by Brent Towns
They scrambled under their bunks and disappeared. Axe leaned around the corner and blew off three rounds along the hallway before the slide locked back when the magazine ran dry.
He ducked back and dropped the empty magazine from the WIST-94 and scrambled across to his bag. Digging around inside he promptly found a fresh magazine and slapped it home. He rushed back to the doorway and peered around the jamb. There were three of them, and he could see that all were armed with suppressed MP5s. Their leader caught sight of him and fired a short burst which ripped past, causing Axe to duck back. The bastards had him trapped. He looked down at the WIST and swore. He was outgunned and outmanned.
Time to go. But where? Axe glanced at the window. Shit! Not again. He dropped near the dead guy who’d been armed with the MP5. Picking it up, he also grabbed the spare magazines and tucked them into his bag and retrieved it. He said, “You guys stay under the beds, and you’ll be fine. It ain’t you they’re after.”
With that, Axe took a deep breath and ran toward the window. This was going to hurt.
Ramstein Airforce Base
Germany
“Zero, I’m picking up chatter through a Policja channel about shots being fired in downtown Warsaw,” Swift called out to Ferrero. The Policja were the Polish police.
The ex-DEA agent looked down at his watch. It was close to ten p.m. He walked across to where Swift sat and asked, “What can you make of it?”
“I’m not sure, sir.”
“Whereabouts in downtown Warsaw, Slick? Can you get an address?”
Swift’s fingers danced across the keys of the laptop, and he waited a couple of seconds for it to process and retrieve the information he wanted. “It’s a backpacker’s hostel.”
“All right. See if you can hack into a feed from somewhere. I’ll wake up Mary.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ferrero walked over to Thurston’s cage and was about to rattle it when the voice from within said, “I’m awake, Luis. What is it?”
“It may be nothing, Mary, but it might be something. Warsaw Police are reporting what appears to be a gunfight at a backpacker’s hostel.”
He heard the cot creak and then the curtain which acted as a door drew back. “Sounds like the kind of place our boy would stay.”
“Yes, ma’am. My thoughts exactly. I’ve got Slick working on getting us a feed.”
Then a thought occurred to Thurston. “God, I hope they haven’t found him already.”
“It’s possible.”
“Shit!”
Slick was still working on getting a feed up when they reached his work station. “How are we looking, Slick?”
“Almost there. I did find out something else, sir. Another signal. I can’t trace it, but someone else is tuned in.”
Thurston said in a grim voice, “I guess that answered my question.”
“What’s up?”
Ferrero turned and saw Cara approaching them. Behind her was Pete Traynor.”We could have a situation.”
“Axe?”
Ferrero nodded.
“There,” Swift said with satisfaction, and on the temporary big screen in front of them, a picture of the hostel appeared, albeit from an elevated angle.
Ferrero pointed at the screen. Down the bottom corner, figures ran from an open doorway, scattering in every direction. If there had been audio, they assumed that the screams would be deafening. “I guess that’s the place.”
“I’ve managed to crack that signal, ma’am.”
“Bring it up.”
A small box at the bottom right of the screen appeared. They stared at it for a moment, and Cara said, “It’s a body cam.”
A speaker crackled to life. “Raven One from Raven Base, sitrep over?”
“They’re American,” Traynor growled.
“Raven Base, we’re taking fire. I say again, we’re taking fire.”
“Copy.”
Suddenly on the big screen, a window on the second floor exploded outward, and something came hurtling through it. The object fell like a stone amongst shards of shattered glass. Cara and the others watched on in horror as it landed on the roof of a vehicle below, blowing out the windows and putting a huge dent in it.
“Holy crap!” Traynor gasped. “Is that …?”
“Yes,” murmured Thurston. “It is a body.”
Whoever it was, moved. Only marginally, but it was there.
“They’re still alive,” Ferrero noted.
As they watched, the person moved again. This time it was more pronounced as they tried to roll from the metal depression. The third time they succeeded and hit the sidewalk in an untidy heap. The person staggered to their feet and picked up a bag before limping away. Then whoever is was stopped, turned, and looked up.
“Get that,” Thurston snapped.
Swift tapped some keys, and the feed froze.
“Zoom in.”
A couple more taps and the figure grew closer. Swift cleaned the image through some filters and soon all who stood there could see who it was. Cara shook her head. “Fuck, I should have known there was only one crazy SOB dumb enough to jump out a window like that.”
They were looking at Axe.
“Keep on him, Slick,” Thurston snapped. “See if you can track him. And find out where that signal is coming from.”
The general turned to Ferrero. “Inform Reaper of the new development. I just hope we can get to Axe before these assholes do.”
CIA Black Ops Base
Warsaw, Poland
“Did you see that?” the computer tech said in disbelief. “He jumped out the fucking window.”
“Yes, damn it,” Newcomb snarled. “Get Greer after the bastard, now.”
“Sir, there’s a lot of radio traffic from the Policja. I count at least six units converging on their current location.”
The CIA man nodded. “Noted.”
“There is something else, too, sir.”
