by Eric Meyer
"They’ll have sentries on patrol. That's a military airfield. We’ll deal with them, and then we can board the plane. Next stop Kabul. Ladies, it won't be long. Soon, we’ll be on that plane. First class all the way.”
No one smiled. He looked for Javed. “I need to borrow the dagger.”
The boy’s hand dove inside his coat, and the blade flashed in the moonlight. “Of course, Mr. Stoner.”
Nadiri couldn’t miss a fight, and he followed a pace behind him. In truth, he was grateful for the help. Normally, Greg would have come with him, but right now it was touch and go whether they’d get him back alive.
My best friend, Faria’s husband, if he dies, well, best not to think any further. Do the job. Get the women out. And pray.
The sentries were walking around in the bitter cold, but not patrolling the perimeter, as they should have been. They were in the lee of a rusty hangar, stamping their feet to restore the circulation, smoking tobacco, and talking to each other in low tones.
He looked at Nadiri and murmured, “Make sure you leave him unconscious."
“I’ll make sure he's dead," he growled, "If we leave either man alive, they could sound the alarm. Big mistake."
He didn't like it, but knew he was right. "Okay. They go down and stay down."
They weren’t expecting it to be too hard. An approach from behind, and Nadiri hit his man so hard he went straight down. It didn’t look like he’d ever get up. Stoner clamped a hand around his target’s mouth to prevent him crying out and brought the dagger around his chest, stabbing it in the area of the heart. His victim was moving, twisting away, and the blade missed the target, embedding itself a couple of inches below. The sentry gasped to suck in air, and he assumed he’d punctured a lung. But he was still alive and fighting for his life. He withdrew the blade and plunged it in again. This time he hit the target, but the desperate man dropped his rifle, and it tumbled to the ground. By the worst possible luck, he’d left it cocked. Safety off.
The noise of the single shot was loud in the night, and they froze. Lights began to come on, and time had run out. The airfield was tiny, and he doubted there’d be more than a handful of men on base, but enough to start a firefight. The last thing they needed. Griggs was coming up behind them, hot on their trail. If they didn’t get off the ground fast they’d be caught in a messy fight, with vengeful Haqqanis on one side, and Pakistani Air Force on the other. A fight that could and would quickly get out of hand, a fight they couldn’t win.
He glanced at Nadiri. “I need to reach the plane and start checking it out. I’ll head over there. You bring them down and get them aboard.”
The Afghan raced off without a word. Stoner ran for the plane, but already shouts were echoing across the airfield as soldiers tumbled out of their beds to answer the alarm siren wailing eerily around the vast open space. The first shot cracked out before he reached the door. It was wide, and he leapt inside the fuselage and ran into the cockpit. The plane was a wreck. Missing instruments, and even a pool of oil on the floor in front of the co-pilot’s seat. He glanced out the window. Nadiri was herding their party across the tarmac. Further away, three soldiers were racing to cut them off, but Noyan dropped to one knee and fired a long burst that felled one man down, and the other two turned away.
He went through minimal preflight checks in preparation for getting airborne. Like ensuring they had fuel in the tanks so they didn’t drop out of the sky during take-off. The fuel gauge worked, the tanks were half full, and he pressed the engine start button for the starboard engine. It roared into life after the second try. It ran raggedly for a few seconds, and then settled down into a smoother rhythm. He pressed the start button for the port engine. Twice, three times, and nothing happened. Behind him they were clambering aboard, and Sara ran forward to join him.
“Why don’t you start the port engine?”
“I tried. Nothing, it won’t start.”
“Can we take off on one engine?”
“No.”
She sat in the co-pilot’s seat, carefully avoiding the oil on the floor. “What can we do?”
He met her gaze. “Either we get that engine started real soon, or we say our prayers.”
“There must be something you can do.”
There’ll be an exchange of gunfire, and we’ll go down when the Paks bring in reinforcements. Griggs is sure to arrive in time to join in the fun.
