Savages (22 page)

“Copy. Stand by.”

“Roger. Bravo out.”

More time passed. Charlie team checked in. Gabe and Great Hawk’s group were still en route to the president’s mansion. I closed my eyes and visualized a map of Carbondale in my head. I traced imaginary lines from where I was to the east gate. There were several possible routes I could take. Hicks and I planned to split up and proceed separately. That way, if one of us was caught or pinned down, the other could attempt rescue. Failing that, it minimized the risk we would both be caught. Better for the Union to lose one operator than two.

The radio stayed silent. I thought about the target, visualized his face. There had been several photos in his dossier. He was tall, approximately six foot four, bald head, goatee, narrow features, a casual arrogance in the eyes that screamed ‘hatchet-faced prick’.

It would have been a lie to say I was entirely comfortable with the idea of carrying out an assassination. I had killed before, but always in self-defense or defense of others. Reminding myself of the danger this man posed to untold thousands if he lived lessened the dread, but only marginally.

All the other times I had killed—the Free Legion, raiders and marauders, Alliance insurgents, etc.—I had made it a point not to look the enemy in the eye. Better to focus on hitting center of mass, or making a quick head shot. I rarely dialed a scope to more than four power, and that only at very long range. I did not like it when I could discern a man’s facial features, his expression, and watch the shock and disbelief and pain overwhelm him in the moment before he died. The few faces I had observed in those final seconds still visited me in the quiet hours of the night when sleep refused to come. And when I finally did sleep, I saw them in my dreams—bloody, angry, accusing.

On the nights when they woke me from slumber, I disconnected my mp3 player from the solar charger, put in the earbuds, and poured myself a drink. Al Green, Jimmy Cliff, Buddy Guy, and Johann Sebastian Bach did a pretty good job of keeping the demons at bay. Mike Stall’s finest moonshine didn’t hurt either.

The earpiece crackled. “All stations are in position. Everybody ready to go?”

The teams responded in order, Hicks speaking up for the two of us. All stations were as ready as they were going to be.

“Very well. Good luck and Godspeed, gentlemen. If it all goes south, it’s been an honor. Engage on my mark.”

I eased out from cover and peered around the corner. Raised my rifle. Sighted in. The guard in my crosshairs looked bored.
They’re not expecting trouble
.

Static. “Task Force Falcon, Wolfman. Hit hard, hit fast, show no mercy. Take ‘em out.”

The coldness inside me rose to a burning crescendo as icy heat coursed through my blood. The fire lent strength to my limbs, firmed my resolve, and burned away the last tremblings of fear. I went still inside. My hands were sure and steady. My mind and my conscience were clear.

I let out half a breath and fired.

Two shots. The head snapped back. Pivot right. Two more shots. Down they go.

I heard five dull cracks from Caleb’s side, and then a fleeting shadow as he moved toward the west entrance. My feet pounded over cracked and broken pavement, eyes scanning quickly to avoid tripping over dislodged asphalt or small, struggling plants.

I reached the two dead guards, slung my rifle around to my back, grabbed the first one, and dragged him behind a couple of large, rusted air conditioners. Then the second guard. Heavy bastards both. Last, I stashed my rucksack and bush jacket in the same space as the dead bodies, donned my NVG’s, and waited at the south entrance.

“Irish, Tex, in position.” Caleb was referring to us by our call signs. Everyone had chosen one before the final phase of the mission, as call signs were the easiest way to avoid confusion once the assault began.

“Copy, Tex. I’m in position.”

“Breaching now.”

“Copy.”

I tried the door and found it locked. Not unexpected. From my web belt, I produced a funny looking little gun with a needle instead of a barrel. I did not know exactly how it worked, but Gabe had given it to me a long time ago and told me it would open most conventional locks. I put it in the keyhole, depressed the handle a couple of times, and gently turned. The lock rolled over and the bolt snicked back into the door.

“Tex, Irish. I’m in.”

“Wait one …”

I waited. Looked around. No movement.

Static. “Irish, Tex. I’m in.”

“On my mark. Two, one, mark.”

I opened the door slightly and scanned for tripwires or other traps. A slight reflection flashed at ankle level a few feet beyond the opening. Tripwire. Never would have seen it without the NVGs or a flashlight, and a flashlight was out of the question; I couldn’t risk drawing a guard’s attention.

I stepped over it and proceeded inside, rifle up, barrel following my line of sight. I did not see the green line of the PEQ-15 laser sight, visible only with NVGs. I turned it on. The precise little beam was oddly comforting.

