Hide and Seek

by Jeff Struecker

  “What should we do, Boss?”

  J. J. wished Eric Moyer was here. He always seemed to know the right thing to do and when to do it. But he wasn’t here. J. J. was Boss. The brass had expectations of him; his men needed instant decisions; and two women needed his help. This thought steeled his spine but the thought of his pregnant wife waiting for him melted his resolve.

  In high school he had a friend whose father was a firefighter, the only other career apart from the Army J. J. ever considered. He loved to hear the man tell stories about everything from brush fires to fire-engulfed buildings. He relished every tale of rescue and auto accidents. Then his friend’s father told him of his first call: a crib death. “There was nothing we could do. The child had been dead far too long. I was a rookie with a wife but no kids. My fellow firefighters had kids. They were a mess. I was left to keep an eye on the mother and father until the sheriff arrived. It’s like being on suicide watch. People do strange things when confronted by sudden tragedy. It was sad then, but I couldn’t understand why all the more experienced firefighters were outside smoking and avoiding eye contact with each other. Then Jim here was born.” J. J. remembered the man pausing. “I used to check his breathing every night before going to bed. If I had to use the head in the middle of the night, I would slip into his room and lay my hand on his back.”

  It was a sad story but this was the first time J. J. understood. He was never hesitant to run to the sound of gunfire; never reluctant to enter the fray. Things changed. He wasn’t just a soldier any longer; he wasn’t just a husband; he was a father to unborn twins and that put a hitch in his step.

  “Boss?”

  J. J. looked into Crispin’s eyes, nodded, then activated his radio. “Joker, Boss.”

  No response.

  He tried again. “Joker, Boss.” Still nothing. He was about to make a third attempt when the Samoan’s whispered voice came through the ear piece.

  “Go, Boss.”

  “Hostiles are moving in on our target. Time to hit the road. Is your street side still clear?”

  “Roger that, Boss.”

  “Good. Now listen up . . .”

  GREAT, HE'S GONNA THINK I fell asleep over here. Aliki wanted to slap himself but didn’t want to explain the self-abuse to Mike and Pete. He moved to the center of the roof and motioned the others over.

  “Boss says we’re bugging out. Black hats have found the girls, or are about to. We go in as two teams. They will approach the semi from the north; we’ll come in from the south.”

  “What do we do if we run into locals?” Nagano asked. “Some of those guys are packing serious heat.”

  “Orders are to avoid contact whenever possible. We are not to engage civilians unless they are armed. Deadly force is authorized if necessary.”

  “So we toast anyone pointing a barrel our way,” Pete said.

  “Roger that. We have to get off this roof quiet and fast. I want everyone sharp-eyed and on their game. We are severely outnumbered here. Clear.”

  “Clear.” Mike and Pete said in unison.

  “Junior, get eyes on the alley. I want to know if it’s still clear.”

  Pete shuffled to the rear parapet. He hadn’t made the steps before Mike moved closer and punched Aliki in the arm. Hard. “What’s with you, dude? If I hadn’t alerted you that Boss was on the horn, you’d still be up here picking at your teeth.”

  “I’m fine. I let my mind drift.”

  “Don’t give me that, Joker. We’ve been pals for too many years. Is your hearing getting worse?”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  “I can only cover for you so long, dude. You gotta know that.”

  “I know it, Mike. You did me a solid. I owe you big time.”

  “You got that straight. There’s no such thing as a stupid hero, just a dead one. You have a problem, you let me know. Clear?”

  “I think I have an extra stripe you don’t, Mike. Don’t push our friendship too far.”

  Nagano started to speak, but bit back the words. Instead of speaking he hustled to the alley side of the building.

  AMELIA REMOVED HER HAND from Jildiz’s mouth, took the 9mm in hand, and flicked off the safety.

  “Get to the back,” she whispered. “Slowly. Don’t jiggle the cab.” An impossible request. Amelia guessed the three-decade-old tractor was still running on the same suspension it rolled off the assembly line with.

