by Jason Elam
“Sounds good. So, can you tell me if you finished everything off up there?”
Not even close, he thought. “Unfortunately, no. But I do think we may have taken the upper hand.”
“Good enough for me. Take care, Pach.”
Riley put the car in reverse and squealed the tires backing out of the parking space. But then a text message beeped through on his phone. Sighing, he pulled back in. Sure enough, the message was from Simmons. Fast fingers, Riley thought as he dialed Afshin Ziafat’s number.
“Afshin? This is Riley,” he said when the rookie answered.
“Pach, man, I have been so worried about you. My church group and I have been praying up a storm for you. You doing okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for the prayers.” Let’s get this over with fast. “So, Simm said you wanted to talk to me.”
“Right, right. Hey, I’d really like to get together with you to, you know, to pray over you. God’s really been placing you on my heart, and I think that if I could get a few of my buddies together and we could lay hands on you and pray—I mean it certainly couldn’t do any harm.”
Riley rolled his eyes. Normally he would have really been grateful for Afshin’s offer, but right now it was just another source of irritation. “I appreciate it, Afshin. I really do. It’s just that I’m still not the safest guy to be around.” Take the out. Come on, man, take the out.
Unfortunately, it seemed that Afshin wasn’t looking for any outs. “I know that, Pach. But God is greater than anything the world throws at us. Amen? My buddies and I aren’t scared. I just really think it would be good if we could meet up with you.”
Youthful enthusiasm and invincibility, Riley thought. “Listen, Afshin, you don’t know how much I appreciate your prayers. It’s just that—”
A call beeped through—Meg Ricci. Thank you, Meg. Here’s my out.
“Hey, buddy, I just had a call come through that I need to take. I’ll call you back and we’ll set up a time.”
“Sure, Pach. Please, sooner than later.” Riley could hear the disappointment in Ziafat’s voice. That was weird.
Now, speaking of weird . . . Riley switched over to Meg’s call. “Hey, Meg, I was going to—”
“Riley, you have to help me! They have Alessandra! They say they’re going to kill her if you don’t come to the house!”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
FRIDAY, MAY 29, 7:35 P.M. EEST ISTANBUL, TURKEY
Scott could hardly hear Hicks’s voice over the engine noise of the old delivery truck. The communication system was all set up, each man with a receiver in his ear and a mic taped to his cheek, but Hicks had said he didn’t want to activate it until they were on site. He was going over the operational plan with the remaining eight members of the team one more time before they reached their destination.
Scott had helped develop the strategy and could visualize each step. Of course, with an hour’s notice, they still had no idea what kind of building they were going into—a home, an apartment, a warehouse, a restaurant. However, Scott had already processed through those eventualities too.
As they bumped along the old roads, he tuned out Hicks’s voice.
Scott scanned the faces of his team. Rage was in the eyes of every man. In fact, Scott had never seen the guys this worked up, and it frightened him. He knew each one of them was harboring an overwhelming desire for revenge against the people who had cut the throat of their friend, then left him to bleed to death in a stinking alley. Revenge will cause people to think with their hearts and not their heads. They’ll overcommit in the face of gunfire, and they’ll worry less about civilian casualties. This has all the makings of a bloodbath on both sides.
I’ve gotta say something to bring them back down—something other than my typically obnoxious comments. So when Hicks finished his rundown, Scott spoke up. “Men, this is the time I usually say something stupid. But I know that right now, nobody feels much like laughing.”
Everyone ignored him until they realized he was being serious.
“I just want to remind you to keep the goal in sight. This is about bringing down al-’Aqran—first and foremost. It’s about saving hundreds, maybe even thousands, of American kids—kids like Gilly’s little boy—who could be lost because of his plans. It’s about meting out justice for the thousands of lives that have already been lost because of him. And if we get some revenge for Chris, that’s just the gravy.
“Al-’Aqran is going to die today! This dude is so twisted, and the stuff he is planning is so heinous, we’re not looking for an arrest; we don’t want to put him back in a cell that he can escape from again. In the words of the great Apollo Creed, ‘Ain’t gonna be no rematch!’ So keep sharp! Think with your heads! Follow the plan, and watch your buddy’s back!”
