He had never felt so alone. His wife and child hovered near death’s door. Two of his team were in the hands of the enemy. The three other members of the team were miles away with problems of their own.
The logical part of Jose’s mind—the part that stored his instincts for self-protection and survival—screamed for attention. He refused to listen. He had learned long ago that courage was defined by what a man did when nearly overcome with terror. This night he would live or he would die. This night would be whatever this night was intended to be. If that meant bleeding out in the street, then so be it.
He forced one foot in front of the other, slowing only at intersections of alley and streets, and continued forward in the darkness of the night and the ebony dawn of his soul. With every stride his apprehension gave way to the steel of determination. With every step he forced back fear. Nothing mattered but getting to J.J. and Caraway. Nothing. Let hell release its minions. They would find one man determined to do what had to be done.
* * *
THE PANEL TRUCK SPED along the road. Moyer had only a few seconds to make his move. If he had outlined this plan on paper, every one of his superiors would have nixed the idea and wondered about his sanity. It made no sense, had little chance of working, and would probably end in his death.
As he closed the distance between him and the two vans, he thought of his wife, his daughter, and his son. He didn’t know what happened after death. Maybe J.J. did. He felt a moment of sadness that he had never availed himself of the opportunity to discuss it with him. Well, he would know soon enough.
The light from the A109 fell behind him but would only take a few seconds to catch up. Moyer kept his gaze fixed on the vehicles ahead. They had maintained course, but in a moment they would certainly bolt, hopefully not before he or Rich could do what needed to be done.
The speedometer read ninety miles per hour and rising. Moyer’s grip on the steering wheel turned his knuckles white. He waited. With every second that passed he expected machine-gun fire to cut him and his vehicle in half.
* * *
“STOP THAT VEHICLE! SHOOT it!”
“I’m sorry, Minister, but we have orders not to fire our weapons within the city. I must await clearance.”
Santi had heard the pilot ask for permission to fire, but that had been close to thirty seconds ago. No doubt their commander was seeking permission from a higher-ranking coward. “I am ordering you to open fire on that truck. There are terrorists aboard, and they are endangering an important diplomat from our country.”
“I have yet to receive permission, Minister.”
Santi pounded the seat like a child. “I will hold you personally responsible if you do not shoot that truck right NOW!”
Nothing happened.
Santi snapped up his cell phone. “Behind you. Behind you!”
* * *
THE MOMENT COSTA PUT the phone to his ear, Hector saw him crank hishead around to look behind him.
“Go, go, go!” Costa ordered the driver.
“What? Why—”
“GO!”
The driver hesitated long enough to pull the van from behind the lead car then drove the accelerator to the floor. He had hesitated too long.
Something struck the lumbering van. The back of the vehicle slid forward. Hector watched the driver’s head snap back then forward as he tried to straighten the van, but it refused to cooperate.
Hector turned and saw another vehicle pressed against the back bumper.
* * *
POLICE CALLED IT A “pit maneuver.” Moyer had seen it done a dozen times on television but had never attempted it himself—just one more thing wrong with the plan. The engine’s roar lessened for a moment as Moyer allowed his truck to slow enough to keep control when he made contact. The van steered abruptly into the oncoming lane but a second too late. Moyer determined not to miss his only chance.
He matched the van’s maneuver then floored the gas pedal. His front bumper touched the right rear bumper of the van. Moyer steered slightly to the right forcing the back of the van to move sideways, its rear tires breaking traction with the asphalt. He turned the steering wheel a few inches to the right. The driver of the van lost control.
So did Moyer.
The van and Moyer’s truck, both with high centers of gravity, slid sideways then tipped over. Moyer had time to see the van tilt onto two wheels then begin to roll. The next thing Moyer saw was pavement rising to meet his side window. He threw himself to the right and grabbed the passenger seat.
Metal screamed as it skidded along the macadam. Glass exploded and filled the cab with tiny fragments. Moyer waited for the vehicle to roll, but its tall sides kept it from doing so. Eternal seconds passed as the vehicle continued to slide, the sound of grating metal stabbing his ears.
The truck came to a halt. Moyer wanted to wait a moment, to take a few seconds to get his bearings, but moments might cost him his life and bury his mission. He popped his seat belt, fumbled for and flipped the switch that turned on the overhead lights, and scrambled into the cargo area. The floor stood vertical and to his left. Equipment lay strewn across the area where Moyer walked. The monitors that Moyer and his team had watched diligently were damaged beyond repair, not that it mattered. They’d never be used again.
Snatching an M4 from the weapons rack, Moyer stepped over the detritus of equipment, batteries, radios, and weapons. He twisted at the handle to open the back doors, but it wouldn’t budge. Moyer had no time for this. He kicked the handle twice and the left-hand door—now the “bottom” door—swung open and crashed to the pavement. Moyer raised his weapon and stepped into the night.
He had less than two seconds to do what had to be done next.
The darkness disappeared in a glare from above. The helicopter’s beam covered him.
* * *
RICH POWERED HIS SEDAN down the side street. He had no idea how fast he was traveling, but he knew it wasn’t fast enough. Pete had already drawn his sidearm. Neither man spoke. Neither needed to.
