He took the night vision goggles off and rubbed his eyes. At first he wasn’t sure, then he distinctly heard a truck engine coming from behind them. It sounded like the low growl of a tractor-trailer rig shifting gears. He hoped for a truckload of insurgents since he could easily ambush them and take them out, but his gut told him he wouldn’t be that lucky. His greatest nightmare was Stella—the legendary Camille Black—riding along with her troops, nailing him as his Rubicon team poached Black Management’s mission. Even though he had spent the past year on assignment infiltrating Rubicon, blowing his cover with them was the least he would have to worry about if she were along for the ride. He had stood her up a couple of weeks ago out of concern that Rubicon was becoming suspicious of him and the rendezvous might blow his cover. He knew she would still be fuming over it. The Marines might have coined the phrase No better friend—No worse enemy, but Stella was the one who really brought that to life.
The Black Management Cougar stopped behind the convoy. Camille was sure it was from Rubicon. For some bizarre reason, they had beaten Black Management to over a dozen job sites in just the past month. There were plenty of tango nests to go around and she couldn’t imagine why they were doing it except to set her up at a time when both Black Management and Rubicon Solutions were trying to woo the CIA for another major no-bid contract. She waded through her troops, handed GENGHIS her XM8 and jumped out of the back. The extra pounds from her gear made her land hard and she felt the impact in her knees and hips. She really dreaded turning thirty.
A week earlier in a Herndon, Virginia boardroom, Rubicon executives in their thousand-dollar suits had denied ever muscling in on jobs assigned to Black Management, pointing out that there was ample work to spread among all of the private military corporations. That was true—and that was what made Rubicon’s behavior all the more puzzling unless they were just trying to pull down her pants at a time she needed to look good. Then she had vowed that if she could ever prove Rubicon was poaching her sites, there would be war between the two private armies. Now she had caught them in flagrante delicto and she stomped across their first battlefield, ready to engage the enemy.
The Rubicon mission commander left the lead SUV and hurried toward her. She noted a familiar smooth gait, but couldn’t see his face well enough to recognize him. Still, there was something about him—he walked like Hunter, she realized. She told herself it couldn’t be him because his chest stuck out more than usual, but she knew ceramic plates in body armor could account for that. What the hell was he doing there, leading the Rubicon raiding party?
“Rubicon’s not getting away with this anymore. I don’t know what the hell you’re up to, but stand down and get the fuck out of my way.”
The commander now jogged toward her.
It couldn’t be him, but it was. “You? I can’t believe this.”
“Quiet,” Hunter said in a low voice. “We’re in black out.”
“Noise discipline because of a flat tire? Right. Don’t worry. We’re upwind of the target,” she said, lowering her voice just in case.
“We’re transferring an HVT and one of our vehicles got a flat. This really isn’t what it seems.”
“Nothing with you is what it seems. You say you love me; we’re getting married—then you stage your death. You say you love me; we’ll meet in Dubai and you’ll make things right—then you stood me up last weekend. And now—now you’re working for the enemy, raiding my assignments, trying to ruin my company. I suppose you still love me?” Camille pulled her USP Tactical sidearm from its holster and pointed it at him. He had hurt her enough.
“Not now,” Hunter said.
“And you’re playing contract soldier now? I thought you despised us mercs. Guess you’ll go to any lengths to screw me over, won’t you?”
“Trust me. More than anything on this earth, I love you, Stella.”
“And I love you, too.” She squeezed the trigger and it felt good. Real good.
Hunter fell backwards and hit the ground. His troops piled out of the trucks, training their weapons on Camille. She holstered her gun, then held her clenched fist in the air, signaling her forces not to move.
He keyed his mike and spoke as he pushed himself up from the desert floor. “Stand down. Situation is under control. Repeat. Stand down. Situation is under control.”
“The situation is not under control,” Camille said.
“You bitch. It could’ve pierced the Kevlar if I didn’t have the SAPI plates in. Did you ever think that it might’ve ricocheted off the plates and blown my fucking chin off?”
