by Alex Lukeman
She wanted more.
His honesty fueled her doubts and hopes at the same time. She'd never met a man as honest as Nick. It wasn't just that he'd never rip someone off or lie to them to gain some advantage. He had the kind of honesty that was direct and simple, almost naive. Given what he did, she thought it was astounding. He said what he thought. He could be tactful or blunt or mistaken, but he never said something he didn't mean. If he ever managed to say those three words to her, he'd mean it. It hadn't happened yet.
The longer she was with him, the more she saw the demons that drove him. He'd told her once that he had snakes in his head. He'd surrounded himself with armor forged from pain and loss and a need to hold himself together in a private world filled with emotional danger at every turn. She could understand that. She'd done the same.
She thought about where they were headed, the mission. What had he said? Welcome to the next level of training, that was it. Training. If this was training, what was graduation? She watched Nick. He was twitching in his sleep. He's having one of his nightmares, she thought.
Nick dreamed.
He was in a large city somewhere. It was overcast, gray. The scene vibrated, shimmered with light. People hurried by, wrapped in coats and scarves and sweaters. Their breath frosted the air. There was a tall building, faceless with rows of apartment windows.
On the corner, lampposts stuck up over barriers on the sidewalk. Something was written there. A number in a circle. He stared, trying to make it out. 7. It was a 7.
There was something he had to do, but he couldn't remember what it was. He was worried, because he couldn't find his gun and something was going to happen.
Something was going to happen. It was important, but he couldn't remember what it was. He was afraid.
Carter jolted awake. The interior of the plane was the same as when he'd fallen asleep. His shoulder ached. The engines droned on.
He hated the dreams.
They'd started when he was twelve. A week before she died, he'd been visiting his Irish Grandmother. She'd told him he had something called the Sight. It came through in prophetic dreams lit by odd light, like this one.
He never knew what they meant until later. They never foreshadowed anything good. His Grandmother's genes were probably the reason his ear acted up like it did. That part was all right. But the dreams, those he could do without.
He used to dream of Megan, but she seemed to have gone. He missed her. The dreams had been all that was left of her, except for a faded picture in his wallet.
They landed at Bagram Airfield and deplaned into freezing winds and a temperature hovering just above zero. He was back. He smelled the air and knew nothing much had changed. In this bitter fiction of a country, he didn't think much ever would.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Selena, Nick and Ronnie lay on hard, frozen ground and looked down at the compound courtyard below. A chill wind razored across the ridge, lifting threads of icy snow crystals into the night sky.
Ronnie looked through his scope. Green readouts in vertical and horizontal lines flickered in the eyepiece as he moved the weapon.
"I make it two hundred twenty seven feet down. Give or take."
It was three in the morning. Ronnie was only a dark shape in the night. The winter camouflage they all wore made them indistinguishable from the rocks and snow where they lay. Their faces were covered, only the eyes visible.
"No sign of a sentry. I don't see cameras, either." Carter scanned the courtyard through night vision binoculars. "This is too easy."
"No power."
"They need power for that satellite dish. They must have a generator. I don't hear one running."
"Maybe they just feel secure out here." Selena's voice was quiet. Her mouth felt dry.
"Maybe. Maybe nobody's home. Maybe I'll win the lottery tomorrow. Check your gear."
They checked the MP-5s, the grenades and other weapons. Their headsets crackled. Stephanie's voice echoed through the satellite link.
"Nick. Acknowledge."
"Yes."
"I see you. I can't get a clear infrared image on the objective. There's some kind of shielding. Probably explains why Langley never spotted them before. I can't tell you who's in there."
"Roger that." That was no help.
"What is your status?"
"We're ready."
"Lamont says watch your ass."
Nick laughed. "Roger. I'll leave the comm link open. Out."
Ronnie anchored the line around a black outcrop of stone. He gave it a tug.
"All set."
"Ronnie, you first, then Selena, then me. We hit the ground, get up against the wall next to the door. Watch out for those windows."
Ronnie hooked on and slipped over the edge. In seconds he was down. He sprinted for the door. Selena followed, her heart thumping. Carter felt the adrenaline surge take hold, hooked on and rappelled down the side of the canyon. In less than a minute they were flat against the wall by the wooden door.
The door was old and solid, painted green. It was made of thick wooden planks held together by rusted iron bands. A pitted metal latch held it closed. There was no sign of alarm. No lights in any of the narrow windows. The only sounds came from the crunch of their feet on the frozen snow and the thin wail of a cutting, chill wind swirling around the courtyard. The building loomed over them, stark against the black mountain.
Carter reached over to the latch and lifted upward. He felt a bar move on the other side. He signaled and eased the door partway open, ready to fire.
Nothing.
They slipped into the building and fanned out. Ronnie closed the door behind them. They were in a large, high ceilinged hall. It was warmer here. The windows were sealed over on the inside. The floor was paved with stone. To one side was a row of wooden dummies and a rack of staffs, aids for practicing martial arts. A few candles burned in niches set back along the length of the room. The ceiling was crossed by dark wooden beams. Flecks of red paint lingered on wooden columns supporting the floors above and a wide balcony at one end.
