by Sean Parnell
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said.
Steele spoke calmly, and moved to the couch, where he tugged a threadbare blanket from the arm and held it up. “I am not going to hurt you,” he said in Arabic. The woman let him drape the blanket across her chest, and then Steele turned to the children hiding under the table.
The boy was still watching, and Steele shot him a smile, trying to reassure him.
“There will be more coming,” Steele said, looking at the woman. He gestured to the door. “I have to go, do you understand?”
She nodded, her eyes wide and glistening like a saucer fresh from the sink.
“Do you have a back door?”
The woman opened her mouth but hadn’t yet found her voice.
“This way,” the little boy squeaked.
Steele followed his tiny figure through a doorway and nodded gratefully to the boy. The boy nodded back.
“Lock the door and take care of them, little man,” Steele said, tousling the boy’s black hair.
The back door was heavier than the front and didn’t quite fit in the frame. Near the jamb the latch had been reinforced from the last time someone had kicked it in, and someone had drilled a peephole near the top. It was a rough neighborhood for a single mother and her children, and Steele wished he could do more for them. He felt especially bad for the boy, because he knew what it was like growing up without a father.
He pulled the door open. It was clear and he had to go.
Chapter 25
West casually stepped out of the armored vehicle, holding the shotgun by the pistol grip. The van was totaled, the front end crumpled from the plow and radiator fluid evaporating off of the engine block in coils of sweet-smelling steam.
“That . . . was . . . awesome,” he said, admiring the devastation. “I have to get one of those.”
The passenger-side door was open and West heard an electronic dinging coming from the interior. A shot rang out. It was high and the bullet sailed harmlessly over his head. West brought the shotgun up and darted wide, angling away from the door. He saw a head appear, and kept pieing the corner.
His target was ducked down, trying to clear his jammed rifle. The man was bloody and dressed in a tan plate carrier, green combat pants, and no helmet.
“Hey,” West hissed.
The man looked up in time to see the barrel and then West fired. The 12-gauge tactical slug hit him in the top of the chest, right below the throat, and knocked him off his feet. He was dead before he hit the ground.
West moved closer to the van. A groan emanated from the interior, followed by glass cracking and the pop of the sliding latch. The door slid open and West swung the shotgun to bear. Bloody fingers curled around the edge of the door, followed by a curse.
“Shiiiiit,” the voice groaned from the effort of sliding the door open. West stepped closer, pushing the door open with the barrel. There was another SOG man there in the same tan plate carrier. He pulled himself into a seated position one-handed, a thick stream of blood pouring from the deep laceration in his face and splattering onto the street.
“Hey, buddy, you okay?” West asked.
The man looked up, eyes focusing on the shotgun first and then squinting up at West. He tried to raise the rifle hanging from the twisted sling around his neck but his right arm wouldn’t work and a look of confusion fell over his face.
“I’m no doctor, but I think it’s broken,” West said, nudging the bone with the barrel.
“Fuuuuck!” the man screamed. “Why did you do that?”
West shrugged. “Because I’m an asshole, I guess,” he said, yanking the man out of the van and throwing him on the ground. He dumped a slug into his face, feeling nothing, and then walked around to the driver’s side.
Meg was leaned forward, head resting against the wheel. For a moment West thought she might be dead, but then he saw the seat belt rising against her chest. He set the shotgun on the crumpled hood and yanked on the latch. The door was hung up, but gave way after a serious tug.
“You alive?”
“Uhhhhhh,” she groaned.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
West cut the seat belt with his knife and grabbed her by the hair. He was yanking Meg out of the van when she came to. She reached weakly for his hands, legs collapsing when he dropped her on the ground.
Gunfire erupted from the west, but he wasn’t worried. His men were already moving to set up a perimeter, and one of the trucks was already blocking the road.
“Take her inside, and tell Villars to buy us some time,” he ordered.
Chapter 26
It took Steele five minutes to reach the target location after leaving the house. He had to fight for every inch, and by the time he ducked into a burned-out shack just short of the Gatehouse there were four holes in the assault pack and the Mark XI was pockmarked with more bullet holes.
“This is the gift that keeps on giving.”
He went to work refilling the magazines, replacing expended frags, and mentally switching gears. Getting inside the Gatehouse wasn’t like knocking over a 7-Eleven; it was a hardened site with serious defenses. For all Steele knew it could have already fallen, so before making a move he needed to get a sense of the situation.
Inside the shredded assault pack was a Kevlar-reinforced case that housed a drone and a monitor he could strap to his wrist. The UAV, or unmanned aerial vehicle, was about the size of a clay pigeon, and when Steele pressed the flat button in the center, the drone began to hum.
He set it on the charred windowsill and waited for the screen to come alive. When it did, he was looking at an aerial photo of the Gatehouse. He used his finger to drag a geo fence around the target house. The red box marked the path he wanted the drone to take, and once he was satisfied, he hit the send button.
