Special Forces: The Operator

by Cindy Dees

  “Rebel, call out when you have the video you need,” Torsten breathed.

  She clicked once in the back of her throat in acknowledgment of the order. She started recording as the first hostile came into view. It was a man based on general height and build beneath a baggy hooded sweatshirt. The man wore a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead and the hood of his jacket was pulled up over it.

  In a few moments, a total of eight people moved into view in her viewfinder. Two were smaller and slighter in build than the others—probably female. The rest were male. Each one of them had a very large bag slung over a shoulder, perhaps five feet long and two feet or more tall and wide. The group moved as if the bags were very heavy.

  She couldn’t make out any facial features at all. It was impossible to tell if this was Mahmoud and his people, but then, how could it not be? Only Mahmoud’s team had spent months training in a mock-up of this very location. She tried to pick out the team leader based on how the hostiles moved around one another, but to no avail. They, too, were highly practiced in what they were doing up here. They didn’t speak. They barely looked at one another. Each person seemed highly focused on doing what they’d specifically come up here to do.

  As tempting as it was to call for the attack now, in point of fact, the intruders on the roof hadn’t done anything yet to indicate that they were about to stage a terrorist attack. She continued filming, waiting for them to do something damning that would condemn them without question. She had to wait to call for the takedown until the people in front of her actually took hostile action with the intent to harm civilians.

  Then, and only then, would the Medusas, Avi and the Israeli government have legal cover to justify slaughtering eight people up here on this roof. As it was, it was going to be a huge stink—

  She set the thought aside. Avi knew what he’d gotten his government into in green-lighting this operation, and Torsten knew what he’d gotten himself into by participating in this mission. They would deal with the fallout later.

  Inhale. Count to four. Breathe out. Count to four.

  Her thoughts stilled.

  She watched dispassionately as the hooded team spread out among the air-conditioning units and opened their bags. She was mildly startled when they all pulled out what looked like plastic hazmat suits—full-body jumpsuits that they stepped into, pulled up and zipped shut over their clothing. Then, they pulled out full-face respirators and donned them. So. Her guess about a gas attack of some kind had been correct.

  Next out of the bags were thin latex gloves followed by thicker rubber gloves. The team members took turns duct taping the tops of the gloves to the plastic suits.

  Wow. These guys were taking no chances with whatever material they were handling. Her alarm climbed as she pondered just how lethal an attack they were planning to launch up here. Thank God the Medusas had finally gotten ahead of Mahmoud and were here to stop the unfolding disaster.

  She could probably call the attack now. But Torsten had been sharply concerned about getting solid evidence of a crime before they attacked. She let her camera roll a bit longer.

  The hostiles moved in pairs to two of the air-conditioning units and to two huge ventilation intake fans. They pulled out long rolls of flexible plastic tubing about the diameter of her wrist. Each tube had a round plastic attachment on it that looked like an oversize shower cap. This elastic-banded cap was placed over a small fan the hostiles pulled out of the duffel bags. The fans were like one she might use in her house to cool a stuffy room.

  There was a noticeable pause in the action then. Whether they were waiting for a timed mark to all continue together, or they were just taking a pause to breathe deeply and prepare for the next step, she couldn’t tell.

  But, as one, the hostiles reached into their bags one last time and pulled out large metal tanks like scuba divers would use. Rebel flashed back to the pile of identical tanks in the storage room in Iranian security headquarters over a week ago. She felt Avi’s miniscule jolt against her side. He remembered seeing those tanks, too.

  As soon as the tanks came out, the people in front of her started to move very slowly, with extreme caution. They were obviously terrified of whatever those tanks held. She continued filming, making sure to capture the tanks and the blower/tubing setup clearly designed to deliver the gas in the tanks into the field house’s ventilation system.

