Andrew Britton Bundle

by Andrew Britton

  It wasn’t going to happen; Kealey sensed as much in the last crucial seconds. As the guard drifted past the juniper, he seemed to hesitate. With his head turned to the left, Kealey could see the outline of the man’s head, and he could tell from the profile that the guard was looking in his direction. Then he turned, took a few steps forward, and reached down with his left hand, his splayed fingers moving directly for Kealey’s left shoulder….

  When he saw the contact coming, Kealey’s mind shut down, and his body took over. Operating on pure instinct, he launched himself up and batted the rifle aside with his left hand, pushing the muzzle away from his body. At the same time, he whipped the knife around in a short, controlled arc, plunging the blade deep into the guard’s neck, directly beneath the hinge of his jaw.

  Even in the dark, Kealey could see the man’s reaction. His head jerked back and to the right, partly from the impact and partly in an effort to pull away from the knife. Blood and spit sprayed out of his mouth as the tip of the blade delved into his opposite cheek. His face tightened into a grimace, and his mouth fell open, his partially severed tongue protruding between bloodied teeth. He was obviously trying to scream, but all that came out was a wet, guttural hiss. He dropped the rifle and lifted his hands to grip Kealey’s right arm. It was a completely instinctive reaction, but there was nothing he could do; the damage was already done, and the wound was fatal. The guard just didn’t know it yet.

  The knife was buried up to the hilt, and Kealey had to pull hard to extract it. The man automatically started to fall, and Kealey followed him down. He landed hard on his back, and Kealey was on top of him in an instant, ready to finish the job. As the man stared up at him, his face contorted with rage, pain, and fear, Kealey drew the knife firmly across his throat, severing the trachea, the carotid artery, and the connecting muscle tissue with one deep, powerful cut. Blood sprayed out of the wound immediately, splashing onto Kealey’s face, arms, and hands, but he repeated the process, then did it again, determined to extinguish the stubborn light in the other man’s eyes. Once he was sure the guard was dead, the strange ringing noise in his ears began to subside, and gradually, he picked up on the traffic coming over his earpiece.

  “Ryan, are you there?” It was Owen, his tone controlled but urgent. “Goddamn it. What the fuck just happened? Where’s the hostage…?”

  “He’s down,” Kealey rasped. The short, one-sided fight had left him breathless, though the adrenaline was still pumping hard through his veins. He rolled off the dead guard, crawled the short distance to his hiding spot, and felt for his rifle. It was right where he’d left it, in the lowest branches of the juniper. “The hostage is dead, and so is the guard.”

  “How the fuck did that happen?” Owen demanded. “Why did you…”

  Kealey ignored the rest of the question as he planted his right knee in the sodden earth, lifting the rifle to his shoulder. Peering through the scope, he saw that the guards—all eight of them—were fanning out, preparing to enter the field. The figures were blurred for some reason, and Kealey realized he had blood in his eyes. Wiping it away with the back of his hand, he flicked it into the grass, then resumed watching. One of them had a portable radio up by his face; clearly, he was trying to raise the missing guard. There was no sign of Benazir Mengal—Kealey assumed he was still in the barn—but the Algerian was standing behind the cluster of armed men, screaming incessantly after them.

  “The guards are coming in,” Massi said, almost as if he could read Kealey’s thoughts. The air force veteran sounded completely calm and in control. “Looks like we’re missing a few.”

  “I count eight,” Kealey said. He thought back to the detailed notes that he had acquired from Fahim’s men. “Eight plus Saifi. Mengal’s in the barn…That leaves at least two unaccounted for.”

  “So what the hell do we do?” Manik demanded. He sounded shaken, which didn’t surprise Kealey at all. While Massi was a hardened combat veteran, Manik was on the other end of the spectrum. He had undergone some kind of paramilitary training—otherwise, Harper wouldn’t have sent him—but he was easily the least experienced man in the group.

