Oath of Honor

by Matthew Betley

  The man swung the pipe in a diagonal slash, and Amira recognized the move for what it was—a feint. Chief Sorenson dodged backward, but the man pressed the attack. He turned to his left, planted his right foot with the heel facing Chief Sorenson, and kicked straight backward with his left leg.

  The move was so fast Chief Sorenson never had a chance to deflect it, and the blow caught him squarely in the sternum, driving him backward against a metal bench. His back arched against the table, and as he rebounded forward, the man lashed out with the pipe, swinging in an arc and landing flush on the left side of the SEAL’s jaw. Chief Sorenson’s body went limp, and he fell to the floor, unconscious.

  She knew the SEALs were experts in hand-to-hand combat, but this one was too fast for them. They never had a chance.

  The man—still unaware of Amira’s presence—stepped over Chief Sorenson’s body and raised the pipe.

  “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Amira said coldly.

  The man’s head whipped around, and hard brown eyes burning with fury fixed on her, ignoring the SIG SAUER pointed in his direction.

  “You,” he said in perfect English. “From the airfield. You killed one of my men. He was an excellent soldier and communications officer.”

  “Then he should’ve been faster,” Amira said. “You shouldn’t have sent him. So his death’s really on you,” Amira replied.

  “Who are you?” he said in a low growl. “I know you’re CIA, a trained assassin, but that’s all.”

  The question caught Amira off guard more than any blow could have. There’s no way he should have any idea who I am or what I do.

  “We know about you, as well, although we don’t have your name,” Amira said, and then smiled coyly. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

  “You American women are so arrogant, always overstepping your position, assuming you’re equal,” the man said, and scoffed, lowering the pipe.

  “Is that so?” Amira said. “Well. I have an idea, handsome. My name’s Amira, and why don’t you and I debate the politics of gender discrimination the old-fashioned way—with our fists.”

  “If you insist,” he said as a sinister smile formed on his face. “I am Gang. It will be the last name you hear as you scream for mercy.”

  “If you say so, Gang,” Amira said, and suddenly held the SIG SAUER up toward the ceiling and placed it on a wooden table beside her. “But you’re really going to have to work for it.”

  She withdrew the stilettos from their sheaths and twirled them in front of her, moving closer to Gang.

  “They’re beautiful,” Gang said. “At least now I know what you used at the airfield.”

  Gang threw the pipe to his side and unsheathed a black fighting knife with a pointed blade and serrated edge.

  “Fair is fair,” Amira said.

  “Enough talk,” Gang said, and gripped the knife in his right hand, the blade pointed up.

  Amira didn’t respond but only moved closer, the left stiletto held in a standard grip, similar to Gang’s; however, the right one was held with the blade angled downward. She’d found that mastering this technique—although incredibly difficult at first—afforded her the ability to both puncture and slash.

  “Can I please shoot him and call it a day?” a voice said from her left, interrupting the standoff. Cole Matthews had arrived on the ground floor, his M4 trained on Gang’s head. “I’ll take out his legs. We need him for intelligence.”

  Gang glared at him, hatred oozing from every pore.

  “Absolutely not. No matter what happens. Do you understand me?” Amira said, keeping her eyes on her enemy.

  “If you insist,” Cole said.

  “Good,” Amira said, and returned her attention to Gang. “And remember, we don’t actually need to get information from this one. We still have Henry.”

  Gang’s eyes changed, widening at the mention of one of his men.

  “Yes, Gang. We still have your man. And guess what? He’s coming with us,” Amira said. “I’m sure by the time we’re done with him, we’ll know everything about you.”

  “But this bastard’s the ringleader,” Cole said. “He’s the one we need.”

  “I agree,” Amira said, “but there’s no way he’s going to come with us of his own free will. Isn’t that so?”

  The words struck a chord in the young leader, and he responded as only the youthfully arrogant know how—with action.

  He sprang at Amira, the blade whistling through the air, as Cole stood by and watched, honoring his promise and thinking, I swear she’s Logan’s long-lost sister.

