Kill Zone

by Jack Coughlin

  The Frenchman sucked in some deep breaths. “Who are you?”

  “I ask the questions. Where is General Middleton?”

  “You’re an American,” he protested. “Americans don’t torture prisoners.”

  Kyle felt a wave of revulsion when he decided to hurt the man to get the information, but steeled himself for the job by reasoning that it would take hours to make him talk any other way. He did not have hours to spare, so he slapped the tape across the mouth again. “I can do whatever the fuck I want, Dominique. Not because international laws might be bent enough to allow it, but because, thanks to you, I’m dead. I don’t exist.” The knife flashed and he sliced deeply through the left ear. The ear is a bleeder, and a crimson pool spread out beneath the man’s head, the warm wetness scaring him more than the cut.

  After the expected scream, Swanson tore off the tape again and let it dangle.

  “The next ‘procedure’ is something you will recognize, because I learned it while I was on assignment with the Foreign Legion myself. A deep cut down the underside length of a finger all the way to the palm, severing all those nerves on the way.” He leaned forward, almost nose to nose. “So once again, asshole. Where the fuck is General Middleton?”

  Falais gave up and answered through gritted teeth, “In the house of the Americans.”

  The mercs! “Well done, Pierre. Now, who are they?”

  “There are two of them. Victor Logan is the biggest, and he is crazy dangerous, a former SEAL in your navy. The other man is Collins, ex-army, but really just an extra set of hands for Victor. They work for Gates Global, which also hired me.”

  When Kyle did not reply, Falais panicked. “Wait! I have money. Lots of money! I will give it to you!”

  “No. I’m not in this for cash.” Kyle jammed his left forearm into Falais’s mouth hard and slapped him on the wounded ear.

  The scream was muffled. “Merde!” The Frenchman groaned with the searing pain. “Look. I can help. I can help you! I will take you to them.”

  “Where is the general kept in their house?”

  “A small room in the right rear corner, handcuffed to a bed. They have not harmed him greatly, although Victor really wants to. Victor is a killer.” The dark eyes studied Kyle’s face, seeing if a deal was possible. “You will have to hurry because the jihadists are to behead your general in the morning.”

  “What kind of security do the Americans keep?”

  “None. Everybody here is afraid of Victor, and they have plenty of guns. No one bothers them. Again, let me help.”

  “How?”

  Pierre Falais detected a faint opening, a chance. “I will take you over there and distract the Americans while you attack. We kill them, get the general, and I will guide you safely to Israel. People in the villages know me and will help. I’m the one person around here who can get you out.” He was breathing heavily.

  “What do you want in return?”

  “You let me live,” the Frenchman said. “Then I am sure the American government would be generous with a reward. We will not mention what you have done here.”

  Kyle nodded. “Not bad. I guess you might have some value after all, Pierre. I promise not to filet you anymore.” He took a rolled-up towel and pressed it against the bleeding ear, then suddenly reached over with his knife and cut off the small finger of the other hand. “Do you think I’m a fool?” he hissed. “I told you I’m not playing around and I am damned sure not going to let you walk me into an ambush. Tell me what else you know. Tell me everything. Right now, or I cut you some more!”

  The French spy broke and started to cry. “That’s all I know! What else do you want? I won’t ambush you. I’ll tell you whatever you want! Just tell me what you need!”

  Swanson stepped back, wiped off the knife, and put it away as he looked hard at the bleeding man strapped on the bed. The guy was not holding back now, and further mutilation would be counterproductive. The prisoner had reached the point where he would say whatever he could guess the interrogator wanted him to say. True or false didn’t matter, because he only wanted to stop the pain.

  “Okay. I believe you.” He opened a little box from his medical kit. “I’m going to give you a shot of morphine now to take away the pain. While you sleep for another hour, I’ll patch you up, and when you come around, we’ll have something to eat and think this over.” He injected the fluid into the Frenchman’s left arm, and within a couple of heartbeats Falais’s eyes fluttered and rolled back.