Newcomb’s patience had worn thin long ago, and now it was all but non-existent. “What?”
“I’ve picked up another signal. Whoever it is has piggybacked ours and can see what we see and hear our radio traffic.”
“Christ!” Newcomb exploded. “It’s got to be her.”
“Who?”
“Thurston, dumbass! Order Greer out of there. We’re packing up and moving. Tell him to keep looking. I’ll send him a location when we’re on the road.”
“Yes, sir.”
Newcomb turned to Nicole. “It looks like the game is afoot. This will no doubt be interesting. We’re going to need more men now that Thurston and her team are here. Call Langley. Have Horn spinup Blackbird. I want them here within twelve hours.”
Nicole nodded. Blackbird was a team of Delta operatives which the Special Activities Division used. They did what they were told, no questions asked. Greer’s team were good. Bull Horton’s Blackbird Team was the best.
MH-60K Black Hawk
Somewhere Over Germany
“We have a radio transmission for you, Gunny, from base,” the Black Hawk captain’s voice came through Kane’s headset. I’ll patch it through.”
A heartbeat later, the same voice said, “You’re on, Gunny.”
“Go for Reaper One.”
“Reaper One? Zero. We’ve had some new developments on our end. It seems our friends from back home have arrived, and they put the moves on Reaper Four.”
Kane immediately grew anxious, not wanting to ask the obvious question. But he did. “Is he OK, Zero?”
“Apart from trying to fly from a second-floor window, he seems to be fine. He’s currently in the wind.”
“What about our friends?”
“We’re trying to nail down a location. But if they’ve made us, then they’ll disappear too. As for Reaper Four, we’re trying to keep track of him until you arrive on station.”
“Copy, Zero.”
“Take care, Reaper. Zero out.”
Kane glanced around the interior of the Black
Hawk. He could just make out the others sitting across from him. To his left sat the crew chief. He leaned close and asked, “How much longer?”
“Twenty mikes.”
Kane nodded. It might as well have been twenty days. He just hoped Axe was OK.
Warsaw, Poland
Axe hurt. He was sure he had a cracked rib, if not two. There were a few cuts, one of them deep enough to need a stitch or six put in. He limped his way along the street and ducked into a dark alley. Straight away the smell of rotting garbage assailed his nostrils. He winced and kept limping. Although the pain in his right leg was subsiding, he assumed it would eventually stop. Not like the knife jabbing into his chest from his ribs.
He needed to find a place to lay up before his pursuers found him again. The trouble was he was going to need help. These guys had found him no problems. He needed to be better than they were, and in his condition, he was far from it.
Axe reached into his pocket for his burner cell and ran a number he knew from memory. He waited a few heartbeats until the person on the other end answered. “Yeah. It’s me. I need your help.”
Chapter 10
Ramstein Airforce Base
Germany
Thurston didn’t look at the screen when she answered the cell. She just placed it to her ear and said, “Thurston.”
“Yeah. It’s me. I need your help.”
“Axe?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A wave of relief washed over Thurston which was quickly replaced by anger. “Two questions, marine. Are you OK? And where the fuck are you? And what the hell were you thinking?”
“That’s three, ma’am.”
“Don’t even go there, soldier,” the general said as she waved at Ferrero to get his attention.
Axe said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Give me a sitrep, Axe. Leave nothing out.”
Ferrero stopped in front of her, “You wanted, me, Mary?”
“I’ve got Axe, have Slick trace the call.”
He hurried away, and Thurston went back to the call. “Sorry, keep going.”
“No, ma’am, I’m sorry. I should never have come here.”
“Don’t worry about that now. Tell me what you need.”
“They found me, ma’am. I’m pretty sure they’re CIA.”
“Yes, it’s Newcomb with a team of killers. We saw what happened. Are you hurt? We saw you go out the window.”
There was a pause at the other end, and for a moment, Thurston thought they’d been disconnected. “Axe?”
“I’m here, General. Sorry. I’m pretty sure I’ve got a couple of cracked ribs, I’m bleeding a bit, but my leg seems to be getting better. I need to locate a place to lay up for a while where they won’t find me.”
“I’ll see what we can come up with. Keep moving and call me back in five minutes, Axe. OK? Reaper, Carlos, and Brick should be in Poland soon.”
“Are you close, ma’am?”
“Closer than you think,” she said and then hung up.
She looked across at Ferrero, “Were you able to get a location?”
Swift turned and said, “Somewhere in central Warsaw, ma’am.”
“Good. Find me someplace he can lay up for at least twenty-four hours. Also, were you able to get anything on the vehicle those assholes were driving?”
“Make and model, ma’am, that’s about it.”
“It’ll have to do. Get onto finding me a location. You’ve got four minutes,” she glanced around and saw Cara and Reynolds staring at her. “Brooke, I want you to phone the Policja with the details of the vehicle those sons of bitches were driving. Do it anonymously. Check with Slick and then give them a ballpark location as to where they are.”
“Copy, ma’am,” the tall, athletically-built Reynolds snapped.
“General,” Swift called out. “I think I might have something.”
Thurston hurried over to where the computer tech was working. “What is it?”