The car bottomed out crossing an intersection. Rich hit his head on the roof and pain pierced his skull and neck. He would worry about that later—if later ever came.
“It’s the next street,” Pete said.
“Got it.”
Based on Moyer’s last communication, Rich and Pete should be slightly ahead of the two-vehicle caravan. They assumed Cenobio was in the rear van. Rich hoped they could snatch him safely, but he understood the unspoken order: The hostiles would not be allowed to take the man. Not alive.
Rich hit the intersection and turned the wheel hard to the left. The sedan began a short four-wheel drift, its tires screaming the arrival of two more players. Rich noticed the overturned van and truck first. Then he saw Moyer step from the truck and the light from the chopper shining down on him.
“Shaq, behind us!”
Rich snapped his eyes to the rearview mirror. The other vehicle in the caravan was pulling a U-turn, its tires spinning on the pavement and sending smoke into the air.
“Hang on.”
Cranking the wheel as far to the left as it would go, Rich again floored the accelerator. Like the car behind him, the sedan made a tight U-turn. Rich’s turn, however, didn’t clear the curb. The car lurched as the right front tire jumped from street to sidewalk back to street again. The force of the impact threw Rich into the door, his shoulder hitting the window so hard he was surprised the glass didn’t break.
Rich steered directly for the oncoming car as if planning to ram it. The performance was convincing—the other driver flinched and steered away. Rich wouldn’t let him off the hook. He rammed the driver’s side door, pushing the car sideways several feet.
White air bags exploded into the faces of Rich and Pete. A half second later they deflated. With ears ringing from the crash and the explosive air bag deployment, Rich threw his door open. He saw Pete do the same.
The impact must have been harder than he realized because Rich staggered
to the side two steps. By the time he gained his footing, two men had exited the passenger side of the car and raised Uzi-style submachine guns. Rich didn’t take time to identify the weapons properly. Instead he raised his sidearm and squeezed the trigger. Before he felt the recoil of his weapon, he heard a percussive bang from his right. Pete had already squeezed off a round, followed by another. Man number two, who had crawled from the backseat, dropped backward, his face blank and his forehead bearing a large hole that hadn’t been there a moment before. Man number one had been in the front passenger seat. Rich’s shot hit him in the neck. A second shot entered the skull just above the man’s right eye.
A movement in the driver’s seat drew Rich’s attention. The driver had raised a similar weapon. Rich stepped to the side just as the driver’s already fractured window erupted into shards. Rich aimed, pulled his trigger twice, and the driver ceased firing.
Another shot to his right. Pete had shot another man who had crawled across the backseat. He never had time to raise a weapon.
A new sound—automatic fire. Rich spun on his heels. The military helicopter had opened up with a blast of machine-gun fire aimed right at Moyer.
CHAPTER 51
THE PAIN HAD BROUGHT Caraway back to consciousness, and J.J. wishedwith all his might it hadn’t.
“I repeat: How many in your unit?”
Perspiration poured from Caraway’s face, a face that had turned as white as a lily. “Six thousand,” Caraway muttered. “Or maybe seventy thousand. I’m not good with numbers.”
The doctor-interrogator lost his temper and landed a hard fist to Caraway’s gut. J.J. could hear the air leave the man’s lungs. Caraway coughed, and J.J. saw blood come from his mouth. J.J. strained against the duct tape, but it refused to budge. Although it was Caraway being tortured, J.J. could feel every blow as if it had been delivered to him.
“I can do this all night,” the doctor said. “You can save yourself a great deal of pain by cooper—” A cell phone chimed. One of the other men handed the device to the doctor.
“Yes.” His face blanched. “Where? We’re on our way.” He said something in Farsi. J.J. didn’t understand the words, but he knew the look. Something had gone wrong.
“What is happening?” one of the men asked in English. This one had a Spanish accent.
“We are needed. Everyone into the van.”
“What about them?” the Hispanic asked.
“Where are they going to go? I need every man.”
They exited through the office door. J.J. heard someone lock the door and rattle the handle.
“Go get ’em, Boss.” Caraway’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“Caraway, you still with me?”
“Where would … I go?” He gritted his teeth. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold out.”
“Just hang in there.”
He shook his head. “Fading fast. You pray … pray that God kills me.”
“I won’t do that, man. We’re not finished yet.”
“My fault. I shouldn’t have hesitated when …”
“It’s not your fault. Save your strength.”
Caraway moved his lips, but no words came out.
J.J. struggled against his restraints. It was hopeless.
Caraway lifted his head but was too weak to hold it up. His head lolled back. “Pray … the pain … pray for me, Colt. Pray for my soul.”
“Hang in there, pal. Just hang in there.”
“I’m serious. Pray for my soul.”
“I will. I will.”
Caraway’s head dipped forward.
* * *
THE MOMENT MOYER’S FOOT touched pavement he raised his M4 and sent a burst of rounds toward the light. Just before he pulled the trigger he heard the loud rumble of machine-gun fire. The chopper was shooting at him.