  She hoped it went without saying that, when the shooting started, no way would any of the Medusas hit one of those tanks and release whatever poison was inside. Not only would a potential poison cloud be released that might drift over civilians in the vicinity, but none of the Medusas wore or had on them any protection against an airborne agent. A pressurized gas tank, when hit by a hot flying lead slug at high velocity, also stood an excellent chance of exploding, which could release a large, lethal gas cloud up here on the roof. It would likely kill everyone not wearing the proper protective gear. Which was to say, she and all of her teammates would die.

  The attackers pulled out rolls of duct tape and commenced taping plastic tubing to the tanks’ outlet valves and running the tubing into the the ends of the long tubes down into the intake shafts of the massive air units.

  She’d seen enough.

  “I’ve got what I need,” she muttered into her mouthpiece.

  She barely had time to pocket the video camera and pull her weapon into place against her right shoulder before Torsten shouted from his hiding place in Farsi, “Freeze. Put your hands up where I can see them!”

  The reaction by Mahmoud’s team was swift. They dropped to their knees, reached into their bags, whipped out short-barreled automatic rifles and jumped, some diving for cover and others dropping flat on their bellies in firing positions that minimized their target areas.

  As one, they opened fire on Torsten’s position, no doubt targeting the sound of his voice. The barrage was deafening.

  The Medusas wasted no time and unleashed its own return fire of lead at the hostiles. Their body cams would record that the hostiles fired first and that they merely returned fire in a defensive manner.

  Several of the terrorists’ bodies flew backward, but other shooters rolled to the side, taking up new positions that gave them a better angle to target the now-revealed positions of the Medusas.

  One of the hostiles who’d been sent flying by the initial fusillade staggered to his feet again, and commenced walking forward, firing his weapon in a continuous barrage of lead, sweeping back and forth in front of him.

  “He’s wearing body armor!” she shouted into her mouthpiece.

  “They all are,” Zane shouted back.

  Tessa bit out, “Neck shots. Back of the head. Leg shots. Those facial respirators are metal and ricocheting rounds off of them.”

  Not good. The Medusas were limited to difficult to hit or nonlethal targets, all while having to tightly control their fields of fire not to hit their own people, and having to be exceedingly cautious not to hit the gas tanks. Meanwhile, Mahmoud’s team could shoot its high-caliber weaponry back and if not kill with its shots, incapacitate Medusas with the sheer firepower impacting the Medusas’ flak vests.

  And then one of Mahmoud’s guys picked up a gas tank and held it across his body, using it as a shield while he advanced toward Rebel and Avi’s firing position.

  Swearing, she lifted her finger away from her weapon’s trigger. She dared not chance hitting that tank.

  Avi bit out beside her, “We won’t win this in a firefight. We’ve got to close in to hand-to-hand range.” He jumped up, pulled a K-Bar knife out of an ankle sheath inside his boot and opened the door.

  Rebel was close on his heels. He was right, of course. But it was also suicide for Avi to rush out there into the middle of an active firefight with Mahmoud’s other men shooting away like crazy. No way was Avi going out there without her help!

  It was undoubtedly suici
dal of her to join him. But they had to stop these terrorists at all costs. Up to and including her life and Avi’s.

  By God, if he was going to die, she planned to die beside him.

  Chapter 20

  The only thought that passed fleetingly through Avi’s mind as he raced out to engage Mahmoud’s men up close and personal was that it was going to suck to die, having just found the love of his life. He’d finally found a woman he could share his whole life with, grow old with. And now neither of them was going to get any of that. The irony was rich.

  He focused on the bastard charging toward him with that damned gas tank cradled across his torso. Deeply wary of the hostile possibly opening the outflow valve and trying to shoot a puff of whatever poison was inside the tank at him, Avi took a deep breath and held it as he charged forward, coming in low.

  He closed on the terrorist and swung up hard and fast with his right hand, arcing up and under the gas tank, aiming for the lower end of the guy’s flak vest under that plastic hazard suit.

  The bad guy slammed the tank down on Avi’s wrist. Hard.

