by Eric Meyer
He started to doze and felt himself relaxing, for all of a minute. He heard a noise inside the bus. Someone had got inside, and he jerked up the AKSU to look for a possible hostile. It wasn’t a hostile. Rachel Dayan was smiling at him from the other end of the bus.
“I wasn’t sure if I’d get a welcome, Kyle, but I didn’t expect you to shoot me.”
He hastily lowered the rifle and mumbled an apology. “Sorry, I didn’t see it was…”
“It’s okay. I was just… looking for somewhere I could bed down for a couple of hours.” A pause, “Somewhere I’d be safe.”
She looked oddly vulnerable, compared to the tough Israeli exterior she’d displayed in the diner, and he wanted her more than ever. “Will you join me?”
She grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”
She lay down next to him, propped herself on one elbow, and looked down at his face. He smelled the sweet musk of a healthy young woman and felt her warm breath on his face, she was that close. But not as close as she was several seconds later, when she leaned down, and her lips brushed his. He put an arm around her, and the kiss became long and passionate. He felt himself stir.
“Kyle, please…”
He didn’t need further invitation. Holding the kiss, he caressed her body, her breasts. They undressed each other, and the lovemaking was sweet bliss in the center of this war-damaged place. For a short time, the horrors of battle receded, and it was just two lovers, so absorbed in each other there was nothing else. Just their world, and nothing else existed. Afterward, he held her in his arms while she slept. He wasn’t tired, not any more. His mind was buzzing, but not with the huge difficulties and dangers they faced, but hardly daring to believe his luck. If anyone had asked him what he wanted right there and then, he would have replied, “Just this. Nothing else.”
All too soon, the time came for him to relieve on sentry, and he woke her gently. “I have to go and watch. You’ll be okay here?”
She stared at his face, as if examining every part of it. “I will now.”
He climbed out of the bus, and he felt all eyes were on him. He didn’t care, although Colonel Stern had a strange expression on his face.
Maybe he doesn’t like the idea of me and a fellow Israeli getting together. Too bad, it happened, and if I have the chance for it to happen again, I’ll jump through flaming hoops to get there.
He relieved Ryder, who also had a strange expression on his face.
“Anything happening out there?”
“Nothing out there, I guess all the action is inside.”
“Shut it, John-Wesley. Not another word.”
“Copy that.”
The hour went quickly, and when he was relieved, he called them together. He’d concluded the obstacles to completing the mission were insurmountable. The mission was important; the mission came first, always. Save for one thing. Committing suicide wasn’t part of the deal. Maybe they should step back from some of the objectives and go for what really counted. Avoiding a nuclear war.
“The way I see it, once we’ve taken down these guys, and then gone back for Youssef, we’ll find the entire Syrian Army and police force chasing our asses. We need to relook at things.”
Rachel was several feet away, and her eyes flared in surprise. “What about finding Waverley and the money?”
“I understood you weren’t happy about killing Waverley. I remember what you said. He wasn’t worth it.”
She reddened, and her expression was strange, impossible to interpret. She seemed almost flustered. “Well, uh, that’s right, but there’s the money. I thought it was vital to get it to the Kurds.”
Custer intervened. “Miss, what you need to understand is we have to get out while the going’s good.” There was a silence. Nolan doubted she understood. He didn’t, and neither did the others, “We’d be signing our own death warrants if we stay inside Syria. Better to get out and live to fight another day.”
Stern’s voice was soft. “Is that the way they do it in the United States Navy SEALs?”
It was like he’d taken off a gauntlet and slapped them in the face with it, a challenge that couldn’t be ignored. Bryce didn’t ignore it, and he looked at Nolan.
“Boss, who said anything about wanting to live to fight another day? We’ve never walked away from a fight. It’s not our way.”
He looked at each of them in turn, and that brief moment of bliss with Rachel Dayan had clouded his thinking.
