Oath of Honor

by Matthew Betley

  Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam!

  Bullets tore into the metal skin of the truck, which lurched forward. It gained momentum, oblivious to the superficial damage the rounds had caused, and shot down the ramp through the raised doorway. More bullets followed it out to no avail.

  The two HRT operators ceased firing and converged on the remaining truck, which had been ominously left behind.

  “I don’t like this,” Special Agent Chaney said. “The deputy director’s been hit. I don’t know how badly, but we killed one of them.”

  As if on call, Special Agent Marcus and Mike appeared from behind the equipment.

  “We took out one, but Champion took a round in the upper leg,” Lance said. “He’s going to need some attention in the next few minutes, if he wants to keep it. Let’s open this thing up and see what we’re dealing with.”

  The two men opened the doors and were greeted by a small laptop connected to a series of wires that led to several small blocks of white putty. That’s C-4, Lance thought. The computer and explosives sat on top of a blue drum. Several more blue and yellow drums were scattered in the back of the truck, and a digital red clock counted down: 2:55 . . . 2:54 . . . 2:53 . . .

  Special Agent Marcus let out a small gasp.

  Mike reached down and grabbed the radio on his belt, struggling to lift it to his mouth as his strength diminished with the blood loss. Eugene was shouting, but Mike wasn’t listening.

  “Eugene, I need you to listen to me. There’s no time,” Mike said, and the frantic voice went silent. Good man. Knows when to shut up and listen. “There’s a white laundry truck coming your way, and you have to stop it at all costs. Do you understand me? It contains a bomb, and if it gets out, it will kill a whole lot of people. Do whatever you have to do to, but don’t let it leave. Kill the driver. Whatever it takes. I’m sending two of my agents to help you, but it’s going to be up to you first.”

  There was a pause. Please God, let him be brave enough to do this thing.

  “I got it,” Eugene said with resignation in his voice. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “You’re a good man, Eugene. Once a Marine, always a Marine. Good luck,” Mike said, and handed the radio to Lance as he sat down on the floor and studied Matt Stillman’s body lying ten feet away facedown on the floor. He’d been shot twice in the back.

  “Jesus, Mike, you okay?” Lance asked.

  2:33 . . . 2:32 . . .

  “There’s no time to be thinking about me,” Mike said urgently. “Take Chaney and go help Eugene. Marcus can tend to Champion. I’m going to take care of the truck.”

  “How?” Lance asked, wondering what the hell his boss and longtime friend was thinking.

  Special Agent Marcus handed Lance the keys to the Suburban parked out front.

  Mike said, “Don’t worry about it. It’s my problem. Your problem is those two assholes in the truck heading toward Eugene. He needs your help more than I do.”

  Lance hesitated for a moment, concern apparent on his face, and Mike saw it.

  “It’s not a request, old friend. Stop wasting time and go help that kid,” Mike said.

  Lance Foster looked at his boss and friend one last time, nodded, and turned to Special Agent Chaney. “You heard the man. Let’s go.” As an afterthought, he turned toward Mike and said, “See you when I see you.”

  “Most definitely, brother,” Mike said, uncertain when that would be.

  The two HRT members sprinted down the ramp into the afternoon sun.

  2:14 . . . 2:13 . . .

  “Help me up, Special Agent Marcus,” Mike said.

  The young agent leaned down and lifted him to his feet, silently struggling with his size.

  “Thanks. I know that’s not easy. We don’t have much time. Help me to the driver’s door. We need to move fast,” Mike asked.

  As she assisted him with the short walk, she said, “Thank you, sir. You saved my life back there. I’d be dead right now if you hadn’t seen him. I only turned to look forward for a second.”

  Almost at the truck’s cab, Mike looked down at her. “You’re welcome, but I got lucky. You have great instincts, even the way you reacted after I knocked you aside. But sometimes luck is what wins the day. Regardless, I’m glad I turned around. You’re a good agent, and we need all of them we can get.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Special Agent Marcus said.