The walls bore traces of paintings of the Buddha and scenes from Buddhist teaching, all defaced and damaged. One painting remained, dominating the east wall over a low dais. It was huge, circular, with letters scribed in deep green against a sickly yellow background. It was old.
The sign of the assassins. The air was sullen and oppressive, malevolent. The hall brooded with malice. Selena shivered.
"Guess we're in the right place." Ronnie's voice was quiet. "Gives me the creeps."
A railed stairway rose to the upper stories and a wide balcony. At the far end of the room a dim passage led into the back.
Nick held up his hand. "Something doesn't feel right." Nick scanned the room. "There." He pointed.
A thin, black wire stretched across the middle of the room, six inches high, almost invisible. He followed the line across the floor and up the wall to the ceiling. A six foot wide, razor sharp blade was poised to swing down and across, right where that wire was laid. It would move too fast to avoid. It would cut a man in half.
"Booby trap. No need for a guard. Confident bastards."
"Where are they?" Selena asked in a whisper.
"Probably upstairs asleep. Check the back. Watch it."
She stepped over the wire and moved to the back of the room. She held the butt of the MP-5 high against her right shoulder, muzzle down. It almost felt familiar to her, the crouching walk, the electric feeling of adrenaline, the hard form of her weapon, the taste of copper in her mouth.
She went down the passage, selector on full auto, finger laid against the trigger. Range rules didn't apply out here. The passage led to another large room. Tables, sinks, a propane stove, a fireplace with a few glowing embers, stores on wooden shelves. There was no one there. She placed her gloved hand against the stove. It was cold. A large pot on the top held bits of food congealing on the sides. A smaller room contained a silent generator.
She made her
way back to the others.
"Nothing. It's a kitchen and generator room. Stove is cold. What's left of dinner on the top. Still coals in the fireplace."
"They have to be up there." Nick gestured upward.
The railed balcony ran the full width of the room. A dark opening beckoned in the wall behind it.
"If it's one large room, I'll hold up one finger. If it's separate rooms, I'll hold up five. Shoot anyone you see."
Selena looked at him. "What if they're unarmed? Asleep?"
"What if they are?" He gave her a hard look. He was in that landscape where no one else could go. "There are three of us. We don't know how many are in there and these guys are good. Don't hesitate or it will go south fast. I'll toss a flashbang, then we start shooting. We might be able to take prisoners. Maybe not. Understand?"
Shoot sleeping men. She couldn't trust herself to speak. Then she thought of the attack in Mali. There had been something relentless in that man, something without compassion.
"Yes. Don't worry about me."
Nick nodded. They climbed the stairs.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Hassan-i Sabbah had taken the name of the founder of the order, his right by tradition. At the moment the Imam of the assassins was annoyed. His disciples were expendable, of course. They weren't called Fida'i, the self sacrificing, for nothing. None the less, someone had managed to kill three of them and that was annoying. This had not happened in living memory. Others would take their place. But still.
Soon the Mahdi would reveal himself, after centuries in occultation. He would bring peace and justice to the world, the triumph of Islam. Hassan knew it was so. The Mahdi had appeared to him in a vision, flanked by angels with glowing, golden wings, so bright Hassan had to turn his eyes away.
In one hand, the Mahdi had held the Holy Book, in the other a flaming sword. There was a sound of angels singing somewhere in the distance, the voices of Paradise. He'd felt transformed, filled with glory. In the vision, he had fallen to his knees and prostrated himself. Hassan heard no words, but the Mahdi's instructions had been clear. Retrieve the sword. Ignite the fire. A great feeling of joy had flooded him. Gradually, the feeling faded.
It wasn't the first vision he'd had. They'd been coming since his early teens, sometimes accompanied by a fierce headache that lasted for days. His entire life had been preparation for this moment.
Hassan had prostrated himself on the cold stone floor of his room and prayed. When he arose, he'd known what he must do. Follow the vision. And now he had what he needed. The Sword. The fire.
Those who were looking for him looked in the wrong place. If only they knew how close to their quarry they really were.
Al-Bausari had done a great service by unearthing the relic and showing it to the world. It lay before Hassan now, in the wooden box. Allah would forgive the Sunni his heresy, for surely he had been doing God's will. It had been necessary to kill him, but his martyrdom guaranteed his entry into Paradise.
It was time for all Muslims to unite. Bausari had been right in that. Even Hassan could see it. Only God was important, only His will. The rest was human folly.
Bausari's video had produced the desired effect. While many scoffed and denied and argued, the mosques filled worldwide. Some repented and prayed to save their souls. Some prayed for deliverance. Some, once past their fear, prayed from gratitude. Surely, Allah must be pleased.
Hassan only waited for the heavenly sign of the sun in eclipse to unleash the fire. He would die, but that was unimportant. The fire would come. When the cleansing was done, when the infidels were all destroyed, peace would reign forever.
God was Just.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Carter climbed the stairs to the balcony crossing the dark hall, a flashbang in one hand, MP-5 in the other. Selena and Ronnie came behind. Nick signaled them to wait. He stepped quietly along the wall to the passage they'd seen from below. He could hear heavy breathing of sleeping men. The stench of unwashed bodies polluted the air. Nick felt his pulse pounding behind his left eye. His ear burned.