  Which was the plan. Avi let his right arm fall to his side, giving way before the blow, momentarily stung into uselessness, as he flashed in high with his left hand. He dropped the wrist blade he kept strapped under his left sleeve into his hand and stabbed hard into the hostile’s neck with the short, double-edged blade.

  The Iranian stared at him in frozen shock for just a second as his carotid artery, jugular vein and trachea were severed in one violent blow. Then his legs buckled, and Avi dropped to his knees fast to catch the tank as it fell out of the mortally wounded terrorist’s hands.

  A series of massive blows hit Avi in the middle of the back, pitching him forward violently. Gunshots against his body armor. He smashed forward onto his face, but thankfully, the downed terrorist was directly in front of him and cushioned the gas tank between their bodies.

  Avi tried to draw a breath, but his chest muscles were temporarily paralyzed by the violent blows against his back. With his last remaining useful consciousness, he dragged his right hand up and forward, reaching for the gas tank valve. He gave it a twist to make sure it was tightly secured.

  He registered a female voice behind him, uttering a scream of primal rage. Lying prone across the cold, hard cylinder of the tank and the warmer, softer body of the terrorist, he tucked his chin and glanced back over his shoulder.

  He was in time to see Rebel come flying out of the maintenance shed and jump on the back of the terrorist who’d been peppering his back with bullets. She wrapped her legs around the guy’s hips and her arms around the guy’s throat.

  The terrorist dropped his weapon with a clatter and turned, clawing at her arms, but was too late. Rebel made a vicious slash across his neck with a dark, hungry blade.

  The hostile dropped to the ground with her atop him. She grabbed at his forehead, yanked his head up and made a second slash, half severing the man’s head from his body.

  That’s my girl.

  She wasn’t messing around. She’d made darned sure the terrorist was never standing up again.

  She rolled off the tango and pushed to her feet, racing forward and diving to the ground beside Avi. “You okay?” she demanded.

  He tried to speak but had no air. Instead he flashed her a thumbs-up and hand signaled her to keep moving forward.

  She nodded and jumped up, spinning around the edge of the air-conditioning unit in front of her in search of more prey. Her knife was held low and ready, exactly the way a trained knife fighter should wield one. God, he loved that woman.

  He lay there for several more seconds, waiting for his diaphragm to engage once more. In the meantime, he went limp, playing possum in case any more of Mahmoud’s men got the bright idea to finish off anyone alive but wounded on the ground.

  All of a sudden, he gasped hard, sucking in a desperate lungful of air.

  It hurt like hell to breathe, but he drew in several more deep breaths. Oxygen flooded his brain and full awareness of the situation around him came back all at once.

  He pushed to a crouch and looked around. Everywhere around him, Medusas and terrorists were grappling in hand-to-hand combat. Mahmoud’s men must also be deeply wary of an ongoing gunfight with those tanks of poison gas now rolling around underfoot.

  Where was Rebel?

  He followed her around the air-conditioning unit and was horrified to see her bowed backward in the grip of a much-larger hostile who was pushing a knife toward her throat with all his strength. She had her forearms up between the blade and her throat, but she was running out of space and flexibility to avoid that blade.

  He reached for his right hip as he charged forward, shouting at the top of his lungs.

  The terrorist looked up reflexively for just an instant.

  It was all Avi needed. He whipped out the pistol at his hip and fired twice, double-tapping two shots millimeters above Rebel’s face and directly into the bastard’s throat.

  The terrorist dropped and Rebel went down beneath him. Blood, black in Avi’s NODs, sprayed everywhere.

  Please God let none of that be Rebel’s. Please let that guy’s blade not have fallen on her throat or cut her somewhere else!

  Frantically, he darted forward. Adrenaline roared through his veins and he tossed the two-hundred-pound-plus corpse off her as if it weighed nothing.

  “Are you hurt?” he demanded. “Did he cut you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He ran his hands over her face, her neck, down her arms. In the heat of battle, warriors often felt no pain and had no idea they were shot or otherwise grievously wounded for minutes or even hours.

