by Jack Murphy
“My time with Dev. My Liquid Sky teams. I've seen operators come and go, believe me. Some of them were more talented than you, but it's like I told you back in Mauritius. You've got something extra that none of them had. You challenged the odds just because you could. You like having nowhere to run, don't you?”
“Whoever can make the biggest grandstand play. Guess my luck finally ran out.”
“You had a good run, Deckard. You got this far, after all. Where the fuck is Ramon and The Operator?”
Deckard said nothing.
“Exactly. You cut right through them. I'm beginning to think that the fucking cunt is the only smart one of us. Nadeesha pulled a fade. She's probably sipping a Mai Tai and having herself a good ride with a Cabana boy on some island by now.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“I don't get you Deckard, I really don't,” Bill said with a frown. “You had a seat at the table. It's like everywhere you go you piss everyone off and burn all your bridges. I'm not even going to ask why because the truth is I don't even care.”
“So what are we doing here?”
“I'm going to take your scalp, Deckard. I'm even going to tell you exactly what we are doing so that it will motivate you to cut the shit and hand over that AK of yours. Tiger is about to leave with the bomb. He is going to detonate it once he gets near the Umayyad mosque. The moose limbs are finishing up their morning prayer, so now we're going to help them go and find Allah.”
Tiger had a shit-eating grin on his face as Bill patted him on the back. The Chechen was joined by several other Nusra fighters who came down the steps behind them. Bill gave him the thumbs up.
“Make it happen Tiger.”
“Insha'Allah,” the Chechen commander replied. With that, he disappeared with three gunmen out the side door that Deckard had spotted.
“So here is the deal Deckard,” Bill told him. “You get to square off with me. Bone to bone to see who is bigger. First, you drop that weapon; then, I call off the dogs and it will be just you and me. If you somehow get past me, maybe you've got a fifty-fifty shot of catching up with Tiger before he detonates the weapon. Then maybe you've got a slim chance at stopping him. Who knows, crazier shit has happened. So which is it? Me or the firing squad?”
Deckard depressed the magazine release on his AK with his thumb and rocked the magazine forward. Dropping the magazine, he racked the charging handle, ejecting the round from the chamber. Finally, he dropped the rifle and let it clatter to the stone floor at his feet.
“That's my boy,” Bill said with a wicked smile. Reaching under his shirt, he removed his hatchet from the holster on his waist. “Been carrying this since my third trip to A-stan. I made a promise up in them mountains. Been carrying it out every day since. Going to carry your scalp out in a few minutes, Deckard.”
Deckard looked down at the hatchet. It was the same one that Bill has used on their mission in Afghanistan and then again at the military outpost they had hit the night they infilled into Syria. The hatchet was more like a miniature battle axe. He had heard of other Dev Group operators carrying them. They were handmade by a world-famous edged weapons specialist and custom engraved with SEAL Team Six squadron insignia.
The hatchet was designed for close-in combat. Under a foot long, it was coated in black no-glare finish and had a nasty looking spike on the back side of the head. How many ears, scalps, dicks, and fingers had been taken by this particular hatchet was impossible to know.
Bill smiled at Deckard as his fist tightened around the hatchet and waved away the gunmen standing above them. True to his word, the gunmen faded back inside.
Reaching for his own edged weapon, Deckard yanked free Ramon's karambit from its Klydex sheath at his hip.
“Nice. You looted that off Ramon's body? You are a cold fucker, Deckard. I can't figure out your hangups. You're just like us. My initial assessment was correct, you're a perfect fit for Liquid Sky. Too bad you sold out.”
Now it was Deckard's turn to smile. Bill thought that someone was cutting him a paycheck. Money was the only terms that he could understand.
“I hope they paid you well.”
“Tired of listening to you talk.”
With that, Bill surged forward. Deckard kicked the Kalashnikov laying at his feet into the air. Dropping the rifle in front of his feet had been a deliberate maneuver. The metal receiver spun into the air, distracting Bill as he charged toward Deckard like a rhinoceros. The rifle hit Bill in the face. With his nose bloodied, Bill reached out to grab Deckard while the other brought the hatchet up to swing down on him.