A chorus of “Hooah,” “Oo-rah,” and “Let’s roll” sounded from this hodgepodge of military backgrounds.
Hicks gave him a nod and a thumbs-up. “Okay, everybody, comms up! Give me a rundown.”
“Velvet Two, check,” said Scott.
“Velvet Three, check,” said Jay Kruse.
On down the line it went. Scott’s stomach clenched when Chris Johnson didn’t answer for Velvet Eight.
“Velvet One, this is Runner.” Immediately silence filled the van.
“Runner, this is Velvet One; go ahead,” Hicks replied to the two CIA agents who had driven ahead to scout the target house. Two more agents were in the cab of the delivery truck, and the final two were in a tail car right behind the FRRT team. Although the agents’ orders were to keep out of the action, they were dying to jump into the fray. “Please, give us an excuse” had been their comment to Hicks and Scott. Scott hoped the team wouldn’t need them.
“Velvet One, it’s a three-story building on the right side. Noncommercial. Solid door. Window bars. Alley on right only. Got two balconies each on floors two and three, so if it’s a front-back, you’ve got four apartments on each floor.”
“Any targets?”
“Just getting to that. You’ve got two guns at the front door. At least one more in the alley. And just a heads-up—if they’ve got any of those front apartments, you guys are going to be like fish in a barrel from those balconies.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
“That’s it. Bring these guys down hard, Velvet. Out.”
All the team was looking at Hicks, who himself was looking down at the notes he was writing. Scott knew everyone was thinking about those balconies. In a battle, position was everything, and as of right now, it seemed like the bad guys had the position.
Hicks could turn their confidence either way here depending on how he reacted. When he had finished scribbling, he looked up calmly. “No different than what we thought, boys, except a few more stairs. We go in hard, and we go in fast. Logan, you got the target in the alley. Everything else goes as planned.”
“Velvet One, this is Chauffeur. Ten seconds out.”
“Tonight there’s no mercy! Remember the schoolchildren! Let’s do this thing!” Hicks pulled the black knit mask over his face, completing the intimidating all-black “walking shadow” look.
The rest of the team followed suit. Each man checked his sound-suppressed Magpul Masada assault weapon one last time. Posada chambered a shell into his Remington 870 Modular Combat Shotgun.
The truck screeched to a halt. Hicks and Matt Logan swung the rear doors open, and the team piled out. Scott could hear the sound-suppressed shots as he jumped out of the truck into a small pile of trash sitting in the gutter. To his right, Logan, Kim Li, and Steve Kasay jumped over a bloodied body and ran through the alley to the back. Straight ahead two more bodies lay askew on either side of the entryway.
The front door was open, and Velvet Team rushed in. Carlos Guitiérrez and Ted Hummel stayed by the door, looking back out while the rest of the team went to the first apartment.
When they reached the old wooden door, Hicks counted down with his fingers—three, two, one—then Gilly Posada bl
asted the hinges with his shotgun and Jay Kruse brought it down with his ram.
Scott and Hicks ran through the opening into a very sparsely furnished living room. Toward the back of the room next to a frayed red curtain used to split the room into two sleeping areas, a man stood shaking. Behind him were his wife and three young daughters.
“Lütfen, lütfen!”he was crying out: “Please, please!”
Scott approached the man and placed the barrel of his rifle square against the man’s chest. “Ariyorum bir—” then he pointed to his eye—“erkek.”: “I’m looking for one . . . man.” He wanted to kick himself for not cramming more Turkish into his brain on the long drive up from Izmir Air Base. Of all things, you can’t even remember the word for eye, you idiot!
The man started babbling and pointing up. Behind him, his wife was crying and his daughters were screaming.
Scott waved his hand in front of the man’s face to get him to stop talking. When that didn’t work, he gave a push with the barrel of his rifle.
The man shut up.
“Anlamadim! Nerede bir—” Scott pointed to his eye again—“erkek.”: “I don’t understand! Where one . . . man?”
