Remembering Spencer’s words, Drake glanced at the pistol and then to Allie, whose eyes were locked on him, her expression terrified…and something else. Time seemed to slow to nothing, and he realized that what he was seeing reflected in her eyes was resignation – the quiet acceptance of the unthinkable.
The moment was shattered when more rounds slammed into the ground by Drake, and then the brush line shielding the slavers shredded to pieces as a deafening roar sounded from the sky. Hundreds of high-velocity rounds chewed the gunmen to confetti, the stream of glowing tracers slicing through everything in their path. Drake blinked in disbelief and rolled onto his back in time to see the hazy outline of a huge helicopter nearing, its heavy machine gun relentlessly raining death on the attackers.
The gunship hovered over the clearing, and two lines unfurled from either side of it and bounced against the ground. A string of black-clad figures rappelled down, weapons blazing. Answering fire greeted them from a grove of trees on Spencer’s right, which immediately invited several hundred rounds from the new arrivals, decisively silencing the slavers and terminating the threat.
Drake watched the commandos mop up the few surviving gunmen, and then the helicopter set down on the ground and a spotlight blinked to life, its high-wattage beam blinding him and framing them in its glare.
Chapter 56
Suri heard the gunfight erupt over the hill from the mobile buildings and was immediately on his handheld radio, ordering more gunmen to the clearing. Something had obviously gone wrong if there was shooting – the cult had no guns, preferring to rely on antiquated but effective methods: the dagger and the garrote. Which meant that they’d missed a straggler earlier – an annoying wrinkle, but hardly fatal.
A dozen guards raced over the hill with orders to kill anything that moved, and then Suri was faced with the approaching terrorists, obvious worry written across their faces. The elder faced him with a snarl.
“What is happening?” the man demanded. “And no more of your ludicrous stories of target practice.”
“We have some hikers who stumbled onto our land. We are dealing with them.”
“Hikers? Do you not think I know the sound of an AK? What sort of hikers carry Kalashnikovs?” the man snapped.
“That is what we are trying to identify. Many of the hill people carry those types of rifles – they are readily available due to the proximity of Afghanistan and Pakistan.” They listened as the gunfire stopped, and Suri nodded. “See? It is over.”
His radio crackled, and he turned from the men and listened for several tense seconds, and then issued an order. The night was shattered by more shooting, this time many weapons, and Suri returned to the men. “I sent a patrol to finish them off. That’s what you’re hearing.”
The lead terrorist frowned at his men and then turned to Suri. “We’ll take our chances in the mountains tonight. Where is our material?”
“In your sleeping quarters. You are free to leave if that is your wish. I can arrange for an escort.” Suri looked at the ATVs the men had ridden to the camp. “Your vehicles have headlights – you should be fine as long as you drive prudently. Shall I have your case strapped to the back of one of them?”
“I’ll take care of that,” the terrorist said. “Just fetch me some line.”
Suri did as asked and was returning from the cave when he heard approaching helicopter blades. He stood motionless for a moment and then barked orders to the guard manning the .50-caliber machine gun, who nearly fell off his seat in his haste to swing the big weapon skyward.
“What’s going on?” the lead terrorist demanded, his voice cracking on the last word.
“I don’t know,” Suri said, trying to get a report from the gunmen he’d sent to the clearing on the radio. His eyes widened in shock at the ghostly image of five dark gray helicopters converging on the camp, and then the .50-caliber opened up beside him, the guard firing wildly at the airships as a pulsing green laser swept from the lead helo and settled on his sandbagged area.
Suri and the Pakistanis were running for the cave when the sandbagged gun station exploded in a ball of flame, vaporized by a rocket from one of the gunships that sent scraps of metal, earth, and flesh skyward in flaming arcs. They made the cave mouth just in time to see dozens of heavily armed combat soldiers dropping from the bellies of the aircraft, their weapons firing at the slavers caught in the open, mowing them down without mercy.
“Hold them off,” Suri commanded the guards at the cave opening, and motioned to the terrorists to follow him through the passage. The gunmen fired at the helicopter force and instantly drew a barrage of answering shots, the rounds ricocheting in the interior of the cavern. The shooting from the cave mouth receded as Suri led the terrorists deeper into the earth, and then they were in the main sleeping area. Hundreds of startled faces watched them as they ran along the edge of the cavern, Suri shouting orders to the gunmen, who rushed to defend the approach.
When Suri and his companions had disappeared into the second chamber, the remaining guards glanced around nervously, suddenly aware that they were outnumbered a hundred to one. The same thought simultaneously occurred to some of the younger men, who stood and began moving toward them. One of the guards fired a warning shot overhead, which only served to galvanize the slaves, and then a wave of humanity rushed the gunmen, who emptied their rifles into the mob in blind panic. The bodies of the dead barely slowed the survivors, who leapt over the fallen in their haste to tear their captors apart with their bare hands.
Suri arrived at Mehta’s chamber, pushed open the heavy iron door, and froze at the sight of an empty vault. He twisted around to where the terrorists were waiting, the stink of fear thick in the passage as more gunfire boomed through the caverns behind them. The elder terrorist grabbed him by the robe and pulled him near.