  Jildiz did an admirable job, slowly scooting across the narrow mattress. Amelia sat on the edge of the bed, the pistol held in both hands and positioned between her knees. She tilted her head to one side but heard nothing. Before, she was certain the breeze carried a human voice her direction. She couldn’t be sure, but she was in no position to take chances.

  She waited. She strained her ears. Nothing.

  The cab jostled. It did it again. Amelia thought the motion originated in the back, maybe at the trailer’s doors. Someone was trying to open the back. The owner? The cab swayed again. Not the owner, he would have a key to unlock the back and too much effort was being made to open the doors.

  Now she heard voices, muted but clearly locals. Had she been wrong to assume the little drone was American? Americans didn’t have a lock on technology.

  All went silent again. A moment later the cab shook more. This time she could tell someone was trying to open the driver’s side door.

  Her heart began to pound and she tried to calm it by raising her weapon, its barrel near the curtain separating the driver’s space from the sleeper cab. They couldn’t be seen. That gave her a moment of relief. Maybe they would move on. Then again, if they were looters, they might be interested in whatever was in the trailer. In that case, the natural thing to do was check the cab for the key that would open the lock.

  She heard someone try the passenger side door. Amelia weighed the most likely scenario and it wasn’t good. If there were several men and they were armed, she might be able to take out one or two of them before the others opened fire. The thin metal skin of the cab wouldn’t provide much resistance against copper-jacketed rounds spit from an AK-47 or similar. Crawling into the truck seemed a good idea a short time ago, now she chastised herself for being so foolish as to put them in an environment with no back door.

  Was surrender better than battle? If only she knew how many men were out there. If only . . .

  J. J. GAVE CRISPIN ninety seconds to pull his gear together and switch from surveillance geek to Ranger-trained soldier, something he saw the man do on several occasions. The transformation was amazing to see. Jovial, somewhat innocent, and almost always nerdy, Crispin could become a steely-eyed soldier by flipping a mental switch. Ninety-two seconds later, Crispin was crouched next to the alley-side parapet at the south end of the building, M4 poised to do damage. Jose was in the same position at the north.

  Taking one deep breath, J. J. slipped over the side and slowly moved down the ladder, his back turned to the smoldering carcass of what had once been their transportation. Acrid smoke flowed near the wall with the ladder, keeping the men some distance away. J. J. didn’t blame them, a burning car stunk.

  Only three men remained, each smoking a cigarette. J. J. was never a smoker. Didn’t like the smell or the health risks. It amazed him how these guys, with smoke overhead and eye-burning, toxic smoke still rising from the vehicle, would feel the need to voluntarily inhale more smoke. To each their own.

  He set boots on pavement as silent as a kitten walking on a carpet, then, with his M4 leveled at the backs of the men, moved to the rear of the vehicle then around the other side. Being stealthy was to their advantage. Had they heard him and turned his way, several suppressed rounds would have rained down from the roof. That would be bad for them.

  J. J. positioned himself next to the still-hot hulk and leveled his weapon at the backs of the thre
e men. He sighted on the spine of the center man. Easier to pop the other two without moving his weapon more than a few inches to either side. He hoped he wouldn’t need to squeeze the trigger.

  But he would should they hear Doc or Hawkeye’s descent. Of one thing he was certain: these were not nice people caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Each had a weapon: one AK-47; what looked like an Israeli-made Uzi, one of the world’s most widely spread weapons and popular among certain military groups and terrorists. If it came to it, he would be the first to go. Then the AK-47 man. The third man had a handgun holstered to his belt. He stood the best chance of living if things went south. Not a good chance, just the best of the three.

  The men laughed loudly and spoke in a language unfamiliar to J. J.. Not Russian, most likely Kyrgyz. He guessed it was a dirty joke. A certain kind of laugh followed such things.

  Footsteps to his side. A corner-eyed glance showed Jose two feet behind him and one foot further away from the vehicle. More footsteps. They were lucky so far. Now they needed a little more luck, or as J. J. thought of it: grace.