“We need to get that engine started. There’s nothing else.”
As if to underline their predicament, several bullets smacked against the fuselage, aft of the cockpit. She didn’t duck, didn’t flinch. Instead, she gave him a fierce glare.
“Stoner, look at me.” He looked, “Stop talking, and get that fucking engine started. You hear me? Get it started. Otherwise, it’s all over between you and me.”
He was surprised. “I thought we were finished.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Get the damn tools out and start working.”
He bent to look below the dashboard to inspect the wiring, and a bullet punched through the aluminum, hissed past his head, missing Sara by inches. It punched out the other side.
He glanced at her. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Her gaze was still frosty, “Why have you stopped work?”
“Sara, working for you is damned dangerous.
”
Chapter Ten
He lay hung on his back underneath the dashboard, suspecting the fault could lie with the complicated mass of wiring below. Someone had been working on it, for the normally neat runs of wire were a nightmare tangle, impossible to make out. He had to identify every single wire by following through, and eventually he found what he wanted, the wire leading from the starter button to the main control box. He tested it, tugging and shaking to see if there were any signs of it being loose, and he shone a flashlight that someone had left into the terminals, checking if there were signs of corrosion.
There were none. He sighed, the sound of firing from outside was getting louder, and a pitch battle was raging. He had no idea who was doing most of the shooting, but he stilled himself to ignore it. His single task was to get the engine running, without which they'd never leave this place alive.
He traced the cables back to the main control box. Once again, he went through the process of testing each connection, making sure there was no evidence of corrosion. Once again there was none. Astonishing in such a poorly maintained aircraft, but at least it was a factor he didn't need to be concerned with. The next stage would be more difficult, tracing the wires through to where they connected to the starters on the engines. They disappeared through the fuselage through the mountings for the wing. If he couldn't find the problem, he’d have to go outside. Where a storm of gunfire would make every task a gamble with death. He began the long and laborious process of tracing the wires through the conduit where they disappeared into the wing stubs. And stopped when he heard movement. Javed joined him, and he was peering up at the tangled mass of wires.
"It looks complicated, Mr. Stoner. Will it take much time to find the problem?"
"It may, and time is something we don't have, kid.” Javed was itching to lend a hand, and the last thing he needed was to expose him to danger. Or have him causing more problems than he solved by tinkering with something he knew nothing about, “I’ll need to go outside soon to trace the wiring, and I want you to stay in here."
Javed opened his mouth to speak, but two bullets smacked through the aluminum fuselage and disappeared out the other side. They missed him, but he raised his eyebrows. "You think it's safer in here?"
He grimaced. "Maybe not, but give me some space. I have to keep working."
He checked each wire, and it was a long slow process. They were all good, and he had no choice but to go outside. Remove the fairing from the engine, look inside to follow the wires, and hope to find the fault. He edged back out of the cramped space and moved back into the cockpit. Sara was waiting for him.
"How’s it goin
g?"
"Not good. I’m going outside. The fault must lie where the wiring connects to the starter motor inside the engine."
"Will it take long?"
He shrugged. "If the problem is what I think it is, I need about a half hour."
"And then?"
He shrugged again. “Either it’ll start, or it won't."
He went toward the cabin door, clutching a bag of tools. Barbara grabbed his arm to stop him as he went past.
"I think we may have another problem."
"Nothing worse than we have already. We’re in the middle of a firefight, on a hostile airbase, and bullets flying every which way. If that isn’t enough, the only way out of here is in this aircraft, and one engine is refusing to start. You’re telling me you have something worse?"
"That man I saw with General Khan. I believe he's a colonel of some kind."
"That’ll be Griggs, what about him?"
"I saw him."
"You saw him where?"
"He ran across the tarmac and disappeared beneath the aircraft. He must be up to something."
Shit. Of all the goddamn obstacles I face, now this.