“You will pay for your treachery, you lying dog,” he hissed.
Suri shook his head in terror as bursts of automatic weapon fire, higher in pitch than that of the distinctive AKs the guards were equipped with, rattled from the cave.
“No. We must try to–”
Suri’s jaw gaped open as the terrorist stared into his eyes, and then a wash of blood erupted from his mouth as his gaze drifted down to the hilt of a knife protruding from his chest. The Pakistani released his hold on Suri, who staggered backward, grabbing at the knife handle with weakened hands before slumping down the front of Mehta’s desk, dead.
Running boots reverberated in the passage, and the terrorists spun around just in time to face eight fighters with black body armor and night vision monocles, their helmets and uniforms unmarked and black smeared on their faces to kill any glare. One of the men pointed, his M4 assault rifle trained on the leader’s head, and another handed his rifle to the commando next to him and spoke, first in Hindi and then in Arabic.
“Move and you’re dead. Hands over your heads. Now,” he ordered.
The terrorists looked to their leader, who nodded slowly and raised his hands. The soldier patted the men down, tossing their daggers onto the stone floor, and then cinched tie wraps around their wrists. When he was done, four of the gunmen continued down the passage, past Mehta’s office, toward the ore milling cavern, and the soldier who’d bound the Pakistanis pulled black hoods over their heads. When he finished, his companion handed him back his weapon, and the soldiers escorted their captives from the cave, past the riot of slaves who were exacting lifetimes of revenge upon their captors in a tableau drawn straight from the bowels of hell.
Drake held his hands in the air as a dozen commandos approached through the spotlight’s blinding beam, and was surprised when the man at the head of the group spoke to him in American English.
“Where’s Reynolds?” the commando demanded.
Spencer shielded his eyes with one hand. “Over by that hill. There’s a cave. I patched him up as best I could, but he’s not going to walk out of this on his own power.”
“You hurt?�
� the soldier asked.
“No.”
“Get up, nice and slow, and the sergeant here will search you. Then show me where he is.”
“Fine by me. I’m guessing you’re the cavalry he called in.”
The soldier didn’t say anything, and Spencer pushed himself to his feet and allowed himself to be patted down. When the frisking was done, he gestured toward the cave. “Couple hundred yards. But you might want to ensure the perimeter’s secure, just in case there’s a straggler who wants to play hero.”
“We’ve got infrared. All hostiles are neutralized,” the man snapped.
An explosion boomed from the distant camp, followed by the sound of a pitched battle, the gunfire steady and furious. Drake and Spencer exchanged a glance, and Spencer nodded.
“Sounds like the black hats are getting the crap kicked out of them,” Spencer said.
“But the slaves…” Allie said, looking up at the soldier who’d done all the talking. “There’s a cave – a big one, with nearly a thousand slave laborers. They’re unarmed,” she warned.
The man ignored her and leveled a hard stare at Spencer. “Lead the way to Reynolds.” He turned to his men and indicated Drake and Allie. “Search them, and then get them into the bird. I want to be gone seconds after we return. Have the medics follow us over with a stretcher,” he instructed, and addressed Spencer. “Move.”
Spencer obliged, leaving Drake and Allie to their armed escorts, who directed them to the helicopter after patting them down. Two medics bolted past them at a dead run, and Drake and Allie ducked as they neared the helicopter cargo door, the big aircraft’s blades turning slowly over their heads as the turbine idled. A soldier helped them aboard and motioned to a bench seat at the back. They sat and peered through the open doorway, and three minutes later the medics had returned with Reynolds on their stretcher. They hoisted him aboard and Spencer followed, and the first medic started an IV line in the dim red light of the cabin as the second removed a plasma bag from a first aid kit. Spencer joined Drake at the rear of the hold, and three more commandos climbed into the helicopter, followed by the officer who’d directed the operation.
“I gave him a morphine stick about forty-five minutes ago,” Spencer said as the officer pulled the cabin door closed and took a seat facing them.
“You told us already,” the officer said.
“Right,” Spencer said. “Is there any point in asking where we’re going?”
The officer checked his watch, ignoring the question.
The helicopter lifted slowly into the air, and the officer turned away and muttered into his comm line, listened, and spoke again. The aircraft leveled off no more than five hundred feet above the terrain below and began moving forward, turning in a slow bank before accelerating away from the clearing, rising and dropping with the landscape, the only sound the throbbing pulse of the motor as the medics fought to save Reynolds’s life.
Chapter 57
Mehta’s face blanched as he listened to the frenzied reports on the communications channel. When Suri warned that helicopters were over the camp, he sprang into action, snatching the dagger from his desk and taking off through the passage that led to the processing area, where the uranium ore was milled and chemically synthesized into yellowcake before being shipped off for refinement.
He slid the dagger into his belt as he ran past the milling cave and made a left turn into an unlit recession. He stopped at an iron door mounted into the stone and fumbled for a key that hung from the gold chain around his neck. The lock opened with a pop, and he stepped into the darkness and felt for a flashlight in a holder mounted on the wall. His fingers found the cylinder, and he spun a small crank on the end, creating sufficient charge to power the LED bulb. Once he could see, he locked the bolt in place and knelt by a green canvas sack with a timer on top.