“Don’t be such a girl. Besides, your chest looks like Mighty Mouse—I knew you were wearing them. Next time you can count on it that I won’t be shooting at your ceramic plates.”
“You blew my opsec.”
“What operational security? I thought you said you were just changing a flat?”
“Stella,” he whispered. “You have to trust me. It’s not what it looks like. I am on your side. Please don’t blow my cover. Make it look like this is only a turf war. Act like you don’t know me.”
“I don’t know you.” Camille shook her head. She was glad tears evaporated almost instantly in the arid desert.
A rapid pop of automatic gunfire erupted from the direction of the insurgents’ compound.
“You have men down there?” Camille never let personal issues compromise her professionalism. When the shooting started, the private militaries were all on the same side.
Hunter nodded as he ordered his shooters on the dune to give them cover fire. The medium machine gun roared.
“You’re rolling with me,” Camille shouted. “I don’t want you out of my sight. Radio your troops to fall in behind us.” She turned and sprinted toward the Cougar. When she reached the back of the vehicle, three hands reached out to help her up.
GENGHIS handed Camille her carbine as she pushed her way to the front of the vehicle. She spoke to the shift leader, a bullet-headed ex-cop. “NOONER, inform Ops at Camp Raven that LIGHTNING SIX is now assuming command. Then move us into the tango compound.” Camille looked back at Hunter and decided not to blow his cover. “Rubicon, order your troops to rescue your men, then assume positions outside the walls to provide backup. We’ll call for them if needed.” Camille pointed to the concrete wall encircling the compound. Green tracers came from all over the compound, crisscrossing as they fired at imaginary targets. “We’re crashing their party. NOONER, take us in right there—about five meters to the right of the gate.”
“I’m not sure what the vehicle can do—I don’t know it well enough yet,” NOONER said.
“It’s got a Caterpillar 330 horsepower engine and Iraqis don’t use rebar in their concrete. Do the math. As soon as we’re in, I want a man at each firing port and one at each roof hatch. We’re going to tour the compound and light it up before dismounting. Brace yourselves. Now!”
Camille plopped to the floor and bear hugged the nearest legs. The Cougar’s engine revved, then she heard a loud crash, then felt a jolt like a plane hitting sudden turbulence. The ride immediately smoothed out.
The troops opened the roof hatches and hot air rushed inside. She shoved in her earplugs as she scrambled to the nearest firing port. She turned the steel plug counterclockwise, then let it fall onto the seat. Bullets plinked against the fortified walls, then seconds later the sharp echo of her troops’ automatic gunfire drowned everything out.
She shoved the XM8 through the firing port and looked outside through its night vision scope. A dozen insurgents scattered across the courtyard like ants swarming around a disturbed nest. They sprayed the Cougar with their AKs, but they might as well have been using squirt guns. The rounds didn’t penetrate.
She aimed the XM8. A trickle of sweat rolled between her breasts and she itched underneath the bulky body armor. She slowly squeezed the trigger, then stopped before firing. She didn’t feel even the slightest tinge of fear that she, the predator, could become prey and without that sense of da
nger, she didn’t want to do it, not from the comfort of her air-conditioned Cougar. But she knew she couldn’t risk her men sensing even a hint of compassion because it would be all over for her—even if she did pay them eight hundred bucks a day.
With only a few seconds delay, she targeted and fired, retargeted and fired, dropping one bad guy at a time. It was almost fun. Hell, it was fun. And the world was a better place without them, she told herself as she dropped out the empty mag and snapped in a full one. Just then something caught her eye. An insurgent dropped onto one knee and pointed a long tube toward them.
She shoved the XM8’s barrel back through the port, acquired the target and fired. The shooter crumpled to the ground just as his weapon spat out a trail of flames and a small orange fireball.
“RPG!”