He felt a wave of tiredness sweep over him. They'd come here after getting past so many problems, and now this. The worst had happened.
"Griggs is always up to something."
He opened the door and looked out. Darkness surrounded the aircraft, and gun flashes were coming from everywhere. To the north, that’d be the Haqqanis, and another group was firing from around the terminal building. That’d be the Pakistanis. To his relief he realized the focus of the gunfight had changed. They were shooting at each other, and it might give them a chance, everything else being equal. The heat was off them for a while. Each side would kill a few men from the other side, and they may have the narrow window they needed to get airborne. Provided he could get the engine started and take off. Except for one huge problem. Griggs.
I can't fight Griggs and repair the starter at the same time. I have to prioritize, and that means dealing with Griggs first. He'll have come here with death in mind. Maybe he intends to rake the cabin with automatic fire from below. Or he’ll toss hand grenades through the door into the cabin. He's here to wreak destruction. To kill, and I have to stop him.
Javed was standing next to him, and he thrust the tools at him. "Hold onto these, kid, and don't lose them. I need them to fix the starter when I’m done. But first I have something else to do."
"To kill a man?"
He nodded. “Something like that."
He checked his guns, made sure the magazines were full, and ran out the door. He heard Javed calling out to him, but he ignored it. He had a single objective, to kill the man who threatened them all, the man who'd been a prime target of the U.S. military ever since he murdered the ambulance crew when making his escape from custody. The problem of the starter motor was either mechanical or electrical. Griggs was something else, like an unexploded bomb sitting beneath the aircraft, waiting to explode into bloody violence.
His boots hit the tarmac, and he rolled into the shadows beneath the fuselage. He was behind the port undercarriage wheel, and he tucked in close to the big tires, using them as cover. Several meters away, nearer the rear of the aircraft, he heard a low chuckle.
"Stoner, I thought it would be you. This is how it ends, just the two of us."
"Griggs, you shouldn’t have come. I told you I'd kill you. Sooner or later, it makes no difference to me. Why don't you let the women escape? Do the right thing for once in your goddamn miserable life."
The insane laugh was enough to chill the blood. A man who'd lost all humanity, and all pretense to civilization or morality. Griggs lived for one thing. For death, and usually preceded by the most agonizing torture. The guy was a classic sociopath or psychopath. He didn't know which. Didn’t know the exact label you would use for somebody who was evil through and through. Who oozed evil out of every pore of their skin, from every cell in their body, whatever that label was, it belonged to Griggs.
Stoner assumed he was trying to estimate where he was, and so made sure he was out of sight. He looked behind him, and he was vulnerable, backlit by the moon. Griggs was in dark shadow. He rolled away to find better cover in the deep shadow beneath a wing and hugged the ground. Griggs was no fool, and wherever he was, he was well hidden. All he need do was wait for Stoner to show himself, and he’d take the shot.
He searched every corner, every place he could be hiding, and worked out the likeliest place. At the rear of the aircraft the ground crew had left a boarding stair about two meters from the tailplane. The structure merged into the pitch-black night. If a man was going to hide, what better place.
He reached down, scooped up some gravel from the tarmac, and threw it toward the starboard wheel. Three shots cracked out, and now he had him. As he suspected, Griggs was hiding behind the boarding stair, where he was invisible. But the muzzle flashes lit the night, and he saw him then. Crouched down, a dark figure aiming his rifle right at him. Stoner instinctively fired off two shots to put him off his aim. As he fired, he closed his eyes to guard against losing his night vision. When he opened the lids, Griggs had gone.
He dropped flat on the ground, searching for the target. The bullets had missed, as he'd expected, but he'd hoped at least to force him to move. At night, a moving target was easier to see than a stationary one. Yet there was nothing, no sign of movement. He lay flat, perfectly still, waiting. His opponent would be doing the same thing. Waiting for him to make a move, and in the deadly game of hide and seek, the one who moved first would open the door for the other man to take the first shot.