  Thank God. He felt no torn flesh, no welling blood.

  He nodded tersely at her, and she whirled, placing her back to his.

  “Move to your right,” he muttered.

  Back to back, the two of them moved beyond the air conditioner in search of more hostiles.

  “Your nine o’clock,” Rebel muttered.

  “Tally ho,” he replied. One of the women had fled the fight and was now hesitating some forty feet away from them, staring back at the carnage as the Medusas inexorably wiped out her teammates.

  “Gun!” Rebel called as the woman reached for a hip holster similar to Avi’s.

  He raised his pistol and took aim as the woman whipped out her pistol—

  And lightning fast, raised it to her own temple.

  The ring of that single gunshot echoed across the roof, and the woman dropped to the ground.

  “Spin to your right,” Avi ordered. “Two hundred seventy degrees.”

  Rebel completed the move, pivoting across his back without ever losing shoulder-to-shoulder contact with him—although truth be told, her shoulder blades hit him closer to the middle of his back.

  They crab-walked quickly around the next ventilation unit over and both yanked their weapons up to shoulder height as they encountered Piper and Zane also back-to-back, clearing their zone.

  As a foursome, they circled back to the middle of the hot zone, searching for any remaining terrorists. They ran into Gia and Lynx also coming in from their zone.

  “Overwatch, are we clear?” Avi radioed tersely.

  “No hostile movement up here. Move in to confirm kills,” Beau answered.

  “Check in,” Avi radioed next.

  “Rebel, good,” Rebel reported.

  “Tessa, good.”

  “Beau, good.”

  “Piper, good.”

  “Zane, good.”

  “Gia, good.”

  “Lynx, good.”

  Silence fell over the channel.

  “Gunnar?” Avi asked.

  Nothing.

  “Gun? Check in.”

  Still nothing.

  They took off running as a group towa
rd Torsten’s last known position, where he’d shouted out the initial order to Mahmoud’s men to freeze.

  He lay prone in a pool of blood so big that Avi feared the worst. Quickly, he rolled Torsten onto his back and reached for his neck.

  “I have a pulse. Thready. Weak. Who’s the medic?”

  Lynx pushed forward and dropped to her knees. “He’s strangling on his own blood. I’m going to open a tracheotomy. He needs blood now. I didn’t bring a full crash kit with us. Torsten’s O positive. Who’s a match?”

  “I am,” Gia said quickly.

  Tessa and Beau worked over Gia’s arm to find a vein and set up a needle while Lynx did the same to Torsten’s arm.

  When lifesaving blood was flowing through a latex tube into his brother, Avi said, “We’ve still got work to do. Piper, Zane, confirm kills in the left field. Rebel and I will take the right.”

  He moved off with Rebel at his side. They approached each downed body with caution, weapons at the ready. He pulled back the hoods of the hazmat suits and yanked off the face masks. One by one, they confirmed that the terrorists were dead. Rebel took a picture of each person with her cell phone camera.

  They met Piper and Zane at the far end of the fight area. “All dead,” Piper reported.

  “Same,” Avi replied.

  Rebel said, “We need to collect those tanks and make them safe. I suggest we put tape over the outflow valves and then bag up each tank, maybe in a hazmat suit we take off the bodies?”

  Zane commented, “The suits will be shot full of holes, but they’ll be better than nothing until we can get a proper hazmat team up here.”

  Lynx’s voice came over the channel. “We need to call for air evac to the nearest hospital. I’ve got Torsten stabilized, but he’s going to need more blood and immediate surgery. He’s taken at least four rounds in the torso.”

  Avi made the call to the Israeli operations center. He asked for the medevac and reported that Mahmoud Akhtar and an Iranian terrorist strike team were neutralized. Additionally, he asked for a hazardous materials team to come up to the roof of the field house and to be prepared to make safe at least a dozen tanks of poison gas.