Only apologetic letters would go out to our various relatives, saying we had perished in a remote training accident. And that would be that.
The water helps and I shake off some of my fatigue, and by God, we get to the road.
Some days, I love roads.
We huddle up and I say, “Borozan, trot up the road about fifty meters, take cover. Garcia, you stay here. I’ll go over to the other side, move up about twenty-five meters. I’ll take down any car or small truck that comes our way.”
Garcia touches my shoulder. “Jefe, it can’t go that way.”
“The hell it can’t.”
He says, “With all due respect, sir”—my God, the first time he’s called me sir, ever—“you’re wounded. We need to be one hundred percent to hijack what comes by. Not limping, hurting, and bleeding.”
Borozan says, “Boss, he’s talking sense.”
He is talking sense, which I hate. I take a breath. “All right. Change of plans. I’ll stay here. Garcia, you take the lead. Borozan and I have your back.”
“Glad to hear it,” he says. “Oh, and jefe? Next time, let me go back to get my lucky rosary, all right?”
My last op.
Next time.
“You got it, Garcia,” I say. “Now go out there and make us and East LA proud.”
That earns me a quick smile, and Garcia crosses the road, leaving me alone with Borozan. Even in the ghostly-green glow of my NVGs, I can see the concern on her face.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
“Like shit,” I say. “But I’ll feel better if you take your position.”
She says, “I know several positions, but this one will have to do for now,” and she touches my cheek then moves up the side of the road.
We wait.
And then the lights appear.
Chapter 15
The engine is high-pitched, whining, which makes me feel good, because it means it’s not a military vehicle or a heavy truck. It rounds a curve and brightens it up, and in my NVGs—which automatically adjust to the glare—I see it’s a small car, an old four-door Fiat.
It rolls past Borozan and then comes down the road. Garcia steps out, bulky in his armor and gear, holding up his HK416. He yells something and fires off a shot, and then another.
The muzzle flash in the darkness is sudden and quite bright, and the Fiat brakes to a halt, sliding so it’s blocking both narrow lanes. Garcia advances and I stand up, and the driver’s side window lowers and an older woman starts yelling, and Garcia yells back, and the door opens and the woman steps out, now crying, holding her hands up.
Garcia moves forward some more, and out of the corner of my eye, I spot Borozan coming down the road toward us, and as I’m processing what we can do to this older woman and how to secure her, the rear two doors of the Fiat slam open and two men tumble out, AK-47s in hand, and they start shooting.
You know those movies where gunfights go on and on and on?
Pure and total bullshit.
It’s over in less than a minute.
The two men open fire on Garcia and he returns fire, and I open up and so does Borozan, and there’s a crossfire that takes down one of the shooters. The odds are in our favor right until the moment the second shooter gets nailed. As he falls he tosses a grenade, which rattles and rolls under Garcia’s legs.
The bright and sharp explosion knocks him right into a ditch at the side of the road.
Damn it all to hell.
I move forward and the woman driver is tugging underneath her coat, comes out with a pistol, and I put one in her head and two in her chest, and she slams back against the Fiat’s fender and drops to the ground.
Borozan is on the far shooter and says, “Clear,” and puts a round into him just to make sure, and I do the same to the second shooter, the one who tossed the grenade, and Borozan runs to the side of the road, and I go to the Fiat, and it’s stalled out, but it looks okay. Side windows shattered and windshield with a round through it, but the tires are still inflated, and it doesn’t look like the engine’s been hit.
But Garcia…
I turn and Borozan comes off from the side of the road and says, “Boss, let’s go.”
“Garcia?”
“Both legs gone. Bled out in seconds.”
I hammer down my mind and get back to the Fiat, and I drag the body of the woman away to the side of the road, and Borozan does the same to the other shooter. I’m ice-cold now, moving right on autopilot. I’m on the passenger’s side of the Fiat, and clumsily, with all her gear and her HK416, Borozan gets into the driver’s seat.
The keys are in the ignition.
I get in, squeezing myself tight, knowing that we’d move as slowly as fat beetles if we were stopped or challenged, and Borozan slams the steering wheel with her gloved hands, starts weeping, and says, “Shit, shit, shit.”
I say, “Stow it for later. Go!”
“I can’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
She turns to me. “It’s a standard. I can’t friggin’ drive a standard!”
At any other time I would have burst out laughing, but this isn’t that time, so I say, “Move!”
We climb out, switch seats, and I push down the clutch and turn on the ignition. I ease down on the accelerator with my right foot while I release the clutch and then we’re off before Borozan can even get her door shut.
The interior smells of tobacco, sweat, and some sort of booze. I speed down the road and glance up at the rearview mirror.
Lights.
“We got traffic back there,” I say.
She turns, glances back. “Of course we do, the shitty night we’re having.”
I say, “Haul out your map, give me an idea of what’s ahead of us.”
“Got it, boss.”