  The plan was discussed before J. J. went over the parapet. Neither words nor signals were needed. Crispin peeled off, his large pack swaying with each step. Jose followed. J. J. fell in step, moving backward, his eyes fixed on the three.

  A few rapid steps and they reached the intersection of the alley and a cross street. Crispin stopped just shy of the corner of the last shop and held up a fist. Jose and J. J. slowed and moved behind him, J. J. still focused on the men they left thirty meters back.

  Crispin peeked around the corner then took one step back. Without turning he held up one finger. One man.

  J. J. turned his head. A large, ruddy-skinned man, looking to be four inches taller and seventy pounds heavier than Crispin, stepped into the alley. The man was armed with an AK-47, which made him a friend of those who burned their cars. His eyes widened. His mouth opened. He reached for his weapon. Crispin’s fist caught him square in the face.

  The man’s knees buckled for a moment, long enough for Crispin to throw an arm around the gunman’s neck, pinching his trachea and carotid arteries in the crook of his elbow. Jose slipped forward and wrenched the AK-47 from the man’s hands. Crispin turned and hoisted the man on his hip, letting the enemy’s weight do most of the work. The choke hold cut off the man’s air, keeping him from sounding the alarm and squeezed shut the arteries feeding his brain blood and oxygen. He was unconscious a few moments later.

  Crispin lowered the man to the pavement, tucking him in the juncture of an exterior wall to the street. Jose ejected the magazine from the weapon and cleared the chamber of the ready round.

  Seconds later they were two blocks down and headed north in another alley. Doc found a Dumpster and dropped off the AK-47 magazine. One less gun in the mix.

  In the Dante-like smoke-shrouded night, J. J. led his half of the team toward the truck and prayed they would get there in time.

  ALIKI URALE TROTTED AHEAD of Mike Nagano and Pete Rasor. His size was an advantage in hand-to-hand situations but running remained a challenge. During basic training and later Ranger training, he always suffered more than his companions on the long runs and hikes. He finished, usually just well enough to stay in the program. He excelled in everything else, but carting 280 pounds of muscled Samoan took work, especially if there was a pack on his back.

  Their exit was smooth, waiting until they heard two clicks on their radios, telling them Boss and the others were down and safe. If gunfire erupted, Aliki, Mike, and Pete were to pin down the group in the street, taking out every man with a gun if they could. Those two clicks on the radio were sweet sounds. Now if he could only get rid of the constant ringing in his ears.

  At every intersection, they stopped and peered around corners, moving only if they felt they were unobserved.

  For a moment, Aliki thought they would be able to make the distance without being seen. But then two men with Chinese-made Type 56 assault rifles, a knockoff of the AK-47, both raised their weapons and one of them said something. Aliki couldn’t hear it. He didn’t care. He and Mike brought both men down with short bursts from their weapons.

  Aliki was in a hurry. He didn’t bother to see if either remained alive. It didn’t matter. They would bleed to death soon enough.

  The smoky air made his lungs ache and the pounding of his boots on pavement made his knees feel as if they were splintering into tiny, sharp shards. He pressed on. That’s what he always did. Press on.

  ONCE, IN AN UNGUARDED moment, J. J.’s previous leader quipped, “All leadership decisions are meant to be second-guessed.” J. J. didn’t give Eric Moyer’s words much thought then, but now he not only understood the comment, he felt the weight of it. Ordering his men off the roof meant several things—life and death things. First, it meant risking discovery by an overwhelming and heavily armed force; second, it meant surrendering the high ground, and putting them on the same footing as the enemy; third, it meant—if discovered—the end of the mission. Failing in his first action as Boss wouldn’t look good in his personnel jacket.

  Two things pushed him to make the call: one, to do nothing could mean the capture or death of Amelia Lennon and the president’s daughter—something else that wouldn’t look good on his record; second, risk was his business and the business of his team. Better they take the greater risk than the women he was tasked to save.

  The armed mob was behind them and Aliki just reported their location. They were two streets over and half a klick ahead. For a big man, he made good time. That or he was making Pete carry him.