  CHAPTER 54

  Logan reached the struggling figure of Namir Badawi as the man wrestled to untangle himself from the traditional robe he wore over his outfit. Splashing as he flailed to stay afloat, he didn’t hear Logan paddling toward him until it was too late.

  Namir lifted the robe successfully over his head and pushed it aside, setting it adrift. He looked around to determine his proximity to shore and was greeted with a solid punch to the face.

  Pain shot through Namir’s head, and he felt the bridge of his nose break. What in Allah’s name? An arm the thickness of a tree branch snaked around his neck, and all thought was interrupted as the oxygen supply to his brain was swiftly cut.

  “You’ve been shot,” a voice whispered calmly into his ear. “You’re coming with us, Mr. Badawi. If I were you, I wouldn’t waste your energy fighting. You’re going to need it.”

  The meaning was clear, but Namir struggled harder, straining to see the face of his attacker. Green eyes flashed by the left side of his face, striking in their clarity and intensity, and a menacing visage briefly appeared in front of him as water splashed over his mouth. Who is this devil with the eyes of a reptile?

  The arm tightened in response to his silent question, and he felt himself begin to fade inward. Realizing the futility of further resistance, he ceased struggling, and moments later the arm around his neck loosened slightly.

  “Smart man,” the voice said. “Then again, from Sudan’s head of internal security, I’d expect nothing less.”

  How does this man know who I am? It had to be Gang. Somehow, the Americans tracked him to me.

  Namir coughed and struggled to speak, gasping for air as he was dragged slowly backward toward the shore. Whoever the man was, he was a powerful swimmer—the progress was swift and steady.

  His initial panic receded, and moments of his life and career flashed through his mind—his subjugation as a child, the odds he’d overcome, the operations he’d planned and executed, the position he now held. Yet here he was, being pulled like a piece of meat through a watery jungle. How had he been reduced to this state of being? Sudan was his homeland, not this arrogant invader’s. His confidence quickly resurfaced, even in the face of overwhelming adversity. No matter what, the tide had to be turned, because Namir Badawi would not go quietly. He would not be a puppet on someone else’s string.

  “Who are you?” Namir spat out, gasping for breath as he completely relaxed his body. He let his arms dangle at his sides, hoping to lull his captor into complacency.

  Logan felt Namir’s body relax under his grip, but his awareness remained heightened. He operated on a principle of disciplined vigilance at all times. His enemy might have let his guard down, but Logan never would.

  “Someone who has a personal interest in the venture you have going with the Chinese,” Logan said, the contempt in his voice unrestrained. His legs kicked harder beneath the water, eager to get Badawi to shore.

  “You’ve managed to stir up quite a mess. You’ve damaged the national security and international standing of my country, and you’re somehow involved in multiple attacks on my homeland.” Logan’s voice changed, his tone menacing and sharp. “I also can’t say I enjoyed my brief stay at your prison, but I am glad that I got to shut that horror show down. All things considered, I’d personally like to drown you right here. It’s what you deserve—swift justice,” he finished, sq
ueezing hard one last time for emphasis.

  “Then . . . why . . . don’t you?” Namir said in between gasped breaths.

  “Because you have information we need,” Logan said. They were now less than thirty yards from shore, where he saw John waiting expectantly, his arms crossed. “It’s really that simple. Your life means nothing to me at this point, but the information—that actually is valuable.”

  Across the city, the harmonious chant of the adhan, the preparatory call to the sunrise salat and second of the Islamic morning prayers, echoed.

  The call to prayer and the dismissal of Namir Badawi’s life by his captor triggered his survival instinct, fueled by a religious conviction. If it’s your will I die, Allah, so be it. Then I die with honor.

  Namir felt the grip on his neck suddenly shift, creating a slight gap between his neck and his captor’s arm. He quickly reached down to his belt and withdrew a small steel push dagger, closing his fist around the handle so that the blade jutted out between his third and fourth fingers.

  Allah is on my side, Namir thought, and wondered how his captor could be so careless.

