Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller: Book 3

by Bobby Adair

Paul nodded but not too enthusiastically.

  “I wonder what would happen if I called some MPs in here to take you out and interrogate you properly.”

  Colonel Holloway’s words were intimating a threat, but his face was saying something else. Paul took a chance on a change of direction. “I’d deflect.”

  “Deflect?” That brought a laugh from the Colonel.

  Paul took a deep breath and ran through one last round of quick thoughts on the subject and decided that a criminal Larry mixed in with a bunch of smuggling, corrupt officers would be plenty to muddy any investigation that might indeed ask enough questions to implicate Paul of murder. He took the folded, wrinkled sheets of paper out of his pocket and laid them on the Colonel’s desk, leaving his hand over them. “There are some things going on here that you need to be aware of.”

  Chapter 71

  With nothing but growing nervousness to keep him company, Austin got out of the Ford twice and ran out of the garage to relieve himself on the landscaping beside the driveway. “I give this gift to you, little plants. One day soon the sprinkler system will stop working. Then you’ll die.”

  At least an hour had passed with nothing happening anywhere. Not a single car had driven down the street. Not a single discernable sound came from the compound at the end of the peninsula. All Austin heard was the wind rustling the fronds of the tall palms in front of the house and waves gently lapping the sand on the beach.

  He’d accepted that his role in Mitch’s plan was that of getaway driver. As much as he hated to admit it, he felt relieved. What use would Austin truly be in assassinating a terrorist and shooting it out with his soldiers? Austin eyed the other cars in the garage: a Mercedes sedan, a Mercedes SUV, and a Lexus. Any one of those would be less ostentatious than the Ford. No one would notice a Mercedes making a getaway on the streets of Dubai.

  A firecracker popped.

  That’s sort of what it sounded like.

  But even as Austin made the comparison, he knew it wasn’t a firecracker.

  Three more pops followed in rapid succession as Austin admitted to himself that the noise was gunfire.

  Mitch’s plan had gone bad.

  Automatic rifle shots blazed faster than Austin could count.

  He closed his eyes for a second. If he turned the key, if he drove toward Najid Almasi’s compound, he was probably going to die. If he didn’t, Mitch would definitely die and Najid Almasi would get away.

  Austin cranked the starter. The engine rumbled. He shifted into gear and raced out of the driveway, leaning hard into a turn as he fishtailed onto the road.

  Najid Almasi’s mansion was a few hundred yards ahead.

  He accelerated.

  A hundred yards.

  The windshield shattered under the impact of bullets.

  Austin turned the headlights on, flipped them to bright, and turned on the row of lights mounted to the roll bar.

  He hoped he was on course, unable to see anything through the thick web of cracked glass. Bullets pinged on the Ford’s bumper, hood, and fenders.

  Austin leaned over to hide his body behind the dashboard and had a moment to wonder if he should be going faster or slower. What if he hit the wall at fifty miles per hour, would the impact kill him, uselessly? He chanced it and mashed his foot to the floor.

  The engine responded with a roar.

  The steering wheel pulled under the strain of power to the front wheels.

  The truck crashed into the gate, throwing it off its hinge on one side. Both gate and truck smashed into the car parked behind it.

  Austin was thrown against the dashboard.

  The truck bounced so high and at such an angle, Austin thought it would roll.

  Forward it went.

  He saw flashes of color from a blow to his head.

  The truck leveled on the ground, still rolling.

  Austin was all right. He guessed.

  He was half out of the seatbelt, and his head and shoulders were on the passenger side floorboard with his M-16 and a couple of magazines that had slipped out of his belt.

  The truck hit the wall around the fountain and stopped.

  Time to move.

  Or time to die.

  Austin shook his head to clear it.

  He scooped up his magazines and his weapon. He struggled to get himself up on the seat, unbuckled the seat belt, and unlatched the driver’s side door. He was relieved that it hadn’t become jammed in the collision, and he kicked it open, leveling the M-16 out the side of the truck as he did so.

