“I came to see you.” Icarus talked only loud enough that Goose could hear him. They stood chest to chest, banging into each other as the Black Hawk slid and shifted through the wind. The younger man’s hazel eyes regarded Goose and never looked away.
“Why?”
“Because Corporal Baker is dead.”
Goose felt suddenly chilled. “What do you know about Baker’s death?”
“I know it was ordered,” Icarus said.
“By Remington?” Goose couldn’t believe he’d put his fear into words. After Baker was killed, Goose had wondered if the captain had had anything to do with it. He hadn’t wanted to believe that, but the possibility existed.
“No.” Icarus seemed so sure of himself, so calm in the middle of everything that was going on.
Goose looked at the other man and tried to figure out what to say next. He was still overwhelmed from the events in Harran and from the night before. He still didn’t know why Remington had chosen to take the hard road with him.
“I need to talk to you,” Icarus went on. “There’s a choice that will need to be made. Soon. You must understand what’s going to be asked. And why.”
“Why are you talking to me?”
“Because you’re in a place where your actions will affect others. You’re a leader.” Icarus hesitated. “Now that Baker is dead, perhaps you’re the only leader who can open the eyes of the men around you and keep them from selling their souls in the service of evil.”
The words caused Goose’s flesh to prickle despite the heat of the day. Icarus talked about evil with a capital E, and his words brought to mind dark things blacker than night.
“I know you’re not going to want to believe all of this, Sergeant.” Icarus was too young to look as tired as he was. “I wish that I had more time to convince you of what I’m saying. But our enemy has planned too well.”
Goose shook his head. “I let you go once. You should have stayed gone. When we get back to Sanliurfa, I’m going to turn you in.”
“If you do that,” Icarus said, “then you might as well put a bullet through my head.”
Outside Harran
Sanliurfa Province, Turkey
Local Time 0813 Hours
Marcus Allen rode in the passenger seat of the lead Land Rover. He held an RPG launcher across his thighs. Despite the airconditioning, sweat beaded under his shirt because he had the door open.
He was a big man, rawboned and rugged. Three inches over six feet tall, he was the kind of man who gave other men pause. He wore his black hair cut short, the way the military had cut it for him before he’d mustered out and turned professional soldier for hire. Some countries he’d worked in had called him an assassin. He supposed, in the end, he was both. While working for corporations, he’d pulled security details. His work for the Central Intelligence Agency section chiefs, men who wanted their assignments kept off the books, generally ran more toward things of a destructive nature.
Allen scanned the sky through tinted Oakley sunglasses. “We should be coming up on those helos soon.”
The driver, Weaver, nodded and tapped the GPS receiver mounted in the center of the dash. “Unless Cody’s GPS signature is wrong.”
“It’s not wrong,” Allen said. “One thing Cody does right is his toys. Man’s got a fetish when it comes to tech.”
Weaver-a smaller, thinner man with a mustache and brown hair that hung over the tips of his ears-grinned. “Can’t say that I blame him. I’ve got a tech-toy fetish of my own to feed. Besides, if the signature was wrong, we wouldn’t have picked up the helos’ change of direction.”
Kosheib leaned over the backseat and threw a thick forefinger toward the sky. The man was Sudanese but claimed Nubian blood. His black skin bore that out. Like Allen, he was big and tall, dressed in a sleeveless khaki shirt that showed the tribal tattoos that ran up his arms. If caught in Sudan or Chad, those tattoos alone would have identified him and gotten him executed.
“There,” Kosheib rumbled. “They are there.” His language held a British inflection, but it remained guttural.
Allen saw the helos then. He watched the GPS screen. “Drive under them. Let’s see if we can identify the ping.”
Weaver did as ordered.
“Owens,” Allen called over the radio.
“Yeah.” Owens was the second-in-command of the expedition. He rode in the second Land Rover.
“I read it as the fourth helicopter back.” Allen made a circular motion with his forefinger, signaling Weaver to turn around.
“Agreed.” Owens had spent half his life in one jail or another. The only way he’d maintained his freedom was by staying out of the United States and killing everyone who came after him.
Weaver brought the Land Rover around in a tight circle that threw up a large dust cloud. Then they were headed back in pursuit of the helicopters. Even the SUV’s special suspension was hard-pressed to keep the ride level as Allen pushed the door open and took aim with the RPG-7.
“When I touch this off,” Allen warned, “they’re going to know we don’t have friendly intentions. Take evasive action and let’s find somewhere to hide, then pick up the pieces.”
The “pieces” should be the man they’d been hired by Alexander Cody to kill.
A sudden curse came from the backseat. “The Syrians just launched a SCUD offensive against Sanliurfa.”
“Cody’s price tag on this piece of work just went up.” Allen straddled the open door and held the RPG-7 as steady as he could. Getting caught in a cross fire between the United States and the Syrian armies hadn’t been part of the deal. The CIA section chief didn’t have control over that, but he wasn’t getting a freebie either. Risk cost.
When he was certain he had target acquisition, Allen squeezed the trigger. The 40mm grenade ignited and whooshed away from the launcher. Allen automatically reached back inside for another grenade, and Collins slapped one into his hand.
The grenade sliced through the air and detonated against the ESSS on the helo’s side. The Black Hawk heeled over and lost altitude for a moment. Three figures tumbled free of the cargo area.
Allen tried to ready another shot, but a SCUD hit the ground nearby, and the concussive wave knocked him back into the Land Rover. The blast caught the SUV off-balance, and the vehicle flew onto its side. For a moment, everything turned crazy.
The Land Rover skidded on its side through rocks and underbrush. The windshield shattered and fell into the vehicle. The sounds of the crash drowned out all other noise.
Black Angels Squadron
Turkish Air Space
Sanliurfa Province, Turkey
Local Time 0813 Hours
An explosion sounded just outside the cargo door hatch, temporarily deafening Danielle as she worked on an interview with one of the Black Hawk crewmen. The live feed had ended, but she wanted more material that she could edit for human interest stories later.
The helicopter viciously swung sideways. Danielle instinctively went down and grabbed Robert Johnson’s litter. It had been secured to the deck.
“What was that?” someone yelled.
“Somebody’s shooting at us from below.”
Danielle’s first thought was that some of the Bedouin spies who had sabotaged Harran’s communications link had set up an intercept point. Then she thought maybe a Syrian jet had crept up on them despite the heat-seeking missiles the Black Hawk helicopters carried.
“Where’s Goose?” someone yelled.
Danielle’s head swiveled toward the other cargo door. The last time she’d seen Goose, he’d been standing there talking to another soldier.
He wasn’t there now.
“He fell out!” someone yelled. “When the helo tilted, he and two other guys fell!”
Not believing what she was hearing, Danielle shoved through the crowd of Rangers and made her way to the cargo door. She peered down, but she didn’t see any sign of Goose. Too many trees and brush covered the ground, and they’d kept moving.
“We’ve got to go back,” Danielle said.
“Can’t,” one of the soldiers said. “Just heard from Base. The Syrians have launched SCUDs and are on their way here. We’re going to be lucky to make it ourselves.”