by Carr, Jack
“Wish I had those in the badlands,” Woody said. “Just think of all the muj I could have slain.”
“Shut up and tell me what you see.”
Woody turned back to the monitors and zoomed in on the area ahead as Crimmins pulled to the side of the road.
“Two vehicles on the shoulder. One van and one sedan. Lights on. I count four, no, make that five MAMs,” Crimmins said, using the military term for Military Aged Male. “They’re looking down what appears to be a ravine or gully of some sort. Think he went off the road?”
“Shit. I don’t know. Maybe he crashed.”
“Wait!” Crimmins said. “Guns.”
Crimmins adjusted his NODs to more clearly focus on the people standing outside their vehicles.
“What’s your count?” Crimmins asked.
“I see two handguns and three long guns—correction, six MAMs, two handguns, and four long guns. What the fuck is going on?”
“Keep watching,” Crimmins ordered. “I’m calling it in.”
This was not a contingency they had planned for. Crimmins had one AR in the back, and he and Woody each had pistols.
What the hell?
“This goddamn van is like a clown car. They just keep piling out. I now count eleven. Shit! Most of them have long guns. Hard to get an accurate count. They are all looking off the right-hand side of the road.”
Eleven armed men in Maryland? Following James Reece? What the fuck is happening?
“These dudes are going to poach our kill. What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to shut up and let me think.”
“Charlie, two of them, the two with pistols, are moving down the embankment. Whoever they are, they are going to fucking kill him.”
CHAPTER 36
“JAMES! JAMES!”
It wasn’t Katie’s screams that roused him from unconsciousness, it was the gunshot.
Upside down, suspended by his seat belt, Reece reentered the world of the living. In predeployment workups, SEAL platoons were put through helo-dunker training at Miramar in which a simulated helicopter fuselage hanging from a specially designed crane over a deep pool was dropped into the water and spun upside down. They were taught to unhook their restraints, find a reference point, and then pull themselves to safety. That was all well and good until they were then given blacked-out goggles to simulate a nighttime crash. Reece’s takeaway had been that if they survived and were not knocked unconscious in a helo crash in the middle of the ocean at night, with mere seconds to unhook and find a window in which to escape, most of them were not going to make it.
With his left eye swollen shut and caked with blood, his right eye focused on a gun. Katie was screaming and thrashing in her seat, pinning the weapon to the dash with both hands. Even in the ambient light he could tell it was a Glock 17. A second shot tore through the steering column.
Katie!
There was no time to process what just happened. They were upside down in the dark, still restrained in their seats, trapped in the wreck, with at least one person trying to execute them.
Reece lunged forward to grab the pistol Katie so desperately grappled with in the passenger seat, but his seat belt prevented him from reaching it.
Just a few inches shy.
The gun fired again, sending a round in front of Reece’s face.
Just one more second, Katie.
Reece reached behind the passenger seat, felt for the corner of the Grey Man Tactical rigid MOLLE panel.
Reference point.
He stretched farther and unhooked the bungee holding his Winkler-Sayoc tomahawk securely in place. His hands choked up around the familiar wood just under the axe head and ripped it from his sheath.
Time to kill.
Reece punched the spike on the axe head into the inside wrist of the man holding the gun, aggressively corkscrewing through the tendons. Screaming in both agony and surprise, the hit man dropped the pistol, which fell through the broken windshield and slipped out of reach.
Don’t let him go, Reece.
Reece lunged across the center console and trapped the would-be assassin’s hand to the dash. He then pushed the hawk into his leg, forcing his hand to the base of the shaft, and then used it to extend his reach. Thrusting it past Katie and hooking the curved butt of the axe head around the neck of their assailant, he pulled him into the vehicle through the broken window. Changing tactics, the hit man crawled over Katie, whose fists pounded on the aggressor as she continued to curse and scream. Reece choked up on the axe head, grabbing a handful of the man’s hair and pushing his head against the dashboard, firing short, powerful punches with the front point into his attacker’s face. Each blow crushed more of his temporal bone, penetrating deeper through the skull and into brain matter. The man rolled past the dash and onto the vehicle’s headliner.
“JAMES! JAMES!”
Katie’s screams pulled him from his rage-induced psychosis.
Ears ringing from the gunshots in the confined space of the vehicle, Reece turned his attention to the new threat. He heard shouting in Farsi, feet sliding down the rock- and dirt-strewn embankment above, and the unmistakable sound of incoming gunfire.
Get off the X!
Still upside down and restrained in his seat, Reece switched the axe to his left hand and arched his back, drawing his SIG X-Compact from appendix carry. His good eye found the red dot and he destroyed the target in his optic, which in this case were the knees and lower thighs of a fast-approaching threat. The man fell face-first screaming into the dirt. As he attempted to push himself up, Reece took a second to get steady and put a 9mm round into his face.
Reorienting himself, Reece reached down and sliced through the seat belt where it attached to the frame. He then quickly cut through his lap belt, freeing himself from the safety harness and unceremoniously falling on top of the man he’d just killed. Hearing more shouting in Farsi over the distinct sound of incoming gunfire, Reece adjusted to the circumstances. On his side in an awkward half-crimp position atop the dead man’s body, Reece identified the muzzle flash of a rifle behind a tree halfway up the slope and sent five rounds in response.