Will’s right. We don’t walk away from a fight. Never have. Back home, I have no regular girlfriend, two estranged children I rarely see, and a possible jail sentence hanging over me. Hanging over Ryder as well, if things go sour. Then there’s Rachel, but that’s too much to hope for. She wanted the closeness, the sex, at a time of maximum danger, nothing unusual about that, but afterward? She’s a beautiful Israeli, and her home is in Israel. And me? A Navy SEAL, no, that isn’t right, an almost washed up Navy SEAL. I have to face facts. I have nothing to offer her.
He nodded. “It’s not our way.”
Darkness fell, and they prepared to leave. Once again, Misha offered to stay with them, to look after the wheels while they assaulted the building. They drove out of the derelict bus station, his mind filled with a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts.
Are we going to our deaths? And Rachel, what will happen to her? If the Syrians catch her, they’ll have their fun, and her life will end in excruciating agony.
“What do you want me to do?”
He glanced at Custer, who looked worried. They were driving past an illuminated shopping mall, and the neon lighting lit up his anxious face like it was a flickering cartoon.
“Do? Your duty, what else?”
“Uh, I mean, you’ve got this all in hand, and I want to play my part. Like, I could stay with the Patrol, make sure nothing happens to it.”
Yeah, wouldn’t you just like to do that?
“Custer, we’re going to need every last man up on that building. The climb will be next to impossible, and we only have that guy’s word for it there are four men up there. There could be a dozen for all we know, and we could be walking into a trap. If you’re that keen, why don’t you make the climb? It’ll be hard, climbing up those ornamental blocks with no rope, searching for every handhold. Knowing if you reach the top, and that’s a big if, they could blast you all the way back down.”
“Uh, I don’t have much of a head for heights. Didn’t someone say they’d have ropes up there to abseil down when the job’s done? You can toss me a line down, and I’ll climb up.”
“After it’s all over? Nope, that won’t work. The way I see it, you have a second chance to become famous.”
“A second chance?” He stared at him with interest, “How come?”
"You’d have a second chance to make a suicidal last stand. You'll be famous. Again. Little Bighorn, the Return."
He swapped glances with Will, who was doing his best to hide his smile. It wasn’t far from the truth. That's what they'd signed up for, and apart from Custer, there wasn't a single man who wanted to duck the challenge.
He parked the Patrol a block away from the parking lot. They climbed out and started walking through the darkened streets to the objective. When they were near, he signaled a stop. Will came up with him.
“What is it?”
“Soldiers. I guess they’re patrolling the area ready for the President’s drive past.”
He grunted. “If we hit them, they’ll know we’re here. The President will cancel, and those guys on the roof will fix up for another try. Next time, we won’t be around to deal with them.”
They stared across the street, and a group of four Syrian infantrymen had posted guard opposite the target building, and opposite the locked doors. If they tried to climb, they’d spot them in seconds. “We’ll move around back and see if it’s clear.”
They circled the block, and it was clear. At first, it seemed to be built the same way as the front of the building, but as their ey
es became accustomed to the gloom, they saw the difference.
“No ornamental blocks to climb. No handholds.”
Will frowned. “Nope.”
“There has to be another way. A downpipe?”
He pointed. “Over there, the last section is missing, probably rusted away. You’d need to climb to the second floor to reach it.”
Nolan got close and ran his hands over the uneven brickwork. It was doable. Just.
“Okay, it’s the only way. I’ll go on up. This is one-man operation. Any more could make too much noise.”
“Boss, like you said, we don’t know how many of ‘em are up there.”
“Only one way to find out, Will.”
He looked back, and the others were watching and waiting. Not aware of what he planned, until he slung the AKSU on his back, double-checked his combat knife was still in place, and Bryce boosted him up the first two meters. He found a rough patch of concrete wall with barely enough of a recess to grip and hauled himself up. He reached up for the next handhold, pulled up, and then the next. When he reached the second floor, be began looking for the ornamental blocks to use as handholds. And found he’d made a mistake. Probably to save money, the blocks this side were colored with the ornamental design, but no handholds, just more concrete. Some of it rough, some smooth, and not enough purchase to make the climb.