As she listened to the whistle of the incoming rocket-propelled grenade, she fired off a stray prayer to whatever god was listening and targeted rounds at the first tangos she could find. A clap of thunder rocked the vehicle. She steeled herself for a flash of heat, then searing pain.
She waited.
Nothing.
The tango must have aimed the RPG at Cougar’s belly since that was usually the most vulnerable point on a vehicle. The over-priced jitney actually lived up to Force Protection, Incorporated’s sales promises and deflected the explosion.
She searched for additional targets, but didn’t locate any. Bodies lay strewn across the courtyard and the house seemed lifeless, as if all the insurgents had dashed outside for action at the first sign of an assault. She lowered her weapon, careful to keep the hot muzzle from touching her leg, then shouted to NOONER. “Give me your best man to clear rooms. Use the others to secure the perimeter. I don’t want anyone coming in and joining us.”
“GENGHIS, you’re with us,” NOONER said, then gave orders to the others.
Camille pointed at Hunter. “You’re going in with me. I’m going to find out what Rubicon is always trying to beat us to. We’ll go in with a three-man stack. I’ll take point.”
“Three-man stack or three-man lift?” Hunter said as he got in position to quickly exit the vehicle.
The men laughed.
“Don’t you fuck with me.”
“Understood. Three-man stack, except I’ll be the number one man.”
“You think point’s too dangerous for a woman?”
“I’d rather have a chick’s gun pushing up against my backside than some ugly dude’s.” Hunter smiled, but this time the men seemed to know better than to even snicker.
“Okay,” Camille said and continued, “but only because I know better than to trust you behind my back.”
GENGHIS flashed a signal and they all burst from the Cougar, their weapons sweeping the compound.
At the entrance to the mud-brick structure, NOONER got into the breech position to kick the door down while the others formed a stack. Camille pushed up against Hunter’s back as tightly as she could. Her body armor disguised the feel of his body pressing against hers, but she caught a whiff of his earthy scent and bit her lip to distract herself.
GENGHIS stacked himself against her back and squeezed her thigh just below her ass, signaling he was ready. She did the same to Hunter, much lower down his leg than she normally would.
Hunter struggled to focus on the task at hand, but with Stella plastered against his backside, it wasn’t easy. Since he’d officially died two years ago, he’d dreamed of her spooning against him again every day. One wild fantasy even had them doing it, both jocked up in full combat gear, but not even in his worst nightmares was Stella sandwiched between him and another guy like they were at the moment. He already hated himself for what he had put her through and now she was more furious with him than ever. He would never forgive himself if he lost her.
He was afraid he already had.
Hunter felt Stella grab his leg and he flashed NOONER a hand signal. NOONER kicked in the door and they flooded inside. Hunter hugged the wall as best he could given the clutter and worked his way to the right corner of the room, sweeping his section. He knew that, only a second behind him, GENGHIS would buttonhole the door and neutralize any muj hiding behind it. As he moved to the back corner of the room, he saw a figure raise a weapon. He fired a burst, dropping the tango and continued on to his position in the corner.
Camille rounded the doorway and moved to the left. She pointed the XM8 toward the far left corner and fanned it toward the right corner.
“Surrender. Friend. Surrender.” A man moved near the center of the room, shouting in heavily accented English and waving his empty hands in the air.
She targeted, but saw no weapon and didn’t fire. Trusting that GENGHIS and NOONER were in place behind her, she rushed toward the insurgent. “Tango down! Moving!”
She smacked her boot against his ankle and swung the butt of her weapon into his back. He tumbled down face first. She pushed her boot into his back and pointed her weapon at him.
“Allahu akbar. Allahu akbar,” he said over and over. “Allah is great.”
Although Hunter already knew it was lifeless, he kicked the body of the insurgent he’d shot just to be sure before he worked his way over to Stella. A jumble of tables, chairs and assorted junk blocked his way. He bulldozed a trail.