She fumbles for a second as I drive as fast as I dare, along the narrow and twisty road, slippery with snow and ice, the wheels sometimes losing grip. I stay tunnel-focused straight ahead as I speed through the night. Two more glances and it looks like the headlights behind us are keeping pace.
“Borozan?”
She’s looking down at her own topo map and says, “This is good. We’re coming up to a bridge and right after that bridge, we’re less than a half-klick from Darko’s home.”
“Outstanding,” I say. “What does the bridge cross over? Ravine? Gulch?”
“River, it looks like,” she says.
“Outstanding again.”
The engine roars right along and Borozan works on reloading her weapon, and I should do the same but I can’t drive and do that at the same time.
Another look in the rearview mirror.
No lights.
Then lights appear.
Two more swerves through curves and she says, “Bridge up ahead!”
To the left is a mess of trees and brush, and to the right is low ground. I brake hard, swerve to the right, stop.
“Out!”
I switch off the engine and the lights, peer ahead.
Great.
The ground here slopes down sharply, right to a fast-moving river.
“Give me a hand,” I say. “We’re dumping our wheels.”
We dig in and with hands on the door frames and the shift in neutral, we push the Fiat a few meters and let gravity do the rest.
“Down!”
Borozan joins me in flattening out. Two Mercedes-Benz four-wheel-drive military vehicles painted in Serbian camouflage pattern speed by on the bridge.
We lie there for another minute.
Check my watch.
Slap Borozan on the helmet. “Come on, let’s finish this job.”
“You got it, boss.”
Chapter 16
After ten minutes of traveling along the side of the river, my shot leg decides to make itself known and starts throbbing and screaming at me. No matter how much I try, I can’t hide the limp, and at a five-minute rest break, sitting in the brush along the river, Borozan says, “Let’s see your l
eg.”
I lift both up and wiggle them, even though I have to bite my lower lip to keep from crying out. Borozan kneels next to me and says, “Knock it off. We don’t have enough time.”
“So says you.”
“You want to lose that leg?”
“You want to get to the target area before dawn breaks?” I check my watch. “Break time is over. We go.”
We follow the riverbank for another half hour, and then at a minor stream feeding into the river, I check my compass reading, see we need to bear 45 degrees due east to get away from the river. I show the compass and map to Borozan and say, “Damn close we are. We got this hill to climb, then go down and up a slope, and right below us, beyond this road, is Darko’s house.”
I check my watch. “An hour before daybreak. Not bad…considering.”
“Yeah,” she says. “Considering.”
The rain and snow have stopped, but it’s still overcast, meaning we both see the illumination to the south when artillery rounds are fired off. “Hell of a thing,” she says. “All this fighting, all this dying. And for what? So one village prays differently from another?”
I slip the topo map into a pants pocket and misquote a bit of poetry: “Ours is not to reason why…”
“Ours is to do and die? For real?”
“No, not for real,” I say. “Ours is to get the job done. Let’s move.”
We get out, splash through the stream. Behind us, there are more flashes of lightning, more grumbling of artillery.
As we move up the first hill, the first thing I note is that there are a lot of tall evergreens, but the underbrush has been cleared out, like this spare hill is a park or farmland. The second thing I notice are the smells: feces and dead bodies.
I motion for Borozan to hold up, and she does so. I scan around us, see two lumps about the size of large potato sacks. I slowly walk over, Borozan at my side.
Two bodies, torn and bloody and swollen. An AK-47 with a broken stock is nearby.
I wave us forward, and we climb higher, seeing and smelling more signs of a battle, maybe a day or so earlier. The land is chewed up. More bodies, some foxholes, broken equipment, lots and lots of brass shell casings.
I don’t like it, not at all. Not that I think there are any scared survivors out here, ready to open fire at any second, but there’s always the chance of tripping over a land mine, or a shell or munition that goes from unexploded to exploded in under a second, maiming or killing anyone nearby.
I lean over to Borozan, whisper, “Watch your step. Christ knows what got left behind here.”
“Got it, boss.”
So even though we’re so close to Darko’s home, we climb carefully, safely, watching where we place our booted feet.
Jets scream overhead.
Neither of us looks up.
A low mound is before us, stretching left to right, and I slow even more.
A trench line, mostly empty, save for more swollen bodies, some broken machine-gun emplacements.
I scan up and down the line.
Nothing’s alive, nothing moving.
I catch Borozan’s eye and we climb down into the trench, and just as quickly, climb out. Before us are evergreen trees, a few more bodies, and an overturned pickup truck that’s so burnt and blackened I can’t tell if it’s a Toyota, a Chevy, or a Ford.
There’s a hill before us.
Close.
When we get to the top, we quickly scan the land below us. Then we scramble up one more slope. We’re in Darko’s neighborhood.
Finally.
Then that little voice inside says, Then what? This last op was designed with you being part of a five-member team. Now it’s down to Borozan and you, and you’re limping like an old black bear with its foot caught in a trap.