  He fired a few preemptive rounds before he realized no terrorists were standing on that side of the truck.

  He jumped out, stumbled, and rolled as the sound of gunfire banged and bullets hit the truck’s cab and fenders.

  He was scared out of his mind knowing that at any second terrorist bullets would shred his flesh.

  Keeping down, he ran toward the tropical forest garden he’d seen the crown of from the other side of the wall. Holding his weapon with both hands, shooting in the general direction of the house, he knew he was doing nothing except making noise.

  Chapter 72

  Austin stopped shooting, ran a dozen more paces, and dropped to a knee on a paved path. All around him grew shrubs of a dozen varieties—some short, some taller than him, palmettos, huge ceramic pots three feet tall with bunches of wild grass standing six or seven feet above the rim, and palm trees. A layer of river stones the size of a fist covered the ground between the trees and shrubs.

  The Ford’s horn blared. The smashed car’s alarm whooped. Lights from the truck’s roll bar array lit the upper-floor walls of the mansion. It was the only thing Austin was able to see besides plants. It was the only landmark.

  Shots sounded again, Austin guessed from the other side of the property.

  An Arabic voice shouted off to his right, in the general direction he’d left the truck in. Austin only needed about a half-second to decide how to respond. He sent half a dozen bullets that way.

  He ran again, dropped to a knee, and fired a few shots in a different direction, at nothing at all that he could see. It didn’t matter, though. As Mitch had explained to him, his job wasn’t to kill anyone, which wasn’t likely to happen anyway. One day on the rifle range wasn’t enough to give Austin anything close to the kind of skills he needed to be effective in a firefight.

  Austin’s self-appointed job was to run, shoot, and run again. With any luck, the terrorists would think he was three or four men instead of one. If Austin kept moving fast enough, kept the terrorist occupied or even frightened about an attacking force, then maybe Mitch, with some real skill, could kill them. Austin might even live through the attack.

  Guns fired into the garden. Bullets hit trees and hit the wall twenty or thirty yards behind him, hidden by the foliage.

  Austin fired again. He ran.

  Chapter 73

  Colonel Holloway took his time reading through Paul’s papers. He didn’t ask questions. He looked up from time to time, but his expression betrayed none of what he was thinking. Afterward, he led Paul out of the office and across the compound. They crossed the camp with two MPs walking behind. Apart from ordering the two MPs to follow, the Colonel hadn’t said a word.

  The sun was high in the sky by then. Long gauze clouds left white smears across the blue. Dead winter prairie grasses covered the surrounding rolls of hills in a tan color all the way down to Denver, ten miles distant in the valley below. Beyond the city the snow-covered mountains stood tall along the western horizon.

  They walked toward the mountains. More importantly, they walked toward the dilapidated chain-link fence that marked the border of the camp and the beginning of no man’s land within machine gun range.

  Paul started to worry.

  When Colonel pulled back a section of fence that had become disconnected or cut years past, Paul stood tall, looking for soldiers who were hidden out there somewhere. “Has anyone tested the gunners yet? Has anyone been shot?”

/>   “Not yet.” The Colonel motioned Paul through.

  Paul didn’t move.

  The Colonel nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  The Colonel shrugged and stepped through the hole in the fence. “Come on.”

  Chapter 74

  After burning through three magazines, Austin pushed his last into the receiver.

  Thirty rounds left.

  Austin panted, as much from nerves and floods of adrenaline as from exertion.

  With ninety bullets spent on the diversion, he decided another thirty wouldn’t make a difference. It was time to conserve. It was time to kill if he could get a terrorist in view.

  He squatted by a tree and looked through the darkness, listening.

  The car alarm had stopped. The truck horn was no longer beeping.

  The wind in the palms was the loudest sound, not counting the pounding of Austin’s heart. He smelled the heat of the barrel and the burned powder. He smelled his sour sweat and the sweetness of the flowers around him. He felt the texture of the concrete on which he knelt. Everything was intense. No detail in the world was too small to notice.