Deckard's hands moved in a blur of motion. The razor sharp edge of the karambit ended up clawing into Bill's inner wrist. Pulling up with his knife hand drew the hook of the karambit's blade, and Bill's wrist towards him. Meanwhile, he grabbed hold of Bill's hand and bent it towards his opponent, trapping Bill in a bloody wrist lock.
Bill was nearly driven down to his knees by Deckard's surprise counter. His flailed with the hatchet, Deckard pivoting away at the last moment, the blade passing an inch from his head. Then the hatchet came flailing back towards him again; this time he was unable to avoid it, and the metal spike on the reverse side of the weapon slammed into Deckard's ribs.
Knocked off his feet by the blast to his abdomen, Deckard rolled across the courtyard. Bill managed to struggle back to his feet, one bloody hand hanging at his side. Deckard was struggling to breath as he held on to the side of the water fountain and pulled himself up. He didn't have a punctured lung, but the hatchet had left a ragged tear in his side and probably cracked a rib.
“Deckard, you cocksucker.”
The two combatants tightened their grip on their weapons. There was no doubt in either of their minds that one of them wasn't walking away from this fight. They circled each other, looking for an opening to strike. Bill had an oil leak; he was trailing blood across the courtyard from his wrist. Deckard took several deep breaths, wincing at the pain while trying to force oxygen into his system.
Bill swung first. The hatchet came at him in a blur, the trajectory aimed right at Deckard's face. Deckard sidestepped the attack, then immediately had to backpedal to avoid Bill's follow-up attack. The evil looking black hatchet came at him again and again. More blood sprayed from Bill's wrist with each swing, splattering across Deckard's chest.
The former SEAL Team Six operator was fast, faster than someone his size should be. He had training and knew how to use his weight to his advantage. Experience in martial arts and military hand-to-hand combat made his every movement seem smooth and rehearsed, because they were. Deckard was avoiding his attacks, but only because his opening gambit had injured Bill and left him at a disadvantage.
Like The Operator, Bill was someone that Deckard could not let get ahold of him, or he would be taken apart in short order. One more screw up, like the blow he already took from the hatchet, and this fight was over. Bill would be walking out the door with Deckard's scalp in his hand.
The Umayyad mosque was only three city blocks away and Tiger was already on the way with the chemical weapon in tow. Deckard knew he had to bypass this fight somehow, or otherwise defeat Bill in the next sixty seconds, or it would be impossible for him to catch up with the Chechen and prevent him from gassing thousands of Muslims on their way home from their morning salat.
Bill swung the hatchet again, backing Deckard closer to the wall behind them. The former SEAL grunted in anger; then, came at him again, slashing the hatchet diagonally one way and then the next. Deckard moved in to stab Bill in the forearm with his fighting knife, but he was a fraction of a second too slow. Bill brought the spike on the axe behind Deckard's knee and forced him down, his knee smashing into the stone floor. He was now looking up at Bill as the hatchet came swinging down towards his throat.
Deckard rolled away at the last moment, the hatchet cutting through empty space instead of his neck. Before he could fully get to his feet, Bill came at him again. Instead of trying to parry or dodge the a
ttack, Deckard stepped into it.
The fight was over one second later.
As the hatchet came towards him, Deckard blocked the attack with his forearm and brought the Karambit straight up in a vertical slashing motion. The claw of the knife cut through Bill's bicep like a hot knife through butter. Ducking under the hatchet, Deckard then slid the knife across Bill's stomach. The knife separated skin and abdominal muscles, partially disemboweling him.
Without missing a beat, Deckard dashed towards the door and blasted right through it, the wooden panels smashing on the wall as he flung himself through. Bill was out of the fight and irrelevant to his objective. He couldn't spare a single second on him now. The passageway was so tight that he had to turn sideways at times as he fought his way towards the streets. Finally, he came to another door, booted it open and was back outside in the sunlight.
