Payback, Page 2

  “Control, Bravo Zero-One. One of the hostiles has a cellphone ringing up here. We’re about to be made, over.”

  “This is Control Actual,” came Colonel Thomas Clancy’s voice over the comm. “Proceed at your discretion, over.”

  “Roger that, Control Actual, proceeding, over.”

  Now let’s just hope they assume we’re jamming their signal.

  “What a wonderful stink we’ve discovered.”

  Master Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme smiled at Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James as he tried breathing through his mouth, which while masking some of the smell threatened to overwhelm him with the taste. He wasn’t sure which was worst.

  He swallowed.

  Taste.

  He switched back to his nose.

  “Not much longer,” he said. “According to the map we’ve got a hundred feet to go then we’re directly under the parking structure.”

  In the loosely organized Bravo Team, he was considered second-in-command merely based on seniority, and the fact someone had to be. All of the men were essentially equals with their own area of highly specialized expertise. Their unit was top secret, their missions highly classified, and with them usually being undercover quite often, they were allowed to sport civilian haircuts and beards, privileges reserved for the Special Forces community.

  Which was why he kept his hair completely shaved, his scalp kept clean with the blade of his prized Bowie knife. The guys always laughed at him when he would break it out in the field to take off a little stubble, but it was the sharpest blade he had, and its length meant fewer strokes.

  It was just more practical than a shaving kit.

  And cooler.

  His son Bryson loved watching him perform the ritual, it necessary because his namesake red hair was far too noticeable and far too out of place in most of the locales he found himself in.

  Shaved heads however were far more common, and often went unnoticed with a traditional keffiyeh covering his scalp.

  “There it is,” said Atlas, the ridiculously muscled man’s deep voice echoing through the sewers they were now in. Red looked up and saw the access hatch above, highlighted by Atlas’ flashlight.

  Red motioned and Sergeant Zack “Wings” Hauser rushed forward and unfolded a ladder, Sergeant Danny “Casey” Martin jumping up the steps, lighting a Broco cutting torch as he did so.

  “Bravo Leader, Bravo Zero-Two. We’re in position, ready to breach, over.”

  Dawson’s voice acknowledged and the all clear was given by Control. Moments later the order they were waiting for came through.

  “Bravo Team, Bravo Zero-One. We’re on the rooftop. Bravo Zero-Two, execute, over.”

  He smiled, motioning for Casey to proceed. “Bravo Zero-One, Bravo Zero-Two. Proceeding with breach, over.”

  Within moments Casey was cutting through the metal cover that would give them access to the conference center’s parking structure. As they waited updates came in over the comms and by the time Casey was through, Dawson and his team were safely on the roof, the two lookouts eliminated.

  “I’m through.” Casey tossed the torch down to Wings then punched up with the heel of his hand, the metal hatch lifting up then hitting something. “Shit!” hissed Casey as he pushed the hatch, it again hitting something. He shoved his head up and peered through the several inches of opening. “There’s a goddamned car parked here!”

  “What?” Red stepped forward, looking up at the hatch then the map on his tablet computer. “This isn’t a parking spot!”

  “Well, somebody’s parked here.”

  “Cut the hatch off, see if we can squeeze under,” said Red as he activated his comm. “Bravo Zero-One, Bravo Zero-Two. We’ve got a problem here. There’s a car parked over the hatch. Give us a moment to see if we can still make entry, over.”

  “Roger that Bravo Zero-Two. We’re entering the stairwell now, over.”

  The torch was relit and Casey made quick work of the hinges, now exposed with the hatch open a few inches. Within a minute he was handing the torch then the hatch down. He stepped up.

  “No way we’re fitting under this,” he said. “But it’s on a bit of an incline. If I can cut the brake cables it might roll out of the way.”

  “Do it.”

  Casey pulled a set of cutters and went to work, the snap of lines being cut indicating excruciating progress, this a delay he hadn’t counted on.

  It would just mean a little more hustle on their part assuming Casey succeeded.

  “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “Transmission’s engaged. I’ll need to cut through the driveshaft. Hand me the torch.” He reached down then stopped. “Wait a minute. Hammer.”