Good question.
What will we do when we get there?
We get closer.
Then, I think, I’ll figure it out when I get there.
Borozan whispers, “Boss!” and then I hear it, too.
The whistling sound of incoming fire.
“Down!” I yell, and we flatten ourselves out.
Damn them, damn them all. The incoming fire sounds like 120mm mortar rounds. Whoever’s shooting knows exactly what they’re doing. They’re not fuzing their rounds to explode at ground level. No, they’re fuzing them to explode at the treetops, so survivors from the previous day’s battle will be showered with metal shrapnel and razor-sharp wood fragments.
Not sure what might be surviving on this hill, but right now it’s me and Borozan, and I slap an arm around her as we try to melt ourselves into the ground. There’s that trench line to our rear, and maybe we can scuttle back there like crabs on the run from certain death, but the sharp explosions and the whistling sound of the incoming mortar rounds shove that idea away. Better to be lying flat than moving.
Something peppers my lower legs and I grunt, and then the firing stops.
Borozan whispers, “Oh, shit. I think I’m hit.”
“Me too,” I say, lifting up my head. “My legs feel like they got hit by really sharp toothpicks. What about you?”
She rolls, a hand firm against the side of her neck, blood sliding through her fingers. “They got my throat, boss.”
Chapter 17
I manage to get the job done, listening to Borozan’s steady and easy whispers. Wipe. Clean. Put in clotting powder. Fasten bandage. Not too tight. There. Good enough.
I take three deep breaths. “You okay?”
“Hanging in there.”
“Can you move?”
Through my NVGs, I can see that Borozan’s eyes are clear and steady, even with the bulky bandage on the side of her neck. “Did you say your legs were hit?”
“No.”
She picks up her weapon. “Then let’s move and get this job done…and be grateful for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“No matter the scar, I can still wear a bikini.”
My chest eases some. “Then I’m grateful.”
So there it is, I think, we’re finally on the other side of the slope after a half hour of moving through the spruces, looking down with NVGs, checking out our target. The slope falls down with nice spots to hide along the way—fallen tree trunks, brush and boulders—and then comes up against a narrow paved road.
A guarded gate lies straight ahead, with a paved driveway that goes up and makes a circular approach to a mansion that wouldn’t look out of place on Long Island’s Gold Coast. Three floors tall, with lots of bay windows, arches, and steep roofs. There’s a waist-high wrought iron fence along the road that’s decorated along the top with coils of razor wire. How cheerful.
To the left of the mansion is a metal warehouse with two roll-up doors that stand open. Pickup trucks and military trucks are backed into it. Even at this distance, I can make out metal and black hard-plastic crates filled with weapons—automatic rifles, RPGs, and heavier anti-tank weapons. Three armed men walk around the warehouse entrances, sipping cups of coffee or tea.
Between the house and the warehouse is a muddy expanse of what was probably a lawn. Things look quiet at the mansion, but there are high-powered lights on poles illuminating the joint.
Behind the house and the warehouse is a thick expanse of woods.
I lower my binoculars.
My right leg is aching like the proverbial son of a bitch, and both my lower legs are hurting and itching where dozens of wood splinters nastily peppered them.
The original plan called for us to split in a three/two approach, with two—Clayton and Sher—responsible for killing the lights and backup generators and setting up a diversionary attack at the rear of the warehouse, making the guard force think the weapons store was being threatened.
That would have allowed me, Borozan, and Garcia to break into a side entrance of the mansion—where the kitchen was located and where we figured nobody would be hanging out in the early hours of the morning—and then trot up a set of rear stair
s that led to Darko’s master bedroom.
In and out, and wire cutters to the fence, into the woods behind.
Exfil point another bare rocktop about three klicks away.
Tough but doable.
Now?
Now it was time to check on Borozan.
I crawl back up the slope.
She is sitting up against an oak tree, with her HK416 across her lap and her right hand firmly held against the side of her throat.
I kneel down. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
I look closer. “What’s up with your hand being there? I thought we had everything bandaged up tight.”
“I did, boss,” she whispers. “But my body had other plans.”
“Borozan…”
She manages a weak smile. “I got hit worse than I thought. I put in more clotting powder, compress after compress, but everything’s soaking through. I’m out of bandages, boss.”
No more talking.
I shuffle closer.
More grumbling of artillery fire.
I say, “Talk to me, Borozan. What’s going on?”
She sighs. “My carotid artery. I think it got nicked.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m bleeding out, boss,” she whispers. “I’m going to die in the next few minutes.”
Chapter 18
I drop my weapon. “Not going to happen.”
“Can’t see how it won’t.”
I start fumbling with my assault pack. “I’ll slap a fresh compress on, and then we’ll get up that hill…and we’ll surrender. Get you some medical care.”
“We will, huh? Don’t I get a vote in this matter?”
“Look…”
Borozan coughs. “No, you look. We’ve got a mission to finish.”
The End Page 5