He patted down the prisoner and found a small sidearm and took it. The man continued to pray loudly, moving his head with the beat of his words. “Is kut!” Hunter shouted to shut him up as he pulled out a zip-tie. He was tightening it around the tango’s wrists when Stella shined an infrared light into the man’s face.
Hunter froze.
He was trained not to forget faces and this one had been etched into his mind—in Afghanistan where the man had been posing as a Taliban. At the time Hunter had understood from some of the other operators that the guy was some kind of an undercover operative.
Hunter wasn’t sure who he worked for, but Hunter guessed the Other Government Agency—the CIA. He wasn’t going to blow the spook’s cover, not even with Stella, so he barked orders at him in Arabic and pulled him to his feet. The sound of gunfire in the courtyard had now slowed to only an occasional shot. In less than fifteen seconds after exiting the Cougar, the action was over.
Camille searched the room, moving quickly. GENGHIS walked behind her and muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear. “Should’ve neutralized him. You’re going to get someone killed someday.”
She ignored him, turned the XM8 around and smashed its butt into a mirror. It shattered with a high-pitched ring and the shards fell. A stash of computer disks and papers were in a cavity in the wall behind it. She pulled them out and stuffed them into her cargo pockets. An oriental carpet hung on the wall and a kilim and pillows covered a sofa. She threw the pillows onto the floor and ripped away the tapestry, revealing a long wooden crate. The lid was not nailed shut, so she picked it up and moved it aside. Inside was a three-inch diameter tube, about a meter and a half long with Russian markings. Camille immediately recognized the SA-7, an old Soviet missile that could shoot down a low flying aircraft. Packed around it were slabs of plastic explosives and various types of detonators. She picked up several and looked them over. They had Chinese and Russian markings.
Quality.
Camille yelled at Hunter, who was hurrying outside with the prisoner. “Someone here’s planning a big party, but then I guess you were already invited. So this crap is the big trophy Rubicon was trying to snatch away from me?” Camille motioned toward the crate. “What the hell does Rubicon want with a cache of Russian weapons?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hunter said as he stood at the side of the doorway with the prisoner.
“You’ve crossed about every line I have. Now get the hell out of here and take your men with you. I don’t ever want to see you again unless you’re in my crosshairs.” Now she wished she had chosen a shotgun over the XM8; she wanted to pump it for the sound effect.
Chapter Two
[S]ome
critics say…that the US government employs private security workers to skirt restrictions by Congress on what US troops can do on the ground, as well as on troop numbers.
—The Christian Science Monitor, April 2, 2004, as reported by Ann Scott Tyson
Camp Tornado Point, Anbar Province
3:00 A.M., Two hours later
At a bend in the Euphrates River, a hodgepodge of hastily constructed plywood structures, prefabricated metal buildings and one of Saddam’s bombed-out palaces housed most of the private military corporations and the command center of the Marines in that area of operation. Skirting political pressure not to deploy more troops to Iraq, the Pentagon had quietly increased the number of boots on the ground with soldiers from private military corporations. Other companies were there, claiming to work for the State Department, even though everyone knew there were no diplomats in Anbar. Like their Marine colleagues, most of the contract soldiers in the camp were now returning from their nightly PT, cleaning and stowing their war gear for the next day. Hunter had already taken off his gear and only carried a knife, his sidearm and a couple of extra mags. He walked across the compound toward Rubicon’s local corporate offices. He knew he should be thinking about why some corporate executive would want to meet with him in the middle of the night, but he couldn’t get the confrontation with Stella out of his head.
His chest ached a little from where she had shot him. The last thing he wanted was physical pain and a telltale bruise to remind him of the pain of losing her. He was afraid things had gone too far this time—that she’d never forgive him even if he could explain that, technically, he hadn’t really betrayed her. His gut told him that they’d hit the point where sorting out facts didn’t matter.
But it did matter to him. Hunter Stone was the kind of guy who still believed in right and wrong, even if Stella didn’t.
He yawned and hoped the meeting would be short because he still had to finish his report about the evening’s raid before hitting the rack.
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