  Atlas handed it to him. Tapping then the sound of something metal hitting the concrete was followed by a laugh. “Thar she goes!” said Casey as he stepped down. “The driveshaft was almost rusted through. That thing’s a deathtrap.”

  Red looked up and smiled as the undercarriage slowly began to move, gaining speed, emergency lighting suddenly revealed as the way cleared.

  “Go! Go! Go!” he hissed, motioning for the others to climb the ladder as Casey pushed himself through the opening. “Bravo Zero-One, Bravo Zero-Two, we’re through, over.”

  “Roger that, report when in position, over.”

  Red stepped up the ladder and raised his hands, Mickey and Wings hauling him up. There was a smashing sound, not too loud, to his left. He looked to see the car, a Jaguar XK-8 convertible, pressed against the far wall at the bottom of the incline, the front end a little crunched, but nothing too severe. He looked around. “What the hell was that doing parked in the middle of the lane?”

  Casey shrugged. “It’s a Jag. Probably broke down right here.”

  “Where’s the owner?” asked Wings as they headed for the stairwell, sweeping the entire area for hostiles.

  They reached the door, Atlas checking the window. “Looks clear.”

  Red activated the comm, about to notify Dawson when a noise behind them had them all spinning. He raised his MP5 submachine gun as something in the shadows rushed toward them.

  “Halt and identify yourself or we will kill you.”

  Shoes skidded on dirty concrete, the sound suggesting the smooth soles of dress shoes. Wings activated the tactical light on his weapon, aiming it at the new arrival.

  A business suit filled with a terrified civilian was revealed.

  “Hands up!”

  Hands, trembling, shot up.

  “Identify yourself.”

  “Brimah Macaulay.”

  Unusual name. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hiding in my car. I heard gunfire just after I parked and have been down here ever since.”

  Red kept his weapon trained on the man, his skin a dark black just like all of the hostiles. He just couldn’t take the chance. He was about to have Atlas frisk the man when a shot rang out and Wings dropped. Red spun toward where he thought the shot came from as he dropped to a knee, the hard surfaces of the parking garage creating an echo chamber. Mickey fired, three rounds, toward the left. Red adjusted his aim, spotting the shooter coming down the ramp doubled over, at least one of Mickey’s rounds having found its target. Red squeezed the trigger, taking the man down as Atlas rushed toward the new arrival, weapon raised.

  Something moved to their right. Red hit the ground, rolling once as he took aim at their civilian. Macaulay was reaching behind his back for something and just as Red got a bead on the man the grip of a Beretta was revealed.

  He fired twice, both shots hitting the man in the center of his chest, his eyes bursting wide in shock as the wounds quickly stained his shirt. Red scanned the rest of the garage for other targets but found none.

  Wings moaned.

  Red didn’t look, instead continuing to cover their position as he activated the comm. “Bravo Zero-One, Bravo Zero-Two. Shots fired, I repeat, shots fired. Two hostiles down, Bravo One-Two has taken a hit, standby, over.” He watc
hed Atlas give the thumbs up as he disarmed the corpse. “You okay?”

  Wings moaned again. “Yeah, took one in the vest.” Red stole a quick glance and saw Wings push himself to his knees as he examined his body armor, wiggling the round free. He stuffed it in his pocket. “That one had my name on it.”

  “You good?”

  “Yeah.” He stood, sucking in a deep breath as he stretched out his chest. “Ribs are tender, not broken.”

  “Good. Sort yourself out.” He pointed to Macaulay. “Get the body out of sight, check for intel.”

  Casey quickly patted the man down, shaking his head. “Nada. Just a couple of mags and a cellphone.”

  “Okay, take the cellphone and the weapon.”

  Mickey nodded, shoving the weapon in a loop on his utility belt then dragged the body in behind a parked car, a bloody streak revealing the hiding spot should anyone really be looking. Atlas tossed his own man into the back of a pickup truck as if it were a sack of potatoes.

  I’d love to see him arm wrestle Stallone.