  Kealey was torn. A hostage was dead, and he had killed a guard, which dramatically limited their options. The op was blown regardless, but now he had a decision to make. Should he violate standing orders and go in after Fitzgerald, or should he wait and hope that the guard wasn’t found until the assault team arrived? That didn’t seem likely, as the assaulters were at least…He checked his watch and swore under his breath. They were at least eight minutes out. Part of him fantasized that he could already hear the sound of rotors chopping the damp, humid air, but he knew all too well how long eight minutes could seem in a combat situation.

  A third option occurred to him: he could put the knife in the hostage’s hand. With any luck, the guards would buy into it, but Kealey dismissed the idea after a few seconds. They would never believe it. For one thing, the dead guard had suffered numerous well-placed wounds. How would the hostage have been able to inflict those wounds if he was already fatally wounded himself? Besides, how would the hostage have gotten his hands on a knife like the one Kealey had used? Even if the guards bought into it, Mengal would see through the ruse. He would know right away that something wasn’t right, and he would either flee the farmhouse, with Fitzgerald in tow, or kill her on-site, then flee by himself.

  And that was what it came down to; if they waited for the assault force, the secretary of state was either dead or gone. In Kealey’s mind, neither option was acceptable. They had to go in after her, and they had to do it before the dead guard was found. Once that happened, they would lose the element of surprise, and their odds of success would drop dramatically. Worse still, one of the Pave Lows was slated to set down in the field behind the house, and it wouldn’t help to have the enemy on top of them before the ramp even came down.

  Once again, Aaron Massi seemed to read his mind. “We’ve got to go in,” the former combat controller said, his words cutting over the static. “They’re going to comb this field until they find him, and in the process, they’re bound to stumble over one of us. We’ve got to fire while they’re still grouped in the clear.”

  “What about the other two?” Walland demanded. “At least two guards are unaccounted for. And what about Fitzgerald? Mengal is in there with her…If we reveal our position, he might kill her before we can get to the barn.”

  Good point, Kealey thought, but he said, “Massi’s right…We’re going in. These guys are operating without NVGs, so wait until they’re outside the arc of the lights, then hit them while they’re trying to acclimate.” Kealey was thinking about what he’d seen with the hostage, the way the he had lost his bearings once he could no longer see. He wasn’t thinking about the fact that the hostage had died when he could have stopped it from happening; at the moment, that was completely irrelevant. “If we wait until they’re all the way in, they’ll be able to pick out our muzzle flashes. We have to time it right.”

  “I’ve got the Algerian,” Owen said.

  “No,” Kealey shot back, “we need him alive, Paul. He knows where the rest of the hostages are, so in Saifi’s case, shoot to wound only. Same with the general.”

  “And the others?” asked Manik.

  “You all have your fields of fire,” Kealey replied calmly. “You know which sector you’re responsible for, so when they come in, you know who to hit. Here’s what we’re going to do….”

  He outlined a quick plan, allowing for several contingencies. He had his weapon trained on the enemy force the entire time he was talking, tracking their every move. The guards at the top of the hill were still fanning out, but they had yet to enter the field. When he was done with the short explanation, the other men voiced their understanding and agreement.

  “Wait until I give the word,” Kealey reminded them, “and then start taking them down. Remember, guys, we’re only going to get one shot at this, so let’s do it right.”

  When Benazi
r Mengal heard the Algerian screaming, he resisted the urge to run outside and see what was wrong. Instead, he backed farther into the barn, doing his best to stay away from the doors. He saw the hopeful, defiant expression in Fitzgerald’s eyes, but he ignored it and raised the two-way to his mouth. “What the hell is going on?” he hissed. “Balakh, what do you see? What’s happening out there?”

  There was a long delay, during which Mengal screamed the question several more times. He heard a long burst of automatic fire, then nothing, then another, shorter burst. He was about to transmit again when one of the guards came on. In a shaky voice, he said, “General, the American doctor knocked down the Algerian. He escaped. He…ran into the field, and Balakh went after him. There were shots….”

  “I heard them, you idiot!” Mengal screamed. “Where is the doctor?”

  “General, I…He hasn’t come back. Balakh hasn’t come back, I mean, and we can’t raise him on the radio. I don’t know where the doctor is.”

