by Scott McEwen
He disappeared down a trail to the south, knowing the dangers of sticking to the trails, but the rhododendron left him no other choice. His only chance was to put as much distance between himself and the outpost as he could, hoping for a break in the rhododendron grove. Gil stopped behind a rock to reload the GP-34 and to attach another hand grenade to the ready-hook on his harness. He heard footfalls coming down the trail and drew the suppressed pistol, aiming over the rock as a man came through the curve in the trail. He shot him in the base of throat, and the guy grabbed his neck, pitching forward off the trail.
Gil got back on the move and after twenty minutes began to believe he may have shaken them, but his fantasies were dispelled the moment he heard the faint rattle of equipment moving parallel to him on the far side of an impenetrable thicket. He slowed and stopped, and the rattling stopped as well. There were at least two men shadowing him, but he didn’t have time for a cat-and-mouse game, so he took off running.
The two paths came to an abrupt intersection a hundred feet down the trail, and he slammed broadside into one of the men, sending him flying. The second guy jumped on Gil and knocked him down. Fortunately, the impact knocked the man’s AK-47 from his hands, and the guy had to turn around to pick it up. Gil machine-gunned them both from his back and sprang to his feet. There was a burst of fire behind him, and the rounds impacted against the armor panel on his back and sent him sprawling forward. He rolled to his back as the Chechen charged, catching his toe on the nub of a root and stumbling forward off his feet, landing in Gil’s guard.
Gil wrapped his legs around the Chechen’s waist and grabbed him around the neck with his arm, gouging out the Chechen’s eye with the thumb of his free hand. The guy screamed and tore off Gil’s helmet, trying to get free. Gil released his guard and performed a hip escape, bashing him in the temple with his knee as he got to his feet. He grabbed the AN-94 and finished him with a rifle butt to the head before taking off again.
There was plenty of shouting to his rear now, and Gil knew that the rest of the outpost wouldn’t be more than thirty seconds behind him. He guessed there were a dozen men or so bearing down on him, but who the hell knew? It may as well have been a hundred, because his reserves were spent. Every time his right foot hit the trail, it felt like he was stomping on a bowie knife. His lungs burned with fire, and the calves of his legs were beginning to knot up with lactic acid. He desperately needed a chance to catch his wind, but the hounds never allowed the fox that kind of time.
What was it Dragunov had said the night before, that running back toward the hounds was never an option for the fox?
“Fuck it. Better to meet it head-on than to let ’em run you down.”
He turned and charged back up the trail.
A dark figure leapt out of the undergrowth and tackled him. Two more men fell on him a second later and pinned him fast to the ground. Gil screamed and went berserk, slugging away and trying to throw them off, but they were too heavy and too strong. They immobilized him, and one of them sat on his head while his hands were zip-tied behind his back. They dragged him into the undergrowth, and Gil lay on his back watching as six men in black quickly fanned out to either side of the trail with AN-94s.
Thirteen Chechens rounded the bend and were met by a hail of fire. The two men at the front of the column virtually disintegrated. Those to the center were cut down without getting off a shot, and those at the rear turned to run—but they didn’t make it far. The forest fell silent, and the men in black rose to their feet, dumping the empty magazines from their rifles.
Gil struggled to sit up as one of them came forward. The man knelt in front of him and lowered a black balaclava to reveal his unshaven visage.
“I am Colonel Yablonsky of the Spetsnaz Spetsgruppa A,” he said, his eyes almost black beneath dark eyebrows. “Where is Major Dragunov?”
Gil swallowed. “He was medevac’d out by an American mercenary unit.”
Yablonsky said something to his lieutenant in Russian. “When?”
“Around noon.”
“Why were you left behind?”
Gil watched as the other Spetsnaz men took up defensive positions. “Because I’m going to kill Dokka Umarov and Sasha Kovalenko. Did Moscow send you in?”
Yablonsky shook his head, looking pensive. “We jumped in on our own—against orders. Dragunov is a good friend.”
Gil was exhausted, but he found the energy to smile. “My kinda group.”
“How badly is Ivan wounded?”
“Bad enough to take him out of the fight,” Gil said, “but he’ll survive. He’s tough.”
“And where exactly are you going?”
“Mukhammad’s camp.”
Yablonsky spoke again with his lieutenant and then returned his attention to Gil. “Do you know Mukhammad has more than two hundred men in that camp?”
Gil nodded. “It was mentioned, yeah.”
“And you’re going anyway? In this condition?”
Gil shrugged. “Nothin’ better to do out here.”
Yablonsky told the lieutenant to cut him loose, and Gil dug a couple of dextroamphetamine capsules from his medical kit.
“Do you really think you’re capable of completing such a mission in your condition, Master Chief?”
Gil swallowed the capsules with a gulp of water from the CamelBak inside Mason’s rucksack. “Yep.”
“One man against two hundred? Two hundred who probably know you’re coming?”
Gil smiled. “Well, there’s seven of us now, Colonel.” He chuckled. “Which cuts the odds to something like twenty-eight to one, doesn’t it? Unless you guys are leaving, in which case I’d appreciate some ammo and grenades.”