  They reached the cab’s door, and Mike let out an audible, “Thank God.”

  “What is it?” Special Agent Marcus asked.

  “The keys. I figured they might be here since we interrupted their party and they left so quickly. Like I said—luck.”

  “What now?”

  “Now, Special Agent Marcus, I’m going to ask you to do something you’re not going to want to do. But just so we’re clear, no matter what you say, I’m going to get my way,” Mike said, a genuine smile broadening his paling face.

  Special Agent Sheila Marcus suddenly experienced real anguish for the first time that day as she listened to her boss issue his instructions.

  CHAPTER 46

  Eugene was afraid. Afghanistan had been one thing, but at least there he’d been surrounded by fellow Marines, his comrades and true brothers-in-arms. They were the real reasons he or anyone else who served during wartime stayed in the fight. It might have started out as a war against the Taliban, but by the time Eugene arrived in country, he wasn’t sure what the strategic objective was. But no matter how bad things had been—and they’d been pretty bad—he’d always had his fellow Marines at his side.

  Those thoughts of his friends, especially the ones who hadn’t made it home, finally spurred him into action.

  He looked out the rear window of the guardhouse and saw the white truck still several hundred yards away, picking up speed and raising dust as it accelerated toward him. Instinctively, he lowered the barriers on both sides, although he knew it wouldn’t do anything to slow the truck down. His only shot was the white Ford F-350 Super Duty pickup assigned to the guardhouse.

  He exited the shack and dashed to the truck, catching a glimpse of his target, now less than one hundred and fifty yards away. This is going to be close. Come on, God, help me now.

  The pickup was parked perpendicularly to the back of the guardhouse, facing the incoming lane. His boss had told him that position would make it easier for him to respond to an incident inside the compound. And this is one big fucking incident.

  Hoping to conceal his movement, he entered the truck through the passenger side. Whoever these guys were, he was counting on the fact that they were in a hurry.

  He slid into the driver’s seat and secured himself as tightly as possible with the seat belt. What he was planning was going to hurt. I hope the air bag doesn’t break my nose, he thought absently as he started the ignition, shifted the powerful Ford, applied the brake, and waited.

  Seventy-five yards . . . sixty yards . . .

  The truck barreled toward him in the outbound lane. He glanced down at the Glock in his right hand, as if its presence could reassure him. He hadn’t fired it in weeks, although he cleaned it regularly because of the sand and dust from the desert environment.

  Thirty yards . . . twenty-five . . .

  He could see two men in the front seat. He experienced a brief flush of fear when he saw that the passenger held some type of submachine gun.

  Great, Eugene thought. Oh well, fuck it. Gotta die sometime. Might as well make it count. Semper fi, motherfuckers.

  Eugene Wabash, Afghanistan veteran, former Marine, college student, and security guard released the brake and slammed the gas pedal all the way to the floor. The pickup truck responded instantly, and the vehicle shot backward, rocketing toward the white laundry truck. He’d timed it perfectly, and the V-8 engine closed the final few feet in seconds.

  The bed of the pickup truck slammed into the driver’s door with a tremendous crunch, and Eugene was flung against the back of the seat, his head crashing into the headrest. He
kept the pedal to the floor, and the engine roared, gaining traction as the pickup was pulled backward by the momentum of the laundry truck. The two vehicles merged together for a split second as they crashed through the lowered outbound barrier, locked in battle, driver’s sides adjacent to each other yet facing opposite directions. Eugene looked out his window and up into the truck.

  An angry-looking man stared at him, shouting words he couldn’t hear and didn’t care about. Eugene raised the Glock and opened fire. Go fuck yourself.

  The first bullet tore a hole in the man’s left forearm, and Eugene was rewarded with a look of pain and surprise. The second round caught the driver in the shoulder, but it was the third round that ended the one-way conversation. It struck him under the left side of his jaw, and he slumped forward onto the steering wheel.

  Just as quickly, the two vehicles separated, and the pickup truck ground to a halt, facing backward in the outbound lane as the white panel truck drove off the pavement and bounced across the rocky terrain before stopping.

