Wraith (23 page)

Nick had just started downing a water pack from his survival kit when his world turned to chaos. The sound of the explosion was deafening, like standing next to a cannon as it was fired. A moment later, its echo was punctuated by the sound of metal shards embedding themselves in the truck, followed by a terrible lurch sideways and the sensation of flying through the air. He crashed to the ground amid a barrage of wooden crates and lay there, covering his head, until no sound remained but the distant roar of the lead vehicles, still making their escape.

Nick's whole body ached. There was a sharp pain in his left leg just above the knee, his ears were ringing, and he felt nauseous. Ahead of him, he could see the two men in the cab beginning to climb out of the vehicle.

Keeping as still as he could, Nick felt for the wound in his leg. His fingers found warm mush. He winced, afraid to look, but when he lifted the wet hand to his face it smelled distinctly like apple juice. Only then did he look around at the contents of all the broken crates. He was surrounded by smashed produce—apples, oranges, and bananas. Great. Al-Majid was a health-conscious terrorist.

Nick turned his attention back to his leg. There was a piece of wood sticking out just above the knee and his flight suit was stained with blood. Preparing himself for the worst, he yanked out the shard, but he was grateful to find that the embedded portion was much thinner and smaller than the rest of the piece—barely the size of a six penny nail. He couldn't see the wound through the hole in his flight suit, but he knew from assessing the culprit that treatment could wait.

There was a rustle ahead of him and Nick looked up from his leg just in time to see one of the men from the truck turn his way. Their eyes locked. The man reached for the AK-47 slung over his shoulder.

Nick had no thought of right or wrong. He did not ponder any ethical dilemmas. He simply reacted. His right hand shot for the nine-millimeter Beretta strapped to his back, and in one fluid movement he drew the weapon, extended his arm, and pulled the trigger.
Three bullets, center mass,
was the only thought that passed through his mind.

The other Iraqi heard the shots and came around the side of the truck. Nick brought his left hand up to the grip for support, shifted his aim, and fired three more shots.

Both of Al-Majid's men fell having never returned fire. Nick leapt up and ran, limping, toward the second man, who still stirred, grasping for his weapon. When he reached the Iraqi, he stepped on the rifle to prevent him from lifting it, but the move was unnecessary. The man stared sightlessly up at the moonless sky and stammered in an unintelligible rasp. Blood bubbled from his lips, forming a narrow stream down his right cheek.

Nick examined the Iraqi's wounds and saw that he'd taken two bullets to the right lung and the third to the heart. Then he turned his attention to the other man, who had fallen facedown on top of his rifle. He used his foot to turn him over. “Not exactly three to the center,” he said quietly. He had failed to compensate for the heavy trigger pull required for the first shot from a Beretta. He had aimed for the chest, but had put the first bullet high, into the man's forehead. The other two rounds were overkill.

At the sight of his handiwork, the nausea caught up with Nick. He staggered back from the bodies, the world spinning before him, and he grabbed the side of the pickup for support. Then he doubled over and vomited. When the retching was over, he stayed there for a few moments, taking shallow breaths and trying not to pass out.

Nick had never killed before. Not even from the air. He didn't despise these men; he'd simply reacted in order to survive. But the impact of what had just happened shook him to the core. “Get a grip,” he said out loud, breathing deeply. He didn't have time for this. Al-Majid was getting away. He fought through the dizziness, forced himself upright, and headed for the truck's cab.

Nick was aware that he had experienced multiple miracles that evening. As he sat down in the driver's seat of the pickup, he thanked God for all of them, and then he asked for one more. He needed this truck to work.

The truck had sustained significant cosmetic damage. The right window had been blown inward and there were several fragments of metal lodged in the right door and side. Part of the windshield was caved in, and the crumpled right rear fender hung low beneath a ragged hole in the edge of the tailgate. But the hood and the front end still looked good. Maybe the engine had survived.

Nick felt for the key in the ignition. It was still there. Putting the vehicle into park, he closed his eyes, uttered a simple “Please,” and then turned the starter. The engine coughed and sputtered, toying with him for a few seconds, then died. He tried again with the same result and then a third time, but it just wouldn't turn.

Nick's head fell to his chest in defeat. In the dark stillness of the desert, the hopelessness of it all threatened to envelop him. What was he thinking? He wasn't a ground operative. He was a pilot, unseated from his aircraft, out of his element. And now he was going after one of the most wanted men in the world. When he stopped to consider the odds against him, they were insurmountable.

Then he heard a voice in his subconscious, just loud enough to be heard over his despair. It simply said, “Try again.” Nick obediently turned the key. The engine sprang to life.

*   *   *

The truck lurched back and forth for a few hundred yards, until Nick got the hang of steering it. The vehicle was bent for sure, and driving at high speed with the headlights off felt suicidal, but he couldn't afford to turn them on and alert the terrorists to his pursuit. He couldn't afford to slow down, either. He pressed the crippled truck to its limits, driving on the razor's edge between crash and control. After several minutes, Nick's efforts were rewarded with the red glow of taillights up ahead. He slowed, hoping that the combination of distance and darkness was enough to prevent discovery.

