“Rangers, huh? Dropping in somewhere, are we?”
“Yep,” said Sanchez. “You remember how?”
“Sure. I cry like a baby until a jumpmaster throws me out?”
“That’s about it,” the captain replied. “These guys will get you suited up. I’ll brief you once we’re airborne. Still sure you want to go?”
“Always a privilege to be asked to jump with the Rangers. Let’s do it.” Two enlisted men approached, and Foster changed clothes on the runway, exchanging his jeans and T-shirt for a full-camo combat rig. He carried a camera, a notepad, and pens instead of a gun.
26
The three snipers all faced northeast, listening to the roar and rattle of the attack at the airfield. “I like that sound,” Thompson said. Bruce Brandt agreed. “Has a certain ring to it,” he conceded. They could see the glow of fire dancing in the distance. Swanson was on one knee, reloading and wondering what to do next. “Ingmar, you said we have a Blackhawk inbound to pick us up?”
Thompson forced his eyes from the attack zone and back into the darkness, looming above Swanson like a big bear. “Yep. At least one of those stealth jobs — probably a backup, too. A couple of snakes will escort them.”
“Can you communicate with them?”
“Yep. It’s kind of scratchy and all, but the closer they get the more the comms will improve.”
Swanson thought about this as he tore open an energy bar, falling silent as he chewed. The situation had changed dramatically in the past hour. He was no longer tied to a chair, listening to Luke Gibson brag. The man had actually left the house believing that he was the best shooter the world had ever seen, and had devised an elaborate scheme to bring down the CIA to prove his point. He also wanted to kill Swanson in some kind of Wild West shoot-out at a thousand meters or so, hunting and stalking. Gibson was nuts. However, at the time, he thought he held all the cards: more than enough firepower, extra men, and his enemy tied up in a little house in the middle of nowhere. Even if Swanson managed to escape, there was nowhere for him to go, nothing to stop Gibson from tracking him down and killing him like a helpless gazelle. Well, that had all changed. Swanson now had the winning hand, but Gibson didn’t know it yet. Although Swanson hadn’t acknowledged it even to himself, Gibson’s crowing about being the best had gotten under his skin, and a small candle of revenge had started burning in his stomach. “And a lot of other stuff is on the way, too, right?” Swanson dragged himself out of his thoughts.
“Like I told you before, Kyle, it’s going to be a full package.”
Blackhawks and AH-1Z attack helicopters were a potent and mobile asset, particularly following the noisy drone hit. “How about calling and getting them to hang back for a while. We’re not in danger now, and if a bigger strike is coming that will give us even more cover.”
“I can’t do that, Kyle. Bruce and I were sent in to extract you, so you’re going to get your ass on that Blackhawk.”
Brandt cut in. “Ignore him, Kyle. He just wants to go home and get a cold beer. What’s on your mind?”
“The orders, as you explained, were to bring back me and Gibson and Nicky Marks. Well, Marks is dead, but Gibson is still out there. He’s the mastermind behind this mess, and calls himself the Prince out here. Let’s go get him, then leave.”
Brandt looked around, then stared down at Kyle, waving his hand at the vast, dark expanse. “We don’t know where he is. There’s a whole galaxy out there.”
“I got an idea,” Kyle said.
“So instead of arresting your skinny butt for treason we disobey orders and work with you?” Thompson scanned the road back toward the ambush site.
“You’re not a SEAL anymore, dumbshit. We specialists are supposed to wing a lot of this to meet changing circumstances. Otherwise some butter-bar lieutenant will be having you fetch his laundry.” Swanson smiled, knowing that Thompson never liked taking a hint, much less a direct order.
“What’s your idea?”
“It’s a good idea,” Swanson said, and told them.
Bruce Brandt said, “That’s a good idea. I’ll see if our truck still runs.”
Thompson got on the radio and in less than two minutes the quartet of inbound choppers settled into holding orbits, making gentle, lazy circles to the left some twenty miles out. While he stood guard, Swanson and Brandt dug the jack-and-tire changing kit out from behind the seats, lowered the spare tire, and put it all in the bed, then slammed the tailgate. Kyle said the tire should remain flat for the time being.
The Toyota pickup had taken quite a bruising. The windows had been shot out and the body and bed were punctured by scatterings of bullet holes. Headlights were gone, paint ruined, and the right rear tire was flat. None of that was fatal for the little warhorse, though, and the engine turned over on the first try. Brandt drove it gently through a circle and pronounced it ready. The two other snipers piled into the back, and Thompson got the .50-caliber machinegun, still warm from the firefight, back in operation and fed in a fresh belt of ammunition. Swanson rested his elbows atop the cab, with his rifle pointed ahead. “Go,” he called down to the driver, and the truck limped away, retracing the way it had originally come.
The fire at the house had settled down quite a bit while they were gone, and although it was outmatched by the carnage erupting at the airstrip, it was easy to find, glowing like a burned stack of hay. Thompson swung the mounted machinegun in various directions, but there was no opposition as Swanson jumped from the back and Brandt cut the sputtering engine and got out. They walked toward the smoldering ruin and found the two young Lions still bound and tied, right where they’d been left in the roadside ditch. Swanson put down his weapon and drew his knife.
Brandt walked back to the truck, cursing the vehicle. He opened the hood and cursed at what he saw. He kicked the bumper, rammed a large shard of glass from the passenger door window, then pulled his pistol, took aim, and shot the rear tire twice. He walked to the front and put two more shots in the engine, still cursing the vehicle as if it were responsible for all the evils in the world. Thompson remained silent.
Bruce went back to the ditch. “That useless sonofabitch is dead, Kyle,” he said in Arabic. To the captives, he added, “Next time get a Dodge Ram. Should I kill these dudes?”
“Nah. They’re just kids.” He sliced through the bonds. “Get out of here, you little assholes, before my partners light you up. Go on home to Mommy.” Swanson slid the knife back into the scabbard and, ignoring the two boys, called to Thompson: “Come on down, big guy. We’re humping out of here.” Brandt had GPS with a bright little screen, and the commandos gathered around it, arguing among themselves about which way to go.
Hamid and Mohammed muttered prayers of thanks to Allah as they skittered away from the soldiers. Hamid was almost naked, so his buddy lent him a heavy vest. He thought about getting into the truck, but the Americans were abandoning it because it was useless. The crazy one had pumped two bullets into the engine, which had already sounded wheezy when it came up, and the numerous bullet holes bespoke other internal damage. It could be reclaimed come morning, but for the moment it was best to escape before the crazy one changed his mind. They ran. Looking back, Mohammed saw only that the Americans had disappeared.
“They’re gone,” said Brandt, who was watching the boys through high night-vision goggles. He began jogging quietly down the road to keep them in sight, his automatic weapon pointing the way.
Thompson jumped out of the ditch and hustled to the truck, flinging out the spare tire and the changing tools. Swanson stomped on the pry bar to loosen the nuts while Thompson got the jack in place and started cranking it up. Swanson pocketed the nuts so they wouldn’t get lost. It was one of those take-your-time moments, because a mistake in such a routine chore could amplify a simple error into a gigantic problem, and that could kill time and them as well. It wasn’t the first time either of them had to change a flat in hostile territory, and they did it as smoothly and swiftly as a dirt-track pit team.