Mehta set the device for three minutes, and the blinking red clock began a reverse countdown. He nodded to himself and then ran to the end of the tunnel, where rungs leading up into gloom were sunk into the stone. Holding the light in one hand, he used the other to pull himself up, two stories, where the shaft intersected with another passage. He heaved himself onto the passageway floor and leaned over to close a steel hatch. Mehta latched it into place and got to his feet, cranked the flashlight again, and crept cautiously along the tunnel.
He was well away from the hatch when the charge by the door below blew. Part of the floor behind him collapsed, sending a cloud of dust billowing toward him. He held his breath and pushed himself to greater speed as he was enveloped by grit, and pulled his shirt over his nose and mouth as he felt his way along the stone walls.
Five minutes later he was in clear air, in a large cavern with a shimmering pool in its center. His light played along the walls, and he made for a gap at chest level on the far side – a natural chute through which water entered from the mountain above during cloudbursts. When he reached the opening, he dragged his ample frame into the narrow space and crawled thirty yards, where he could feel a slight draft of cool air from beyond the vegetation that covered the opening of his emergency escape outlet.
Once in the night air, he made his way down a steep ravine to a creek and hurried away from the camp on the other side of the mountain, toward one of the nearby hill villages, where he could arrange for transportation to a main road. He had no doubt that he’d been double-crossed, but there was little he could do about it at this point, other than to make it known to his supporters in the Indian government.
That the camp was finished didn’t trouble him greatly – its usefulness had long since faded as his fortune from other ventures had swelled. The revenues from providing the government with undocumented yellowcake paled in comparison to his legitimate income since the country had undergone a construction boom, and maintaining the camp was now more a nuisance than anything, one which he’d toyed with shutting down of his own accord.
He would send a trusted team to recover the euros that were hidden under the floor of the mobile building he used as his quarters when at the camp, assuming the attackers had missed the stash in the excitement of battle, and then move on to other things, his career as a slaver at an end.
Far below, on the approach to the dam, he saw lights twinkling in a tiny hamlet inhabited by dirt-poor farmers who would be overjoyed to have a prosperous stranger appear in their midst and bestow riches upon them in exchange for a ride. Even at the late hour, his pocket money would be a month’s earnings for the farmers, and he had no doubt that by daybreak he would be on his way to Delhi, no worse for wear, the entire unpleasant mess behind him except necessary cleanup he could count on both governments to assist him with – everyone had much to lose in creating an international incident, and their self-interests would bind them together with the strongest glue.
Chapter 58
Lahore, Pakistan
The helicopter landed in the center of a barren field located in the center of a military base. They were met by a security detail, and Reynolds was off-loaded into a waiting ambulance, which roared away toward a row of buildings, their lights blazing at the edge of the expanse. The detail directed Drake, Allie, and Spencer to a personnel carrier, and after they’d climbed aboard with the heavily armed soldiers, the big vehicle lurched along a rutted strip of pavement toward a metal Quonset hut near the lit buildings.
When the conveyance had rolled to a halt, the grim-faced men instructed them to disembark, and more soldiers – these in U.S. Army uniforms with insignia rather than the black, anonymous garb of their escorts – led them into the structure, where an older man in fatigues was standing by a bank of monitors, studying the images with hawk-like concentration.
The officer on their right saluted the older man and spoke. “Sir. They’re here.”
The man looked up from the screen, obviously annoyed. “Put them in the conference room. I’ll be in shortly,” he said, his voice gruff.
The soldiers showed them to a Sheetrock encl
osure on the opposite end of the hut and opened a door. Inside were a conference table and six chairs. “Have a seat,” the officer said. “There’s bottled water in the credenza.” He eyed them a final time and then closed and locked the door, leaving them alone.
“What’s going on, Spencer?” Allie whispered.
“We’re on a U.S. base. Probably in Pakistan. I know we have some here, and we weren’t flying all that long, so…”
“The DOD,” Drake spat. “I knew it. I told you Reynolds was going to screw us.”
The lock on the door clanked, and then the metal slab opened and the older man entered carrying a file folder. He sat down at the head of the table, opened the folder, and tossed a cheap ballpoint pen toward Drake. He appraised them all with cold gray eyes and then his frigid glare settled on Drake.
“Reynolds didn’t screw you, other than by being a damned fool,” he said, and removed three documents and slid them across the table. “These are security clearances. Everything you’ve seen falls under national security – top secret. Sign and date them.”
“And if we don’t?” Spencer snapped.
The man scowled. “Son, you’re testing my patience.”
“I’m not your son.”
“You want to go to jail for murder? Keep doubling down on a bad hand, and it’ll happen,” the man warned.
“So this is blackmail,” Drake said.
“This is national security. If I want to, I can hold you indefinitely with no trial, no charges, because you’re materially involved in a terrorist event. You want to play hardball with me? You’ll wish you’d never been born.”
The Goddess Legacy Page 27