I found myself in a darkened hallway, beige walls, cheap trim and wainscoting, ugly paisley carpet, heavy doors, and the boxy metal key readers of modern hotels. No lights. No sound. No movement. The stairs were at the end of the hall if I remembered correctly. I moved toward them, ears straining in case any doors opened behind me. A vicious little picture show in the back of my mind envisioned armed men leaping from doorways and letting loose a volley of unavoidable high-velocity lead. No such thing came to pass.

I opened the doorway to the stairs and again checked for traps. There were none. I moved up, taking my time. The first set of stairs passed beneath me. On the landing, I stayed low and led with my rifle. Halfway around, I froze. The door at the top of the stairs was open and a guard lounged in a chair, his left side facing me, head leaned against the wall, feet crossed in front of him, rifle resting comfortably in his lap. The green image of the NVGs flared brightly where an oil lamp hung from a wall nearby.

Awake or asleep?

Doesn’t matter
.

I raised my rifle and put the green dot on his temple.
Clack
. I heard a wet splash of skull and brains hitting the wall, along with the muted thump of the projectile impacting the door beyond. I crouched and listened. The damn bullet hitting the door had been louder than the shot.

I waited, heart pounding, not daring to breath. Ten seconds passed. Nothing. I walked up the stairs and cut the pie around the corner. Another guard sat at the opposite stairway, looking around blearily as though just waking up.

“Ron. Hey Ron, you hear that?”

Shit.
I shifted to sight in on him. Before I could, his head snapped to the left and he tumbled out of his chair. A green beam of light cut the darkness as Caleb ascended to the second floor. I flipped my laser sight on and off three times to let him know where I was. He gave a thumbs up and waved me forward.

We met in front of the easternmost door. I helped him pick the guard up, put him back in the chair, and compose his limbs as if he was asleep. Caleb extinguished the lantern next to the guard’s chair.

There was still a fourth guard somewhere, and if he happened to come up the eastern stairs, the sight of a comrade sleeping in a chair would look less suspicious than if he was laying on the ground. At least for a few seconds.

“You ready for this,” Caleb whispered.

“Yep. Let’s get it done.”

He tried the door. Locked. I tried the next two down the line. Same result.

Caleb cursed softly and produced his set of custom-made picks. “Watch my back.”

I divided my attention between the two doors and wished we had a third man with us. Half a minute passed. It was the longest half minute of my life.

“We don’t have all night, Caleb.”

“Ssshhh.”

More waiting. A sound caught the edge of my hearing and I went still. The sound became a steady rhythm that grew louder and closer with each beat.

Footsteps
.

I turned toward the eastern staircase and sighted in on the door. The steps increased in volume and then stopped. “Mark?”

The guard stayed dead. More footsteps.

“Goddammit, Mark, wake the fuck-”

He never finished the sentence. The moment his head appeared beyond the doorframe, I fired three times. The effect was like cutting the strings on a marionette. His legs went limp and he crumpled to his side in a boneless heap. I waited. No movement, no sounds of pain, no gurgling breaths, just the utter stillness of death. I shot him in the center of his back anyway just to be on the safe side. I may as well have shot a lump of raw beef.

Glancing behind me, I saw Caleb still working on the door.
This is taking too long
.

I walked over to the fourth guard, searched him, and in his right hip pocket was an industrial looking key.

“Hey, try this.”

Caleb took the key and slipped it into the lock. A twist, and the handle turned under his hand. He motioned for me to stack up behind him and slowly, ever so slowly, opened the door. No shouting. No alarm claxons. No legions of black-clad insurgents with chattering machine guns. Caleb counted down, and we moved.

The room we walked into was well appointed with antique furniture, a wet bar, and a small refrigerator connected to a panel on the wall. Solar power and a bank of batteries. Nothing but the best for this guy.

We cleared the room and stacked up beside the door leading into the next compartment. It was unlocked. We checked for traps and found none. Another countdown, another entry.

This room looked more personal. Maroon drapes, tapestries on the walls, thick carpets, dark wooden bookcases filled with leather-bound tomes, an expensive-looking globe by the window, and a painting on the wall next to me I was reasonably sure was an original Rembrandt.

At least he had good taste.

I realized I was already thinking of him in the past tense and shoved the thought away. The last thing I wanted to do was convince myself this mission was a done deal. Counting a victory prematurely is the kind of thinking that makes a man lazy. Gabe once told me ‘lazy’ (his fingers crooked in air quotes) was Swahili for ‘dead’. He meant it as a joke, but the message stuck.

A quick sweep, and the room was clear. Last door. Caleb checked it. The door handle did not budge. He motioned for me to cover him and tried the guard’s key. Again, it worked. I motioned for him to wait, extracted a small can of WD-40 from my belt, and gave each of the hinges a spritz. Finished, I put away the can and nodded to Caleb.