  Eugene gripped the wheel of the Ford tightly, feeling adrenaline course through him. Okay. You’re alive. You got one of them. Now get the hell out of the car. You’re a sitting duck.

  He exited the vehicle and stumbled to a knee to steady himself against the effects of the impact and the blow to the back of his head. He heard the grinding and squeaking of metal and realized what it was a moment too late.

  Move! his mind screamed, as he heard the laundry truck’s passenger side door open. Eugene scrambled to his feet as the second man appeared at the rear of the truck. He was covered in dark blood that contrasted harshly with the white overalls he wore, but it was the black submachine gun in his hands that captured Eugene’s attention.

  The man opened fire, and Eugene scrambled around the front of the pickup, scurrying for cover. Bullets punched holes in the skin of the truck, shattered glass, and punctured the tires.

  Miraculously unscathed, he hid behind the wheel well and waited for the barrage to end. When it did, Eugene stood up, his Glock searching for a target. The man had ducked behind the truck. He must be reloading.

  He crouched down and saw the man’s legs and figured, Why not? Moving to a prone position, he obtained a clear sight picture and opened fire with three methodical shots.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  The first two shots kicked up dirt, but the third struck the man in his left ankle, and he fell to the ground. The submachine gun was still in his hands, and he looked toward Eugene with pure outrage, opening fire from beneath the truck.

  Eugene scrambled back behind the wheel well once again and waited for the second fusillade to finish. Might as well just wait it out until the cavalry arrives. You did what he asked—stopped the truck and killed the driver. Just keep an eye on this fucker and wait, for God’s sake.

  The additional bullets that tore into the truck around him reinforced the idea. He prayed that help was close.

  CHAPTER 47

  Mike Benson didn’t have much time left—forty seconds remained on the timer of the enormous truck bomb he was driving.

  Initially, he’d thought he’d be okay, but as soon as he’d sent Lance and Special Agent Chaney after the second bomb, he started to experience the first real symptoms of shock—weakness, shallow breathing, and severe chills.

  There just wasn’t enough time to treat the gunshot wound, which he was fairly certain was fatal. The entire inside of his bulletproof vest was soaked in blood, and his wet shirt stuck to his chest.

  He’d made the best decision he could under the circumstances—he’d ordered Special Agent Marcus to tend to Special Agent Champion. He didn’t want any casualties other than his own on this operation. Champion was his responsibility, and he felt the weight of that burden on a scale that could only be counterbalanced with his own life.

  Just because he was dying, he didn’t have to go out with a whimper. He might be removed from the field as was typical of a deputy director of the FBI, but he knew how to fight like the hardest of men. He just concealed it a little more concertedly, only letting the vengeance he felt toward those who would harm the innocent shine through when needed.

  And now was one of those times, he thought as he drove the truck down the ramp and sped under the raised door into the midafternoon, high-desert sun. There was only one place that might contain the enormous explosion that was about to consume the facility—the quarry.

  He pressed the accelerator to the floor, and his thoughts turned first to Corey, then to his Uncle Jake, and finally to Logan. It was Logan who concerned him most. His friend was fearless, but he struggled with his demons, ghosts from Fallujah and the burning anger that threatened to tear him apart if he allowed it.

  He believed there might not be another person on the planet quite like Logan West. He was as loyal and righteous as any man could be in today’s world. Mike knew that the anger that Logan harbored wasn’t truly anger or mere frustration. It was blinding outrage at the wicked things perpetrated by evil men upon the innocent.

  And my death is going to send him on a personal crusade. In spite of himself, Mike smiled. God help the bastards who’d orchestrated the events of the past few days because Logan’s going to find them and make them pay like the Grim Reaper himself. He just hoped Logan wasn’t consumed in the process. He had faith in his friend, though, and that was all he could hope for as he faced his own mortality, barreling purposefully toward his demise.

  He focused as the edges of his vision dimmed and the huge vastness of the quarry expanded in his view. He was less than forty yards from the edge of the pit. Almost time, Mike.

