his voice gumbo-thick with a Louisiana drawl. A square-jawed Marine Corps poster child, he put up with pilots from other service branches because they offered close air support when he needed it. Everyone else was a wing waxer ... or worse. “So, Chair Force, where exactly is our Marine?”
Quinn rolled half on his side to look through his night vision scope at the shimmering green hulk of the Cajun. Thibodaux could have easily been an NFL lineman if he hadn’t listened to the recruiter back in Baton Rouge.
“My information puts your Marine and at least one other American up there.” Quinn nodded toward the dilapidated tire shop. “They’re supposed to be executed tonight.”
The muscles in the big Marine’s jaw tensed at the news. “And your shitbird colonel wants you to wait ’til he gets here?”
“Those are his orders,” Quinn said.
The men hugged the sand as an Opal sedan, covered in a layer of dust thick enough to obscure the color, sputtered up the road. Feeble headlights barely dented the night. The car ground to a creaking stop across the street, blocking the front door of the building from view.
A heavily bearded Iraqi got out and looked up and down the empty street, craning his neck as if stretching would help him see in the dark. When he was apparently satisfied that he hadn’t been followed, he opened the trunk to retrieve a video camera and a large wad of clear plastic he stuffed under his arm. He gave the street another furtive look in either direction, then pulled an AK-47 from the back seat and disappeared into the building.
The giant Cajun took a knee. His voice was grim. “That dude just took in a camera and tarps. We all know what these rags like to get on video... .” The M4 looked like a toy in his shovel-sized hands.
Quinn slipped out of his dishdasha and tossed it under the palm tree. “We can’t wait,” he said. “That a problem for you?”
He could see from the look on the Cajun’s face that it wasn’t.
“You kiddin’ me, Chair Force?” Thibodaux snorted. “I ain’t responsible to orders some sand crab didn’t even give me.” He nudged Quinn in the side with his elbow. “Fact is, I was never gonna wait anyhow.”
“Outstanding.” Quinn pushed into a standing crouch. He tapped the CRKT Hissatsu fighting knife tucked in his belt before taking up the M4 from where it hung on the single-point sling around his neck. He paused to look at both Marines through the sullen darkness. To trust him, they had to hear this from his mouth: “No time for diplomacy here. We shoot anyone who isn’t a hostage.”
“Roger that,” the Marines said in unison, stone-faced. That had always been their plan.
Quinn sensed the same torrent of white heat he felt before any life-threatening action—a fire, low in his belly.
Thibodaux turned and gave Quinn’s shoulder a nudge as they began to move. “Time we got to know each other a bit, Chair Force. Let’s me and you play a little game. Apart from the spending time in the company of a good woman—what are the top two things you wish you were doin’ right now?”
Quinn broke into a fast trot, speaking as he went. His first wish was a no-brainer. “First, I’d be riding my BMW motorcycle up the Alaska Highway to see my little girl.”
“Good choice,” the Marine said, jogging beside him. “And if you couldn’t do that?”
Quinn focused on the darkened building ahead, full of people who wanted nothing more than to see him and every other American dead.
“I’m doing it.”
CHAPTER 4
Running alongside the two Marines dressed in their full battle rattle, Jericho Quinn felt naked in his mesh gear vest, OSI-issue dark blue polo shirt, and 5.11 Tactical khakis. The desert night was cold without his dishdasha, but the fact that he had no body armor sent the chill all the way to his bones.
“Take a look around back,” Thibodaux whispered to Corporal Diaz as they drew even with the first row of oil drums at the left end of the building.
The plucky little Puerto Rican was dwarfed by the towering gunnery sergeant. He trotted off without a word with his bulky M240G machine gun. The Golf was heavier than an M4 but chambered for a 7.62 NATO round that packed a bigger wallop in return for the extra weight. He kept the weapon tucked in a high-ready position as he disappeared into the night.
Quinn and Thibodaux crouched alongside a grimy showroom window, adjacent to the main entry. When the shop had been up and running, the window would have revealed a small lobby full of tires and a few chairs for men to sit and drink strong Iraqi coffee while they waited. Now there was only a vacant concrete floor, some scattered rat droppings, and a darkened set of stairs in the far right corner leading to the second floor.
Diaz appeared from the opposite corner of the building in a tiptoeing sprint, having made a complete circle in just over a minute.
“There’s a man-door up some rickety-ass stairs in back,” he whispered, not even panting. “But it’s sandbagged. Two sets of windows—one at the west end.” He tipped his head toward the garage bay. “And another around back, ten feet west of the upst
airs door. Windows are sandbagged too, but there’s enough of a crack that I could make out two hajjis just inside the corner window.”
“How about hostages?” Thibodaux asked.
“No sign of ’em, Gunny,” Diaz said. “But I only had a half inch to peek through. The bastards already got on black masks. They’re gettin’ ready to make a video... .”
Quinn bit his bottom lip, understanding the urgency. “Any way to get a flash bang through one of the upstairs windows?”
“No way, sir.” Diaz shook his head. “They got sandbags stacked up inside. I could blow the bags, but by the time we dug our way in, our guys’d be DRT.”
DRT was dead right there—the worst kind of dead, absolutely, unrevivably dead.
The Puerto Rican jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The only way in is up those inside stairs.”
Quinn turned toward Thibodaux, caught up in the moment of the chase.
“Marines are big on charging the hill... .”
“Damn straight,” Thibodaux said. “If I told you what I really want to do, it’d melt your little Chair Force ears.”
“Roger that, Gunny.” Diaz nodded in agreement.
Quinn shot another glance through the film of dust and grime on the showroom window. Suddenly struck with a plan, he took a step backward, looking up at the second story, then through the window again at the stairs.
“Gunny,” he whispered. “You’ve been through this drill before, I’ll bet... . Cleared building packed with insurgents.”
“Chock-full of the rat bastards,” Thibodaux said.
“They’ve learned from us to block all the entries but one—”
“Then fortify the hell out of the only way in,” Thibodaux completed his thought. “I’ll lay odds the hajjis Diaz saw got a fifty cal pointed straight at our only entry point.”
