Now he was here, peering through his NVGs, growing restless. The house and landscape all appeared in eerie shades of green. Light spilled out of the window, white. Everything like a weird, still dream, except for the young woman’s surprised scream ripping through the night air like a knife.
He heard his alias through the earbuds. “Deadwood?”
“Yo. Why’s the girl screaming? Pain or pleasure?”
“Unclear. Romeo’s at one o’clock.”
“See him. Thanks. Over.”
They’d gone in zero footprint. Canadian tourists from Toronto on a fly-fishing expedition to the Lyutyanka River. Nothing to identify them as Americans, including the gear they carried.
Akil arrived by his side and knelt there, followed by Suarez, the former smiling, wearing a black hoodie over his head, his hand holding a Glock, finger above the trigger guard, barrel down. Tall, square-jawed, muscular. Not what you’d expect when you imagined an Egyptian American. This one was into judo, Metallica, Mexican food, and off-road vehicles. Weekends he liked to take his tricked-out 2002 Toyota 4Runner and jostle his insides over Virginia trails with names like Rocky Run and Dictum Ridge.
“What’d you see?” Crocker asked him.
“Lots of female flesh and bottles of vodka. Man, those Russians know how to party.”
“Forget the party. You see Fradkov?”
“Rear left bedroom, getting his knob polished.”
“You sure about that?”
“Which part?”
“Fradkov. Our target. Burly dude, five ten-”
“I know what he looks like. He’s in the back bedroom with some brunette.”
“Brunette? Not a blonde?”
“What the fuck does that matter?”
“The bedroom have a window?” Crocker asked.
“Yeah, two. One facing back, one looks right.”
Crocker nodded. “All right, here’s what we’re going to do.” He looked up at Suarez, the breacher on the team, and asked, “You got something to light up their rides?”
“Brought an RPG-7. It’s hidden in the trees beside Mancini. Got a couple strips of C-4, too.”
“The RPG should do the trick.”
Suarez made a very quick sign of the cross with his right hand, kissed his fingers, and looked up as though checking with God.
Crocker continued, “Akil and I are going to circle around back. When I give the signal, you’re going to launch the seven at the vehicles.”
Then into his mike, “Manny, wipe the boogers out of your eyes, because you’re gonna cover the front. Make sure the guard goes down.”
Crocker heard Mancini’s response through his earbuds. “Boogers in my eyes? Is that the best you can do? I got him.”
“Soon as you take him out, I want you to run up to the road, start the Forza, and get ready to bug out.”
“Roger that.”
“Suarez, you cover the front. Engage the enemy if you have to and pull back. We’ll meet you on the road.”
“God is good.”
“We need to move fast. We all clear about that?” Crocker asked.
A chorus came back. “All clear, boss. Pedal to the metal, yeah.”
Crocker slapped Akil on the shoulder and pointed. He ran in a crouch, AK chambered and ready, his teammate following. Skirted some bushy pine-type trees, and picked up the sound of women laughing that sent a jagged chill up his spine. Reminded him of nights alone with Holly, having fun. Silly tickle games, messing around under the covers naked like a couple of kids.
His right foot hit a branch, causing it to snap. The laughing from inside stopped. He wanted to scold himself but couldn’t afford another distraction. Dumbass!
He needed to focus. Spirit lives in the doing and the perfection of the task.
He and Akil froze behind some trees. Somebody inside poked his big head out. Crocker noted long ears and freckles. The man muttered something in Russian and two female hands reached out and covered his eyes. He grunted and pulled his head back, laughing.
More fun and games. The SEALs continued. Behind the house they saw a broken patio with a warped Ping-Pong table, lounge chairs with missing plastic lattice, and a large birdcage-unoccupied.
To the right of the rear window stood a weathered blue door, which Akil had failed to mention. Crocker hugged the back wall and tried the knob. Locked. He removed the laminated card he kept in his pocket and slid the long end into the doorframe just above the bolt, then firmly pulled the card toward him while turning the handle. It opened.
Sweet.
Turning to Akil, he signaled with his hands: Move the table under the window, get on it, stand ready to crash through.
Then he whispered into his head mike. “Go! Go now!”
Crocker waited several seconds for the distinctive whoosh of the 93mm PG-7VL rocket, and pushed in moments before its impact. KA-BLAM!!!
The farmhouse jumped, shook, and settled. Dust, debris, and pieces of the vehicles flew everywhere. Screams resounded from the front rooms. He heard feet scurrying, shots, all in a flash. He was already in the bedroom. Through the dust quickly IDed Fradkov on the bed by his gray hair and eyes, pulled the woman off him, tossed her aside like a toy, jumped on his bare chest, put him in a headlock, and pulled so tight the Russian couldn’t speak.
The girl backed up against the wall and covered her mouth. Naked except for a pair of heels; her little breasts shaking. Akil crashed through the window and pushed her into the corner, Glock to her forehead, left hand over her mouth. Quickly slapped some tape over it. Tie-tied her wrists behind her back and pushed her to her knees.
Bursts of automatic gunfire and strains of “Torn and Frayed” accompanied Crocker out the door with Fradkov, holding him with his left arm, dragging the Russian, semiaware his captive wasn’t wearing pants and had a funny black belt around his belly. AK ready, heart pounding, Crocker was so charged with adrenaline he pulled Fradkov up the embankment like a rag doll. He lived for moments of pure excitement like this, better than anything, with the possible exception of sex.
Heard an urgent voice through his earbuds, “Deadwood, contact. Enemy right!”
Soon as he hit the ground and turned, he heard a burp of automatic fire. Rounds tore up the branches and dirt around him. One ripped into Fradkov’s right thigh four inches above the knee. Blood splattered. Crocker’s hand muffled the Russian’s scream. Simultaneously, dirt in his mouth, he fired back, trying to locate the target through the dense brush.
More rounds came zinging past, burning through the night air, then a muffled burst from a distance, and a groan.
“Got him, Deadwood. Over!” Mancini’s voice through the headset.
Manny was solid. He’d depended on him all these years in scrapes all over the globe, like his right arm and leg.
Crocker pulled Fradkov to his feet. His eyes had become slits of fear, self-loathing, and pain. The Russian had pissed himself. Blood and urine ran down his leg to his foot. No time to attend to the wound now.
“You’ll live.”
He hoisted him into a fireman’s carry, up the embankment that grew even steeper over loose and loamy ground, through shrubs and ground cover, sweating profusely, breathing hard. The firing below let up, replaced by the sound of crackling flames and a woman calling out in Russian. The heavy smell of burning rubber, metal, and gasoline filled his nostrils.
One last burst of energy and he emerged from the trees to the road with Fradkov on his back. His heart thumped fast. Looked left, then right. Familiar-shaped bodies approached out of the shadows. He flashed his Maglite twice, then heard something hit the ground near his feet.