Now that he was able to slow his pace, Nick could divide his attention. He pulled the radio from his survival vest and flipped it on. Without bothering to wait for the GPS to get a position, he scrolled through the canned text messages, found the one he wanted, and pressed send.

*   *   *

The B-2 crew loitered just out of Iraq's radar range, hoping for a sign from Nick. They had been there much longer than planned and Danny tapped the fuel gauges, looking at Drake with a raised eyebrow.

“I know, I know,” said Drake, furrowing his brow. “We have to get moving. Still nothing on the search and rescue freq?”

“Not a peep.”

“Maybe he's biding his time. There's a lot to do after an ejection. Sending a message is a ways down the list.”

“Maybe he didn't eject at all.” Danny immediately regretted his words.

Drake shot him a venomous glare. “We don't talk like that until well after the fat lady sings, got it?”

The intelligence officer lowered his eyes. “Got it.”

“Now that we've cleared that up, the fact remains that we're bingo. We're out of gas and we've got to head for the tanker now.”

“Wait,” said Danny, looking up in surprise. “But you just said . . . What about Nick?”

Drake held up his hand. “Don't worry. We'll refuel and then get permission from Walker to come back.”

Three beeps from the UHF radio interrupted the discussion. Both men glanced down at the console and grinned wide. There were three text messages showing on the screen. They all said the same thing.

WRAITH 01 SENDS: I'M ALIVE

The rescue force raced from the Rock with McBride close on their heels. “I'll radio the route to you after you take off,” said the intelligence specialist.

“Roger that,” Oso called over his shoulder. “We'll be airborne in less than ten minutes.”

McBride slowed to a walk as the crews continued running to their trucks. “Make it five!”

The helicopters got airborne first, but the Hogs quickly caught up and entered a lazy weaving pattern above them. In the low light before dawn, the desert haze caused the ground and sky to join in a watercolor blend of rust and rose. It was beautiful, but it was also deadly.

“Sandy Flight, watch the floor,” Oso cautioned his wingmen. The featureless terrain and the muddled horizon made a perfect trap for an unwary pilot. He didn't want the rescue to end prematurely just because one of his people confused sand with sky.

The force arrived at a forward safe point on the far side of the Iraqi border and set up a holding pattern. Oso hated to wait, but he couldn't move his team any deeper into enemy territory until he got a definite position for the survivor.

*   *   *

Nick drove south for what seemed like ages until the red lights took a sharp turn to the west down a gravel road. The path wound back and forth between low hills and he closed the gap for fear that he would lose his quarry. When the other vehicles finally came to a stop, he pulled over a hundred yards behind them and slipped out of the truck. He cringed. The crunch of his steps on the gravel road echoed against the hills. He moved off the road and into the sand, hoping and praying that the area wasn't mined.

Rather than go over the hills and be silhouetted against the lightening sky, Nick shifted around and between them as he worked his way toward the enemy camp. He moved excruciatingly slowly, considering every step carefully, knowing that premature discovery would mean certain death. Finally he rounded a small hill and came within a few feet of the vehicles. There were two additional uncovered Jeeps parked next to the trucks and the sedan.

Great. More terrorists.

All five vehicles were parked in a semicircle in front of three camouflaged tents, but no sentries were left outside. Al-Majid's confidence was astounding. The terrorist just had a near miss with an American bomb, and yet he did not feel the need to post a guard outside his tent. Of course, the question remained: Which tent was his?

Nick examined his prospects. The central tent was the largest, and it boasted a concrete pad with a knee-high wall to keep out the desert vermin. Then Nick spied the most telltale sign of all. Between the big tent and its left neighbor there was a satellite dish mounted on a tall pole. A bundle of cables ran down the pole and disappeared under the side of the central tent. If anyone in this group were permitted the luxury of TV, it would have to be Al-Majid.

Nick decided against a frontal assault and continued to pick his way through the hills until he was at the back of the camp. Even here, he would have to cross several yards of flat, gravel-covered space, but at least there was a diesel generator producing plenty of noise to cover the sound of his approach.

He left the safety of the hills, running as low as he could manage, making for the dark space between the central tent and the tent to his left, opposite from the side with the satellite dish. Crouched low in the shadows, Nick heard voices inside. He waited and listened, hoping to determine what kind of numbers he was facing.

The conversation seemed odd. There were three voices, two men with British accents and a woman who sounded German. The three heatedly discussed a future attack, but the target was Berlin. Then the woman accused one of the men of an affair.

Nick rolled his eyes. The terrorist was watching TV. He filtered out the extraneous sound and heard no other conversation or movement in the room. Al-Majid was alone.

Confident in the relative safety of his position, Nick took the time to pull out his Beretta and switch the half-empty clip for a fresh one, flipping off the safety before placing the weapon back in its holster. Then he found the straps that secured the corner of the tent to the concrete foundation, untied them, and quietly rolled up the fabric.

It took a moment for Nick's eyes to adjust. Strings of lights ran from the tent's center pole to each corner, bathing the interior in bright light. Several large rugs with intricate patterns covered the concrete floor, and red and yellow pillows were stacked against the low walls. A single figure wearing a white and gold kaffiyeh sat on a low couch with his back to Nick, watching a big-screen TV.

