Brothers In Arms (37 page)

The
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security man leaped out the van door, his MP5SD held at the ready. He pressed the muzzle of his submachine gun against the baggy windbreaker of the November Seventeenth terrorist at the rear of the van and pressed his trigger, blowing the terrorist back against his partner. The remaining terrorist grabbed the muzzle of the MP5SD and shoved it to one side, then brought his Skorpion up and thrust it in the security man’s face, then fired a short burst that opened the other man’s skull, dropping him cross-legged in the gutter.

The three
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operators struggled with bin Faisal, whose fear made him strong. Dimitri, the remaining terrorist, emptied his magazine across the back of the operator closest to him. Anna stepped around the front of the man with her reloaded mini-Uzi in her fists, arms extended and locked, and closed in on the two remaining
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operators. Suddenly her face blossomed red, like a gruesome flower, and she fell backward onto the sidewalk streaked with blood. A cover shooter from the Suburban had fired his M-4 at her from the backseat, the muzzle blast from the unsuppressed weapon stunning his partner in front.

Dale sprinted down the sidewalk, his boots slapping the concrete as he came. He saw the flurry of action, heard the shots, and saw people going down. The Glock was warm in his hands as he closed to be sure of his shots. The muddle of men struggling on the sidewalk made that necessary. He forced himself to control his breathing—a deep breath, hold, a deep breath, hold—and eased the pounding behind his eyes so that he could fight. The female terrorist went
down, and a shot cracked close by his head, from the other terrorist or from one of his own, he couldn’t tell. The remaining male terrorist, fumbling to reload his machine pistol, suddenly jumped and twitched as though pulled by marionette strings as a cover shooter from the Suburban, his M-4 tucked tight in his shoulder, put a three-round burst into him. Dale’s attention was tunneled in on the terrorist going down; he had his Glock covering the man going down and missed the motion in the front seat of the car blocking the van.

Charley was behind him, moving up fast, and he saw the man in the front seat of the terrorist-blocking car duck low.

Costas watched Anna fall, and his rage rose as a fierce fighting force in him. He ducked low as he threw open the door, moving surprisingly fast for a man of his age and bulk. The battered old government-model .45 automatic was clenched in his fist. He saw the man running down the sidewalk toward them stop short of the car and point his pistol at someone behind the van; that gave him the opening he needed. He slipped around the open door and braced himself low across the hood and aimed.

Charley shouted, “Dale! The car, behind the car!”

His words were lost in the clatter of gunfire. Still running, he threw his Glock up and snapped a quick shot at the man leaning over the hood of the car. The older man was fast; he turned and fired two quick shots at Charley.

Dale saw the movement at the hood of the car, saw the flash of the pistol going off, saw the old man aiming at someone behind him. For a moment his attention was split. He looked over his shoulder and saw Charley crouched as though hit.

“Hey!” Dale shouted, to draw the shooter’s attention away from Charley. “Right here!”

He snapped fast shots that ricocheted off the hood of the car, leaving grey streaks that appeared as though by magic. The old man behind the pistol swiveled like a tank turret and Dale saw, in slow motion, the gaping muzzle of the .45 suddenly flaring bright and rising off the hood of the car. There was a sudden punch in his chest and he staggered back a step, still trying to acquire the target and then he heard a snapping sound in his skull that brought bright light to his eyes, a bright light that blotted out everything else, and in his last moment of consciousness he felt the concrete unfold beneath him like a quilted blanket across a bed.

Charley saw Dale’s head jerk sharply to the right and the sudden bloom of blood spout from his head. Even as his friend crumpled to the sidewalk, Charley fixed his front sight on the terrorist behind the hood of the car and walked forward, every step a shot that splintered his opponent’s face. He ran forward to the downed terrorist, kicking the .45 free from the man’s limp hands, then quick-scanned 360 degrees. All the shooters from the cover car were out; some of them covered the others, who were throwing their dead and wounded into the van. One operator was already behind the wheel of the van.

Charley went to Dale and knelt beside him. “Help! I need help here!”

Dale was still breathing, but a wound in his upper chest and an entry wound in his skull spouted blood. Charley pressed his hands against the wounds. Two of the operators pushed him out of the way and grabbed Dale up by his arms and legs and ran with him into the back of the van.

“Mount up!” one shouted. “We’re out of here!”

Charley ran to the closing van door. A hard hand grabbed his jacket and yanked him in while someone else slammed shut the door. The van floor was awash in blood. Charley sat on one body, still warm—there was nowhere else to sit. Pressed into the rear corner, Ahmad bin Faisal, his hands cuffed behind him and a black bag over his head, whimpered with fear.

“Motherfucker, motherfucker . . .” a
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operator chanted as he worked on Dale, tying pressure bandages in place.

“We’re gone!” the driver shouted. Everyone grabbed for a hold as the van tore away from the curb, followed by the Suburban, leaving the limp bodies and bullet-riddled car of the November Seventeenth terrorists behind.

The Dutchman gripped the edge of his worktable as though it might fly away. All of the speakers carefully ranged around the battered table crackled with panicky voices and the sounds of gunfire.

“Zero, Bravo-Four, we’ve been fired on . . .” came from one speaker.

“Zero, Alpha-Two, man down, we need medical and extraction . . .” came from another.

Hans looked from speaker to speaker in confusion. “What the fuck is happening? What the fuck is happening?”

Mike Callan bulled him aside and grabbed the microphone from his limp grip. “Charley-One, Charley-Two, this is Charley-Actual, abort, abort, abort, get the hell out of there now . . .”

A tense voice replied, “Actual, this is Charley-Two. We have the package and all our people. We need immediate medical attention and evacuation, we have critical injured on board . . .”

Callan slammed his fist into the table, jarring the monitors and speakers. “Two, this is Actual, move to designated rally point, medical is standing by.” He turned to Hans and said, “Can the medic onsite deal with trauma?”

Hans stared, frozen, at the camera monitors. The wireless video in his cars transmitted scenes of carnage from the street.

“My people,” he said. “My people.”