  When the Frenchman was unconscious, Kyle undressed, put on the Arab clothes he had stolen, and doused the light. He put on his night-vision goggles again, checked outside, and quietly loaded his pack, web gear, and rifles into the bed of the pickup truck.

  Back in the house, he reduced the single burner of the little propane gas stove to low, blew out the flame, then placed a block of C-4 beside the stove, armed with a ticking detonator that would go off thirty minutes after the other house exploded, causing still another diversion.

  The Frenchman would not feel a thing. Swanson had not wanted to torture him, but having done so, he would allow the man a quiet, easy death. Falais was still asleep when Kyle injected him with two more full Syrettes of morphine, and with each heartbeat, the narcotic overwhelmed his system. The man would never awaken. When the detonator ignited the C-4, the explosion would instantly set off the growing bubble of gas in the enclosed house and the place would blow up, taking the body of Pierre Falais with it. “I don’t make deals with terrorists, particularly terrorists who have killed Marines,” he whispered to the dying man.

  Kyle Swanson turned off the bedside lamp, locked the door, went back over the wall, and was approaching the truck when he heard the grumble of heavy engines. He hit the ground and rolled under the Toyota just as a pair of BTR-80 armored personnel carriers of the Syrian Army roared past, their headlights flashing along the walls, seeming to search for him.

  How did they get on my trail? Oh, fuck, Murphy’s Law has screwed me again.

  The huge vehicles continued down the street for a few more blocks and stopped at the house of the Americans. Soldiers jumped from the vehicles and spread into a perimeter around it, facing outward like guards, not inward like attackers.

  CHAPTER 38

  SWANSON WIGGLED FROM beneath the truck and rolled into the flatbed, unzipped the dragbag, rested Excalibur on the rear gate, and brought the scope to his eye. Good as fuckin ‘ daylight.

  He recognized the telltale four big wheels on each side of the vehicles, and the BPU-1 turret machine gun mounts. The Russians had been selling these relics all over the world for years, but the old dogs still had a lot of bite. His mind turned up the information on the weapons systems faster than a Google search: each carried a 14.5 mm KPTV heavy machine gun with five hundred rounds and a range of two kilometers, and a smaller 7.62 mm PKT machine gun with 2,000 rounds that could reach one and a half kilometers. Smoke grenade launchers were mounted on either side of the turret, and their beefy engines could shove them along at speeds of up to about 50 miles per hour. The lead vehicle bristled with the antennas that indicated a battalion commander might be leading the mission. Is a whole damned battalion on the way?

  An officer climbed from the command vehicle, walked directly to the front door, and pounded hard. Lights came on, the door was thrown open, and the hulking Victor Logan stood there, wearing only a T-shirt and boxer shorts but carrying a pistol in his right hand. The Syrian was about half Logan’s size, but had an air of authority that made him immune from threat. They spoke for a few minutes, and Kyle saw Logan nod in agreement, go back into the house, and return moments later, fully dressed. He climbed aboard the lead BTR-80.

  The officer waved his hand and sergeants barked orders. Logan climbed awkwardly into the front vehicle with the officer and the other soldiers hustled back aboard. A single man was left behind as a sentry and the BTRs pulled out, heading toward the crash site.

  The soldier stood at attention beside the front doo
r of the house, his AK-47 at the ready, as the carriers growled off into the darkness. Swanson held his breath as they went past the Zeus and the apparently dozing guard taped to it, but they did not slow down.

  The lights in the house were turned off and the soldier by the door relaxed. He unslung the automatic rifle and rested it against the wall, then sat on a wooden crate, leaned back, and made himself comfortable, arms on knees. Through the scope, Kyle watched the man reach into a chest pocket and get a cigarette. A match flared.

  As the soldier inhaled the first puff deeply, Swanson lasered the range, and when the man exhaled, Kyle shot him beneath the left arm. The bullet tore out the heart. There was only a slight twitch of the body on impact; then it toppled from the crate onto the dirt. Kyle put a second bullet through the head to be sure he could not cry out a warning.