Yablonsky was unsure of what to do.
“You say you guys jumped in here against orders?”
The Russian nodded and stood up. “And by now Moscow will know.”
Gil got to his feet slowly, testing his weight on the titanium implant and rubbing his wrists. “I’m not Spetsnaz, Colonel, but with Major Dragunov already out of danger . . . well, I’m guessing it might be a good idea for you guys to take Dokka Umarov’s head back to Moscow.”
Yablonsky smiled. “Even if we fail, it’s a story that will grow in the telling.” He looked at his men, saying to them in Russian, “The American has challenged us to help him kill Umarov. Anyone want to refuse?”
No one did.
75
HAVANA,
Cuba
After a couple of hours in the bathroom, Mariana emerged. She glanced at Crosswhite, who sat on the bed in front of the television. Then she leaned against the wall, folding her arms in a protective embrace. “What happened to the—to the bodies?”
Crosswhite lifted the remote and turned off the television. “Ernie’s people are taking care of things. Do you need him to call the doctor?”
She pulled her hair back behind her ears and then folded her arms again, sniffling. “Thanks. I’m okay.”
“I should have cleared the room. I’m sorry.”
She shook her head.
“We’ll get you on a plane to Mexico City. I’ll meet you there after the mission, and we can get our stories straight. There’s no reason for Pope to know about this—unless you want him to. And don’t worry, I’ll tell him I’m willing to work with you again.”
She stepped over to the bed and sat down on the corner of the mattress, keeping her arms folded. “How did you know to come in?”
“It’s an old building,” he said. “I heard him peeing in the toilet through the wall. It didn’t sound right. Then when he dropped the lid to flush, and I knew somebody was over here.”
She sat staring at the floor. “I must’ve washed fifty times. I still feel dirty.”
“It’s normal,” he said.
She looked at him. “I’d like to stay and finish the mission. I’
m focused now.”
“No. You need to recover from this. You can spend as much time as you need in Mexico City. There’s plenty of money, and Pope’s been—”
“I need to finish this, Dan. If I go back now, it’s like it happened for nothing.”
“You might feel that way at the moment, but—”
“Listen to me!” she said. “You didn’t just save my life. You stopped him before he could finish—and that means more than you have any idea. I can do this. Please trust me.”
He sat thinking things over for a long time. He thought about Sarahi bleeding to death in his arms. He thought about his friend Sandra Brux, raped and brutalized at the hands of the Taliban two years earlier—his failed mission to rescue her—and he thought about Paolina. Did he even dare step into her world? What specters of evil might follow him there?
“Dan?”
He looked at her.
“Let me stay.”
“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “But you have to follow my every instruction.”
“I promise.” She stood up. “Think we can get outta this room?”
“Sure.”
They slipped into Crosswhite’s room, and he gave her a bottle of water from the fridge. “I talked to Midori over the sat phone. Pope’s been shot again.”
Mariana nearly choked on the water. “What?!”
“Ben Walton walked right into his hospital room and shot him—with two Secret Service agents out in the hall. Believe that shit?”
“By now, I’ll believe anything. Is he going to live?”
“Sounds like it.” He took the Cuban assassin’s cellular from his pocket and dropped it onto the bed. “Midori worked the call list and figured out where to find Peterson. Looks like he bought a small finca outside of town last year.” A finca was an estate. “She’s going to email us the sat photos and whatever other intel she can come up with. We’ll recon the place later and put together a plan of action.”
Mariana capped the water bottle and set it aside, rubbing her hands on her legs. “So what do we do while we’re waiting?”
“Dunno. You hungry?”
“Yeah, but can we have Ernesto bring us something? I don’t feel like going outside right now. I feel like the whole world will know what happened the second they see me.”
“Sure.”
Ernesto brought them food from a restaurant down the street, and they sat on the bed eating. When they were finished, the two of them stretched out and lay staring at the ceiling. Crosswhite kept the 1911 beside him on the bed.
Mariana rolled to her side and propped up her head on her hand. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier . . . about getting another one killed. That was a cunt thing to say.”
“Forget it. We’re in another life now.”
“I guess that’s true, isn’t it? For me, anyhow.” She stared into space. “They were absolutely going to kill me. Peterson ordered it. The smaller guy said so.”
“Well, we’re going to return the favor.”
She lifted her head and her eyes filled with tears, her voice shaking as she spoke. “They slugged me in the stomach, and I couldn’t even scream for help.”
“When he was on top of me . . .” Her voice cracked. “When he was on top of me, I begged God for you to come through that door. I’ve never begged for anything like that in my life . . . but I knew you wouldn’t come . . . I knew it was impossible.
“But then there you were. I still can’t believe it.”
He smiled. “Well, I guess that just proves the old saying.”
She wiped her nose with the backs of her fingers. “What old saying?”
He looped a lock of hair behind her ear with his finger and then rested his hand on the bed.
“Trust in God and the Eighty-Second Airborne.”
76
HAVANA,
Cuba
Peterson was back on the phone with Roy, his Mexico City contact, astounded by the news that Walton had shown up in Maryland and gotten himself killed.