He was fucked. Perched halfway up a building under scrutiny by the Syrians, with no way to go on. He looked down, and they’d disappeared into the shadows. The soldiers had decided to patrol the rear of the building. Two men had unslung their rifles and were almost beneath him.
Chapter Eight
He froze, clinging to a tiny niche in the concrete where the poorly constructed block had partly crumbled. There was room for no more than his fingertips, and one boot was pushed into another niche lower down. His body was stretched at an unnatural angle, and he teetered the four long minutes while the soldiers below poked and prodded around the base of the building. All they need do was look up, and they'd see him. Either they'd pick him off in a hail of bullets, or more likely Bryce and the other men would open fire from across the street. The end result would be the same, a firefight in the capital of the war-ravaged nation, close to the intended route of the President. This night there'd be soldiers out patrolling everywhere, and a matter of time before they arrived. They’d throw a cordon around the area, and any chance of escape would be gone.
They didn't look up. One man shouted something to the other in Arabic, and got a guttural laugh in reply. They started walking on, continuing their patrol. Nolan breathed again when they disappeared around the other side of the building. He started to climb again, almost coming to grief when his boot slipped on another poorly built part of the wall. The concrete crumbled away beneath him, cascading on the street below. He scrabbled around, looking for another gap, found one, and pushed up yet again. Inch by inch, he continued the climb, and it was agonizing.
Forced to grip with his fingers to hold himself against the side of the building, every second he risked a fall, and yet he didn't fall. The climb seemed to take forever, although afterward he estimated he'd clung to the side of that building for no more than a half hour. It must've been almost midnight when his hand finally gripped the parapet, and he pulled his head up to look over.
The guy back at the villa hadn't told them a lie. Four men were on the roof, positioned at the front on the other side, looking down into the street. They had a rifle on a bipod propped against the edge of the building, and it didn't take much of an imagination to work out the simplicity of their plan. As far as the Syrians were concerned, the parking lot didn't present a security risk after they’d locked the doors. Not considering any potential assassins could have entered before they locked the doors in the morning, the President would drive past, the man behind the rifle would pull the trigger, and it would be the start of a nuclear buildup that may never end. Not until the bombs exploded, and mushroom clouds appeared in the sky over the benighted nation.
They weren't looking his way, so he edged over the parapet, and he was on the roof. He slowly eased the AKSU off his back, flipped the selector to burst mode, and stopped. He'd acted automatically, forgetting the sound of the shots would let loose every cop and soldier for several blocks around.
The plan had been for several of them to make the climb, but now there was just him. He put the weapon back on safe and drew his combat knife; trying to work out how to take four men, all heavily armed, with a single knife. He was still working it out when he whirled, hearing a noise behind him.
A hand came over the parapet, someone hauling himself up, like he'd done moments before. He looked over, and Ryder was struggling to pull himself over the top. He reached down a hand, gripped his wrist, and helped him over. Giving him the hand signal to look at the other side of the roof, John-Wesley nodded when he saw the men.
He put his mouth close to Nolan's ear. "How do we handle this, Boss?"
He was thinking the same thing. Two men, admittedly one legendary with the blade, against four men, any of whom could see them and squeeze off a single shot that would end it all.
"How many knives do you have?"
"Two. I tucked one into my boot, like always."
"A throwing knife?"
He shrugged. "Aren't they all?"
Three knives against four men, the odds had narrowed, although still not by enough. He worked out a way to do it. Ryder nodded his understanding, and they crept forward across the roof. They made no sound, but one of the men in front of them must have felt something. Perhaps a noise further away, and he looked around on instinct. Either way, he saw them, and his eyes widened. His mouth opened to shout a warning to the others, and the point of the throwing knife embedded in his throat. He clawed soundlessly at the gaping wound, his mouth opening and shutting as he tried to suck in air, fighting the panic and the agony. John-Wesley raced forward, still without making a sound, and grabbed him as he started to crumple.