  One of Red’s favorite movies when he was a kid was Over the Top. He didn’t know why, it wasn’t that great a movie. But something about arm wrestling just appealed to him and he had exercised his right arm like a madman, challenging everyone he could, even mimicking the turn of the ball cap, a switch that transformed him from ordinary, skinny teenager, to full blown, musclebound action hero.

  He rarely won.

  It wasn’t until his late teens that he had his growth spurt, put on six inches in height and forty pounds of body weight and decided the Army was the life for him.

  He had thought he was strong until he met Atlas.

  The man redefined the word.

  Atlas jogged back to their position, smacking Wings on the chest with the back of his hand. Wings winced, knocked back a step. “You good?”

  Wings frowned. “I was until you hit me, Thor.”

  Atlas grinned. “Sorry, sometimes I forget I shouldn’t bring the hammer down so hard.”

  “Ha ha.” Wings shrugged his shoulders up and down a few times then back and forth, loosening himself up. “I’m good, let’s get back in the game.”

  Red smiled, activating his comm, the relief he felt that his man was unharmed hidden from the others.

  I’m not losing anyone on my watch.

  Dawson rushed down the stairs as quietly as their soft soled boots would take them. So far they hadn’t encountered any resistance, but Red’s report had him concerned and his jaw was clenched tight as he held his tongue, waiting for Red to report further, his ‘standby’ request suggesting the situation wasn’t completely locked down.

  They hadn’t heard the shots, which he hoped meant the hostiles hadn’t either, but they had to be expecting them since they had lost contact with their lookouts on the roof.

  Which meant time was of the essence.

  And delays in the parking garage could cost lives.

  “Bravo Zero-One, Bravo Zero-Two. Two hostiles eliminated, Bravo One-Two tenderized but operational. We’re in position, over.”

  Dawson exchanged grins with Spock who was just behind him as they continued their descent, coming to a stop at the door leading into the foyer. “Roger that, Bravo Zero-Two, we’re in position. Control, Bravo Zero-One. All teams in position. Status, over?”

  “Bravo Zero-One, Control. Windows all clear. Heat signatures above ground show nobody outside of the ballroom except for your team. We have no intel on the parking garage except for what Bravo Zero-Two reported, over.”

  “Roger that, Control. Bravo Zero-Two, proceed in three, two, one, execute!”

  Spock yanked the door open and Dawson stepped through, immediately scanning left to right as Jagger covered right to left. “Clear!” he whispered, Jagger doing the same, the four of them breaking left and right, out of sight of the double-doors to the conference room just ahead. Dawson crossed the marble floor quickly, coming to rest at the far wall where the entrance to the room stood, Spock beside him, Jagger and Mickey on the opposite side.

  They slowly made their way to the door, hugging the wall, and when in position he activated his comm. “Bravo Zero-Two, we’re in position, over.”

  “Bravo Zero-Two in position, over.”

  Dawson pulled a scope from one of the pockets on his vest and extended the telescoping stalk, activating the camera on the other end. The transmission was picked up by the tablet Spock was now holding, the video beamed back to Control. Dawson glanced between the screen and the end of the camera, making sure he didn’t tap the glass in the door.

  “I’m seeing six hostiles,” reported Spock. “Two in front of this door, two at the front of the room with the Secretary, two walking among the hostages.” He paused. “Shit!”

  “What is it?” asked Dawson, looking at the screen.

  “They’ve got half the hostages on their feet.”

  Dawson cursed. “Okay, did everyone copy that? Four hotel-tangoes in the clear, two among the hostages. Bravo Zero-Two, your team take the two by our door and the two on the stage—you should have clean shots from your entry point. We’ll take the two in the crowd. Watch for additional hostiles pretending to be civilians. When in doubt, wing them. We’ll sort out the lawsuits later. Acknowledged?”

  The confirmations came through the comm and Dawson took one final look at the screen as Jagger and Spock crouched down, gripping the handles of both doors. “Teams One and Two, proceed in three, two, one, execute!”