“What do you mean he shot Pope?”
“All I know,” Roy said, “is that he walked into Pope’s room, shot him, and got gunned down by the Secret Service two seconds later.”
“I don’t fucking believe it!” Peterson said. “He never said a word about going back to the States.”
“Well, it gets even more bizarre than that,” Roy said.
“How? What the hell else don’t I know?”
“It looks like he probably killed Steve Grieves before he paid Pope a visit. The senator’s car blew up down the street from the Capitol less than an hour before Walton showed up at the hospital. So if it wasn’t Walton’s work, it’s one hell of a coincidence.”
Peterson stood with his jaw hanging down. “Christ Almighty. I must have been next.”
“That’s probably a safe bet,” Roy said. “It looks like Ben was cleaning house all across the board. You know, I never did think he was all that stable. The guy enjoyed waterboarding people way too much.”
“That’s why he was taken off the detail,” Peterson muttered. “Listen, you’re sure he’s dead?”
“Yeah, that’s confirmed. You don’t have to worry about him. How are things going with Crosswhite?”
“Last I heard,” Peterson said, “my guys were about to pop the Mederos bitch.” He chuckled. “Then they were gonna move against Crosswhite. They weren’t supposed to risk a callback unless something went wrong, and I haven’t heard from them or Captain Ruiz, so it’s looking like everything went according to plan this time—no bodies in the street. I’ll get confirmation tomorrow and let you know.”
“Do that,” Roy said. “I’d like to be able to close the file at my end. Depending on how things work out in the future, I may be able to use your eyes and ears in Havana. Hey, maybe we’ll get lucky, and Pope will throw a clot. If he croaks, I might even be able to get you white-listed in a couple of years—get you some room to breathe.”
“We can sure as hell hope,” Peterson said. “Let me know when you want to do business, and I’ll get you my account numbers.”
“Okay, but there’s no hurry. We’re talking eighteen months or so down the road.”
They ended the call a couple minutes later, and Peterson stepped to the window for a look down at the street, where two off-duty cops sat in a white car outside the gate to the finca. Satisfied that all was in order, he went downstairs, took a small snub-nosed .38 revolver from his back pocket, and set it on a table inside the backdoor.
Then he changed into a pair of shorts and went outside for a swim. It was good to be alive.
77
THE CAUCASUS MOUNTAINS
Gil lay on his belly on a ridge beside Colonel Yablonsky, studying Mukhammad’s camp through the scope of the McMillan tactical rifle. At two thousand yards, he couldn’t make out much detail, but he could see enough to gain a good idea of its general disposition.
“We may have gotten lucky, Colonel. It doesn’t look like they’re on a war footing down there.” He passed Yablonsky the rifle. “Tell me what you think.”
The Russian watched the encampment. “I agree they look very relaxed.” He passed back the TAC-338. “But how is it possible they’re not expecting you? We know the outpost had a radio. We’ve been monitoring their traffic for weeks in an attempt to track Umarov’s movement.”
“I must have blown the radio up before they had a chance to put out a call.” He capped the scope fore and aft, and the two men pulled back from the ridge. “Now I just have to get within range and wait for Umarov to show himself.”
Yablonsky noted the sniper rifle did not have a suppressor. “And you think we’ll be able to escape after you make the shot?”
“Did you guys bring any MON-50s with you?” The MON-50 was the Russian version of the American M18A1 Claymore mine.
&nbs
p; “Yes. One each.”
“Good. After they run into the second one, they’ll slow their pursuit. We only have to outrun them for three thousand meters or so. I’m supposed to have people waiting at the bridge crossing into Georgia.”
“My men and I cannot cross into Georgia. Moscow would be very angry.”
“But less so if we kill Dokka Umarov, and that’s why we’re here.”
“You don’t know my government very well.”
Gil chuckled as he got to his feet, slinging the rifle around his back. “I’ll bet I know it better than you think I do.”
“You’ll have to get a lot closer than this. Where do you plan to set up?”
“See that tree yonder?” Gil pointed out a hardwood far off to the southeast, higher than the rest. “It’s about eight hundred meters from the camp and should give me a good overview of the target area. If I move out now, I should be in position before the sun begins to set.”
Yablonsky stood staring at the tree. “It’s completely on the wrong side of the camp. You’ll have to run all the way around it to escape.”
“I’m not running around anything,” Gil said. “The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, and I’ve got a bum foot.”
The Russian took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “You’re going to run straight across the camp?”
“More like a zigzag, but yeah.” Gil took a knee, bidding Yablonsky to do the same. “Look, Colonel, I can only take one shot from that tree. Any more, and they’ll pinpoint my location. That means I’ll have to climb down and hunt Kovalenko on the ground. I’d prefer to shoot him first, but both our governments want Umarov dead, so Umarov carries priority.
“If you and your men set up on the west side of the camp and open fire with grenade launchers the second you hear my shot, that will help to cover my position and draw them away from me. Then all you have to do is break contact, fall back through your claymore screen, and haul ass for the bridge.”