Three fingers, two, one. He opened the door slowly, leading with his pistol. The door opened silently. A bedroom, king sized bed, dresser and wardrobe on each wall, two nightstands, and two shapes asleep under a thin blanket, both snoring.

A light breeze tugged at the curtains, the cool night air making the room less stuffy than the two we had just searched. Caleb pointed at the larger of the two figures, and then at himself. I nodded, relieved not to be doing the dirty work.

Caleb walked around the bed and looked closely at the sleeping man, nodded a few times, and gave me a thumbs up. I stepped out of the room and keyed my radio.

“Wolfman, Irish. Target identified.”

“Irish, Wolfman.” Gabe sounded slightly winded. I heard the pop and clack of suppressed rifles in the background. “Positive ID?”

“Affirmative.”

“Do it.”

I turned to Caleb and nodded. He motioned for me to cover the other person in the bed. When I was in position, he aimed his pistol at the sleeping head of Bailey Sandoval. For a moment, Caleb stood still, not breathing, not a twitch of muscle. He looked like a dark, looming statue with NVGs and a suppressed pistol. Then he let out a breath, mumbled something I could not hear, and fired four times—two to the head, then two to the chest. The other sleeping figure sat up in bed, startled by the noise.

“Wha-”

It was a woman, probably Sandoval’s wife or mistress. Or whatever. I did not bother to ask. The butt of my rifle hit her brain stem and she collapsed. For a moment I thought I had killed her, so I checked her pulse. It was steady. She let out a little moan, and I whispered, “Caleb, give me a hand.”

He shook his head to clear it and took a small roll of duct tape from his vest. I grabbed a couple of zip ties from my belt, bound the woman at the wrists, ankles, and knees, and kept a rifle on her while Caleb cut a few strips of bedsheet, balled it up, and shoved it in the woman’s mouth. That done, he wrapped it in place with duct tape. She would live, but getting that duct tape off was going to hurt like hell. We placed her on the floor so she would not have to lie in bed staring at a bleeding corpse when she awoke.

“Wolfman, Irish. Bingo hotel, I repeat, bingo hotel.”

“Irish, Wolfman, Roger bingo. Repeat, roger bingo. Proceed to rendezvous and stand by.”

“On our way.” I turned to Caleb. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Best idea I’ve heard all day.”

*****

I got lost twice.

Both times, Gabe set me straight. How he did it while engaged in a firefight was beyond me, but that was Gabe for you. Cool under pressure.

It turned out Caleb and I were the first to complete our assignment, which explained the lack of radio chatter earlier and the profusion of it now. I was halfway to the rendezvous and thinking about how heavy my rucksack was when I heard a thump and a rumble shortly before I felt a shockwave through my boots.

I stopped and looked behind me. A flash of orange lit the night briefly from the direction of the casino Anderson and Liddell were to hit. From somewhere, a siren began to wail. I hoped they got their man. I hoped they got out alive. I hoped I could reach the rendezvous before the guards and the North Koreans turned out in force. Most of all, I hoped Gabe and Great Hawk were still alive.

Windows and doors opened around me and sleepy townsfolk with alarmed faces began filling the streets.

Did you hear that?

…do you think is going on?

Was that an explosion?

Keep the kids inside, Darcy. I need to get to the armory. Lock the doors and don’t answer for anyone but me.

My rifle was under my bush jacket. Its barrel was shortened for close quarters work, but the suppressor was long enough to be seen if anyone looked too closely. I slowly wandered along with the growing throng of worried onlookers, worked my way toward a shadowy area between two apartment buildings, and ducked inside. Once hidden, I removed the suppressor and stashed it in my rucksack. The temptation to leave the heavy pack behind was strong, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I would drop it if things came to a firefight, but not before.

I followed the street I was on until it intersected with the wall. This was not a good place to be. The catwalks and guard towers were abuzz with activity. I backed off a few blocks and proceeded along an area of town that had once been semi-industrial, but now looked abandoned.

Static. “Wolfman, Irish. Got a minute? I need directions.”

“Where are you?”

I looked around and spotted a bent and faded street sign. I gave Gabriel the name written on it.

“Go straight. You’ll reach the rendezvous in half a klick.”

“Thanks. See you there.”

No answer. It must have been a busy night at the president’s mansion.

At the halfway point to the rendezvous, I felt a prickling sensation between my shoulder blades. My eyes began searching shadows, windows, doorways, and places where a man might hide. I don’t claim to have any prescient abilities, nothing supernatural, but I have spent enough time living like an animal to develop the baser instincts most people ignore. And my instincts were telling me I was being watched.

“Tex, Irish. What’s your twenty?”

“En route to the rendezvous. Two mikes. Everything okay?”