Nick had no suppressor for his gun. He would have to do this another way or risk alerting the rest of the camp. He reached down to his leg and drew his Buck Special. The hunting knife was strong and solid, with a six-inch blade that narrowed into a wicked curve. He liked its mean look, but he had chosen it because the balance felt good in his hand. It was easily manipulated and well suited for the Japanese style of knife fighting that he had studied at the Air Force Academy.

He gripped the knife at the ready position, with the back of the blade against his forearm and the sharp edge facing out, aligned with his knuckles. As quietly as possible, he climbed over the wall and onto the rug behind Al-Majid, who was still focused on the television.

The memory of killing the two terrorists suddenly flashed to the front of Nick's mind. He pushed it back. He could do this. The mission was to kill Al-Majid; whether the B-2 did it with a bomb or he did it with a knife was immaterial. Although, now that he was here, slitting the man's throat did seem a lot more personal than dropping a bomb.

Nick chose his movements carefully, rolling each step onto the rug-covered floor and keeping the knife low, concealed by his forearm.

Then Al-Majid's television show went to commercial.

The huge TV screen went black for just a moment, but in that moment, Nick saw his own reflection as clearly as if he were looking at a mirror. Al-Majid saw it, too. He stood and swung around, leveling a pistol at the intruder.

Nick resisted the urge to reach for the gun at his back and kept his knife concealed, tucked against his right forearm. He had lost the advantage, but he could not run away—the terrorist would surely gun him down before he made it to the cover of the wall. He held his ground, waiting to see what his opponent would do, waiting for an opportunity.

“Do not move, assassin,” Al-Majid ordered in English.

Nick remained silent, putting on his best poker face, though he feared the terrorist could see how hard he was working at it.

Al-Majid sized up his new prize. He did not seem to notice Nick's knife. “So now they are sending children to murder me in my tent, are they?” he asked, chuckling. “And what was your plan, to sneak up behind me and blow in my ear?” As he spoke, Al-Majid stepped around the couch and moved closer, continuing forward until the barrel of his weapon was pressed into Nick's forehead.

Nick could feel the sweat developing at his brow, the cold barrel of the gun against his skin, the cold hand of fear at his spine. But then he looked into Al-Majid's eyes and something changed. He saw hatred. He saw arrogance.

He saw the solution.

Nick saw it as clearly as he could see the malice on the Al-Majid's face. “I am not as young as you suppose,” he answered in Arabic, “but I
am
here to kill you.”

“You speak the Iraqi dialect, do you? So you
are
an assassin—trained by the CIA, I hope. Otherwise, I would feel sorely undervalued.”

Nick did his best not to smile at the terrorist's imagination. The hokey action flick, the opulence of his tent, the threats to the luxury car dealer—Al-Majid was living in a fantastical world of spooks and intrigue of his own making.

“You Americans are so arrogant,” the terrorist continued. “You say you are here to kill me. Yet it is I who hold the gun, while yours is tucked safely in its holster. In your clumsiness, you have provided me with an opportunity to teach my soldiers a valuable lesson. I will use you as an example to show them why Allah has made me their master. However, since I do not want to spill your blood on my carpets, I will have to ask you to step outside.”

Nick did not comply. His next move was a gamble, pressing a hot button in the psyche of a man holding a gun to his head. “I'm not going anywhere,” he said in an even tone. “And I assure you it is not my blood but yours that will stain these rugs. My government provided the means, but it was God himself who sent me to kill you. God demands that you stand before him in judgment for your many crimes.”

Al-Majid's eyes flared. “Fool!” He dug the gun into Nick's forehead. “Do not dare to assume what Allah desires. He spared me from one of your American smart bombs. He will spare me from your feeble attempt at—”

When he mentioned the bomb, Al-Majid tilted his head back ever so slightly, shifting his gaze toward the sky. It was all that Nick needed. The shift in the Arab's gaze allowed him to thrust his left hand upward, unseen, windmilling it from his chest to smash at the gun. At the same time, he jerked his head down and to the right. The impact of his hand against the weapon caused Al-Majid to pull the trigger, but the combination of hitting the weapon and tilting his head took Nick out of the line of fire.

With the gun thrust aside, Al-Majid's chest and neck were unprotected. Nick brought his right hand up, striking at his opponent's chin with his knuckles and cutting a deep gash in his throat with the knife. Simultaneously, he closed the open palm of his left hand over the hot barrel of Al-Majid's pistol and twisted it out of his grasp. Then his right hand reached the apex of its swing and he brought it back down, burying the blade in the terrorist's throat at a forty-five-degree angle. He felt the jarring impact of metal against bone.

Al-Majid dropped to his knees, his eyes wide with disbelief. He tried to speak but could only produce sickening gurgles as the blood poured from his neck. Nick let the terrorist's gun fall from his hand and looked down at him, allowing the hardness of his expression to soften. “The blood of too many souls cries out for yours. Tonight, justice has claimed your life.”