The UAV lifted silently from its perch on the window frame and hovered while linking with the satellites. Once it had a lock, the tiny drone whizzed toward the Gatehouse, its sensors and cameras sending real-time images back to the monitor.
The three guards at the gate and two armored vehicles blocking the street confirmed Steele’s fears. He was too late.
Someone had beat him to the Gatehouse. The UAV picked up an additional heat signature on the roof, and a closer look revealed a sniper. He had seen everything he needed to, and he typed a command to the drone before taking the monitor off his wrist and shoving it into his back pocket.
Time to separate the groupies from the rock stars.
Steele climbed on top of a wooden pallet, peering over the wall at the Gatehouse. It was a white one-story building, almost like a ranch house. Except the thick walls and inset windows that marked it as a structure designed to be defended indefinitely. Steele knew that a frontal assault wouldn’t work.
Let’s see if we can avoid a siege.
He threw the Claymore mine over the gate toward the men and their vehicle. In his back pocket the monitor vibrated, telling him that the drone was on its way to the roof.
“Gotta love technology,” he said, taking the detonator.
A moment later the drone exploded above the sniper and Steele pressed the button. The Claymore went off in a roar of smoke, spraying a thousand ball bearings in a lethal arc. Steele was close enough to hear them pinging off the armored vehicles and the screams of the men being cut down.
He stood up, set the H&K on top of the wall, and shot the first guard through the chest before he could lift the radio to his mouth. A second guard rushed toward the gate and Steele held the reticle on the leading edge of his body, dumping two rounds into his side. The man stumbled and went down, and as he turned toward Steele, Eric put the final round through his skull.
A rifle chattered near the corner of the building. Steele ducked and the bullets hammered into the wall, chipping pieces of brick into the air. The rounds cracked and whined over his head, and Steele waited a second before sticking the muzzle over the wall and returning fire.
He wasn’t trying to hi
t the man, just hold him in place so he could get to the other position. He jumped down, prepping a grenade while sprinting to the second pallet he’d set up ten feet to his left. He climbed up, yanking the pin before peering over. The guard fired two more shots at the wall and edged forward, his rifle trained on the last place he had seen a target.
Steele let go of the spoon and lobbed the frag in a high arc. It hit the gravel at the guard’s feet, and before it detonated, Steele threw his leg over the wall and jumped inside the compound.
Chapter 27
Meg came to slowly, and the first thing she heard was the voice.
It was gravelly and rough, almost like a smoker’s. “You alive?”
She tried to speak, but the words never left her brain. Strong hands dragged her out of the van and flung her on the ground. Then she was being carried. Meg’s senses came to slowly like a computer after a hard reset. She turned her head and pain sparked down her spine and into her shoulder, followed by a wave of nausea.
She saw the van smoking and the shattered body of her friend Colt. His face was gone and he was lying in a pool of blood. Then she passed out.
“Hey, wake up.”
She opened her eyes and the man stopped slapping her. Meg’s vision cleared slowly and she looked around the room. Where am I? There was something familiar about the white walls and stainless steel cabinets of the room. Then it hit her.
“How you feelin’, tiger?” The man asked, grabbing her face and flashing a penlight into her eyes.
When he pulled the light away, Meg saw that half of his face had the lizard look of a bad skin graft. She had seen burns like that in Iraq, but it was his eyes that chilled her.
“Like someone hit me with a truck.”
“You had a little fender-bender,” he said with a laugh.
The memories came back in flashes, in no discernible order. They were in the van, and then she was behind the wheel. Hot brass burning her skin. The man’s voice, followed by a gunshot.
“You killed them.”
“Not all of them. Some of those guys were already dead.”
“Who are you?”
“Where are my manners? Sorry. My name is Nathaniel West, and I need you to do something for me.”
“Go to hell.”
Nate grabbed a handful of Meg’s hair and roughly forced her head around. She was looking at him now, and West savored the grimace of pain that flitted across her face and the fear that sparked in her eyes. When she tried to jerk free he stuck a blade against her cheek and smiled at the involuntary flinch caused by the cold steel touching warm flesh.
“Listen, girlie, I don’t have a lot of time. You are going to do what I want or I will cut your fucking face off.”
Meg nodded, her shoulders sagging in defeat. Nate pulled the blade away, and she was ready for it, using her forehead to ram his face as hard as she could. His nose crunched, and hot blood hit her cheek.
Nate grunted and danced backward. “Whoo-wee, looks like we have a wildcat on our hands.”
His backhand came out of nowhere. Meg had never seen anyone move that fast, and after it landed, she fell out of the chair. Nate was on her in a second. He wrapped his scarred hands around her throat and began choking her. Meg grabbed at his fingers, trying to break them, or at least weaken his grip, but Nate was too strong. He squeezed so hard she thought her eyes were going to pop out.
“You think just because you are a woman I won’t fucking waste you like I did your team,” he hissed, squeezing tighter.
“Boss, we need her alive.”
The fire in Nate’s eyes dimmed, and just as suddenly as he had attacked, he let her go.