  Swanson had to move fast because those BTRs would be coming back. He returned Excalibur to its bag, climbed from the truck bed, and transferred his primary weapons to the passenger compartment. Then he slid behind the steering wheel and cranked the Toyota, which started with a reliable, deep rumble.

  He did not have to disguise it, because that was the essence of this “announced attack.” By imitating the previous incident, and with the familiar sound of the Toyota in the neighborhood, people would think that he was either the Frenchman or somehow related to the arrival of the army unit. With any luck, Jimbo Collins would be trying to get back to sleep, not alert.

  Kyle stopped in front of the house and, mirroring the actions of the Syrian officer, marched directly to the front door and pounded on it with his left fist as he pulled out his pistol with his right hand. Inside, the lamp snapped on again. He heard Collins curse aloud, “Oh, what the fuck do they want now?”

  When the door opened, Kyle extended the big pistol and put one round right in Jimbo Collins’s chest, knocking him backward, and fired another into his surprised face. He gave the collapsing body a hard shove so that it fell away from the door and did not block the exit. He stepped fast into the room with his pistol held straight out with both hands to scan for targets. There were none, and he closed the door.

  There were two more doors in the rear and he chose the one on the left, stood with his back to the wall, and pushed it open with his left hand, the pistol pointing inward. No reaction, but there was a horrible stench, and enough light for him to see the defiled body of a young girl tied to a bed. Sick bastards! He did not have to feel for a pulse.

  Swanson spun and kicked in the second door. A man wearing only boxer shorts lay handcuffed to a filthy bunk. He was unshaven, and the room stank. The man blinked in disbelief. All he saw was a silhouette until Kyle flipped a switch that turned on the bulb hanging from the ceiling.

  “Hello, General,” Swanson said, moving around the room, searching for unseen dangers, the pistol out, ready to shoot.

  “What?” The voice was firm but raspy. Only moments ago, Bradley Middleton was thinking about having his head chopped off by lunatics, and now an escape was possible? “Who are you?”

  “Take it easy, sir. It’s Gunny Swanson.”

  “Swanson? Two hundred thousand Marines on active duty, and you are the first asshole through the door? They sent you to rescue me?”

  The silenced pistol waved loosely between them. “Well, that’s not exactly accurate, General,” replied Kyle. “Actually, they sent me to kill you. Orders are orders, and a good Marine always follows orders.”

  CHAPTER 39

  FOREIGN GOVERNMENTS THROW parties, receptions, or formal dinners every night in Washington to promote goodwill and develop Beltway contacts. Tonight the Embassy of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan was honoring a young filmmaker who was creating a stir in Hollywood with his latest effort, The Arab Street. Some of the invited guests arrived at the embassy’s ornate gates at 3504 International Drive NW in limousines, while others, mostly staff members from Capitol Hill, came by subway or walked, intending to let the Jordanians feed them. Invitations to such parties saved on their food bills.

  Shari Towne found a guard at the front gate and asked him to page the head of the public relations department. Within five minutes, a slim and elegant woman walked down a sculpted path toward the guard post. A snowy-soft Chanel blouse contrasted perfectly with the black pantsuit and the full dark hair that was cut to frame her face. A loose scarf of white Belgian lace wrapped her shoulders, and her long legs were accentuated by sharp Roger Vivier heels.

  “Shari? Darling!” the woman exclaimed in a burst of surprise, opening her arms and wrapping her in a hug. “I didn’t expect you come to our vapid little event tonight. Why didn’t you call?”

  “Hi, Mom,” Shari responded, and tightly hugged her mother.

  Layla Mahfouz Towne whispered, “This little movie director is simply awful, but he’s signed a deal with Paramount, which gives us an excuse to throw another ‘We’re Not All Terrorists!’ party.” She detected the strain coursing through Shari. Her daughter seemed to be a brittle piece of glass that was about to shatter. “What?”