All he could hear were the distant shots as the two fights slogged it out, and then he heard voices, a woman's voice, and then Javed.
They’re working on the engine.
Stoner didn’t move. He had something else confronting him. A man named Griggs, a killer psycho, and he continued to search the gloom.
He almost missed him, and he was on him like a panther, a patch of black detaching itself from the dark shadows. All he saw was a flash of wild eyes, and hands reaching out to grab him, to tear apart and destroy. The man was crazy, batshit crazy. Consumed with the insane desire to kill with his bare hands. He’d abandoned his gun and came at him like a street fighter, to smash, to pulverize, to inflict damage, to rip apart flesh. Inside the first few seconds, he knew he was losing the fight.
Griggs was enjoying it. Laughing, taunting him. “Stoner, I could take two men like you before breakfast."
He was scenting blood, enjoying the anticipation of what was to come. His feral senses zeroed in on the leg wound, and without warning his boot lashed out and slammed into the exact spot. Stoner still had the other gun, and he tried to bring it around to get the shot, until a boot lashed out, and the gun fell, sliding away into the darkness. It was like fighting a huge, elemental force, something evil.
He was still shouting, raving, “I could kill you with a single blow, how about that, Stoner?"
He’d made his first mistake. His overconfidence was the opening he’d been looking for. Stoner lunged at him and delivered a hard two-punch combination that slammed into his broken nose. More bone gave way, and further blood streamed down his chin, dripping to the floor.
Griggs paused and stared at him. His gaze chilled, and his skin whitened with fury.
"That’s it, pal. You’ve asked for it, now you can have it.”
The move was lightning fast, and he slammed another blow into the leg wound. Stoner rolled away, aware he was virtually all in. Yet he summoned up his last vestiges of strength and determination.
He wasn’t fighting for himself, but for the others, those women in the aircraft cabin, Congresswoman Barbara Adams. Sara Carver. Noyan and Nadiri, enemies, but good men. The kids, Noyan’s kidnapped children, and the girl Ivan had picked up on the way in. Javed, a killer through no fault of his own, but a good lad. Ivan, Gorgy, and Akram, men he’d been through more than a few scrapes with.
And Greg. A man he’d go through the flames of hell to protect. Yet was lying on the cold aluminum floor of the aircraft. Touch and go whether he’d survive.
If he was to finish it, he lacked the means. A weapon, anything he could use to kill him. And then he remembered the dagger tucked inside his coat, but useless. If he reached for it, Griggs would be on him like a tiger. He had to divert his attention, just for a second. As if the Gods had answered his call, he heard the whirring of a starter.
A diversion!
A moment later, the engine coughed, spluttered and caught. It ran ragged, as if whoever was in the cockpit knew nothing of tuning an aircraft engine to run smoothly, the intricacies of mixture, propeller pitch, and revolutions. Still, the engine was running. Now he needed to get a hand to the dagger.
Griggs was still alert, and the engine start hadn’t been quite enough, when a tiny window of opportunity opened. He turned to assess the danger from the whirling steel blades. The danger came from a different steel blade. Stoner snatched out the dagger and struck. Griggs sensed danger and swiveled, a fast movement, his hand outstretched to ward off the blade. The two men’s hands came toward each other, and a mere split-second divided them, the flashing blade stabbing at Griggs, the hand lashing out to intercept it. The dagger struck a millisecond before the edge of the hand collided with his arm. He let go the knife, but it stayed in place, embedded in Grigg’s chest. The tip must have pierced his lung, for blood and spittle dribbled out of his mouth.
He slumped to his knees, struggling to control the immense pain, and looked up at Stoner.
“I’ll…fucking…kill…you.”
“In another life, Griggs. In another life.”
He snatched out the blade, and this time aimed at the heart. Bullseye, and the American deserter and murderer turned terrorist keeled over. His eyes remained open, and the ice-cold gaze stared up at the sky, seeing nothing.