“I’ve narrowed his signal down to this area here, ma’am,” he said, pointing at the screen. He stabbed a finger at another point close to the flashing red dot and continued, “This building here is an old block of apartments slated for demolition. It’s empty. Axe could hole up there.”
“It’s a death trap,” Cara said. “If he gets caught in there he’s done for.”
“Not necessarily. At the top, there’s a walkway across to the building next to it. He could get out there.”
“Have the details ready for when he calls back,” Thurston demanded.
“General, get me on a plane to Warsaw. If you do, I can be there long before Reaper and the others.”
“No. I still have a job for you here.”
Cara was about to argue the point when the cell in Thurston’s pocket rang. She took it out and hit the accept button. “Yes?”
“It’s me again, ma’am.”
The general held out her hand for the piece of paper Swift had scribbled the details on. “Listen up, Axe. Three blocks to your east is an abandoned apartment block. You should be right to hole up there until Kane and the others reach you sometime tomorrow. I want you to check in with me every hour, understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What do you have in the way of firepower?”
“A handgun and an MP5 I took off one of the shooters.”
“Good. Stay frosty, marine. Call me when you reach your objective.”
Warsaw, Poland
“Shit, we’ve got a problem, Hank.”
Greer looked in the side mirror and saw the flashing lights of the Warsaw Police behind them. “Take it easy. Just pull over to the side.”
The vehicle eased to the curb and stopped. Behind them, the police car did the same. Greer reached down and cleared his handgun. He took a suppressor from his pocket and screwed it on. He said, “Ease your seat back a touch, Grit.”
The driver did as requested, and the men waited as two officers approached. “You ain’t going to kill them, are you?” Grit asked his team leader.
“You want them to take us in?”
No answer.
“I didn’t think so. Roll your window down. I’ll do this side.”
The two uniformed officers split up and walked along each side of the SUV. As soon as they reached the front windows, Greer reacted.
The officer opened his mouth to speak, only to have his words cut off by a bullet which flew into his maw and out the back in a spray of gore. The other officer was transfixed by what had happened to his partner, which gave Greer time to adjust his aim and shoot him too. One, two, just like that.
He started to unscrew the suppressor and said, “Drive.”
Washington DC
General Hank Jones was too old and set in his ways to change the habits of a lifetime, and that’s what almost got him killed. Every day when he headed home from work, whether it be early afternoon or evening, he always had his driver stop at a small newspaper stand in Georgetown near the waterfront park. That afternoon was no different.
He had his driver pull over, and he exited the car. Walking perhaps thirty meters along a path which was lined with plants and trees, he then cut through the parklands. At a junction, he followed another path which cut back under Whitehurst Freeway and came to his destination.
“Early day, General?” the stand owner asked when he saw him.
“Date night with my wife, Marcus,” Jones informed him.
Marcus smiled at him. “I thought you’d be too old for such foolishness, Hank?”
Jones chuckled. “I am, but Nancy still thinks we’re young enough.” He bent down and picked up a paper, turning back to look at the Potomac.
“Are you trying to see how far you’d get without paying before I ran your ass to the ground?”
He turned to look at his friend. Both men had served in Vietnam together. Both had been officers. At the conclusion of the war, however, Marcus had chosen to get out, whereas Hank Jones had stayed in. Now one owned a newsstand, and the
other was the chairman of the joint chiefs.
Jones dug into his pocket and took out a five dollar note. He passed it over to Marcus and just as he did, the newsman’s head exploded.
The bullet was meant for him, of that he was sure. Witnessing the up-close death of his friend came as a huge shock, and Jones froze. Marcus dropped to the pavement and didn’t move, a hole in his head just above the bridge of his nose.
Dumbly, Jones started to turn, but even as he did, another shot whacked into the newspaper stand, shredding a magazine.
“General! Get down!” a voice shouted. Jones turned and saw a man running toward him. He was a tall, thin man with short brown hair. He wore jeans and a shirt but in his hand was a SIG M-17 handgun. He shouted again. “General, get down!”
Another shot. This one snapped close to Jones’ head and, as though someone had flicked a switch, he reacted. Dropping to the ground, he began to crawl for the cover of the stand. The man who’d shouted the warning now stood next to him, handgun raised. He snapped off two shots and leaned down to grasp Jones by his arm. “Let me help you, sir.”
Then Jones heard his rescuer say, “Scimitar, this is Pop-Eye, we’re taking fire, I say again, we’re taking fire. Already have one civilian down.”
The man helped get the general in behind the stand which offered scant cover. However, it obscured the line of sight of the shooter. Jones, still stunned, looked up and said, “Who are you, soldier?”
“Mike Oil, sir. SEAL Team …” Whack! “Shit! That was close.”
“What’s going on, here?”
“Well, sir, it would seem that some fellers are trying to kill you.”
Georgetown
Washington DC
Chief Borden Hunt checked the loads in his handgun out of habit before exiting the dark-green SUV with Rucker and Pop-Eye. “Pop, you take the general. We’ll take these other pricks and see what they’re up to.”