  What he couldn’t see was the large dark shape—the source of Logan’s distraction—just below the surface, slowly moving toward them with predatory purpose.

  ———

  Gang attacked with a rapid series of slashes and thrusts, his center of gravity lowered in a deep lunge as he shuffled and stepped forward with each strike.

  Amira danced away from each move as she parried the knife with alternating stilettos, creating a constant song of clang-clang-clang as the metal blades smashed into each other.

  Cole watched in rapt fascination as the dueling combatants wielded their weapons with lethal precision. Jesus. It’s like watching an old Jackie Chan movie. If only it weren’t so fucking real.

  More than anything, he wanted to put a bullet in Gang’s knee, but Amira had ferociously insisted, her intensity and determination forcing him to acquiesce to her demand against his better judgment.

  Amira suddenly found herself against a large tool chest on wheels as Gang pressed the attack once again. He feinted quickly toward her face with the blade and attempted the same kick he’d used on Chief Sorenson, but Amira was prepared.

  She executed a quarter turn to her left and slashed down with her hand, the blade slicing across and through the khaki material and the calf muscle beneath it.

  Gang only grunted in pain, refusing to display any weakness. He planted the wounded leg and lashed out with a spinning back fist, which caught Amira on the right side of the face.

  She spun away, positioning the tool chest between them as she shrugged off the effects of his strike. Don’t get caught like that again. He may be wounded, but he’s still strong and almost as fast as you are.

  Gang smiled at her maliciously, but she ignored him. She was used to men trying to intimidate her. They had never succeeded before in situations like this one, and she wasn’t about to let Gang be the first. She was too well trained, both physically and mentally.

  Time to test that wounded leg.

  She thrust the stiletto in her left hand toward his face, and Gang moved back instinctively. Instead of following through with another attack, she sprang forward and delivered a blindingly fast low roundhouse kick that connected squarely with his wounded calf.

  “Aghh! Bitch!” Gang spat out as his front leg buckled and he dropped to a knee.

  Amira exploited the opening and quickly dashed past and behind him, slicing her left stiletto across his upper arm. She was rewarded with another growl of pain.

  She stepped away and moved to the middle of the room, forcing him to turn to face her, a workbench and table now between them.

  “Had enough?” Amira asked, a glint in her eyes letting Gang know how much she was enjoying the encounter. “I’m going to throw this offer out one time. Put down the knife, allow us to take you in, and you get to live. Otherwise, you’re going to be dead in the next few minutes.”

  Who the hell is this she-devil? Gang thought incredulously. She’d been lucky with her counterattacks. There was no way this woman would be able to use those tactics again. Her arrogance was infuriating, and it reminded him of a girl he once longed for during his first year of high school.

  Yi Sun had shunned his advances, and he’d learned a valuable lesson about women—they all thought that they were better than their male counterparts. Yi Sun had soon started dating a boy—his name escaped Gang’s memory at the moment—but what he didn’t forget was the two broken arms he’d given the boy, along with a warning to never speak of it to his parents or teachers. The boy had stopped dating Yi Sun, providing Gang with a sense of satisfaction and empowerment that set him on his course into adulthood.

  Yet here was another beautiful woman, displaying the same condescension and air of superiority as Yi Sun. He would make the dark-skinned whore pay with her life.

  “My father would’ve known how to handle you. I’m going to gut you, but he’s less merciful than I am,” Gang spat out, but also bracing himself for his next move.

  “He sounds like a wonderful man. If I ever see him, I’ll send him your regards . . . from beyond the grave,” Amira replied coldly.

  Gang’s eyes darted across the wooden table between them. He needed something to use to his advantage. If she thought she could use her looks and slithery tongue to lull him into surrendering, he’d teach her a lesson in submission.

  He saw what he was looking for, and rather than satisfy her with an answer, he lashed out toward the object he’d spotted.