  The truck rumbled forward, devouring the dirt and gravel below it.

  Mike cleared his thoughts, not wanting to leave the world with a cluttered mind. He felt the clarity he’d heard survivors of near-death experiences describe, and he watched breathlessly as the edge of the quarry came into view, revealing the vast hole in the earth below that seemed to drop endlessly.

  And then it happened—a part of his mind rebelled, refusing to yield to the oncoming inevitability. It’s just like Thelma and Louise. No fucking way I’m doing that. Life was precious, and if he could buy himself some extra seconds of finite time, he would. In fact, he knew exactly what he would do with those seconds.

  He grabbed the handle of the door and pushed it open as the speeding bomb closed in on its final destination. Here goes nothing. Logan would be proud. With a full heart and clarity of mind, Mike Benson leapt from the cab of the truck and wondered which would kill him first—the gunshot wound or the fall at fifty miles per hour.

  CHAPTER 48

  Eugene was growing impatient. From his nearly prone vantage point, he couldn’t tell if help was on the way. The FBI had told him they’d be here in a minute or two, but not knowing what his enemy was up to on the other side of the truck was maddening. Since the onslaught of bullets had momentarily stopped, he decided to risk it and leaned down further to get a glimpse of the man he’d shot.

  He never got the chance because at that moment, the world went from relative quiet—as quiet as the aftermath of a gun and vehicular battle could be—to a roaring soundscape of noise and chaos.

  Ba-booooooom!

  Eugene jerked upright, his attention fully gripped by the enormous dust cloud rising from the direction of the quarry into the sky in a dark, roiling mass. Small rocks fell onto the road as a hazy darkness swept across the facility, the sun blotted out by the debris cloud. The shockwave reverberated through and across the facility. True terror suddenly gripped him as he thought, What the hell did these guys put in the trucks?

  A low sound built in intensity as a secondary rumbling shook the earth. Oh no—an earthquake . . .

  The ground trembled beneath his feet, and he stood up from behind the truck, stepping away in case it suddenly lurched to the side. His irrational fear gave way to reason when he saw a secondary cloud of dirt burst into the air from the quarry, and the tremors stopped.

  It’s not a
n earthquake, you moron. The first explosion triggered a landslide in the pit. Christ . . .

  Transfixed by the dust-filled sky, Eugene temporarily forgot he’d just been involved in a shootout, and he failed to notice the wounded man limping and dragging a bloody ankle from around the back of the truck, the black submachine gun raised in one outstretched arm. The man reached the middle of the road, his movement masked by the echoes from the landslide, hatred raging across his face.

  Eugene was oblivious to the fact that he had only seconds to live.

  Honk-honk-honk-honk!

  Eugene looked around as the harsh barks of a car horn broke his trance, and he remembered where he was. Eugene realized his fatal mistake, and he spun around, all thought channeled into one—where is he?

  The wounded Chinese gunman had him dead to rights. He smiled at Eugene through a mask of pure rage as he pointed his submachine gun toward Eugene.

  Way to go, Eugene, he thought. There was nothing left to do but wait for the man to pull the trigger.

  Suddenly, a black Suburban shot out from behind the guardhouse. Its speed and momentum drew Eugene’s attention to it. He was peripherally aware that the man in white overalls had turned toward it also, identifying the menacing SUV as a more immediate threat.

  Eugene cringed reflexively as the man opened fire with the submachine gun. Bullets ricocheted off the glass and tore into the hood, but they didn’t slow the vehicle.

  Unable to escape thanks to his wounded ankle, the Chinese operative screamed in fury as he fired pointlessly at the SUV.

  The scream and gunfire were cut short as the Suburban struck the man at more than sixty miles an hour.

  Eugene watched in horror and amazement as the grille of the Suburban shattered the man’s pelvis and two legs, driving through him rather than over him. His upper torso was smashed against the hood of the car from the violent force of the collision, and a spray of blood washed across the windshield.