  Voices. Shouts.

  J. J. slowed his jog down the alley. Jose and Crispin did the same. They reached the next intersection and peeked around the corner of what J. J. took to be some kind of delicatessen. A block to the east stood three men forming a half-circle around a mother and—he strained to see details through the NVGs—two children. The children were the same height. Both girls. Both about six years old. Twins. In the street, three feet from the curb, rested a sedan that looked older than J. J.

  One of the men had the woman pinned to the wall, his body pressed against her.

  “Boss? We’re burning time.”

  “Take a look, Doc.” J. J. pulled back from the corner.

  Jose took a quick look then pulled back. He said something in Spanish that sounded like English words J. J. tried to keep out of his vocabulary. “That won’t do. No, sir. That won’t do by a long shot.”

  J. J. could see the anger in Jose’s eyes, the balaclava might conceal the man’s face, but not the tension and barely subdued fury. He looked at the situation again. The man was rubbing a hand on the woman’s face then moved to her shoulder.

  Crispin took a turn looking. It took only a second. “We gotta do it, Boss. I don’t want to live with that scene playing in my head.”

  “It will only take a couple of minutes.” Jose bounced on the balls of his feet.

  “We move quietly and fast. Don’t shoot them unless they draw down on you.”

  “You sure you want us to hold back, Boss?” Jose said.

  He heard laughter from the men that chilled his spine. “No.” One more second passed. “Doc, you take the man on the left; Hawkeye, you got the dude on the right. The man with the woman is mine. Go.”

  J. J. pushed his NVGs up on the hinge that fixed them to his helmet. They moved from the alley into the street in a half crouch. Stealth was the order of the moment and they moved silently, aided by the distraction the men had with their partner and the woman. His hand moved to her blouse.

  Every nerve in J. J. body came to life, fueled by an anger he seldom knew.

  It took less than twenty strides for the team to reach the attackers. It took ten seconds to put an end to their activity. J. J. hung his M4 behind him on its sling, seized the man by the back of the collar with his
left hand and the belt with his right. He pulled. He lifted. The man’s feet came off the sidewalk. J. J. replaced them with the attacker’s face. He then dropped to a knee, landing hard on the man’s backbone. In a fluid motion, J. J. had his service handgun out of the holster and pressed into the base of the man’s skull. It took all of J. J.’s willpower not to tap the trigger.

  A glance to the left showed Jose raising his M4 and delivering the butt of the weapon to the man’s face. J. J. guessed Doc was aiming for the man’s nose but he missed, catching him square in his open mouth. Blood ran. J. J. didn’t want to know what the crunching sound meant.

  A glance right showed Crispin could work more than a joystick. Hawkeye’s booted foot caught the third attacker in the coccyx. The man arched his back, hands reaching for the sensitive, injured area then turned, his face showing pain and fury. Crispin thrust the barrel of his weapon into the man’s chest so hard that the sternum made an audible crunch. He crumpled like an empty sack.

  It took only moments to check the men for weapons. J. J. allowed his man up but kept his handgun aimed between his eyes. The man wet himself. J. J. pointed down the street. The two men ran, one with soggy pants, one with missing teeth. Crispin’s target remained unconscious, maybe dead.

  Not wanting to speak, an act that might give away their nationality, J. J. pointed at Jose then to the car. Crispin went with him.

  The tires on the car looked sound; the engine continued to hum. The only thing out of order was the windshield, which had fractured into a spiderweb of fragments held together by the safety glass. J. J. wanted to ask what happened but knew nothing of the language the woman might speak. That left him nothing but guesswork, and best guess was the men threw something at the car, shattering the windscreen and making it impossible to see. The woman pulled over, the worst thing she could do.

  Jose removed his Benchmade Nimravus knife and drove its four-inch blade through the shattered bits of glass and the plastic laminate that was holding it together. He repeated the action until he had a hole large enough to put his hand through. He began pulling the damaged windshield out in pieces. Crispin caught on and stepped in to help.