The man pointed up. Okay, he’s upstairs. Now we’re getting someplace.
“Ross, hurry it up,” Hicks said.
Scott waved him off. Gradually lifting his hand by levels, he said to the father, “Bir, iki, üç?”: “One, two, three?”
“Üç, üç!” the man said, holding up three fingers. Then he used his hands to indicate the second front apartment.
“Teshekkür ederim,” Scott said, patting the man on the cheek. “Thank you.” He pointed to a back room, then indicated for the family to stay there.
The man nodded and hustled his family back.
“Velvet Team, Velvet Two,” Scott said into his comm mic. “Scorpion is in the third floor, front left apartment—repeat, third floor, front left apartment. Lead team is going up.”
Hicks and Kruse were already at the stairs by the time Scott made it out the door. Posada waited to bring up the rear.
Automatic weapon fire sounded from upstairs. Hicks paused on the first step. “The balconies,” he yelled. “Chauffeur, get yourselves out of here!”
“RP—!” Chauffeur called out, then an explosion ended his voice and blew in through the entryway. Debris rattled through the front hallway, and Scott heard it hit the inside of the apartment door next to him.
“Velvet Five and Seven, report in,” Hicks called to the men at the front door.
Through his earpiece, Scott heard Hummel answer, “The truck took an RPG right into the cab. Guitiérrez got tagged with some shrapnel. He’s not good!”
“Get him to safety, then stand your post!”
“Yes, sir!”
“From now on, only absolutely essential chatter on the comm!”
At the bottom of the steps, Hicks’s eyes bored into each of his men. Then, abruptly, he turned his black-masked face and ran to the second level.
7:47 P.M. EEST
Babrak Zahir ran back in from the balcony and threw the smoking RPG tube into the kitchen. “Their truck is destroyed,” he said to al ’Aqran as he met up with him by the front door.
“Good, good,” the old man said. They had only the one RPG, so he had told Zahir to make it count. It sounded like the young warrior had followed his orders.
Al-’Aqran was alone in the apartment with Zahir. Hamad Asaf, Arshad Hushimi, and Tahir Talib, all armed with AK-74s, had gone out to meet the assault. Asaf and Hushimi were both veteran soldiers, and al-’Aqran knew they would be formidable foes. Only that fool, Talib, looked like he wasn’t sure which end of the gun to point at the enemy. “Worthless,” he grumbled.
Al-’Aqran looked at Zahir. My life, entrusted into the hands of this child. Why couldn’t his father be here with me? The two of us together could have taken on a whole army of Americans in our day. But that was a long time ago.
Oh, Allah, I have served you faithfully over the years. I have suffered for you and have been tortured for you. I have killed in your name and for your honor. Now we are on the verge of doing something so glorious that your name will be praised throughout the nations.
I know you will take me in your time. Insha’Allah. All I ask, most benevolent God, is that you let me complete this mission, and that you don’t let my life end at the hands of these motherless swine. Extend my time on earth, so that I may continue to do your will.
“Babrak, my son.”
“Yes, sayyid.” Zahir was pressed against the wall, looking out through a crack in the front door.
“Look at me, Babrak.” Zahir obeyed. Al-’Aqran reached his hand around the back of the young man’s neck and gripped him gently. “You know how I loved your father. He was a brother to me. I cannot remember weeping before your father’s death, and I have not wept since.” Gradually, he strengthened his hold, shaking him to emphasize his words. “These men who are coming are the ones who took your father’s life in Italy. I know. I heard them brag of it afterward. These very men put the bullets into his body. If they make it this far, son, you remember that. You remember that, and you avenge your father!”
Al-’Aqran was gratified to see black hatred on the young man’s face. “Don’t worry, sayyid. Today I will restore my father’s honor to him.”
“Good boy,” al-’Aqran said, clapping Zahir on the shoulder.
“Make your father proud.”