  “Send some men after them,” Mengal shouted. “I want you to comb the entire field until you find them, and I want the doctor alive, you hear me? The man who kills him will answer to me. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Where are Amir and Qazi?”

  “They’re inside the house, General. They’re guarding the surgeon, as you instructed.”

  “Do they have radios?”

  There was a brief hesitation, then, “No.”

  “Bring them two radios. In fact, give Qazi yours. Tell them to circle around and flank our men, and make sure they go out the front, where it’s dark. Tell them not to fire unless they are fired upon. If anyone is out there, we must be able to hold them off until we can get the woman out of here. Understood?”

  “Yes, General.”

  “Then go.”

  Release the TRANSMIT button, Mengal swore under his breath, closed his eyes, and resisted the urge to hurl the handset across the room. This is all Saifi’s fault, he thought to himself. How could he have let this happen? How could he be so careless? How fucking hard could it be to bring one man from the house to the barn…?

  Opening his eyes, Mengal inadvertently caught the eye of Brynn Fitzgerald. They had covered her mouth with silver duct tape between takes. It was still in place, so she couldn’t speak. At the same time, her eyes seemed to convey everything she was feeling. It was a strange mixture of hate, satisfaction, and relief. Mengal didn’t understand the source of the second two emotions, but then it hit him. She didn’t speak Urdu, so she didn’t know that her fellow hostage had tried to escape. Apparently—based on the commotion she had heard—she was under the impression that she was about to be rescued.

  When he realized what was running through her head, he laughed, then watched as the confusion spread to her eyes. Walking over, careful to keep away from the open doors, he crouched so that their faces were nearly level. When she met his gaze, he said, “Ms. Fitzgerald, did you really think they were coming to get you?” He gave another mocking laugh, the sound rising up from deep in his chest. It was partly forced, but at the same time, he was genuinely amused. “If that is the case, I’m afraid you were wrong…Nothing so dramatic has happened. You see, your fellow American tried to run. My men are tracking him down right now, and he won’t get far. That is all that you heard. I’m sorry to let you down, but no one is coming to get you. I’m afraid it’s just you and me, Dr. Fitzgerald…just you and me. I think you had better get used to that idea.”

  He saw the spark of hope in her eyes begin to fade, and he couldn’t restrain another bout of contemptuous laughter. How pathetic, he thought. People with Fitzgerald’s kind of power always seemed so assured on television, so sure of their place in the world, but put them into any sort of danger, and they folded right up on themselves. It wasn’t just American officials, either; he had seen the same thing the previous year, when he and his men had kidnapped a low-level Indian minister. The man had been attending talks in Islamabad, and his security had been all but nonexistent, which allowed them to grab him without firing a shot. They had taken the minister’s eight-year-old son as well, and the boy had proved to be an excellent bargaining chip.

  It had not taken much to extort the money they wanted; in fact, they hardly had to cut on the child at all before the man caved in. That event had netted Mengal a decent sum, but it was nothing like the windfall he would reap if his current plan was seen through to fruition. It all came down to the next twenty-four hours. By then, the American president would have the tape in hand, and he would have no choice but to accept their demands. Either that, or he would see how serious they actually were…

  At that moment, Mengal’s thoughts were cut off abruptly by the sound of screams and automatic weapons firing. He whipped his head toward the sound but saw only the stone wall of the barn. After a moment of stunned disbelief, he raised the radio to his lips and shouted for a situation report, but there was no reply. Swearing loudly, he didn’t register the renewed glimmer of satisfaction in Brynn Fitzgerald’s eyes as he moved to the doors of the barn. He hesitated before looking out. He desperately wanted to see what was happening for himself, but experience and caution got the better of him, and he stayed where he knew he couldn’t be seen.

  Holding the radio an inch from his face, he demanded once again to know what was happening. Finally, he heard the voice of one of the men he had just ordered to join the search.

  “General, this is Qazi.” The man sounded shaken, but still in control. “There are enemy soldiers in the fields. At least three, maybe four, and they’ve taken down most of the men. Only three are left, not including Amir and myself.”