Now the streets were bustling with people. He still held the karambit in his fist, having forgotten it was there as his eyes swept the street for the Nusra goons. The entrance to the Al-Hamidiyeh market was right in front of him. From scanning the map on his phone earlier, he knew that the market was a commercial ribbon of shops on both sides of the street.
Once inside the market, it was a straight shot for five-hundred meters, right to the mosque.
Deckard forced his way through the throngs of people and into the entrance of the market. Several saw the blood splattered across his shirt and stepped aside of their own volition. Inside the market, Deckard turned right. With the arched roof reaching across the market, it basically formed a long tunnel all the way to the exit where the mosque was. The corrugated metal roof was held up by an iron support structure. Deckard could literally see the light at the end of the tunnel, some five-hundred meters away. He took off at a dead sprint.
His legs felt wobbly, his arms slightly out of tune with his body as they reciprocated with his legs. He was over twenty-four hours without sleep and had been in combat off and on for days. His body would charge with adrenaline for a fight and then dump it, leaving him drained. Now he steeled himself for one final push to the finish line.
Shops filled with spices, produce, and clothing passed on both sides and became a blur as Deckard's long strides ate up the ground in front of him. The daylight at the end of the tunnel was growing as he got closer, his lungs struggling to fill with air because of the throbbing pain in his side.
Suddenly a police officer blew his whistle and jumped out in front of Deckard. His body reacted before his mind even fully processed what was happening. The karambit was still in his fist. Deckard had his trigger finger looped through the hole at the end of the karambit's handle, and used it like a set of brass knuckles to plow the policemen in the jaw with. The cop went down and stayed down. He would wake up in the hospital, but at least he would wake up.
Deckard had barely even slowed down and vaulted over a fruit stand as he continued to run towards the mosque. He dodged several more pedestrians as he reached the end of the market. Suddenly, he stood in the remains of the Temple of Jupiter. The Roman ruin had columns and arches that formed colonnades on both sides of the walkway. There on the walkway was four merchants pushing a wooden cart covered in children's toys on display and for sale. One of the merchants had a long black beard.
Tiger.
The four Nusra fighters turned towards the sound of the commotion as Deckard dashed towards them. Civilians scattered in all directions. About fifty meters from the Jupiter temple was the Umayyad mosque.
As Deckard crashed into the nearest Nusra fighter, the jihadist held up his arm to try to defend against the attack. Deckard reached over the arm and snaked the karambit under his jaw on the far side of his neck. He then used his forearm to push against the side of the jihadist's face while simultaneously drawing the hook of the karambit across his throat. The Filipino fighting knife cut across the jihadist's neck at a depth of about two inches. He dropped to the ground, clutching his throat.
His buddy saw what was going on and jumped into the fray, grabbing Deckard by the wrist to try to prevent him from doing any more damage with his knife hand. Deckard simply reversed the knife around and hooked the blade over his opponents wrist, slashing through the flesh and breaking his grip. He maintained pressure on the forearm and locked it in with his weak hand while slashing the jihadist's triceps muscle and finishing by slashing one of his eyeballs.
By this time, Tiger had backed away from the cart and began reaching for a pistol he kept in concealment under his shirt. The remaining Nusra fighter was doing the same. Deckard's knife hand shot out and hooked the karambit into Tiger's elbow, getting him in a vicious arm-lock that tore through his skin and the ligaments underneath. The other Nusra fighter almost had his pistol out by now, so Deckard punched Tiger in the forehead with the metal loop at the end of his knife and quickly diverted his attention to the other would-be gunman.
The pistol had barely cleared leather when Deckard stepped into the attack, coming up under what would have been the gun arm, forced the Nusra fighter into a bent over position, and slashed his fingers. The pistol dropped to the ground, and Deckard slashed his throat.