  He did an additional three count then nodded, Wings and Spock pulling open the doors as he and Jagger advanced. Across the room he could already see Red’s team entering, the two hostiles by his door down, the two on the stage collapsing as he watched. He got a bead on the first hostile on the left, spinning toward the stage in shock. “Federal authorities, everyone on the ground!”

  Screams erupted as those standing among the hostage takers realized it was do or die time, most not reacting fast enough. He squeezed his trigger, taking out the first hostile as he heard Jagger’s weapon fire beside him. He scanned the crowd, not for weapons, but for faces. The civilians would be panicked, the enemy not necessarily. They’d be more likely to remain standing for just a moment longer, looking for where the threat was coming from, whereas the civilians wouldn’t care.

  They’d just hit the deck once their brains and bodies realized they should.

  Someone made eye contact.

  He fired, nailing the man in the shoulder. He spun around then dropped to the floor as both teams advanced, Dawson motioning for Spock and Wings to secure the Secretary. Another shot was fired, this time by Red’s team, another person among the hostages dropping with a cry. The mix of men and women were crying out in panic, some screaming, others simply confused.

  The sexes were equal today, the screams and cries of panic a mix of low and high pitches.

  “Everyone on the ground, face down, hands on your heads, now!” he shouted, the same order being repeated by Red from the other side. “I want to see hands clasped behind your heads or you will be shot!”

  The orders were quickly obeyed as he reached the man he had shot, pushing him over onto his back with his boot. A gun was raised toward him.

  Dawson put two shots in his chest, the question of whether or not the man was innocent settled for eternity. He scanned the crowd, now all on the floor as his eight man team trained their weapons on them. Jagger stepped on the hand of the man he shot then reached down and yanked his jacket up.

  Beretta.

  “Control, Bravo Zero-One. Hostages secure, seven hostiles dead, one wounded. Have SWAT secure the foyer, we’re going to start sending the hostages out one at a time, over.”

  “Roger that Bravo Zero-One, SWAT moving into position now.”

  Dawson pointed at Red’s team. “Begin searching them, one at a time. When they’re confirmed clean, send them out the doors for processing.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Major.”

  Jagger hauled the wounded hostile to his feet, the
man yelping in pain.

  “Cuff him, search him, then hand him over. We’re out of here in five.”

  Jagger nodded, binding the man’s wrists with a zip tie. Tight.

  Dawson walked over to the Secretary of Defense. “Are you okay, Mr. Secretary?”

  He nodded, then motioned toward a body nearby, a black man who looked like he had been dead for some time. “They were after him, not me.”

  Dawson’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? Who is he?”

  “Vice President Okeke of Sierra Leone. He was here for a security meeting to discuss our Ebola response in West Africa.”

  “What makes you think they were after him?”

  “They shot him first then secured the room. It was as if he had to die and they couldn’t risk not succeeding.”

  Dawson frowned. “What about their demands? They wanted quite a bit of money to let you go.”

  The Secretary of Defense shook his head. “Smoke screen. At least that’s my opinion.”

  “Mr. Secretary!”

  He looked toward the door where several suits were rushing in, clearly a Secret Service detail and some aides.

  “That’s my ride, I guess.” The Secretary extended a hand. “I have a feeling I know who you are. Thank your men for me. You have my eternal gratitude.”

  Dawson shook the man’s hand, pleased the person responsible for managing his line of work for the Executive Branch had a solid, dry handshake. “Thank you, sir. I’ll pass it on.”

  The Secretary left immediately with his escort as the room filled with G-Men. Dawson activated his comm. “Bravo Team, Bravo Zero-One. Stand down, repeat, stand down, we leave in two, out.”

  Dawson watched as the last of the hostages left, nothing but law enforcement and bodies remaining.

  And wondered why the Vice President of some small, poor Ebola ravaged country would be worth so many lives.

  Murray Town Barracks, Freetown, Sierra Leone

  Major Adofo Koroma sucked in a deep breath then nodded to his driver. The transport truck, signed out by him that morning from the motor pool, lurched forward. He had to admit he had butterflies. Not from fear but anticipation, fear drummed out of his psyche months ago after watching his wife and son waste away and die from Ebola, turned away from the only treatment center hundreds of miles from his village.