Gunfire began down the hall. While Zahir stayed by the door, al-’Aqran hobbled behind the wall of the kitchen.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
FRIDAY, MAY 29, 7:47 P.M. EEST ISTANBUL, TURKEY
Jay Kruse fell backward down the second flight of stairs, blood pouring from his neck. Hicks and Posada returned fire while Scott readied a flashbang grenade. He pulled the pin, but before he could throw it, a body fell from the landing above him right on top of Posada, sending him down the stairs and knocking the grenade out of Scott’s hand.
“Cover up!” Scott yelled. Hicks and Scott squatted down, covered their ears, and closed their eyes tightly. Still the concussion from the blast rocked them. Scott fumbled for another grenade to send upstairs to even the playing field.
The AK-74s opened up again. Splinters flew all around him, some embedding themselves into his cheeks and scalp. His ears were ringing and his hands were shaking from the first flashbang, but he finally found the pin on a second one and tossed it up the stairway.
Hicks must have had the same idea, because two explosions sounded, one right after the other. Scott felt Hicks slap his arm to get his attention.
“I lead; you follow!”
Scott nodded.
Both men ran the final ten steps to the third floor. A burst of gunfire from Hicks took out a dazed target in the middle of the hallway. On the landing to their right, a man dropped his gun, raised his hands, and pressed himself up against the wall. Scott put a round in the man’s leg, and he dropped screaming. Scott used his hand to tell the fallen gunman to stay where he was; then he slid the man’s AK-74 down the steps.
Scott and Hicks made their way down the hall, Hicks looking forward, Scott walking backward. Any moment, Scott expected a door to swing open and bullets to start flying. But except for the groans of the wounded man at the end of the hall, all remained quiet.
Scott quickly glanced to the front. Just twelve more feet to the target door. Keep it going. Keep it going. Suddenly, gunfire erupted. Scott dove for the ground as he felt something take a bite out of his left arm. He turned in the direction of the fire and let off a three-second burst. The target door shredded, and the gunfire behind it stopped. Quickly, Scott switched out his clip, then turned to check on Hicks.
Hicks was lying on the floor.
From the man’s body position, Scott knew it wasn’t good. Oh no, not you, Jim! He slid over to him, keeping his rifle trained on where the door used to be. Blood was darkening Hicks’s black clothing in at least four places that Scott could see.
Then he spoke, and his words were so faint that without the microphone taped to his cheek, Scott never would have heard what he said. “Get moving, you idiot, before someone puts a cap in that fat gut of yours.”
Scott grinned under his mask. “You got it, boss.”
He hated to leave Hicks alone, but he had to finish the mission. He started moving forward, staying low to the floor.
“Velvet Two, this is Velvet Four; I’m coming up behind you.” Scott was relieved to hear Posada’s voice.
“Velvet Four, stay with Velvet One until I can get Velvet . . . Okay, this is stupid! Gilly, stay with Jim until I can get Li up here.”
“Yes, sir,” Posada said as he crested the top of the stairway.
“Li, break off your detail and get upstairs now.”
“You got it, Velvet Scott.”
As Scott slowly moved toward the door, his mind started racing. Scorpion has to be in there, or else why would they defend it so strongly? But if he’s in there, why is there no more shooting? The hajji in the doorway must have been the only guy—wait, check that—probably was the only guy. The old man’s got to be in here. Remember who he is, though. He was a veteran soldier before you were even a gleam in your strung-out, heroin-addicted daddy’s eye.
Scott could see the shooter through the doorway. There’s no doubting that one is dead. He moved a little farther forward, and when he finally reached the door, he peeked in.
7:50 P.M. EEST
So, this is the end, al-’Aqran thought. When he saw Zahir fall, he knew that his time was done. I have served you for so long, God. Then I ask you for one thing, and you have said no? The old man smiled. Insha’Allah. What can I do if it is your will? One thing I can promise you, O Mighty One, is that when I finally go down, I will not go down alone. I came into this world fighting, I have lived my life fighting, I will die fighting!
A footstep on the splintered wood of the door told him that they had come. He waited for two more footsteps. Then he reached around the corner of the wall and fired. A tall figure dressed all in black collapsed to the floor. Al-`Aqran ducked behind the wall. He knew there would be more. After a moment, he quickly glanced around the corner. The man was still there—a pool of blood spreading from his side.