“Katie! Are you okay?”
“What?”
Reece spun around, his face inches from Katie’s.
“Let’s go,” he said, slicing through her seat belt and attempting to soften her fall.
More rounds cracked above them.
“Get ready,” Reece said, twisting around on his back, lying as flat as possible to give him the angle he needed to shoot uphill from the upside-down cab of the Land Cruiser. His working eye focused on the optic and he pressed the trigger, sending three bullets into the chest of a man running down the slope with a rifle toward the overturned Land Cruiser.
“Get out on your side!” he yelled to Katie. “Get out now!”
Experience had taught him that vehicles had a tendency to turn into bullet sponges in gunfights. Reece had no idea about the numbers and skill level of the opposition. The fact that they had rifles but had instead led with men using pistols to make sure their marks were dead gave Reece a data point. Had Katie not grabbed the gun when he stuck it inside to finish them off, they would both be dead. A professional would have used the distance and executed them without sticking the muzzle into the vehicle. Pros would have led with the rifles. That information told Reece he was probably not dealing with a professional hit team.
Crawling over her dead attacker, Katie felt a shard of glass slice into her upper leg as she dug her fingers into the damp ground and pulled herself through the broken passenger-side window.
Reece pivoted on the dead body and crawled after her, emerging into the night. He quickly put himself between Katie and the wheel well and engine block, taking stock of their injuries and the situation.
“Are you hurt?” Reece asked, quickly giving Katie a once-over before sliding the axe into the back of his belt. He performed a tactical reload, ensuring the pistol was at full capacity and stowing
his partially used magazine for future use.
Even in the darkness he could tell Katie was shaken. Blood matted her hair to the side of her face and was already starting to clot around her nose. He felt safe in concluding that the hit team did not have night vision. If they did, he and Katie would be full of holes and the assaulters would be pouring effective fire into the overturned vehicle.
“James, your face,” Katie said.
“It’s okay. Do you have your Glock?”
“No, I was in D.C.”
Shit.
Reece knelt back down and leaned into the vehicle. He rolled the body to the side and stood back up, holding the dead man’s pistol. He released the magazine and pressed down on the top round to ensure that the gunman hadn’t expended his last couple of rounds in the struggle. He reinserted the magazine and performed a one-handed press check, feeling for the chambered round in the darkness.
“This 17 works just like your 19,” Reece said, handing Katie the pistol. “Now, just like we practiced with Ox. We are going to move across the open space behind us and hardpoint in that building.”
Katie turned her head and saw a brick building up a low hill behind them.
Gunshots and yelling in Farsi brought their attention back to their attackers.
“Cover and move,” Reece said, repeating what Ox had taught them when training in team tactics.
“Cover and move,” Katie affirmed, nodding. Her frantic screams while trapped and struggling for her life in the overturned Cruiser had been replaced with an air of resolve.
“When I start firing, sprint to that set of trees at the base of the hill.”
They both knew that a moving target was a lot harder to hit than a stationary one.
“Go!” Reece barked.
Leaning out from behind the vehicle in a low kneel, Reece started sending rounds at the muzzle flashes of the enemy shooters.
As soon as he heard Katie’s Glock go to work, he spun and took off at a sprint across the open grass, throwing himself behind a tree next to Katie.
“Follow me,” Reece said in a hushed voice.
They had broken contact. It was time to go black and not give their attackers anything to shoot at.
Moving from cover to cover, tree to tree, Reece and Katie maneuvered into the unknown.
CHAPTER 37
“WHAT’D HE SAY?” WOODY asked.
“He said to continue monitoring and ensure we are getting video,” Crimmins responded.
“Are we just supposed to let these guys kill him?”
“We are supposed to follow orders. If you’d done that, you’d still be a cop.”
“Fuck off.”
“Are we recording?”
Woody turned his attention back to the main terminal in front of him.
“Yeah, boss. It’s recording in both FLIR and IR. We’ll have some good footage, at least of the two guys still standing around the vehicles.”
“Good. Don’t fuck this up. If you can keep your mouth shut and do your job, I’ll put in a good word for you with Sawyer. He might even move you back to an overseas detail where you can get your kill on.”
“Fuck yeah! We’ll have good video. Don’t you worry. Be a shame if they whack that blondie. Sucks we never got to install that video camera in her condo.”
“Stay focused,” Crimmins ordered.
“Think they’ll see us?” Woody asked.
“Don’t think so. We are far enough back even though these optics make it seem like we are right there. If they start coming this way, we’ll get out of here.”
Crimmins turned his attention back down the road toward the two vehicles, his IR headlights illuminating them in the night.
Who the fuck are these guys?
* * *
“Moving!” Reece hissed, grabbing Katie’s hand and placing it on the back of his belt.
She latched on, remembering the training they had done together with Ox to prepare for a scenario in which they had to defend themselves from multiple armed attackers. Her job was to watch the six o’clock position as Reece concentrated on the terrain ahead.
They moved together across the dimly lit parking lot of a two-story brick warehouse.