Moyer’s bullets found their mark first, the spotlight. He dove to the side as a stream of .30-caliber rounds punctured holes in the asphalt, sending bits of debris flying. Moyer landed on his side, rolled to his back, and instinctively switched the weapon to full-auto mode. He pulled the trigger hard and bullets flew into the air at nine hundred rounds a minute. He heard his ammo hit the metal skin of the craft. The problem with firing on the A109 was, like many military helicopters, the A109 had armored seats, protective shielding over key areas, and redundant systems. Nonetheless, Moyer emptied his clip, aiming at the rotor system in hopes of doing enough damage that the pilot would have trouble controlling the craft.
He would need to get lucky. Real lucky.
The helicopter pulled away, circled, and began a new approach, nose pointed at Moyer. Moyer scrambled to his feet and bolted for the panel truck. The metal sides of the truck would provide no protection. The helo’s machine gun could cut through the siding as if the truck were an aluminum can.
The pop-pop-pop of handheld weapons worked their way through the truck’s siding. Moyer bolted from the truck, two clips in his hand. In a move practiced more times than he could remember, Moyer released the spent cartridge holder and slammed a new magazine in its place.
The helo realigned but further away this time. More gunfire. Moyer glanced to his side and saw Shaq and Junior moving his way, each firing round after round of 9mm bullets at the craft. Each ejected a clip and replaced it with fresh ammo. They carried only two magazines, one in the weapon and one back-up. They would soon be out of ammo.
Moyer raised his M4 to his shoulder, sighted, and squeezed the trigger, again aiming at the rotor assembly in the slim hope he could cripple the craft. He saw the muzzle flash of airborne weaponry, but Moyer stood his ground. Just as the weapon began to dry fire, starved of ammunition, a strong hand grabbed his arm and jerked. A hot stream of machine-gun rounds skipped past him just inches from his body.
“Thanks, Shaq.”
“Look.” The big man pointed to the helo. The craft was spinning on its axis. “Looks like we took out its tail rotor.” The helo began to spin faster.
The helicopter pilot fought to keep control, but it was clear he was going down. Moyer didn’t wait to watch the crash or try to determine which industrial building was going to have an A109 sticking out of its roof.
Moyer jogged around the panel truck and made for the van. The side door had been opened and two men had managed to crawl out. One held a gun to the head of the other. Moyer recognized Cenobio from the photo sent to him from stateside. Blood had dried below his nose from a split lip—his hosts had been unkind. The other man wore a determined look. Moyer raised his sidearm, as did Rich and Pete.
“One move and I kill Cenobio,” the man said.
“You do and you will die before he hits the ground,” Moyer said. “Let him go. There’s no way out.”
The man motioned upward to another helicopter. “There is always a way.” Moyer didn’t turn to look. He could hear the aircraft in the distance.
Pete did turn. “Bell 400 series. Doesn’t look militarized.”
“Keep an eye on it, Junior.”
The Hispanic man with a gun pressed against Cenobio’s temple raised an eyebrow. “Americans. Figures.”
“Let the man go,” Moyer ordered.
“Stay where you are. I will kill him. What will you tell your masters when you tell them you let Dr. Cenobio die?”
“We don’t have masters, just higher-ranking officers.”
“Still, you go home empty-handed.” He pushed the muzzle the deeper into Cenobio’s flesh. The scientist’s face twisted in pain.
“What makes you think we’ve come to save him?” He paused a second. “Shaq?”
“Got it.”
Moyer nodded. “Take the shot.”
The sound of Shaq’s 9mm discharging echoed down the dark street.
* * *
THE PAIN FROM COSTA’S twisting the business end of his handgun into Hector’s head hurt more than the backhand he had received earlier, but the pain disappeared when he heard the oldest of the three men say, “What makes you think we�
�ve come to save him?”
How much worse could things get? Held at gunpoint by one of his abductors, he now faced three assassins. As if to punctuate the observation, the large black man fired his weapon. The noise engulfed him and he flinched, waiting for the bullet to pierce his chest. Instead, he felt something wet against the side of his head. The gun that had been pressed against his temple was no longer there.
There was a pain in his chest. His heart had stopped beating for a moment then restarted, sending a sharp thrust through his sternum. Hector took a stuttering breath and touched the center of his chest. He forced himself to look: His hands were clean. Slowly, Hector turned to see Costa on the ground with an angry red hole above the bridge of his nose.
The older man stepped forward and took Hector by the arm. “Are you all right?”
“Considering everything, I guess so.”
“Good. We don’t have much time.”
“Who are you?”
“Let’s just say we’re friends and leave it at that.”
Hector nodded. “My family. They have—”
“We know and we’re working on that. Right now, you have to trust us.” He turned. “Shaq, Junior.”
“The helo’s approaching, Boss.”
“I’ve had my fill of helicopters,” the man called Boss said. He turned, raised his automatic weapon, and unleashed a torrent of bullets. The helo banked away.
“I see smoke,” Junior said. “Nice shooting.”
“It’s easier when they don’t have strategic armor. Check the van.”
The younger two approached the overturned vehicle slowly, peering in through the windshield. “Driver looks dead. I don’t see anyone else,” the larger man reported.
The Boss nodded. “Okay, listen up …”
Certain Jeopardy Page 25