  If Amira was being honest with herself, she was glad Gang had rejected her offer. She’d seen men like this before. There was nothing worthwhile left salvaging in his character. In her experience, men who’d become so cruel at this age had no hope of unraveling the twisted humanity they wore as cloaks of invincibility and used as licenses to wreak havoc on society.

  Gang lashed out with his left hand and grabbed the nail gun resting on top of the wooden table. He closed his hand around the grip, but that was as far as it went.

  With dazzling speed that Gang’s mind barely registered, the stiletto in Amira’s right hand skewered his wrist and punctured the wood, pinning him to the table. The blade sliced through tendons and sinew, and his hand reflexively opened as he screamed in pain.

  Gang looked at her with a combination of dread, fury, and fear, and Amira realized it was time to end the ordeal.

  Refusing to yield to the bitter end, Gang brought his free arm around and tried to slice at her with his knife. The knife attack wasn’t even close since the stiletto in his wrist blocked his movement and limited his range of attack. Amira released the stiletto still pinning Gang to the table and spun to her left.

  As Amira completed the turn, she found herself exactly where she’d planned—beside Gang. She adjusted the grip on her remaining stiletto, the blade now jutting out and away from her left hand, and executed her own spinning back fist. With her final rotation, she buried the remaining stiletto into the back of his skull with a sickening crunch, violently ending Gang’s brief reign of terror in the shadowy world of clandestine operations.

  Issuing a brief grunt of satisfaction, Amira withdrew the blade from the back of his head, and Gang smashed face-first into the rough wood. His upper body bounced off the table and hung at an awkward angle, held fast by the first stiletto. She yanked the bloody blade from his wrist, and Gang’s corpse crumpled to the floor.

  “Jesus,” Cole breathed as he looked into the huntress’s face. He was in awe at the brutality and skill he’d witnessed.

  Amira wiped the blood off the blades and sheathed the stilettos. She reached into Gang’s pockets and withdrew a wallet and a cell phone.

  “Now let’s see if we can wake our friends and get the hell out of here,” she said. “Morning prayer’s almost over, and the workers will be here shortly.”

  “What about him?” Cole said.

  “Leave him. He’s no use to us anymore,”
Amira said flatly, and bent down to attend to Lieutenant Reed, who, thankfully, groaned. Both SEALs would be hurting once they woke up, likely with at least one broken jaw from the blow she’d seen Gang land on the Navy chief, but at least they would get to go home.

  CHAPTER 55

  Logan had spotted the crocodile lurking in the water as he’d begun pulling Namir toward the shore. He realized the splashing and blood had attracted the predator.

  Even as he’d spoken to Namir, his eyes had never left the large beast that had slowly begun to swim toward them, cutting through the water like a giant serpent. Logan estimated the river monster to be at least fifteen feet long, but he could only see the vague outline of its body. It was the head that had him really concerned. It was almost four feet in length, concealing rows of razor-sharp teeth that could puncture and grab with a viselike grip. There’d be no escaping this animal’s grasp.

  The crocodile had closed the distance to fifteen feet when sunrise prayer had begun, and Logan had been forced to make a decision—survive or die.

  For a man of extreme and ruthless practicality, it hadn’t been a hard one to make. He wanted to capture and interrogate Namir Badawi, but that wouldn’t happen if they were both dead.

  Other men would call it murder, but Logan considered it survival. His conscience was the only one that counted, and he knew he’d be able to live with what he was about to do—cut Namir Badawi across the chest and leave him as a morning sacrifice to the reptilian Nile gods.

  Logan eased the grip on Namir’s neck with his left arm as he reached down to his hip for the Mark II fighting knife in its nylon sheath.

  Namir chose that precise moment to act, sealing both their fates. He spun violently in Logan’s grasp, and his right arm broke the water’s surface, arcing toward Logan’s face like an overhand punch. Water cascaded from his arm like a liquid curtain.

  The honor graduate of the arduous Marine Corps Combatant Diver Course, Logan had spent countless hours training his Force Recon Marines in underwater hand-to-hand combat techniques. He was at home in the water, an environment he respected and had used to his tactical advantage throughout his career.