  “What about Shaheed?”

  “Shaheed is dead.”

  Dead? My old comrade and most trusted lieutenant, gone…? Mengal let that sink in for a moment, and then he dismissed his natural, emotional response. That was one thing he’d always been able to do, and this was not a time to indulge in sentiment. “Where are you?”

  “Approaching from the other side of the barn. I can’t see the enemy fighters, but once they fire again…”

  Mengal nodded to himself, knowing what he meant. The moment the enemy soldiers fired again, they would reveal their positions, which would make them easy targets for the men he had just dispatched. Amir and Qazi were two of his best. Both had served on a sniper-observer team in the Special Services Group for years, and like Balakh Shaheed, both had fought in Kargil in ’99. Combined, they had thirty enemy kills to their credit, twenty of which they had racked up during a two-week reign of terror in the Drass sector of the Kargil Mountains. The snipers carried identical custom Sako TRG-22s. Each .308-caliber rifle was fitted with an ATN night-vision scope, as well as a muzzle brake to reduce the weapon’s powerful recoil.

  In retrospect, Mengal realized he should have had them in an overwatch position to begin with, but he had been too caught up with Fitzgerald’s agonizingly slow recovery—as well as the preparations being made in the barn—to deal with security around the house. That had been a mistake, he realized, but he didn’t see how the Americans could have tracked him down so easily. And if it was the Americans, why were there so few of them? It just didn’t make sense….

  Lifting the radio, he said, “Qazi, tell me when you have acquired a target, but do not fire until I give the order.”

  “Yes, General.”

  Mengal was about to say something else when Amari Saifi stumbled through the open doors. Mengal raised his weapon in alarm, then stopped when he saw who it was. The Algerian was bleeding from a small hole in his left arm, his right hand clutched over the wound. Despite the obvious injury, he was smiling madly, his face drenched with sweat. The AK-47 was still draped round his neck on a black fabric sling.

  “What the hell happened?” Mengal hissed, his eyes fixed on the other man’s crazed face. “How could you let him escape?”

  “The Americans are here,” Saifi gasped, ignoring the question. Somehow, he was still smiling, even though he
was clearly in a great deal of pain. “We have to leave. If we wait, they will have us surrounded, if they do not already…We have to leave now.”

  Mengal stood frozen for a few seconds, but he knew the other man was right. Perhaps Craig’s escape had caught the Americans off guard while they were still moving into position. Perhaps his men had eliminated more of them than he’d initially thought. Either way, Mengal knew he was only seeing the first wave. If the Americans knew that Fitzgerald was in the barn—and he assumed they must—they would risk as many lives as it took to get her back. They certainly wouldn’t be put off by the resistance they had encountered so far.

  Pulling a small knife from his belt, Mengal unfolded the blade with one hand, then moved behind Fitzgerald. Crouching behind the chair, he began cutting the ropes that bound her. Glancing over her shoulder, he snarled, “Get away from the door, and pull the plug on those lights. You still have the keys to the van?”

  “Yes,” Saifi said. He pulled the plug on the halogen lights, and the barn was plunged into darkness. “I have them.”

  “Good,” Mengal said. Still cutting fast, he felt the last of the rope fall away. Placing both hands under her arms, he pulled Fitzgerald roughly to her feet. He heard her scream through the tape that covered her mouth, then start to fall as her legs gave way. She was still weak, too weak to walk on her own. Pushing the muzzle of his pistol into the base of her spine, he said, “You had better start moving, woman, because I’m warning you, if you pass out now, you will never wake again.”

  He felt her stiffen; then the weight on his arms began to lighten somewhat. Clearly, she was trying to move under her own power, though it still took all of his strength to move her while keeping the gun wedged into her back. He had just reached the door when Qazi’s voice came over the radio. Pushing Fitzgerald against the stone wall, he kept the gun in her back with his right hand and used his left to grab his two-way, which was hooked to his belt. Lifting it to his mouth, he said, “What is it? What’s happening?”