  “I’m in trouble,” Shari whispered back. “Can we go inside?”

  Layla lifted an eyebrow, then told the guard, “She’s with me.” He nodded, looked at Shari’s U.S. Navy uniform and identification card, and wrote out a pass. He thought they almost looked like twins. Very attractive twins.

  Her mother led the way through the swirl of people who were washing down tiny pieces of food with liquor from an open bar, as a Jordanian-American oud player easily plucked the stringed instrument to provide classical Arabic music in the background. Layla said hello here and patted a shoulder there as she smiled a path through the crowd. Shari, although in a crisp white uniform, felt positively early Banana Republic beside her. Women usually felt frumpy in Layla’s manicured presence. They went into her private office on the second floor.

  As soon as the door was closed, Shari collapsed onto a big, soft sofa and stared at her mother and tears welled in her eyes. She began to cry, angry at herself for doing so. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m really sorry for barging in like this.”

  Her mother kicked off her high heels and put an arm around Shari, rocking her back and forth, smoothing her hair and dabbing at the tears with a tissue. In Arabic, she said, “What’s going on, Little One?”

  The gestures were as comforting to Shari as they had been years ago when her father died in a plane crash. “Something big and complex and dangerous is going on and Kyle and I somehow got dragged into the middle of it,” Shari sobbed. “I have to hide for a while, which is why I rushed over still dressed like this. The embassy, thank God, is foreign soil. This is Jordan. They can’t touch me here.”

  “Who can’t?”

  “The United States government.”

  Layla gave her another little squeeze, and then put on her high heels again. “My, oh my, Little One. Just like your father, bless him. You never do things by half-measures, do you? I’d better go get the ambassador,” she said. “He’s an old Rolling Stones fan, and will welcome the chance to avoid having to listen to any more oud music. You, my dear, don’t leave this room until I get back.”

  CHAPTER 40

  HOW FRESH IS THIS MATERIAL?” National Security Advisor Gerald Buchanan asked as he scanned the computer-generated transcript of the conversation between Shari Towne and Master Sergeant Dawkins.

  “Almost real-time,” said Sam Shafer. “Thirty minutes max.”

  “Fast,” said Buchanan with a nod of approval. He loved, and love was not too strong a word, to see the giant security apparatus of the United States bend to his will like a whipped puppy. The sheets of paper before him proved his reach and his power. He held a big whip.

  “It’s a pretty easy catch on the intercepts when the NSA has exact names and numbers, like her cell phones. She was near the White House when her call pinged the system. The computers automatically translated the audio into printed text.”

  Buchanan read the conversation again. Kyle Swanson was alive. The man he had sent to
make sure Middleton died had almost been picked out of a damned hat, and not only had he turned on them, he had also had a link into this office! “So now we know what she saw, and the sniper is alive out there. What is this relationship between Towne and Swanson? Why should we care?”

  “According to the gals in the secretarial pool, Commander Towne has kept it under wraps because she is an officer and he is an enlisted man. That kind of fraternization is against military regulations, although it is violated all the time.”

  “Ahhhhh!” Buchanan gave a grim smile. “One and one finally equal two. She had thought him to be dead, but the photos proved that he is not. She calls a mutual friend and realizes she has stepped in shit. Right?” He smiled with tight lips. “You have a chat with the secretaries?”

  “Yes, sir. The ones whom we identified as her friends, or worked with her. Took them all to the safe house in Falls Church in a darkened van, had agents perform cavity searches to break their spirit, then put them one by one under the kleig lights, just like in the movies. They were most cooperative once I explained that it was a matter of national security and they would be held incommunicado under the Anti-Terrorism Provisos until we cleared this thing up. I pointed out that Section C states that if a White House employee is found to be an accomplice, that employee would face a secret military tribunal. They gave up everything. We also searched their desks, and the whole thing took less than an hour.”