Tiger had recovered enough to wipe some of the blood flowing down his face away and grab his own pistol. Deckard went for a grab while pivoting sideways. Tiger squeezed off a shot with the Glock that chiseled into one of the Roman pillars behind Deckard. Before he could get off another shot, Deckard slammed the hook edge of the Karambit into his inner elbow and forced him down, then used it to slash through his fingers and pry the gun out of his grasp. Finally, Deckard went in low, sinking the Karambit into Tiger's groin and ripping upwards.
The Filipino blade carved the Chechen open from groin all the way up to his chest, opening him like a Christmas turkey.
All four of the terrorists were now dead or dying.
Deckard turned his attention to the cart they had been pushing. Ripping through the stuffed animals and plastic toys, the facade on the top of the cart easily came away and crashed to the ground. Inside was what Deckard had been looking for. The bomb that they had pulled out of a bunker in Libya; the chemical weapon was laying in the bottom of the cart.
He cursed as he looked down at the LED screen attached to the side of the weapon. There was 29 seconds left on the clock. The Nusra fighters had intended to martyr themselves. The market and the area just outside the mosque were now filled with people. The results of deploying a chemical weapon here would kill thousands of people.
Leaning over the cart, Deckard reached inside and quickly began punching in the activation/deactivation code that Bill had briefed them on before they left Turkey. He could already hear police whistles behind him. He hit the enter button, then the eight digit code number, and finally pressed enter a second time.
The red numbers on the display screen froze at twelve seconds.
41
Pat watched as a car approached in the distance.
It was late afternoon. The city of Homs was burning. Again.
The mercenaries had managed to fight their way out of the city and find a defendable position to bunker down in until they were extracted. Pat had also sent out a few scouting parties to try to find a place where they could safely dispose of chemical weapons. Relatively safe at least, where they wouldn't kill anyone. There would be environmental damage, but that was the least of Syria's worries right now.
At the moment, they had sent out a reception party to take control of the second chemical weapon. Pat and a half dozen Kazakh mercenaries were in fixed security positions watching their perimeter while Nikita was in overwatch, using the scope on his sniper rifle to watch for enemy movements. Pat watched as the approaching vehicle swerved a few times and drove a little erratically.
Pat stood up and flashed a red-lens flashlight. It was their agreed upon far recognition signal. The driver flashed his headlights three times in response. The car slowed down before coming to a stop in a cloud of dust. The driver's side door creaked open. Deckard looked like he was s
truggling just to get out of the vehicle. Finally, he stood while bracing himself against the side of the car.
“You okay?” Pat asked.
Deckard looked at him like he was a total asshole.
“I've been better.” His voice was low and dry.
“The weapon?”
Deckard shook his head.
“But it's disarmed and out of terrorist hands. I had to escape and evade after deactivating it. The Syrian police were right on top of me. I did see them take possession of the bomb though. Now it is on them if they want to cover the whole thing up or exploit it for propaganda purposes.”
“That could get ugly.”
“Real ugly, but not as ugly as thousands of dead civilians would have been. If the regime puts footage of the bomb in TV news, it would be a huge propaganda victory for them, but mostly just an embarrassment for the international community rather than World War Three. Besides, the bomb was made by the Russians rather than America, so I doubt they will go that route.”
“The 50% solution. I'm impressed that we even managed that.”
“You and me both.”
“We found a cave nearby. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Detonating the second bomb is the only way to be sure that it won't be recycled for use by the rebels down the line. Technically, even the bomb that the government now has could have the electronics torn out of it and be re-used, but they already have a chemical weapons stockpile. If they want to use weapons of mass destruction, then one mustard gas bomb isn't going to change anything. Setting off the other bomb in a controlled manner ensures that it can never be used again.”
Pat noticed that Deckard was slurring some of his words. He was obviously exhausted and winced a little each time he took a deep breath.
“We need to have one of our medics take a look at you. You're pretty beat up. But there is something else I want you to see. We captured handful of government loyalists who have been running around the battlefield murdering civilians. Death squad shit designed to intimidate the locals into aligning with government forces.”