Meg fell to her knees, her vision narrowed at the edges from the restricted blood flow. Her throat felt tight and she coughed, trying to open it.
“Let’s get her up.”
The two men lifted her easily and pinned her arms to her sides before carrying her over to the computer. Meg saw the retina reader, and though she didn’t know what they wanted, she wasn’t going to give anything to them without a fight. She started thrashing, trying to break free.
“This isn’t going to work. Put her down,” Nate commanded.
Meg tensed, ready to fight, but never got the chance. Before her feet touched the tile Nate slammed his fist into her chest.
“Uuuuumph.”
She had been hit before, but never like this. The blow was paralyzing and she was pretty sure he had broken a rib. Her ankles were pushed together and she heard the zip ties click over them. Nate dragged her over to the computer and then hit her across the back of the neck. She felt fingers prying her eyes open and saw the reader in front of her face. There was a flash of light followed by a beep, and a robotic voice said, “Welcome, Ms. Harden. Access granted.”
A wall of the reinforced safe clicked open.
They dropped her on the floor, and helpless tears burned her eyes. You have to fight.
Meg kicked at the back of Nate’s leg, a halfhearted attempt, but it got his attention.
“Damn, you don’t know when to quit, do you?”
He stumbled, and she heard him laugh.
The man punched her hard in the side of the head. Meg felt the blow all the way down to her ankles, and heard her neck pop. Her scalp burned as he dragged her across the floor by her hair and threw her against the wall. He zip-tied her to a pipe with her hands above her head.
All she could feel was the burning in her wrists, when suddenly the roof shuddered violently.
Chapter 28
The explosion rolled up the man’s body, severed his legs, and threw him backward. Steele hit the ground and scanned the area for any more threats before engaging the two cameras attached to the building. He climbed over the wall and took off toward the entrance, rifle at the ready. The exterior door looked flimsy, and for a second he thought that he had gotten lucky.
He delivered a powerful kick aimed at the spot just above the knob, and quickly realized his error. The shock ran up his leg, rebounding him off the door.
“Son of a bitch,” he spat.
Steele backed off, angry with himself for the lapse in common sense.
This is a high-security area, do you really think they are just going to hang any old door in the frame?
He scanned the door, taking his time while looking for any markings that would tell him what he was working with. There was a small engraving of a shield near the hinges. He shook his head and began muttering to himself.
“Of course, a freakin’ Shield.”
Shield Security was renowned for their class 4 doors, which were used in embassies and banks all over the world. They were bulletproof and fireproof, and the glass rods running through the center made drilling the lock a nonstarter. Not that Steele had brought a drill with him anyway.
His plan was less time-consuming—he was going to blow the door through the wall.
Steele dropped his pack and dug out a canvas satchel with a cartoonish skeleton key drawn on the front. Inside was a one-pound block of C-4, a collection of metal strips cut at different angles, and a thick roll of Breachers Tape. He quickly assembled a charge, and then packed the C-4 around the door.
He ended up using more than expected, and when the charge was finally in place, it took up the entire pound of C-4.
“This is going to be hot.”
Steele backed up well past the acceptable “minimum safe distance” before slipping his index finger through the pull ring.
Safety first.
He ducked his head, opened his mouth to avoid blowing out his eardrums, and yanked on the pin.
The first sign that he had used way too much explosives was when he found himself sitting on his ass. The extra pressure had rebounded off the wall and knocked him over like a bowling pin.
“That might have been a bit much,” he grunted as he got to his feet and went to inspect the breach.
The explosion had blasted a hole in the wall big enough to ride a horse through and sent thick crack
s running up toward the roof. Steele coughed at the dust and smoke and stepped inside, bits of concrete falling on his shoulders. The interior was hazy because of the low ceiling that trapped the smoke close to the ground. He worked the room from left to right, flashing his rifle light on and off to cut through the haze. A fluorescent tube swung from its fixture and the particulates the explosion had stirred up tickled his throat. He waved his hand in front of his face, hoping to clear the air, and quickly fell victim to a coughing fit.
“Damn,” he croaked finally. “Where’s the water fountain?”
“Look out!” a woman screamed.
Steele immediately ducked into a crouch, searching for the voice or the threat. The bulb finally fell from its ballast, and he snapped his muzzle toward the tinkling glass, sweeping the safety with his thumb.
The muzzle flash blinked at the edge of his peripheral vision, erupting through the gloom like a yellow sun. He reacted, stepping to his left, rifle swinging on target, and firing. The rifle bucked in his hands and he staggered when a round hit his ballistic plate, sledgehammering him backward. His feet got tangled in the debris, his foot slipping on a broken tile, and he was falling.
Flat on his back, Steele knew the shooter had him, and the only thing that saved his life was the familiar cruuump that erupted near the wall.
Goddamn mortars.
Steele had been on the receiving end of mortar fire in Afghanistan more times than he cared to remember. He could take RPGs and 107mm rockets, because at least you could hear them coming, but the first hint that mortars were falling was when they exploded.