Always improve your fighting position.
Reece didn’t know how many assailants they faced. He had put down three and needed to hardpoint in an advantageous position. His iPhone had been in the cupholder and Katie had dropped hers on initial impact. His encrypted KryptAll was in his backpack in the backseat. All were somewhere in the wreck, on the street, or the embankment.
No comms.
Reece trained his pistol ahead, keeping it just below his line of sight. Where his one good eye went, the pistol went.
Reaching the side of the warehouse, Reece noticed an exterior stairwell. He paused at the base of the stairs to take stock of their situation. His left eye was completely swollen shut and he felt the pressure building on that side of his head. Katie was limping and the right side of her face was caked in blood. They both needed medical attention, but they were breathing, ambulatory, and determined.
Win the fight.
“We’re going up,” Reece said. “We’ve got to find a phone and hardpoint until the cavalry arrives. I’ll cover. See if that door is open.”
Katie’s eyes reflected the light from a lamppost that cast a dim glow over the parking area. The horror she’d experienced in the overturned vehicle and the mission of moving through the darkness were beginning to give way to shock. Reece had to get her upstairs and take a look at her leg.
“We’re going to be okay, Katie. Check that door,” he said, turning back to the tree line.
He could hear her moving up the stairs behind him.
You can’t lose her. Not now, Reece. Focus.
“It’s locked,” Katie whispered downward as loudly as she dared.
Shit.
“Coming up,” Reece responded. “Hold on the tree line.”
Katie forced herself to kneel, pointing the Glock in the direction of the last known threat as Reece raced up the stairs. She moved her left hand to the top of her pant leg and turned her palm to see it wet with blood.
Reece examined the door and lock, holstered his SIG with practiced precision, and reached to the back of his belt for the axe.
Inward-opening door. Master lock.
The base of this particular tomahawk was not designed for breaching, so Reece jammed the back spike on the head of the axe into the latch of the padlock, prying it violently to the side and popping the lock free.
Five rounds from Katie’s pistol caused him to spin back around in time to see a man with an AR-type rifle scamper back into the tree line.
Fuck!
Reece steadied himself on the landing railing and drove a mule kick into the exterior door. It flew open, exposing a small office with an interior open door in the back-right corner. He redrew his pistol and cleared the room as best he could without a light, not wanting to hit a light switch that would backlight them.
Clear.
“Katie, move,” Reece said, training his weapon on the open interior door and expecting her to move past him.
“Katie!”
He looked back and saw her struggling to her feet.
Shit!
Reece turned and helped her up. Not knowing the extent of her injuries, he reached down and picked her up in a fireman’s carry over his shoulder, left arm around the back of her legs, SIG in his right hand, up and at the ready. He kicked the door closed behind them and moved into the room.
You have got to win the fight, Reece. Yeah, but if she dies, it doesn’t matter.
Reece pushed one room deeper, clearing it from left to right. This room was bigger, with a number of cubicles set up in its center. A couch was against the wall to his left by a water cooler and countertop with a sink and microwave. It looked like a poor substitute for a break room.
Reece dropped Katie onto the couch.
“Where are you hurt?”
; “I think just my leg. James, don’t worry about me. Find a phone.”
Reece ripped the Rapid Medical Tourniquet from under his belt.
During the medical portion of their training at the Farm, his class had been taught to carry low-visibility tourniquets in certain situations. Hidden by the outer belt, the thin elastic band attached on itself with a locking mechanism in the front. Reece assessed the wound as best he could in the hazy light creeping through the dirty windows. If it was a femoral bleed, Katie would already be dead. The wound probably didn’t require a tourniquet, but efficiency was of the essence. He would normally have packed the wound with gauze before throwing on the tourniquet, but the aid bag was in his truck, so he ripped off his plaid button-up and quickly cut a strip of fabric to stuff into the cut. For now, his makeshift bandage and the tourniquet would have to do.
“You’ll be fine, Katie. It’s not bad,” he said as he locked the tourniquet in place on her upper leg.
“What’s going on, James?” Katie asked, unable to control her reporter’s instinct to ask questions. “Who are they?”
“I heard Farsi. We’ll figure it out. Right now, I need you to hold on the door. Anyone comes through, start shooting. I’m going to find a phone and call 9-1-1.”
As Reece turned to find a phone, a shadow fell across the open door from their initial entry room. Reece put his finger to his lips and stepped back to the side of the door.
The man led with the muzzle of his AR.
Mistake.
Reece grabbed the barrel, trapping it to the man’s body. While pulling his SIG back into the position of retention angled just above his right hip, he fired three rapid rounds into the attacker’s midsection. Reece moved his pistol up for a head shot but it snagged on his opponent’s shirt, his momentum continuing to carry him forward. Reece pressed the trigger again, sending a 147-grain Speer Gold Dot hollow point into the man’s heart.
Reece didn’t need to reengage with another shot to know that firing into clothing at contact distance had caused a malfunction; he felt it. At such a close range, clothing, bone, and skin could work their way into the mechanism, preventing the weapon from going back into battery with the following round. He also knew there was another attacker right on his heels.