  Rocks rolled against one another under the weight of feet stepping slowly between the shrubs. That was the sound of danger as certain as a child’s scream.

  Using instinct to home in on the sound, Austin fired three shots across a lateral pattern as he swung his rifle barrel. He immediately dropped to his hands and knees and started to crawl away as gunshots ripped through the shrubs.

  The rocks rolled again and a gun fired from the same direction. Muzzle flashes illuminated the palms over the shooter’s head. Austin got back to a knee and fired six more shots in that direction.

  He dropped to his belly and rolled along the sidewalk as more gunfire came. He got up to his hands and knees and scrambled along the concrete sidewalk until it took a hard turn at the wall that bordered the property.

  Austin listened again. He looked.

  He wasn’t trapped, but he almost was. He couldn’t go back any farther. Somewhere on his left, a gunman had been moving over the rocks between the shrubs. He’d earned nearly a third of Austin’s remaining bullets for the mistake.

  To Austin’s right, a quieter, smarter adversary was stalking.

  Two?

  That was Austin’s count unless some very smart, very silent terrorists were out there in the darkness.

  Austin needed to move. Fast feet had served him well so far. He’d been in one spot for enough seconds to make him nervous. Right was a guy who made sounds only when he fired. Left was a guy who’d made noise walking in the rocks. He seemed more real and more dangerous because of it. As Austin leaned into a step to run right, he stopped, hollering silently in his head. Don’t follow your fear. Use your intellect.

  Silence is deadly.

  Austin turned, crouched, and ran. He followed a sidewalk that bordered the wall, brushing a palmetto as he passed. The big fan-like palmetto leaves were rigid enough to sound like a shout when they rubbed against one another in the relative silence.

  A handful of shots pierced the clattering leaves and hit the wall.

  Repressing an urge to panic, Austin dropped to a knee beside a palm and heard a single shot. He didn’t hear it hit the wall where the others had. He looked into the deep shadows in front of him, trying to see movement. The terrorist with the noisy feet was somewhere ahead. But the shots Austin fired at him taught him a lesson. He’d gone silent.

  Chapter 75

  Austin came to a path that led back into the garden and away from the wall. Hearing nothing around him, Austin figured he’d take the chance to go back to where he had a chance to evade in any direction.

  He crawled slowly on hands and knees, stopping every five or six feet to listen.

  He was probably thirty feet from the wall and around a curve with sight of nothing but shrubs, grasses, and trees when he heard something and froze.

  Somebody nearby was breathing. Or trying to breathe.

  It wasn’t loud. But it was labored.

  Austin turned his head and listened, turned it another way and listened again. It was hard to tell the exact direction. Soft sounds got diffused bouncing among the big tropical leaves.

  He snuck closer to the direction he’d chosen as the source.

  He stopped.

  Louder. Definitely louder.

  Austin crawled some more, froze, and realized he was too focused. He could be crawling into an ambush.

  He looked around. He ignored the labored breaths for a moment and listened.

  Somewhere in the direction of the truck—Austin couldn’t tell how far—something was moving. Not walking. Not in a hurry. It sounded heavy and slow. Then it stopped.

  No other sounds came to Austin except the fronds moving in the wind high above.

  He crawled forward.

  The labored breathing was louder. He continued toward it and then froze.

  Two feet were lying on the path, heels up, toes down.

  Austin raised up on his knees and slowly, quietly brought his weapon around.

  He only saw the feet and lower legs sticking out of the shrubs, but it was easy enough to tell where the rest of the owner lay. Austin pointed at the spot he guessed was the center of the man’s chest, and fired three quick shots.

  He dropped to the ground and rolled, pointing his rifle roughly at the terrorist he’d just shot in the back.

  A whispered voice. “Austin?”

  Austin froze. “Mitch?”

  “Don’t shoot.” It was definitely Mitch.

  Austin got up on a knee, keeping his rifle at his shoulder but keeping the barrel pointed in the direction of the man he’d just shot.