He lowered him to the ground, and so far the others weren't aware they had unwelcome visitors. Ryder removed his blade from his victim, stabbed the point into his eye and through to his brain to make certain he was dead, and left him. The other three were chatting quietly to themselves, a low murmur enough to cover any small noise the SEALs made. They moved forward, hardly daring to breathe until they were close enough, and they struck.
Ryder was a magician, throwing the slim knife yet again, and this time it embedded into the man's mouth, going all the way through at an upward angle toward his brain. He fell, his lips wide, and his hand going up to snatch out the sharpened steel, as the SEAL made the final rush toward him, lashing out with a boot to trip him.
Nolan reached the third man just as he was turning. His knife held for a hard strike into his heart, but the turn ruined his aim, and he stabbed into his kidney instead. The mouth opened to scream with the terrible agony that had arrived out of the night, and Nolan struck again with the hard edge of his left hand. A withering strike to the throat ruined his larynx, and he followed up with a knee into the belly to drive the wind out of him.
He didn't let go, but as he fell, he followed him down. The guy should have been dead or in his death throes, but by an astonishing feat of strength, he managed to fight back. Grabbing at the knife to drag it out of his body. His hand gripped Nolan's hand, slippery with blood, and for long seconds they fought for possession of the blade. Nolan drew back his left hand again and pummeled it into the man's belly, again and again, repeatedly striking him. Then he drew back and smashed a hard twisting punch into his heart. The Syrian jerked once, jerked several times more, his body thrashing like a fish dragged from the water, and he fell back.
He removed his knife, wiped the blade on the guy’s shirt, and looked around. Ryder didn't need any help; both his opponents were down. They looked down into the street. The soldiers were still below, chatting to each other and smoking. They didn't give any sign they'd heard anything untoward.
"All we need now is a rope. If I have to climb down that side of the building, I swear to God I’ll give this up and find new employment. Something safe, like lion taming in a circus."
Ryder nodded. "That won't be necessary. The abseiling ropes are over there."
He pointed to where they'd climbed onto the roof. A few meters away four ropes lay coiled, ready to make a quick exit once they'd carried out the hit. "What about the rifle? That's a nice weapon, a Russian VSS Vintorez."
"We’ll leave it here, along with the bodies. Sooner or later, the Syrians will come up, and they'll work out what happened. Hopefully, they'll connect it with Youssef, although I don't expect he'll still be around by that time. Let’s go."
Going down was easy, and they simply abseiled down to the bottom out of sight of the soldiers. Will and the others were waiting for them.
"Any problems?" Custer asked. His expression filled with anxiety.
"Don't worry, Lt, you won't have to do any climbing. They're all dead. All we need now is to deal with Youssef."
"Is that legal?"
"We're inside Syria illegally, Custer. If you're worried about the law, I suggest you find the nearest police station and hand yourself in. Personally, I couldn't give a shit about what's legal and what isn't in this scum hole. All I care about is getting the job done. Complete the mission and go home to whatever's waiting for us when we get back."
Rachel looked at him. "Kyle, there’ll always be home for you in Israel. Isn’t that right, Colonel?"
He didn't look too happy. "Maybe.”
They returned to the Nissan, and he drove slowly back to the villa. It should have been quiet in the early hours of the morning, 03.00, but it wasn't. As they drove past the open gates, they saw several jeeps parked inside the courtyard and soldiers walking around, chatting excitedly.
Custer said, "They're getting ready to stage the coup after those guys have carried out the hit.”
Nolan didn't reply.
No Shit, Sherlock.
It was going to make the next stage difficult. At least thirty soldiers inside the wall, and that made an attack impossible. For the first time he regretted leaving that Vintorez sniper rifle on the roof of the parking lot. He could have found a good shooting stance on a nearby rooftop, waited for Youssef to show, and popped him with a single shot. The chances of accurate shooting with the Kalashnikovs they'd acquired were so low as to be not worthy of consideration. They’d have to try something else.