He risked a fast look through the arch and pulled back. A single candle cast soft light at the end of a wide room. The floor was covered with shapeless forms.
He showed one finger and beckoned Selena and Ronnie forward. When they were all three set by the opening he tossed the flashbang into the room. They covered their ears and looked away.
The flashbang was an effective, disorienting weapon. Even asleep, someone inside that room would be blind and confused. The concussion disrupted fluid in the inner ear. Balance would be lost for critical seconds. It would give them a chance.
The grenade detonated. The floor shook. Shouts came from the room. The team came low through the entrance and began firing.
Not everyone was disoriented. Even as they fired, figures came at them. In seconds the fighting was hand to hand.
Ronnie went down, unconscious from a vicious blow to the side of his head. Carter shot his attacker. He drove the barrel of his gun into the gut of another assassin, swung the butt across his jaw. The man fell away.
Selena jammed in another magazine. She brought the gun up and fired as someone lunged at her with a dagger. The bullets ripped across his chest. She was shouting, a guttural, primal scream of fear and anger and war. She watched him fall at her feet, all the time with her finger hard back on the trigger, brass casings showering the air. Littering the ground around her.
She felt as if she stood outside herself. She watched the muzzle flashes at the end of her barrel. She heard herself yelling. She swept death across the floor, where men tried to stagger up from their blankets. She saw herself eject another magazine, reload. She kept firing. She saw Nick spraying the room. The flashes lit the scene like strobe lights in a devil's nightclub, bodies rising and falling, spinning in a frenzied dance from the impact of the bullets.
Then it was silent. The smell of burnt cordite hung heavy in the room. Bodies lay across the floor. Shredded blankets turned dark with a spreading red tide. One of the bodies moved. Nick fired a final burst. The body stopped moving.
A slaughterhouse on a bad day. Selena bent over and threw up.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Stephanie and Lamont heard it all, safe in the warmth of Stephanie's office. First Nick's quiet voice. Silence, then the explosion of the flashbang. The shouts and screams. The constant fire of the weapons.
"Jesus," Lamont said.
"What's that noise?" Stephanie asked.
"Selena. She's yelling." The sound was chilling. They looked at each other.
The firing stopped. There was a brief silence. Then a short burst from an MP-5. Someone retching.
"Nick. Come in."
"Yeah, Steph."
"What's your status?"
"One less nest of vipers. Ronnie's down. Hold one."
They waited. After a moment they heard Nick and Ronnie talking.
"He's good." Nick's voice hissed with atmospherics over the sat link. "He took a hard hit in the head."
Lamont spoke. "Tell him I said that's the safest place for him."
"Thanks a lot, Shadow." Ronnie's voice was hoarse. "Wish you were here."
"What did you find, Nick?"
"I make it twenty-three assassin KIA. They thought they were safe up here. They got careless. Big mistake, but we were lucky."
"Is the nuke there?"
"Don't know, Steph. There's another floor above us. We'll go up now. Out."
Ronnie had his weapon trained on a staircase in the far corner of the room. The stairs were narrow and steep. They disappeared through an opening in the floor above.
Carter looked at the stairs. "There could be someone up there. The damn thing is almost like a ladder. I can get a flashbang up top from about halfway. Then I'll go up."
"You're too big."
Carter turned to Selena. "What are you saying?"
"You're too big, too slow. I'm smaller, I'm fast. I can be up there in half the time."
Carter looked at Ronnie. He shrugged. "She's right. She can do it faster."
The headache was instant, a wave of white pain. Nick staggered, caught himself.
"You all right?"
"Yeah. I'm fine." The pain settled to a steady throbbing. "All right. Make sure that flashbang doesn't come back down past you."
"I've got a good arm."
"It's not the World Series. Don't get fancy."
Selena armed the grenade. "Don't worry." She felt good that her hand wasn't trembling. She went to the bottom of the stairs and climbed. Fast. The dark opening above got closer. If someone was there, now was when they'd kill her. She heaved the grenade through the opening. She covered her ears and closed her eyes tight and looked down and prayed no one tossed it back at her.
Behind her closed eyelids a white light flared. The steps shook. Air thumped around her. Dust drifted down from the floor. Selena ran up the narrow steps and into the last room.
There was no one there.
"Clear," she called. She heard boots scramble up the steps..
The room was a communications center. The furniture consisted of a desk and a chair. On the desk was a black logbook, filled with frequencies and coded entries.
"Hood will want to see this." Nick put it inside his jacket.
A small, high end satellite transceiver sat on the desk, wired to a laptop computer. That made sense of the satellite dish they'd seen in the photo. Nick figured it wasn't there for watching TV.
There was nothing that resembled a six kiloton nuclear bomb.
"Ronnie, grab the sat unit. Selena, you get the computer."
They stashed the gear in their packs. Nick took a last look around .
"Steph. No nuke. We're leaving. Call for our ride."
"Roger."
The team went down the stairs and through the silent sleeping room. The smell of blood and bowels fouled the air.