  “I’m coming. Don’t shoot me.”

  Austin looked left toward a curve in the path. “I can’t see you.”

  A second later, Mitch came around on the sidewalk. He knelt beside Austin. “I don’t know how many are inside, none I think, but we got all the ones out here.”

  “You’re kidding.” Austin grinned, but nerves turned it back to darting eyes and quick glances.

  Mitch pointed in the direction of the house. “We need to hurry. If Najid Almasi is in there, we lost the element of surprise. He knows somebody out here means him harm.”

  Chapter 76

  They stood, leaning against a wall on a small patio off the side of the house. Surrounded by the garden, a fountain burbled. Mitch reached over and checked the glass door. He looked at Austin and whispered, “It’s open.” He breathed deeply. “You have any ammo left?”

  “Half a mag.” Austin shrugged. “I’m pretty sure.”

  “Eject the magazine. Show me.”

  Austin removed his magazine and passed it to Mitch. Mitch examined it as Austin looked at the dark bushes and trees around them, not wanting to be surprised if any more of Najid Almasi’s men were still out there.

  Mitch clicked the magazine back into Austin’s rifle. “I’m going in first. You stay well behind. We’ll check each room. I’ll shoot anyone I see. If I get shot, unload on the bastard. You make sure he’s dead. Got me?”

  Austin nodded.

  “Stay back far enough that if I get shot, you don’t get it too.”

  Austin nodded again.

  Mitch slid the glass door open and stepped inside, rifle up, panning across the dark room. Austin waited a few seconds and then followed Mitch in. He looked around. The room was in order. It was beautifully decorated and expansive. No one was inside.

  Mitch peeked into a kitchenette. He looked inside an enormous armoire. He looked into a bathroom, all while Austin stood with his back to the patio door, rifle at the ready.

  When Mitch finished, he gave Austin a little wave of his hand and Austin followed Mitch into the hall. Austin didn’t need to be told to be quiet.

  They searched a few large rooms that seemed to have no purpose other than to look beautiful with art, furniture, and views of the beach. They came to an office that lo
oked to have been used recently. A laptop sat on a desk. Items were out of place. Cushions on the couch were misarranged.

  Mitch nodded to Austin. He saw it too.

  They proceeded up the hall. They checked two more living areas, a dining room that had a long, long table and thirty chairs, a kitchen that looked like it belonged in a restaurant, a library, and the garage. No Najid Almasi.

  Mitch pointed up the stairs, leaned in close to Austin and said, “Don’t come up until you see me at the top. I’ll wait for you.”

  Austin tried his best to meld with a shadow in an alcove as he stared into the shadows up there, looking for movement.

  Once Mitch was on a knee, beside a column, pointing his rifle down a hall, he motioned for Austin to come up.

  Austin stepped quietly, looking around at the expansive space below, looking for any shadow they hadn’t checked, any spot that might be a hiding place for Almasi.

  Halfway up, movement caught Austin’s eye—something outside, across the lawn, across the beach, on a long pier sticking out into the water. A man was carrying a weapon, carrying a bag in one hand, and struggling as he limped toward an empty cigarette boat.

  Najid Almasi!

  It had to be.

  Austin looked up, pointing out through the glass. “Najid!” He bounded down the stairs.

  Mitch ran down behind him.

  Austin ran through a door slamming it against the wall as it swung.

  Almasi looked over his shoulder and tried to hurry his pace.

  Austin sprinted. When he was halfway across the lawn, he heard Mitch come through the door just as noisily as he had.

  Najid was nearing the end of the dock just as Austin was crossing the sand. Even as slow as Najid was going, Austin saw that Najid was going to get to the boat well ahead of him.

  Austin slid down to a knee as he raised his M-16 to his shoulder, fired two rounds he knew were going to miss, and yelled, “Stop, Najid!”

  Najid spun around much faster than expected for a hobbled man. His rifle spewed rounds as he brought it to bear back down the dock.